Daughters of the Storm (12 page)

The offer was accepted.

‘Remind me', Héloïse said to Sophie as she sank thankfully back into the seat, ‘never to permit that idiot of a coachman to drive us again.'

‘Poor man,' said Sophie. ‘He was so upset. You must forgive him.'

‘I don't feel like it,' said Héloïse, ‘but for your sake, Sophie, and only for your sake, I will.'

*

Closer to the town of Versailles the road opened up into a well-paved, tree-lined avenue over which large oil lamps were suspended on ropes. They swayed in breeze, and the road stretched out smooth and apparently trouble-free. In a very short space of time they reached the outskirts, and Sophie exclaimed with delight at the elegant stone houses and streets that opened off the avenue.

Louis had given orders for his men to deploy themselves in front as well as behind the de Guinot coach which allowed him to trot beside it, from which position he had an unimpeded view of Héloïse's profile. She appeared to sit very still. What was she was thinking? Not that he could dwell on that for Louis was concerned by the situation that was developing. A new National Guard for Versailles had recently been formed, to which he had been seconded to supervise the recruits, but it was under the command of a man renowned for his arrogance. No, Monsieur le Comte d'Estaing would certainly not notice if the ranks were being infiltrated by men infected by some of the insurrectionary ideas current in the capital, which, as Louis had discovered, was what was happening. Louis had never taxed himself before about such matters – there had been no cause for concern. But recent events in the National Assembly had been worrying, the fall of the Bastille ominous, A sixth sense convinced him that trouble was not only brewing, it was already here.

He knew himself to be a good officer: brave, meticulous and caring of his men, something of a rarity at a time when a commission meant nothing so much as a pleasant sinecure. But he and the more thoughtful of his brother officers were beginning to voice aloud whether or not all the good intentions in the world would be enough if the king, God forbid, found himself in a position where he was forced to defend himself from his own subjects.

Louis had always nourished ambitions for the army, and, as a second son, he had been destined for it. That or the Church. Since the latter failed to appeal, his father had made an effort to ensure that his son had joined an acceptable regiment. Louis had been grateful. The life suited him and it also allowed him, as he had hoped, to be in direct proximity to the court and its social life.

He pricked his horse into a faster trot. At thirty he was still unmarried and his elder brother, who had succeeded on the death of his father to a flourishing family estate, urged him constantly to do so. Louis usually fobbed off the idea with a shrug of his elegantly (and very expensively) clad shoulder. He left marriage and procreation to his brother. After all, the responsibility of continuing the family's name was his, not Louis'. The thought of maintaining a household and a nursery did not interest Louis - and it was costly to keep a wife. Louis' allowance, although adequate, was not princely, nor was his pay. Anyway his time was taken up by certain other ladies. Like Jeanne.

Delicious Jeanne, who took her pleasures so deftly – and so ruthlessly. Or Thérèse, who wound her auburn hair around his neck while she parted her white thighs and drew his hand down between them. Or Violette, still a little wary but all the more delicious for that, who insisted on making love surrounded by a blaze of candles. They were cultivated, assured and sophisticated married ladies, all of them, who observed the rules of discretion and containment – no wild declarations of love - and Louis liked it so.

The road curved to the right, and once more Louis was presented with a view of Héloïse's profile. All thoughts of Jeanne, Thérèse and Violette faded. Beautiful, a little fragile, innocent of court stratagems, dreaming : the words that described her slid into Louis' mind before he was aware they were there. He knew without prior knowledge that Héloïse was all of those things. A shiver of desire caught at the back of his throat, and with it came temptation.

The sight of the pink and gold palace of Versailles at the end of the Avenue de Paris acted as a corrective. The Marquis and Marquise de Guinot had, no doubt, made their plans for their daughter, and he was a fool to contemplate a liaison on the strength of one chance meeting – yet. If Mademoiselle de Guinot were to be married, then, and only then, after she had done her duty and produced an heir, then maybe things would be different.

