Saint Denis, Marie Antoinette expressed a wish to see her aunt, Madame
Louise, the Carmelite novice. She entered the convent, with the King, at
six o’clock in the evening, May 15th. A letter of the Carmelite, which
is among the manuscripts of the National Library, says, concerning this
visit: “The King asked to have the nuns brought in that I might show them
Madame the Dauphiness. She is, my reverend mother, a perfect princess
as far as her face, her figure, and her manners are concerned, and,
which is infinitely more precious, they say she is eminently pious. Her
physiognomy has an air of blended grandeur, modesty, and sweetness. The
King, Mesdames, and above all Monseigneur the Dauphin, appear enchanted
with her. They vie with each other in saying: ‘She is incomparable.’”
There were immense crowds all along their route. The air resounded with
enthusiastic acclamations. Marie Antoinette had the tact to attribute the
honor of this to Louis XV. “The French,” said she, “never see enough of
their King; they could not treat me more kindly than by proving that they
know how to love him whom I am already accustomed to regard as a second
father.” Marie Antoinette slept at the château of La Muette the night
of May 15th, and it was there that the King presented her, among other
jewels, with the famous pearl necklace, threaded on a single string,
which was brought to France by Anne of Austria, and destined by her for
the queens and dauphinesses. The next day, Marie Antoinette arrived at
Versailles; she did not behold unmoved that celebrated palace which then
played so great a part in France and Europe, and of which she had heard
so much. She passed through the castle gate at ten in the morning, and
entered the marble court, where she was received by the King and the
Dauphin.
VII
THE MARRIAGE FESTIVITIES OF MARIE ANTOINETTE
WE have just seen the Dauphiness arriving at the château of Versailles.
It is ten o’clock on the morning of the 16th of May, 1770. In a little
while the nuptial benediction will be given to the spouses. Every
glance is fixed on the young Princess with respectful curiosity. She is
in morning dress, and her hair is carelessly arranged. Presently she
will reappear in the dazzling wedding toilette. This is her portrait
as drawn by Bachaumont: “She is very well made, symmetrical in all her
members. Her hair is a beautiful blonde; one fancies it will some day
be a pale chestnut. Her forehead is fine; her face, a somewhat long,
but a graceful, oval; her eyebrows as well marked as a blonde’s can
be. Her eyes are blue without being dull, and sparkle with a vivacity
full of intelligence. Her nose is aquiline, rather thin at the tip. Her
mouth is small; her lips are thick, especially the under one, which one
knows to be the Austrian lip. Her skin is of dazzling whiteness, and she
has a natural color which needs no rouge. Her bearing is that of an
archduchess, but her dignity is tempered by sweetness. It is difficult to
see this Princess without feeling a mingled respect and tenderness.”
At one o’clock the Dauphiness, in full dress, and followed by a numerous
cortège, goes to the chapel with the Dauphin. The officiating priest is
the Archbishop of Rheims, Monseigneur de La Roche-Aymon, Grand Almoner
of France. The pair advance to the altar and kneel down. The chapel is
decked with flowers and garlands, and glitters with a thousand lights.
The Archbishop blesses thirteen pieces of gold and a gold ring. These
he presents to the Dauphin, who puts the ring on the fourth finger of
the left hand of the Dauphiness, and afterwards gives her the thirteen
gold pieces. After the “Our Father” has been said, the canopy of silver
brocade is held over them by the Bishop of Senlis on the side of the
Prince, and the Bishop of Chartres on that of the Princess. The spouses,
profoundly moved, plight each other an affection which death itself will
not have the power to interrupt.
At this moment all Paris is at Versailles. The people have been coming
on foot since daybreak. The citizens have been arriving, some on hired
horses, some in cabs, some in carriages from livery stables. The park
is thronged by an immense crowd. Alas! The sad omens are about to be
renewed. At three in the afternoon the sky is overcast by clouds. Rain
pours down in torrents. The thunder rumbles. Every one seeks shelter.
There is a general panic. In the evening the weather is so bad that the
fireworks cannot be set off. The illuminations are drowned in rain; the
streets and squares of Versailles are like a desert.
But if the approaches to the château are dismal in the evening, it is
dazzling within. All the splendors of aristocracy, riches, luxury, and
the fine arts are accumulated there. There is a game of lansquenet in
the Gallery of Mirrors, and a supper is served _au grand couvert_ in the
hall known as the Queen’s Antechamber (No. 117 of M. Soulié’s _Notice
du Musée_). The next day, May 17, the new theatre, begun in 1753, and
designed by the architect Gabriel, is opened for the first time. (This is
now the Senate Chamber at Versailles.) The piece presented is the opera
of _Persée_, words by Quinault, music by Lulli. May 19, a grand dress
ball, opened by the Dauphin and the Dauphiness, is given in this new
play-house.
