From this time forward, the National Guards stationed in the palace had
orders never to lose sight of the royal family. They therefore, for
some weeks, kept the doors open day and night, having their eyes upon
the royal party all day, and upon their very beds at night. The queen
caused a small bed to be placed between the door of her chamber and her
own bed, that she might sleep or weep on her pillow without being
exposed to the observation of her soldier-gaolers. One night, however,
the officer who was on watch, perceiving that the queen was awake, and
her attendant asleep, drew near her bed to give her some advice how she
should conduct herself in regard to politics. The queen begged him to
speak low, that her attendant might not be disturbed. The lady awoke,
however, and was in terror when she saw with whom the queen was
conversing. Her majesty then used the smooth and flattering tone which
she always appeared to think her enemies would be pleased with, desiring
the lady not to be alarmed, for that this officer was an excellent man,
no doubt truly attached to the king, though mistaken as to what were the
intentions of both the king and herself.
The king one day rose to shut the door of the room where he was sitting
with his family. The guard immediately threw it open again, saying that
he had orders to keep it open; and that the king would only give himself
useless trouble by shutting it. The difficulty now was to find any
opportunity for private conversation. This was done through the
attachment of one of the guards, who often took a very disagreeable post
which nobody else desired to have. This was in a dark corridor where
candles had to be used all day, and where, therefore, no sentinel would
like being on guard for twenty-four hours together, in the month of
July. Saint Prix, an actor, devoted, however, himself to this service,
for the sake of the king and queen, who often met here for short
conversations. Saint Prix, on these occasions, retired out of hearing,
and gave notice if he believed anyone was coming.
This extreme of insulting rigour did not last long this time. In August
the family were allowed to open and shut their doors when they pleased,
and the king was treated with more outward respect. The Assembly was
then preparing a Constitution, which it was believed the king would
sign; and it would be well that, at the time of doing so, he should
appear in the eyes of the world as a king, and not a prisoner who acted
merely upon constraint.
The new Constitution was prepared, and the king agreed to it; even
sending a letter to the Assembly to propose to swear to the new
Constitution in the place where it was framed,--in their chamber. The
members were highly delighted: all Paris appeared highly delighted. The
leaders of parties thronged to court: their majesties went to the
theatres; and when the deputies from the Assembly came to the palace to
assure the king how much satisfaction was felt at this agreement of all
parties, the queen, the princess royal, and the dauphin stood looking on
from a doorway behind. The king pointed to them, saying, "There are my
wife and children, who feel as I do."
All this, however, was false and hollow: all these celebrations were but
melancholy mirth. All thinking persons must have known that the king
could not really approve and rejoice in a new Constitution such as the
people liked,--a Constitution which took from him many and great powers
and privileges which he considered to be as truly his own as the throne
itself. On the other hand, the royal family believed that this act was
only one step towards the destruction of the monarchy altogether,--only
one stage towards their own total ruin. So, while each party was
applauding the other, and all wore smiles in public, there was no real
confidence and joy except among the ignorant and thoughtless. After the
queen had assured the deputies of her approbation and pleasure, she
said, in the privacy of her apartment, "These people do not like having
sovereigns. We shall be destroyed by their cunning and persevering
management. They are levelling the monarchy stone by stone."
The king felt the same. After professing the utmost satisfaction and
delight at this settlement of affairs, and hearing from the Assembly,
echoed by the acclamations of the people, that he had "obtained a new
title of grandeur and of glory," the king appeared at the door of the
apartment to which the queen had retired after the ceremony,--his face
so pale and so wretched that the queen uttered an exclamation as she
looked at him. He sank into a chair, and covered his eyes with his
handkerchief, saying, "All is lost! O, why were you a witness to this
humiliation? Why did you come to France to see--" His words were choked
by sobs. The queen had cast herself on her knees before him. She now
exclaimed to Madame Campan, "Go! Go!" in a tone which conveyed, "Why do
you remain to witness the humiliation of your king?"
All Paris was illuminated at night; and the royal family were invited to
take a drive in the midst of the people. They were well guarded by
soldiers, and received everywhere with acclamations. One man, however,
with a prodigiously powerful voice, kept beside the carriage-door next
the queen, and as often as the crowd shouted "Long live the king!"
bawled out "No, no: don't believe them. Long live the nation!" The
queen was impressed with the same sort of terror with which she had seen
the four wax-lights go out. Though panic-struck with this ominous
voice, she dared not complain, nor ask to have the man removed. While
the royal family were driving about the city in this false and hollow
triumph, a messenger was setting off for the Austrian court, with
letters from them expressive of extreme discontent and alarm at the
present state of public affairs.
