KING LOUIS THE SIXTEENTH.
The 14th of July had broken upon Paris with its fearful events. The
revolution had for the first time opened the crater, after
subterranean thunder had long been heard, and after the ground of
Paris had long been shaken. The glowing lava-streams of intense
excitement, popular risings, and murder, had broken out and flooded
all Paris, and before them judgment, discretion, and truth even, had
taken flight.
The people had stormed the Bastile with arms, killed the governor,
and for the first time the dreadful cry "To the lamp-post!" was
heard in the streets of Paris; for the first time the iron arms of
the lamp-posts had been transformed to gallows, on which those were
suspended whom the people had declared guilty.
Meanwhile the lava-streams of revolution had not yet flowed out as
far as Versailles.
On the evening of the 14th of July, peace and silence had settled
early upon the palace, after a whole day spent in the apartments of
the king and queen with the greatest anxiety, and after resolution
had followed resolution in the efforts to come to a decision.
Marie Antoinette had early withdrawn to her rooms. The king, too,
had retired to rest, and had already fallen into a deep slumber upon
his bed. He had only slept a few hours, however, when he heard
something moving near his bed, with the evident intention of
awakening him. The king recognized his valet, who, with signs of the
greatest alarm in his face, announced the Duke de Liancourt, grand
maitre de la garde-robe of his majesty, who was in the antechamber,
and who pressingly urged an immediate audience with the king. Louis
trembled an instant, and tried to think what to do. Then he rose
from his bed with a quick and energetic motion, and ordered the
valet to dress him at once. After this had been done with the utmost
rapidity, the king ordered that the Duke de Liancourt should be
summoned to the adjacent apartment, when he would receive him.
As the king went out in the greatest excitement, he saw the duke,
whose devotion to the person of the king was well known, standing
before him with pale, distorted countenance and trembling limbs.
"What has happened, my friend?" asked the king, in breathless haste.
"Sire," answered the Duke de Liancourt, with suppressed voice, "in
the discharge of my office, which permits the closest approach to
your majesty, I have undertaken to bring you tidings which are now
so confirmed, and which are so important and dreadful, that it would
be a folly to try to keep what has happened longer from your
knowledge."
"You speak of the occurrences in the capital?" asked the king,
slightly drawing back.
"I have been told that your majesty has not yet been informed,"
continued the duke, "and yet in the course of yesterday the most
dreadful events occurred in Paris. The head of the army had not
ventured to send your majesty and the cabinet any report. It was
known yesterday in Versailles at nightfall that the people, with,
arms in their hands, had stormed and destroyed the Bastile. I have
just received a courier from Paris, and these tidings are confirmed
with the most horrible particularity. Sire, I held it my duty as a
faithful servant of the crown to break the silence which has
hitherto hindered your majesty from seeing clearly and acting
accordingly. In Paris, not only has the Bastile been stormed by the
people, but truly dreadful crimes and murders have taken place. The
bloody heads of Delaunay and Flesselles were carried on pikes
through the city by wild crowds of people. A part of the
fortifications of the Bastile have been levelled. Several of the
invalides, who were guarding the fort, have been found suspended
from the lantern-posts. A want of fidelity has begun to appear in
the other regiments. The armed people now arrayed in the streets of
Paris are estimated at two hundred thousand men. They fear this very
night a rising of the whole population of the city."
The king had listened standing, as in a sad dream. His face had
become pale, but his bearing was unchanged.
"There is then a revolt!" said Louis XVI., after a pause, as if
suddenly awakening from deep thought.
"No, sire," answered the duke, earnestly, "it is a revolution."
"The queen was right," said the monarch, softly, to himself; "and
now rivers of blood would be necessary to hide the ruin that has
grown so great. But my resolution is taken; the blood of the French
shall not be poured out."
"Sire," cried Liancourt, with a solemn gesture, "the safety of
France and of the royal family lies in this expression of your
majesty. I ought to be and I must be plain-spoken this hour. The
greatest danger lies in your majesty's following the faithless
counsels of your ministers. How I bless this hour which is granted
me to stand face to face with your majesty, and dare to address
myself to your own judgment and to your heart! Sire, the spirit of
the infatuated capital will make rapid and monstrous steps forward.
I conjure you make your appearance in the National Assembly to-day,
and utter there the word of peace. Your appearance will work
wonders; it will disarm the parties and make this body of men the
truest allies of the crown."