That morning, Madame Du Deffand had written to Horace Walpole: “There
have been bickerings without number; the minuet which is to be given this
evening by Mademoiselle de Lorraine, has vexed a great many people.” The
minuet, in fact, is a great affair, and the whole court is in commotion
over it. What is it all about? Louis XV., in order to be agreeable to
the Empress Maria Theresa, has decided that Mademoiselle de Lorraine,
on account of her relationship to the Dauphiness, shall dance a minuet
immediately after the princes and princesses of the royal family. People
have taken the notion this displays a tendency to establish for the
house of Lorraine an intermediate rank between the princes of the blood
and the great nobles. Thereupon ensues a flood of jealousy and anger.
The dukes unite to convoke an assembly of the principal members of the
nobility at the house of the Bishop of Noyon, a brother of Marshal de
Broglie. There they draw up a grand memorial to the King, in which they
say: “Sire, the great lords and nobles of the realm lay with confidence
at the foot of the throne the just alarms awakened in them by the
widespread rumors that Your Majesty has been solicited to grant the
house of Lorraine a rank immediately after the princes of the blood, and
that you have ordered that at the dress ball of Monsieur the Dauphin’s
marriage, Mademoiselle de Lorraine shall dance before all the ladies
of the court.... They believe, Sire, that they would be lacking in
what is due to their birth if they did not manifest to you how greatly
a distinction as humiliating to them as it is novel, would add to the
grief of losing the advantage they have always had of not being separated
from Your Majesty and the royal family by any intermediate rank. In all
states, the grandeur of the highest ranks denotes that of the nations,
and the grandeur of the nations makes that of the kings. It would be to
doubt the pre-eminence of France in Europe, to doubt the pre-eminence
of those who, in the words of one of your ancestors, make a part of its
honor and the essential honor of its kings.” All that for a minuet!
The public is rather amused by the presentation of this request by a
bishop. On seeing certain new names among the old ones signed to it, some
one remarks that the descendants of such or such persons would some day
say with pride: “One of our ancestors signed the famous request of the
minuet, at the marriage of the grandson of Louis XV.; so our name was
then reckoned among the most illustrious of the monarchy.” The request
was parodied as follows:—
“Sire, les grands de vos États
Verront avec beaucoup de peine
Une princesse de Lorraine
Sur eux au bal prendre le pas.
Si Votre Majesté projette
De les flétrir d’un tel affront,
Ils quitteront la cadenette,
Et laisseront là les violons.
Avisez-y, la ligue est faite.
Signe: l’Evêque de Noyon,
La Veaupalière, Beaufremont,
Clermont, Laval et De Villette.”[44]
This is a new Fronde, a veritable insurrection. Louis XV. replies to
the request by the following note: “The ambassador of the Emperor and
the Empress-queen has asked me, on the part of his masters, to show
some mark of distinction to Mademoiselle de Lorraine on the present
occasion of the marriage of my grandson with the Archduchess Marie
Antoinette. The dance at the ball being the only thing which could entail
no consequences, since the choice of dancers depends solely on my will,
without distinction of place, rank, or dignities, excepting the princes
and princess of my rank, who cannot be compared or put in rank with any
other Frenchmen; and being unwilling, moreover, to innovate in anywise
on what is practised at my court, I rely upon it that the great and the
nobles of my realm, seeing the fidelity, submission, attachment, and even
friendship which they have always shown to me and my predecessors, will
never be the occasion of anything that might displease me, especially in
this occurrence, wherein I desire to prove my gratitude to the Empress
for the present she has made me, which I hope, as you do, will cause
the happiness of the remainder of my days.” Notwithstanding this, Louis
XV. is obliged to go to the length of a threat. The ball at last takes
place. Mademoiselle de Lorraine dances the minuet which provoked so many
quarrels. Fireworks are set off the same evening on the terrace of the
château, and are succeeded by an illumination of the park, terminating,
at the extremity of the grand canal, in a splendid decoration
representing the Temple of the Sun. The canal is covered with gaily
decked barks. The great fountains are playing amidst the illuminations.
The equestrian statue of the King is resplendent. The principal
decoration represents the Temple of Hymen. Surrounded by a sort of
parapet at the four corners of which are dolphins who are vomiting flame
from their yawning mouths, this multicolored temple rests against the
statue of Louis XV. Near the statue, on the Seine side, rises the bastion
from which the rockets stream upward in glittering sheaves. Acclamations
resound. The crowd utter shouts of joy. All of a sudden a misdirected
rocket falls on the yew trees and sets them afire. At the same time, the
column of sightseers who are making their way to the boulevards though
the rue Royale meets another column which is going toward Place Louis
XV. They come into collision. The arrival of the firemen adds to the
confusion. The moats of the Tuileries and the gardens of the place are so
many precipices over which a quantity of victims fall. The cries of the
wounded increase the terror. There is nothing but dead and dying people.
