A RÊVERIE
A Possible Historical Clue
To find the causes of the universal movement, which for convenience we
call the French Revolution, one should be a trained historian,
philosopher, and theologian, and be able to pass in review and justly
estimate the aspirations for political consolidation, greater individual
responsibility, and the revolt against Papal tyranny over consciences,
as they had been working in all European countries for many centuries.
To find the causes for the particular form which this universal
development took in France, it would be necessary to weigh the moral,
social, and political (including the fiscal) tendencies of earlier
generations. This would be manifestly impossible in a paper dealing with
the revolution in France as it may have appeared to a single mind, on
one special day, at a time of great mental excitement. There can be no
doubt that Marie Antoinette was the innocent victim of a world-wide
upheaval in the moments when men were first consciously developing it,
and we can well believe that to herself the reasons for such reversals
of older thoughts seemed inscrutable; whilst she would have vainly
sought, in reflecting over her own mistakes, for grounds sufficient to
justify the enormous misfortunes which overwhelmed her personally.
The tenth of August, 1792, was a marked day in the history of the French
Revolution. The tide of French democratic reaction against the
ever-increasing selfishness of privilege, and the inability of the
rulers to sympathise with the growing desire for greater freedom and
less personal government, had been gathering force with constantly
increasing momentum; and on this day Louis XVI. virtually relinquished
all independence as Head of the State by surrendering himself, for the
sake of the safety of his family and to save France from the crime of
massacring its King, into the doubtful care of the Legislative Assembly.
That Assembly grew out of the States-General which had been convened by
the King, May 5th, 1789, at one of the critical moments when the
dissatisfaction of the nation with its financial conditions produced
keen anxiety to the Court; and it had (on another epoch-making day of
that unrestful period) refused, on June 23rd, 1789, to be dissolved by
mandate of the King. From that moment the National Assembly had become
the centre of the reforming party in France. Louis XVI., as King, did
not seem to stand in the way of the wishes of the nation as expressed by
the Assembly. He appeared to be willing to forego more of his
prerogatives than was compatible with the existence of monarchy as
understood in France; but, it was believed, the Queen was of a different
opinion and desirous of upholding the ancient monarchical idea as a
practical force, which at that time, in spite of the King’s amiability
and absence of policy, could not be otherwise than hostile to the still
vague, but unbounded, aspirations of the democratic party. “Madame Veto”
had that influence over the King due to a strong personality and her
position as a much loved wife; upon her, therefore, fell the wrath of
the nation. It was instinctively recognised that as a wife and mother
she had every reason to desire the continuance of things as they were,
and the people quickly interpreted every act of vacillation on the
King’s part to the Queen’s active enmity to the rising forces of
democracy.
It was on August 10th, 1792, that the Legislative Assembly was made to
realise another function belonging to it beyond that of fighting the
prerogatives of the King and of the aristocracy. In such a restless age,
and in such a country as France, it was impossible to suppose that the
outspoken longings of philosophers, poets, and statesmen for freedom,
should not stir up the hope of freedom from all authority and restraint
whatever in the lowest stratum of society. The lengths to which the mob
in Paris could go had, during the last three years, shown itself on
isolated occasions, but with increasing frequency and savagery. Both mob
and Assembly were animated by the same desire, viz. to make monarchy in
France absolutely helpless to withstand their will. The Assembly was
trying to bring it about with some appearance of constitutional decency,
without apparently perceiving that unless the King was allowed to banish
himself, a discrowned monarch without any _raison d’être_ whatever in
the country inevitably meant his ultimate, and perhaps speedy,
disappearance by death. The mob saw its policy more clearly, and was
ready to get rid of him and the Queen by instant murder.
Thus, on the morning of August 10th, the Legislative Assembly had the
double part to play of continuing its assault on privilege whilst
protecting the royal family from destruction.
When, at some moment between 7 and 9 a.m., Louis XVI. and Marie
Antoinette entered the Manège in which the Council met, there was, at
first, some attempt at restrained courtesy showing itself in the grave
assurance of protection in reply to the King’s request, and also in half
an hour’s doubt as to where he should sit down. But the Assembly was
entirely aware of its victory in this act of unconditional surrender on
the part of the King, and would allow no royal guards of any description
to enter. There was a short alarm lest it should have to defend itself
against the cannon of the insurgents, the sound of firing approaching
nearer to the building than the nerves of some of the deputies could
sustain with calmness.[78] But the mob had not yet realised that it had
the upper hand, and was content to believe that the protected King was
the imprisoned King, and only continued to howl ferocious threats
outside the _grilles_.
If the Assembly did not immediately see its way to the definite
imprisonment of the Sovereign, neither did it choose that the royal
party should sit on its own benches, so it ordained that they should be
placed in the _logographie_—the reporter’s room—a sort of den not far
from the President’s chair, open to the Manège and within sight and
hearing of all that passed, but without dignity or decent comfort.[79]
Here, without apparently any opportunity for resting or meals, the King,
Queen, Princess Elizabeth, Madame Royale, and the Dauphin remained,
until (at least) 10 p.m.[80] A few faithful attendants, such as the
Princesse de Lamballe, Madame de Tourzel, the Prince de Poix, and the
Duc de la Rochefoucauld, were with them, and at first other royalists
were allowed to bring them news and to pass in and out, but this was
stopped in the course of the day.
From Dufour’s account it would seem that no one was busying themselves
to supply their wants until he undertook to do so the next day.[81] A
draught of water brought to them in their cells at night to quench their
raging thirst is all that he speaks of. If the story of the King eagerly
devouring food in public is true (and it is impossible to believe that
the children had nothing), yet it is doubtful whether the Queen, who had
had no rest the night before, had any food during the day.
What a tumult of disgust, fears, indignation, and overwhelming regrets
must have occupied the Queen’s mind! It was difficult enough to maintain
an outwardly calm, queenly demeanour; her thoughts must have been
confused, half formed, reflecting the agitation of despair and anxiety.
She knew only too well that she was looked upon as the political enemy
of the crowd for reasons that were not altogether untrue. She had had a
policy inconsistent with republicanism and, though worsted in it, the
events of the last three years probably justified it in her own mind.
