was a series of _fêtes_. On an island of the Rhine the ladies and
gentlemen of her suite awaited her in a magnificent pavilion, and here
she took off her Viennese clothes, even her stockings, and put on one of
her beautiful trousseau dresses, sent straight from Paris. The prince of
Stahremberg delivered her into the charge of the comte de Noailles, and
bade her farewell. Then the dauphine entered one of the carriages which
had been built for her in Paris. In those days the carriages were worth
seeing, for each was a work of art. Those intended for the use of Marie
Antoinette were things of wonder and beauty, and had astonished even
Paris, where splendid coaches were to be seen all day in the streets.
One was covered entirely with crimson velvet on which the emblems of
spring, summer, autumn, and winter, had been worked in gold thread,
while a wreath of flowers, in gold and enamel, ran along the top; the
other was also decorated with flowers in their natural colours, and the
body of the carriage was in blue, with pictures representing earth, air,
fire, and water, embroidered in silver. At that period carriages cost
great sums of money, for the paintings of them were done by good
artists, and they were handed on from father to son. Strange to say,
many of them escaped the fury of the mob in the French Revolution, and
brightened the Paris of the Restoration. But a curious fate was in store
for them after all. One night, in the year 1848, a young lady living in
Paris with her family, was beckoned out of the room by the old
_courrier_.
'If you will come out with me, I will show you something you will never
forget,' said he, 'only you must say nothing.' The girl promised, and
wrapping herself in a cloak and hood, went with the old man to the place
du Carrousel, behind the Tuileries. Here a huge fire was burning, and
all along the walls the lovely coaches were ranged, to be dragged one by
one into the midst of the fire. For a while the girl looked on, as if
fascinated by the work of destruction, then suddenly she turned away.
'Oh, what a dreadful, dreadful pity!' she cried; 'I wish I had never
come. Oh, take me home at once.'
But we have wandered far down the years from Marie Antoinette, whom we
left driving across the bridge to the French town of Strasburg. The
carriage could only go very slowly, for, besides the regiments of
cavalry which lined the streets, crowds of people stood on every bit of
available ground. Guns fired, bells pealed, voices shouted, and Marie
Antoinette enjoyed the deafening noise, and smiled and bowed and waved
her hand, and looked so pleased and happy that the cries of welcome grew
louder and more heartfelt than before. At last she reached the
archbishop's palace, where all the great Church officials were drawn up
to receive her, headed by her host, the cardinal de Rohan himself; by
his side stood his nephew and helper, prince Louis de Rohan, who
afterwards did Marie Antoinette a cruel wrong. Gaily the dauphine
entered the palace, where she at once held a reception, to which only
ladies were admitted, and to each of these she said a few pleasant words
and begged to know their names. Next she dined in public, and glad she
must have felt of a little rest and food; but she was not allowed to sit
long over her dinner, for she had to visit the theatre, drive about the
illuminated streets, and attend a ball, before she went to bed. It was a
day that would have tired most girls, but Marie Antoinette loved
pleasure, and seemed to thrive on it, and it was with regret that next
day she took leave of the hospitable city, which never forgot her or her
pretty manners. 'Ah!' the people would say to each other, when the dark
days came by-and-bye, 'she was better than beautiful, and had a heart of
gold. Did you not hear when monsieur le maire addressed her in German,
how she would have none of it, and answered, "You must not speak to me
in German, Monsieur, for now I understand nothing but French"? Ah, poor
thing, poor thing!'
The May trees were in blossom and the lilacs and laburnums bloomed in
the gardens when Marie Antoinette arrived at the little town of
Compiègne which the king, the royal family, and his cousins, the princes
of the blood, had reached the day before. The first person whom she met
was the duc de Choiseul, the king's minister, sent to welcome her by the
king.
[Illustration: "Led by the King and the Dauphin"]
'I shall never forget,' said the dauphine, holding out her hand for
Choiseul to kiss, 'I shall never forget that it is you who have made my
happiness.'
'And that of France,' answered the minister. And then the royal carriage
drove out and the king dismounted, followed by his daughters, and Marie
Antoinette fell on her knees before him, as her mother had bidden her.
