Danton’s furious accusation made Lafayette tremble all over, shaking like a leaf. Yet even so, what could he say? Lafayette could only mutter a few feeble lines, then—surrounded by Bailly, Sieyès, and the others—rush to the Constituent Assembly to plead his case before the deputies, hoping to secure support in Paris.

  Meanwhile, Marat and his supporters also sprang into action. The Cordeliers Club printed and distributed pamphlets day and night, calling on the people of Paris to forget the King’s name forever and proclaim France a republic. Brissot, Roland, Condorcet, and many other prominent figures in Paris stepped forward to declare:

  “From this day forth, France shall have no King, no dictator, no Emperor, no Protector, no Regent. Whoever still dreams of ruling us is our enemy!”

  …

  More than 100 kilometres northeast of Paris, Louis XVI and his family sat cheerfully in their specially built luxurious coach. The road was rough, yet it was far more comfortable than the Tuileries, where they had lived under constant surveillance. Perhaps the tension of flight had suppressed the King’s appetite; now that the alarm seemed lifted and safety appeared close, his hunger returned with force. The abundant pastries in the food cabinet were devoured at once, and Louis XVI alone consumed more than half.

  The Princess and the Dauphin were fascinated by everything beyond Paris. They pointed at the sheep scattered across the hills, at white herons gliding elegantly overhead, and even at nameless wild flowers and grasses. Their governess—and Queen Antoinette as well—smiled and answered the children’s questions with patient warmth.

  Toward noon, the Princess, the Dauphin, and two servants all fell asleep inside the coach. Louis XVI and Queen Antoinette remained exhilarated. Smiling, they held each other tightly, feeling—at that moment—that they were of one heart, and swore they would never again be separated.

  Nestled in her husband’s arms, Antoinette drifted into happy sleep, dreaming of the life to come: wherever she went, flowers would be strewn before her, and cries of “Vive!” would rise like waves; all faces would be filled with reverence, all bodies bent in deep bows and hand-kisses. Soon Louis XVI would order Marquis de Bouillé to command the troops loyal to the King, and with the support of her brother, the Emperor of Austria, march back into France. A few volleys must be fired at the lawless mob, a few cannon must roar; at least half the deputies must be imprisoned; and Danton, Brissot, Pétion, Robespierre, and Marat—together with that insolent André—must all be sent to the gallows. As for Lafayette, the Queen, in her mercy, would exile that nobleman to North America, and forbid his return for twenty years.

  When all was restored to the old order, and once the Palace of Versailles had been made new again, the court would move back from the Tuileries to Versailles. The salons would reopen; grand balls and lavish banquets would begin once more. Yes—balls must last twenty days—no, thirty days—an entire month…

  As the Queen indulged her splendid dream, the special coach passed the village of étoyes. Less than forty kilometres remained to the next relay station, at the village of Fagnières on the southwest edge of Chalons-en-Champagne. Under the original plan, Marquis de Bouillé was to send a cavalry squadron to wait there and escort the two monarchs, the Princess, and the Dauphin through the next stage of the journey. But because the King’s departure had been delayed by twenty-four hours, that plan was now unlikely to hold.

  On a rise at the entrance to Fagnières, several dragoons—wearing yellow or green uniforms and brass helmets—cast a bitter look toward the village houses, while Campan, forced by necessity to disguise himself as a mere Captain, shook his head in helpless frustration. After waiting too long, the dragoons had grown restless and, in the process, had clashed with the nearby villagers. The villagers had clearly suffered the worse, and now refused to sell food or wine to the dragoons. It was no surprise that hunger sharpened the soldiers’ resentment.

  “This cannot go on,” Captain Campan warned himself. The matter had to be settled quickly; if it grew, it would draw the attention of the nearby National Guard—and, worse, the notice of the Champagne Composite Brigade.

  Just as the dragoon commander considered leaving two men behind to continue waiting, while the rest rode back to Chalons-en-Champagne—ten kilometres away—to eat, more than 200 light cavalrymen silently closed in from all sides. They surrounded the forty-five dragoons on the slope, together with Captain Campan.

  The dragoons scrambled onto their horses and drew their sabres, but they dared not move. Both sides were cavalry, and the enemy outnumbered them by more than five to one. There was no chance of breaking out.

  “Who are you, and why do you block our road?” Captain Campan spurred forward and demanded loudly.

