"My dear, I wished to make the people happier than they were before. I
wanted money to pay the expenses of our great wars. I asked it of the
parliament, as the kings of France have always done before. The
magistrates who composed the parliament were unwilling, and said that
the people alone had a right to consent that this money should be given.
I called together at Versailles the principal people of every town,
distinguished by their rank, their fortune, or their talents. These
were called the States-General. When they were assembled, they required
of me things which I could not do, either for my own sake or yours; as
you are to be king after me. Wicked persons have appeared, causing the
people to rebel; and the shocking things that have happened lately are
their doing. We must blame them and not the people."
So spoke Louis the Sixteenth to his young son: and from these words
(among other evidence) we learn how little he was aware of the true
causes and nature of the great Revolution which was taking place. It
appears that he really thought this revolution was owing to the acts of
the last few months, and not to the long course of grinding oppression
which had begun hundreds of years before he was born. He believed that
the violence he witnessed was owing to the malice of a few "wicked
persons," and not to the exasperation of a nation,--the fury of many
millions of sufferers against a few hundreds of the rich and powerful.
This was not the first time of the king's showing how little he
understood of what was taking place and what ought to be done. When it
was absolutely necessary to the peace of the kingdom to have a minister
who would relieve the people of the heaviest taxes, the king removed
such a minister, and thought he was doing what he could to make up for
this, by retrenching some expenses in the palace. For instance, it had
always been the custom for the two first bed-chamber women of the queen
to have for their own all the wax-lights placed daily in the whole suite
of royal apartments, whether lighted or not. These they sold for many
hundred pounds a year. When the king began to retrench, he took from
these women the wax-light privilege; and the candles which were not
lighted one evening served for the next. The ladies were not pleased at
being thus deprived of a large part of their income; but this, with the
few other retrenchments made by the royal family, was right. All these
retrenchments were nothing, however, in comparison with what was wanted.
The peasantry still had to pay the grievous land-tax, even when they
were reduced to eat boiled nettles and grass. The poor still had to buy
the quantity of dear salt ordered by law, even when they had no meat to
eat it with. The labouring man and his sons, weakened by hunger and
spent with toil, still had to turn out and work upon the roads, without
wages, while wife and young children were growing savage with want in
their ruined hut. It was all very well for the king and queen to burn
fewer wax-lights; but far happier would it have been could the monarch
have seen and known that the thing wanted was to relieve the poor from
these heavy oppressions; and that his duty was to uphold a minister who
would do it, even if every rich and noble person quitted his court, and
turned against him. This, however, was not to be expected; for the king
and queen lived amongst, and were acquainted with, not the poor, but the
noble and the rich, and heard only what they had to say.
It is not known whether little Louis was ever told what the poor suffer.
It is probable that he heard something of it; for his elder brother and
sister certainly had, upon one occasion. It was the queen's custom to
give her children a stock of new playthings on New Year's Day. One very
hard winter, she and the king heard of the sufferings of the poor in
Paris from cold; and the king ordered a large quantity of wood to be
purchased with his money, and given away. The queen commanded the
toy-man to bring the new toys, as usual, on New Year's eve, and spread
them out in one of her apartments. She then led the children in, showed
them the playthings, and said these were what she meant to have given
them; but that she had heard that so many poor families were perishing
with cold, that she hoped they would be willing to do without new toys,
and let the money go for fuel for the poor. The children agreed, and
the toy-man was sent away, with a present of money, to console him for
the disappointment of having sold nothing. It is probable that Louis
also, when old enough to understand, was told of the sufferings of the
poor: but it is difficult to give an idea of what want really is to
children who have half-a-dozen ladies and footmen always at their
orders, and who are surrounded with luxuries which seem to them to come
as naturally as the light of day, and to belong to them as completely as
their own limbs and senses. We have all heard of the little French
princess who, when told by her governess how many of the poor were dying
of starvation, in a hard season, said, she thought that was very
foolish; and that, rather than starve, she would eat bread and cheese.
She had no idea that multitudes never tasted anything better than the
coarsest black dry bread; and that it was for want of this that many
were perishing. How should she know? She had never seen the inside of
a poor man's hut, or tasted any but the most delicate food.
Louis wished to know what he ought to do, now that the people were so
angry with his father. The queen told him that he must behave civilly
and kindly to the magistrates, when they came; to the officers of the
people's army,--the National Guard,--and to everybody that belonged to
Paris. Louis took great pains to do this: and when he had an
opportunity of speaking kindly to the mayor, or any other visitor, he
used to run up to his mother, and whisper in her ear, "Was that
right?"--He once said a thing which pleased the mayor of Paris very
much. The mayor showed him the shield of Scipio, which was in the royal
library, and asked him which he liked best, Scipio or Hannibal. The boy
answered that he liked best him who had defended his own country.
At this time he read, not only of Scipio and Hannibal, but much besides.
The royal family, out of spirits, and not knowing what would happen
next, led a very quiet life in the Tuileries, from the 6th of October,
when they were brought there, till the beginning of the next summer.
