ABOUT EIGHT in the morning the royal party reached a long ascent; on the right and left of the road was a wood in which the birds sang, and which the rays of a beautiful spring sun pierced with golden light. The postilion let his horses walk.
“Jean!” said the king, “open the door. I wish to walk, and I think the queen and children will not be sorry to do likewise.”
The postilion stopped. The door was opened, and the king, queen, and Madame Elizabeth and children got out. Madame de Tourzel was too feeble, and remained in the carriage.
The royal emigrants at once spread themselves along the road. The dauphin set to work to pursue butterflies, and Madame Royale to gather flowers.
Madame Elizabeth took the king's arm; the queen walked alone.
Presently a horseman appeared, a quarter of a league distant, wrapped in the dust raised by the horse's feet.
Marie Antoinette dared not say, “This is the Count de Charny;” but a cry escaped from her, and she said: “We will have news from Paris.”
All turned round except the dauphin: the careless child had just taken a butterfly, and cared nothing for the news.
The king, who was a little near-sighted, used his glasses. “Ah! it is, I think, M. de Charny. Let us go on, he will overtake us, and we have no time to lose.”
The queen did not dare to say that the news brought by M. de Charny, at least, was worth waiting for, and that it was only a delay of a few seconds. The postman evidently rode at speed.
He himself, as he drew near, evidently looked with great attention, and seemed not to understand why the huge carriage had placed its inmates on the road-side. He reached them just as the carriage reached the top of the rising, and paused. “It is indeed Charny!” He wore a little green frock with a full collar, a broad brimmed hat, with a steel buckle; a white vest, coated leather breeches, and military boots which reached the knee.
He sprang from his horse, and bowed before the king, and then turned and saluted the queen.
All grouped around him, except the two guards, who remained discreetly out of hearing.
“In the first place, sire, at two o'clock your flight was not suspected.”
The king said to the guardsmen, “Draw near, gentlemen, and listen to M. de Charny's news.”
Charny told how he had reached Paris and met a patrol, how he had been interrogated by it, and had left it fully convinced that the king was in bed and asleep.
He then told how, once in the interior of the Tuileries, calm as usual, he had gone to his room, changed his dress, and passed through the royal corridor, to satisfy himself that none suspected the escape; not even De Gouvion, who had withdrawn the line of sentinels he had established around the king's room, and had sent away the officers and majors.
Charny had then taken his horse, which one of the servants, on duty for the night, had held in the court-yard, and thinking at that hour it would be difficult for him to find a post-horse, had set out for Bondy. The unfortunate animal was almost broken down, but reached Bondy, and that was all the count cared for. He there got a fresh horse and rode on. Nothing else had occurred on the route.
They resumed their places, and Charny galloped by the side of the door.
At the next post station the horses were all ready, except one for Charny. Isidor had not ordered one, for he did not know that his brother was on horseback. They did not wait for the horse, but set out, and fire minutes after, Charny was in the saddle.
He had taken a relay at Montmirail, and thought that the carriage was a quarter of an hour in advance of him, when, at the turning of the street, his horse came directly on the carriage and the two guardsmen, who were seeking to mend a broken trace.
The count leaped from his horse, passed the door, and advised the king to conceal himself, and the queen not to be uneasy. He then opened a kind of box, forward, in which were placed all things likely to be made necessary by an accident on the road; he found there a pair of traces, one of which he took.
The two guardsmen took advantage of the delay to ask for their arms, but the king positively objected. It was suggested that the carriage might be stopped, to which he said that even in that case he would not have blood shed for him.
The trace was mended—the box shut, the guards and Charny were in their places, and they set out again. They had, however, lost half an hour, and at a time when the loss of a minute might be irreparable. At two they were at Chalons.
The king showed himself for a moment. Amid the groups formed around the door were two men who looked fixedly at him. One of the men left. The other approached the door, and said in a low tone: “Sire! do not expose yourself thus, or you are lost.”
Then, speaking to the postilions, he said: “Come, lazybones, be quick; is it thus you delay travellers who pay you thirty sous a station?” He set to work himself—he was the post agent. The horses at length were harnessed, and the postilions mounted.
