THE QUEEN AND THE "DAMES DE LA HALLE."
A brilliant crowd thronged the apartments of the Princess d'Artois. The
royal family, the court, and the lords and ladies of high rank were
assembled in her reception-rooms, for close by an event of highest
importance to France was about to transpire. The princess was giving
birth to a scion of royalty. The longings of France were about to be
fulfilled--the House of Bourbon was to have an heir to its greatness.
The accouchement of a royal princess was in those days an event that
concerned all Paris, and all the authorities and corporations of the
great capital had representatives in those reception-rooms. It being
only a princess who was in labor, and not a queen, none but the royal
family and the ministers were admitted into her bedchamber. The
aristocracy waited in the reception-rooms, the people in the corridors
and galleries. Had it been Marie Antoinette, all the doors would have
been thrown open to her subjects. The fishwives of Paris, the laborers,
the gamins, even the beggars had as much right to see the Queen of
France delivered, as the highest dignitary of the land. The people,
then, who thronged both palace and gardens, were awaiting the moment
when the physician should appear upon the balcony and announce to the
enraptured populace that a prince or princess had been vouchsafed to
France.
From time to time one of the royal physicians came out to report the
progress of affairs, until finally the voice of the accoucheur
proclaimed that the Princess d'Artois had given birth to a prince.
A cry of joy followed this announcement. It was that of the young
mother. Raising her head from her pillow, she cried out in ecstasy, "Oh,
how happy, how happy I am!" [Foreword: Madame de Campan, vol. i., p 216.
The prince whose advent was a source of such triumph to his mother, was
the Duke de Berry, father of the present Count de Chambord. He it was
who, in 1827, was stabbed as he was about to enter the theatre, and died
in the arms of Louis XVIII., former Count de Provence.]
The queen bent over her and kissed her forehead, whispering words of
affectionate sympathy in her ear; but no one saw the tears that fell
from Marie Antoinette's eyes upon the lace-covered pillow of her
fortunate kinswoman.
She kissed the princess again, as though to atone for those tears, and
with tender congratulations took her leave. She passed through the
reception-rooms, greeting the company with smiling composure, and then
went out into the corridors which led to her own apartments. Here the
scene changed. Instead of the respectful silence which had saluted her
passage through the rooms, she encountered a hum of voices and an eager
multitude all pressing forward to do her homage after their own rough
fashion.
Every one felt bound to speak a word of love or of admiration, and it
was only by dint of great exertion that the two footmen who preceded the
queen were able to open a small space through which she could pass. She
felt annoyed--even alarmed--and for the first time in her life regretted
the etiquette which once had required that the Queen of France should
not traverse the galleries of Versailles without an escort of her ladies
of honor.
Marie Antoinette had chosen to dispense with their attendance, and now
she was obliged to endure the contact of those terrible "dames de la
halle," who for hundreds of years had claimed the privilege of speaking
face to face with royalty, and who now pressed around her, with jokes
that crimsoned her cheeks while they were rapturously received by the
canaille.
With downcast eyes and trembling steps, she tried to hurry past the
odious crowd of poissardes.
"Look, look," cried one, peering in her face, "look at the queen and see
her blushing like a rose-bud!"
"But indeed, pretty queen, you should remember that you are not a
rose-bud, but a full-blown rose, and it is time that you were putting
forth rose-buds yourself."
"So it is, so it is," shouted the multitude. "The queen owes us a
rose-bud, and we must have it." "See here, pretty queen," cried another
fish-wife, "it is your fault if we stand here on the staircases and out
in the hot sun to-day. If you had done your duty to France instead of
leaving it to the princess in yonder, the lackeys would have been
obliged to open the doors to us as well as to the great folks, and we
would have jostled the dukes and princes, and taken our ease on your
velvet sofas. The next time we come here, we must have a tramp into the
queen's room, and she must let us see herself and a brave dauphin, too."
"Yes, yes," cried the fish-wives in chorus, "when we come back we must
see the young dauphin."
The queen tried to look as though she heard none of this. Not once had
she raised her eyes or turned her head. Now she was coming to the end of
her painful walk through the corridors, for Heaven be praised! just
before her was the door of her own anteroom. Once across that threshold
she was safe from the coarse ribaldry that was making her heart throb
and her cheeks tingle; for there the rights of the people ended, and
those of the sovereign began.
But the "dames de la halle" were perfectly aware of this, and they were
determined that she should not escape so easily.
"Promise us," cried a loud, shrill voice, "promise us that we shall have
a young dauphin as handsome as his mother and as good as his father."