A lieutenant was waiting for Louis as the entourage swept into the Place d'Armes and halted in front of the palace gates.

‘Sir, the reports from Paris require your urgent attention,' he informed Louis.

‘Trouble?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Louis dismounted. ‘Escort Mademoiselle de Guinot and her party to their apartments and then return to me.'

After what was necessarily the briefest of goodbyes, Louis led his horse towards the stables, leaving Héloïse, Sophie and Marie-Victoire to follow the lieutenant through the wrought-iron gates and up the gently inclining courtyard of the Cour des Ministres, where they turned left and disappeared into the wing assigned for the use of the king's ministers.

His headquarters smelt of sweat and leather, and there was an unusual stir of activity. One of Louis' fellow officers looked up at his entrance and waved a dispatch in front of his nose.

‘You had better read this,' he said. ‘Paris is in an uproar and a mass of fishwives are marching on Versailles.'

‘You're not serious?' said Louis, taking it from him.

‘The agents have only just managed to pass this through. The Parisians have been massing in the streets since dawn and many of the roads are blocked. Apparently, Monsieur le Duc d'Orléans has been whipping up support in the bread queues against the king and inciting the mob to march on Versailles. It
sounds
ridiculous, but we had better take steps to deal with it.'

Louis frowned. ‘What of the Paris National Guard? Where are they?'

The officer tapped the paper with his finger. ‘Who knows? The first report suggests that they are not much in evidence. They are under the command of Général Lafayette, of course, but where he is I cannot tell you.'

‘And there is no other support?'

‘It seems not.'

Louis adjusted his sword belt. ‘We must assemble the detachments. Will you see to it while I get something to eat?'

*

It was afternoon by the time Louis returned to the Place d'Armes and the palace was quiet. The king had been out hunting since the early morning, and the queen, who was supervising the gardener at the Petit Trianon, had given orders not to be disturbed. Many of the courtiers were either paying visits in the town or riding and walking in the grounds. Louis gazed up at the familiar buildings. These days he knew inside out its topography. The older palace with its cast-iron roof decorations and elaborate stonework built around the inner marble court, the calm spaciousness of the two courts that opened beneath it and the elongated lines of the royal chapel to the right, It was impossible that they could be under threat. So thinking, he walked towards the Avenue de Paris, and was stopped in his tracks.

A horse galloped at full speed towards the palace, its rider shouting and waving his hat. The horse thundered towards him, and Louis hastily took a step back. It was the Duc de Maillé. Louis raised his hand in greeting but the duke never slackened his pace.

‘Paris is marching on us with guns,' he shouted, bent double over the saddle.

A few seconds' later the flurry of hoofbeats was stilled when the Duc flung himself from his mount and disappeared towards the royal apartments. Louis's brain took a second or two to clear. ‘For God's sake,' he said, ran towards the stables opposite the gates, seized the nearest horse from a surprised groom and flung himself across the saddle.

The Hôtel des Menus Plaisirs lay further down the Avenue de Paris to the right, just past the Hôtel du Grand Maître. Louis spurred on the horse. It was imperative that he warn the Assembly, which was in session, of what was happening.

Not surprisingly, when he burst through the door, he was informed that the Assembly could not be disturbed. No, no, on no account could Louis enter. Furious, Louis decided to waste no more time. Leaving urgent messages with instructions to convey them to the president of the Assembly as soon as possible, he turned on his heel and remounted his horse.

Back in the Place d'Armes, he issued the call to arms and sent messengers scurrying to all corners of the palace and into the town. His men took up their formations just as the first scout ran in and gasped out his story of how a huge mob of women had walked the twelve miles from Paris to Versailles, intent on bringing the king back to the capital. Worse, the scout reported, the Paris National Guard had also decided to join the uprising and was following behind with guns and cannon.

‘What wasLafayette thinking of? He should have been able to prevent this,' snapped Louis.

‘He's with them,' the scout reported, ‘and sends word that he has them under control.'