  A young officer wearing the rank of Lieutenant Colonel in the National Guard rode out from the light cavalry. Campan—once a Colonel of the former Guards—seemed to have seen him before, but the memory was blurred after two years.

  The National Guard officer addressed him with deliberate respect. “Colonel Campan, I am Lieutenant Colonel Hoche, commander of the cavalry regiment of the Champagne Composite Brigade. Today, by order of General André, I request that you come to the Reims camp to assist in the investigation of a case. I have been authorised: if you refuse or resist, I may escort you by force—even shoot you on the spot.”

  As soon as he finished speaking, Hoche’s light cavalry raised their pistols as one, aiming at the forty-five dragoons. The moment Hoche spoke his name, Campan knew the affair was exposed. His first instinct was not for his own safety, but to break through and warn the King.

  He had not gone two strides before a gunshot cracked. Campan fell heavily from the saddle, blood staining the green grass. Before Hoche could give another order, the dragoons threw down their weapons together, dismounted, and raised their hands high, waiting to be taken.

  Hoche looked at Campan’s body with a flash of pity. Then he turned and shouted at the man who had fired—Captain Nansouty: “Bastard! You will deal with Colonel Campan’s body yourself!”

  Within minutes, Hoche and his cavalry withdrew from Fagnières. One detachment escorted the prisoners to the Reims camp, while several riders remained hidden in the village to watch for the approaching royal party.

  Because it had not yet received authorisation from Paris, the Champagne Composite Brigade could not operate openly outside its own zone, still less detain Louis XVI and Queen Antoinette, the Princess, and the Dauphin under any pretext. Thus Hoche and his cavalry could only move under the name of “training marches,” quietly sweeping away, one by one, the advance detachments Marquis de Bouillé had posted along the road to Montmédy—leaving Louis XVI and his party isolated and without support. Once André obtained the combined authorisation of the Assembly and the Commander of the National Guard—his lawful sword—he would then eliminate the Royalist Party networks across the Marne openly and with full legitimacy.

  At around four in the afternoon, Louis XVI’s party reached Fagnières. Yet Colonel Campan and his advance detachment—meant to be waiting there—were nowhere to be seen. The fugitives, suddenly reminded of the value of bread, found that the villagers refused to sell food to strangers; they had too little even for themselves. A kind-hearted local landowner sent several bottles of champagne and a basket of white bread to the King’s guards, and reported that the dragoon squadron that had been waiting there had left two hours earlier, for reasons unknown.

  After hearing the report, Louis XVI and the Queen quickly agreed: the adults would drink the champagne, the children would eat the bread. After further consideration, they decided to press on—risking a stop ten kilometres ahead in Chalons-en-Champagne to obtain food and wine. If time permitted, they would also have to replace the exhausted twelve post-horses, more than half of which were already showing signs of collapse.

  Compared with the hunger and strain of the King’s party, the Marne River journey of Comte de Provence’s group was positively comfortable. The merchant vessel provided ample food and wine, along with bedding and pillows for sleep. In his excitement, the Bourbon Comte even improvised a short lyric poem in praise of the calm villages and peaceful scenery along the river.

  Princess élisabeth, however, was somewhat downcast; she seemed worried for the young Princess and the Dauphin. Fortunately, Comte de Provence’s wife, the Savoyard princess Maria Giuseppina

  Hubert, newly appointed as Comte de Provence’s secretary, stood at the bow and watched the river ahead. In truth, everything before his eyes had little to do with him; he was thinking instead of his own future.

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  In May, when André instructed Hubert to infiltrate Comte de Provence’s entourage, André had already designed an excellent escape route for him—and had also included Princess élisabeth and the entire Demo? family. In that respect alone, Hubert was convinced André would not deceive him.

  As for Louis XVI’s party, Hubert was equally convinced they would not escape. André needed this great event—the King’s flight—to strike the Royalist Party forces in the Marne, and to crush the hostile faction that opposed André’s dictatorship.

  Like the Seine, the Marne was a “quiet young lady.” Most of the time the current ran slowly, so the difference between going with it and against it was not dramatic. When Louis XVI reached Chalons-en-Champagne, the merchant vessel—though it had departed two hours earlier—had only just arrived at Dormans, the village at the border of the two départements.

  Marquis de Demo? was already waiting on the riverbank.

  The party disembarked unsteadily from the pier. When they looked up, they saw a middle-aged officer in a blue uniform standing beside Marquis de Demo?—strangely out of place. A second glance confirmed it: Colonel Berthier.