But Louis raised her and kissed her, and presented the dauphin, who took
far less interest in the bride than his grandfather. For some reason or
other, the court of France had not expected the future queen to be more
than tolerably good-looking, and when she entered the royal apartments
where the princes of the blood were awaiting her, led by the king and
the dauphin, they were all startled by her beauty. It was not only the
brilliant complexion, the fair hair with hardly a touch of powder, or
the bright blue eyes which they admired, it was the sort of radiance of
expression, the life and power of enjoyment, shown in the pictures
painted at that time. And she had charms besides, which in the French
court were more dearly prized than mere loveliness; she had an air of
distinction and dignity not always possessed by people of high birth.
She was tall for her age, and held herself well, and could answer the
fine compliments that were then in fashion, with equal grace and
courtesy.
The ceremony of presentation that now took place would have been rather
alarming to most young princesses. One by one the king introduced his
cousins. First the duc d'Orléans and his son the duc de Chartres
(hereafter to become Philippe Egalité, and lose his head on the
guillotine), then the whole Condé family, and the duc de Penthièvre and
his son, and the lovely princesse de Lamballe; then those who were more
remote. After each one had bowed or curtseyed, he or she sat on an
armchair and when all the armchairs were full, as in a game, the duc
d'Orléans, the senior prince of the blood, rose, bowed again, and backed
to the door, followed by the rest in order of precedence.
The following morning a number of splendid carriages drawn by six or
eight long-tailed horses, might have been seen on the road from
Compiègne to Paris. The king's coach, containing the bride and
bridegroom, drew up at the doors of the Carmelite convent at St. Denis,
where the princess Louise was a professed nun. Here they entered,
accompanied by madame Adelaide, madame Victoire, and madame Sophie, who
were anxious to take this opportunity of seeing their sister, for the
Carmelite rule was very strict, and visitors, even royal ones, were
rare. The gentle _sœur_ Louise was delighted with her new niece, and
still more pleased when she learnt that it was she and not the king, who
had wished to pay the visit, while on her side Marie Antoinette had a
sense of rest in the presence of the nun, which she never felt when with
the other princesses. But the king soon rose, good-byes were said, and
the carriages rolled along outside Paris to La Muette in the Bois de
Boulogne, where the dauphin's younger brothers, the comte de Provence
and the comte d'Artois were ready to receive them. The elder boy was
serious and heavy, like the dauphin, but the younger was bright and gay,
and at once made friends with his sister-in-law. But best of all were
the two little princesses, madame Clotilde, the king's favourite, and
madame Elizabeth, the girl who in after years stood by Marie Antoinette
in all her trials, and followed her to the guillotine. However, no
shadows lay over that warm May day when the dauphine set out from La
Muette for Versailles, for the celebration of her marriage in the
chapel. The Swiss Guards were drawn up before the palace, the same corps
which, twenty-two years after, were cut down before the Tuileries in
defending Marie Antoinette and her husband, and they presented arms as
she got down from her carriage, and went to change her dress in the
rooms which she was temporarily to occupy.
At one o'clock she appeared again, dressed in a white brocade dress,
looped back over panniers. Holding her hand high in the air walked the
dauphin, wearing the robes of the Order of the St. Esprit, glittering
with diamonds and gold. Although more than a year older than the
archduchess, he looked like a clumsy boy by her side, and instead of his
gorgeous garments lending him dignity they seemed to smother him. After
the princes of the blood and their attendants came the bridegroom's two
brothers, then followed the king leading princess Clotilde, mesdames his
daughters, and a train of seventy of the noblest ladies of France. The
blessing was given by the archbishop of Paris, grand almoner to the
king, and then the royal family signed the register, but their writing
was so very bad that it could hardly be read.
