With these words, he opened the door and disclosed M. de Romeuf, who, overcome with emotion, was leaning against a window in the front room. His face was wet with tears. He approached with downcast eyes, holding out a paper, which the King took from him and glanced through rapidly.
“Now,” he said, “there is no longer a King in France!”
The children had awakened by this time, and the little Dauphin became the object of special interest. Some admired his beauty, and others asked him questions about his journey and the Tuileries, to which the sleepy child scarcely responded, but only gazed at his mother.
“Ah, Charles,” his sister whispered to him, “you were mistaken, this is no comedy!”
“I knew that long ago!” returned the poor child, shrugging his shoulders.
Meanwhile, the crowd, excited almost to frenzy by Drouet, were demanding the King’s departure, and their shouts and cries came surging upward from the street. Some of the most violent even tried to break into the house and bring him out by force, while above all the tumult arose a scream of “Drag him out! Drag him into his coach! We will have him!”
The King attempted to appease them by appearing at the window, seeking to gain time, in the faint hope that any moment might bring Bouillé and rescue. As a last resort, one of the waiting-women declared she was violently ill, and the King and Queen refused to desert her. But all their efforts were of no avail, and the King realized at last that further resistance was hopeless. He requested to be left alone with his family for a moment, and, after a brief and sorrowful consultation, he yielded and announced himself ready to depart. The royal mother took her son in her arms and carried him herself to the coach. It was half-past seven when they started on their return journey—alas! just a quarter of an hour too early!
Only a few moments after they had gone, a body of troops appeared on the heights overlooking Varennes in the direction of Verdun. It was the son of M. de Bouillé with the cavalry. He tried to cross the river by a ford, the bridge being defended, but was unable to accomplish it, and thus the last chance of saving the King was lost. General Bouillé arrived soon after at the head of his Royal German Regiment, in full gallop, only to learn when he reached Mouza that the King had left Varennes and that he was too late. Broken-hearted, he turned his horse’s head, and with his faithful and now dejected troops began his retreat to the frontier.
The royal party was already far from Varennes. Surrounded by five or six thousand infuriated peasants, the King was a prisoner in the same vehicle that was to have borne him to safety and freedom. It was only allowed to proceed at a foot-pace, and a whole hour was consumed in reaching Clermont. This town, like all the others through which they passed, was filled to overflowing. Everywhere the shops were closed, the people beside themselves with excitement, and hundreds of frantic voices yelled denunciations against the King, his nobles, and his officers.
At three in the afternoon Ste. Menehould was reached, and the mayor, Furci, a brave and honest man, invited the Queen to partake of some refreshment in the town hall. The weary travellers would gladly have remained here some hours to rest, for the little Prince, exhausted by his seven-hours’ journey in the heat and dust, was suffering from an attack of fever; but Bayon, the cruel commander of this sad expedition, refused to gratify their desire, and the unfortunate royal family were obliged to continue their journey. Here the National Guard of Varennes and Clermont left them, and their place was taken by the Guard of Ste. Menehould, who were relieved in their turn by those of the next town.