“It is our royal state that yields
This bitterness of woe.”—WORDSWORTH.
IN the grand _salon_ of Trianon stood King Louis XV., and near him,
on a gold and crimson sofa, sat the Marchioness of Pompadour. In his
hand the king held a letter which vividly depicted—far too vividly for
royal ears—the desolation of the kingdom and the ruinous state of the
finances; and his Majesty frowned gloomily as he gazed upon it, for it
was not the habit of King Louis the Well-Beloved to concern himself
with the interests or the wishes of his subjects, or with what took
place within his wide domain of France. Turning suddenly to Madame de
Pompadour, the king read aloud the missive: “Sire,—Your finances are in
the greatest disorder, and the great majority of states have perished
through this cause; your ministers are without capacity. Open war is
waged against religion. Lose no time in restoring order to the state
of the finances. Embarrassments necessitate fresh taxes, which grind
the people and induce toward revolt. A time will come, sire, when the
people will be enlightened, and that time is probably near at hand”;
then, turning upon his heel, he added angrily, “I wish to hear no more
about it. Things will last as they are as long as I shall.” And Madame
la Marquise de Pompadour, rising from her gold and crimson sofa, cried
gayly, “Right, _mon roi_! Things will last as long as we shall, and
_après nous le deluge_!” Madame la Marquise de Pompadour spoke truly,
and when at last the storm burst in all its fury, and the Duc de
Liancourt announced to Louis XVI. that the Bastile had fallen, and upon
its smouldering ruins a people bid defiance to their king, his Majesty,
astonished and alarmed, exclaimed, “It is a revolt, then!”
“Nay, sire,” replied Liancourt, “it is a revolution!”
A revolution! Aye, a revolution truly. And King Louis leaves his
splendid, proud Versailles, and Queen Marie Antoinette bids sad adieu
to Trianon. The royal diadem of France, torn from a kingly brow, is
trampled in the dust, and the blood-red emblem of the Jacobins appears
upon the gilded portals of the Tuileries Palace. Anarchy! confusion!
chaos! Government, Philosophy, Religion,—all are hurled headlong in
the dark abyss, and fury reigns supreme. But amid this overthrow of
men and things, a daring soul arises who grasps the helm of state,
and stands erect beneath the weight; who chains revolution in France,
and unchains it in the rest of Europe; and who, having added to his
name the brilliant synonymes of Rivoli, Jena, and Marengo, picks up
the royal crown, and, burnishing it into imperial splendor, places
it triumphantly upon his head, to found for a time a kind of Roman
Empire,—himself the Cæsar of the nineteenth century.
[Illustration: MARIE-ANTOINETTE.]
All the palace, all Vienna, was full of excitement. The loyal affection
and sentimental lamentation of the inhabitants gave vent to themselves
in cries of grief. For the fair young daughter of their empress, in
whose coming exaltation they took the utmost pride, who was to do them
such honor and service at the court of France, she whose bright face
ever beamed with smiles, was, on this 21st of April, 1770, departing
on her long journey, and, as many without much prophetic insight might
have perceived, her difficult career. When the great coach rolled from
the palace courtyard, the girl-bride covered her face with her hands,
which yet could not conceal the tears that streamed through her slender
fingers. Again and again she turned for a farewell look at the mother,
the home, and the early friends, which she was never to see again. The
carriage rolled away, and Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josèphe de Lorraine
turned her back forever on the Prater and the Danube, Schönbrunn and
the moated Laxenburg.
Spring-time in sunny France; the birds are singing merrily, the
trees are putting forth their leaves, and all nature wears a look of
happiness and joy. The Château de Compiègne is filled with guests,—a
brilliant assemblage of the _haute noblesse_ composing the court of
Louis XV. Upon the terrace stands the king, and with him his three
grandsons,—the Dauphin (Louis XVI.), Monsieur le Comte de Provence
(Louis XVIII.), and the Comte d’ Artois (Charles X.),—and an eager,
anxious crowd surrounds them. All gaze in one direction, for Louis,
the Dauphin, awaits his bride,—she who is to be the future queen of
France. But little like a bridegroom looks the timid, fat Louis, upon
this bright spring morning. He wears an air of resigned indifference,
contrasting strongly with the eagerness of his Majesty, King Louis
XV., who, notwithstanding his sixty years, makes a far more gallant
knight than he. There is a cloud of dust upon the horizon; the
_avant-couriers_ arrive; the king and the Dauphin mount their horses,
and with a numerous retinue ride forth to meet and welcome the
approaching bride. And now the old state travelling carriage is in
sight. Putting spurs to his horse, the king leads the way, and, hat
in hand, rides up to the side of the cumbrous vehicle. The door flies
open, and before him in all the freshness of her fifteen summers is
Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josèphe de Lorraine, Archduchess of Austria.
The introductions follow, and the young bride and her bashful _fiancée_
are conducted back to Versailles, where, on the 16th of May, 1770, the
nuptial benediction is pronounced by the Archbishop of Paris, in the
chapel of the palace.
Then followed the _fêtes_, and notwithstanding the exchequer was in the
usual chronic state of exhaustion, twenty millions of francs—a mighty
sum for that period—was spent upon them.
“_Fêtes magnifiques_” they were termed, from their surpassing in
splendor anything witnessed in France since the days of _Louis le
Grand_. For weeks the public rejoicings continued.
On the 30th of May, they were to close with the _fête_ of the Ville
de Paris, and in the evening a display of illuminations and fireworks
on the Place Louis XV. (now the Place de la Concorde) which were to
surpass all that had preceded them. Thousands of people filled the
square and all the approaching avenues. Most unfortunately, through
some mismanagement, the scaffolding supporting the fireworks took fire
and burned rapidly. No means were at hand for extinguishing the flames,
and the terror-stricken multitude rushed in all directions. Crushing
upon each other, hundreds were suffocated by the pressure. Those that
fell were trampled to death. Groans and screams, and frantic cries for
help that none could render, filled the air. Nothing, in fact, could
be done until the fire had burnt itself out, and the extent of the
calamity was ascertained. The Dauphin and Dauphiness, distressed at so
sad a disaster, gave their entire year’s allowance towards mitigating
the misery that had fallen upon many poor people; and the “_fêtes
magnifiques_,” with all their splendor and rejoicing, ending thus in
“lamentation, mourning, and woe,” seem to have been, as it were, a
foreshadowing of the career of her for whom they had been given,—the
unfortunate Marie Antoinette.
“It is the 10th of May, 1774,—a lovely evening following a bright
spring day. The sun has sunk below the horizon; the brilliant hues of
the western sky have faded into the dark shades of the advancing night,
and the Château of Versailles, in its sombre grandeur, looms larger
in the increasing gloom. On the terrace are saunterers in earnest
conversation; carriages and horses and a throng of attendants in the
marble court. A group of impatient pages, _écuyers_ booted and spurred,
an escort of the household troops, eager for an order to mount,—all
are watching, with anxious eyes, the flickering glare of a candle that
faintly illumines the window of a chamber in the château.”
In that chamber lies Louis, once the “well-beloved,” in the last
stages of confluent small-pox. As the clock of Versailles tolls the
hour of twelve, at midnight, the flame is extinguished; the king is
dead! Louis XV. has breathed his last! Instantly all is movement and
animation in the courtyard, while through the gilded galleries of
Versailles resounds the cry, destined to be heard never again within
its walls, “The king is dead! Long live the king!” as, with a noise
like thunder, the courtiers rush from the antechamber of the dead
monarch to the apartments of the Dauphin, to hail _him_ king of France.
This extraordinary tumult, in the silence of midnight, conveyed to
Louis and Marie Antoinette the first intelligence that the crown of
France had fallen upon their brows; and, overcome by the violence of
their emotions, they fell upon their knees exclaiming, “O God! guide
us, protect us; we are too young to govern!”
Preparations had been made for an immediate flight; for all alike were
anxious to escape the infectious air of the _petits appartements_ and
_grande galerie_, whose deadly atmosphere claimed yet a hecatomb of
victims. Three hours after the king’s death Versailles was a desert;
for the young king and the queen, with the whole court in retinue,
had set out in their carriages for Choisy. A few under-servants and
priests of the “inferior clergy” remained to pray beside the body,
which was ultimately placed in a coffin filled with lime, thrust into a
hunting-carriage, and, followed by a few attendants, with no signs of
mourning, the _cortège_ set out, “_au grand trot_” for St. Denis.
There were none to mourn the departed monarch; and in an hour Louis
the Well-Beloved was forgotten, or remembered but to be despised. But
a single Fontenoy veteran, inspired by the memories of other days,
rushed forward and presented arms as the scanty funeral _cortège_
of the once vaunted hero of a brilliant fight passed through the
gates of Versailles, in the dead of night, on the 13th of May, 1774.
“What matters it,” murmured the old soldier, regretfully; “he was at
Fontenoy!”
“It was a momentous crisis in the history of the nation when Louis
XVI. and Marie Antoinette ascended the throne of France. The time had
arrived when the abuses of the Old Régime could no longer be tolerated,
and sweeping reforms were demanded. The nation, hitherto politically
a nullity, had awakened to a sense of its rights; while absolute
sovereignty, with its arbitrary dictum, ‘_L’état c’est moi_,’ and its
right divine to govern wrong, had lost its prestige, and had apparently
no prospect of regaining it.”
The people, indeed, regarded the young monarch as the “hope of the
nation,” and named him “_Louis le Desire_,”—a testimony to the ardor
with which they had looked forward to his accession. And it is probable
that, had a more able pilot—“a king more a king” than that feeblest
of monarchs, Louis XVI.—been called to the helm at that period, “the
vessel of state might have been safely guided through the shoals and
quicksands surrounding her, and escaped the eddies of that devastating
whirlpool in which she was eventually engulfed.” Indeed, if sincerely
wishing to see his people prosperous and happy could have made them
so, France would have had no more beneficent ruler than Louis XVI. But
his good wishes and intentions were rendered of no avail by his utter
want of energy and ability to carry them out. Infirm of purpose at the
first, he remained so to the end. The decree, “Let there be light,”
unfortunately, never went forth to quicken his mental faculties. The
queen, on the other hand, possessed all the courage and resolution of
her imperial mother, Maria Theresa; and, had she been able to control
affairs, the revolution would have been crushed in its infancy with
an iron hand. Again, had the king been able to hold to his milder
measures, to maintain on the following day that which he had declared
the day before, it is possible that France might have passed quietly
from an absolute to a constitutional monarchy. But the self-will
and determination of the one, and the weakness and instability of
the other, rendered a union of ideas impossible and the revolution
inevitable.
Little was known by the nation at large of the mental qualities of the
young king. He was now in his twentieth year; and it had been noised
among the people that he had inherited all the virtues of his father,
“_Le Grand Dauphin_” to which were added the frugal tastes, the genial
temper, and the air of _bonhomie_ to which the gallant Henry IV. owed
so much of his popularity.