In the interim, the man who had disappeared had gone to the maire, and told him that the king and all his family were at the post-house, and asked authority to arrest them.
The maire luckily was not much of a republican, and did not, besides, wish to assume so much responsibility. Instead of ascertaining the fact, he asked for all kinds of explanations, denied that it could be so, and reached the hotel just as the carriage drove off.
They had, however, lost twenty minutes.
There much alarm in the equipage. The horses kicking so unnecessarily recalled to the queen the sudden extinction of the four lights. As, however, they left the city, the king, queen, and Madame Elizabeth said, “We are saved!”
A hundred paces farther, a man appeared, rushed to the door and said: “Your measures are badly taken. You will be arrested.”
The queen uttered a cry. The man rushed into a little wood, and disappeared.
Fortunately, they were but four leagues from the bridge of Someville, where Choiseul was with his dragoons. It was, however, three in the afternoon, and they were four hours behind time.
When M. de Choiseul reached the bridge of Someville, he found that his hussars had not yet arrived, but shortly after the trumpets and tramp of horses were heard. M. de Goquelot appeared. Choiseul had the horses picketed out—had bread and wine given to the hussars, and then sat down himself with the colonel to dinner.
The news of M. Goquelot was not flattering. He had observed great excitement everywhere. For more than a year reports of the king's flight had been circulated, not only in Paris, but in the country, and the detachments of different arms stationed at Sainte Menehould had excited suspicion. He had even heard the tocsin in a village near the road.
This was enough to take away even De Choiseul's appetite. After passing an hour at the table, he arose, and leaving the command of the detachment to M. Boudet, went to an eminence beyond the bridge, which permitted him to see the road for half a league.
He saw neither courier nor carriage. There was, however, nothing surprising in that, for De Choiseul could allow for petty accidents. He expected the courier in an hour, or an hour and a half, and the king in two or two and a half hours.
Nine passed, and he saw on the road nothing like the things he expected.
At half-past two there was no carriage. It will be remembered they had left Chalons only at three.
While, however, De Choiseul was thus waiting on the road, fatality had prepared at the bridge of Someville an event which had the greatest influence on the drama we relate.
Fatality had willed that a few days previous the peasants of an estate belonging to Madame Elboeuf had refused to pay duties not redeemable. They had been menaced with troops. The federation, however, had borne its fruits, and the peasants of the villages in the vicinity had vowed to assist those of Elboeuf, if the threats were realised.
When they saw the hussars take their position, therefore, the peasants thought they came with evil intentions. Couriers were sent to the neighbouring villages, and about three the tocsin sounded throughout the whole city.
When he returned to the bridge, which he did immediately, Choiseul found his sublieutenant, M. Boudet, very uneasy. Muttered threats had been heard by the hussars, and the regiment at that time was one of the most detested of the French army. The peasants made mouths at them, and sang under their very noses tin's improvised song:
Mais nous nous moquous d'eux.”*
*The hussars are beggars, but we laugh at them.
Other persons, too, who were more clear-sighted, began to say that the hussars were there not to enforce obedience from the peasants, but to await the arrival of the king and queen.
Four o'clock came without news. Do Choiseul resolved, however, to remain; but he ordered the horses to be put to his carriage, and took charge of the diamonds, sending Leonard to Varennes, and bidding him report at St. Menehould to M. Daudoins, at Clermont to M. Damas, and at Varennes to M. de Bouille, the state of affairs.
Then, to soothe the excitement, he stated that he and the hussars were there not to repress the peasantry of Elboeuf, but to escort a large treasure which the Minister of War had sent to the army.
The word treasure, though it soothed excitement on one score, raised on the other much difficulty. The king and queen were also a treasure, and M. de Choiseul evidently waited for them.
After a quarter of an hour, M. de Choiseul and his troops were so pressed up that he could not keep his position, and if the royal party came, he, with his forty hussars, would be unable to protect them.
His orders were to keep the king's journey free from obstacle. Instead of protecting, however, his presence was an obstacle.
