THE PALACE A PRISON.
1789-1791
Condition of the royal family.--Ignominiously insulted.--The royal
family surrounded by spies.--The queen refuses to escape.--Excuse
for the emigrants.--Their plans.--Profligate women.--Their talk
with the queen.--Bravos of the women.--Plan for the queen's
escape.--Letter from the queen.--Her employments.--The king's
unwillingness to flee.--Execution of the Marquis of Favras.--Imprudence
of some of the queen's friends.--Her embarrassment.--The queen
weeps.--Present to Madame Favras.--The king continues inactive.--Plan
of Count d'Inisdal.--Indecision of the king.--The queen's
disappointment.--Displeasure of Count d'Inisdal.--An alarm.--Attempts
to assassinate the queen.--Removal to St. Cloud.--Another plan
for flight.--It is abandoned.--Exhibitions of attachment.--Emotions
of the queen.--The assassin in the garden.--Midnight
interviews.--Deliberations of the king's friends.--Taunting gift.--The
king's aunts leave France.--They are arrested.--Exciting debate.--The
ladies permitted to depart.--The royal family start for St. Cloud.--They
are compelled to return.--Preparations for flight.--Imprudence of the
king and queen.--Garments for the children.--The queen's diamonds and
jewels.--The queen's dressing-case.--The faithful Leonard.
The king and queen now found themselves in the gorgeous apartments of
the Tuileries, surrounded with all the mockery of external homage, but
incessantly exposed to the most ignominious insults, and guarded with
sleepless vigilance from the possibility of escape. The name of the
queen was the watchword of popular execration and rage. In the pride of
her lofty spirit, she spurned all apologies, explanations, or attempts
at conciliation. Inclosing herself in the recesses of her palace, she
heard with terror and resentment, but with an unyielding soul, the daily
acts of violence perpetrated against royalty and all of its friends. All
her trusty servants were removed, and spies in their stead occupied her
parlors and her chambers. Trembling far more for her husband and her
children than for herself, every noise in the streets aroused her
apprehensions of a new insurrection. And thus, for nearly two years of
melancholy days and sorrowful nights, the very nobleness of her nature,
glowing with heroic love, magnified her anguish. The terror of the times
had driven nearly all the nobility from the realm. The court was
forsaken, or attended only by the detested few who were forced as
ministers upon the royal family by the implacable populace. Every word
and every action of Maria Antoinette were watched, and reported by the
spies who surrounded her in the guise of servants. To obtain a private
interview with any of her few remaining friends, or even with her
husband, it was necessary to avail herself of private stair-cases, and
dark corridors, and the disguise of night. The queen regretted extremely
that the nobles, and others friendly to royalty, should, in these hours
of gathering danger, have fled from France. When urged to fly herself
from the dangers darkening around her, she resolutely refused, declaring
that she would never leave her husband and children, but that she would
live or die with them. The queen, convinced of the impolicy of
emigration, did every thing in her power to induce the emigrants to
return. Urgent letters were sent to them, to one of which the queen
added the following postscript with her own hand: "If you love your
king, your religion, your government, and your country, return! return!
return! Maria Antoinette." The emigrants were severely censured by many
for abandoning their king and country in such a crisis. But when all law
was overthrown, and the raging mob swayed hither and thither at its
will, and nobles were murdered on the high way or hung at lamp-posts in
the street, and each night the horizon was illumined by the
conflagration of their chateaux, a husband and father can hardly be
severely censured for endeavoring to escape with his wife and children
from such scenes of horror.
A year of gloom now slowly passed away, almost every moment of which was
embittered by disappointed hopes and gathering fears. The emigrants, who
were assembled at Coblentz, on the frontiers of Germany, were organizing
an army for the invasion of France and the restoration of the regal
power. The people were very fearful that the king and queen might
escape, and, joining the emigrants, add immeasurably to their moral
strength. There were thousands in France, overawed by the terrors of the
mob, who would most eagerly have rallied around the banners of such an
invading army, headed by their own king. Louis, however, with his
characteristic want of energy, was very unwilling to assume a hostile
attitude toward his subjects, and still vainly hoped, by concessions and
by the exhibition of a forgiving spirit, to reconcile his disaffected
people.