“No wonder, then, that the accession of Louis XVI. was hailed
throughout France with general delight, or that the enthusiastic
people—their many expected reforms already conceded in
imagination—should have written in conspicuous characters,
‘RESURREXIT,’ beneath the statue of the gallant Henry, whose jovial
humor and pliant conscience enabled him to gratify his Catholic
subjects with his presence at a _Te Deum_.”
When the king made his public entry into the capital, the joyous
demonstrations of the Parisians affected him deeply. “What have I
done,” he exclaimed, “that they should love me so much?” Ah, Louis! you
have as yet done nothing; but much, very much, is expected from you!
But Louis XVI. possessed no energy; and the torpid action of his mind
was but too plainly evinced by the sluggish inactivity of his heavy
frame, as, stolid in his immense corpulence, he sat lolling in his
chariot.
Perhaps, in their eagerness for reforms, the Parisians displayed
unreasonable impatience. But when, a few weeks later, the young
monarch again passed through Paris, he remarked—though unfortunately
the lesson was lost on him—that the acclamations of the people were
far less frequent and fervid than on the former occasion. And his
eyes were filled with tears when he perceived that the conspicuously
displayed “RESURREXIT” was transferred from the statue of the gallant
Henry to that of the slothful Louis XV. Still, with all his vices,
Louis the Well-Beloved, on those rare occasions when he appeared in
public, had always commanded the respectful homage of his subjects,
simply by the dignity of his bearing. By the same means he imposed
silence on his courtiers, when, in license of speech, they infringed
the limits within which it was sometimes his _bon plaisir_ to restrain
them. Occasionally, too, when the parliament opposed his edicts, or
the dissentient opinion of a minister roused him from his habitual
indolence, he could at once assume the arbitrary tone, the “_je le
veux_” of the absolute monarch, and carry out his purposes with all
the _hauteur_ of his royal ancestor, the _Grand Monarque_. “And it is
probable that his handsome person and majestic air—for, whatever may
have been his shortcomings in other and more essential qualities, in
appearance he was every inch a king—may have gone far in preventing
the utter extinction of the enthusiastic affection which on several
occasions during his reign the people so singularly, yet so generally,
expressed towards the royal _débauché_. A lingering spark of that
once ardent feeling must have smouldered on in their hearts to the
end; for, grievously oppressed though they were, and vicious as they
knew him to be, they still toiled on under their burdens, not exactly
uncomplainingly, yet in a spirit of toleration towards him; while the
yearned-for relief was, as if by the tacit consent of his subjects,
to be claimed only from his successor.” Truly, indications were not
wanting of the approaching storm. But “_Après nous le deluge!_” cried
Madame de Pompadour, gayly; and the king and the court echoed the cry.
Madame la Marquise was right. The deluge came; and the royal authority
which Richelieu, Mazarin, and Louis XIV. had raised to such gigantic
heights, and which Louis XV. had so shamefully abused, was hurled
prostrate in the dust.
Bright shines the sun on this 10th day of June, 1775; and, heavy in
its massive architecture, the grand old cathedral of Rheims looms up
against the clear blue sky. The interior is hung with crimson cloth of
gold. On the right of the altar, arrayed in their red and violet robes,
point lace, gold crosses, chains, and mitres, sit the great grandees of
the church. On the left, in their mantles of state, stand the temporal
peers of the realm, and a brilliant crowd of gold-embroidered naval and
military uniforms surrounds them; while above, in the lofty galleries
of the nave, in the midst of pearls and diamonds, gold, and precious
stones, and lofty, waving plumes, is Marie Antoinette, proud and
radiant, surrounded by the ladies of her retinue.
For on this 10th day of June, “good Louis XVI.,” as the country people
say, is to be crowned. Maria Theresa was anxious that Marie Antoinette
should be crowned with the king; but she evinced not the slightest
inclination, and, indeed, it was only at Vienna that such an event
seems to have been expected or desired. But among the glittering throng
which fills the cathedral, one sees not the king. He waits in the
sacristy, whither two of the dignitaries of the church proceed to lead
him to the front of the altar. The door forthwith flies open, and Louis
XVI. appears in all the insignia of royalty. The mantle of state is
placed upon his shoulders, and anointing him with the seven unctions of
the _sacre_, the archbishop cries aloud, “_Vivat rex in aeternum!_” The
grand old organ peals forth as he approaches the altar, and the fresh
young voices of the choristers swell through the aisles and naves as
they sing the choral service. How startling is the effect when, during
a _sotto voce_ passage of the service, the archbishop places the crown
upon the king’s head, and he, suddenly raising his hand, thrusts it
aside, exclaiming, “_Elle me gêne!_” Poor Louis! Truly he was destined
to find it _gênant_ in every sense. Henry III. had said, “_Elle me
pique!_” All knew what had been his end. “The queen, who had been a
deeply interested spectator of the scene, exhibited so much agitation
at the moment of the king’s exclamation, that she was near fainting,
and was conducted from the cathedral.” The ceremony is concluded; and
the clanging of bells, the roaring of cannon, the lively chirping of
thousands of birds, freed from their cages, to symbolize the “_vieilles
franchises_” of France, and the tumultuous shouts of “_Vive le roi!_”
proclaim to the multitude that “_Louis le Desire_,” is crowned king of
France.
Marie Antoinette had been reared in all the freedom of the Austrian
court, and it was some time before she could habituate herself to the
etiquette-laden atmosphere of Versailles, where every look, every
motion, every gesture, were governed alike by the inexorable rules of
_la grande politesse_, laid down with such precision and exactitude by
King Louis XIV. From the cradle to the tomb, in sickness and in health,
at table, at council, in the chase, in the army, in the midst of their
court, and in their private apartments, kings and princes, in France,
were governed by ceremonial rules. The pomp and glitter at Versailles
dazzled the beholder. There all breathed of greatness, of exaltation,
and of unapproachableness; and the people, awestruck at the splendor
and gorgeous trappings of royalty, fell prostrate before the throne.
Madame Campan thus describes her feelings upon first entering this
charmed spot:—
“The queen, Marie Leckzinska, wife of Louis XV., died just before I was
presented at court. The grand apartments hung with black, the great
chairs of state raised on several steps and surmounted by a canopy
adorned with plumes, the caparisoned horses, the immense retinue in
court mourning, the enormous shoulder-knots embroidered with gold and
silver spangles which decorated the coats of the pages and footmen,—all
this magnificence had such an effect upon my senses, that I could
scarcely support myself when introduced to the princesses.
“How well was the potent magic of grandeur and dignity, which ought to
surround sovereigns, understood at Versailles!
“Marie Antoinette, dressed in white, with a plain straw hat, and a
little switch in her hand, walking on foot, and followed by a single
servant, through the walks leading to the Petit Trianon, would never
have thus disconcerted me. And I believe this extreme simplicity was
the _first_ and only _real_ fault of all those with which she is
reproached.”
The illusions of etiquette were necessary to Louis XV. Louis XIV. might
have dispensed with them. His throne, resplendent with the triumph
of arms, literature, and the fine arts, was glorious enough without
them. But he would be more than a great king, this mighty Louis! And
so this demi-god, when age and calamity had taught him that he was
but human, endeavored to conceal the ravages of time and of disease
beneath the vain pomp of ceremony. He, Louis “the Magnificent,” the
most accomplished of gentlemen, habitually exacted and received from
the noblest of his realm adulations and menial services better becoming
the palace of Ispahan than the Château of Versailles.
“All service to the king and queen, and, in a lower degree, to the
Dauphin and Dauphiness, was regarded as an honor to the persons
serving,—an honor to be keenly contended for by persons of the highest
rank, no matter what delay, or inconvenience, or unutterable weariness
of spirit was experienced by the individuals thus served.” Her Majesty
the queen could not pass from one apartment to the other, without being
followed by the lords and ladies of her retinue. The ceremonies of
rising and dressing were accompanied by laws and rites as irrevocable
as the decrees of the Medes and Persians.
The _petites entrées_ and the _grandes entrées_ had each their
appropriate ceremonies. At the former, none but the physicians, reader,
and secretary had the privilege of being present, whether her Majesty
breakfasted in bed or out of it. At the _grande toilette_, the toilet
table, which was always the most splendid piece of furniture in the
apartment, was brought forward, and the queen surrendered herself to
the hands of her hairdresser. Then followed the _grande entrée_; sofas
were ranged in circles for the ladies of the household. The members of
the royal family, the princes of the blood, and all the great officers,
having the privilege, paid their court. Only _grandes dames_ of the
_haute noblesse_ could occupy the _tabouret_ in the royal presence.
There were well-defined degrees of royal salutation,—a smile, a nod, a
bending of the body, or leaning forward as if to rise, which was the
highest form of acknowledgment. If her Majesty wished her gloves, or
a glass of water, what she desired was brought by a page upon a gold
salver, and the salver was presented in turn with solemn precision,
according to the rank of the persons present, by the _femme de chambre_
to the lady-in-waiting; but if the chief _dame d’honneur_, or a
princess of the blood, or any member of the royal family entered at the
time, the salver was returned to the _femme de chambre_, and by her
offered again to the _dame d’honneur_, or to the princess, that she
might have the privilege of presentation, till, at last, the article
reached its destination.
One winter’s morning, Marie Antoinette, who was partially disrobed, was
just about to put on her body linen. The lady-in-waiting held it ready
unfolded for her. The _dame d’honneur_ entered. Etiquette demanded that
she should present the robe. Hastily slipping off her gloves, she took
the garment, but at that moment a rustling was heard at the door. It
was opened, and in came Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans. She must now be
the bearer of the garment. But the laws of etiquette would not allow
the _dame d’honneur_ to hand the linen directly to Madame la Duchesse.
It must pass down the various grades of rank to the lowest, and by her
be presented to the highest. The linen was consequently passed back
again from one to another, till it was finally placed in the hands
of the duchess. She was just upon the point of conveying it to its
proper destination, when suddenly the door opened, and the Comtesse de
Provence entered. Again the linen passed from hand to hand until it
reached Madame la Comtesse. She, perceiving the uncomfortable position
of the queen, who sat shivering with cold, without stopping to remove
her gloves, placed the linen upon her shoulders. Her Majesty, however,
was quite unable to restrain her impatience, and exclaimed, “How
disagreeable, how tiresome!” Such was the etiquette of the court of
Versailles, and its inexorable rules governed alike every action in the
lives of the king and queen, while the cavaliers and _grandes dames_
observed with the greatest minuteness every punctilio of _la grande
politesse et la grande galanterie_, that by so doing they might widen
the gulf already existing between them and the new ideas of _liberté_
and _égalité_ which were beginning to pervade the realm.