There were bursts of loyal feeling occasionally, which gratified the
royal family; but these became fewer and fewer, as it was observed that
they were not well taken by the leaders of the revolution. One day this
summer, the Dauphin was walking on the terrace of the Tuileries. A
grenadier took him in his arms, with some affectionate words; and
everybody within sight cheered the child. Orders, however, soon came to
be quiet on the terrace: the child was set down again, and the people
went on their way.
Another day, Louis forgot his plan of being civil to everybody. He had
hold of his mother's hand; and they were going to walk in the gardens.
A loyal sentinel, lately arrived from the country, made his salute so
earnestly that his musket rang again. The queen saluted graciously: but
Louis was in such a hurry that he was posting on through the gate. His
mother checked him, saying, "Come, salute. Do not be unpolite."
Some of the first difficulties which arose under the new Constitution,
were of a kind which show how impossible it was for the royal family and
the people ever to agree in their thoughts and feelings. The new law
had provided a military, and also a civil, establishment for the royal
household;--had provided what the king had declared a sufficient number
of attendants, and described their offices,--doing away with many of the
old forms, and with much of the absurd extravagance, of the old Court.
It was now in the queen's power to please the people by agreeing
cheerfully to the new arrangements, and showing that she was not so
proud and extravagant as she was reported to be. Instead of this, she
clung to the old ways, after having declared her acceptance of the new.
She would not appoint people to the offices agreed upon, saying that it
was an injury to the old nobility to let them be turned out. To be
sure, most of them had fled: but if they returned, what would they say,
if they found their places filled, and the queen surrounded by persons
of a lower rank? One noble lady at this time resigned an office she had
been left in possession of, and said she could not stay now that she was
deprived of her hereditary privilege of sitting on a stool unasked in
the queen's presence. This grieved the queen; and she said that this
was, and would be, the way with the nobility. They made no allowance
for her altered circumstances; but deserted her if she admitted to
office persons of inferior rank. She could not do without this
nobility: she said she could not bear to see nobody come to her
card-parties,--to see no throng but of servants at the king's rising and
undressing. Rather than give up these old ceremonies, and this kind of
homage, she broke through the only part of the Constitution that it was
in her power to act upon, and insulted the feelings of the people.
Barnave argued with her, but she would not yield.
The rejoicings for the new Constitution took place on the last day of
September. During the rest of the year, the royal family, and the most
confidential of their servants, were much employed in secret
correspondence with the absent princes and nobility, and with the
foreign Courts. Some of these letters were in cipher, and were copied
by persons who knew nothing whatever of the meaning of what they were
writing. The queen wrote almost all day long, and spent a part of the
nights in reading. Poor lady! She could sleep but little.
Towards the end of the year, a new alarm arose, for which one cannot but
think now there was very little ground; though no one can wonder that
the unhappy family, and the police magistrates who had the charge of
their safety, were open to every impression of terror. The king was
told that one of his pastrycooks was dead; and that the man's office was
to be filled, of right, by a pastry-cook who, while waiting for this
appointment, had kept a confectioner's shop in the neighbourhood, and
who was furious in his profession of revolutionary politics. He had
been heard to say that any man would be doing a public service who
should cut off the king; and it was feared that he might do this service
himself, by poisoning the king's pastry, now that he would have daily
opportunities of doing so. The king was particularly fond of pastry,
and ate a great deal of it. It would not do now suddenly to give up
eating pastry, so as to set everybody in the palace inquiring why:
besides, it does not seem to have occurred to the king, under any of the
circumstances of his life, to restrain himself in eating. The new
pastry-cook had nothing whatever to do but to make and roll out the
crusts of pies and tarts; but it was thought so easy a matter to infuse
a subtle poison into any of the dishes that stood about in the kitchen,
that it was resolved that the king and queen should eat nothing that was
brought thence, except roast meat, the last thing which anyone would
think of poisoning. Other dishes were to be apparently half-eaten, and
their contents conveyed away.