The best thing he could do would be to retire, as he would thus leave the road free; but he needed a pretext.
The post-agent stood in the midst of a crowd of five or six hundred persons whom a trifle would make enemies of. He, like the others, stood looking with folded arms at M. de Choiseul.
“Monsieur,” said the duke, “are you aware of any convoy of money having gone lately to the army at Metz?”
“Yes; this morning a hundred thousand crowns were sent, escorted by two gendarmes.”
“Indeed!” said De Choiseul, amazed at his good fortune in receiving the news.
“Parbleu! it is true,” said a gendarme: “Robin and I escorted it.”
“Then,” said the duke, turning to M. Goquelot, “the minister must have preferred another mode of escort, and our presence here is useless. I think we had best start—hussars, bridle up.”
The hussars, who were uneasy enough, asked nothing better, and in a moment were bridled and mounted. M. de Choiseul placed himself in front, looked towards Chalons and with a sigh said: “Hussars by fours, break!”
He left Someville with his trumpets sounding, just as the clock struck four.
Two hundred paces from the village De Choiseul took the cross-road to avoid St. Menehould, which he heard was in a great state of excitement.
Just then Isidor de Charny rode into the village, on a horse which had borne him four leagues in two hours. He inquired at the post-house, and learned that a detachment of dragoons had departed only a few minutes before. He ordered the horses, and hoping to overtake De Choiseul, galloped rapidly after him.
The duke had left the main road and taken the cross-road just as Isidor entered the village; and the consequence was, the vicomte did not overtake him.
The carriage of the king came ten minutes after.
As De Choiseul had seen, the crowd was nearly dissipated.
The Count de Charny, aware that the first detachment of troops should be at the bridge of Someville, had been perfectly confident, and had not urged on the postilions, who seemed to have received the order to make the journey at a slow trot.
When he reached the bridge, and did not see the cavalry of De Choiseul, the king put his head anxiously out of the carriage.
“For heaven's sake, sire, do not show yourself! I will inquire.”
He went into the post-house. In five minutes he returned, having learned all. The king saw that De Choiseul had retired to leave him a free passage. It was important to reach St. Menehould, on which place De Choiseul had, doubtless, fallen back, and where he would find both the hussars and dragoons.
At the moment of departure Charny approached the carriage. “What does the queen order?” said he; “must I go in advance, or follow?”
Charny bowed, and rode by the side of the carriage.
Isidor rode on, being unable to account for the solitude of the road, which was so straight that sometimes it could be seen for the distance of a league, or more, in advance.
He urged on his horse, and gained on the carriage more rapidly than he had done, fearing that the people of St. Menehould should suspect the presence of the hussars. He was not wrong. The first thing he saw was a great number of Rational Guards in the streets. They were the first he had met since he left Paris. The whole city seemed in motion, and on the opposite side of the town he hoard the drums beat.
The vicomte rode rapidly through the streets, without appearing in the least uneasy about what was going on. He crossed the great square, and stopped at the posthouse.
As he crossed the square, he noticed about a dozen dragoons, in police caps, seated on a fence. At a few paces from them, he saw, at a window of the ground floor, the Marquis Dandoins, also in fatigue, and with a whip in his hand.
Isidor did not pause, and appeared to observe nothing. He presumed that M. Dandoins, aware of the king's couriers, would know him and need no other hint.
A young man of twenty, with his hair cut a la Titus—as the patriots of that time wore it—with whiskers meeting under his chin, was at the door of the post-house.
Isidor looked for some one to speak to.
“What do you wish, sir?” said the man with the whiskers.
“To speak to the agent of the post.”
“He is now absent, sir, but I, Jean Baptiste Drouet, am his son. If I can replace him, speak.”
The young man laid an emphasis on his name, as if he were aware what a terrible celebrity it would obtain in history.
“I want six post-horses for two carriages which follow me—also a saddle horse.”
Drouet nodded an assent, went into the yard. “Postilions,” said he, “six post-horses and a saddle horse.”
Just then the Marquis Dandoins came in. “Monsieur,” said he, “you precede the king's coach?”