“You love flowers; I give you a bouquet of them by offering you Le
Petit Trianon entirely for your own private use. There you may reign
sole mistress; for the Trianons, by right, belong to you, having always
been the residence of the favorites of the kings of France.” For Louis
XVI. this speech was a great effort of gallantry. It delighted Marie
Antoinette. Here, then, was that for which she had so often longed;
a place to which she could retire from the cares of state, and throw
aside the pomps and punctilios of etiquette. She loved not the grand
old gardens of Versailles, with their terraces and clipped yews. She
would have an English garden of the day, with its thickets, waterfalls,
and rustic bridges, such as the Prince de Ligny had made at _Bel-œil_
and the Marquis de Caraman at Roissy. _Le grand simple_ is to take the
place of _le grand magnifique_, and attired in white muslin, with a a
plain straw hat, and followed by a single attendant, the queen roams
through the gardens and groves of the Petit Trianon. Through the lanes
and byways she chases the butterfly, picks flowers free as a peasant
girl, and leaning over the fences, chats with the country maids as they
milk the cows.
This freedom from restraint was etiquette at the court of Vienna; it
was barbarism at the court of Versailles. The courtiers were amazed,
the ceremony-stricken dowagers were shocked; and Paris, France, and
Europe, were filled with stories of the waywardness and eccentricities
of Marie Antoinette. And Mesdames, the king’s aunts, from their retreat
at Bellevue, and Madame du Barry, from her domain of Luviciennes, lost
no opportunity to gather reports unfavorable to the reputation of the
queen, and spread them far and wide.
Still another surprise was in store for the nobility, for upon one
occasion, at Trianon, when the queen seated herself, she requested in a
lively, nonchalant manner the whole of the ladies, without distinction,
who formed her intimate circle, to seat themselves also! What a blow to
those who held so dear the privileges they derived from distinction of
office and superiority of rank! _La haute_ and _la petite noblesse_,
in spite of their cherished distinctions, _all_ are to sit down
together! It is terrible! How many enemies are made, and allies added
to the circles at Bellevue and Luviciennes, by that little act! Poor
thoughtless Marie Antoinette!
But she proposed to reign at Trianon, not as queen of France, but
simply as a lady of the manor, surrounded by her friends. And so
she built the Swiss cottages, with their thatched roofs and rustic
balconies; for it was her good pleasure that she, her king, and her
friends, should be country people for the nonce. The queen’s cottage
stood in the centre, and she was the _fermière_. The king was the
miller, and occupied the mill, with its joyous tick-tack. Monsieur le
Comte de Provence, figured as schoolmaster, while the Comte d’Artois
was in his element as gamekeeper. However, one may be sure that these
simple country folk had no want of retainers to do their behests. In
the dairy, where the cream was put in the blue and white porcelain of
Trianon, on marble tables, diligent dairymaids skimmed and churned,
and displayed fresh butter and eggs. Down by the lake were more
masqueraders,—washerwomen this time; and Madame la Comtesse de Chalons
beat the clothes with ebony beaters. In the stable, the sheep,
unconscious of the honor to be done them, stood ready for clipping with
golden shears. “The Duc de Guines might not assist at this, because he
was so stout and so desperately bent on resorting to art to restrain
his bulk, that his valet, in selecting his master’s garments every
morning, was fain to ask, ‘Does my lord the Duke sit down to-day?’
But there were other helpers,—the big, jovial Duc de Coigny, and the
rough-voiced, stiff-jointed Comte d’Adhémar, who could, at least,
hoist sacks of corn up the mahogany steps to the granary.” _Madame la
Fermière_ distributed refreshments as she overlooked and encouraged her
workers. And so the dainty work, which was the idlest pastime, went on
to the accompaniment of gay jests and rippling laughter.
This descent from the throne, which was so congenial to the queen, was
loudly condemned. In their first efforts for reform the people had
no wish to detract from the hereditary splendor of the crown, or the
“divinity,” which for so many centuries had hedged the kings of France.
It was the king and queen who took the first steps. Winter comes, and
with it a heavy fall of snow, and Marie Antoinette longs again for
the merry sleigh rides of Vienna. “The old court sledges are brought
forth—these being professedly economical times—for examination as to
their possibly serviceable condition. A glance, however, suffices
to show that disuse and neglect have put them completely _hors de
service_.” So new ones of great magnificence are prepared, with
“abundance of painting and gilding, trappings of embroidered crimson
leather and velvet, with innumerable tinkling bells of gold or silver.”
The horses, with nodding plumes and gorgeous caparisons, dazzled the
eyes of the Parisians as they swept through the Champs Élysées, drawing
their loads of lords and ladies enveloped in furs. The people frowned
disapprovingly. It was a new amusement—an innovation; and angry,
envious tongues declared that the “_Autrichienne_ had taken advantage
of the rigor of the season which had caused such widespread misery to
introduce her Austrian pastimes into the capital of France.”
Marie Antoinette was imprudent, very imprudent; that was her only
crime. But much allowance must be made for one, who, at the age
of fifteen years, was made _la premiere dame_ in a court the most
gorgeous, and, after that of Catherine II. of Russia, the most
dissolute, in Europe.
The people had already begun to compute the cost of equipages, palaces,
crown jewels, and courtiers. And some few of the _grands seigneurs_,
even, had begun to recognize the growing power of the _vox populi_;
but Marie Antoinette did not yet know that public opinion was of any
importance to her. “The slanderous tongues of Mesdames and the pious
circle of Bellevue, the innuendoes of Luviciennes, and the insidious
attacks of Monsieur le Comte de Provence,—all this she understood, and
resented. It seemed a matter of course that it should be thus; but the
right of the _people_ to interfere with her amusements and to call in
question their propriety, was something she could not understand.”
Alas! poor queen; the dreadful significancy of that expression “THE
PEOPLE,” and the vengeful acts to which an infuriated populace could be
driven, were two terrible lessons she had yet to learn.
On the 22d of October, 1781, a child is born at Versailles. The king
advances towards the queen’s couch; with a profound bow, and in a
voice that falters with emotion, he exclaims, “Madame, you have
fulfilled the dearest wishes of my heart and the anxious hopes of the
nation; you are the mother of a _Dauphin_.” Nothing could exceed the
public rejoicings; the triumph became well-nigh frantic. For it is
recorded that their superabundant joy found expression in a sort of
delirium,—people of all grades, and who had no previous acquaintance
with each other, indulging in fraternal embraces in the street. The
king himself went through a similar display of excessive joy. He
laughed, he wept, the tears streaming down his fat face. He ran in and
out of the antechamber, presenting his hand to kiss or to shake—or
both, if they pleased—to all and each indiscriminately, from the
solemn _grandees_, who were there to attest the birth, to the humblest
lackey in attendance. “The royal infant, splendidly arrayed and with
the grand cross of St. Louis on his breast, was placed in his satin
and point-lace bassinet to receive the homage of the great officers of
state. It is recorded that he replied in a most suitable manner to the
many flattering speeches addressed to him; and this being the first
opportunity he had had of exhibiting the power of his lungs, he availed
himself of it freely.” Madame Royale had been born three years before;
two other children were subsequently added,—the Duc de Normandie, and
the Princess Sophie; but only Madame Royale and the Duc de Normandie
were destined to survive to endure those woes which eventually
overwhelmed the royal family.
Marie Antoinette was now in the flower of her beauty, on which French
biographers love to dwell. Tilly said, “Her eyes recalled all the
changes of the waves of the sea, and seemed made to reveal and reflect
the blue of the sky.” Her fine throat and the lofty carriage of her
head were remarkable; and she once said, laughingly, to Madame Le
Brun, “If I were not a queen, should not I look insolent?”
“As one would have offered a chair to another woman, one would have
offered a throne to her; and when she descended the marble staircase
at Versailles, preceded by the officers who announced her approach,
saluted in the great court by the beating of drums and the presentation
of arms, all heads were uncovered respectfully, all hearts were filled
with admiration of the woman, as well as with loyalty to the queen.”
Who shall tell the true story of the diamond necklace? It will
probably never be told. The papers of the Cardinal de Rohan, which
might have thrown much light upon the subject, were unfortunately
destroyed. Little did Marie Antoinette think, as she entered Strasburg
in triumph on her marriage journey, that she would encounter, in the
magnificent robes of a cardinal’s coadjutor, a man who was to prove
her deadly foe,—the insolent and profligate Prince Louis de Rohan. He
had been ambassador at Vienna, where he had disgusted Maria Theresa
by his profligacy and arrogance. She had procured his withdrawal.
He had not been allowed to appear at the court of Versailles; and
now for ten long years he had fretted and fumed under a sense of the
royal displeasure. Boehmer, the crown jeweller, had, for a period of
years, been collecting and assorting the stones which should form
an incomparable necklace, in row upon row, pendants and tassels of
lustrous diamonds, till the price had reached the royal pitch of three
hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This costly “collar” he offered
to the king, who would willingly have bought it for the queen had she
desired it; but Marie Antoinette replied, that if the money were to be
spent, it had better be used in fitting a frigate for the royal navy.
His Most Christian Majesty concurred exactly in this sentiment, and,
returning the necklace to Boehmer with the words, “We have more need
of ships than of diamonds,” thought no more about the matter. Not so
did the Cardinal de Rohan, and the _intrigante_ Madame de Lamotte. They
had made up their minds to possess the three hundred and fifty thousand
dollars represented by the glittering gems. So they laid their clever
heads together, and, by forging notes of the queen and sundry other
little plots which were wonderfully successful, obtained the necklace,
leaving Boehmer to look to the queen for payment. Of course payment was
not forthcoming, and in his distress the jeweller related the affair to
Madame Campan, telling her he feared he had been duped. Madame Campan
proceeded at once to Versailles, and laid the matter before the queen.
It was the 15th of August, 1784, Assumption day, and Prince Louis de
Rohan, in full pontificals, and wearing the Grand Cross of St. Louis,
arrived at Versailles to perform mass in the royal chapel; but he had
scarcely entered the _Œil de Bœuf_, when he was summoned to the cabinet
of the king. As he entered, Louis XVI. turned upon him suddenly,
inquiring, “You have purchased diamonds of Boehmer?” “Yes, sire,” was
the trembling reply. “What have you done with them?” the king added. “I
thought,” replied the cardinal, “that they had been delivered to the
queen.” “Who commissioned you to make this purchase?” “The Comtesse
de Lamotte,” was the reply; “she handed me a letter from her Majesty,
requesting me to obtain the necklace for her. Indeed, I thought I was
obeying her Majesty’s wishes by taking this business upon myself.”
“How could you imagine, sir,” indignantly interrupted Marie
Antoinette, “that I should have selected _you_ for such a purpose, when
I have not addressed you for eight years, and how could you suppose
that I should have acted through the mediation of such a character as
Madame la Comtesse de Lamotte?”
