Page 59

The Flight of Royalty

Rollant stirred in his sleep. Flashes of élise haunted him in a cruel nightmare: her in Hugo’s shirt, sitting on Hugo’s lap, her arms draped around Hugo’s neck as she kissed Hugo. His fists clenched as he watched from a window, pounding on the glass.

“élise!” he shouted, his voice desperate, but she only turned to him, her lips curling into a bitter sneer.

“Monster,” she mouthed.

The tolling bells in the background grew deafening, louder and louder until Rollant woke with a start, a thick paste coating his mouth. The supper bell echoed through the Tuileries Palace, but it felt as though it rang only for him.

He rubbed his face, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Tonight is the night,” he muttered, regaining his breath. He swung his feet out of his bed and rolled the ache out of his neck. “Finally, in two days, maybe the dreams will stop.”

Yet even as he spoke the words, he doubted it.

Distance wouldn’t erase her. élise would haunt him no matter how far he went—a shadow he could never escape.

He longed for the days when dreams—when feelings—were nothing more than faint whispers lost in his eternal monotony.

He’d felt nothing—no joy, no pain, no love—and it had been easier to endure.

He had accepted his plight in the past, but with the Revolution slowly crushing the crown, the sorceress tightened the noose around his neck. He wanted out of the deal. He’d called for her to show her face, to remove it, but it was all vanity. She never came.

Rollant ran his hand through his hair, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.

Every moment spent with élise had left an imprint on his soul.

Her smile and her laugh lingered in his memory like a forgotten melody.

But the more he thought of her, the more she became like a ghost he couldn’t reach, yet she had become his greatest longing.

Her rejection cut deeper than any wound, much more than expected.

Maybe beyond the borders, far from élise and the turmoil of Paris, he could finally find peace.

Or perhaps he was lying to himself again.

He dressed methodically, ate his supper brought by a servant, and steeled himself for the secret mission to remove the king from the palatial prison.

By the time he mounted the black Berlin carriage, seated at the back as an attendant, the royal family was already inside, disguised and anxious.

King Louis held his young son tightly, while Queen Marie Antoinette clutched her daughter, her lips pressed into a pale line.

The King’s sister, Madame élisabeth, sat across from them, murmuring reassurances that felt hollow even to Rollant’s ears.

Rollant glanced at his pocket watch in the moonlight. They were already half an hour late. The Queen’s delay in the palace, nearly discovered by Commander Lafayette, had cost them precious time. It was an ill omen for their journey.

The carriage lurched forward.

He had urged the King to stay in Paris, to negotiate directly with the revolutionaries, and to embrace his symbolic role as a constitutional monarch.

But Louis had faltered under the weight of his wife’s fears and the mounting hostility of the city, especially the riot that kept the royal family from attending Easter mass.

Rollant had tried to convince him that hostilities would pass and concessions could temper the growing tide.

But the decision was made, and now they were fleeing like thieves in the night, clinging to a fragile hope of counter-revolution.

The king asked Rollant to come with him, and of course, Rollant had to say yes.

But the more he thought about leaving France, the more the idea of distance healing his heart soothed his mind, or, at least, would give him peace.

He’d been the one to meet with the royalist allies along the path to the Austrian-Belgium border and set up royalist troops for a counter-revolution, but it was a tricky endeavor.

He doubted the king could recover any of his authority if anything went wrong on the two-day ride there and he had to return to Paris.

Outside the city, they met with an intimate Swedish friend of the Queen’s to exchange carriages and faster horses and took off riding all night.

The carriage rolled through the darkened countryside, its path lit only by the dim glow of lanterns and the moon’s silver.

Rollant’s eyes stayed sharp, scanning for threats.

Night was their ally, a cloak for escape, but the dawn would expose them.

As the sun’s preceding light entered the sky, the coachman slumped as they came to a bridge.

“Maxime!” Rollant yelled at the coachman. “Stay alert,” he ordered.

Maxime straightened up, but his inattention proved costly.

The wheel struck the stone post, jolting the carriage and throwing Rollant from the back.

He landed hard on the ground. His bones knit themselves back together with an aching crack as he pushed himself up.

