THE FIRST PASQUINADE.
The court had left Choisy for the Chateau de la Muette, near Paris. Here
the queen was to hold her first public levee, and her subjects longed to
appear before her, for the Parisians were enthusiastic admirers of grace
and beauty. Marie Antoinette had won their hearts by refusing to accept
the tax called "La ceinture de la reine." This tax was the perquisite of
the Queen of France on her accession to the throne. But having
discovered that the nobles had managed to evade it and cast the burden
of taxation upon the poor, Marie Antoinette had requested her husband's
leave to relinquish her right to it. Like wildfire the news of the young
queen's generosity spread throughout Paris; and in all the streets,
cafe, and cabarets the people were singing this couplet
"Vous renoncez, charmante souveraine, Au plus beau de vos revenus; A
quol vous serviraiio la celnture de refine, Vous avez celle de Venus."
They sang, they shouted, and made merry, happy in the possession of a
young king, and a beautiful queen, casting never a thought toward him
who, years before, had been surnamed Le Bien-aime.[Footnote: "Memoires
de Weber," vol. i., p. 43.]
One speculating jeweller, alone, honored the memory of the deceased
king, and made his fortune thereby. He manufactured a mourning
snuff-box, of black shagreen, whose lid was ornamented with a portrait
of the queen. He called his boxes "La consolation, dans le
chagrin,"[Footnote: "Mbmoires de Madame de Campan" vol. i., p. 91.] and
his portrait and pun became so popular, that in less than a week he had
sold a hundred thousand of these boxes.[Footnote: This word "chagrin,"
signifies not only grief, but also that preparation of leather, which,
in English, is called "shagreen." Hence the pun.]
Louis, also, had his share of the national good-will. He renounced the
tax called "Le joyeux avenement;" and to commemorate the act, another
snuff-box made its appearance in Paris as a pendant to the "Consolation
in Grief." The king's box contained the portraits of Louis XII. and
Henry IV. Below these, was his own likeness, with the following
inscription: "Les peres du peuple, XII et IV. font XVI." These boxes
were as popular as those of the queen, and Louis and Marie Antoinette
were the idols of the Parisians.
"Long live the king!" was the cry from morn till night. Hope brightened
every eye, and reigned in every heart. The people dreamed of peace,
happiness, and plenty, and the fashions symbolized their state of mind.
The women dressed their heads with ears of wheat, and ate their dragees
from cornucopias. The men poured out their enthusiasm in sonnets and
addresses, and every thing in France was couleur de rose.
Couleur de rose--with one exception. The anti-Austrian party frowned,
and plotted, and hated. Exasperated by the enthusiasm which the
beautiful young queen inspired, they watched her every motion, eager to
magnify the most trivial imperfection into crime; hoping, sooner or
later, to render her obnoxious to the French people, and finally, to
compass the end of all their wicked intrigues--a separation between the
king and queen, and the disgrace and banishment of Marie Antoinette to
Austria.
It was the day of the grand reception, at La Muette, where every lady
having a right to appear at court might come uninvited and be presented
to the queen. The great throne-room was prepared for the occasion; and
although its decorations were black, they were tastefully enlivened with
white and silver. The throne itself was covered with black velvet,
trimmed with silver and fringe. Hundreds of ladies thronged the room,
all with their eyes fixed upon the door through which the queen and her
court must make their entrance.
The folding-doors were thrown wide open, and, announced by her mistress
of ceremonies, Marie Antoinette appeared.
A murmur of admiration was heard among the crowd. Never had the queen
looked so transcendently lovely as she did to-day in her dress of deep
mourning. She seemed to feel the solemnity of her position as
queen-consort of a great nation, and the expression of her face was
tranquil and dignified. No woman ever represented royalty with better
grace than Marie Antoinette, and the old coquettes of the regency and of
the corrupt court of Louis XV. were awed by her stateliness. They could
not but confess that they were in the presence of a noble and virtuous
woman; therefore they disliked her, whispering one to the other, "What
an actress!"