‘Can we trust him?' asked Louis, adding in an undertone, ‘I think the général cares more for his own glory than to protect the king.'

The scout stood to attention. It was not his business to comment.

‘Did no one think to close the Sèvres bridge,' demanded Louis, ‘and prevent their crossing?'

The scout shook his head.

Louis dismissed him. Versailles was under serious attack, and he needed to act. He sent word to the commanding officer of the Flanders Regiment with a request for his men to join him. He ordered the horses to be saddled and yet another messenger was dispatched to summon the remainder of the King's Swiss Guards a few miles to the north-east at Courbevoie. As he worked, Louis rejected first one plan then another: the king should be advised to leave; the queen must return from the Trianon; the royal children, at least, should be taken to some place of safety. And all the time he was aware of a growing sense of unreality. This could not be happening. It should not be happening. Something had gone very wrong.

The Place d'Armes was now swarmed with men and rang to the sound of cornets and shouted orders. Inside the Cour Royale the Swiss Regiment took up their positions under the chapel arch and, for the first time since the days of Louis XIV, the great black iron gates of the château swung shut with a clang. Despite all he had to think about, Louis managed to spare a thought for Héloïse de Guinot and toyed with the idea of sending a messenger to the de Guinot apartments to advise them to leave Versailles by another route. The moment passed and he forgot all about her.

Like most in the palace, the de Guinot party was unaware of any impending crisis. Having retired to their rooms to refresh themselves – and Sophie was astonished to discover how small and cramped the rooms were – they set about enjoying themselves. The marquise departed on an previous engagement and they met up with Ned and embarked at once on a walking party in the grounds.

It had been a very pleasant afternoon despite the damp weather which had curtailed the expedition, but Sophie was so eager to see the palace and to explore the delights of its fabled terraces, flowerbeds and statues that she did not mind. The gardens were as awe-inspiring as reports had made out and quite impossible to see in their entirety in one short afternoon. Sophie looked forward to many more such outings, both walking and riding. She was particularly impressed by the lake and the vista, which stretched for miles into the distance, and exclaimed over the impressiveness of the fountains. She and Ned rambled up the avenue of lime trees that led towards the Trianon and vied with each other as to the respective merits of the statues.

Ned was in good humour. His ride had given him some exercise and he felt better for it. He had also managed to capture Héloïse for five minutes and had made her laugh at one of his jokes. Versailles as a palace didn't stir any special feelings in him: he preferred the sight of a well-managed English estate, but he was perfectly content to stand chatting with Sophie while they took in the sights of the palace.

The air was grew chilly and he took her arm to lead her back to the apartments.

‘How perfect it is,' exclaimed Sophie as she ascended the huge stone steps. ‘It is so beautiful and so peaceful.'

She paused to regain her breath, and her gaze swept over a landscape tinted with autumnal reds and oranges, and down to the figures moving in and out of trees and along the lake.

It reminded her of nothing so much as a painting. A beautiful oil, wrought with the rich strokes of a master – an elegant and perfect composition, frozen in time.

Chapter 8

In the Place d'Armes the minutes ticked by, stringing out taut nerves. The men shifted at the posts, leather boots squeaking and the butts of their muskets scraping along the coarse cloth of their coats.

Still nothing happened.

Towards half-past three the king and his suite galloped at full tilt back from hunting. Those who were nearest to him set up a cheer –
‘Vive le roi!'
– but the king's face registered no emotion at all and, instead of acknowledging the support, the monarch rode past without so much as a gesture.

And still nothing happened.

The rain that had threatened all day began to fall soaking the watchers. Louis strained to see down the avenue. Perhaps, after all, the rain might deter the marchers and they would return to Paris? Suddenly, through the wet mist, he spotted a figure stumbling out of the gloom. Then another. And another.

‘Quiet,' he ordered, as an apprehensive ripple broke out among his men. Gradually the avenue filled up, the shapes blurred at first, then merging into a mass that moved closer and closer towards the palace.