[Illustration: THE SWISS GUARD PRESENT ARMS TO MARIE ANTOINETTE]
The rest of the day was passed in the manner usual at royal weddings:
fêtes were held during the afternoon; at six, card tables were set, and
the public were admitted to stare at them while they were playing at
_cavagnol_ or _lansquenet_; at half-past nine they had supper in the new
hall of the opera house. Marie Antoinette went through it all with the
life and spirit she put into everything, though she could hardly have
helped feeling irritated with the bored face of her bridegroom. Next day
seemed very long indeed to her—and to him also. Etiquette did not allow
him to hunt, and he cared for nothing else; and though she tried to
forget that she had a husband, and only to think of the gaiety about
her, yet the gloomy youth at her side weighed down her spirits, and no
doubt all the excitement of the last few days had tired her. When, the
next morning, the dauphin set out with a beaming countenance to hunt
with the king, she felt quite relieved, and glad to spend a few quiet
hours with her dog and her lady-in-waiting. Still, just now she was not
allowed much time to feel lonely, for she seemed always dressing and
undressing to go to some brilliant festivity. One evening a great ball
was given, at which even madame Clotilde was allowed to appear, and a
young princess of Lorraine, Marie Antoinette's cousin, was present. For
two hundred years the French nobles had always been jealous of the dukes
of Lorraine, and never lost any chance of being rude to them; so when
they heard that the king had allotted the princess a place in the first
state quadrille, they ordered their wives and daughters to stay at home.
Of course the ladies were all bitterly angry, and wept tears of
disappointment; but they sobbed in vain, and it was only when a special
order from the king arrived, that the injured nobles were forced to give
way—to the great delight of their families.
The marriage rejoicings were to end by a display of fireworks given by
the City of Paris, intended to be the most wonderful ever seen. They
were to be sent up from the Place Louis XV. which later changed its name
to the Place de la Revolution, and then to the Place de la Concorde, and
the wide space was filled with wooden platforms for the spectators,
grouped round a Temple of Hymen. After streams of flame from the mouths
of the dolphins, and rockets and fire-balls had fascinated the people,
the scene was to be crowned by the ascent of the temple into the air,
where it was to burst into a thousand fiery fragments. Holding their
breath, the dense crowds watched the temple rising into the sky, and a
gasp of admiration followed its explosion. So intent were they in gazing
at the spectacle that they never noticed that one of the burning rockets
had fallen on a platform standing at the back till the wood was flaming
up behind them. Had they kept their presence of mind they might all have
got safely away, but the panic spread as quickly as the fire, and there
was a general rush to the side where the carriages stood, as that was
the only part of the Place not blocked by the wooden buildings. In their
mad flight they dashed up against the horses, which, already excited by
the noise of the fireworks, plunged and tried to bolt; many of the
fugitives were trampled under their feet, or fell, for others to fall
over them. Some struggled through, but, blinded with terror, could not
see where they were going, and stumbled over the bank into the river,
which ran close by. Now, owing to an accidental delay, the dauphine, who
was to drive to the Place Louis XV. with mesdames, had been delayed in
starting, and only arrived when the panic was at its height. She was
horror-stricken at the sights and sounds around her, and when she found
there was nothing to be done at the moment, directed the coachman to
return to the palace. All night long the cries and groans rang in her
ears, and as soon as it was daylight both she and the dauphin sent all
the money they had to the chief of the police, begging him to lay it out
for the good of the sufferers from the fire.
From these, and many other acts of kindness, the bride became very
popular with the Parisians, over whom she was some day to rule; and her
mother was forced to write and warn her not to put too much faith in
their loyalty, or to think herself the piece of perfection they called
her, for they were very fickle, and easily threw down their old idols,
to worship new ones in their stead. Marie Antoinette replied dutifully
to her mother's letters, but, being young, put little faith in her
counsels. What the empress said might be true of _most people_, she
thought, but it could never be true of _her_. So she smiled and danced,
and beamed with happiness—till the crash came, and she laid her head
down on the Place Louis XV., where the guillotine was erected.
Like the king's own mother, the little duchesse de Bourgogne, and Louis
XIV., she became the pet and plaything of the dauphin's grandfather.