She inherited a belief in a strong rule, beneficent as her own kindly
nature required, but one that could fight its battles and make full use
of such opportunities as hereditary kingship possessed. Again and again
she had felt that the King’s action was worse than nothing. Marie
Antoinette would have sternly punished the crime of killing the King’s
officials;[82] she would have upheld the sovereign office as long as
there were those who prized it. The country could never have reached the
present point of rebellion if the taking of the Bastille, for instance,
had not been condoned and the murders and outrages connected with it had
not been allowed to pass without adequate punishment. Why were the
troops dismissed so soon after, and the nobles allowed to emigrate? It
may have been right for the monarch to urge upon some of them the danger
in which they stood by remaining, but where was their courage and
loyalty in leaving the country?[83]
The sensation of loneliness was terrible. Where were the illustrious
families and statesmen who had not left France, who, had the Queen only
known it, were to go during the next year in one long procession to the
scaffold? They were, she knew, paralysed by the King’s inaction and
weakness. Surely they would have rallied had he called upon them with
decision to defend their rights and had placed himself at their head,
even though many of those princely families who had surrounded her
during the first years of her reign had been alienated and in opposition
to herself before the disaffection became general. Where were the
faithful Swiss guards who only that morning had escorted them in safety
to the Manège, and would have fought bravely and perhaps been the
rallying point for all who were not declared democrats? Alas, alas, the
sounds of screams and fiendish massacre were in her ears at the moment;
cannon, musketry, and cold-blooded carnage were then and there
destroying the last stronghold! The tiny _loge_, only 10 feet square, so
painfully hot and full of comers and goers, seemed to the despairing
Queen empty of all who should have been there to represent the
monarchical principle. The presence of the Prince de Poix and the Duc de
la Rochefoucauld and a few others, who were endangering their lives by
being with them, only emphasised the forlornness of the royal condition.
Looking from her dismal corner in the _loge_ at the King, who sat with
impassive mien facing the assembly, what waves of painful emotion must
have swept across her brain! The King could not see things from her
point of view, but he had loved and spoilt her. He had been faithful to
her, as no French monarch for many generations had been loyal to his
wife. He was devoted to her and to their children; had paid her debts
again and again;[84] had ennobled and enriched her friends; his patience
and magnanimity were saintly; but how often had she raged against his
theory that the King’s duty was to set an example of lofty forbearance
and forgiveness of every injury even when done to him as representing
the law, justice, and power of the whole French peoples. She had
instinctively felt that had she been in the King’s place she would have
found her way through the past crises without either descending from her
throne or doing wrong to the most Christian charity. She knew that she
was kind-hearted, and had always loved to be the benefactress of others:
yes, she too could forgive royally when forgiveness was due from her in
her own person, but not when it required injustice to others.
But Marie Antoinette was too clear-sighted to impute all the blame of
this downfall to the King’s mistakes. No doubt his feeble idea had been
to behave as though the democrats only were the nation, forgetting the
contrary view of those who had either banished themselves or who were
perforce silent unless he could lead the way. To obey every behest of
the Legislative Assembly and of the mob showed a lamentable lack of
wisdom, but even such a poor policy had brought him an undoubted though
fleeting popularity. He had appeared to take the side of the opponents
of monarchy; he had divested himself of prerogatives; had sworn to a
Constitution beyond his power to carry out, and had submitted to the
indignity of placing the red bonnet on his head; but had she not helped
to make all this short-sighted weakness even more unavailing than it
need have been? What was the use of humbling the aristocracy along with
himself, and of acting against his own convictions, if at the same time
he consented to plans for escaping, and was known to be so far
untrustworthy to his own professions that at every crisis he listened to
her incessant urgings to the more spirited policy, by which he could
instantly rally the royal forces?
Bitterly she knew that she had never prevailed to overcome his fatal
belief that the King was never to shed the blood of a Frenchman, even if
he were a disturber of the public peace; but she had ever to bear the
blame of every mistake. She thought of that terrible message sent only
two hours ago at the bidding of the Assembly that their guards were not
to defend themselves, but to disarm.[85] Only this morning there were
600 Swiss and 200 gentlemen, and even companies of the national guard
whom they could trust, but whispered reports had reached even the _loge_
that their noble supporters had died unsoldierly and cold-blooded
deaths. There was no longer any nucleus in the country of loyalty to the
consecrated ruler.
There was nothing now to prevent the passing of the formal decree by
which she heard the King finally deprived of the crown and of every
vestige of authority. Though Louis XVI. appeared unheeding and
expressionless, could _she_ bear this indignity, this wrong to her son?
Could they not escape from this wicked durance? But she had consented to
this surrender to their enemies in the hope of saving her son’s life. It
had been the only chance. As long as they were in some shelter from the
howling savages outside who were screaming for their blood, the life of
her son was secure. She had long accustomed herself to the thought of
being assassinated, but there was no fear of a judicial murder; no
government of France would sink to such a point of wickedness and
unwisdom in the face of a united Europe.[86] They would be condemned to
more years of miserable bondage, but they would be together; friends
would rally; circumstances would clear themselves. The Queen had it in
her still to do and dare everything if there were any hope of
surmounting the present crisis.
If she might only act! But no, the Queen’s heart sank again as the
numbing sense of helplessness came over her, remembering that she would
not be allowed to act. It was always the King who had the last word. She
might plan, but he, with all his love and confidence in her, invariably
thwarted every attempt requiring some spirit of defiance. He had ruined
the Varennes scheme by letting himself be recognised at critical
moments. Why did he review the guards that morning, and make it
unavailing by omitting to speak words of courage and confidence? Why did
he seek the protection of his enemies rather than fire on the mob, which
an hour later fled away at the volleys fired by the Swiss?[87] No, there
was no hope of contending against the difficulties imposed on their
party by the inertia of the King. And now things had gone so far,
perhaps he had no choice but to advise obedience when the Assembly
decreed that the few friends outside their household who had pressed
into the _loge_ should no longer hold communication with them, but
should retire. More than once during those sad hours they had to see
faithful servants bleeding and with torn clothes judged at the bar of
the Assembly for having defended them.[88] The handkerchief that was
handed to the Queen in the place of her own, which was soaked with
tears, in order that she might wipe the drops of sweat off the brow of
the young Dauphin, was tinged with blood.[89]
Exhausted by horror and disappointment, what strength remained to the
Queen must have spent itself in thoughts for her little son, who with
touching obedience was trying to be “bien sage avec ces vilains
hommes.”[90] If she was personally helpless to save his crown, surely
the Kings of Europe would see to it. Again hope revived at the thought
of a successful war already beginning. The false moves of the last years
perhaps only meant at the worst, that though she and the King had to die
at the hands of an enraged but defeated France, the boy would escape.
With victorious armies surrounding Paris, there would be those within
who would then be roused to get the lad into the protection of friends.
Surely God would help him then!