On the morning after the arrival of the king and queen at the Tuileries,
an occurrence took place highly characteristic of the times. A crowd of
profligate women, the same who bestrode the cannon the day before,
insulting the queen with the most abusive language, collected under the
queen's windows, upon the terrace of the palace. Maria, hearing their
outcries, came to the window. A furious termagant addressed her, telling
her that she must dismiss all such courtiers as ruin kings, and that she
must love the inhabitants of her good city. The queen replied,
"I have loved them at Versailles, and will also love them at Paris."
"Yes! yes!" answered another. "But you wanted to besiege the city and
have it bombarded. And you wanted to fly to the frontiers and join the
emigrants."
The queen mildly replied, "You have been told so, my friends, and have
believed it, and that is the cause of the unhappiness of the people and
of the best of kings."
Another addressed her in German, to which the queen answered, "I do not
understand you. I have become so entirely French as even to have
forgotten my mother tongue."
At this they all clapped their hands, and shouted, "Bravo! bravo!" They
then asked for the ribbons and flowers out of her hat. Her majesty
unfastened them herself, and then tossed them out of the window to the
women. They were received with great eagerness, and divided among the
party; and for half an hour they kept up the incessant shout, "Maria
Antoinette forever! Our good queen forever!"
In the course of a few weeks some of the devoted friends of the queen
had matured a plan by which _her_ escape could be, without difficulty,
effected. The queen, whose penetrating mind fully comprehended the peril
of her situation, replied, while expressing the deepest gratitude to her
friends for their kindness, "I will never leave either the king or my
children. If I thought that I alone were obnoxious to public hatred, I
would instantly offer my life as a sacrifice. But it is the throne which
is aimed at. In abandoning the king, no other advantage can be obtained
than merely saving my life; and I will never be guilty of such an act of
cowardice."
The following letter, which she wrote at this time to a friend, in reply
to a letter of sympathy in reference to the outrage which had torn her
from Versailles, will enable one to form a judgment of her situation and
state of mind at that time. "I shed tears of affection on reading your
sympathizing letter. You talk of my courage; it required much less to go
through the dreadful crisis of that day than is now daily necessary to
endure our situation, our own griefs, those of our friends, and those of
the persons who surround us. This is a heavy weight to sustain; and but
for the strong ties by which my heart is bound to my husband, my
children, and my friends, I should wish to sink under it. But you bear
me up. I ought to sacrifice such feelings to your friendship. But it is
I who bring misfortune on you all, and all your troubles are on my
account."
The queen now lived for some time in much retirement. She employed the
mornings in superintending the education of her son and daughter, both
of whom received all their lessons in her presence, and she endeavored
to occupy her mind, continually agitated as it was by ever-recurring
scenes of outrage and of danger, by working large pieces of tapestry.
She could not sufficiently recall her thoughts from the anxieties which
continually engrossed them to engage in reading. The king was extremely
unwilling to seek protection in flight, lest the throne should be
declared vacant, and he should thus lose his crown. He was ever hoping
that affairs would soon take such a turn that harmony would be restored
to his distracted kingdom. Maria Antoinette, however, who had a much
more clear discernment of the true state of affairs, soon felt convinced
that reconciliation, unless effected by the arm of power, was hopeless,
and she exerted all her influence to rouse the king to vigorous measures
for escape. While firmly resolved never to abandon her husband and her
family to save her own life, she still became very anxious that all
should endeavor to escape together.
