A Funeral and Diversions.--Sinister Dream.--Funeral Orations of the
Queen.
It remains for me to relate certain rather curious circumstances in
relation to the late Queen, after which I shall speak of her no more in
these Memoirs.
She was left for ten days, lying in state, in the mortuary chapel of
Versailles, where mass was being said by priests at four altars from
morning till evening. She was finally removed from this magnificent
Palace of Enchantment to Saint Denis. Numerous carriages followed the
funeral car, and in all these carriages were the high officials, as well
as the ladies, who had belonged to her. But what barbarity! what
ingratitude! what a scandal! In all these mournful carriages, people
talked and laughed and made themselves agreeable; and the body-guards, as
well as the gendarmes and musketeers, took turns to ride their horses
into the open plain and shoot at the birds.
Monsieur le Dauphin, after Saint Denis, went to lie at the Tuileries,
before betaking himself to the service on the following day at Notre
Dame. In the evening, instead of remaining alone and in seclusion in his
apartment, as a good son ought to have done, he went to the Palais Royal
to see the Princess Palatine and her husband, whom he had had with him
all the day; he must have distraction, amusement, and even merry
conversations, such as simple bourgeois would not permit themselves on so
solemn an occasion, were it only out of decorum.
In the midst of these ridiculous and indefensible conversations, the news
arrived that the King had broken his arm. The Marquis de Mosny had
started on the instant in order to inform the young Prince of it; and Du
Saussoi, equerry of his Majesty, arrived half an hour later, giving the
same news with the details.
The King (who was hunting during the obsequies of his wife) had fallen
off his horse, which he had not been able to prevent from stumbling into
a ditch full of tall grass and foliage. M. Felix, a skilful and prudent
surgeon, had just set the arm, which was only put out of joint. The King
sent word to the Dauphin not to leave the Tuileries, and to attend the
funeral ceremony on the morrow.
The fair of Saint Laurence was being held at this moment, although the
city of Paris had manifested an intention of postponing it. They were
exhibiting to the curious a little wise horse which bowed, calculated,
guessed, answered questions, and performed marvels. The King had
strictly forbidden his family and the people of the Court to let
themselves be seen at this fair. Monsieur le Dauphin, none the less,
wished to contemplate, with his own eyes, this extraordinary and
wonderful little horse. Consequently, he had to be taken to the Chateau
des Tuileries, where he took a puerile amusement in a spectacle in itself
trivial, and, at such a time, scandalous.
The poor Queen would have died of grief if the death of her son had
preceded hers, against the order of nature; but the hearts of our
children are not disposed like ours, and who knows how I shall be treated
myself by mine when I am gone?
With regard to the King’s arm, Madame d’Orleans, during the service for
the Queen, was pleased to relate to the Grande Mademoiselle that, three
or four days before, she had seen, in a somewhat troublesome and painful
dream, the King’s horse run away, and throw him upon the rocks and
brambles of a precipice, from which he was rescued with a broken arm. A
lady observed that dreams are but vague and uncertain indications.
“Not mine,” replied Madame, with ardour; “they are not like others. Five
or six days before the Queen fell ill, I told her, in the presence of
Madame la Dauphine, that I had a most alarming dream. I had dreamt that
I was in a large church all draped in black. I advanced to the
sanctuary; a vault was opened at one side of the altar. Some kind of
priests went down, and these folk said aloud, as they came up again, that
they had found no place at first; that the cavity having seemed to them
too long and deep, they had arranged the biers, and had placed there the
body of the lady. At that point I awoke, quite startled, and not
myself.”
Hardly had the Princess finished her story, when the Infanta, turning
pale, said to her: “Madame, you will see, the dream of the vault refers
to me. At the funeral of the Queen of England I noticed, and remember,
that the same difficulty occurred at Saint Denis; they were obliged to
push up all the coffins, one against the other.”
And, in truth, we knew, a few days afterwards, that for this poor Queen,
Maria Theresa, the monks of the abbey had found it necessary to break
down a strong barrier of stones in their subterranean church, to remove
the first wife of Gaston, mother of Mademoiselle, and find a place for
the Spanish Queen who had arrived in those regions.
There were several funeral orations on this occasion. Not a single one
of these official discourses deserved to survive the Queen. There was
very little to say about her, I admit; but these professional
panegyrists, these liars in surplice, in black cassock, or in purple and
mitre, are not too scrupulous to borrow facts and material in cases where
the dead person has neglected to furnish or bequeath it them.
In my own case I congratulated myself on this sort of indifference or
literary penury; an indiscreet person, sustained by zeal or talent, might
have wished to mortify me in a romance combined of satire and religion.