"Yes, promise, promise," clamored the odious throng; and men and women
pressed close upon the queen to see her face and hear her answer.
Marie Antoinette had almost reached her door. She gave a sigh of relief,
and for the first time raised her eyes with a sad, reproachful look
toward her tormentors.
Just then a strapping, wide-shouldered huckster, pushed her heavy body
between the queen and the door, and barring the entrance with her great
brown arms, cried out vociferously: "You to not pass until you promise!
We love you and love the king we will none of the Count de Provence for
our king; we must have a dauphin."
The queen still pretended not to hear. She tried to evade the poissarde
and to slip into her room; but the woman perceived the motion, and
confronted her again.
"Be so kind, madame," said Marie Antoinette, mildly, "as to allow me to
pass."
"Give us the promise, then," said the fish-wife, putting her arms
a-kimbo.
The other women echoed the words, "Give us the promise, give us the
promise!"
Poor Marie Antoinette! She felt her courage leaving her--she must be rid
of this fearful band of viragos at any price. She would faint if she
stood there much longer.
Again the loud cry. "Promise us a dauphin, a dauphin, a dauphin!"
"I promise," at last replied the queen. "Now, madame, in mercy, let me
have entrance to my own rooms."
The woman stepped back, the queen passed away, and behind her the people
shouted out in every conceivable tone of voice, "She has promised. The
queen has promised a dauphin!"
Marie Antoinette walked hurriedly forward through the first anteroom
where her footman waited, to the second wherein her ladies of honor were
assembled.
Without a word to any of them she darted across the room and opening the
door of her cabinet, threw herself into an arm-chair and sobbed aloud.
No one was there excepting Madame de Campan.
"Campan," said she, while tears were streaming down her cheeks, "shut
the door, close the portiere. Let no one witness the sorrow of the Queen
of France."
With a passionate gesture, she buried her face in her hands and wept
aloud.
After a while she raised her tearful eyes and they rested upon Madame de
Campan, who was kneeling before her with an expression of sincerest
sympathy.
"Oh, Campan, what humiliation I have endured today! The poorest woman on
the street is more fortunate than I; and if she bears a child upon her
arm, she can look down with compassion upon the lonely Queen of
France,--that queen upon whose marriage the blessing of God does not
rest; for she has neither husband nor child."
"Say not so, your majesty, for God has smitten your enemies, and with
His own tender hand He is kindling the fire of love in the heart of the
king your husband."
Marie Antoinette shook her head sadly. "No--the king does not love me.
His heart does not respond to mine. He loves me, perhaps, as a sister,
but no more--no more!"
"He loves your majesty with the passion and enthusiasm of a lover, but
he is very timid, and waits for some token of reciprocity before he
dares to avow his love."
"No, he does not love me," repeated Marie Antoinette with a sigh. "I
have tried every means to win his heart. He is indulgent toward my
failings, and kindly anticipates my wishes; sometimes he seems to enjoy
my society, but it is with the calm, collateral affection of a brother
for his sister. And I!--oh, my God! my whole heart is his, and craves
for that ardent, joy-bestowing love of which poets sing, and which noble
women prize above every earthly blessing. Such love as my father gave to
my happy mother, I would that the king felt for me."
"The king does not know the extent of his love for your majesty," said
De Campan soothingly. "Some fortunate accident or dream of jealousy will
reveal it to him before long."
"God speed the accident or the dream!" sighed the queen; and forthwith
her tears began to flow anew, while her hands lay idly upon her lap.
Those burning tears at last awakened her from the apathy of grief.
Suddenly she gave a start and threw back her head. Then she rose from
her seat, and, like Maria Theresa, began to pace the apartment.
Gradually her face resumed its usual expression, and her demeanor
became, as it was wont to be, dignified and graceful. Coming directly up
to Madame de Campan, she smiled and gave her hand. "Good Campan," said
she, "you have seen me in a moment of weakness, of which I am truly
ashamed. Try to forget it dear friend, and I promise that it shall never
be repeated. And now, call my tire-women and order my carriage. Leonard
is coming with a new coiffure, and Bertin has left me several beautiful
hats. Let us choose the very prettiest of them all, for I must go and
show myself to the people. Order an open carriage, that every one may
see my face, and no one may say that the queen envies the maternal joys
of the Countess d'Artois. Tonight we are to have the opera of
'Iphigenia'--it is one of my magnificent teacher's chefs-d'oeuvre. The
emperor and I are to go together to listen to our divine Gluck's music,
and Paris must believe that Marie Antoinette is happy--too happy to envy
any woman! Come, Campan, and dress me becomingly."