LE ROI EST MORT, VIVE LE ROI!
It was the evening of the tenth of May, 1774. The palace of Versailles,
the seat of royal splendor, was gloomy, silent, and empty. Regality,
erst so pleasure-loving and voluptuous, now lay with crown all dim, and
purple all stained, awaiting the last sigh of an old, expiring king,
whose demise was to restore to it an inheritance of youth, beauty, and
strength.
In one wing of the palace royalty hovered over a youthful pair, as the
genius of hope; in another it frowned upon the weak old king as the
implacable angel of death.
Louis the Fifteenth was balancing the great account of his life--a life
of luxury, voluptuousness, and supreme selfishness. Yielding to the
entreaties of his daughters, he had sent for the Archbishop of Paris;
but knowing perfectly well that the sacraments of the church would not
be administered under a roof which was polluted by the presence of Du
Barry, the old libertine had banished her to the Chateau de Ruelles.
But Monseigneur de Beaumontr required something more than this of the
royal sinner. He exacted that he should make public confession of his
scandalous life in presence of the court to which he had given such
shameful example. The king had struggled against such open humiliation,
but the archbishop was firm, and the fear of death predominating over
pride, Louis consented to make the sacrifice.
For three days the courtiers had hung about the anteroom, afraid to
enter (for the king's disease was small-pox), yet afraid to take flight,
lest by some chance he should recover. But now the doors of the royal
apartments were flung wide open, and there was great trepidation among
the crowd. The archbishop in his canonicals was seen standing by the bed
of state; on one side of him stood the grand almoner, and on the other
the minister, the Duke d'Aiguillon. At the foot of the bed knelt the
daughters of the king, who in soft whispers were trying to comfort their
miserable father.
"The king wishes to bid adieu to his friends!" cried the Duke
d'Aiguillon, in a loud voice.
Here was a dilemma! Everybody was afraid of the small-pox, for the
handsome Marquis de Letorieres, whom Louis had insisted upon seeing, had
just died of the infection, and nobody desired to follow him. And yet
the king might outlive this attack, and then--what?
Once more the Duke d'Aiguillon called out for the king's friends; and,
trembling from apprehension of results that might follow this latter
contingency, they entered the chamber of death. The atmosphere was
fearful. Not all the fumes of the incense which was sending its vapory
wreaths to the pictured ceilings could overpower the odor of approaching
dissolution. In vain the acolytes swung their golden censers--death was
there, and the scent of the grave.
Breathless and with compressed lips the king's friends listened to his
indistinct mutterings, and looked upon his swollen, livid, blackened
face. Each one had hurried by, and now they all were free again, and
were preparing to fly as far as possible from the infected spot. But the
clear, solemn voice of the archbishop--that voice which so often had
stricken terror to their worldly hearts--was heard again, and he bade
them stay.
"The king asks pardon of his subjects for the wicked and scandalous life
which he has led on earth," said the archbishop. "Although as a man he
is responsible to God alone for his deeds, as a sovereign he
acknowledges to his subjects that he heartily repents of his wickedness,
and desires to live only that he may do penance for the past and make
amends for the future."
A piteous groan escaped from the lips of the dying monarch, but his
"friends" did not stay to hear it; they fled precipitately from the
frightful scene.
While here a trembling soul was being driven from its earthly dwelling,
in another wing of the palace the other members of the royal family were
in the chapel at prayer. The evening services were over, and the
chaplain was reading the "forty hours' prayer," when the sky became
suddenly obscured, peal upon peal of thunder resounded along the
heavens, and night enveloped the chapel in its dismal pall of black.
Livid flashes of lightning lit up the pale faces of the royal
supplicants, while to every faltering prayer that fell from their lips
the answer came from above in the roar of the angry thunder-clap.
There, before the altar, knelt the doomed pair, the innocent heirs of a
selfish and luxurious race of kings; whose sins were to be visited upon
their unconscious heads. No wonder they wept--no wonder they shuddered
on the dark and stormy night which heralded their reign.