All is horror and desolation on this accursed place, destined, before the
end of the century, to be the scene of so many crimes.
At this moment a carriage, coming from the Cours-la-Reine, arrives at the
Champs-Elysées. In this carriage is a young woman, still more adorned by
the splendor of her grace and beauty than by the glitter of the precious
stones shining in her hair and on her dress. It is the Dauphiness,
entering Paris for the first time,—the Dauphiness, who wishes to see
the illuminations of this place, marked by fatality. She is reflecting
that to-day there has been no tempest, that the sky is clear this time,
and that all hearts are glad. She herself rejoices to see this city of
Paris, so beautiful and famous. But what is that she hears? Are those
cries of joy or of terror? The carriage stops. The Dauphiness asks what
is going on. She is answered that blood is flowing on Place Louis XV.;
that the number of the dead, though unknown as yet, is considerable, and
that it will not do to go any further in a city so grievously stricken.
The carriage retraces its road. Marie Antoinette returns disconsolate
to Versailles, while the dead are being taken to the cemetery of the
Madeleine, where, some years later, other victims will be deposited. Thus
terminated the nuptial festivities of the martyr King and Queen. Such is
the prologue to the tragedy which will wring tears from future eyes; such
are the first rumblings of the most terrible of tempests.
VIII
THE DAUPHINESS AND THE ROYAL FAMILY IN 1770
The painful impression produced by the catastrophe on Place Louis XV.
was soon dissipated. It was not long before it ceased to be spoken of
except for the sake of praising the good feeling of the youthful pair,
who had devoted their entire income for a year to the succor of the
families stricken by the disaster. At this time, Marie Antoinette excited
an almost frenzied admiration. France was literally raving over this
fifteen-year-old Dauphiness, in whose honor the formulas of laudation
and enthusiasm were exhausted. People compared her to a consoling
angel, a torch of hope, a morning star. There was a veritable lyrism,
an interminable series of mythological comparisons, with the Venus de’
Medici, the Atalanta of Marly, Flora, goddess of gardens, Hebe, radiant
image of youth, Juno, queen of Olympus. France was on its knees. When
this admirable Dauphiness made her ceremonious entry into Paris, her
carriage disappeared under a rain of flowers. Prostrated before the
altar at Notre Dame, the Princess seemed a celestial being, an ideal
representation of goodness and purity, poesy and prayer. When she showed
herself on the balcony of the Tuileries, there was an explosion of
transport. “_Mon Dieu_, how many people!” she exclaimed. “Madame,” said
the Duke de Brissac, “with all due deference to Monseigneur the Dauphin,
they are all lovers who are looking at you.”
The Dauphin was good, honest, worthy of respect; his devotion, his
charity, the solid qualities of his heart, his love for the people, his
humane and Christian sentiments, pointed him out as an object of public
esteem; but it must be confessed that his appearance was not attractive.
There was something awkward in his gait, something wandering and
uncertain in his glance, something abrupt in his manners, something rude
in the sound of his voice, something heavy in his whole person. One might
have thought he was always afraid of being misled or betrayed. He kept
himself on the defensive, embarrassed in spite of the elevation of his
rank, doubtful of himself in spite of the eulogies of those who flattered
him, and seeming haughty at times through the very excess of his timidity.
His two brothers did not resemble him in the least. The Count de Provence
and the Count d’Artois were as self-confident as he was modest and
reserved. One, the future Louis XVIII., was a wit, a great admirer of
Horace, always ready with happy quotations, adroit, intelligent, clever,
remarkable for precocious prudence and a wisely dissimulated ambition.
The other, the future Charles X., was a young man, or rather a roguish
boy, witty, full of gaiety and high spirits, already showing plainly that
he would love women, horses, and pleasures to madness. The two sisters
of the three brothers, Madame Clotilde, the future Queen of Sardinia,
and Madame Elisabeth, the future martyr, were, at the time of Marie
Antoinette’s arrival in France, two amiable and good little girls to whom
the Dauphiness became sincerely attached.