The cardinal was in the most violent agitation; he drew from his pocket
a letter, directed to the Comtesse de Lamotte, and signed with the
queen’s name. Her Majesty glanced at it, and instantly pronounced it
a forgery, and the king added, “How could you, a prince of the church
and grand almoner of my household, not have detected it? This letter is
signed _Marie Antoinette de France_. Queens sign their names short; it
is not even the queen’s handwriting.” Then drawing a letter from his
pocket, and handing it to De Rohan, he said, “Are you the author of
that letter?”
The cardinal turned pale, and, leaning upon a table, appeared as though
he would fall to the floor.
“I have no wish, Monsieur le Cardinal,” the king added, “to find you
guilty; explain to me this enigma; account for all these manœuvres with
Boehmer. Where did you obtain these securities and these promissory
notes, signed in the queen’s name?”
The cardinal was trembling in every nerve: “Sire, I am too much
agitated now to answer your Majesty; give me a little time to collect
my thoughts.” “Go into my cabinet,” replied the king; “you will there
find papers, pens, and ink. At your leisure, _write_ what you desire to
to say to me.”
But the written statements of M. de Rohan were as unsatisfactory as
his verbal ones. In half an hour he returned with a paper covered with
blottings, alterations, and erasures. Louis’ anger was aroused, and,
throwing open the folding doors, he cried out in imperious tones,—very
unusual for him,—which resounded through the _Œil de Bœuf_ and _grande
galerie_: “Arrest the Cardinal de Rohan!” The Baron de Bretuil
approached through the crowd of astonished courtiers, and, summoning
the officer on guard, he indicated the cardinal with the words, “_De
par le roi, Monseigneur_, you are arrested; at your risk, officer.”
But, before the cardinal could be removed, he had spoken three words
in German to one of his officials, and given him a slip of paper. The
horse on which the man rode post haste to the cardinal’s palace in
Paris, fell dead in the courtyard; but the red portfolio, containing
the supposed autographs of the queen’s letters, lay in ashes before
it could be sealed up in the name of justice and of the king. The
cardinal was taken to the Bastile. More arrests followed, including
that of the Comtesse de Lamotte. For nine months the trial lasted
before the Council of the Grand Chambre. The Pope protested against a
prince of the church being made accountable for his acts to any but
the highest ecclesiastical tribunal (an assembly of the cardinals at
Rome); while the _haute noblesse_ looked on the cause of the Prince
de Rohan as their own, considering the rights and privileges of their
rank intrenched upon, when a near relative of the princes of the blood
was put on his trial before the Council of the Grand Chambre. So the
cardinal was eventually acquitted, and Madame de Lamotte alone was
severely punished by flogging and branding on both shoulders.
Their Majesties were chagrined at the acquittal of M. de Rohan and
shocked at the punishment of the countess. The former was an insult
to the king, the latter to the queen; for Madame de Lamotte boasted a
descent from the House of Valois and royal blood within her veins.
Such was the affair of the Diamond Necklace, which, though apparently
trivial in itself, involved consequences of the most momentous
importance.
“Mind that miserable affair of the necklace,” said Talleyrand; “I
should be in nowise surprised if it should overturn the French
monarchy.”
Whoever were the guilty ones, Marie Antoinette was entirely innocent.
She, however, experienced all the ignominy she could have encountered
had she been involved in the deepest guilt, and the affair furnished a
fine theme for the malevolence of Bellevue and Luviciennes.
Respect for royalty was on the wane. The king, of course, had shared
with the queen in the disrespect which Mesdames, his aunts, were
desirous should rest on her alone; and the insulting conduct towards
him of his brothers, Monsieur le Comte de Provence and the libertine,
the Comte d’Artois, who, according to an eye-witness, “on occasions
of great state or solemnity, will pass before the king twenty times,
push him aside, tread on his feet, and this, apparently, without any
thought of apology or excuse,” together with the affair of the Diamond
Necklace, were well calculated to debase him further in the eyes of his
courtiers and in public opinion. Nowhere was this more evident than
when the court assembled in the Grand Gallery of Versailles, where once
the _Grand Monarque_ held his _réunions_ called “_Appartements_.” At
such times, “a stranger would have found it difficult to recognize the
king by any particular attention or any deference paid to him.” What,
then, must have been the agonized sensations of the perturbed spirit
of the superb _Louis Quatorze_, if ever, to look on his degenerate
posterity, he revisited the scene of his former greatness and
grandeur, where once he sat enthroned like Jupiter among the inferior
gods, and where all around him were but too willing to fall down in
the dust at his royal feet, had it been his “_bon plaisir_” that they
should do so! Ah, those were palmy days for church and state!
Brightly dawned the 5th of May, 1789, and Versailles, with its
tapestries, its garlands, and its throngs of gayly dressed visitors,
wore a festive, smiling air. To many it was indeed a joyous day,—a
day of hope; for the king had granted the States General. Such an
assemblage France had not witnessed for more than a hundred and fifty
years. No wonder, then, it was looked forward to as the dawn of
national liberty. But as the procession winds its way along the vast
streets of Versailles, the people see, with pain, how marked are the
distinctions of rank and costume which divide _their_ representatives
from the nobles and the clergy. To the episcopal purple, the croziers,
and grand mantles of the dignitaries of the church succeed the long
black robes of the “inferior clergy.” Then in all the splendor of
velvet and cloth of gold, lace ruffles and cravats, floating plumes and
mantles of state, come the _haute noblesse_. Then follow the modest
Third Estate of the realm; the absence of finery in their humble garb
is atoned for in the eyes of the populace who receive them with hearty
cheers, which they have refused the nobles who have preceded them. One
only is generally known. It is the “plebian count” de Mirabeau. The
_cortège_ of the princes, who are surrounded by courtiers, is allowed
to pass in silence. Louis XVI. appears; as usual, he moves without
dignity, simple, in spite of his Cross of St. Louis and his _cordon
bleu_. Marie Antoinette moves with her accustomed majesty, but her
face wears an anxious look. Her lips are closely pressed, as if in a
vain effort to dissemble her trouble, for not only is her Dauphin,
whose birth had been so proudly hailed, at the point of death, but
she is this day greeted, not with the old loyal shouts of “_Vive la
reine!_” but with new insulting cries of “_Vive d’Orleans!_” Monsieur
le Comte de Provence is grave and pensive, and apparently impressed
with the importance of the occasion. He walks with difficulty, owing
to his extreme corpulency. The Comte d’Artois shows evident signs of
_ennui_ and bad temper, and casts disdainful glances to the right and
left upon the crowd that lines the streets, and so, although they
little think it, those high-born men and women march onward to their
fate. “For although no really hostile sentiments can be said to have
_then_ animated that vast throng, nevertheless, alike among those who
formed the procession and those who were only its spectators, there was
a lurking latent feeling that something strange, something hitherto
unknown, coming from the past and pressing on to the future, was moving
onwards towards France.”
It was the revolution to be decreed by the _Étâts Généraux_. On the 23d
of June, the king held a _séance royale_ at Versailles. It was attended
with all the _appareil_ and state of the “bed of justice” of the old
régime. The _noblesse_ had determined, if possible, to crush the Third
Estate; but the king hardly knew how to utter the arrogant and defiant
words which had been put into his mouth. It was the lamb attempting
to imitate the roar of the lion. “_Je veux, j’ordonne, je commande_”
was the burden of the king’s speech, which was read by the keeper of
the seals, upon his knees. One may imagine how it was received by the
_Tiers État_.
The address closed with the following words: “I command you, gentlemen,
immediately to disperse, and to repair to-morrow morning to the
chambers appropriate to your order.”
The king and his attendant court left the hall. The _noblesse_ and
the clergy followed him. Exultation beamed upon their faces, for
they thought that the _Tiers État_ was now effectually crushed. The
Commons remained in their seats. The crisis had arrived. There was now
no alternative but resistance or submission, rebellion or servitude.
The Marquis de Brézé, grand master of ceremonies, perceiving that the
assembly did not retire, advanced to the centre of the hall, and in
a loud, authoritative voice,—a voice at whose command nearly fifty
thousand troops were ready to march,—demanded, “Did you hear the
command of the king?”
“Yes, sir,” responded Mirabeau, with a glaring eye and a thunder tone;
“we have heard the king’s command, and you who have neither seat nor
voice in this house are not the one to remind us of his speech. Go,
tell those who sent you, that we are here by the power of the people,
and that nothing shall drive us hence but the power of the bayonet.”
And the grand master of ceremonies went out backwards from the presence
of the orator of the people, as it was etiquette to go from the
presence of the king.
The _noblesse_, in the meantime, were in exultation. They deemed
the popular movement effectually crushed, and hastened with their
congratulations to the queen. Marie Antoinette was much elated, and
presenting to them the Dauphin, she exclaimed, “I intrust him to the
nobility.”
The Marquis de Brézé now entered the council-chamber, to inform the
king that the deputies still continued their sitting, and asked for
orders. The king walked impatiently once or twice up and down the
floor, and then replied hastily, “Very well! leave them alone.” Louis
XIV. would have sent every man of them to the Bastile or the scaffold;
but the days of Louis XIV. were no more. It was the 14th of July,
1789. All Paris was in confusion. Mobs ransacked the city in pursuit
of arms. Every sword, pistol, and musket from private residences were
brought forward. The royal arsenal, containing mainly curiosities and
suits of ancient armor, was sacked, and while all the costly objects of
interest were left untouched, every available weapon was taken away.
But why all this turmoil, terror, and excitement? Out at Versailles
was Marshal Broglie, proud and self-confident, in conference with the
court, and having at his command fifty thousand troops abundantly armed
and equipped, all of whom could in a few hours be concentrated in the
streets of Paris. Upon the _Champ de Mars_, Benseval had assembled
his force of several thousand Swiss and German troops, cavalry and
artillery, and at any moment this combined force might be expected to
pour, in the king’s name, upon his “good city of Paris,” and chastise
his rebellious subjects with terrible severity; while the enormous
fortress of the Bastile, with its walls forty feet thick at the base
and fifteen at the top, rising with its gloomy towers one hundred and
twenty feet in the air, with its cannon charged with grapeshot, already
run out at every embrasure, commanded the city; while that remained in
the hands of the enemy there was no safety. Could the Bastile be taken?