“Yes, sir, and I am amazed to see you and your men in fatigue dress.”
“We had not been warned, sir; and besides, very dangerous demonstrations have taken place around us. An attempt has been made to debauch my men. What must be done?”
“The king will soon pass. Watch his equipage, and be guided by circumstances, and set out half an hour after the royal family has gone, acting as a rear guard.”
Then, interrupting himself, Isidor said: “Silence! we are watched, and perhaps even heard. Go to your squadron, and do your best to keep your men faithful.”
Drouet, in fact, stood at the door where this conversation took place. Dandoins left. Just then the sound of whips was heard at the door. The king's carriage had come. Curiosity attracted all the population around it.
Dandoins wished at once to tell the king why he and his troops were in fatigue uniform at the moment of his arrival, and advanced, cap in hand, and apologised with all possible respect.
The king showed himself twice or thrice.
Isidor, with his foot in the stirrup, stood by Drouet, who looked with profound attention into the carriage. During the previous year he had attended the federation, hail seen the king, and recognised him.
On that day he had received a considerable sum in assignats: he had examined them one after the other (they all had the king's likeness) to see if they were good, and he remembered the royal features. Something within him seemed to say, “That man is the king.”
He took an assignat from his pocket, looked at it, and said: “It is certainly he.”
Isidor went to the other side of the carriage, and his brother covered the door at which the queen was sitting.
“The king is known,” said he; “hurry the departure of the carriage, and look at that tall dark man. He has recognized the king, and is named Jean Baptiste Drouet.”
“Very well,” said Olivier, “I will take care. Go.”
Isidor set out at a gallop to order horses at Clermont.
As soon as they were outside the city, excited by the promises of MM. de Maiden and de Valory, of a crown apiece, the postilions set out at a full trot.
The count had not lost sight of Drouet.
Drouet had not moved, but had spoken in a low voice to a stable-boy.
Charny drew near, and said, “Monsieur, is there no horse for me?”
“One was ordered. But there are none.”
“How—no horses? But that one which I see in the yard, monsieur?”
“Can you not let me have it, sir?”
“It is impossible. I have a journey of importance to make, which cannot be postponed.”
To insist would arouse suspicions; to attempt to take a horse by force would be very dangerous.
Charny, however, thought of a way to arrange matters.
M. Dandoins had looked after the carriage until it turned the corner. He looked back.
“Eh,” said Olivier, “I am the Count de Charny—I can get no horse—dismount a dragoon, and give me his charger. I must follow the king and queen; I only know De Choiseul's relay, and if I am not with them the king must stop at Varennes.”
“Count,” said the marquis, “I will not give you a dragoon's horse, but one of my own.”
“I will take it. The fate of the whole royal family depends on the merest accident. The better the horse, the better the chance,” They crossed the street and went to the marquis' quarters. Before he left, Charny bade a sergeant watch Drouet. The marquis unfortunately lived five hundred yards from the post-house. Before the horses could be saddled at least a quarter of an hour would be lost. “We say horses, for M. Dandoins had received an order to saddle up, and serve as a rear guard.
All at once Charny fancied that he heard voices shout, “The queen! the queen!”
He hurried out of the house, ordering Dandoins to send the horses to the posthouse. The whole town was in a ferment; it seemed that it only waited for the king to leave to burst forth.
“The carriage which has just left is the king's!” exclaimed Drouet, hurrying off. “The king, queen, and princess are in it.” He mounted his horse. Many of his friends sought to retain him. Where goes he? what is he about? what is his plan?
“The colonel of the detachment of dragoons being there,” he replied in a low tone, “it was impossible to detain him without a collision, in which we might have been second best. What I did not do here, I will do at Clermont. Retain the dragoons, that is all.”
Then the report was spread that the king and queen were in the carriage which had just passed, and the noise arose which Charny heard.
The maire and municipality collected, and the dragoons were ordered to retire to their barracks until eight o'clock.
Charny had heard all. Drouet had gone, and he quivered with impatience.
“The horses? the horses? where are they?”
“Are there pistols in the holsters?”
