‘The gates are locked. I can see some people arguing with the guards. That’s it: they’ve pushed them open.’
The bottleneck eased, the crowd started flowing again like wine decanting into the bowlshaped gardens of the palace. We splashed and spread over every inch. I ducked as Joseph took me through the archway into a courtyard.
‘Put me down, please,’ I called to him.
He lowered me to the ground. ‘Forgive the liberty, miss,’ he said solemnly.
‘Not at all. It was most necessary.’ Taking Frank’s hand, I pulled him towards the tide of people invading the palace building itself.
‘You’re not thinking of going in there, are you?’ he asked nervously.
‘Of course!’
‘Cat, you are the most reckless, the most foolish –’
‘I know – and don’t you love me for it!’ I called over my shoulder as I towed him after me.
Hot on the heels of angry Parisians, we entered the Royal Palace. For many of us, it was the first time we had seen such splendour with our own eyes. It felt almost as if we were desecrating a temple – the mystique of royalty trampled by our commoners’ feet. We made our way through a grand entrance hall and into a set of interconnecting rooms lined with mirrors. Rich red and gilt flashed by as we rushed forward; priceless paintings, statues, and frescoes were for the first time on view for the masses. Fine chairs and tables were overturned, turkey rugs sullied by our boots. Servants fled before us like rabbits from a pack of hunting dogs, disappearing further into the building. But it wasn’t the rich furnishings and paintings we had come to view – it was the king’s bedchamber. And there it was: an empty bed, surrounded by heavy drapes, a pair of monographed slippers peeking out from underneath. The curtains had been pulled back to show that the sheets had not been slept in. A set of small clothes lay unused on a chair, abandoned by a valet when he discovered his master gone. A large mirrored dressing table stood under the window, covered in bottles and grooming implements. Among them lay an envelope weighed down by an ornate letter opener. A boy picked the knife up to inspect it, the diamonds in its handle glinting. A woman squinted at the letter but seemed unable to read the handwriting.
‘What do you mean, you imbecile?’ a rough-looking man was shouting into the face of a terrified servant who had not managed to escape. ‘“He went to bed as normal” – how could he have done!’
‘I swear, m-monsieur,’ stammered the man, ‘I knew nothing about it until I pulled back the curtains. It’s like magic.’
‘Black Austrian magic, you mean,’ said the man, shaking the unfortunate valet by the lapels.
There was a crash over by the fireplace. Two members of the crowd had taken it upon themselves to smash the royal chamberpot.
‘You can’t do that!’ squeaked the valet.
‘With his high and mightiness gone, who’s going to stop us?’ shrieked a woman as she grabbed a bottle of cologne from the dressing table and threw it on the hearth, releasing a strong odour to mingle with that of the sweaty crowd. It seemed that not everyone was prepared to give the king the benefit of the doubt: some here were not sad to see him go.
‘Let’s get out,’ Frank whispered in my ear.
More people were coming and the mood was turning ugly. I had to agree that it was time for us to leave. We elbowed a path back the way we had come and out into the courtyard. A detachment of guards was marching briskly towards the building with the look of men come to restore order.
‘Citizens, this building is to be closed to preserve the evidence!’ announced the man at the head of the column. He’d better hurry or there would be little left to preserve.
‘Where’s the king and his Austrian witch? Where’s the dauphin and the princess royal?’ shouted someone in the crowd at the palace entrance.
‘You will learn more as soon as we establish the facts, citizens,’ the guard said with admirable calm. ‘For now, please return peacefully to your homes. Rest assured, the National Assembly is doing all it can to return the king to Paris.’
With some grumbling, the crowd began to flow back the way it had come, massing outside the gates on a great square, not quite knowing what to do with itself. It did not feel right to be at a loose end on such an historic day.
‘So the king really has left Paris,’ said Frank, gazing back at the palace. ‘I wonder why? I thought he had sworn to uphold the revolution.’
The rough-looking man we had seen in the king’s bedchamber spun round on hearing foreign voices in the crowd. His red cap was pulled low on his brow and he had no breeches, just loose trousers such as all working-men wear.
‘I saw you there, didn’t I, citizens?’ he challenged us. ‘I remember you: the little redhead and the rich boy with the buckskin breeches. You were up in the king’s bedchamber.’
There seemed no point in denying it. ‘Like yourself, monsieur, we wanted to see for ourselves if it were true,’ I replied politely.
‘You speak funny.’ He took a step towards me, a couple of burly mates in his wake. ‘Austrian spies, are you?’
‘Austrians! Austrians!’ The cry was repeated on all sides.
Frank held up his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘Not Austrians, monsieur, English.’ This didn’t appear to make things any better.
‘But we are friends of France, not enemies,’ I added hurriedly.
The man seized Frank by the arm and looked him over. Joseph stepped forward to intervene, only to find himself restrained by two men from behind. ‘If you are our friends, where are your cockades then?’
‘Cockade?’ Frank swallowed, darting a look at me but I was as clueless as him.
The man tapped his ribbon. ‘Your cockade. Every citizen loyal to the revolution wears one.’
‘I’m sorry, we only arrived last night. We haven’t had time . . .’ began Frank but he was pushed aside as the man turned his attention on me.