Preposterous! It was as unassailable as the rock of Gibraltar. The
mob surged around the Hotel de Ville demanding arms and the immediate
establishment of a citizen’s guard. But arms were not to be had. It
was well known that there were large stores of them somewhere in the
city, but no one knew where to find them. What is this? A rumor runs
through the crowd: “There are arms at the Hotel des Invalides; muskets,
thirty thousand and more;” and now the discordant cries resolve into
one long and steadfast shout, “_Les Invalides! Les Invalides!_” and in
the bright sunshine of this July morning, upon the esplanade of the
Invalides, thirty thousand men stand grim and menacing. But there is no
resistance. The gates are thrown open and the mob rush in. They find in
the armory thirty thousand muskets and six pieces of cannon; and now,
as by common instinct, resounds the cry, “_La Bastile! La Bastile!_”
The crowds across the Seine take up the shout, while from the Champs
Élysées, the Tuileries Gardens, and the Palais Royal, comes back, as
it were, the echo, indistinct at first, but in ever-increasing volume,
“_La Bastile! La Bastile!_” as one hundred thousand men, shouting,
swearing, and brandishing their pikes and guns, rush forward, a
living torrent, to assail with these feeble means, that fortress _par
excellence_ of France,—a fortress which the army of Monsieur le Prince,
le grand Condé, had besieged in vain for three and twenty days.
Enormous, massive, blackened with age, the gloomy emblem of royal
prerogative, exciting by its mysterious power and menace the terror and
execration of every one who passed beneath its shadow; its eight great
towers darkening the air in gloomy grandeur, the world-renowned prison
of the Bastile, the fortress _par excellence_, loomed lofty at the
entrance of Paris, in the very heart of the Faubourg St. Antoine.
De Launey, the governor, from the summit of his towers had, for many
hours, heard the roar of the insurgent city; and now, as he saw the
black mass of countless thousands approaching, he turned pale and
trembled. M. Thuriot was sent by the electors of the Hotel de Ville to
summon the Bastile to surrender. The drawbridge was lowered and he was
admitted. De Launey received him at the head of his staff. “I summon
you,” said Thuriot, “in the name of the people.” But De Launey, who was
every moment expecting the arrival of troops from Versailles, refused
to surrender the fortress, but added that he would not fire upon the
people if they did not fire upon him. Thuriot, perceiving the cannon,
and knowing that the governor had received an order from the Hotel de
Ville to dismount them, exclaimed:—
“You have not had the cannon dismounted.”
“I have had them drawn in; that is all.”
“You will not have them dismounted, then?”
“No! the king’s cannon are here by the king’s order, sir; they can only
be dismounted by an order from the king.”
“Monsieur De Launey,” said Thuriot, “the real king, whom I counsel
you to obey, is yonder”; and he showed to the governor the vast crowd
filling the square before the fortress, and whose weapons glittered in
the sunshine.
“Sir,” replied De Launey haughtily, “you may, perhaps acknowledge two
kings; but I, the governor of the Bastile,—I know but _one_, and he is
Louis XVI. who has affixed his name to a commission by virtue of which
I command here both men and things”; and, stamping his foot, he added
angrily: “In the name of the king, sir, leave this place at once.”
Thuriot withdrew, but he had hardly emerged from the massive portals
and crossed the drawbridge of the moat, which was immediately raised
behind him, ere the people commenced the attack. Uproar and confusion
ensued. One hundred thousand men, filling all the streets and alleys,
all the windows and house-tops of the adjacent buildings, opened upon
the Bastile an incessant fire, harmlessly flattening their bullets
against the massive stone walls. Priests, nobles, wealthy citizens,
ragged and emaciate mendicants, men, women, boys, and girls, were
mingled in the assault, pressing side by side; apparently the whole
of Paris, with one united will, combined against the great bulwark of
tyranny. For five hours the attack continued; at five in the afternoon,
the French soldiers raised a flag of truce upon the towers. This
movement plunged De Launey into despair. One hundred thousand men were
beleaguering his fortress. The troops from Versailles had not arrived,
and three-fourths of his garrison had already abandoned him, and gone
over to his assailants. Death was his inevitable doom. Seizing a match
he rushed toward the magazine, determined to blow up the citadel. There
were one hundred and thirty-five barrels of gunpowder in the vaults.
Two subaltern officers crossed their bayonets before him, and the lives
of one hundred thousand people were saved. Gradually the flag of truce
was seen through the smoke; the firing ceased, and the cry resounded
through the crowd, and was echoed along the streets of Paris, “_La
Bastile_ surrenders!” “The fortress which Louis XIV. and Turenne had
pronounced impregnable, surrendered not to the arms of its assailants,
for they had produced no impression upon it; it was conquered by
the public opinion which pervaded Paris, and which vanquished its
garrison.” While these scenes were transpiring at Paris, Versailles was
in excitement. Courier after courier arrived, breathless, announcing
that the Bastile was taken, that the troops in Paris refused to fire
upon the crowd, that De Launey was slain, and that the cavalry of
Lambese were flying before the people.
No eye was closed at Versailles that night, unless, perchance, it
was that of the king, Louis XVI.; for all felt the counter-shock of
that terrible concussion with which Paris was still trembling. The
French guards, the bodyguards, and the Swiss, drawn up in platoons and
grouped near the openings of all the principal streets, were conversing
among themselves, or with those of the citizens whose fidelity to the
monarchy inspired them with confidence; for Versailles has at all times
been a royalist city. Religious respect for the monarchy and for the
monarch was ingrafted in the hearts of its inhabitants as if it were a
quality of its soil. Having always lived near kings, fostered by their
bounty, beneath the shade of their wonders, having always inhaled the
intoxicating perfume of the _fleur-de-lys_, and seen the brilliant gold
of the garments, and the smiles upon the august lips of royalty, the
inhabitants of Versailles, for whom kings had built a city of marble
and porphyry, felt almost kings themselves; and, even at the present
day,—even now, when the splendid palace of _Louis Quatorze_ stands
silent in its grandeur; when no longer the marble court is thronged
with gorgeous equipages, and
“Up the chestnut alley, all in flower so white and pure,
Strut the red and yellow lacqueys of the Madame Pompadour;”
when the vast gardens where once Louis, the _Grand Monarque_,
surrounded by his train of lords and ladies, moved majestic, “monarch
of all he surveyed and of all who surveyed him,” are silent and
deserted;—even now, Versailles must either belie its origin, or,
considering itself as a fragment of the fallen monarchy, and no longer
feeling the pride of power and wealth, must at least retain the
poetical associations of regret and the sovereign charms of melancholy.
By his answer to the Marquis de Brézé, Mirabeau had struck the very
face of royalty.
By the taking of the Bastile, the people had struck it to the heart,
paralyzed its nerves of action, and given it a death-blow. “But the
monarch of France, from his palace at Versailles, heard the thunders
of the distant cannonade, and yet inscribed upon his puerile journal,
‘_Nothing!_’”
“Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad;” and the adage
applies fitly to the French court during the six months preceding the
overthrow. Never had the nobles been so haughty and domineering. Never
had they looked upon the people with such supreme contempt. Their
arrogance passed all bounds. Even Marie Antoinette exclaimed in terror,
“This _noblesse_ will ruin us!”
The Flanders regiment had been stationed at Versailles; and on the 1st
of October a banquet was given to the officers at the palace. Wine
was liberally supplied from the royal cellars, and was so liberally
partaken of that the banquet became a scene of riot and disorder. The
revolutionary movement was cursed intensely, and the national cockade
trampled under foot. The tidings of this _fête_ spread rapidly through
Paris, exciting great indignation. The court was feasting; the people
starving. Versailles was filled with rejoicing; Paris with mourning.
The morning of the 5th of October dawns dark, cold, and dreary. The
people of Paris are starving. About a baker’s shop is a crowd of women
and children, crying for bread. Bread is not to be had. “_À Versailles,
bonnes femmes!_” cries a man passing by. “_À Versailles!_ there is
bread enough there, and to spare. _À Versailles!_ the land of plenty,
feasting, and revelry! _À Versailles!_” A young girl seizes a drum, and
cries aloud, “Bread! bread!”
Soon a mob is collected; three or four hundred women presently
increased to as many thousands. They follow their leader, echoing her
cry, “Bread! bread!” On to the Hôtel de Ville they rush. But there is
no bread there; and their cry is now, “_À Versailles! À Versailles!_”
“We will give the men,” they exclaim, “a lesson in courage. If they
cannot support and protect us, we will do it for ourselves.”
And so along beside the Tuileries, and through the Elysian Fields,
rushes on this mighty mass, headlong towards Versailles. Couriers have
been sent forward to warn the king and queen of the approaching peril.
His Majesty, King Louis XVI., for want of something _better_ to do, has
gone to chase hares at Meudon. He is sent for, post haste, and returns
to Versailles. “About seven hundred gentlemen were then in the palace,
all in full dress, _chapeau sous le bras_, and armed only with dress
swords. Some few had found pistols; and in that unmilitary fashion they
declared themselves determined to defend the château if attacked.”
Five minutes after the king’s return, the women arrived, singing,
“_Vive Henri IV.!_” and more like furies than suppliants. All the shops
were instantly closed; drums beat to arms, the _tocsin_ sounded, and
the troops were drawn up on the Place d’Armes. Entrance to the courts
of the palace was refused; but finally the women sent a deputation of
fifteen to the king. He received them very graciously, and promised
what they desired, so that they came out of the palace shouting, “_Vive
le roi!_” and praising the goodness of the king to such an extent that
their fellow-Amazons, in rage, would have strung them to the nearest
lamp-posts had not the soldiers interfered.
At nine o’clock, news was brought that General de Lafayette, at the
head of the National Guards and the _Gardes Française_, and followed
by a crowd of the Parisian people, was on his way to Versailles. M. de
Saint-Priest immediately sought the king, and urged him to leave the
palace before their arrival. “The road is open,” he said; “a picket of
the household troops is at the gate of the Orangery, and your Majesty,
on horseback, at the head of an escort, can freely pass whithersoever
you wish.”
Poor Louis! He would wait the course of events; not from courage to
face whatever might happen, but from want of resolution to depart.
Rightly had the queen called him “_le pauvre homme_.” In this hour of
menacing danger she found no protector in her poor, miserably weak
husband and king. But she needed none; for “she alone, among all women
and all men, wore a face of courage, of lofty calmness and resolve this
day. She alone saw clearly what she meant to do; and Theresa’s daughter
dares do what she means, were all France threatening her: abide where
her children are, where her husband is.”
Near midnight Lafayette arrived at the château, pale as death, wet
through, and splashed with mud. He had ridden hard and fast in advance
of his troops, that he might check any alarm felt by the royal
family at the sudden incursion of the mixed multitudes of National
Guards, _Gardes Française_, and volunteers of all sorts, whom he had
unwillingly been made to lead. Assuming the guarding of the château, he
prevailed upon the queen and her ladies to retire to their apartments
and seek sleep without fear.