Marie Antoinette took her seat upon the throne. On her right and left
were the royal family, and behind them the ladies of the court. Opposite
stood Madame de Noailles, whose duty it was to present those who were
unknown to the queen.
The presentation began. Forth in their high-heeled shoes came the
noble-born widows, who, old and faded, were loath to forget that in the
days of the regency they had been blooming like the queen, and who, in
happy ignorance of their crow's feet and wrinkles, were decked in the
self-same costumes which had once set off their roses and dimples.
It was a ludicrous sight--these ugly old women, with their jewels and
patches, their extraordinary head-dresses and their deep, courtesies,
painful by reason of the aching bones of three-score and ten. The young
princesses dared not raise their eyes to these representatives of
by-gone coquetry, for they were afraid to commit a crime--they were
afraid that they might laugh. But the ladies of honor, safe behind the
hoops of the queen and her sisters-in-law made merry over the
magnificent old ruins. Madame de Noailles was so busy with the front,
that she overlooked the rear, where the lively young Marquise de
Charente Tounerre, tired of standing, had glided down and seated herself
comfortably on the floor. Neither could she see that the marquise, in
the exuberance of her youthful spirits, was pulling the other ladies by
their skirts, and amusing them with mimicry of the venerable coquettes
before mentioned; so that while etiquette and ceremony were parading
their ugliness in front of the throne, behind it, youth and beauty were
tittering and enjoying the absurd pageant in utter thoughtlessness of
all consequences.
The mistress of ceremonies was in the act of presenting one of the most
shrivelled and most elaborately dressed of the ancients, when the queen,
attracted by the whispering behind, turned her head in the direction of
her ladies of honor. There on the floor, sat the Marquise de Charente
Tounerre, imitating every gesture of the old comtesse; while the others,
including the princesses themselves, were pursing up their lips, and
smothering their laughter behind handkerchiefs and fans. The drolleries
of the marquise were too much for the queen. She turned away in terror,
lest they should infect her with untimely levity, and just at that
moment the comtesse made precisely such a courtesy as the marquise was
making behind her.
Marie Antoinette felt that her dignity was departing. She straggled to
recall it, but in vain; and instead of the stately inclination which it
was her duty to return, she suddenly opened her fan to hide the mirth
which she was unable to control.
The gesture was seen not only by the austere mistress of ceremonies, but
by the comtesse herself, who, furious at the insult, looked daggers at
the queen, and omitting her third courtesy, swept indignantly to her
place.
A short pause ensued. Madame de Noailles was so shocked that she forgot
to give the signal for another presentation. The queen's face was still
buried under her fan, and the princesses had followed her example.
Discontent was manifest upon the countenances of all present, and the
lady whose turn it was to advance did so with visible reluctance.
Marie Antoinette recovered her self-possession, and looked with perfect
serenity toward the high and mighty duchess, whose titles were being
pompously enumerated by the punctilious mistress of ceremonies. As ill
luck would have it, this one was older, uglier, and more strangely
bedizened than all the others together. The queen felt a spasmodic
twitch of her face; she colored violently, and opening her fan again, it
was evident to all that assemblage of censorious dames that for the
second time youth and animal spirits had prevailed over decorum.
In vain Marie Antoinette sought to repair the contretemps. In vain she
went among them with her sweetest smiles and most gracious words. Their
outraged grandeur was not to be appeased--she had offended beyond
forgiveness.
The Areopagus sent forth its fist. The queen was a frivolous woman; she
had that worst of failings--a taste for satire. She despised all
conventionalities, and trampled all etiquette under foot.
On that day the number of her enemies was increased by more than a
hundred persons, who attacked her with tongues sharper than two-edged
swords. The first thrust was given her on the morning that followed the
reception; and the same people who a few days before had been singing
her praises on the Pont-neuf, were equally, if not better pleased with
the ballad of "La Reine moqueuse," of which the cruel refrain was as
follows:
"Petite reine de vingt ails Vous qui traitez si mal les gens, Vous
repasserez la barriere Laire, laire, laire, lanlaire, lanla." [Footnote:
"Memoires de Madame de C'ampan," vol. i., pp. 90, 91.]