Louis XV. enjoyed being treated by her in a friendly, unceremonious
fashion, and her spirits and gaiety roused him from the boredom which
had been the bane of his life. 'Mon papa,' she called him when they were
alone, and she would fling herself into his arms, and tell all that she
had heard and seen, and the amusements she had invented. How that when
they were next at Fontainebleau she meant to have donkey rides with her
friends every day in the forest, and then she would take long walks, as
she used to do at Schönbrünn—nobody at Versailles seemed to have any
legs at all; and by-and-bye, when the bad weather came, she would have
singing lessons again, and study the harp. Perhaps she might even read
some history, if the snow was not hard enough for sledging! Yet, in
spite of Marie Antoinette's power of being happy, she had many
difficulties, to fight against, though she was often unconscious of the
fact. Mesdames, with whom she passed much of her time, were fond of her
and kind to her, but unluckily the eldest of the three, madame Adelaide,
had the strongest will and the worst temper, and the other two were
afraid of opposing her, lest they should make her angry. Besides being
strong-willed and bad-tempered, madame Adelaide had very little
common-sense and a great deal of pride, and often gave the dauphine
advice which got her into trouble. Then, at first, the dauphin, who was
very shy, and not at all clever, held aloof from her, and left her to
pass her time as best she could while he was away hunting. But after a
while his timidity wore off, they became good friends, and he consulted
her and asked her opinion on all sorts of subjects. When a couple of
years had passed, he had grown so far like other people that he would be
present at the little dances of intimate friends which Marie Antoinette
gave once a week in her own apartments, and allowed proverbs and
comedies to be played in his own rooms, which amused them much and cost
but little. Sometimes Marie Antoinette herself would act, with her
brother-in-law the comte de Provence, or they would have music, when fat
and friendly princess Clotilde would accompany herself on the guitar,
and Marie Antoinette would sing also. At length, to the dauphin's great
delight, she declared her intention of hunting on horseback, which no
dauphine had done for hundreds of years. When every other amusement
failed there were cards—always cards—which the king's aunts preferred
to everything else.
[Illustration: MARIE ANTOINETTE GOES HUNTING WITH THE DAUPHIN]
The years sped gaily on to the young dauphine, who never heard, or did
not heed, the rumblings of the discontent of the starving and
down-trodden people. She herself was always kind to them, not merely in
words but in taking trouble, which is much harder work. Yet the flattery
she received from the friends who were constantly with her had worked
her evil. She fancied herself all-powerful, and became vexed and
impatient if her wishes were not immediately carried out. She began to
meddle in politics, too, of which she knew absolutely nothing, and in
this, though she would have been shocked to think it, she worked
positive harm.
In May, 1774, a change came into her life. The king had been taken ill
of small-pox about a fortnight earlier in the cottage of the Little
Trianon, where he was having supper, and was hastily removed in a
carriage to the palace of Versailles. It was curious to note the total
indifference with which his subjects, especially the Parisians, received
the news of his danger. Louis the Well-Beloved, as the child of five had
been named, was passing away, and Louis the Wished-for was to take his
place. Nobody cared—nobody pretended to care—except his daughters.
Only Marie Antoinette, to whom he had always been kind, was really
sorry, and offered to stay with him and mesdames; but, being forbidden,
she shut herself up in her own room, where her sisters and
brothers-in-law, bewildered with the strangeness of it all, gathered
around her. The dauphine felt bewildered too, in the midst of her grief.
'I feel as if the skies were falling on me,' she said. As for the
dauphin, he had given orders that the moment the king died the carriage
should be ready to go to Choisy.
So they waited, watching the lighted candle in the window of the sick
room, which was to be extinguished the moment the king had ceased to
breathe. He could not see the sunset—that they knew; but there was
something awful in that solemn silence. Suddenly a noise was heard
outside, and madame de Noailles entered.
'The courtiers are in the Œil-de-Boeuf, Madame,' she exclaimed; 'will
your Majesties deign to go there to receive them?'
Arm-in-arm, the queen of eighteen and the king of nineteen advanced into
the room, where the duc de Bouillon, grand chamberlain, came forward to
meet them. As they paused in the doorway he threw himself on one knee:
'The king is dead,' he said. 'Long live the king!'
---------------------
Many years ago, an old lady who had passed her hundredth birthday, told
the writer of this story that on a cold day in January, 1793, she went
to a children's party in London. The house was large, and was filled
with little boys and girls all eager to begin to dance on the
beautifully polished floor. The musicians had already tuned up, and the
eager faces of the little guests were turned towards the door, waiting
for their hostess to enter. At length she came, dressed in black, her
eyes red with weeping. 'Children,' she said, 'you must all go home. I
have just heard the king of France is dead.'