Gradually quiet was restored, and tired, tempest-tossed Versailles
lay down to rest. Alas, for peaceful dreams! All know the story of
that dreadful night. How the mob, prowling round the palace, found a
door unguarded; how they rushed in, and, pressing blindly on, came to
the queen’s door; how they fought; how the good guard who defended it
poured out their life-blood upon the marble floor; how the queen had
barely time to escape through the _Œil de Bœuf_, when the howling mob
rushed in, and stabbed her bed, again and again, with bloody pikes and
swords; and how at last the guards of Lafayette arrived and drove them
from the palace. It was a night of horror. The queen was saved; but
better for Marie Antoinette would it have been, if in that short agony
she could have died. It was not to be. A mysterious Providence reserved
her, after years of unutterable suffering, for a death more awful.
The morning of the 6th was now dawning, and the whole multitude,
swarming around the palace, demanded as with one voice that the king
should go to Paris. As he could not very well do otherwise, the
king decided to comply. Loud shouts now rose of “_Vive le roi!_”
But threatening voices were raised against the queen; “_À bas
l’Autrichienne!_” “_À bas l’Autrichienne!_” they cried.
“Madame,” said Lafayette, “the king goes to Paris; what will you do?”
“Accompany the king,” replied Marie Antoinette.
“Come with me, then,” rejoined the general. He led the queen upon the
balcony, from whence she looked upon the multitude, agitated like the
ocean in a storm. Proudly she stood, a true daughter of her imperial
mother, Maria Theresa, and calmly she gazed upon the mighty throng.
The murmurs of the crowd were hushed. At the sight of this fearless
woman standing thus exposed to all their fury, those who would have
torn in pieces the daughter of the Cæsars were compelled to render
homage. Lafayette, bending, took her hand and kissed it, while the
marble court resounded with the shouts of “_Vive la reine!_”
A little after noon the royal family entered their carriage, and slowly
the melancholy _cortège_ set out for Paris.
As they passed through the gates of Versailles, the queen glanced
backward for a moment upon that splendid palace, the scene of so much
happiness and grandeur, which she was to see no more. And the carriage
rolled on, bearing its occupants to a dungeon and the scaffold. Adieu
to Versailles! Royalty was vanquished; and Louis XVI. and Marie
Antoinette at the Tuileries were but the captive slaves of their
subjects.
Months rolled by, months of insult and humiliation, until even the king
was aroused, and seriously contemplated flight; that, escaping from
the scenes of violence and danger to which he was exposed in Paris, he
might draw around him his loyal subjects upon the frontiers of France,
and there endeavor amicably to adjust the difficulties which desolated
the kingdom.
Gabriel Honoré de Mirabeau, the son of thunder, was the mightiest and
most terrible product of the Revolution. He was the ugliest man and
the grandest orator in chaotic France. He swayed the multitude; and
it seemed, as he himself believed, that if he would, he, and he only,
might yet save the monarchy.
It was at St. Cloud that Marie Antoinette held her famous interview
with Mirabeau. As she felt the spell of his genius, so he rendered
homage to her majesty. The interview lasted an hour, and Mirabeau
closed it with the words: “Madame, when the empress, your mother,
admitted one of her subjects to the honor of her presence, she did
not take leave of him without allowing him to kiss her hand.” Marie
Antoinette held out her hand. “Madame,” exclaimed Mirabeau, “the
monarchy is saved!” But opportunity was not given him to keep or
break his pledge. Under the sweet April sunshine of 1791, Mirabeau
breathed his last. His death paralyzed the hopes of the king, and he
now resolved to spare no endeavors to secure his escape; and so in the
darkness of midnight, on the 20th of June, 1791, the king, the queen,
Madame Elizabeth, the two royal children, and Madame Tourzel, their
governess, escaped silently from the palace of Tuileries, and entering
their carriages, which stood ready, drove rapidly away. Alas for fond
hopes! Through the king’s want of caution, the royal family were
recognized at Varennes, arrested, and brought back to Paris. Ah, the
humiliations of that long and weary, crowd-encompassed, dust-enveloped
journey back to Paris! Threats, imprecations, and torrents of abuse
were hurled upon the royal family from all sides. More than this they
could not do, for a forest of glittering bayonets surrounded the royal
carriage. It was by the glaring light of the torches that the sorrowful
_cortège_ entered Paris, and under a canopy of glistening steel the
royal family ascended once more the marble staircase of the Tuileries
Palace.
A year has rolled away. The 20th of June, 1792, has passed,—that day of
horrors on which the mob, with shouts of “_Vive la nation!_” broke into
and rushed through the palace of the Tuileries; that day on which the
queen was exposed for hours to insults, abuses, and derisive jests;
that day on which the king was made to place upon his royal brow the
red cap of the Jacobins, while the mob, exulting in their victory,
cried loudly: “_Vive le roi!_” Poor Louis! As he entered the apartment
of the queen, after the rabble had been cleared from the palace, he
saw, in the reflection of a mirror, the _bonnet rouge_ upon his head,
and flinging it upon the ground, he turned to the queen, exclaiming,
with a burst of tears: “Ah! madame, it was not to see me thus insulted
that I brought you from Vienna.”
How different were the days when the boy and girl met on that bright
spring morning at Compiègne, and hunted, danced, quarrelled, and
kissed again, in the old, luxurious times at Versailles and Marly,
Fontainebleau and Choisy-le-Roi!
The 10th of August has arrived. The streets are swarming with a
frenzied multitude. All Paris is marching toward the Tuileries, for the
mob have declared that unless the dethronement of the king is procured,
they will sack the palace. The peal of bells, the clangor of drums, the
rumbling of artillery wheels, and the shouts of the advancing bands
fill the air.
From every direction, east, west, north and south, the portentous
booming of the _tocsin_ is heard, and the infuriated insurgents, in
numbers which cannot be counted, through all the streets and avenues
are pouring toward the palace.
The spectacle aroused the energies of Marie Antoinette, and as she
entered the apartment where her “_pauvre homme_” stood bewildered and
submissive to his lot, she approached a grenadier, and drawing a pistol
from his belt, presented it to the king, exclaiming, “Now, sire, now is
the time to show yourself a _king_!”
But there was nothing imperial in the nature of Louis XVI. With a
passive meekness, which it is difficult to understand, he took the
pistol and quietly handed it back to the grenadier.
It was five o’clock of one of the most brilliant of summer mornings as
the king, followed by the queen, and accompanied by six staff officers,
descended the marble stairs and entered the courtyard to review the
troops and ascertain the spirit with which they were animated. The
music of martial bands greeted him, the polished weapons of the
soldiers glittered in the sun as they presented arms, and a few voices
rather languidly shouted: “_Vive le roi!_” Others, however, shouted
defiantly: “_Vive la nation!_” thus showing that many of those who were
marshalled for his defence were ready to unite with his assailants.
Had the king been a spirited man, in uniform, mounted on horseback, he
would have roused their enthusiasm, for the French have always loved
the _vrai chevalier_. But fat, awkward Louis was well calculated to
excite no other emotion than that of compassion blended with contempt.
“The appearance of the queen in this terrible hour riveted every eye,
and excited even the enthusiasm of her foes. Her flushed cheek, dilated
nostril, compressed lip, and flashing eye invested her with an imperial
beauty almost more than human. Her head was erect, her carriage proud,
her step dignified, and she looked around her upon applauding friends
and assailing foes with a majesty of courage which touched every heart.
Even the most ardent patriots forgot, for the moment, their devotion to
liberty, in the enthusiasm excited by the heroism of the queen.”
On entering the palace Marie Antoinette exclaimed in despair, “All is
lost! The king has shown no energy. A review like this has done us more
harm than good.”
The king had now passed into the garden to ascertain the disposition
of the troops stationed there. With his small retinue he traversed
the whole length of the line. Some of the battalions received him
with applause, others were silent, while here and there voices, in
continually increasing numbers, cried, “_À bas le veto! à bas le
tyran!_” As the king turned to retrace his steps, menaces and insults
were multiplied. Some of the gunners even left their places and thrust
their fists in his face, assailing him with the most brutal abuse. The
clamor penetrated to the interior of the palace, and the queen, turning
pale as death, sank into a chair, exclaiming, “Great God! they are
hooting the king. We are all lost.” The king returned to the palace,
pale, exhausted, perspiring at every pore, and overwhelmed with shame
and confusion. He retired to his cabinet. M. Roederer, chief magistrate
of the Department of the Seine, entered immediately.
“Sire,” said he, “you have not a moment to lose. Neither the number
nor the disposition of the men here assembled can guarantee your life
nor the lives of your family. There is no safety for you but in the
National Assembly.” Such a refuge to the high-spirited queen was more
dreadful than death. It was draining the cup of humiliation to the
dregs.
“Go to the Assembly!” exclaimed Marie Antoinette; “never! never will I
take refuge there. Rather than submit to such infamy, I would prefer to
be nailed to the walls of the palace.”
“It is there only,” replied M. Roederer, “that the royal family can
be in safety, and it is necessary to escape immediately. In another
quarter of an hour, perhaps, I shall not be able to command a retreat.”
“What!” rejoined the queen, “have we then no defenders? Are we alone?”
“Yes, madam,” M. Roederer replied, “we are alone. The troops in the
garden and in the court are fraternizing with your assailants, and
turning their guns against the palace. All Paris is on the march.
Action is useless; resistance impossible.”
A gentleman present, who had been active in promoting reform, ventured
to add his voice in favor of an immediate retreat to the Assembly. The
queen turned upon him sternly, exclaiming: “Silence, sir, silence! It
becomes _you_ to be silent here. When the mischief is done, those who
did it should not pretend to wish to remedy it.”
M. Roederer resumed, saying: “Madam, you endanger the lives of your
husband and your children. Think of the responsibility which you take
upon yourself!” The queen cast a glance upon her daughter, and a
mother’s fears prevailed. The crimson blood mounted to her temples.
Rising from her seat, she said proudly, “Let us go.”
A guard of soldiers was instantly called in, and the royal family
descended the stairs, entered the garden, and crossed it unopposed. The
leaves of autumn strewed the paths, and the young Dauphin kicked them
before him as he walked along. It is characteristic of the weak mental
qualities of the king, that in such an hour he should have remarked,
“There are a great many leaves. They fall early this year.” Some
writers have found in this expression the evidence of a deep and solemn
mind _reflecting_ upon the calamities which had fallen upon France.
Reflections! What had Louis XVI. to do with _reflections_ at a time
like this? His affairs demanded _actions_, not _reflections_.
At the hall of the Assembly they found an immense crowd blocking up
the entrance. “They shall not enter here,” was the cry; “they shall no
longer deceive the nation. They are the cause of all our misfortunes.
_À bas le veto! à bas l’Autrichienne! Abdication ou mort!_” But the
soldiers forced their way through, and the royal family entered the
Assembly. The king approached the president. “I have come hither,” he
said, “to prevent a great crime. I thought I could not be safer than
with you.”
“You may rely, sire,” the president replied, “on the firmness of the
Assembly.”