“Good; now all depends on your horse's speed! I must overtake a man who is a quarter of an hour in advance, and whom I must kill.”
“Do not take any trouble about me, but mind your dragoons. Look, the maire harangues them; you have no time to lose.”
Just then the servant came with the two horses, Charny sprang on the first, took the bridle from the servant, and rode away after Dronet, without hearing Dandoins' adieu.
Those last words, however, were most important. They were, “You have taken my horse, count, and the pistols in the holsters are not loaded.”
In the meantime, the carriage, preceded by Isidor, moved rapidly from St. Menehould to Clermont.
The day was declining; it had struck eight, and the carriage was on the high road through the forest of Argonne.
The queen now saw that Charny was not by her side, but there was no way either to slacken or to quicken the pace.
To explain events and to illustrate every point of this terrible journey, we must flit from one character to another. During this time, while Isidor preceded the carriage a quarter of an hour as a courier on the route to Sainte Menehould, and entered the forest of Argonne, and Drouet followed the coach with Charny at his heels, Dandoins ordered boot and saddle to be sounded.
Among the crowd were three hundred armed National Guards. To risk a battle—and all promised that it would be severe—would be to destroy the king. It would be better to remain, and thus restrain the people. Daudoins had a parley with them, and asked the leaders what they wanted, what they wished, and what was the meaning of these hostile demonstrations. In the meantime, the king would reach Clermont, and find Damas with a hundred and forty dragoons.
Had he one hundred and forty dragoons he would attempt something, but he had but thirty. What avail would they be against three or four hundred men?
He did parley. At half-past nine the carriage, preceded by Isidor only a few hundred paces, reached Clermont.
It had been but an hour and a quarter going four leagues.
Outside of the city, Damas, who had been warned by Leonard, awaited them. He recognised Isidor's livery, and said: “Excuse me; do you precede the king?”
“Are you, sir, Count Charles do Damas?”
“I do. Assemble your dragoons and prepare to escort the royal carriage.”
“Monsieur,” said the Count de Damas, “there are rumours of insurrection which terrify me, and I own frankly that I cannot answer for the fidelity of my men if they recognise the king. All that I can promise is, when the carriage has passed, to follow it and close the road.”
“Do your best, sir. Here is the king.”
In the distance the royal carriage might be recognised by the sparks the horses' feet knocked from the stones of the road.
It was his duty to ride ahead and order the relays. Five minutes after, he was at the post-house. Almost at the same time came Damas and five or six dragoons. Then came the king.
The carriage followed Isidor so quickly that he had scarcely time to mount. The carriage, without being rich, was so remarkable that many persons began to collect.
Damas stood by the door of the house, pretending not to know the illustrious party.
Neither the king nor queen, however, could resist the desire to obtain information.
The king called Damas; the queen Isidor.
“Is it you, M. Damas?” said the king.
“Why are not your dragoons under arms?”
“Sire, your majesty is five hours behind the time. My squadron was mounted at four o'clock. I kept it waiting as long as possible, but the city began to get excited, and my men began to make some very troublesome conjectures. If the fermentation broke out before your majesty's arrival, the tocsin would have been sounded and the road closed. I then kept only a dozen men mounted, and made the others go to their quarters. I kept the trumpeters, though, at my own quarters, so that I could sound boot-and-saddle as soon as possible, if necessary. Your majesty sees I was right, for the road is now free.”
“Very well, sir. You have acted prudently. When I am gone, sound the boot-and-saddle and overtake me.”
“Sire,” said the queen, “will you hear what the vicomte says?”
“What does he say?” asked the king impatiently.
“That you were recognised by the son of the post-agent at Sainte Menehould; that he saw this young man, with an assignat in his hand, examine your countenance and your likeness; that he told his brother, who is behind, of the matter; that something serious has certainly taken place, or Count de Charny would be here.”
“Then, if we have been recognised, there is the more reason for haste. M. Isidor, hurry up the postilions.”
Isidor's horse was ready. The young man leaped into the saddle and cried out: “Quick, to Varennes!”
M. Damas stepped back, and bowed respectfully to the king: the postilions started.
The horses had been changed in the twinkling of an eye, and they went like lightning.