  Everyone froze in shock. Two guards fumbled for swords and pistols, ready to fight their way through—but more than ten gendarmes emerged from the brush, and six or seven times as many pistol barrels pointed straight at the two guards.

  Comte de Provence shook his head, ordered the guards to put away their weapons, and stepped forward. He asked the National Guard officer opposite him, “My friend—have you come to arrest me?”

  Colonel Berthier resisted the urge to bite at his fingers. He shook his head. “Comte, I have only been ordered to see you off. From here to Charleville-Mézières is 130 kilometres, and then there is a further journey of more than 200 kilometres along the Meuse to Brussels. So I have prepared food, clean water, and necessities for the road. The gendarmerie will escort you to the frontier of the Ardennes.”

  As he spoke, Berthier gestured behind him. The gendarmes slipped back into the brush. Two minutes later, a four-wheeled wagon loaded with food, wine, and supplies rolled up and stopped behind the three light carriages.

  “Are you obeying André’s orders? Why help us? Will the King be in danger?” Comte de Provence demanded in a string of questions. After Berthier had cut off contact of his own accord, the Comte had already understood: Berthier had abandoned the Bourbons and formally attached himself to André.

  Berthier only smiled, neither confirming nor denying, and gave no answer. Then he stepped back, opened a passage, and indicated they could continue their journey.

  Before Comtesse de Provence and Princess élisabeth climbed into their carriage, each looked once at Berthier. He nodded and dipped his head slightly in courtesy.

  As the carriage began to roll forward, Princess élisabeth suddenly tore a piece of jewellery from her clothing and threw it out of the window, where it fell into the grass. She called loudly to Colonel Berthier, “You must give this to him!” It was a platinum brooch set with diamonds and coloured stones—one of her cherished possessions.

  Berthier picked up the brooch from the grass and nodded heavily to Princess élisabeth. Tears seemed to glint on her face.

  …

  At around four o’clock on June 21, André received General Lafayette’s emergency order, together with the Constituent Assembly’s authorisation. From the moment these two documents reached him, André could lawfully mobilise National Guard forces across the Marne and its neighbouring départements, and arrest, try, or even execute on the spot anyone deemed to be “conspiring to kidnap the royal family”—that is, the hard core of the Royalist Party, or forces opposed to André.

  Inside the gendarmerie headquarters at Reims, André—fully in uniform—addressed the arriving inner circle with barely contained excitement. “Gentlemen, take note: the world will remember this day forever, because today you will follow me—and together we will change the history of France.”

  With that, André took his soft-cornered cap from Davout, stepped out first, mounted his warhorse, and soon—surrounded by his officers—set off at speed for Chalons-en-Champagne.

  At dusk, the capital of the Marne, Chalons-en-Champagne, received a group of mysterious guests. Men and women were among them, along with two small girls. They travelled in a luxurious coach drawn by twelve horses. Around the coach rode a small troop of German mercenary cavalry in yellow uniforms, clearing curious onlookers from the road. Even the man on the coach box was peculiar: in the heat of summer he sat upright, properly dressed, and his bearing was plainly not that of a common driver—rather, of some great noble slipping through on the way to the frontier.

  The coach quickly rolled into the courtyard of the Chalons City Hall. The Mayor, Simon Chabert

  During the meal, Queen Antoinette asked Mayor Chabert in a low voice about Marquis de Bouillé’s detachments. The Mayor replied that he had seen nothing of Colonel Campan and the others returning to Chalons. The Queen felt as if she had been struck. She did not know which link in the chain had failed, but she understood at once that they could not linger here. Driving at night was dangerous, but if they endured a few more hours they could cross the boundary of the Marne; and on the far bank of the Meuse, perhaps Bouillé would be waiting.

  So before night fully fell, Louis XVI refused Mayor Chabert’s repeated pleas—and those of the other City Hall officials—to remain. He pushed on into the night, continuing northeast. At the same time, rumours began to spread through the city: that the King and Queen, fleeing to the frontier, had made a brief stop in Chalons.

  Not long after the royal coach departed, several hundred cavalry rode into the town. Following pre-arranged orders, they first seized the National Guard barracks and took control of the armoury. Next, a gendarmerie company under Captain Wade swiftly secured the Chalons City Hall and detained the City Hall officials who had not yet left. In addition, large numbers of gendarmes deployed through the streets and alleys on patrol, enforcing the curfew order signed by the Deputy Prosecutor of the Marne.