The king looked at him with a long, penetrating glance. The youthful
fire in which the noble duke had spoken appeared to move the king.
He extended his hand and pressed the duke's in his own. Then he said
softly: "You are yourself one of the most influential members of
this National Assembly, my lord duke. Can you give me your personal
word that my appearance there will be viewed as indicating the
interest of the crown in the welfare of France?"
At this moment the first glow of the morning entered the apartment,
and overpowered the pale candle-light which till then had
illuminated the room.
"The Assembly longs every day and every hour for the conciliatory
words of your majesty," cried Liancourt. "The doubts and disquiet
into which the National Assembly is falling more and more every day
are not to be dispelled in any other way than by the appearance of
your majesty's gracious face. I beseech you to appear to-day at the
National Assembly. The service of to-day, which begins in a few
hours, may take the most unfortunate turn, if you, sire, do not take
this saving step."
Just then the door opened, and Monsieur, together with Count
d'Artois, entered. Both brothers of the king appeared to be in the
greatest excitement. From their appearance and gestures it could be
inferred that the news brought by the Duke de Liancourt had reached
the palace of Versailles.
Liancourt at once approached the Count d'Artois, and said to him in
decisive tones:
"Prince, your head is threatened by the people. I have with my own
eyes seen the poster which announces this fearful proscription."
The prince uttered a cry of terror at these words, and stood in the
middle of the room like one transfixed.
"It is good, if the people think so," he said then, recovering
himself. "I am, like the people, for open war. They want my head,
and I want their heads. Why do we not fire? A fixed policy, no
quarter to the so-called freedom ideas-cannon well served! These
alone can save us!"
"His majesty the king has come to a different conclusion!" said the
Duke de Liancourt, bowing low before the king, who stood calmly by
with folded arms.
"I beg my brothers, the Count de Provence and the Count d'Artois, to
accompany me this morning to the Assembly of States-General," said
the king, in a firm tone.
"I wish to go thither in order to announce to the Assembly my
resolution to withdraw my troops. At the same time I shall announce
to them my decided wish that they may complete the work of their
counsels in peace, for I have no higher aim than through them to
learn the will of the nation."
Count d'Artois retreated a step in amazement. Upon his mobile face
appeared the sharp, satirical expression which was peculiar to the
character of the prince. It was different with Provence, who, at the
king's words, quickly approached him to press his hand in token of
cordial agreement and help.
At this moment the door of the chamber was opened, and the queen,
accompanied by several persons, her most intimate companions,
entered in visible excitement.
"Does your majesty know what has happened?" she asked, with pale
face and tearful eyes, as she violently grasped the king's hand.
"It will be all well yet," said the king, with gentle dignity; "it
will prove a help to us that we have nothing as yet to accuse
ourselves with. I am resolved to go to-day to the National Assembly,
and to show it a sign of my personal confidence, in announcing the
withdrawal of my troops from Paris and Versailles."
The queen looked at her husband with the greatest amazement; then,
like one in a trance, she dropped his hand and stood supporting her
fair head upon her hand, with a thoughtful, pained expression.
"By doing so your majesty will make the revolution an irrevocable
fact," she then said, slowly raising her eyes to him; "and it
troubles me, sire, that you will again set foot in an Assembly
numbering so many dreadful and hostile men, and in which the
resolution made last month to disband it ought to have been carried
into effect long ago."
"Has the Assembly, in fact, so many dreadful members?" asked the
king, with his good-natured smile. "Yet I see before me here two
extremely amiable members of that Assembly, and their looks really
give me courage to appear there. There is my old, true friend, the
Duke de Liancourt, and even in the train of your majesty there is
the valiant Count de la Marck, whom I heartily welcome. May I not,
Count de la Marck, depend upon some favor with your colleagues in
the National Assembly?" asked the king, with an amiable expression.
"Sire," answered the count, in his most perfect court manner, "in
the variety of persons constituting the Assembly, I do not know a
single one who would be able to close his heart to the direct word
of the monarch, and such condescending grace. The nobility, to whose
side I belong, would find itself confirmed thereby in its fidelity;
the clergy would thank God for the manifestation of royal authority
which shall bring peace; and the Third Estate would have to confess
in its astonishment that safety comes only from the monarch's
hands."
The king smiled and nodded in friendly manner to the count.
"It seems to me," he said, "that the time is approaching for us to
go to the Assembly. Their royal highnesses Count de Provence and
Count d'Artois will accompany me. I commission the Duke de Liancourt
to go before us to the Salle des Menus, and to announce to the
Assembly, directly after the opening of the session, that we shall
appear there at once in person."