As they left the city they passed a sergeant of hussars.
M. Damas had at first felt disposed to follow the carriage with the few men who were ready; the king, however, had given him other orders, to which he thought it his duty to conform. Some excitement also was observable in the city; the citizens going from house to house, the windows opening, and heads and lights being visible everywhere. Damas sought to prevent but one thing—the sounding of the tocsin. Besides, he expected Dandoins every moment with his thirty men, which would reinforce him. All, however, appeared to grow calm; about a quarter of an hour after, he went to the square, where he found his chief of squadron, M. de Norville, and asked him to get the men under arms. Just then they came to tell him that a noncommissioned officer sent by Dandoins waited with a message.
The message was that he must not expect M. Dandoins, who with his troops was retained by the municipality of St. Menehould, and also, which Damas knew already, that Dronet had set out to overtake the carriages, which he probably had not been able to overtake, as he had not been seen.
This was the state of things when a noncommissioned officer of Lauzun's regiment was announced.
The message had been sent by the commander, M. de Rohrig, who with young De Bouille and Raigecourt commanded at Varennes. Uneasy at the lapse of hours without news, these gentlemen had sent to Damas for information.
“What was the condition of things at Varennes?” asked Damas.
“In quarters, with their horses saddled.”
“Did you meet any carriages on the road?”
“Yes; one with four and another with two horses.”
“Those were the carriages you looked for; all is right,” said Damas.
He went to his quarters and ordered boot-and-saddle. He prepared to follow the king, and defend him if necessary. Five minutes after, the trumpets sounded. All was well, except the incident which detained the troops of Dandoins. With his hundred and forty dragoons, however, he could do without his subordinate.
The royal equipage had turned to the left towards Varennes. It had been determined to change horses on the side towards Dun, and to reach it, it was necessary to leave the road over the hills, and take the one which led to the bridge. That being passed, to go beneath the tower to the place where De Choiseul's relays were, which were to be guarded by De Bouille and De Raigecourt.
When at this difficult point, they remembered that Charny was to guide the party through the streets to the post-house. The count had been there some days and he had made himself familiar with every stone. Unfortunately, he was not there.
The anxiety of the queen was doubled. Charny would have joined the carriage, had not some terrible accident befallen him.
As he approached Varennes, the king himself became uneasy. Relying on Charny, he had not even brought a map of the city. The night, too, was intensely dark, and lighted by the stars alone. It was one of those nights in which it was easy to become lost, even in known localities, and for a better reason in strange places.
The order Isidor had received from Charny was to halt in front of the city. There his brother would relay, and as we have said, resume charge.
As the queen, and perhaps Isidor as well, was uneasy about his brother, they had no hope but that either De Bouille or De Raigecourt would meet the king outside of Varennes. They had been two or three days in the city, knew it, and would be guides. When, therefore, they reached the foot of the hill, and saw but two or three lights, Isidor halted, and looked around him, not knowing what to do. He saw nothing. He then called in a low, and then in a loud voice, for MM. de Bouille and de Raigecourt. He heard the sound of the carriage wheels as they approached, like distant thunder in sound. An idea occurred to him: perhaps they were on the edge of the forest. He entered and explored. He saw nobody. He had then one thing or the other to do; he must either go on or wait.
In five minutes the carriage had come. All asked at once, “You have not seen the count?”
“Sire,” said Isidor, “I have not; as he is not here, he must, while in pursuit of Drouet, have met with some accident.”
“What must be done?” asked the king.
Speaking to the two guardsmen, he said, “Gentlemen, do you know the city?”
No one did, and the answer was negative.
“Sire,” said Isidor, “all is silent and quiet; if it please your majesty to wait here ten minutes, I will enter the city, and find either MM. de Bouille and de Raigecourt or the relays of M. de Choiseul. Does your majesty remember the name of the inn where the horses were?”
“Alas, no!” said the king. “I did, but have forgotten. It matters not—go, and we will in the meantime search out some information.”
Isidor hurried towards the city, and soon disappeared among the houses.
