writings connected with the religious vocation of the royal Carmelite,
such as the Abbé Proyart’s work, that of the Countess Drohojowska, and
the Count de Chambord’s letter to the Holy Father. For my part, I own
that such writings seem to me profoundly affecting. Is it not good to
think that not far from the boudoir where a Du Barry was degrading the
royal authority, there was a little cell wherein a descendant of Saint
Louis sought to avert the scourges of God by prayer? If debauchery has
its priestesses of vice and scandal, chastity must have its virgins and
heroines. At the side of blasphemies, abject even to indecency, there
must needs be prayers ardent to exaltation. To compensate for so many
outrages against the divine majesty, there must be virtues whose sublime
and enthusiastic character seems to profane eyes a sort of exaggeration,
a delirium. To make folly and voluptuousness forgotten for a moment,
there must be just persons who display what Saint Paul has called the
folly of the cross. It is because, in spite of so many debauchees,
there were still elect souls who preserved treasures of purity in the
sanctuary of their consciences, that the eighteenth century was not
altogether ruined, and that, when the revolution came, the women of
this society, which was thought so corrupt and frivolous, recalled the
force of the primitive Christians and the sacred energy of the martyrs
by their greatness of soul and their firmness on the scaffold. Who
knows? Perhaps if Madame Louise of France had not become a Carmelite,
the august woman whom we are about to behold for the first time in the
palace of Versailles would have had less dignity when confronted with her
persecutors, less courage in presence of her executioners.
V
THE CHILDHOOD OF MARIE ANTOINETTE
On All Souls Day, November 2, 1755, a formidable earthquake covered
Lisbon with ruins. At Vienna there was born, on the same day, a child
destined to the most tragic fate, a princess who, having like the Christ
her palms and her Golgotha, was to sum up in her own person all the joys
and all the anguish, all the triumphs and all the sorrows, of woman.
This existence, doomed to catastrophes which surpass the most memorable
examples of ancient fatality, began in that calm which heralds the storm.
The Empress Maria Theresa, a woman of both heart and genius, was equally
admirable as a sovereign, wife, and mother. As simple as majestic, she
needed not the prestige of etiquette to inspire veneration. A few days
before Marie Antoinette was born, the Duke de Tarouka had laid a wager
with the Empress that she would give birth to a son. When he lost his
bet, he caused a kneeling figure to be modelled in porcelain, which was
presenting to the Sovereign some tablets on which were engraven four
verses in Italian from the poet Metastasio, which may be thus translated:
“I have lost. The august daughter has condemned me to pay. But it is true
that if she resembles you, all the world will be the gainer.”
Maria Theresa began betimes to give Marie Antoinette the most serious
instructions. She showed her the shroud she had woven for herself with
her own imperial hands, and taking her down into the vaults where
their ancestors were sleeping: “It is to me,” she said, “that people
now address the homage of which they were once the object; I shall be
forgotten like them.” When they were out driving, the Empress and her
husband gave the right of way to the most humble vehicles, and quietly
took their places in the line. According to an expression of Goethe,
the imperial household was only a great German citizen’s family. Maria
Theresa walked out with her daughters like a private person; she visited
familiarly at the castles of the Counts Palfy, and those of the Esterhazy
and de Kinsky princes. She gave an equally benevolent reception to a
noble or a commoner, a diplomat or an artist; she made little Marie
Antoinette play with little Mozart.
The young Archduchess grew up beneath this mild and salutary influence.
Her father, the Emperor Francis, may have felt for her an even greater
tenderness than for his other children. In 1765 he went to Innsprück,
where he was to be present at the marriage of the Archduke Leopold with
a Spanish Infanta. After his journey had begun, he stopped his carriage
at a short distance from Schönbrun: “Go back, and find the Archduchess
Marie Antoinette,” said he to a member of his suite; “I must see her
again.” The little Princess arrived. Her father wept as he embraced her.
He invoked God’s blessing on her, and even then had to make a violent
effort before he could leave her. He was never to see her again. A few
days later he died at Innsprück, from a sudden attack of apoplexy.
Marie Antoinette remembered all her life the last look her father had
bent upon her. Was not this gaze, so full of tenderness and anxiety, a
presentiment? One day, Maria Theresa questioned the thaumaturgist Gassner
concerning the fate of the young Princess. “Will my Antoinette be happy?”
she asked him. Gassner turned pale and was silent. Urged by the Empress
to reply, “Madame,” said he sadly, “there are crosses for all shoulders.”