The king was Louis le Désiré, the husband of Marie Antoinette, who had
died on the guillotine.
_THE 'LITTLE QUEEN'_
A QUEEN at seven and a widow at twelve. Who can guess that riddle? Yet
there have been very few little girls in Europe who could be described
in such a way, and, out of those, fewer still who were not mere dolls,
but left a mark on the history of the time, and therefore of the time to
come.
---------------------
At the close of the year of grace 1395 a group of children were living
in the Hôtel de St. Pol, on the banks of the Seine in Paris. They were
all pretty—their mother Isabeau de Bavière, queen of France, was as
famous for her beauty as for her wickedness—but the prettiest of all
was Isabel, the eldest daughter, with her large brown eyes and pink and
white skin. Charles VI., the father of these little princes and
princesses, was subject to terrible fits of gloom, which in later years
deepened into madness. Still, he always had a special love for Isabel,
who was everybody's favourite, even her mother's, though it was not to
be expected that the queen would give up any of her own pleasures in
order to look after her children. By-and-by two little sisters, years
younger than any of these, princess Michelle, hereafter to be duchess of
Burgundy, and little princess Katherine, who became the wife of Henry V.
and queen of England, were so neglected by their servants (who thought
they might safely follow the queen's example) that the poor little
things were half-starved and clad in dirty rags. But at the time we are
speaking of matters were not so bad. Queen Isabeau was proud of princess
Isabel, and gave her masters to teach her music and the old romances.
The child was quick and fond of books, and would often leave the games
which she had been playing with her brothers and sit in the small dark
rooms with carved ceilings and tapestry hangings, embroidered in
_fleurs-de-lis_, listening to the old stories of Sir Galahad and the
Holy Grail, or the adventures of Huon of Bordeaux. In the dark evenings
she would lie on a silken cushion on the floor of the great hall, her
fingers absently thrust in the hair of the small greyhound that was
curled up against her, her mind wrapped up in the lays sung by the
minstrels to charm away the gloom of the king.
[Illustration: ISABEL "in the dark evenings"]
In the midst of this quiet life there one day entered the gates of Paris
a goodly array of ambassadors from England to demand from Charles VI.
the hand of the princess Isabel on behalf of Richard II., king of
England. The envoys had not set forth without fierce protest from the
English people, who still remembered Crécy and Poitiers, won by
Richard's own father when still a boy, and hated the thought of an
alliance with their foes. Besides this, they had all loved Richard's
first wife, Anne of Bohemia, who had only died the year before; and
though it was necessary for him to marry again, and have a son to wear
the crown after him, they did not wish him to forget so soon, still less
for his choice to fall on a French princess, and a mere baby! Richard
summoned parliament to meet and talk over the matter, and the famous
chronicler Sir John Froissart, who had newly entered England, was
present at the debates. But whether his subjects approved or not, the
king was determined to have his way. He was half French himself, he
always declared; for was he not born at Bordeaux, and did he not love
the songs and the poetry that came from France? And then, though perhaps
he may have kept this reason in the background, where else could he find
a bride endowed with such great riches? And Richard was always
extravagant and always in debt.
---------------------
Of course Richard had not called his parliament together without first
finding out the mind of the French king on the subject. The first
messenger who was sent to Charles received for answer that the princess
was already betrothed to the son of the duke of Brittany, that it would
be five or six years at least before she was of marriageable age, and
that Richard was twenty-two years older than she. But Richard, who now
and then behaved like a spoilt baby, only gave a scornful laugh when he
read Charles's letter. Had not the king another daughter who would make
as good a duchess of Brittany as Isabel? And as for the rest—and with a
shrug of his shoulders he turned away and began to talk with Sir John
Froissart about the next yearly meeting of the _jongleurs_, or
minstrels, to be held at his court.
Now these matters had been carefully concealed from the princess Isabel,
who had no idea that the splendidly arrayed and armed body of five
hundred men riding along the banks of the Seine towards the Hôtel de St.
Pol had come to decide her fate.