About this time the Marquis of Favras was accused of having formed a
plan for the rescue of the royal family. He was very hastily tried, the
mob surrounding the tribunal and threatening the judges with instant
death unless they should condemn him. He was sentenced to be hung, and
was executed, surrounded by the insults and execrations of the populace
of Paris. The marquis left a wife and a little boy overwhelmed with
grief and in hopeless poverty. On the following Sunday morning, some
extremely injudicious friends of the queen, moved with sympathy for the
desolated family, without consulting the queen upon the subject,
presented the widow and the orphan in deepest mourning at court. The
husband and father had fallen a sacrifice to his love for the queen and
her family. The queen was extremely embarrassed. What course could she
with safety pursue? If she should yield to the dictates of her own
heart, and give expression to her emotions of sympathy and gratitude,
she would rouse to still greater fury the indignation of the populace
who were accusing her of the desire to escape, and who considered this
desire as one of the greatest of crimes. Should she, on the other hand,
surrender herself to the dictates of prudence, and neglect openly to
manifest any special interest in their behalf, how severely must she be
censured by the Loyalists for her ingratitude toward those who had been
irretrievably ruined through their love for her.
The queen was extremely pained by this unexpected and impolitic
presentation; for the fate of others, far dearer to her than her own
life, were involved in her conduct. She withdrew from the painful scene
to her private apartment, threw herself into a chair, and, weeping
bitterly, said to an intimate friend, "We must perish! We are assailed
by men who possess extraordinary talent, and who shrink from no crime.
We are defended by those who have the kindest intentions, but who have
no adequate idea of our situation. They have exposed me to the animosity
of both parties by presenting to me the widow and the son of the Marquis
of Favras. Were I free to act as my heart impels me, I should take the
child of the man who has so nobly sacrificed himself for us, and adopt
him as my own, and place him at the table between the king and myself.
But, surrounded by the assassins who have destroyed his father, I did
not dare even to cast my eyes upon him. The Royalists will blame me for
not having appeared interested in this poor child. The Revolutionists
will be enraged at the idea that his presentation should have been
thought agreeable to me." The next day the queen sent, by a confidential
friend, a purse of gold to Madame Favras, and assured her that she would
ever watch, with the deepest interest, over her fortune and that of her
son.
Innumerable plans were now formed for the rescue of the royal family,
and abandoned. The king could not be roused to energetic action. His
passive courage was indomitable, but he could not be induced to act on
the offensive, and, still hoping that by a spirit of conciliation he
might win back the affections of his people, he was extremely reluctant
to take any measures by which he should be arrayed in hostility against
them. Maria, on the contrary, knew that decisive action alone could be
of any avail. One night, about ten o'clock, the king and queen were
sitting in their private apartment of the Tuileries, endeavoring to
beguile the melancholy hours by a game of cards. The sister of the king,
Madame Elizabeth, with a very pensive countenance, was kneeling upon a
stool, by the side of the table, overlooking the game. A nobleman, Count
d'Inisdal, devotedly attached to the fortunes of the royal family,
entered, and, in a low tone of voice, informed the king and queen that a
plan was already matured to rescue them that very night; that a section
of the National Guard was gained over, that sets of fleet horses were
placed in relays at suitable distances, that carriages were ready, and
that now they only wanted the king's consent, and the scheme, at
midnight, would be carried into execution. The king listened to every
word without the movement of a muscle of his countenance, and, fixing
his eyes upon the cards in his hand, as if paying no attention to what
had been said, uttered not a syllable. For some time there was perfect
silence. At last Maria Antoinette, who was extremely anxious that the
king should avail himself of this opportunity for escape, broke the
embarrassing silence by saying, "Do you hear, sir, what is said to us?"
"Yes," replied the king, calmly, "I hear," and he continued his game.
