THE INHERITANCE OF THE DAUPHIN.
For four weeks the National Assembly met daily at Versailles; that
is to say, for four weeks the political excitement grew greater day
by day, the struggle of the parties more pronounced and fierce, only
with this qualification, that the party which attacked the queen was
stronger than that which defended her. Or rather, to express the
exact truth, there was no party for Marie Antoinette; there were
only here and there devoted friends, who dared to encounter the
odium which their position called down upon them--dared face the
calumnies which were set in circulation by the other parties: that
of the people, the democrats; that of Orleans; that of the princes
and princesses of the royal family. All these united their forces in
order to attack the "Austrian," to obscure the last gleams of the
love and respect which were paid to her in happier days.
When Mirabeau made the proposition in the National Assembly that the
person of the king should be declared inviolable, there arose from
all these four hundred representatives of the French nation only one
man who dared to declare with a loud voice and with defiant face,
"The persons of the king and queen shall be declared inviolable!"
This was Toulan, the "soldier of the queen." But the Assembly
replied to this demand only with loud murmurs, and scornful
laughter; not a voice was raised in support of this last cry in
favor of the queen, and the Assembly decreed only this: "The person
of the king is inviolable."
"That means," said the queen to the police minister Brienne, who
brought the queen every morning tidings of what had occurred at
Paris and Versailles, "that means that my death-warrant was signed
yesterday."
"Your majesty goes too far!" cried the minister in horror, "I think
that this has an entirely different meaning. The National Assembly
has not pronounced the person of the queen inviolable, because they
want to say that the queen has nothing to do with politics, and
therefore it is unnecessary to pass judgment upon the inviolability
of the queen."
"Ah!" sighed the queen, "I should have been happy if I had not been
compelled to trouble myself with these dreadful politics. It
certainly was not in my wish nor in my character. My enemies have
compelled me to it; it is they who have turned the simple, artless
queen into an intriguer."
"Ah! madam!" said the minister, astonished, "you use there too harsh
a word; you speak as if they belonged to your enemies."
"No, I use the right word," cried Marie Antoinette, sadly. "My
enemies have made an intriguer of me. Every woman who goes beyond
her knowledge and the bounds of her duty in meddling with politics
is nothing better than an intriguer. You see at least that I do not
flatter myself, although it troubles me to have to give myself so
bad a name. The Queens of France are happy only when they have
nothing to trouble themselves about, and reserve only influence
enough to give pleasure to their friends, and reward their faithful
servants. Do you know what recently happened to me?" continued the
queen, with a sad smile. "As I was going into the privy council
chamber to have a consultation with the king, I heard, while passing
OEil de Boeuf, one of the musicians saying so loud that I had to
listen to every word, 'A queen who does her duty stays in her own
room and busies herself with her sewing and knitting.' I said within
myself, 'Poor fellow, you are right, but you don't know my unhappy
condition; I yield only to necessity, and my bad luck urges me
forward." [Footnote: The queen's own words.--See "Memoires de Madame
de Campan," vol ii., p. 32.]
"Ah! madame," said the minister with a sigh, "would that they who
accuse you of mingling in politics out of ambition and love of
power--would that they could hear your majesty complain of yourself
in these moving words!"
"My friend," said Marie Antoinette, with a sad smile, "if they heard
it they would say that it was only something learned by heart, with
which I was trying to disarm the righteous anger of my enemies. It
is in vain to want to excuse or justify myself, for no one will hear
a word. I must be guilty, I must be criminal, that they who accuse
me may appear to have done right; that they may ascend while they
pull me down. But let us not speak more of this! I know my future, I
feel it clear and plain in my mind and in my soul that I am lost,
but I will at least fight courageously and zealously till the last
moment; and, if I must go down, it shall be at least with honor,
true to myself and true to the views and opinions in which I have
been trained. Now, go on; let me know the new libels and accusations
which have been disseminated about me." The minister drew from his
portfolio a whole package of pamphlets, and spread them upon a
little table before the queen.
"So much at once!" said the queen, sadly, turning over the papers.
"How much trouble I make to my enemies, and how much they must hate
me that I have such tenacity of life! Here is a pamphlet entitled
'Good advice to Madame Deficit to leave France as soon as possible.'
'Madame Deficit!' that means me, doesn't it?"
"It is a name, your majesty, which the wickedness of the Duke
d'Orleans has imposed upon your majesty, answered the minister, with
a shrug of his shoulders.