On this the king dismissed all who were present. The queen took
tender leave of him, in a manner indicating her excited feelings.
She had never seen her royal husband bearing himself in so decided
and confident a manner, and it almost awakened new confidence in her
troubled breast. But at the same moment all the doubts and cares
returned, and sadly, with drooping head, the queen withdrew.
In the mean time, close upon the opening of the National Assembly
that morning, stormy debates had begun about the new steps which
they were going to take with the monarch.
Count Mirabeau had just been breaking out into an anathema in
flaming words about the holiday which the king had given to the new
regiments, when the Duke de Liancourt, who that moment entered the
hall, advanced to the speaker's desk and announced that the king was
just on the point of coming to the Assembly. The greatest amazement,
followed immediately by intense disquiet, was expressed on all sides
at hearing this. Men sprang up from their places and formed
scattered groups to talk over this unexpected circumstance and come
to an understanding in advance. They spoke in loud, angry words
about the reception which should be given to the king in the
National Assembly, when Mirabeau sprang upon the tribune, and, with
his voice towering above every other sound, cried that "mere silent
respect should be the only reception that we give to the monarch. In
a moment of universal grief, silence is the true lesson of kings."
[Footnote: Mirabeau's own words.--See "Memoires du Comte de
Mirabeau," vol. ii., p. 301.]
A resounding bravo accompanied these words, which appeared to
produce the deepest impression upon all parties in the Assembly.
Before the room was silent, the king, accompanied by his brothers,
but with no other retinue besides, entered the hall. Notwithstanding
all the plans and efforts which had been made, his appearance at
this moment wrought so powerfully that, as soon as they saw him, the
cry "Long live the king!" was taken up and repeated so often as to
make the arched ceiling ring.
The king stood in the midst of the Assembly, bearing himself
modestly and with uncovered head. He did not make use of an arm-
chair which was placed for him, but remained standing, as, without
any ceremony, he began to address the Assembly with truly
patriarchal dignity. When at the very outset he said that as the
chief of the nation, as he called himself, he had come with
confidence to meet the nation's representatives, to testify his
grief for what had happened, and to consult them respecting the re-
establishing of peace and order, a pacified expression appeared upon
almost all faces.
With gentle and almost humble bearing the king then entered upon the
suspicions that had been breathed, that the persons of the deputies
were not safe. With the tone of an honest burgher he referred to his
own "well-known character," which made it superfluous for him to
dismiss such a suspicion. "Ah!" he cried, "it is I who have trusted
myself to you! Help me in these painful circumstances to strengthen
the welfare of the state. I expect it of the National Assembly."
Then with a tone of touching kindness he said: "Counting upon the
love and fidelity of my subjects, I have given orders to the troops
to withdraw from Paris and Versailles. At the same time I commission
and empower you to convey these my orders to the capital."
The king now closed his address, which had been interrupted by
frequent expressions of delight and enthusiasm, but which was
received at the close with a thunder of universal applause. After
the Archbishop of Brienne had expressed the thanks of the Assembly
in a few words, the king prepared to leave the hall. At that instant
all present rose in order to follow the king's steps. Silently the
whole National Assembly became the retinue of the king, and
accompanied him to the street.
The king wished to return on foot to the palace. Behind him walked
the National Assembly in delighted, joyful ranks. The startling
importance of the occasion seemed to have overpowered the most
hostile and the most alienated An immense crowd of people, which had
gathered before the door of the hall, seeing the king suddenly
reappear in the midst of the whole National Assembly, broke into
jubilant cries of delight. The shouts, "Long live the king! Long
live the nation!" blended in a harmonious concord which rang far and
wide. Upon the Place d'Armes were standing the gardes du corps, both
the Swiss and the French, with their arms in their hands. But they,
too, were infected with the universal gladness, as they saw the
procession, whose like had never been seen before, move on.
The cries which to-day solemnized the happy reconciliation of the
king and the people now were united with the discordant clang of
trumpets and the rattle of drums on all sides.
Upon the great balcony of the palace at Versailles stood the queen,
awaiting the return of the king. The thousands of voices raised in
behalf of Louis XVI. and the nation had drawn Marie Antoinette to
the balcony, after remaining in her own room with thoughts full of
evil forebodings. She held the dauphin in her arms, and led her
little daughter. Her eyes, from which the heavy veils of sadness
were now withdrawn, cast joyful glances over the immense, shouting
crowds of people approaching the palace, at whose head she joyfully
recognized her husband, the king, wearing an expression of
cheerfulness which for a time she had not seen on his face.