Here we see the absurdity of the old court-system, with its laws and
formalities;--the system by which so many hangers-on were enriched, to
the injury of better people than themselves: and by which the king
himself was placed in a sort of bondage. Any shop-keeper in Paris might
turn away his shop-boy for insolence; any tradesman's wife might dismiss
her cook for unwholesome cookery: but here was the sovereign of France
compelled to retain in his service a man whom he believed to have said
that it would be a meritorious act to murder him; and this man's pastry
must be admitted to the royal table every day! The man held the
reversion to the office of king's pastry-cook (the right to it when the
occupant should die), and the right once acquired, the man could not, by
court custom, be got rid of. Thus were court offices not open to merit;
but conferred sometimes by favour, and sometimes for money; and greedily
grasped at for the great profits they yielded. One wonders that the
royal family did not discover that the new state of affairs, if it
imposed some restrictions, might have freed them from many annoyances,
if they could have suited their conduct to their affairs.--We shall now
see what trouble was caused by the king's being unable to turn away a
kitchen servant whom he could not trust.
The bread and wine wanted for the royal table were secretly provided by
a steward of the household. The sugar was purchased by Madame Campan,
and pounded in her apartment. She also provided the pastry, of which
the king was so fond; purchasing it as if for herself, sometimes of one
confectioner and sometimes of another. All these things were locked up
in a cupboard in the king's study, on the ground-floor. The royal
family chose to wait on themselves; so, when the table was spread, the
servants went out, leaving a dumb-waiter and bell beside each chair.
Then Madame Campan appeared with the bread, wine, sugar, and pastry,
which were put under the table, lest any of the attendants should enter.
The princesses drank no wine. The king drank about half a bottle; and
when he had done he poured into the bottle from which he had drunk about
half of that of which he dared not drink; and this latter bottle, with
some of the pastry from the kitchen, was carried away by Madame Campan
after dinner. At the end of four months, the heads of the police gave
notice that the danger from poisoning was over; that the plans of the
king's enemies were changed, and that future measures would be directed
against the throne, and not the life of the monarch. Meantime, did not
every labouring man who could supply his family with bread take his meal
in more cheerfulness and comfort than this unhappy king?
Everything went wrong. The royal party had never been remarkable for
success in their undertakings; and now all that they did turned to their
ruin. They corresponded at once with the emigrant princes, and with
those leaders at home who were attached to the Constitution; and when,
as might have been expected, they found that they could not please both,
they distrusted and withdrew from those who were best able to help them.
They would not follow Barnave's advice. They believed General
Dumouriez a traitor, and broke off from him when he was perfectly
sincere in his wish to save them, and had more power to do so than all
their emigrant friends together. They distrusted Lafayette; and when, a
few weeks later, they were in deeper distress than ever, but might have
been protected, and taken to Rouen by Lafayette's army, the queen
refused, saying in private that Lafayette had been offered to them as a
resource, but that they had rather perish than owe their safety to the
man who had most injured them, or even be obliged to treat with him.
Thus, rejecting those who could help them, and relying on those who
could not, this unwise and unhappy family went on to their ruin.
The foreign courts and emigrant princes were preparing to invade France;
and the consequence was that the poor helpless king had to do an act
which would have been ridiculous, if it were not too sad to laugh at.
As pretended Constitutional King and Head of the Nation, he had to
behave in public towards these foreign princes as if they were enemies,
when it was for his sake that they were levying armies. By his private
letters, written in cipher, and sent in secret, he was urging them to
make haste to march to his rescue; and at the very same time he had to
go to the Assembly and propose that they should declare war against
these enemies of the nation. He said this with the tears in his eyes.
It was on the 20th of April that he endured this humiliation. What man
of spirit would not rather have taken one side or the other, at all
hazards, than have played such a double part as this? If he could act
with the people in reforming their affairs, well and good. If he could
not,--if he believed them all wrong, and that it was his sacred duty to
stand by the old order of things, how much more respectable it would
have been to have said so,--to have declared, "You may imprison me--you
may destroy me,--but I will stand by my throne and its powers!" In that
case, the worst he could have been charged with would have been a
mistake. As it was, he stood before the Assembly an object of universal
contempt,--proposing, with tears in his eyes, a declaration of war
against those who were preparing war at his desire, and for his sake;
and everyone knowing that it was so.