  “André, are you mad? Who gave you this authority?” Thuriot—the Chief Provincial Prosecutor—stormed into the City Hall upon hearing the news, shouting at André. His voice carried equal parts fury and fear.

  “Lozère!” André called sharply for his intelligence aide.

  Second Lieutenant Lozère ran over at once and produced two documents from his black leather bag: an order signed by General Lafayette, and an authorisation issued by the Constituent Assembly. He read them aloud in turn. These were André’s lawful sword: they empowered him to command and mobilise all armed forces within the Marne, and to arrest, interrogate, or even shoot on the spot those “conspiring to kidnap the royal family.”

  “Go on, Lozère,” André added.

  The intelligence aide produced a further warrant signed by André and read it out loudly: “By determination of the Chief Provincial Prosecutor Thuriot and the Deputy Prosecutor André, the following persons are major suspects in the kidnapping of the King and Queen: Mayor Simon Chabert of Chalons, Lieutenant Colonel Paleto of the city’s National Guard, the magistrate Comondo, and…”

  Each time Lozère read a name, armed gendarmes stepped forward, seized the corresponding suspect, and led him out of the City Hall.

  “Damn you, André—this is personal revenge! You devil, you will go to hell!” one accused official shouted, only to be struck with a rifle butt by his escort, dislocating his jaw.

  More people begged, struggling to defend themselves, and André watched it all without comment. And it was not only in the City Hall: across Chalons, similar scenes unfolded in different places. Within the next twenty-four hours—at Chalons, at Aumont, at Suippes, and in other towns—more than thirty officials, and an even larger number of nobles and local notables, would be arrested by the gendarmerie. Their shared trait was simple: at one time or another, openly or in secret, they had opposed the dictator of Reims—André Franck.

  Back inside the City Hall, André took the warrant from Lozère’s hands and placed it before Thuriot, who stood wide-eyed and speechless. Then André lifted a quill already heavy with ink and offered it with a smiling reminder: “Teacher—you have not yet signed this warrant.”

  …

  At the village of Binarville, some sixty kilometres northeast of Chalons-en-Champagne, Louis XVI’s great coach arrived at precisely ten o’clock at night. More than twenty hours had passed since the party fled the Palais des Tuileries. An officer assigned to reconnoitre the route ran up and reported that if they crossed the stone bridge over the Aisne—two kilometres ahead—they would enter the Meuse département, and within three hours receive reinforcements from Marquis de Bouillé.

  So the coach pressed on. The drivers—already changed twice—were exhausted to the bone, yet they clenched their teeth and persisted. As they approached Binarville, the driver spotted several large logs laid across the road. He and his assistant yanked the reins hard; the horses screamed in pain and finally stopped.

  Before the fugitives could react, a middle-aged man holding a kerosene lamp stepped forward and blocked the coach. He shouted, “I am Prosecutor Savary Lecques

  As he spoke, more than thirty light cavalrymen—disguised as local National Guards—closed in, carrying bayonet-fixed muskets, spears, and sabres. The royal guards, who had been ready to drive off the obstruction, now hesitated, fearing any violence might bring needless harm to the King, the Queen, and the royal children.

  At a signal from his leader, one dragoon turned his horse and slipped away from the rear of the coach, clearly intending to warn the next detachment of Marquis de Bouillé.

  “Do not fire—let him go,” Lieutenant Colonel Hoche ordered from his concealment in the woods, stopping his men’s rash impulse.

  On Lecques’s demand, the coach was forced into a yard within the village. Before noon that day, Lecques had already compelled the village’s more than 200 inhabitants to relocate temporarily to nearby villages. As compensation, he had paid 800 livres to the village headman and the representatives of the villagers.

  When the coach came to a halt again, all the men among the fugitives fell silent, none daring to speak of resistance. Only the Queen fought back. She remained calm enough, and said coldly, “We are in haste. Even as Prosecutor, you have no right to delay our journey.”

  “Papers,” the Prosecutor said sternly at the door, demanding again.

  One by one, the travel passports of all adults were handed out through the window.

  Soon, Lieutenant Colonel Hoche—disguised as the leader of the local militia—approached with a kerosene lamp. By its weak light, Prosecutor Lecques began to inspect the passports in turn:

  “Comtesse von Korff?” — the governess Madame Touzel.

  “Governess Madame Rochet?” — the true identity: Queen Antoinette.

  “House steward Monsieur Coman?” — the true identity: Louis XVI.