But let us dispel gloomy images of the future. The most brilliant destiny
is in preparation for the little Archduchess. It is she who is to unite
the Hapsburghs to the Bourbons; she who is to be Queen of France. Maria
Theresa likes to cherish this beautiful dream. In 1766 an influential
Parisian woman, whose salon had become celebrated throughout Europe,
Madame Geoffrin, goes to Poland to visit Stanislas Poniatowski. She stops
in Vienna, where she meets a reception of which she is very proud. “I
think I must be dreaming,” she writes to M. Bautin, Receiver-General of
Finances, June 12, 1766; “I am as well known here as in the rue Saint
Honoré, and for the last fortnight my journey has caused an incredible
commotion.” Speaking of Marie Antoinette in the same letter, Madame
Geoffrin adds: “The Empress has recommended me to write to France that I
have seen this little one, and that I find her beautiful.”
Madame Geoffrin took the Princess on her lap. “Here,” said she, “is a
little girl that I would very much like to take with me.”—“Take her,
take her!” gaily replied the Empress, who was thinking of Versailles
and the Dauphin. From that time Maria Theresa sought to form the future
Dauphiness to the likeness of the court of France. Language, literature,
novels, history, fashions, theatrical pieces, books, almanacs,
engravings, everything that surrounded the young Archduchess, was French.
As M. Feuillet de Conches has said in the eloquent preface to his
collection, “the wind of France breathed through the beautiful fair
tresses of Marie Antoinette.” She danced with Noverre, declaimed with
Sainville, recited Racine’s tragedies and La Fontaine’s fables with
Dufresne. A famous hairdresser, Larsonneur, was brought from Paris, and
with him milliners and dressmakers for the service of the young Princess.
Her true adornment was her natural grace. As has been said by Madame
the Countess Armaillé, in a charming study which she calls _La Mère
et la Fille_, “certain female faces seem to have no brilliancy except
when surrounded by the animation of festivities; others harmonize with
the freshness of nature, the gentle poesy of solitary country places.
It was this kind of beauty that Marie Antoinette possessed. Her supple
and slender figure, the grace and lightness of her bearing, recalled the
heroines of German legends. Undine was not more charming when, rising
from the bosom of the waves, she wandered for a time among mortal beings.
Her blue eyes, whose limpid tint was compared to that of the waters of
the Danube, were both soft and sparkling. Her mouth, rosy and smiling,
seemed to receive an added grace from a little dimple in her chin. Her
hair, of an ashy blond, drawn back in accordance with the fashion of
the day, left visible her pure, haughty forehead and her well-defined
and graceful neck. Everything in her breathed distinction, kindness,
candor.” Though no longer a child, she was not yet a woman. She had that
blending of intelligence and ignorance, wit and simplicity, which has
such grace and charm. Already a shade of melancholy sometimes overspread
that pure and radiant visage, which was lighted up by so sweet a smile.
“Poor women!” has said a young girl, Mademoiselle Rosa Ferrucci, whose
touching story has been related by the Abbé Perreyve, “poor women! we
are weaker than the leaves that the first breeze tears off and scatters,
and childhood is scarcely over when our heart, which knows only how to
love and suffer, is rent by a thousand, contrary thoughts, joyful and
sorrowful.”
Versailles appeared to Marie Antoinette in a brilliant background. The
Abbé de Vermond, a French ecclesiastic who had been her preceptor since
1768, told her wonderful things about this dazzling abode where she was
to shine with so great a splendor. But the affectionate soul of the
Princess was afflicted by the thought that she must leave her cherished
mother, her beloved family, the honest Viennese, who were so devoted
to their sovereigns. Nowadays, when sovereigns give their daughters in
marriage, they have almost the certainty of seeing them again. But it
was not so then. Separations were eternal. One can understand what Maria
Theresa suffered when she reflected: Soon this beloved daughter of whom
I am so proud will depart forever. Soon I must give her a last blessing,
a last embrace. Like many mothers, the Empress was afflicted by an event
she had most ardently desired. The union, so favorable to the Austrian
policy, was decided on. Marie Antoinette was to become the Dauphiness of
France. The nearer the moment of departure came, the more the Empress
was affected. She took her daughter on her lap, embraced her, made her
sleep in her own room. Clinging to the treasure she was about to lose,
she would have liked to arrest the march of time. Marie Antoinette was
not less sad and anxious. January 21, 1770, she received the nuptial ring
sent her by the Dauphin, and just twenty-three years later to a day....