The rites were ended, and the dauphin and dauphiness went silently
together to their apartments. The few trusty attendants who were
gathered in the anteroom greeted them with faint smiles, and uttered
silent orisons in their behalf; for who could help compassionating these
two young creatures, upon whose inexperienced heads the thorny crown of
royalty was so soon to be placed?
As they entered the door, a flash of lightning; that seemed like the
fire which smote the guilty cities of Israel, flashed athwart their
paths, and the thunder cracked and rattled above the roof as though it
had been riving that palace-dome asunder. The dauphiness cried out, and
clung to her husband's arm. He, scarcely less appalled, stood motionless
on the threshold.
The violence of the wind at that moment had burst open some outer door.
The lights in the chandeliers were almost extinguished, and one solitary
wax-light, that had been burning in the recess of a window, went
entirely out. Regardless of etiquette, and of the presence of the royal
pair, Monsieur de Campan sprang to the chandelier, and, relighting the
candle, quickly replaced it in the window.
The dauphin beheld the act with astonishment, for no one at that court
was more observant of decorum than Monsieur de Campan.
"What means that light in the window?" inquired the dauphin, in his
clear, touching voice.
"Pardon me, your highness, it is merely a ceremony," replied Monsieur de
Campan, confused.
"What ceremony?" asked the dauphin, with surprise.
"Your highness commands me?"
"I request you--if the dauphiness permits," said Louis, turning to his
wife, who, almost exhausted, leaned for support against him, and bowed
her head.
"Your majesty has given orders, that as soon as the event, which is
about to take place, has occurred, the whole court shall leave
Versailles for Choisy. Now it would not be possible to issue verbal
orders in such a moment as the one which we await; so that the master of
the horse and myself had agreed upon a signal by which the matter could
be arranged without speech. The garden du corps, pages, equerries,
coaches, coachmen, and outriders, are all assembled in the court-yard,
their eyes fixed upon this light. As soon as it is extinguished, it will
be understood that the moment has arrived when the court is to leave
Versailles."
"The disappearance of the light, then, will communicate the tidings of
the king's death?"
Monsieur de Campan bowed. Louis drew his wife hurriedly forward, and
passed into another room, where, with his hands folded behind him, he
walked to and fro.
"God is just," murmured he to himself, "and there is retribution in
heaven."
Marie Antoinette, whose large violet eyes had followed her husband's
motions, raised them to his face with a look of inquiry. She rose from
the divan on which she was sitting, and putting her small, white hand
upon the dauphin's shoulder, said:
"What do you mean, Louis?"
"I mean that this solitary light, for whose disappearance these people
are waiting, shines in retribution for the fearful death-bed of my
father."
"I do not understand."
"No, Antoinette, how should you? You have never heard the tragic story
of my father's death, have you?"
"No, my husband," said she, tenderly; "tell it to me now."
"I will, Antoinette. He was one of the best and truest hearts that ever
lived; and yet these selfish courtiers all forsook him in his dying
hour. He lay alone and abandoned in his room by all save my angelic
mother, who nursed him as loving woman alone can nurse. The court was at
Fontainebleau, and the dauphin's father announced that as soon as his
son had expired, they would all journey to Choisy. My father, who in an
arm-chair, was inhaling, for the last time, the balmy breath of spring,
saw these hurried preparations for departure from the open window where
he sat. He saw carriages, horses, trunks, lackeys, and equerries ready
at a moment's warning to move. He saw that the signal for the rushing
crowd to depart was to be his death. Turning to his physician, he said,
with a sad smile, 'I must not be too long in dying, for these people are
becoming impatient.'" [Footnote: Soulavie, "Memoires," etc., vol. i.]
"Shameful!" cried Marie Antoinette, wiping away her tears.
"Ay, more than shameful!" exclaimed Louis. "Now, you see, that the hour
of retribution has come, for once more the court grows impatient with
the length of a dying sovereign's agony. Oh, would that my noble father
were alive! How much more worthy was he to be a king than I."
"From my heart I echo your wish," said Antoinette, fervently. "How was
it that he died so young?"