When the king caught sight of his wife, he hastened to remove his
hat and salute her. But few of the deputies followed the royal
example, and silently, without any salutation, without any cries of
acclamation, they looked up at the queen. Marie Antoinette turned
pale, and stepped hack with her children into the hall.
"It is all over," she said, with a gush of tears, "it is all over
with my hopes. The Queen of France is still to be the poorest and
most unhappy woman in France, for she is not loved, she is
despised."
Two soft young arms were laid around her neck, and with a face full
of sorrow, and with tears in his great blue eyes, the dauphin looked
up to the disturbed countenance of his mother.
"Mamma queen," he whispered, pressing fondly up to her, "mamma
queen, I love you and everybody loves you, and my dear brother in
heaven prays for you."
With a loud cry of pain, that escaped her against her will, the
queen pressed her son to her heart and covered his head with her
kisses.
"Love me, my son, love me," she whispered, choking, "and may thy
brother in heaven pray for me that I may soon be released from the
pains which I suffer!"
But as she heard now the voice of the king without, taking leave of
his retinue with friendly words, Marie Antoinette hastily dried her
tears, and putting down the dauphin, whispered to him, "Do not tell
papa that I have been crying," and in her wonted lofty bearing, with
a smile upon her trembling lips, she went to meet her husband.
As it grew late and dark in the evening, several baggage-wagons
heavily laden and tightly closed moved noiselessly and hastily from
the inner courts of the palace, and took the direction toward the
country. In these carriages were the Count d'Artois, the Duke
d'Angouleme, and the Duke de Berry, the Prince de Conde, the Duke de
Bourbon, and the Duke d'Enghein, who were leaving the kingdom in
secret flight.
Louis XVI. had tried to quiet the anxieties of his brother, the
Count d'Artois, by advising him to leave France for some time, and
to remain in a foreign land, until the times should be more quiet
and peaceful. The other princes, although not so sorely threatened
with popular rage as the Count d'Artois, whose head had already been
demanded at Paris, had, with the exception of the king's other
brother, been so overcome with their anxieties as to resolve upon
flight. They were followed on the next day by the new ministers, who
now, yielding to the demands of the National Assembly, had handed in
their resignation to the king, but did not consider it safe to
remain within range of the capital.
But another offering, and one more painful to the queen, had to be
made to the hatred of the people and the hostile demands of the
National Assembly. Marie Antoinette herself felt it, and had the
courage to express it.
Her friends the Polignacs must be sent away. In all the libellous
pamphlets which had been directed against the queen, and which
Brienne had sedulously given to her, it was one of the main charges
which had been hurled against her, that the queen had given to her
friends enormous sums from the state's treasury; that the Duchess
Julia, as governess of the royal children, and her husband the Duke
de Polignac, as director of the royal mews, received a yearly salary
of two million francs; and that the whole Polignac family together
drew nearly six million francs yearly from the national treasury.
Marie Antoinette knew that the people hated the Polignacs on this
account, and she wanted at least to put her friends in a place of
safety.
At the same hour in which the brothers of the king and the princes
of the royal family left Versailles, the Duke and the Duchess de
Polignac were summoned to the queen, and Marie Antoinette had told
them with trembling voice that they too must fly, that they must
make their escape that very night. But the duchess, as well as the
duke, refused almost with indignation to comply with the request of
the queen. The duchess, who before had been characterized by so calm
a manner, now showed for the first time a glow of affection for her
royal friend, and unreckoning tenderness. "Let us remain with you,
Marie," she said, choking, and throwing both her arms around the
neck of the queen. "Do not drive me from you. I will not go, I will
share your perils and will die for you, if it must be."
But Marie Antoinette found now in her great love the power to resist
these requests--the power to hold back the tears which started from
her heart and to withdraw herself from the arms of her friend.
"It must be," she said. "In the name of our friendship I conjure
you, Julia, take your departure at once, for, if you are not willing
to, I shall die with anxiety about you. There is still time for you
and yours to escape the rage of my enemies. They hate you not for
your own sake, and how would it be possible to hate my Julia? It is
for my sake, and because they hate me, that they persecute my
dearest friend. Go, Julia, you ought not to be the victim of your
friendship for me."