But what if everything should fail? Fatality had overtaken every
reasonable hope since this terrible revolution had begun. There were
forces of mysterious and terrific magnitude, which seemed to her to be
bearing away everything that had been stable hitherto. Her ignorance of
what constituted these forces increased their terror for her. During the
two hours when the deputies separately repeated the words of the oath to
maintain liberty, equality, or die, the Queen in utter weariness tried
to penetrate the mystery of that fatality which seemed to overtake
royalty in France, and herself in particular. Perhaps for a moment she
realised that had she seriously studied history some light might have
come as to the meaning of this crushing movement. The volumes of Hume’s
_History of England_, which in early days had been carelessly listened
to, conveyed little to her inattentive mind.[91] She did not know even
the history of France intelligently enough to be able to guess whether
the enveloping force owed its strength to anything which could have been
foreseen. Was there anyone who could have foreseen this trend of events,
when it was only last year that the Constitution had been applauded to
the skies as the consummation of political wisdom?[92]
Was the penury of the country and the starving condition of the poor at
the bottom of this earthquake? But why visit them upon the Court? People
must know that she and the King were most kindly and anxious and
troubled for all. They had reduced every possible expense in their
household. Had she not nine years ago refused the diamond necklace on
account of its expense? She had not gambled in old days more than
others; neither had she enriched her friends more than sovereigns were
in the habit of doing. The Pompadours and Dubarrys had rolled in wealth.
What was the cost of Trianon compared to the millions of money spent in
building the Palace at Versailles?[93] It was unjust to make her and her
children bear the punishment of the sins of former generations.
Were such writers as Voltaire and Rousseau responsible in any degree for
the gathering forces that were crashing all law and order as they had
been hitherto understood? The Queen knew something of their views, but
their invectives against kings as tyrants seemed unjust and exaggerated,
and had repelled her. To her mind, her mother, husband, and brothers
were not selfish oppressors; they meant to be useful to their subjects,
and would have been unwise to have rejected the wisdom of former times
embodied in traditions and old customs. Moreover, any truths uttered by
Voltaire were vitiated to the Queen by his declared hostility to
religion as she knew it. Such overwhelming forces as were destroying
France could not be the outcome of such feeble views; there must be
stronger reasons than such writings could account for.
But here there was some tangle of ideas which could not be unravelled.
The Queen’s mind was not one to dwell on abstractions; it was wholly
untrained and incapable of thinking out points of philosophical or
religious argument. She could not disentangle the various points of view
which distracted her mind.
As the long hours went on, her sorrows which admitted of no comfort: the
strange impassiveness of the king: the sight of her weeping companions:
the efforts of the children not to give trouble: and the physical
suffering entailed on all alike, boxed up in this stifling hole on a hot
August afternoon, filled her with maddening oppression. Whilst the cold
and insolent words of the hostile Assembly, the unspeakable insults
incessantly hurled at her by the cruel voices outside, the noise, the
heat, the smells, the want of room, added to the effects of sleepless
nights and absence of nourishment, must have filled her with an
uncontrollable longing to get away. As the afternoon wore on with no
hope of relief, black, helpless despair closed in on the mind of the
tired Queen. She must have felt that, if she was not to go mad, it was
necessary to extricate herself from her present surroundings by at least
a semi-unconsciousness of them. Her brain was on fire. Could she not
force her imagination to take some rest? Even in happy times some
natural impatience in the Queen’s nature made it imperative to her to
run away and be alone sometimes. It was at the Petit Trianon that she
had found relief from tiresome restrictions, importunities of etiquette,
and obsequious crowds. There at least she could have her own way and her
love of simple pleasures and country freedom had been satisfied. If only
she could fly to that beloved spot away from this horrible smell of
blood, what happiness it would be to her jaded spirits! Only to think of
it afforded her a dim pleasure overcoming the inevitable bitterness of
the recollection.
Yes; it was the Petit Trianon which of all places in France she loved
best. The bare memory of its trees and grass and cool shadows brought a
little refreshment. It was there that she had always found a reprieve
from the stately formalities of Versailles and that she had been able to
unqueen herself and be on an equality with her friends. But was there no
pang as she realised with fresh point that the King had just been
deposed, and that she, by the voice of the only authority at present
recognised in the country, was no longer Queen of France? That favourite
pastime of pretending to be no queen in the privacy of Trianon had been
a dangerous game! Marie Antoinette had not attempted to be on an
equality with the old _haute noblesse_ whose absence at this moment was
so deplorable. Such familiarity would have lowered them in their own
eyes; for their rank and consideration rested on their service to the
sovereigns, and only by etiquettes rigorously kept could the princes and
old nobility find their own _raison d’être_. With keen pain the truth
flashed upon her that a thoughtless Queen had done her best to undermine
Cardinal Richelieu’s policy in bringing the great feudal princes to
squabble in small rivalries about positions at Court rather than leave
them to combine into factions and fight each other in wars dangerous to
the State. Etiquettes had been laughed at, and the nobles superseded in
her favour by persons without claim to the titles and fortunes lavished
upon them. But was it possible that such small considerations had really
alienated the most powerful class in France? The Queen had only to
recollect the restrained indignation of the Comtesse de Noailles: those
dismal years when no one attended her balls at Versailles[94]: the
immense offence given to the distinguished families of Soubise, Condé,
Rohan, Guemenée, and all who were connected with them, by her furious
and undignified anger with Cardinal Rohan[95]: besides the murmurs of
all who considered themselves wronged by their exclusion from her
friendship at Trianon to realise bitterly what had alienated the
aristocracy from her, beyond, apparently, hope of recall.
Too worn and sad to pursue such painful thoughts, it was a relief to let
the vision of her favourite home float before her mind’s eye and to
remember the loyalty of her Trianon servants, such as Antoine Richard,
_jardinier en chef_, who had succeeded to the post so long held by his
father Claude Richard.[96] How loyally they had carried out her wishes,
and, under the direction of her architect Mique,[97] had altered their
much loved nursery gardens into a fashionable “jardin anglais”! It had
been delightful planning that garden and altering the arrangements and
decorations of the house and grounds with her own rare good taste, until
scarcely any part was left bringing to mind the sojourn there of Madame
de Pompadour, but the house itself,[98] and the little ménagerie with
its vacherie, bergerie, and poulaillers,[99] or of Madame du Barry, but
the formal French garden,[100] the chapel,[101] with the kitchens
beyond.
In the stuffy dirty _loge_ the royal family had resigned itself to a
melancholy silence, the Dauphin was sleeping across her knee, and the
Queen surrendered herself to a trance-like condition in which she saw
again with extreme vividness and longing the place of former enjoyment.