The eyes of the queen flashed in anger. She opened her lips to utter
a choleric word, but she governed herself, and went on turning over
the pamphlets and caricatures. While doing that, while reading the
words charged with poison of wickedness and hate, the tears coursed
slowly over her cheeks, and once in a while a convulsive gasp forced
itself from her breast.
Brienne pitied the deep sorrow of the queen. He begged her to
discontinue this sad perusal. He wanted to gather up again the
contumelious writings, but Marie Antoinette held his hand back.
"I must know every thing, every thing," said she. "Go on bringing me
every thing, and do not be hindered by my tears. It is of course
natural that I am sensitive to the evil words that are spoken about
me, and to the bad opinion that is cherished toward me by a people
that I love, and to win whose love I am prepared to make every
sacrifice." [Footnote: The queen's own words.--See Malleville,
"Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 197]
At this moment the door of the cabinet was dashed open without
ceremony, and the Duchess de Polignac entered.
"Forgiveness! your majesty, forgiveness that I have ventured to
disturb you, but--"
"What is it?" cried the queen, springing up. "You come to announce
misfortune to me, duchess. It concerns the dauphin, does it not? His
illness has increased?"
"Yes, your majesty, cramps have set in, and the physicians fear the
worst."
"O God! O God!" cried the queen, raising both her hands to heaven,
"is every misfortune to beat down upon me? I shall lose my son, my
dear child! Here I sit weeping pitiful tears about the malice of my
enemies, and all this while my child is wrestling in the pains of
death! Farewell, sir, I must go to my child."
And the queen, forgetting every thing else, thinking only of her
child--the sick, dying dauphin--hurried forward, dashing through the
room with such quick step that the duchess could scarcely follow
her.
"Is he dead?" cried Marie Antoinette to the servant standing in the
antechamber of the dauphin. She did not await the reply, but burst
forward, hastily opened the door of the sick-room, and entered.
There upon the bed, beneath the gold-fringed canopy, lay the pale,
motionless boy, with open, staring eyes, with parched lips, and
wandering mind--and it was her child, it was the Dauphin of France.
Around his bed stood the physicians, the quickly-summoned priests,
and the servants, looking with sorrowful eyes at the poor, deathly-
pale creature that was now no more than a withered flower, a son of
dust that must return to dust; then they looked sadly at the pale,
trembling wife who crouched before the bed, and who now was nothing
more than a sorrow-stricken mother, who must bow before the hand of
Fate, and feel that she had no more power over life and death than
the meanest of her subjects.
She bent over the bed; she put her arms tenderly around the little
shrunken form of the poor child that had long been sick, and that
was now confronting death. She covered the pale face of her son with
kisses, and watered it with her tears.
And these kisses, these tears of his mother, awakened the child out
of his stupor, and called him back to life. The Dauphin Louis roused
up once more, raised his great eyes, and, when he saw the
countenance of his mother above him bathed in tears, he smiled and
sought to raise his head and move his hand to greet her. But Death
had already laid his iron bands upon him, and held him back upon the
couch of his last sufferings.
"Are you in pain, my child?" whispered Marie Antoinette, kissing him
affectionately. "Are you suffering?"
The boy looked at her tenderly. "I do not suffer," he whispered so
softly that it sounded like the last breath of a departing spirit.
"I only suffer if I see you weep, mamma." [Footnote: The very words
of the dying dauphin.--See Weber, "Memoires," vol. L, p. 209.]
Marie Antoinette quickly dried her tears, and, kneeling near the
bed, found power in her motherly love to summon a smile to her lips,
in order that the dauphin, whose eyes remained fixed upon her, might
not see that she was suffering.
A deep silence prevailed now in the apartment; nothing was heard but
the gently-whispered prayers of the spectators, and the slow,
labored breathing of the dying child.
Once the door was lightly opened, and a man's figure stole lightly
in, advanced on tiptoe to the bed, and sank on his knees close by
Marie Antoinette. It was the king, who had just been summoned from
the council-room to see his son die.
And now with a loud voice the priest began the prayers for the
dying, and all present softly repeated them. Only the queen could
not; her eyes were fastened upon her son, who now saw her no more,
for his eyes were fixed in the last death-struggle.
Still one last gasp, one last breath; then came a cry from Marie
Antoinette's lips, and her head sank upon the hand of her son, which
rested in her own, and which was now stiff. A few tears coursed
slowly over the cheeks of the king, and his hands, folded in prayer,
trembled.
The priest raised his arms, and with a loud, solemn voice cried:
"The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the
Lord. Amen."
"Amen, amen," whispered all present.