"No, I remain," said the duchess, passionately. "Nothing shall
separate me from my queen."
"Duke," implored the queen, "speak the word, say that it is
necessary for you to fly!"
"Your majesty," replied the duke, gravely, "I can only repeat what
Julia says: nothing shall separate us from our queen. If we have in
the days of prosperity enjoyed the favor of being permitted to be
near your majesty, we must claim it as the highest favor to be
permitted to be near you in the days of your misfortune!"
Just then the door opened and the king entered.
"Sire," said the queen, as she advanced to meet him, "help me to
persuade these noble friends that they ought to leave us!"
"The queen is right," said Louis, sadly, "they must go at once. Our
misfortune compels us to part with all who love and esteem us. I
have just said farewell to my brother, now I say the same to you; I
command you to go. Pity us, but do not lose a minute's time. Take
your children and your servants with you. Reckon at all times upon
me. We shall meet again in happier days, after our dangers are past,
and then you shall both resume your old places. Farewell! Once more
I command you to go!" [Footnote: The king's own words. This intense
parting scene is strictly historical, according to the concurrent
communications of Montjoie in his "Histoire de Marie Antoinette."
Campan, Mem., ii. Weber, Mem., i.]
And as the king perceived that the tears were starting into his
eyes, and that his voice was trembling, he silently bowed to his
friends, and hastily withdrew.
"You have heard what the king commands," said Marie Antoinette,
eagerly, "and you will not venture to disobey him. Hear also this: I
too, the Queen of France, command you to take your departure this
very hour."
The duke bowed low before the queen, who stood with pale cheeks, but
erect, and with a noble air.
"Your majesty has commanded, and it becomes us to obey. We shall
go."
The duchess sank, with a loud cry of grief, on her knee before the
queen, and buried her face in the royal robe.
Marie Antoinette did not disturb her, did not venture to speak to
her, for she knew that, with the first word which she should utter,
the pain of her heart would find expression on her lips, and she
would be composed; she would not let her friend see how severe the
sacrifice was which her love compelled her to make.
"Let me remain with you," implored the duchess, "do not drive me
from you, Marie, my Marie!"
The queen turned her great eyes upward, and her looks were a prayer
to God to give her power and steadfastness. Twice then she attempted
to speak, twice her voice refused to perform its duty, and she
remained silent, wrestling with her grief, and at last overcoming
it.
"Julia," she said--and with every word her voice became firmer and
stronger--" Julia, we must part. I should be doubly unhappy to draw
you and yours into my misfortunes; it will, in all my troubles, be a
consolation to me, that I have been able to save you. I do not say,
as the king did, that we shall meet again in happier days, and after
our perils are past--for I do not believe in any more happy days--we
shall not be able to survive those perils, but shall perish in them.
I say, farewell, to meet not in this, but in a better world! Not a
word more. I cannot bear it! Your queen commands you to go at once!
Farewell!"
She extended her hand firmly to her, but she could not look at her
friend, who lay at her feet weeping and choking; she saluted the
duke with a mere wave of the hand, turned quickly away, and hastened
into the adjoining room, and then on till she reached her own
toilet-room, where Madame de Campan was awaiting her.
"Campan," she cried, in tones of anguish, "Campan, it is done! I
have lost my friend! I shall never see her again. Close the door,
draw the bolt, that she cannot come in, I--I shall die!" And the
queen uttered a loud cry, and sank in a swoon.
At midnight two well-packed carriages drove out of the inner courts
of the palace. They were the Polignacs; they were leaving France, to
take refuge in Switzerland.
In the first carriage was the Duchess de Polignac, with her husband
and her daughter. She held two letters in her hand. Campan had given
her both, in the name of the queen, as she was stepping into the
carriage.
One was directed to Minister Necker, who, after his dismissal, had
withdrawn to Basle. Since the National Assembly, the clubs, the
whole population of Paris, desired Necker's return, and declared him
to be the only man who could restore the shattered finances of the
country; the queen had persuaded her husband to recall the minister,
although an opponent of hers, and appoint him again minister of
finance. The letter of the queen, which the Duchess Julia was
commissioned to give to Necker, contained his recall, announced to
him in flattering words.
The second letter was a parting word from the queen to her friend, a
last cry from her heart. "Farewell," it ran--" farewell, tenderly-
loved friend! How dreadful this parting word is! But it is needful.
Farewell! I embrace thee in spirit! Farewell!"