Again there was a long silence. The queen, extremely anxious and
impatient, for the hour of midnight was drawing near, again interrupted
the silence by saying earnestly, "But, sir, some reply must be made to
this communication." The king paused for a moment, and then, still
looking upon the cards in his hand, said, "_The king can not consent to
be carried off._" Maria Antoinette was greatly disappointed at the want
of decision and of magnanimity implied in this answer. She, however,
said to the nobleman very eagerly, "Be careful and report this answer
correctly, the king can not _consent_ to be carried off." The king's
answer was doubtless intended as a tacit consent while he wished to
avoid the responsibility of participating in the design. The count,
however, was greatly displeased at this answer, and said to his
associates, "I understand it perfectly. He is willing that we should
seize and carry him, as if by violence, but wishes, in case of failure,
to throw all the blame upon those who are periling their lives to save
him." The queen hoped earnestly that the enterprise would not be
abandoned, and sat up till after midnight preparing her cases of
valuables, and anxiously watching for the coming of their deliverers.
But the hours lingered away, and the morning dawned, and the palace was
still their prison. The queen, shortly after, remarking upon this
indecision of the king, said, "We _must_ seek safety in flight. Our
peril increases every day. No one can tell to what extremities these
disturbances will lead."
La Fayette had informed the king, that, should he see any alarming
movement among the disaffected, threatening the exposure of the royal
family to new acts of violence, he would give them an intimation of
their danger by the discharge of a few cannon from the battery upon the
Pont Neuf. One night the report of guns from some casual discharge was
heard, and the king, regarding it as the warning, in great alarm flew
to the apartments of the queen. She was not there. He passed hastily
from room to room, and at last found her in the chamber of the dauphin,
with her two children in her arms. "Madame," said the king to her, "I
have been seeking you. I was very anxious about you." "You find me,"
replied the queen pointing to her children, "at my station."
Several unavailing attempts were made at this time to assassinate the
queen. These discoveries, however, seemed to cause Maria no alarm, and
she could not be induced to adopt any precautions for her personal
safety. Rarely did a day pass in which she did not encounter, in some
form, ignominy or insult. As the heat of summer came on, the royal
family removed to the palace of St. Cloud without any opposition, though
the National Guard followed them, professedly for their protection, but,
in reality, to guard against their escape. Here another plan was formed
for flight. The different members of the royal family, in disguise, were
to meet in a wood four leagues from St. Cloud. Some friends of the royal
family, who could be perfectly relied upon, were there to join them. A
large carriage was to be in attendance, sufficient to conduct the whole
family. The attendants at the palace would have no suspicion of their
escape until nine o'clock in the evening, as the royal carriages were
frequently out until that hour, and it would then take some time to send
to Paris to call together the National Assembly at midnight, and to send
couriers to overtake the fugitives. Thus, with fleet horses and fresh
relays, and having six or seven hours the start, the king and queen
might hope to escape apprehension. The queen very highly approved of
this plan, and was very anxious to have it carried into execution. But
for some unknown reason, the attempt was relinquished.
There were occasional exhibitions of strong individual attachment for
the king and queen which would, for a moment, create the illusion that a
reaction had commenced in the public mind. One day the queen was sitting
in her apartment at St. Cloud, in the deepest dejection of spirits,
mechanically working upon some tapestry to occupy the joyless and
lingering hours. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. The palace was
deserted and silent. The very earth and sky seemed mourning in sympathy
with the mourning queen. Suddenly, an unusual noise, as of many persons
conversing in an under tone, was heard beneath the window. The queen
immediately rose and went to the window; for every unaccustomed sound
was, in such perilous times, an occasion of alarm. Below the balcony,
she saw a group of some fifty persons, men and women, from the country,
apparently anxious to catch a glimpse of her. They were evidently humble
people, dressed in the costume of peasants. As soon as they saw the
queen, they gave utterance to the most passionate expressions of
attachment and devotion. The queen, who had long been accustomed only to
looks and words of defiance and insult, was entirely overpowered by
these kind words, and could not refrain from bursting into tears. The
sight of the weeping queen redoubled the affectionate emotions of the
loyal group, and, with the utmost enthusiasm, they reiterated their
assurances of love and their prayers for her safety. A lady of the
queen's household, apprehensive that the scene might arrest the
attention of the numerous spies who surrounded them, led her from the
window. The affectionate group, appreciating the prudence of the
measure, with tears of sympathy expressed their assent, and with
prayers, tears, and benedictions retired. Maria was deeply touched by
these unwonted tones of kindness, and, throwing herself into her chair,
sobbed with uncontrollable emotion. It was long before she could regain
her accustomed composure.