"Amen," said the king, closing with gentle pressure the open eyes of
his son. "God has taken you to Himself, my son, perhaps because He
wanted to preserve you from much trouble and sorrow. Blessed be His
name!"
But the queen still bowed over the cold face of the child, and
kissed his lips. "Farewell, my son," she whispered, "farewell! Ah!,
why could I not die with you--with you fly from this pitiful,
sorrow-stricken world?"
Then, as if the queen regretted the words which the mother had
spoken with sighs, Marie Antoinette rose from her knees and turned
to the priest, who was sprinkling the corpse of the dauphin with
holy water.
"Father," said she, "the children of poor parents, who may be born
to-day in Versailles, are each to receive from me the sum of a
thousand francs. I wish that the death-bed of my son may be a day of
joy for the poor who have not, like me, lost a child, but gained
one, and that the lips of happy mothers may bless the day on which
my boy died. Have the goodness to bring me to-morrow morning a list
of the children born to-day."
"Come, Marie," said the king, "the body of our son belongs no more
to the living, but to the grave of out ancestors in St. Denis; his
soul to God. The dauphin is dead! Long live the dauphin! Madame de
Polignac, conduct the dauphin to us in the cabinet of his mother."
And with the proud and dignified bearing which was peculiar to the
king in great and momentous epochs, he extended his arm to the queen
and conducted her out of the death-chamber, and through the adjacent
apartments, to her cabinet.
"Ah!" cried the queen, "here we are alone; here I can weep for my
poor lost child."
And she threw her arms around the neck of her husband, and, leaning
her head upon his breast, wept aloud.
The king pressed her closely to his heart, and the tears which
flowed from his own eyes fell in hot drops upon the head of the
queen.
Neither saw the door beyond lightly open, and the Duchess de
Polignac appear there. But when she saw the royal pair in close
embrace, when she heard their loud weeping, she drew back, stooped
down to the little boy who stood by her side, whispered a few words
to him, and, while gently pushing him forward, drew back herself,
and gently closed the door behind them. The little fellow stood a
moment irresolutely at the door, fixing his eyes now upon his father
and mother, now upon the nosegay of violets and roses which he
carried in his hand. The little Louis Charles was of that sweet and
touching beauty that brings tears into one's eyes, and fills the
heart with sadness, because the thought cannot be suppressed, that
life, with its rough, wintry storms, will have no pity on this
tender blossom of innocence, and that the beaming, angel-face of the
child must one day be changed into the clouded, weather-beaten,
furrowed face of the man. A cheering sight to look upon was the
little, delicate figure of the four-year-old boy, pleasing in his
whole appearance. Morocco boots, with red tips, covered his little
feet; broad trousers, of dark-blue velvet, came to his knees, and
were held together at the waist by a blue silk sash, whose lace-
tipped ends fell at his left side. He wore a blue velvet jacket,
with a tastefully embroidered lace ruffle around the neck. The
round, rosy face, with the ruby lips, the dimple in the chin, the
large blue eyes, shaded by long, dark lashes, and crowned by the
broad, lofty brow, was rimmed around with a profusion of golden
hair, which fell in long, heavy locks upon his shoulders and over
his neck. The child was as beautiful to look upon as one of the
angels in Raphael's "Sistine Madonna," and he might have been taken
for one, had it not been for the silver-embroidered, brilliant star
upon his left side. This star, which designated his princely rank,
was for the pretty child the seal of his mortality--the seal which
ruin had already impressed upon his innocent child's breast.
One moment the boy stood indecisively there, looking at his weeping
parents; then he turned quickly forward, and, holding up his
nosegay, he said: "Mamma, I have brought you some flowers from my
garden."
Marie Antoinette raised her head, and smiled through her tears as
she looked at her son. The king loosened his embrace from the queen,
in order to lift up the prince.
"Marie," said he, holding him up to his wife, "Marie, this is our
son--this is the Dauphin of France."
Marie Antoinette took his head between her hands, and looked long,
with tears in her eyes, and yet smiling all the while, into the
lovely, rosy face of her boy. Then she stooped down, and impressed a
long, tender kiss upon his smooth forehead.
"God love you, my child!" said she, solemnly. "God bless you,
Dauphin of France! May the storms which now darken our horizon, have
long been past when you shall ascend the throne of your fathers! God
bless and defend you, Dauphin of France!"
"But, mamma," asked the boy, timidly, "why do you call me dauphin
to-day? I am your little Louis, and I am called Duke de Normandy."