His ears rang from the impact as he moved quickly to assess the royal family and the damage.

The family was shaken but uninjured; however, the wheel was broken. Maxime and the postilion, Pierre, were already pulling the spare wheel out.

The hard part would be removing the broken one. Rollant pulled the leather straps and ropes from the repair bag.

Every second spent fumbling with the ropes and axle was another moment of escape lost. They were already late.

The receding shadows of the dawn seemed to conspire against them.

He yanked at the ropes, his fingers sore, the broken wheel refusing to come off the axle.

Time was slipping away. He glanced at the royal family standing outside the carriage—Louis with his son, their lives in his hands—and his heart raced. They couldn’t afford any more delays.

At last, they were moving again, another half hour later. An hour behind schedule, Maxime and Pierre pushed the horses faster.

When they reached their next checkpoint—a rendezvous with a young royalist Duke and his soldiers—they found it abandoned. The Duke had fled, and Rollant’s stomach twisted. Their allies had been spooked, perhaps warned by criers who had already spread news of the King’s absence.

The sun had already risen and with new dangers.

The towns along their route were waking, and their disguises could only protect them for so long.

Beady eyes stared at them as they passed through, and his stomach sank like a rock.

They were not safe. The Queen wanted to stop, but Rollant ordered Maxime to keep going and fast.

They had the advantage of knowing the route.

Even if there were criers who went ahead, they didn’t know to which city the royal family was headed.

Rollant’s shoulders softened as they passed through towns with no incident, but his unease resurfaced with a vengeance as they entered Varennes-de-Argonne.

The streets were eerily quiet, the narrow alleys and dark windows seeming to watch their every move.

Rollant ordered Maxime to keep going. They had to make up time, and Varennes felt like a trap closing in.

As the carriage rolled through the town, Rollant noticed the faces of the townspeople peeking out from behind doors and shutters. Their eyes were sharp, calculating, and he couldn’t shake the feeling they were watching for more than just a passing coach.

The horses stopped at a man standing in the middle of the street, flanked by members of the town’s National Guard.

The man approached the Coachman, Maxime, and greeted him with an icy welcome. “Good day. I am Ma?tre Lucien Barreau, the town’s prosecutor. Where are your passengers going, Monsieur? May I see them?” It was more of a demand than a question.

But before Maxime could respond, he snapped, and the guards surrounded the carriage. Rollant tensed.

The prosecutor approached the carriage window. His eyes narrowed as he swept the faces inside the carriage. His lips pressed into a thin line. There was something in his gaze—suspicion, curiosity—but he made no move to open the door.

For a moment, Rollant feared that the charade was unraveling. Rollant held his breath, waiting for the verdict.

With a subtle tilt of his head, the prosecutor gave a small nod and opened the door as though he had already made up his mind.

“Out,” he ordered.

Rollant jumped down from the back but was met with two guards barring his path.

He looked around them at the prosecutor. “I was paid as a guard for these good people. Let me do my job.”

The prosecutor paid him no heed as he kept his focus on Queen Marie Antoinette. “Your services are no longer needed, Monsieur.”

But Rollant shook his head. “A job is a job. I’ve already been paid. You’re interfering with my duties.”

The prosecutor chuckled. “Loyal servant, are you, Monsieur? Very well, you may assist them.”

The royal family stepped out one by one, their trembling hands and forced smiles betraying their fear.

Rollant offered his hand to the Queen, nodding at her in silent reassurance.

But the prosecutor’s gaze lingered on her pale face, his lips curving into a knowing smirk.

He knew. They had been caught and cut off.

“We must have a record of your passing,” the prosecutor said after receiving the family’s aliases.

“You are free to lodge in our local candlemaker’s attic while I prepare your records,” the prosecutor said.

“I do apologize for the delay, but with an increase in violence, we have to ensure everyone who comes and goes through our town is proper.”

Guards confiscated the carriage, led the horses away, and were stationed at every exit of the candlemaker’s home.

Rollant conferred with Louis, Maxime, and Pierre as the family huddled in the cramped attic that night. They whispered in hushed tones, debating their options.