Many unsuccessful attempts were made at this time to assassinate the
queen. A wretch by the name of Rotondo succeeded one day in scaling the
walls of the garden, and hid himself in the shrubbery, intending to stab
the queen as she passed in her usual solitary promenade. A shower
prevented the queen from going into the garden, and thus her life was
saved. And yet, though the assassin was discovered and arrested, the
hostility of the public toward the royal family was such that he was
shielded from punishment.
The king and queen occasionally held private interviews at midnight,
with chosen friends, secretly introduced to the palace, in the apartment
of the queen. And there, in low tones of voice, and fearful of detection
by the numerous spies which infested the palace, they would deliberate
upon their peril, and upon the innumerable plans suggested for their
extrication. Some recommended the resort to violence; that the king
should gather around him as many of his faithful subjects as possible,
and settle the difficulties by an immediate appeal to arms. Others
urged further compromise, and the spirit of conciliation, hoping that
the king might thus regain his lost popularity, and re-establish his
tottering throne. Others urged, and Maria coincided most cordially in
this opinion, that it was necessary for the royal family to escape from
Paris immediately, which was the focus of disaffection, and at a safe
distance, surrounded by their armed friends, to treat with their enemies
and to compel them to reasonable terms. The indecision of the king,
however, appeared to be an insuperable obstacle in the way of any
decisive action.
One day a delegation appeared before the royal family from the
_conquerors of the Bastile_, with a new year's gift for the young
dauphin. The present consisted of a box of dominoes curiously wrought
from the stone of which that celebrated state prison was built. It was
an ingenious plan to insult the royal family under the pretense of
respect and affection, for on the lid of the box there was engraved the
following sentiment: "_These stones, from the walls which inclosed the
innocent victims of arbitrary power, have been converted into a toy, to
be presented to you, monseigneur, as an homage of the people's love,
and to teach you the extent of their power._"
About this time, the two aunts of the king left France, ostensibly for
the purpose of travelling, but, in reality, as an experiment, to see
what opposition would be made to prevent members of the royal family
from leaving the kingdom. As soon as their intention was known, it
excited the greatest popular ferment. A vast crowd of men and women
assembled at the palace, to prevent, if possible, with lawless violence,
their departure. It was merely two elderly ladies who wished to leave
France, but the excitement pervaded even the army, and many of the
soldiers joined the mob in the determination that they should not be
permitted to depart. The traces of the carriages were cut, and the
officers, who tried to protect the princesses, were nearly murdered. The
whole nation was agitated by the attempts of these two peaceful ladies
to visit Rome. When at some distance from Paris, they were arrested, and
the report of their arrest was sent to the National Assembly. The king
found the excitement so great, that he wrote a letter to the Assembly,
informing them that his aunts wished to leave France to visit other
countries, and that, though he witnessed their separation from him and
his family with much regret, he did not feel that he had any right to
deprive them of the privilege which the humblest citizens enjoyed, of
going whenever and wherever they pleased. The question of their
detention was for a long time debated in the Assembly. "What right,"
said one, "have we to prohibit these ladies from traveling." "We have a
law," another indignantly replied, "paramount to all others--the law
which commands us to take care of the public safety." The debate was
finally terminated by the caustic remark of a member who was ashamed of
the protracted discussion. "Europe," said he, "will be greatly
astonished, no doubt, on hearing that the National Assembly spent four
hours in deliberating upon the departure of two ladies who preferred
hearing mass at Rome rather than at Paris." The debate was thus
terminated, and the ladies were permitted to depart.
[Illustration: PALACE OF ST. CLOUD.]