But no, we will not think yet of the final catastrophes.
The Marquis de Durfort repaired to the palace on April 16, and in the
name of the Most Christian King officially demanded the Archduchess
for the Dauphin. On the 17th, the Princess renounced her rights to
the Austrian succession. On the 18th, the fêtes began at Vienna and
were prolonged until the 21st, the day set for the departure of the
Archduchess. The 19th, she was married by proxy. The Dauphin was
represented by the Archduke Maximilian. The signing of the imperial
register took place at the palace of the Burg. It is said that Marie
Antoinette’s hand trembled when she took the pen. The Dauphin having
expressed a wish that the Archduchess herself should signify her consent
to the marriage, Marie Antoinette had written to him: “I thank you for
the expressions so full of benevolence which you employ towards me; I am
profoundly touched and honored by them, and I feel that such goodness
on your part imposes obligations on me. The examples and lessons of my
glorious and tender mother have taught me to accomplish all my duties,
and, with the help of God, I hope by every effort to render myself worthy
of the new destiny created for me. You have kindly asked that my consent
to your choice should accompany that of the Empress-queen; you say you
need to receive me from myself also. I may answer, since she authorizes
me to do so, that I have received my mother’s orders with as much
pleasure as respect. You will find in me a faithful and devoted wife,
having no other thought than that of putting into practice the means of
pleasing you and meriting your attachment.”
The city of Vienna is gay and sorrowful at once. Shouts of joy mingle
with tears. A three-days retreat, ended by the reception of communion,
is followed by a visit to the tombs of the emperors. The Archduchess
kneels down and invokes the souls of her ancestors. At last it is time
to depart. The 21st of April is here. Adieu patriarchal residence of
the Burg! Farewell ye shades of Schönbrun. Adieu blue, limpid lakes of
Laxenbourg! Adieu good Viennese who weep for the young exile! Ah! whether
she be a peasant or an empress, the mother who for the last time beholds
her daughter’s face and hears her voice, follows her with her eyes and
confides her to Providence; then, seeking her, but finding her no more,
she returns alone to her chamber, closes the door and falls upon her
knees; the mother who has felt the anguish of that heartrending torture,
separation, will comprehend what passed in the heart of Maria Theresa.
This departure of Marie Antoinette reminds me of a once popular but now
forgotten chanson, the distant echo of which affects me at this moment,
doubtless because my mother sang it to me when I was a child:—
“Ici commence ton voyage.
Si tu n’allais pas revenir!...
Ta pauvre mère est sans courage
Pour te quitter, pour te bénir.
Travaille bien, fais ta prière.
La prière donne du cœur,
Et quelquefois pense à ta mère,
Cela te portera bonheur.
Adieu, ma fille, adieu!
À la grâce de Dieu!...
“Elle s’en va, douce exilée,
Gagner son pain sous d’autres cieux;
Longtemps encore, dans la vallée,
Sa mère la suivit des yeux,
Puis, lorsque sa douleur amère
N’eut plus sa fille pour témoin,
Elle pleura, la pauvre mère,
L’enfant qui lui disait de loin:
Adieu, ma mère, adieu!
À la grâce de Dieu.”[41]
Weber says in his Memoirs: “One cannot easily shake off the superstition
of presentiments, when one has seen the farewells of Marie Antoinette to
her family, her servants, and her country. Men and women yielded to the
same expressions of grief. No one returned home until after losing sight
of the last courier who followed her, and then only to lament in the
privacy of the family a common loss.” The die was cast! Departing never
to return, the young girl of fourteen was urged by fatality toward the
abyss.