She was again free, opening all the gates with her own _passe-partout_,
and wandering into all the corners of the grounds.[102] The beautiful
trees planted by the two Richards in rich variety were, she recollected,
in full summer foliage, and she would fain have felt some breath of the
cool evening air, which she knew well must be blowing at that moment,
though not for her. Or she was again in the mazy wood beyond the
Vergelay bridge following in thought the sound of the light operatic
music, so often played on bright afternoons, which drifted past her as
she made her way along the wood paths. Well-known bars of Monsigny’s
music mingled with reminiscences of Sacchini’s and Grétry’s operas. Was
it not on an August day, twelve years ago, that she first acted herself
in the charming little newly-built theatre?[103] It was in a play of
Sedaine (_Le Roi et le Fermier_) for which Monsigny had written music,
especially for the Trianon; and with pain it was remembered that the
plot of the play was the favourite one at Trianon, viz. the superiority
of the farmer’s condition over that of the King. Vaudreuil had acted the
part of the farmer lover to her Jenny. The Queen’s thoughts flew to
another, and the last, acting,[104] so immediately followed by the
frightful episode of the diamond necklace when outrage first touched her
and personal popularity was finally lost.[105] Under pressure from the
Comte de Vaudreuil she had prevailed with the King, against his better
judgment, to allow the _Mariage de Figaro_ to be acted in Paris.[106] In
the following year, the older version of the same play had been
performed at Trianon;[107] she had acted Rosina, the Comte d’Artois had
taken the part of Figaro, and Vaudreuil that of Almaviva. Four years
later the King’s prophecy had come true, and the destruction of the
Bastille had been the signal for Vaudreuil’s hurried flight from the
country.[108]
Well she remembered that false friend,[109] whom she had willingly
received into her most intimate circle, though latterly he had often
wearied her with his violent temper and importunities for more lucrative
posts.[110]
There was one day in that last summer at Trianon, shortly before
Vaudreuil’s final departure in July, which stood out, every detail being
imprinted on her memory. She had wandered up the lane past the _logement
des corps de gardes_, and had noticed on the ground near the lodge gates
the old plough,—a reminiscence of Louis XVI.’s boyhood.[111] Coming
towards the _porte du jardinier_, she had seen Rodolphe and Fidel
Bersy[112] in the long green coats of the _petite livrée_ of the
_gardes_.[113] They were directing some strangers. These guards were
special friends of hers. Had she not paid all expenses out of her own
purse when Rodolphe’s children had been ill with smallpox?[114] Whilst
passing them she had noticed Marie Anne Lemaignan[115] standing near her
mother[116] on the steps of their cottage outside the enclosure.[117]
The Queen calculated that the girl, who had then been fourteen years
old,[118] must now be a young woman of seventeen, and with her promise
of beauty[119] would soon marry: probably, she thought, to young
Charpentier,[120] who was already, she knew, attached to the girl. The
Queen’s intimacy with her servants at Trianon had been a never-failing
happiness, and she thought with infinite tenderness of the troubles
their loyal sympathy for her must be causing them now.
Passing through the gardeners’ enclosure and the _porte d’entrée_ she
had come into the English garden. Advancing a few steps, she had
suddenly caught sight of Vaudreuil sitting by the small circular
“ruine,”[121] dressed, she remembered, in the slouch hat and large cloak
which had become fashionable since he had acted in such as
Almaviva.[122] He turned and looked at her, but did not rise or make the
smallest gesture of recognition. It was by her own orders that at
Trianon her ladies and gentlemen did not rise or put away their
occupations when the Queen entered a room; but she had lately become
sensitive, and on this occasion she had felt his rudeness.[123] After
all, she was the Queen; he was there as her honoured guest, where the
highest in the land desired to be, and ordinary good manners required
him to do more than sit still and look at her without seeming to notice
her. The Queen remembered her sensation of displeasure. And now her
extraordinarily excited memory which was enabling her to see Trianon
again down to the smallest details of the scenery, also revealed to her
her short-sighted folly in undermining the first principles of that
mutual courtesy which constitutes best Court life, at a time when France
was on the verge of an immense political whirlpool.
Yes; it was on that very same spot that the messenger came to her, a few
months later, to announce the crowd of disaffected women from Paris _en
route_ for Versailles. She could never forget that October morning, for
from that time her life had entirely altered in character and the Queen
had endured a weary round of perpetual and open insult. Throughout the
preceding summer the grounds at the Petit Trianon, which had formerly
been so jealously guarded even from the Court, had been thrown open to
the public,[124] and in order to take the chance of walking there in any
privacy the Queen had lately been in the habit of driving over during
the morning. That fifth of October had been fairly fine during the early
hours, and she remembered having seen the gardeners at work in the
different parts of the gardens;[125] and on her way from the Temple de
l’Amour to the Hameau, she had passed the _prairie_, and had seen two
labourers in their picturesque brown tunics and coloured _chaperons
rouges_[126] filling a hired cart with sticks.[127]
Crossing the Vergelay bridge she had approached the cavernous mouth of
her favourite grotto,[128] over which ivy fell in graceful wreaths.[129]
For the first time in her experience she had noticed that the little
stream issuing from the grotto had not been cleared, but was choked with
dead autumn leaves.[130] This unusual and forlorn sight had remained in
her mind. Here she had sat for a time looking at the place now deserted
by all who had formerly been with her there, and, as was inevitable at
that time of political anxiety, became engrossed in mournful
anticipations of further troubles.[131] They had pressed more than she
could bear, and feeling a sudden desire to speak to someone she had
entered the moss-lined grotto.[132] Passing the point on her left hand
where the little cascade entered from above,[133] she climbed the rock
staircase[134] leading to the upper opening[135] near the _porte
d’entrée_. Coming out upon the elevated rocks, she called to Marie Anne
Lemaignan, whose father’s cottage was not far off. Fancying that she
heard the girl running to her, the Queen had turned and was surprised to
see, instead of the girl, a _garçon de la Chambre_, who, in a state of
great agitation, handed her a letter from M. de Saint Priest, a minister
at the Palace.[136] Her memory recalled the look of that man, also in
the fashionable Spanish hat and cloak, flying over one of the upright
rocks placed near the path by her orders.[137] He had been so anxious
that she should wait at the house whilst he fetched the carriage that
she relinquished her first thought of hurrying back by the woods, and
she turned instead to go to the little bridge which crossed the tiny
waterfall. How fond she was of that little rustic bridge, which she had
had placed high up on rocks, hiding the Theatre and surrounded by thujas
and pine trees![138] It had been one of the most charming of her
inventions, and in fancy the Queen again saw every step of the way, and
the trickling stream pouring over the rocks at her right hand, amidst
ferns and moss, on its way into the grotto below the bridge.