She displayed, also, a sincere affection for Louis XV., who, on his
side, showed her much attention and sympathy. On seeing this charming
Dauphiness, so admired and so admirable, the old King experienced the
satisfaction felt by Louis XIV. when the Duchess of Burgundy arrived at
Versailles. The seductive daughter of the German Cæsars restored life and
movement to those vast apartments of the Queen, which had been deserted
since the death of Marie Leczinska. She had the chamber successively
occupied by the wife of Louis XIV., the Duchess of Bavaria, the Duchess
of Burgundy, and the wife of Louis XV.[45] She rose between nine and ten
in the morning, dressed, said her prayers, then breakfasted and went to
see her aunts, where she usually found the King. The entries took place
shortly before noon. The Dauphiness rouged herself and washed her hands
before everybody. At noon, she was present at Mass in the chapel. After
Mass, she dined in public, with the Dauphin, in the room known as the
Queen’s antechamber.[46] “The ushers,” says Madame Campan, “suffered all
decently dressed people to enter; the sight was the delight of persons
from the country. At the dinner hour there was nobody to be met on the
stairs but honest folks, who, after having seen the Dauphiness take her
soup, went to see the princes eat their bouilli, and then ran till they
were out of breath to behold Mesdames at their dessert.” Dinner was
over at half-past one. The Dauphiness then went to the apartments of
the Dauphin, which were just underneath hers, and afterwards returned
to her room, where she embroidered, read, wrote, and took lessons in
literature and on the harpsichord; a promenade in the park and the
environs, one or two visits to Mesdames, play from seven o’clock until
nine, then supper, and then to bed at eleven; such was the Princess’s way
of life. Her principal society was that of her aunts, Mesdames Adelaide,
Victoire, and Sophie, who in 1770 had arrived at the respective ages
of thirty-eight, thirty-seven, and thirty-six. All three had remained
unmarried. In spite of their exemplary moral conduct, they had their
defects. Madame Adelaide liked to meddle in everything. She thought
she had influence over her father, and the ministers were obliged to
reckon with her. Madame Victoire usually followed the directions of
her elder sister, although her own mind was not inactive. As to Madame
Sophie, she was upright but indolent. “Never did I see anybody,” says
Madame Campan, “who had such a frightened look; she walked with extreme
rapidity, and to recognize without looking at the people who made way
for her, she had acquired a habit of glancing, sideways, like a hare.
This Princess was so exceedingly diffident that one might be with her
daily, for years together, without hearing her utter a single word....
There were occasions, however, when she became all at once affable and
condescending, and manifested the most communicative good nature; this
was when there was a storm; she was afraid of it, and such was her alarm
that she then approached the humblest persons and would ask them a
thousand obliging questions; a flash of lightning made her squeeze their
hands; a peal of thunder would drive her to embrace them.”
The youngest daughter of Louis XV., Madame Louise, was at the Carmelite
convent of Saint Denis, and we have seen that the Dauphiness visited her
there before going to Versailles. She received the habit, September 10,
1770, and Marie Antoinette was present at the ceremony. The Mass was
said by the Papal Nuncio. Madame Louise of France, in religion Sister
Thérèse Augustine, received communion. Before taking the frieze habit of
Carmel, the Princess put on for the last time a royal vestment, a robe
embroidered with silver and besprent with flowers of gold. Resplendent
with the lustre of jewels, her head covered with a diadem, and beside
her the lords and ladies who once composed her household, she made her
appearance through clouds of incense. One might have thought it an
apotheosis. A discourse was pronounced by the Bishop of Troyes which
was so affecting that, according to the Abbé Proyart, who describes the
solemnity, everybody was wiping away tears except the courageous woman
who caused them to flow. Then all the pomp disappeared. After having
been absent for a moment, the King’s daughter returned, dressed as a
Carmelite, and received from the hands of the Dauphiness the mantle and
the religious veil.
IX
MARIE ANTOINETTE AND MADAME DU BARRY
Surrounded by admiration and universal homage, Marie Antoinette appears
at the summit of happiness. On the surface, her destiny is magnificent.
But the depths of her heart are already sorrowful. The inexplicable
coldness of her husband is not her only chagrin. Young as she is, she
already begins to see the snares of every kind which malicious people
are laying for her. Naïve, gentle, ingenuous, she has been transported
in spite of herself into an atmosphere of mean passions, Machiavellian
calculations, and interminable intrigues. She is perforce the object
of minute and often malicious inspection. All eyes are fixed upon her.
Under an appearance of hyperbolical eulogies and enthusiastic adulations
there are many criticisms, many jealousies; and if one could believe it,
many hatreds. Some people begrudged the Dauphiness her youth and beauty.
Converted coquettes, old maids, ambitious or intriguing women, find it
hard to endure this superiority of birth, rank, grace, and beauty. Envy
skilfully conceals itself under the mask of politics. The Dauphiness is
censured as representing the Austrian alliance; an alliance which, they
say, is contrary to the traditions of French diplomacy. They have a spite
against her for being the daughter of the great Empress whose genius has
wrought prodigies. The creatures of Madame Du Barry are offended by the
young couple to whom belongs the future, and who are at present like
the mute protest of virtue against vice, what is honest against what is
scandalous. All the “Basils” of the court, and God knows there are plenty
of them, would already be glad to begin softly, very quietly, on the sly,
the calumnious murmurs whose _crescendo_ is terrible.