Early in the spring of 1791, the king and queen, who had been passing
some time in Paris at the Tuileries, wished to return to their country
seat at St. Cloud. Many members of the household had already gone
there, and dinner was prepared for the royal family at the palace
for their reception. The carriages were at the door, and, as the king
and queen were descending, a great tumult in the yard arrested their
attention. They found that the guard, fearful that they might escape,
had mutinied, and closed the door of the palace, declaring that they
would not let them pass. Some of the personal friends of the king
interposed in favor of the insulted captives, and endeavored to secure
for them more respectful treatment. They were, however, seized by the
infuriated soldiers, and narrowly escaped with their lives. The king
and queen returned in humiliation to their apartments, feeling that
their palace was indeed a prison. They, however, secretly did not
regret the occurrence, as it made more public the indignities to
which they were exposed, and would aid in justifying before the
community any attempts they might hereafter make to escape.
The king had at length become thoroughly aroused to a sense of the
desperate position of his affairs. But the royal family was watched so
narrowly that it was now extremely difficult to make any preparations
for departure; and the king and queen, both having been brought up
surrounded by the luxuries and restraints of a palace, knew so little of
the world, and yet were so accustomed to have their own way, that they
were entirely incapable of forming any judicious plan for themselves,
and, at the same time, they were quite unwilling to adopt the views of
their more intelligent friends. They began, however, notwithstanding the
most earnest remonstrances, to make preparations for flight by providing
themselves with every conceivable comfort for their exile. In vain did
their friends assure them that they could purchase any thing they
desired in any part of Europe; that such quantities of luggage would be
only an encumbrance; that it was dangerous, under the eyes of their
vigilant enemies, to be making such extensive preparations. Neither the
king nor queen would heed such monitions. The queen persisted in her
resolution to send to Brussels, piece by piece, all the articles of a
complete and extensive wardrobe for herself and her children, to be
ready for them there upon their arrival. Madame Campan, the intimate
friend and companion of the queen, was extremely uneasy in view of this
imprudence; but, as she could not dissuade the queen, she went out again
and again, in the evening and in disguise, to purchase the necessary
articles and have them made up. She adopted the precaution of purchasing
but few articles at any one shop, and of employing various
seamstresses, lest suspicion should be excited. She had the garments
made for the daughter of the queen, cut by the measure of another young
lady who exactly resembled her in size. Gradually they thus filled one
large trunk with clothing, which was sent to the dwelling of a lady, one
of the friends of the queen, who was to convey it to Brussels.
The queen had a very magnificent dressing-case, which cost twelve
hundred dollars. This she also determined that she could not leave
behind. It could not be taken from the palace, and sent away out of the
country, without attracting attention, and leading at once to the
conviction that the queen was to follow it. The queen, in her innocent
simplicity of mankind, thought that the people could be blinded like
children, by telling them that she intended to send it as a present to
the Archduchess Christina. However, by the most earnest remonstrances
of her friends, she was induced only so far to change her plan as to
consent that the _charge d'affaires_ from Vienna should ask her at her
toilet, and in the presence of all around her, to have just such a
dressing-case made for the archduchess. This plan was carried into
execution, and the dressing-case was thus publicly made; but, as it
could not be finished in season, the queen sent her own dressing-case,
saying that she would keep the new one herself. It, however, did not
deceive the spies who surrounded the queen. They noticed all these
preparations, and communicated them to the authorities. She also very
deliberately collected all her diamonds and jewels in her private
boudoir, and beguiled the anxious hours in inclosing them in cotton and
packing them away. These diamonds, carefully boxed, were placed in the
hands of the queen's hair-dresser, a man in whom she could confide, to
be carried by him to Brussels. He faithfully fulfilled his trust. But
one of the women of the queen, whom she did not suspect of treachery,
but who was a spy of the Assembly, entered her boudoir by false keys
when the queen was absent, and reported all these proceedings. The
hair-dresser perished upon the scaffold for his fidelity. Let the name
of Leonard be honored. The infamous informer has gone to oblivion, and
we will not aid even to embalm her name in contempt.