Sitting under the north terrace near the door leading from the house to
the Jeu de Bague, she had re-opened and re-read the minister’s letter
whilst waiting for the carriage. Womanlike, the Queen remembered that
the dress she had been wearing that morning was one of the light skirts
repaired during that summer, the green silk bodice made in July, a large
white fichu, and a straw hat.[139]
At that moment two of the many strangers who now came in as they liked
passed her by and even went up on to the terrace behind her by the
staircase at her left hand.[140] The Queen knew that her concierge
(Bonnefoy Du Plan)[141] was informed that she was there, and would
certainly, on seeing them from his attic window over the chapel, send
someone to ask them to go further from the house. It might not have been
wise, but her old servants had done all they dared to protect her
privacy. She had before now, when wandering about alone, heard the
coldness and unconcern with which the Bersy brothers had directed
strangers in the grounds. Just as she had expected, a moment later, the
Queen had heard the slam of the chapel door[142] and had thought that
Lagrange[143] would probably conduct them into the avenue by the passage
of the _porte de la ménagerie_, that being the nearest way out of the
gardens.[144]
The carriage was ready, and the moment had come for rallying her force
to act the part of a true queen in whatever circumstances were before
her. The vivid dream was over, and in proportion as her retrospect was
concerned with more important matters, the details stood out less
clearly in her mind.
There was no refreshment in going over the events of the rest of that
day; though some of them came back to her in rapid succession. The
hurried return of the King from hunting at Meudon; the councils; the
variations of policy; the presence of a rough and alarming-looking crowd
on the Place d’Armes; the free fights; the deputation of women escorted
by Mounier on the part of the Assembly: then the final ordering of the
carriages too late for escape; the heavy depressing rain from 4 p.m.
onwards which at last helped to clear away the crowd; the arrival at
midnight of Lafayette and his national guard. All had been confusing and
miserable. But agitating as the 5th had been, there was no comparison
between it and the tension of October 6th.
The Queen remembered that she had only gone to bed that morning at 2
a.m. in order that her ladies might have some rest, but for herself
there was none. Both on October 6th, 1789, and now on August 10th, 1792,
outside disturbances had begun at 5 a.m. amidst the glories of a perfect
summer dawn. But on the former occasion it had been first realised in
one of her own suite of rooms. She had heard the sounds of actual
fighting close to her bedroom, and the hasty shout of the guards,
“Sauvez la Reine!” informed her of their deadly peril. The escape to the
King’s room and the gathering of the family together was quickly
effected; but the comfort of the reunion had been followed by terrible
hours when Lafayette had done his utmost to quell the fury of the mob.
There had been amongst it a company of, as it seemed, veritable fiends,
come from no one knew where, whose faces were terrible to look at.[145]
It was they who enacted the horrid scene of beheading the two murdered
guards (Varicourt and Deshuttes) under the royal windows in the Cour de
Marbre; and until they marched off to Paris carrying with them the two
decapitated heads on spikes, it was impossible to come to any terms with
the mob. But after their departure, by Lafayette’s wish (which at that
time amounted to command), first the King and then the Queen had
ventured on to the balcony, and had been greeted with some warmth.
And now, three years later, they had not the protecting influence of
Lafayette to depend on, nor even the doubtful friendship of Mirabeau.
The mob had gained the upper hand, and seemed to be altogether composed
of wild beasts thirsting for blood. Who would save them from the
horrible crowd pressing against the _grille_? It had not been without
relief that Marie Antoinette had just heard the decree passed to keep
them in the building where they were for the night. But what afterwards?
Clearly they were not to go back to the Tuileries. The mention of the
Luxembourg palace was interesting; still more so, the arguments of the
opposition that it contained dangerous subterranean passages and
opportunities for escape. The Queen’s brain was eagerly at work again,
and intensely conscious of the present.
But Madame Royale and the Dauphin had borne all they could, and at 7
p.m. Madame de Tourzel was allowed to see the accommodation being
prepared for the party in the cells of the ancient _couvent des
Feuillants_. It was not till 10 p.m. that they were escorted thither by
representatives of the Assembly; but for the elders it was neither to
rest nor to sleep, for they were still within sound of the fierce mob
outside as well as of the distant hum of the all-powerful Assembly about
to decree their final destiny.
Three more weary days and nights spent in much the same manner were
forced upon the unhappy family before they were conducted to the Temple,
and into what proved to be for the majority of them the valley of the
shadow of death.
E. M.
_November, 1908._
-----
Footnote 1:
The man said a great deal more which we could not catch.
Footnote 2:
I remember that on account of the wind I put on my coat.
Footnote 3:
The woman was standing on the steps, bending slightly forward, holding
a jug in her hand. The girl was looking up at her from below with her
hands raised, but nothing in them. She might have been just going to
take the jug or have just given it up. Her light-brown hair escaped
from under her cap. I remember that both seemed to pause for an
instant, as in a _tableau vivant_; but we passed on, and I did not see
the end.
Footnote 4:
By old I mean old or unusual forms, perhaps surviving in provincial
French.
Footnote 5:
One man wore red, the other blue; the colours were not mixed.
Footnote 6:
I thought this gardener did not look like a Frenchman; he had more the
air of an Englishman. He had hair on his face, a grizzled beard, was
large and loosely made. His height was very uncommon, and he seemed to
be of immense strength. His arms were long and very muscular. I
noticed that even through the sleeves of his jersey.
Footnote 7:
_Archives Nationales_ O^I, 1878.
Footnote 8:
Desjardins, p. 15; Rocheterie’s _Histoire de Marie Antoinette_, pp.
289, 290, vol. i.
Footnote 9:
In the Bibliothèque Nationale.
Footnote 10:
Picture of a Garde de la Porte du Roi Louis XV., dite de la Manche,
d’après une gravure de Chevilet. R. Jacquemin.
Footnote 11:
_Souvenirs d’un Page, le comte D’Hezecques_, pp. 130–134. (He says
that their underdress was blue.)
Footnote 12:
_Ibid._, p. 137.
Footnote 13:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1883.
Footnote 14:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878 and 1880.
Footnote 15:
_Légendes de Trianon_, Madame Julie Lavergne, pp. 89, 96.
Footnote 16:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878.
Footnote 17:
_Ibid._ O^I, 1882.
Footnote 18:
Desjardins, p. 90.
Footnote 19:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.
Footnote 20:
_La Reine Marie Antoinette_, De Nolhac, pp. 61, 212.
Footnote 21:
_Le Barbier de Séville_, by Beaumarchais, was first played in 1775; it
was rewritten and made politically scandalous as _Le Mariage de
Figaro_ in 1781. This version was played in Vaudreuil’s private
theatre at Gennevilliers and at the Odéon, 1783, and for the first
time in Paris, by permission, April 27th, 1784.
