The little Dauphin, who had been eagerly looking forward to the journey and making a thousand plans for his sojourn in St. Cloud, was much grieved over this failure of his hopes. To divert his mind from the disappointment, after he had returned to his room the Abbé Daveaux gave him a volume of “The Children’s Friend,” by Berquin,[7] to look at. The Prince opened it at random, and cried in astonishment: “Just see, M. Abbé! what a curious thing! Look at this title, ‘The Little Captive’! How strange!”
The child had foretold only too well in applying the name of little captive to himself. He, as well as his parents, was in fact a prisoner of the people and the National Assembly, and their numerous jailers behaved so rudely and disrespectfully to them that the situation soon became unbearable. The unvarying kindness and patience of the King served only to multiply the complaints and calumnies of his enemies. Even the Queen could no longer appear at her window without exposing herself to insults and invectives. At last the yoke became so heavy that nothing remained but to escape, or break it by force. The kindly heart of the King shrank from the latter course, which could not be accomplished without bloodshed, so the necessary preparations were made for flight—the only recourse left him. It was determined to seek a refuge in some frontier town and from there to carry on negotiations with the arrogant Assembly.
The King was not entirely without loyal friends. By means of a secret correspondence, an arrangement was made with the Marquis de Bouillé,[8] a lieutenant-general at the head of an important army corps. The troops in Champagne, Alsace, and Lorraine were placed under his command, and he also guarded the frontier from Switzerland to the Moselle and the Sambre. It was arranged between him and the King that the latter should go to Montmédy, a strong post situated conveniently near the frontier. The Marquis proposed, in order to lessen the danger, that the party should separate, the Queen with the Dauphin going first; but the King answered: “If we are to be saved, it must be together or not at all.”
On the 29th of April, 1791, the King wrote to M. Bouillé to procure a coach for the journey, large enough to accommodate himself and his entire family; but the general tried to persuade him to take, instead, two small, light English travelling-carriages, such as were used at that time, which would not attract attention. The King unfortunately would not listen to this suggestion, a seemingly trivial circumstance, which brought about disastrous results. Before he left Paris, he wished to relieve the Marquis from any responsibility in the matter, and sent him therefore a written order to station troops along the road from Châlons to Montmédy, for the purpose of guarding the safety of the persons of the King and his family.
Their departure was fixed for the night of June nineteenth, but was deferred at the last moment by an unfortunate occurrence. One of the Queen’s waiting-women, who, it was feared, might betray the plan if she had the least suspicion of it, was dismissed from her service that very day, so the journey was postponed for twenty-four hours. We shall soon see how this fact also contributed to the failure of the ill-fated undertaking.
Haste was imperative. The plan had already begun to excite suspicion; for it had become necessary to take several persons into the secret, who did not guard it with proper care. Even the lower domestics in the Tuileries whispered of it among themselves, and the rumor, spreading abroad, excited the populace to such a degree that the police were formally notified. This report naturally resulted in the maintenance of a still stricter surveillance over the palace. The royal family was constantly watched in the most offensive way; the people even became so bold as to lock the King and Queen in their own apartments at night; and mattresses were placed before the doors for the guards to sleep on, so that no one could leave the rooms without stepping over the bodies of their jailers. This difficulty, however, had been foreseen, and an effort made to surmount it. Some months before this, a door had been so skilfully cut in the woodwork of the chamber occupied by the King’s sister, Madame Élisabeth,[9] that only the closest scrutiny could discover it. This door opened on a small staircase, which led to a vaulted passage separating this room from that of the Queen. A similar door had been made in the royal apartment, and both fitted with keys which turned so easily they could be opened instantly, without noise or delay. Finally, the precaution had been taken to conceal them by means of large cupboards or presses, that opened on both sides and hid the secret doors without preventing passage through them. In this way one room could be easily reached from the other, and by means of the passage, access gained to the interior of the palace, from whence it would be easy to reach the open air and freedom.
On the twentieth of June, at ten o’clock in the morning, the little Dauphin was working in his garden at the end of the Tuileries; at eleven, the Queen went to hear mass with her attendants, and on her return from the chapel ordered her carriage to be in readiness at five in the afternoon. The day passed as usual; but the elder sister of the Dauphin noticed that her parents seemed anxious and agitated, and confided this observation to her brother. At five o’clock the Queen took a little drive with her children, and seized this opportunity to impress upon them that they must not be alarmed at anything that might occur in the course of the evening or night. The children were clever enough to perceive their mother’s meaning, and the little Prince assured her she might be quite easy with regard to him.
After the King and his family had eaten their evening meal at the usual hour, all retired to their apartments. The Dauphin was put to bed at nine o’clock, the Princess, his sister, at ten; the Queen retired at half-past ten, and the King a few moments later. The servants were given the seemingly necessary orders for the following morning; the doors were locked, the sentries took their usual precautions, and at Madame Élisabeth’s door the guard was doubled. But scarcely had the serving-people withdrawn, when the King, the Queen, and Madame Élisabeth carefully arose, dressed themselves quickly, and in a few moments were ready for the journey. The Queen went into her daughter’s room to awaken her and her waiting-woman, Madame Brunier. She acquainted the latter with the plan for escape, informed her that she and Madame de Neuville had been chosen to accompany them, and requested her finally to dress the Princess as quickly as possible and bring her into the Dauphin’s chamber. The clothes had been already prepared. The dress for the little Princess was of cheap brown stuff and very simply made, in order that the rank of the fugitive might not be suspected, while the Dauphin was dressed as a girl, and looked most charming in his new costume. But, aroused from his first sleep at eleven o’clock at night, he could not understand what was going on about him, and fell asleep again immediately. His sister awoke him once more, and whispered:
“Charles, Charles! what do you think of all this?”
To which he replied sleepily, and with half-closed eyes, “I think it is a comedy we are going to act, because we are dressed up so strangely.”