But few of the excited thousands who crowded all the approaches to the
Tuileries were conscious that the royal family had escaped from the
palace. The clamor rapidly increased to a scene of terrific uproar. The
volleys of musketry, the deep booming of artillery, the cries of fury,
and the shrieks of the wounded and dying filled the air.
The hall of the Assembly was already crowded to suffocation, and the
deputies stood powerless and appalled, for all now felt that a storm
was beating against the throne which no human power could allay.
Suddenly the king beckoned to an attendant, and spoke a few words
to him in an undertone. The man started to leave the hall, but the
terror-stricken deputies crowded around him.
“What has the king said?” they anxiously inquired; “what new order has
he given? Quick! quick! speak out!”
“Why! my friends,” replied the messenger, laughing, “do you not know
that you are dealing with a Bourbon? The king has simply _ordered his
dinner_.”
And so in the midst of the National Assembly, while outside a raging,
howling mob was storming his palace of the Tuileries, and his good
Swiss guard were pouring out their life-blood upon the marble stairs,
and while the throne of his ancestors hung tottering in the balance,
King Louis munched his bread and drank his wine. Thus low had fallen
the descendant of the _Grand Monarque_.
The king munched on; the mob took and sacked the palace; thousands
lay dead in the Place du Carrousel, around the Tuileries, and in the
Champs Élysées. The throne was demolished, and the last vestiges of
the old court _régime_ and the monarchy of the superb _Louis Quatorze_
disappeared forever.
And now followed those long months of imprisonment in the
Temple,—months of unutterable suffering, while the king was on trial
for his life. And then that sorrowful night of the 20th of January,
when for the last time the king was permitted to behold his family. Ah!
what prayers, what groans, what tears were heard and seen that night.
Then came that awful morning of the 21st of January, 1793, and while
the king was suffering upon the guillotine, the queen, with Madame
Elizabeth and the children, remained in their prison, in the endurance
of anguish as severe as could be laid on human hearts. As the deep
booming of the artillery announced that the fatal axe had fallen, poor
Marie Antoinette swooned dead away.
But haste we on to the last act of the dreadful tragedy.
On the 2d of August, 1793, Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josèphe de Lorraine,
Queen of France and Navarre and Archduchess of Austria, the once
brilliant sovereign of Versailles, now a prisoner and a widow, torn
from her children and treated like a common felon, was removed from
the prison of the Temple to that of the Conciergerie, there to linger
until her release from human barbarity on the 16th of October. In one
of the vast halls of this edifice, when occupied by the Parliament,
Louis XIV. had entered during a sitting, booted and spurred, and
declared that he was the state. “It was a strange fate that this
building, once the dwelling-place of the sovereigns of the House of
Capet, when holding their state in the capital, should see a captive
within its walls, the widow of their descendant,—the ‘widow Capet,’ as
the Jacobins described her in their blood-stained edicts.” The damp,
foul dungeons were the most gloomy tombs imagination can conceive.
Down the dripping and slimy steps the queen was led by the light of a
tallow candle, until, through a labyrinth of corridors, she approached
her iron door. The rusty hinges grated as the door was opened, and
entering, she struck her forehead against the low beam.
“Did you hurt yourself?” inquired the _gendarme_.
“No, nothing can further harm me.” Poor Marie Antoinette!
“The candle gave just light enough to reveal the horrors of her cell.
The floor was covered with mud, and streams of water trickled down the
stone walls. A miserable pallet, with a dirty covering of coarse and
tattered cloth, a small pine table, and a chair, constituted the only
furniture.” So deep was the fall from the _salons_ of Versailles!
Here for two long, weary months the poor queen lingered; her misery
being slightly alleviated by the kind-heartedness of Madame Richard,
the wife of the jailer, and Rosalie Lamorlière, an inmate of the
prison, who did all the rigorous rules allowed them to mitigate her
woes. “The night of her arrival at the Conciergerie the queen had not
so much as a change of linen. For days she begged to be allowed some,
but it was not till the tenth day that her prayer was granted, when
Michonis went to the Temple and brought back with him a parcel of linen
and some clothes; among others, the white gown which the queen wore on
the day of her execution. Little by little everything was taken from
the queen. The souvenirs of her happy past, to which she clung, were
taken from her; first her watch, a gift of her mother’s, and which had
never left her since she left Vienna,—the watch which had counted the
happy hours of her youth and womanhood was taken from her. Bitterly
she wept at having to part with it, as if it had been a friend. There
was not a moment that the queen could be out of sight of her _gens
d’armes_; a little screen, four feet high, was the only separation
between the space in which she changed her dress and those men.”
Imagine the misery of this state for a woman so delicately nurtured, so
luxuriously brought up, having at her command a household of over four
hundred persons, and accustomed to the refinements of the most polished
court in Europe.
In the old days of splendor at Versailles, when her attendants were
unable to find some article of dress or toilet, she had exclaimed
pettishly: “How _terrible_ it is not to be able to find what one
wants!” But now, in these last days of her life, when surrounded by
every aggravation that could wound a proud spirit, treated like the
worst of offenders, insulted as mother, wife, queen, and woman, she
never uttered one word that could be construed into petulance, or gave
one angry look.
“With threads taken from her bedding, she worked a kind of garter, and
not being allowed any knitting-needles, used a pair of toothpicks.
When finished, she dropped it, with a significant look, when her
jailer entered the prison. It reached—thanks to one of her loyalest
followers, M. Hue, a faithful servant of Louis XVI.—its destination,
for he gave it to Madame Royale when he accompanied her, two years
later, to Vienna.” This was the richest legacy the daughter of Maria
Theresa and the queen of France could bequeath to her child. The queen
was not so fortunate with another little relic that she hoped her
daughter would receive. This consisted of a pair of gloves and a lock
of her hair, which she slipped into the jailer’s hand; but the action
was observed by one of the _gens d’armes_, and the little parcel was
confiscated. “The damp of the queen’s underground prison was such that
her black gown began to fall into rags. She had another,—a white one;
but this she wore only on the day of her death.
“The few other clothes she had were in a deplorable state, and
required constant repair. She was only permitted three shirts, but the
revolutionary tribunal decided that but one of these should be given
to the queen, and worn ten days before another was allowed her; even
her handkerchiefs were only allowed one by one, and a strict account
was kept of every article as it came from or entered her prison.” Not
being allowed a chest of drawers she placed her clothes in a paper box
that Rosalie brought her, “and which she received,” says Rosalie, “as
if it had been the most beautiful piece of furniture in the world.”
Rosalie also procured her a little looking-glass, bordered with red,
with little Chinese figures painted on the sides. This too seemed much
to please the queen; and doubtless it gave her more satisfaction than
had done all the miles of gorgeous, gilded mirrors at Versailles.
And now the 14th of October has come, and Marie Antoinette is summoned
to appear before her judges. There are wretches present who cry as she
enters, “_À bas l’Autrichienne!_” Yet even the fear of the guillotine
is not able to check the visible signs of pity and deep-felt sympathy
her appearance elicits in others.
How startlingly the sorrowful present contrasts with the gay and
brilliant past, when, in her bridal dress of satin, pearls, and
diamonds, the Duc de Cossé-Brissac led her to the balcony of the
Tuileries to gratify the eager desire of the dense multitude to see
her, and bade her behold in them two hundred thousand adorers, while
shouts of “_Vive la Dauphine!_” rent the air. Marie Antoinette was
then a youthful bride. Twenty-three years have passed away, and she
is now a widow. In a faded black dress, she stands in the theatre of
that same palace of the Tuileries, amidst a throng of _canaille_, to
be tried for her life by men whose own lives would be the forfeit, if
either compassion or justice should move them to find her innocent.
Alas! the daughter of the Cæsars, she whom Edmund Burke had seen,
“glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendor, and
joy,” is hurled low indeed. And yet, to me, as she stands there in
her frayed and patched black gown, with her widow’s cap upon her
almost white hair, before her judges, and her jury, and the crowded
tribunes, Marie Antoinette is a far nobler, far grander figure, than
when a blooming bride she stood upon the Tuileries balcony, surrounded
by the acclamations of the multitude, or when, as queen of France,
blazing with diamonds, and in all the pomp and splendor of regality,
she received the homage of her courtiers in the gilded galleries of
Versailles.
The tribunal which judged the queen was composed of a president and
four judges, the public prosecutor, Fouquier-Tinville,—a man who even
at that time was notorious as being amongst the most inhuman of the
monsters who then governed revolutionary France,—the chief registrar,
and fifteen jurymen. Fouquier-Tinville had himself drawn out at great
length the act of accusation. He looked upon it as his _chef d’œuvre_,
and Chauveau-Lagarde, the queen’s counsel, did not exaggerate when
he called it a “work of the devil.” In it the queen was compared to
Messalina, Brunehild, Frédégond, and the Medici. He declared that
“since her arrival in France she had been the curse and leech of the
French nation; that she had maintained a secret correspondence with
the king of Bohemia and Hungary; that her aim was the ruin of the
country; that by her instigation, and in concert with the brothers of
Louis XVI. and the infamous Calonne, formerly minister of finance,
she had lavished the wealth of the nation, the spoils of the sweat of
the people, in maintaining her criminal expenditure and in paying the
agents of her treasonable intrigues; that she had sent millions out
of the country to the emperor, in order to maintain the war against
the republic, and that she had thus exhausted the revenues of the
country. Further, that since the commencement of the Revolution she had
not ceased an instant from maintaining a treasonable correspondence
with the enemy, and, by every means in her power, aided and abetted a
counter revolution.” He then went back and harped, at great length,
upon the affair of the Gardes du Corps at Versailles in 1789, and also
on the flight to Varennes; accused her of the loss of life on the 17th
of July, 1792, at the _Champs de Mars_, and declared that owing to her,
and her alone, the massacre occurred at Nancy and elsewhere. “Thus this
man raved on in an endless series of accusations, which seem more as
if they came from the disordered brain of a homicidal maniac than from
a man in his senses.”
Indeed, one can only believe that some of the writings and actions
of the actors in the year of terror, 1793, were owing to a state of
madness. It is said, and on good authority, that Fouquier-Tinville
ultimately confessed to being pursued by horrible visions, saying that
he saw the spirits of those he had condemned to death menacing him, not
in his dreams, like Richard III., but in broad daylight. And well he
might; for between the 10th of March, 1793, and the 27th of July of the
following year, two thousand six hundred and sixty-nine victims were
sent from that tribunal to the guillotine.
Then followed the second day. “What is your name?” inquired one of the
judges.
“Marie Antoinette de Lorraine d’Autriche,” answered the queen.
“What is your condition?” was the next question.
“Widow of Louis, king of France.”
“What is your age?”
“Thirty-eight.”