Footnote 22:
_Modes et Usages_, De Reiset, p. 479, vol. i.
Footnote 23:
_Légendes de Trianon_, p. 75.
Footnote 24:
_La Belle Jardinière_, Lavergne, pp. 91, 97.
Footnote 25:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878.
Footnote 26:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1877.
Footnote 27:
Letter enclosing marriage certificate (copy from the Archives
Municipales, Versailles).
Footnote 28:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1876, 1877.
Footnote 29:
_Ib._ O^I, 1879.
Footnote 30:
_Ib._ O^I, 1879.
Footnote 31:
_La vie de Madame Lavergne._
Footnote 32:
Quoted in _Les Palais de Trianon_, M. de Lescure, p. 148.
Footnote 33:
_Légendes de Trianon_, Madame Julie Lavergne, p. 75.
Footnote 34:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.
Footnote 35:
_Ib._
Footnote 36:
_Ib._
Footnote 37:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.
Footnote 38:
_Ib._
Footnote 39:
_Ib._ O^I, 1882. (There was also a “pont de bois à la porte verte” on
the east side of the house, _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1881 and 1882.)
Footnote 40:
_Ib._
Footnote 41:
_Ib._ (_Souvenirs d’un Page_, D’Hezecques, p. 242).
Footnote 42:
_Ib._ 1877.
Footnote 43:
_Ib._
Footnote 44:
_Ib._
Footnote 45:
_Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 244.
Footnote 46:
Desjardins, picture, p. 196.
Footnote 47:
Desjardins, pp. 103, 73.
Footnote 48:
_Légendes de Trianon_, p. 75.
Footnote 49:
_Souvenirs d’un Page_, pp. 112, 118.
Footnote 50:
_Modes et Usages_, De Reiset, vol. i. p. 445.
Footnote 51:
_Souvenirs du Baron de Frénilly_, p. 80.
Footnote 52:
_Ib._ p. 80.
Footnote 53:
_Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 242.
Footnote 54:
_Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 243.
Footnote 55:
_La Dernière Rose_, p. 75.
Footnote 56:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.
Footnote 57:
_Ib._ O^I, 1882.
Footnote 58:
_Ib._ O^I, 1882.
Footnote 59:
_Le Petit Trianon_, p. 90.
Footnote 60:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.
Footnote 61:
_Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 242.
Footnote 62:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1882.
Footnote 63:
_Ib._ O^I, 1879.
Footnote 64:
Desjardins, p. 196.
Footnote 65:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1882.
Footnote 66:
Desjardins, pp. 107, 120; _Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1875, 1877; Terrade, _Le
Théâtre de la Reine_, p. 23.
Footnote 67:
_Modes et Usages_, De Reiset, vol. i. pp. 479, 404, 423, 365, 369.
Footnote 68:
Desjardins’, _Le Petit Trianon_, pp. 188, 189.
Footnote 69:
Page 7.
Footnote 70:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1879.
Footnote 71:
_Ibid._ O^I, 1877.
Footnote 72:
_Ibid._ O^I, 1879.
Footnote 73:
_Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1876.
Footnote 74:
_Ibid._ O^1, 1877.
Footnote 75:
_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1877.
Footnote 76:
_Ib._ O^I, 1880.
Footnote 77:
We heard in 1910 that this was the window out of which Marie
Antoinette used to pass when she went into the garden.
Footnote 78:
_Marie Antoinette_, Lenotre, p. 3.
Footnote 79:
_Mémoires de Madame de Tourzel_, p. 216.
Footnote 80:
Rocheterie says 18 hours; Dufour, 13 hours.
Footnote 81:
_Marie Antoinette_, Lenotre, p. 13.
Footnote 82:
De Launay; governor of the Bastille, Flescelles; prévôt July 14, 1789.
des marchands,
Foulon; ministre, Berthier; intendant de l’Ile de July 4, 1789.
France,
Footnote 83:
Comte d’Artois, Les Condés, Les Polignacs, Baron de Breteuil, le
marechal de Broglie, le prince de Lambesc, le comte de Vaudreuil,
ministres Bareuton, Villedeuil, Vauguyon, l’abbé de Vermond.
Footnote 84:
In 1783 the Queen’s wardrobe cost 199,000 livres; in 1784 it cost
217,000 livres; in 1785 it cost 252,000. One dress only worn once cost
6000 livres, not counting the material. _La Reine Marie Antoinette_,
De Nolhac, pp. 36, 63.
In 1777 the Queen’s personal debts amounted to 487,000 livres, which
the King paid out of his own purse. All this was changed after the
birth of her first child, and the Queen, from that time, cut down
every possible expense.
Footnote 85:
_Mémoires de Madame de Tourzel_, p. 220.
Footnote 86:
Even in the Conciergerie the Queen seems to have disbelieved in the
likelihood of a formal condemnation to death. _Marie Antoinette_,
Lenotre, pp. 247, 270.
Footnote 87:
_Histoire de Marie Antoinette_, La Rocheterie, p. 435.
Footnote 88:
Vicomte de Maillé, sent to L’Abbaye prison, murdered in the September
massacres. M. de la Porte, _intendant de la liste civile_, also
imprisoned and murdered in September. _Mémoires de M. de Tourzel_, p.
226.
Footnote 89:
La Rocheterie, p. 438.
Footnote 90:
La Rocheterie, p. 438.
Footnote 91:
_La Reine Marie Antoinette_, De Nolhac, p. 184.
Footnote 92:
_Almanack Historique de la Revolution Française pour l’année_, 1792,
par M. J. P. Rabaut (contemporain).
Footnote 93:
The exterior masonry of the Palace cost 1,350,000 livres, apart from
all the magnificent interiors, the grounds, and the outside buildings.
La Grande Écurie cost 844,784 livres (_Versailles_, Peraté, p. 14).
Expenses at Trianon under Louis XV., 340,000 livres; under Louis XVI.,
1,649,529 livres (Desjardins, pp. 2, 407).
Footnote 94:
1777–1779.
Footnote 95:
1786.
Footnote 96:
Claude Richard was appointed _jardinier en chef_ at Trianon in 1750.
He was the intimate friend of Linnæus, who called him “the cleverest
gardener in Europe.” He was the son of François Richard who followed
James II. from Windsor to St. Germains. The son, Antoine Richard,
became _jardinier-botaniste-adjoint_ at Trianon, 1765, _jardinier en
chef_, 1784–1805, and died 1807.
Footnote 97:
Guillotined 1794.
Footnote 98:
Built 1762.