He and the queen seemed never to have understood or believed what was
carefully pointed out to them by the advisers whom they distrusted--that
this making war in their behalf could not end well for them. If their
foreign friends should be beaten, they would be left more helpless and
despised than ever. If the French should be beaten, the frightened and
angry people would be sure to treat with more and more rigour--and
perhaps with fury--the family who had brought a foreign enemy upon them.
Their advisers must have been glad at last to be rejected and
dismissed; for it must have been provoking to discover, at every turn,
the double dealing of the king and queen; and very melancholy to see
them perpetually pursuing the exactly opposite course to that which was
noble and wise. One wonders whether, if little Louis had lived to be a
man, he would have been as ignorant, selfish, and unwise;--whether there
is anything in belonging to the old royal family of France which stands
between its princes and wisdom and knowledge. If so, one is less sorry
that he died so early as he did.
Barnave's last words impressed the feelings of the queen, but had no
other effect. He begged to see her once more before he left Paris; and
then withdrew from public affairs. He said, "Your misfortunes, madam,
and those of the country, had determined me to devote myself to your
service. I see that my advice does not accord with your majesty's
views. I augur little success from the plan which you have been induced
to follow. You are too far from the help you rely on, and you will be
lost before it can reach you. I earnestly hope that I may be mistaken
in this prophecy. At all events, I am sure of losing my head for the
interest I have felt in your affairs, and the services I have
endeavoured to render you. I only ask as a recompense the honour of
kissing your hand."
The queen shed tears as she extended her hand to him, and often
afterwards spoke of Barnave with regard. It does not appear, however,
that either she or the king called in question their own conduct with
regard to these men. They induced them to devote themselves to a most
hazardous service--summoned them to secret interviews in the palace, in
the night, in dark corridors, or on back staircases, where some spy or
another was sure to see them, and report of them to the jealous people;
and, after all this, they were dismissed, and left unprotected by the
exact contrary of their advice being pursued. Barnave's dismal
predictions were all fulfilled. The royal family did sink down into
destruction; and he himself perished, as he had foretold. He now left
Paris, and married at Grenoble. The next August, less than three months
after his last interview with the queen, his correspondence with her and
the king was found in a chest in the palace; and orders were sent to
arrest him, and imprison him at Grenoble. He lay in prison fifteen
months, and was then brought to Paris, and tried for his life. He made
a noble defence; but it was of no avail. He was beheaded on the 29th of
October, 1793. When on the scaffold, he seemed suddenly struck with the
infamy of the treatment he had met with on every side. He stamped with
his foot, and exclaimed, "This, then, is the reward of all that I have
done for liberty!" He was only thirty-two years of age. His unwise and
miserable sovereign was not living to mourn the destruction he had
brought on this high-minded man; and the fair royal hand which he had so
desired to kiss had become cold in death some days before.
To return to the spring of 1792. The palace was now as dismal an abode
as ever children grew up in. The king's temper and manners gave way
entirely. For ten days he never once spoke, except to say the words
necessary in the game of backgammon, which he played with his sister
every day after dinner. The queen kneeled to him, imploring him to
exert himself. When this availed nothing, she endeavoured to arouse him
by the most frightful representations she could make of the danger they
were all in--a danger which increased every day, and which required that
he should act, and not sit sulking, while the hours flew by which were
bringing destruction on their heads. She sometimes expressed sympathy
and tenderness; sometimes showed him his children, and besought him to
act, for their sakes: and sometimes she asked him proudly whether, if
they must perish, it would not be better to die with dignity and honour
than to wait sullenly, as if inviting the rabble to come and tread their
lives out on the floor of their own palace?
In one instance, she prevailed with him against his judgment; and in
five days, after, bitterly repented it. There was no use in persuading
him to a single spirited act now and then, when he had not resolution to
follow it up by others: and so she found. In June, the Assembly wished
to banish all the clergy, and to form a camp of twenty-thousand men,
under the walls of Paris. The king would have agreed, telling the queen
that the people only wanted a pretence for a general insurrection; and
that it would burst forth at the moment of his refusing anything they
wished. The queen, however, induced him to use his lawful power of
disapproving and forbidding these measures. This happened on the 15th
of June. When he declared to his ministers his intention of doing this,
three days before, they remonstrated, and the wife of one of them,
Madame Roland, wrote a letter, in her husband's name, to the king; a
letter so plain spoken that the king and queen could not brook it; and
the ministry were all turned out next morning.