The act of accusation was then read, and the witnesses appeared. Of
these there were forty-one,—men of all sorts and conditions of life,
and who were ready to swear anything, however improbable, however
atrocious, against the queen. All through the long hours of that awful
day the different witnesses were questioned and cross-questioned. She
saw again faces familiar to her in past years, faces that must have
recalled Versailles and the Trianon; and with what feelings of horror
must she have recognized Simon, her son’s jailer and persecutor, among
that crowd of witnesses! When the charges relative to the queen’s
treatment of her son were again alluded to, the queen deigned no reply.
Seeing this, one of the jurors called the attention of the president
to her silence. One can imagine what a hush must at that moment have
fallen on that great crowd, eager to hear what the queen would answer
to such an infamy. But Marie Antoinette was equal, aye, more than
equal, to the occasion. She rose proudly from her chair, and in a
majestic voice exclaimed: “If I have not answered, it is because nature
herself refuses to answer such an accusation made to a mother. I appeal
to all that may be present.”
“A thrill ran through that vast hall—a thrill that has not ceased to
be felt by all who can enter into what the feelings of that mother
were at such a moment. No wonder that when Robespierre heard what a
sensation had been made by the sublime manner in which the queen had
met that charge, and the effect it had upon the audience, he, being
then at dinner, should have broken his plate with rage, and cursed the
folly of Fouquier-Tinville in preferring it.” At last all was over, and
the queen was asked if she had anything to say. “I was a queen, and
you took away my crown; a wife, and you killed my husband; a mother,
and you deprived me of my children. My blood alone remains. Take it,
but do not make me suffer long.” Then in the dignity of silence, and
without the moving of a muscle, she listened to the sentence condemning
her to die. It was ten minutes past four in the morning of the 16th of
October. The queen had, with hardly an interval, endured this trial
more than twenty hours. “Rising from her seat, she walked away calmly
and serenely, leaving her judges, or rather murderers, without one
look of reproach or shade of anger. But on nearing the portion of the
hall where, beyond the barriers, the mob was collected, she raised
somewhat her noble head. A great French painter has left a picture
of this scene. The queen faces the spectator, as she walks along the
side of the barriers, above which the crowd are eagerly scanning her;
behind follow the _gens d’armes_ with shouldered muskets; beyond,
under the dim light of a lamp, appear the faces of the judges, a lurid
background. Delaroche has introduced the thin, handsome face of a youth
who seems to feel the iniquity of the transaction keenly: we recognize
the features of Bonaparte. Next to the almost angelic sublimity of the
figure of the queen, the most touching thing in the picture is the face
of a young girl, who gazes, with a look of ineffable pity, through her
tears, at the queen as she walks by.”
Truly writes Sainte-Beuve. “I do not believe,” he says, “that a
monument of more atrocious stupidity, of greater ignominy for our
species, can exist, than this trial of Marie Antoinette. When one
reflects that a century which considered itself enlightened and of the
most refined civilization, ends with public acts of such barbarity, one
begins to doubt of human nature itself, and to fear that the brute,
which is always in human nature, has the ascendency.”
All Paris was under arms on this morning of the 16th of October. The
roll of the drum was heard through all the sections; thirty thousand
troops lined the streets along which lay the route of the queen’s
passage. The bridges were guarded with cannon, by which stood the
gunners with lighted matches. Artillery was placed also upon the
squares and points of junction. At ten o’clock no carriage was allowed
in any of the streets that lie between the Conciergerie and the Place
de la Revolution. All Paris was patrolled, and all this martial pomp,
which sounds as though the army of the enemy were at the very gates of
Paris, had been brought out to see a woman die!
Before the Conciergerie, before those beautiful iron gates on which the
royal arms of France and the golden lilies are conspicuous, the crowd
was thickest; every window had its groups of spectators, every housetop
had its crowd of people.
There stands the wretched open cart, with its single horse, its plank
the only seat. There is a stir among the crowd, and the queen ascends
the prison steps. On seeing the cart, she makes an involuntary pause.
It is but an instant. Then, with proud step and undaunted mien, Marie
Antoinette advances. A moment more, and she is sealed in the cart.
Sanson takes his place behind her.
Both he and his assistant have their three-cornered hats under their
arms. “On that occasion the only people who behaved with decency were
the executioners.”
Slowly the cart winds its way through the Rue Saint-Honoré. The rabble
yell, shout, and mouth at her, while for the last time falls on her ear
that hateful cry, “_À bas l’Autrichienne! à bas l’Autrichienne!_”
Yet as much a queen is she,—this silent white-robed figure, so
simple, yet so grand in its forlornness,—as when in her gilded coach,
surrounded by a brilliant body-guard of cavalry, she swept through the
Avenue des Champs Élysées, to the echoing shouts of “_Vive la reine!_”
“You all know the Place de la Concorde,
’Tis hard by the Tuileries’ wall.
’Mid terraces, fountains, and statues,
There rises an obelisk tall.”
Ah! what a sight was this mighty Place de la Concorde, then the Place
de la Revolution, on that bright October morning, filled with a
vast and silent throng, while the splendid palace and gardens of the
Tuileries, where so often the queen had been hailed with acclamations,
the spacious Elysian Fields, the pride of Paris, were all spread
around, as if in mockery of the sacrifice which was there to be
offered; and in the centre, sublime in its terrific grandeur, towered
the blood-red posts of the guillotine. Slowly the cart made its way
between the noble buildings of the “_Garde Meuble_” and the Admiralty,
and finally reached the foot of the scaffold.
As the queen mounted the slippery steps, she trod upon the foot of
the executioner. “Pardon me,” said Marie Antoinette, with as much
courtesy as if she were addressing a _grand seigneur_ in the palace
of Versailles. Kneeling, she uttered a brief prayer, and then turning
her eyes to the distant towers of the Temple, exclaimed, “Adieu, my
children; I go to rejoin your father.”
She was bound to the plank. The gleaming axe slid through the groove,
and the long and dreadful tragedy of the life of Marie Antoinette was
closed.
That night, upon the records of the cemetery of the Madeline, was made
this entry:—
“_For the coffin of the Widow Capet,—six livres_.”
“The Revolution,” says De Tocqueville, “will ever remain in darkness
to those who do not look beyond it. It can only be comprehended by
the light of the ages which preceded it. Without a clear view of
society in the olden time, of its laws, its faults, its prejudices,
its sufferings, and its greatness, it is impossible to understand the
conduct of the French during the sixty years which have followed its
fall.”
If absolute power could ever be fitly confided to mortal man, where
could nobler depositaries of that high trust have been found than in
the succession of great men who fill up the interval in the history of
France from the accession of Henry IV. to the death of Louis XIV.?
“What ruler of mankind was ever gifted with a spirit more genial, or
with views more comprehensive, than those of Henry IV.? or with an
integrity and a patriotism more noble than that of Sully? or with an
energy of will superior to that of Richelieu? or with subtlety more
profound than that of Mazarin? or with a zeal and activity surpassing
that of Colbert? or with greater decision of character than Louvois? or
with a majesty transcending that of Louis XIV?” And yet, what were the
results of so much genius and intellectual power when intrusted with
political powers so vast and unrestricted? The favorable results were
to add to the greatness of France, and to give birth to some undying
traditions, pointing to her still more extensive aggrandizement. The
unfavorable results were to produce every possible variety of internal
and external misgovernment; to promote wars more sanguinary than had
ever before been waged between Christian nations; to produce a waste
of treasure so vast, that the simple truth seems fabulous; to kindle
persecutions which altogether eclipse, in their enormity, those to
which the early Christians were subjected by the emperors of Rome; and
to corrupt the moral sense of the people by an exhibition, at the court
of their sovereigns, of a profligacy of manners better befitting a
prince of the barbarians than a king of France.
According to the doctrine of M. Thomas, there is a general law which
regulates the progress of political society. “Emerging from chaos,
where its elements battle with each other in wild confusion, it makes
a steadfast, though it may be a tardy, progress toward that perfect
symmetry and order in which its ultimate perfection consists.”
Thus the anarchy of the tenth and eleventh centuries was the chaotic
period of France. Out of that abyss first rose the feudal oligarchy,—a
state of orderly disorder. Then succeeded the Capetian despotism,
destined to crush, one by one, the countless feudal privileges, whether
legislative, administrative, or judicial. When the iron grasp of
“royalty” had subdued and conquered them all, then “royalty,” in the
midst of the triumphs she had won, presented herself to the nation in
the person of Louis XIV., the king _par excellence_, the _one_ gigantic
privilege, the conqueror and survivor of all the rest. This was the
golden age of kings. The crown was everything; the people, nothing.
Robbed under the name of custom and of law, the peasants toiled
joylessly from the cradle to the grave. Their sons were sent to strew
Europe with their bodies, in wars undertaken at the nod of a courtesan.
Their wives and daughters were torn from them; and for the purpose of
supporting lascivious, and riotous splendor, of building _Parcs aux
Cerfs_, of pensioning discarded favorites, and of enriching corrupt
minions of every stamp, they were taxed,—so taxed that the light and
air of heaven hardly came to them free; and, sunk in the dregs of
indigence, a short crop compelled them to live on food that the hounds
of their taskmasters would reject; and, finally, when in their agony
they asked some mitigation of their hard fate, they were answered by
the bayonets of foreign mercenaries.
“And a people,—stout manhood, gentle womanhood, gray-haired age, and
tender infancy, might turn their pale faces upward and shriek for food,
while fierce, licentious nobles would scornfully bid them eat grass.”
Such was the condition of the greater part of the French people during
the reign of that vilest of monarchs, King Louis XV.
“Royalty” had sinned right royally. Right royally must “royalty” atone
for it. And the guillotine upon the Place de la Concorde was but the
expiation of St. Bartholomew, of the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes,
and of the _Parc aux Cerfs_.
And though we know that a people, crushed and downtrodden, are striving
to free themselves from lawless oppression, we cannot but sympathize
with Marie Antoinette, through no fault of her own made queen of
France, to reap the whirlwind of wicked deeds sown by her husband’s
royal ancestors.
Frederick the Great, amid the battle-smoke at Sohr, or Napoleon, upon
the ensanguined field of Waterloo, never struggled harder in support of
their respective causes, than did she, in the _salons_ of Versailles
and the Tuileries, to sustain the falling monarchy.
“And when, at last, the long conflict was terminated, and her combined
enemies were victorious, when bereft of her throne, of her husband,
of her children, and of her liberty, she was a prisoner in the hands
of those whose unalterable object was her destruction, she bore her
accumulated miseries with a serene resignation, an intrepid fortitude,
a true heroism of soul, of which the history of the world does not
afford a brighter example.”
In the royal burying-vault of the Bourbons, at the Cathedral of
St. Denis, now rest the remains of her,—once the pride and joy of
France,—the beautiful, unfortunate Queen Marie Antoinette.
Grandeur, triumphs, sorrows, all are over.
“Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.”