Footnote 99:
_Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, p. 27.
Footnote 100:
1759–1761.
Footnote 101:
Built 1773 for Madame du Barry.
Footnote 102:
“Avoir netoyer le passe-partout que la Reine avait perdue avoir gravée
de nom de la Reine dessus qui ouvrait les portes du Chateau et jardin
de Trianon.” Locksmith’s account, 1785 (_Archives Nat._ O^1, 1882).
Footnote 103:
August 1st, 1780.
Footnote 104:
August 19th, 1785.
Footnote 105:
Cardinal Rohan had been arrested four days before, on August 15th,
1785.
Footnote 106:
Beaumarchais’ play of _Le Mariage de Figaro_ had been rewritten with
political intention from the old play of _Le Barbier de Séville_ in
1783.
Footnote 107:
Twice played at Trianon, September 13th, 1784, and August 19th, 1785.
Footnote 108:
July 14th, 1789.
Footnote 109:
_La Reine Marie Antoinette_, De Nolhac, pages 161–212, 223, 224.
Footnote 110:
_Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, pages 180, 178, 342.
Footnote 111:
_Histoire de Marie Antoinette_, Rocheterie, pages 289, 290. Vol. i.
Footnote 112:
The brothers Bersy with Bréval were generally selected for guarding
the _porte du jardinier_ whenever the Queen was at Trianon, _Arch.
Nat._ O^I, 1880. They had the title of _garçons jardiniers de la
Chambre_, O^I, 1878.
Footnote 113:
Probably green, as it was worn by the Suisses, piqueurs, gardes des
portes, garçons jardiniers, and such royal servants as filled the
minor parts at the royal theatre at Versailles, _Arch. Nat._ O^I,
1883. The traditional dress is still to be seen at the Comédie
Française, which is the descendant of the old Royal Theatre. The Comte
d’Artois was captain of the guards (including the gardes des portes)
in 1789, and his livery was green.
Footnote 114:
In 1785, _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1883.
Footnote 115:
The names “Lemonguin” and “Magny” are to be found in the old lists of
under-gardeners at Trianon, _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1876, 1877. “Mariamne”
is mentioned among the children paid for picking up dead leaves in the
grounds, 1783, _Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1877.
Footnote 116:
Marion’s mother died shortly before 1793, _Légendes de Trianon_,
Lavergne.
Footnote 117:
In Mique’s map of 1783 there is a building outside the wall between
the _ruelle_ and the _porte de jardinier_.
Footnote 118:
If Marianne was 21 at her son’s birth in 1796 she would have been 8 in
1783, and 14 in 1789.
Footnote 119:
In 1793 “Marion” (daughter of an under-gardener) was chosen by the
Versailles Republican Club to personate the local Goddess of Reason.
Horrified at the prospect, the night before the installation on the
altar of the Versailles Notre Dame, she so completely disfigured her
face with scratches from a thorn branch that she never completely lost
the marks (_Légendes de Trianon_, M^{dme} Julie Lavergne, pp. 91–97).
Footnote 120:
In 1786 “Charpentier” is mentioned as an _ouvrier terrassier_, having
to clear up sticks and leaves, plant flowers, and rake (_Arch. Nat._
O^1, 1878).
Charpentier seems to have been the “Jean de l’eau,” so called from his
daily duty of fetching water from Ville d’Avray for the Queen’s table.
He even tried to get it to her when she was in the Conciergerie,
August, 1792. He was afterwards wounded at Marengo and became a
captain, and in 1805 was appointed by Napoleon _jardinier en chef_ at
the Petit Trianon, and married Marion (_Légendes de Trianon_, p. 97).
The marriage certificate of Alexandre Charpentier, in 1823 (at that
time _chef d’atelier aux Pepinières Royales_ de Trianon, and, later,
for many years _jardinier en chef_ at Trianon), shows that he was the
son of Louis Toussaint Charpentier, _pensionnaire_, and Marie Anne
Lemaignan (Mairie de Versailles).
Footnote 121:
“Dec. 5, 1780. Commencé par ordre de M. Mique le model de la partie de
la grotte ... du coté des montagnes ... là dessus une petite ruine
d’architecture, l’avoir penté, planté, et gazonné.”
“Detail estimatif d’une ruine formant la naissance d’une rivière,
savoir—Fouille de terre—maçonnerie ... le massif et le rigolle des
fondations ... pierre dure ... colonnes avec les murs au derrière ...
7 colonnes ... 7 chapiteaux ... partie de la voute ... le parement des
murs ... le fossite pour l’architecture ... Recapitulation ... 7
chapiteaux Ioniques, antique ... 5 membres ... 5 rosaces ... 9358
livres” (_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878).
The Temple de l’Amour is more than once called a “ruine,” which did
not seem to mean more than the reproduction of an older building. One
“ruine” mentioned had six Corinthian pillars, and was near the “onze
arpents.”
Footnote 122:
“Le chapeau ronds a larges bords, que l’on appelait à la jockey,
remplaçait déjà le chapeau à trois cornes nommé à l’Androsmane.” On
avait quitté le rabat, la bourse, les manchettes et l’épée (_Modes et
Usages_, De Reiset, vol. i. p. 469).
Footnote 123:
“J’ai beaucoup vu le comte de Vaudreuil à Londres, sans avoir jamais
découvert la distinction dont ses contemporains lui out fait honneur.
Il avait été le coryphée de cette école d’exaggération qui régnait
avant la Revolution, se passionnant pour toutes les petites choses, et
restant froide devant les grandes ... Il ... gardait ses grands airs
pour le salon de Madame de Polignac; et son ingratitude pour la Reine,
dont je l’ai entender parler avec la dernière inconvenance” (_Memoirs
de la Comtesse de Boigne_, p. 144).
Footnote 124:
_Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, p. 345.
Footnote 125:
The wages book shows that all the gardeners were at work out of doors
on Oct. 5th, 1789, whereas on wet days they worked under cover,
sometimes clearing out the passages of the house, _Arch. Nat._ O^1,
1879.
Footnote 126:
This was the dress of the bourgeoisie in the 14th century. See
illustration of 14th century play _Pathelin_. Artisans wore it in the
17th century. See _Les Foires des Rues de Paris_. Musée Carnavalet. It
was probably worn by field labourers up to the Revolution.
Footnote 127:
There is no mention of a cart and horse as part of the regular
expenses at the Ferme, but from time to time “une voiture à un cheval,
et un conducteur” were hired for picking up sticks in the Park. Jan.,
1789, there is an entry for paying “plus un homme” for that purpose;
and on Oct. 4th, 1789, we read of the hiring of “trois journées de
voiture et deux chevaux” (almost necessarily requiring two men) (O^1,
1843).