VI
MARIE ANTOINETTE’S ARRIVAL IN FRANCE
At the moment when Maria Theresa pressed Marie Antoinette to her heart
for the last time, she gave her a precious paper containing the wisest
counsels. This masterpiece of maternal solicitude, written by the
Empress’s own hand, was entitled: _A Rule to be read Every Month_. It
began thus: “This 21st of April, the day of departure.—On awaking, you
will kneel down and say your morning prayers as soon as you arise, and
also a short spiritual reading, even if it were only for half a quarter
of an hour, before occupying yourself with anything else and without
having spoken to any person. All depends on the good beginning of the
day and the intention with which one commences it, which can render even
indifferent actions good and meritorious.” Maria Theresa then went on
into all the details of a pious life. “I do not know,” she said, “whether
it is the custom in France to ring the _Angélus_; but collect your
thoughts at that hour, if not in public, at least inwardly.... If your
confessor approves, you will approach the Sacraments every six weeks,
also on the great feasts, and especially those of the Blessed Virgin; on
those days, or the vigil of them, do not forget the special devotion of
your family toward the Blessed Virgin, whose particular protection it has
experienced on all occasions. Read no book, however unimportant, without
having first asked the approval of your confessor. This is a point
especially necessary in France, where books full of entertainment and
erudition are constantly appearing, but among them are some which, under
this veil of respectability, are pernicious to religion and morality. I
conjure you then, my daughter, not to read any book, not even a brochure,
without the advice of your confessor; I require of you, my dear daughter,
this most real mark of your affection and obedience to the counsels of a
good mother who has no end in view but your salvation and your happiness.”
The monthly regulation terminated with these simple and affecting words:
“Never forget the anniversary of your late father’s death, nor mine at
the same time; meanwhile, you can take that of my birthday to pray for
me.”
The young betrothed was on her way to France. The heavens were
illuminated by the joyous sunshine of spring. “All nature was smiling at
this new Iphigenia who was advancing with the same confidence to marriage
and the sword. God of mercy! Why didst Thou not arrest that royal
progress, those triumphs of grandeur, youth, and beauty! Why didst Thou
not withdraw this august child from the fatal destiny that awaited her!
Ah! how sweet her death would have been in comparison to that reserved
for her at the hands of execrable tormentors! Austria would have received
the mortal remains of the daughter of the Hapsburghs with pious emotion.
The prayers of a Christian mother would have borne her virginal soul to
the eternal dwellings, and France, cast down by a blow so unexpected,
would also have lamented this young Princess, too quickly ravished from
its hopes.”[42]
Marie Antoinette reached Schutteren, the last German town before Kehl
and the Rhine bridge, May 6, 1770. She saw France for the first time.
She heard the sound of the Rhine waters, those poetic, majestic waters,
so often, alas, troubled and tinged with blood, those waters which now
wash two German shores, but which then flowed beside a French one. On the
large island of the Rhine a pavilion had been erected, which was called
the pavilion of the Exchange. It comprised a large hall with a room on
either side; one of these was intended for the lords and ladies of the
court of Vienna who had been charged to accompany the Princess to the
threshold of her new country; the other for her French suite, her lady of
honor, the Countess de Noailles, her lady of the bedchamber, the Duchess
de Cossé, her four ladies of the palace, the Count de Saulx-Tavannes, her
chevalier of honor, the Count de Tessé, her first equerry, the Bishop of
Chartres, her first chaplain, her officers, equerries, and body-guards.
Here took place the symbolical ceremony of the delivery. The pavilion
was hung with tapestries. The choice of these was unfortunate. “It was
nothing less,” said Goethe, who was then a student of the University
of Strasburg, “than the history of Jason, Medea, and Creusa. On the
left side of the throne one saw the unfortunate affianced a prey to the
torments of the most cruel death. On the right, the furious Jason was
deploring the loss of his children, lying dead at his feet, while the
Fury who had slain them was taking her flight through the air on her
chariot drawn by dragons.” On beholding these preparations, the future
author of _Faust_ exclaimed: “What! Is it possible that at the first
step a young princess takes in her new kingdom, such an example of the
most horrible marriage possible could be placed so inconsiderately
before her eyes? Was there no one among the architects and decorators
of France able to comprehend that a picture is a representation, that
it moves the senses and the soul, that it excites presentiments?” The
weather was stormy and dark as Marie Antoinette entered the pavilion of
the Exchange. A heavy cloud which veiled the horizon on the Strasburg
side was slowly moving toward the great island of the Rhine. The
three commissioners appointed by the King were waiting in the central
hall. Toward noon the door of the Austrian salon was opened, and the
Dauphiness appeared. She walked to the platform in the middle of the
room, and there listened to the reading of the full powers and the acts
of delivery. When this formality was ended, the members of the Austrian
suite passed for the last time in front of the former Archduchess, kissed
her hand, and then returned to the Austrian salon, the door of which
was closed again. The Dauphiness changed her entire apparel. “When her
dress had been completely renewed, even to her chemise and stockings,
so that she should retain nothing from a foreign court (an etiquette
always observed in this circumstance), the doors were reopened, the young
Princess came forward, looking about for the Countess de Noailles, and
then threw herself into her arms, asking her, with tears in her eyes and
a candor that came from her heart, to direct and counsel her, and to be
in all things her guide and support. It was impossible to refrain from
admiring her aërial deportment; a single smile was enough to attract
one, and in this enchanting being in whom the splendor of French gaiety
shone forth, an indescribable but august serenity, perhaps, also, the
somewhat proud attitude of her head and shoulders, betrayed the daughter
of the Cæsars.”[43] The ceremony of the _exchange_ was terminated. On
reaching the French side of the Rhine, the Dauphiness got into the King’s
carriage, and started for Strasburg. Then the storm broke which had been
threatening for some hours. The pavilion of the Exchange was submerged
under a driving rain. The shouting of the crowd mingled with the claps of
thunder.