Louis looked searchingly at the face of his young wife. "He died of a
malady whose name is an impeachment of the honor of those who survive
him," said the dauphin, sternly, "and my mother died of the same
disease. [Footnote: It was generally believed that the dauphin and his
wife were poisoned by a political party, whose leader was the Duke de
Choiseul. The royal couple belonged to the anti-Austrian party.
"Memoires de Campan," vol. i., p. 78.] But let us not throw any darker
shadows over the gloom of this heavy hour. I am stifled--I have a
presentiment of--" A loud shout interrupted the dauphin. It came nearer
and nearer, and now it reached the anteroom, where the crowding
courtiers were pouring in to greet King Louis XVI.
The dauphin and his wife were at no loss to understand these shouts.
They exchanged glances of fear, and side by side they fell upon their
knees while, with tear-streaming eyes, they faltered. "O God have mercy
upon us, we are so young to reign!" [Footnote: "Memoires de Campan,"
vol. i., p. 78.]
The doors were thrown open, and the mistress of ceremonies of Marie
Antoinette appeared. Behind her came a multitude of lords and ladies,
their curious eyes peering at what they had never expected to see--a
royal couple assuming the purple, not with pomp and pride, but with
humility, distrust, and prayer.
They rose, and faced their subjects. Madame de Noailles courtesied so
low that she was upon her knees.
"Your majesties will forgive this intrusion," said she, with all the
aplomb of her dignity. "I come to request that your majesties will
repair to the state reception-room to receive the congratulations of
your royal relatives, and those of your court, who are all waiting
anxiously to do you homage."
Such a request, from the lips of Madame de Noailles, was the exaction of
an indispensable form of court-etiquette, which the young couple dared
not evade.
Arm in arm they went, Marie Antoinette hiding her tears with her
handkerchief, and looking inexpressibly lovely in her childish emotions,
while the loud greetings of a magnificent court hailed her as their
queen.
While the consorts of the royal princes folded their sister-in-law in
their arms, the princes, with courtly decorum, bowed ceremoniously
before the king.
"Permit us, sire," began the Count of Provence, "to be the first to lay
our homage at your majesty's feet, and to--"
"My brothers, my brothers!" cried Louis, deeply affected, "is my crown
to rob me of the dear ties of kindred? Oh, do not call me king, for I
cannot afford to lose the dear companions of my childhood."
"Sire," replied the Count of Provence, "you shall not lose them; and for
us, our gain is two-fold. We receive from God a gracious king, and
retain our much-loved brother." And the count embraced the king, who had
opened his arms to receive him.
A quarter of an hour later, the chateau of Versailles was deserted. The
courtiers, pages, equerries, and lackeys, had all departed, delighted to
leave that infected atmosphere within whose poisonous influence the iron
rules of etiquette had detained them while Louis XV. lived. None of them
felt inclined to do homage to departed royalty. Even the Duke de
Villequier, first gentleman of the bed-chamber, in his terror, forgot
etiquette; and instead of watching the king's corpse, he, too, made
ready to go with the rest.
"Monsieur," said the duke to Andouille, the king's physician, "I leave
you that you may be able to open and embalm the body." Andouille grew
pale, for he knew perfectly well that the performance of such a ceremony
as that, was his death-warrant. However, after a pause, he replied, "I
am ready, your grace, but you must remain to hold the king's head. It
is, as you know, a part of your duty as gentleman of the bedchamber."
[Footnote: Campan, vol. i., p. 79]
The Duke de Villequier said nothing. He merely bowed and hurried from
the room. Andouille followed his example, but, more considerate than the
other attendants of the king, he made some provision for the deserted
corpse. He sent for one of the subordinates of the palace, and ordered
him to watch by the body. Then, going to his carriage, he saw several
hodmen lounging about, who were carrying mortar for some repairs that
were being made at the palace. The physician called them, and bade them
go tell the lord-Steward that the king's coffin must be saturated with
spirits of wine, and his winding-sheet also.
Such were the preparations that were made for the obsequies of the
defunct king; and his body was watched by a few servants and these
hodmen whom Andouille had employed as messengers.