During this season, the queen never went to the theatre. She gave no
concerts, or large entertainments: and only received the court twice a
week, where everybody came wearing white lilies, and bows of white
ribbon, while tricolor cockades were sold at all the corners of the
streets; and the National Guards stopped all who did not show red and
blue colours. The queen went to mass, and dined in public with the
king, twice a week, and joined small card-parties in the evenings. The
Princess de Lamballe, who had returned to resume her office in the
palace, gave gay parties; and the queen went a few times, but soon felt
that, in her circumstances, a private life was more suitable. One
evening she returned to her apartments in great agitation. An English
nobleman had been exhibiting a large ring which he wore, containing a
lock of Oliver Cromwell's hair. She looked with horror upon Cromwell,
as a regicide; and she thought the English nobleman meant to point out
to her what kings may come to when their people are discontented with
them. It was probable that the gentleman meant no such thing: but he
was guilty of a very thoughtless act, which gave a great deal of pain.
The queen's mind was so full of the revolution, that she found she could
not fix her attention upon books. Work suited her best; and she sat the
greater part of the morning working, with the Princess Elizabeth, at a
carpet intended for one of their apartments. After breakfast she went
to the king, to converse with him, if he was so inclined. She then sat
by, at work, while the children did their lessons, which was the regular
employment of the morning. They all walked in the palace gardens; and
the queen returned to her work after dinner. She could talk of nothing
but the revolution: and was extremely anxious to know what everybody
thought of her,--particularly persons in office. She was for ever
wondering how it was that those who hailed her with love and joy, when
she came as a bride from Germany, should so fiercely hate her now. It
is a pity that she did not now learn to know and trust Lafayette. It
might have saved her, and all who belonged to her; but she was
prejudiced against him from his being a friend of the people, and in
favour of great changes in the government.
Thus the winter passed wearily on. If the people of Paris were jealous
of the queen's wish to get away, and suspicious of her meaning it, if
possible, they were not far wrong. Some or other of the nobles and
clergy were continually planning to carry the royal family, either to
Rouen (a loyal city) or to the frontiers, to meet the king's brother and
friends, and the army they were raising. It would probably have been
done, but for the king's irresolution. He would neither speak nor stir
about it.
One night in March, at ten o'clock, when the children were asleep in
bed, the king and queen were playing whist with his next brother and
sister-in-law (who had not gone away), and the Princess Elizabeth was
kneeling on a footstool beside the card table, looking on. Monsieur
Campan, one of the most trusty of the queen's attendants, came in, and
said, in a low voice, that the Count d'Inisdal had called to say that
everything was planned for an escape. The nobles who had contrived it
were collected to guard and accompany the king;--the National Guard
about the palace were gained over;--post horses were ready all along the
road;--the king had only to consent, and he might be off before
midnight. The king went on playing his cards, and made no answer. "Did
you hear," said the queen, "what Campan has been telling us?"
"I hear," said the king; and still went on playing. After a while, the
queen observed, "Campan must have an answer of some kind." Then, at
length, the king spoke. "Tell the Count d'Inisdal," said he, "that I
cannot consent to be carried off." The queen repeated, "The king cannot
_consent_ to be carried off," meaning it to be clearly understood that
he would be very glad to go, if it could be so done as that he might say
afterwards that he had had nothing to do with the plan. The Count
d'Inisdal was very angry at the message. "I see how it is," said he.
"We, the king's faithful servants, are to have all the danger, and all
the blame, if the scheme fails." And off he went.
The queen would not give up her hopes that the nobles would understand
how glad the royal family would be to go, and would come for them. She
sat till past midnight wrapping up her jewels to carry away; and then
desired the lady who assisted her not to go to bed. The lady listened
all the night through, and looked out of the window many times; but all
was still, and no one but the guards was to be seen. The queen observed
to this lady that they should have to fly. There was no saying to what
lengths the rebellious people would go, she declared, and the danger
increased every day.
There was indeed no respite from apprehensions of danger. About a month
after, on the 13th of April, there was a good deal of agitation in
Paris, from the debates in the Assembly having been very warm, and such
as to make the people fear that the king would be carried away.
Lafayette promised the king that if he saw reason to consider the palace
in danger, he would fire a great cannon on a certain bridge. At night,
some accidental musket-shots were heard near the palace, and the king
mistook them for Lafayette's cannon. He went to the queen's apartments.
She was not there. He found her in the Dauphin's chamber, with Louis
in her arms. "I was alarmed about you," said the king. "You see," said
she, clasping her little son close, "I was at my post."
While thus suffering, and certainly not learning to love the people more
on this account,--while distrusting Lafayette, and knowing no one else
who could give them the knowledge and advice which would have been best
for them, the royal family were confirmed in their worst prejudices and
errors by letters which reached them from a distance. Those who wished
to write to them in their distress were naturally those who sympathised
most with them, and least with the people. One instance shows how
absurd and mischievous such a correspondence was. The Empress Catherine
of Russia wrote to the queen, "Kings ought to proceed on their course
without troubling themselves about the cries of the people, as the moon
traverses the sky without regard to the baying of dogs." Whether the
queen saw the folly of these words, and thought of the proper answer to
them,--that a king is a man, like those who cry to him for sympathy, but
the moon is not a dog,--we do not know; nor whether she perceived the
insolent wickedness of the sentence; but she saw the unfeeling absurdity
of writing this to a king and queen who were actually prisoners in the
hands of their subjects. If the king had been active, decided, and
equal to the dangers of the times, he would have made use of this winter
in Paris to go among his people, and learn for himself what was the
matter, what they wanted, and how much could be done for peace and good
government: and then this correspondence from a distance might have done
no harm: but, indolent and passive as he was, everything seemed to
conspire to prevent all mutual understanding between him and the nation.