The next day, May 8, Marie Antoinette repaired to the Strasburg
cathedral. A young prelate, Prince Louis de Rohan, stood in front of
the door, in a chasuble of cloth of gold, the cross in his hand, the
mitre on his head. “Madame,” said he, “the two nations reunited in this
temple are eager to render eternal thanksgivings to the God of empires,
who, by august and longed-for ties, is about to set the seal to their
common felicity, and to cement an alliance the aim of which has been to
protect religion and bring about the reign of peace. You see the joy of
Alsace breaking forth; France awaits you to crown its wishes. In the
movements of joy about to manifest themselves, recognize, Madame, the
same sentiment which caused tears to flow in Vienna, and which leaves
the keenest and most profound regrets in the hearts of those from whom
you are separated. Thus it is that the Archduchess Antoinette is already
known even where she has not yet been seen; often this is merely the
advantage of birth; for you, Madame, it is the right of your virtues
and your graces; it is, above all, the reputation of those natural and
beneficent qualities which the cares of an ever-memorable mother have
perfected in you. Among us you will be the living image of this cherished
Empress, who has long been the admiration of Europe, as she will be
that of posterity. It is the soul of Maria Theresa which is about to
unite itself to the soul of the Bourbons. A new age of gold should spring
from so beautiful a union, and our nephews, under the happy empire of
Antoinette and Louis Augustus, will see that welfare perpetuated which
we are enjoying under the reign of Louis the Well-Beloved.” The man who
employed this language was the future Cardinal de Rohan, the sorry hero
of the affair of the necklace.
Paris, Versailles, all France, was in commotion. Nothing was talked of
but the arrival of the Dauphiness. Upholsterers, sent from city to city,
prepared apartments for her. Sixty perfectly new travelling-carriages
awaited her at Strasburg. At Paris, people were going to the court
dressmakers to admire the robes intended for the forthcoming festivities.
A piece of fireworks was talked of, the bouquet of which, composed of
thirty thousand rockets, was said to have cost four thousand louis
(nearly fifty thousand francs of the present money).
The Dauphiness continued her route. Along her way the towns were
joyful and the country places in festal array. The ground was covered
with flowers. Young girls, gowned in white, offered bouquets to Marie
Antoinette. The bells were ringing merrily. From every side resounded
cries of “Long live the Dauphiness! Long live the Dauphin!” The road was
obstructed by the crowd of spectators; the curtains of the Princess’s
carriage were drawn up, and everybody could contemplate at leisure her
beauty, her enchanting smile, her sweet expression. Some young peasants
said to each other “How pretty our Dauphiness is!” A lady who was in
the carriage called her attention to this flattering speech. “Madame,”
replied the Dauphiness, “the French look at me with indulgent eyes.”
To all this succeeded the official harangues, a series of dithyrambs in
honor of the young Princess. One orator wished to speak to her in German.
“Monsieur,” said she, “after to-day I understand no language but French.”
At Nancy she piously visited the tombs of her ancestors, the Princes of
Lorraine. At Rheims, thinking of the future ceremony of the coronation,
she said: “This is a city which I hope not to see again for a long
time.” Some leagues from Compiègne she met the Duke de Choiseul, whom
she received as a friend of her family. This was the 14th of May, 1770.
Several minutes later, the King and the Dauphin, followed by a numerous
escort, made their appearance at the cross-roads of the Pont-du-Berne,
in the forest of Compiègne. Marie Antoinette at once alighted, and threw
herself on the grass, at the feet of Louis XV., who hastened to raise and
embrace her.
The Dauphin, more abashed than she was, scarcely dared to look at her,
and, according to the official expression, “saluted her on the cheek.”