Footnote 128:
See old picture by L’Espinasse, 1783. In Mique’s map (1783) two
grottos are indicated, one close to the rocher bridge, on the left of
it coming from the Hameau, and one near the Escargot hill, still to be
seen to-day.
Footnote 129:
May 28th, 1781.... Out attachés le lierre de la grotte (O^1, 1875).
Footnote 130:
The streams were cleared of dead leaves on Oct. 1, 2, 3, but not on
the 4th or 5th or after that date (O^1, 1877).
Footnote 131:
_Memoirs of Marie Antoinette_, by Madame Campan, p. 201. _Légendes de
Trianon_, by Madame Julie Lavergne, p. 75.
Footnote 132:
In the time of Marie Antoinette there were at least three grottos at
Trianon, of which only one remains intact, and that possibly the last
created; it may have been formed along with the Escargot hill, raised
in 1781 (_Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1877).
The oldest grotto is mentioned in 1777 as ending at the _porte
d’entrée_ (O^1, 1875). Issuing from the side of this first grotto was
a “naissance de rivière,” which fed (perhaps by pipes) the small
circular lake, whose waters passed under the Rocher bridge, through
the great lake to the stream which meandered through the grounds. A
small “ruine” having seven columns, a dome roof, and walls, stood
above the spring “formant la naissance de la rivière” (O^1, 1878,
Desjardins, p. 90).
Such waters as drained naturally through the first grotto seem to have
collected in a little pool at the lower end. In June, 1780, a new
“petite rivière,” intended to carry these stagnant waters away direct
to the great lake, was made; a grotto of “oval form” was dug round it,
and a montagne raised to cover it in (O^1, 1875). This second grotto
was probably the one described by D’Hezecques: it must have turned at
an angle from the first grotto and ended near the Rocher bridge, the
tiny ruisseau passing through and beyond it into the great lake (O^1,
1875).
Footnote 133:
A small ravine between the first and second grottos may have been
spanned by the “pont rustique” of D’Hezecques, passing over the
miniature waterfall issuing from “la 2^{ième} source du Ravin” (nearer
the Theatre than the first spring) (O^1, 1882). This would have given
the name “ravin du petit pont” (O^1, 1875). The waterfall probably
fell into the little pool, whose waters were carried by a “ruisseau”
through the second (the Queen’s) grotto to the great lake. A rough
sketch in the _Arch. Nat._ shows a small bridge in this position.
The cavern-like mouth at the lower end of the Queen’s grotto, close to
the Rocher bridge, is shown in L’Espinasse’s picture of 1783. It is to
be observed that in this picture no large rock (such as there is now)
was over the long bridge which stood upon low rocks between the two
lakes. The picture suggests that the rock opening of the grotto has
been lifted away from its original place to its present position over
the long Rocher bridge.
Footnote 134:
D’Hezecques describes the grotto as dark on first entering, lined with
moss, and as having a staircase within it leading to the summit of the
rocks. This staircase may be identical with the rock staircase now
attached by modern masonry to the back of the great rock over the
bridge, without any apparent reason.
Footnote 135:
A view of the prairie (also a condition of the Queen’s grotto
described by D’Hezecques) is obtainable from the high ground in this
part of the English garden.
Footnote 136:
_Légendes de Trianon_, Madame Julie Lavergne, p. 76.
Footnote 137:
(Rocks placed) “Pièce donnant au bord du lac de l’ancien jardin cote
des rochers ... au long du chemin de l’emplacement de la Ruine sur la
conduitte en bois à la 2^{ième} Source du Ravin” (O^I, 1882).
In 1788 “Pièce au dessus du Rocher du Ravin et ... passage des voiture
sur le pont de bois.... Pièce à droite en face du Rocher du Ravin.”
Footnote 138:
“En face du chateau ... une pelouse ... se terminait par une roche
ombragée de pins, de thujas, de mélèzes, et surmontait d’un pont
rustique, comme on en rencontre dans les montagnes de la Suisse et les
précipices du Valais ...” (_Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 242).
(Rocks placed), “1788 ... sur les montagnes des Pins à gauche et en
montant au Rocher.... Montagne des Pins à droite en montante au
Rocher” (_Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1882). In 1791, every few days during
January, February, March of that year, trees were torn up from the
montagnes. In April, 1792, “Journée à arracher les Thujas sur les
montagnes” (O^1, 1879).
Footnote 139:
_Livre-Journal de Madame Éloffe_, pp. 404, 423, 365, 369.
Footnote 140:
After May, 1789, the grounds were thrown open (Desjardins, p. 345).
Footnote 141:
_Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, pp. 188, 189.
Footnote 142:
The great door of the chapel, which led into the royal gallery, opened
upon a terrace then joined to the western terrace of the house.
Footnote 143:
The name of the Suisse (in 1789) in charge of the _porte du perron de
la Chapelle_ was Lagrange. His rooms were behind the chapel
(Desjardins, p. 189).
Footnote 144:
According to M. de Nolhac (see note to _Consignes de Marie
Antoinette_, p. 7) the _porte de la ménagerie_ should be placed near
the buildings of the kitchens and conciergerie. In Mique’s map (1783)
a broad passage led through these buildings from the French garden to
the avenue.
Footnote 145:
“Parmi eux se trouvoient des hommes de figure étrange, ce qui
sembloient y avoir été appelés; car le peuple de Paris a sa
physionomie, et ceux qui le connoissent savent bien distinguer les
étrangers qui s’y confondent. Ces bandes farouches avoient précédé la
garde nationale, dont il faut bien la distinguer; elles causèrent tout
le désordre du lendemain.... Au dehors, les brigands s’étoient emparés
de deux gardes du corps; ils leur coupèrent la tête, malgré les
efforts de ceux des gardes nationaux qui arrivoient.... Enfin cette
bande de scélérats reprit la route de Paris, emportant en signe de
victoire les deux têtes des gardes des corps. Avec eux disparut toute
l’horreur des scènes sanglantes du matin. Alors le caractère national
se montra dans toute sa candeur. Les soldats parisiens et les gardes
du roi s’embrassent.”—_Almanach Historique de la Revolution
Française_, M. J. P. Rabaut, pp. 151–153.
This was written in 1791, and Rabaut was guillotined later “comme
Girondin.”
GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO.
LTD.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. P. 131, changed “No double his feeble idea” to “No doubt his feeble
idea”.
2. Archives Nationales O^I and Archives Nationales O^1 are used
interchangeably. Did not alter.
3. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
4. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
6. Superscripts are denoted by a caret before a single superscript
character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in
curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}.