"My son," said the king, solemnly, "God has been pleased to give you
another name and another calling. Your poor brother, Louis, has left
us forever. He has gone to God, and you are now Dauphin of France!"
"And God grant that it be for your good," said the queen, with a
sigh.
The little prince slowly shook his locks. "It certainly is not for
my good," said he, "else mamma would not weep."
"She is weeping, my child," said the queen--" she is weeping,
because your brother, who was the dauphin, has left us."
"And will he never come back?" asked the child, eagerly.
"No, Louis, he never will come back."
The boy threw both his arms around the neck of the queen. "Ah!" he
cried, "how can any one ever leave his dear mamma and never come
back? I will never leave you, mamma!"
"I pray God you speak the truth," sighed the queen, pressing him
tenderly to herself. "I pray God I may die before you both!"
"Not before me--oh, not before me!" ejaculated the king, shuddering.
"Without you, my dear one, my life were a desert; without you, the
King of France were the poorest man in the whole land!"
He smiled sadly at her. "And with me he will perhaps be the most
unfortunate one," she whispered softly, as if to herself.
"Never unfortunate, if you are with me, and if you love me," cried
the king, warmly. "Weep no more; we must overcome our grief, and
comfort ourselves with what remains. I say to you once more: the
dauphin is dead, long live the dauphin!"
"Papa king," said the boy, quickly, "you say the dauphin is dead,
and has left us. Has he taken every thing away with him that belongs
to him?"
"No, my son, he has left every thing. You are now the dauphin, and
some time will be King of France, for you are the heir of your
brother."
"What does that mean, his heir?" asked the child.
"It means," answered the king, "that to you belong now the titles
and honors of your brother."
"Nothing but that?" asked the prince, timidly. "I do not want his
titles and honors."
"You are the heir to the throne; you have now the title of Dauphin
of France."
The little one timidly grasped the hand of his mother, and lifted
his great blue eyes supplicatingly to her.
"Mamma queen," he whispered, "do you not think the title of Duke de
Normandy sounds just as well, or will you love me more, if I am
called Dauphin of France?"
"No, my son," answered the queen, "I shall not love you better, and
I should be very happy if you were now the Duke de Normandy."
"Then, mamma," cried the boy, eagerly, "I am not at all glad to
receive this new title. But I should like to know whether I have
received any thing else from my dear sick brother."
"Any thing else?" asked the king in amazement; "what would you
desire, my child?"
The little prince cast down his eyes. "I should not like to tell,
papa. But if it is true that the dauphin has left us and is not
coming back again, and yet has not taken away every thing which
belongs to him, there is something which I should very much like to
have, and which would please me more than that I am now the
dauphin."
The king turned his face inquiringly to the queen. "Do you
understand, Marie, what he wants to say?" he whispered.
"I think I can guess," answered Marie Antoinette softly, and she
walked quickly across the room, opened the door of the adjoining
apartment, and whispered a few words to the page who was there. Then
she returned to the king, but while doing so she stepped upon the
bouquet which had fallen out of the boy's hands when his father
lifted him up.
"Oh, my pretty violets, my pretty roses," cried the prince, sadly,
and his face put on a sorrowful expression. But he quickly
brightened, and, looking up at the queen, he said, smiling, "Mamma
queen, I wish you always walked on flowers which I have planted and
plucked for you!"
At this moment the door softly opened, and a little black dog
stepped in, and ran forward, whining, directly up to the prince.
"Moufflet," cried the child, falling upon his knee, "Moufflet!"
The little dog, with its long, curly locks of hair, put its fore-
paws upon the shoulders of the boy and eagerly and tenderly licked
his laughing, rosy face.
"Now, my Louis," asked the queen, "have I guessed right?--wasn't it
the doggy that you wanted so much?"
"Mamma queen has guessed it," cried the boy joyfully, putting his
arms around the neck of the dog. "Does Moufflet belong to my
inheritance too? Do I receive him, since my brother has left him
behind?"
"Yes, my son, the little dog belongs to your inheritance," answered
the king, with a sad smile.
The child shouted with pleasure, and pressed the dog close to his
breast. "Moufflet is mine!" he cried, glowing with joy, "Moufflet is
my inheritance!"
The queen slowly raised to heaven her eyes, red with weeping. "Oh,
the innocence of childhood, the happiness of childhood!" said she,
softly, "why do they not go with us through life? why must we tread
them under feet like the violets arid roses of my son? A kingdom
falls to him as his portion, and yet he takes pleasure in the little
dog which only licks his hands! Love is the fairest inheritance, for
love remains with us till death!"