The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [70]
Let’s have a quick look at what sort of man this Turgy was.
Turgy was a former serving-man at the King’s table, brought to the Temple along with a part of the household of the Tuileries, for the King at first enjoyed a pretty well organized table service. For the first month alone, this service set the nation back thirty to forty thousand francs.
But, as you can well understand, such prodigality could not last—the Commune saw to it that that was an order. The chefs were sent packing, along with kitchen hands and assistant kitchen hands. Only a single serving-man was retained, and that man was Turgy.
Turgy was thus a natural intermediary between the two prisoners and their followers, for Turgy could come and go, and so carry notes with him and carry back replies. In general these notes were rolled as stoppers in the carafes of almond milk the Queen and Madame Elisabeth were brought. They were written in lemon juice and remained invisible until held up to a flame.
Everything had been ready for the escape when one day Tison lit his pipe with the stopper from one of the carafes. As the paper burned he saw letters appear. He put out the half-burned piece of paper and took the fragment to the Temple Council. There it was held up to a flame, but only a few random words could be deciphered. The rest had been reduced to ashes.
But the Queen’s handwriting was recognizable. Under interrogation, Tison told how he’d noticed Lepître and Toulan treating the prisoners indulgently now and then. The two agents were denounced to the municipal council and could no longer enter the Temple.
Turgy remained.
But wariness had been aroused to the highest degree. Turgy was never left alone with the princesses, and so all communication with the outside world became impossible.
Still, one day Madame Elisabeth had handed Turgy a small knife with a gold blade she used for cutting fruit and asked him to clean it. Turgy suspected something, and while wiping the knife he had tugged at the handle. It contained a note.
This note consisted of a whole alphabet of signs.
Turgy gave Madame Elisabeth back the knife, but a municipal officer who happened to be on the scene whipped the knife out of her hands and inspected it closely; he too pulled the blade out of the handle, but luckily the note was no longer there. Though that didn’t stop the municipal officer from confiscating the knife.
It was at that point that the indefatigable Knight of Maison-Rouge dreamed up this second attempt, which would be carried out by means of the house Dixmer had just bought.
Yet, little by little, the prisoners had lost all hope. That day the Queen had been sickened by the cries from the street that reached her, informing her that the Girondins—the last bastion of moderation—were to be put on trial. She had been mortally sad when she heard the news. With the Girondins dead, the royal family had no one to defend them at the Convention.
At seven o’clock, supper was served. The municipal officers examined each dish as they normally did; they unfolded all the napkins one after the other; poked at the bread, one with a fork, the other with his fingers; smashed the macaroons and the nuts—all this for fear that a note might somehow reach the prisoners. Once these precautions had been taken, they invited the Queen and the princesses to sit at the table using this simple formula: “Widow Capet, you can eat.”
The Queen shook her head to say she was not hungry. But at that moment Madame Royale came over as though to kiss her mother and whispered in her ear:
“Sit down at the table, madame, I think Turgy is signaling to you.”
The Queen started and looked up. Turgy was standing opposite her, his napkin placed over his left hand and his right hand touching his eye.
She