THE ADOPTED SON OF THE QUEEN.
An hour later, the queen entered her carriage in all the splendor of
full dress. Leonard had altered her coiffure. Instead of the three-story
tower, her hair was low, and she wore a most becoming hat, chiefly made
up of flowers and feathers. She also wore rouge, for she was very pale;
and to conceal the traces of weeping she had drawn a faint dark line
below her lower lashes which greatly increased the brilliancy of her
eyes.
She ordered her coachman to drive through the town. Wherever the royal
outriders announced her coming, the people gathered on: either side of
the streets to wave their hats and handkerchiefs, and greet her with
every demonstration of enthusiasm and love.
Marie Antoinette greatly enjoyed her popularity, she bowed her head, and
smiled, and waved her hand in return, calling upon the ladies who
accompanied her to sympathize with her happiness.
"Indeed," said she to the Princess de Lamballe, [Footnote: The Princess
de Lamballe was subsequently beheaded, and her head was carried through
the streets of Paris on a pike.--Trans.] "the people love me, I do
believe. They seem glad to see me, and I, too, like to see them."
"Your majesty sees that in Versailles, as in Paris, you have thousands
of lovers," replied the princess.
"Ah," said the queen, "my lovers are there to be seen; but my enemies,
who lie concealed, are more active than my friends. And how do I know
that they are not now among the crowd that welcomes me! How dreadful it
is to wear a mask through life! They, perhaps, who shout `Long live the
queen,' are plotting against her peace, and I, who smile in return, dare
not trust them!"
The royal equipage had now reached the gates, and was passing into the
country. Marie Antoinette felt a sense of relief at the change. She
gazed with rapture upon the rich foliage of the trees, and then looking
pensively above for a few moments, she watched the floating clouds of
blue and silver, and then followed the flight of the birds that were
soaring in such freedom through the air.
"How I wish that I could fly!" said she, sighing. "We mortals are less
privileged than the little birds--we must creep along the earth with the
reptiles that we loath! Faster, tell the coachman to drive faster!"
cried she, eagerly, "I would like to move rapidly just now. Faster,
still faster!"
The command went forward, and the outriders dashed ahead at full speed.
The carriage whirled past the cottages on the wayside, while the queen,
leaning back upon her satin cushions, gave herself up to the dreamy
enjoyment which steals over the senses during a rapid drive.
Suddenly there was an exclamation, and the horses were reined in. The
queen started from her reverie, and leaned forward.
"What has happened?" cried she of the equerry, who at that moment sprang
to the side of the caleche.
"Your majesty, a child has just run across the road, and has been
snatched from under the horses' feet."
"A child!" exclaimed the queen, starting from her seat. "Is it killed?"
"No, your majesty. It is luckily unhurt. The coachman reined up his
horses in time for one of the outriders to save it. It is
unhurt--nothing but frightened. Your majesty can see him now in the arms
of the old peasant-woman there."
"She is about to return to the cottage with it," said the queen. Then
stretching her arms toward the old woman, she cried out in an imploring
voice: "Give me the child--bring it here! Heaven has sent it to me as a
comfort! Give it to me, I entreat you."
Meanwhile the old woman, recalled by the equerry, was approaching the
carriage. "See," exclaimed the queen to her ladies, "see what a lovely
boy!" And, indeed, he was a beautiful child, in spite of his little
tattered red jacket, and his bare brown legs, of dark with dirt as with
sunburn.
"Where is his mother?" asked Marie Antoinette, looking compassionately
at the child.
"My daughter is dead, madame," said the peasant. "She died last winter,
and left me the burden of five young children to feed."
"They shall burden you no longer," exclaimed the queen kindly. "I will
maintain them all, and this little angel you must give to me. Will you
not?"
"Ah, madame, the child is only too lucky! But my little Jacob is so
wilful that he will not stay with you."
"I will teach him to love me," returned the queen. "Give him to me now."
She leaned forward and received the child from his grandmother's arms.
It was so astounded, that it uttered not a cry; it only opened its great
blue eyes to their utmost, while the queen settled it upon her lap.
"See," exclaimed the delighted Marie Antoinette, "he is not at all
afraid of me. Oh, we are going to be excellent friends! Adieu, my poor
old grandmother. I will send you something for your children as soon as
I reach home. And now, Monsieur de Vievigne, let us return to
Versailles. Tell your grandmamma good-by, little Jacob. You are going to
ride with me."
"Adieu, my little one," said the grandmother. "Don't forget your--"
Her words were drowned in the whirr of the carriage, which disappeared
from her wondering eyes in a cloud of dust.
The motion, the noise, and the air brushing his curls into his face,
awakened the boy from his stupor. He started from the queen's arms, and
looking wildly around, began to yell with all his might. Never had such
unharmonious sounds assailed the ears of the queen before. But she
seemed to be quite amused with it. The louder little Jacob screamed and
kicked, the closer she pressed him to her heart; nor did she seem to
observe that his dirty little feet were leaving unsightly marks upon her
rich silk dress.
The caleche arrived at Versailles, and drew up before the doors of the
palace. With her newly acquired treasure in her arms, the queen
attempted to leave the carriage, but the shrieks and kicks became so
vigorous, that she was obliged to put the child down. The pages,
gentlemen, and ladies in waiting, stared in astonishment as her majesty
went by, holding the refractory little peasant by the hand, his rosy
cheeks covered with many an arabesque, the joint production of tears and
dirt. Little cared Jacob for the splendor around him; still less for the
caresses of his royal protectress.
"I want to go to my grandmother," shrieked he, "I want my brother Louis
and sister Marianne!"
"Oh, dear little one!" cried the queen, "what an affectionate heart he
has! He loves his relatives better than all our luxury, and the Queen of
France is less to him than his poor old grandmother!--Never mind,
darling, you shall be loved as well and better than you ever were at
home, and all the more that you have not learned to flatter!"
She bent down to caress him, but he wiped off her kisses with
indignation. Marie Antoinette laughed heartily, and led the child into
her cabinet, where she placed him on the very spot where she had been
weeping a few hours earlier.
"Campan," said she, "see how good God has been to me to-day! He has sent
me a child upon whom I can lavish all the love which is consuming my
poor, lonely heart. Yes, my little one, I will be a mother to you, and
may God and your own mother hear my vow! Now, Campan, let us take
counsel together as to what is to be done. First, we must have a nurse,
and then his face must be washed, and he must be dressed as becomes my
pretty little adopted son."
The child, who had ceased his cries for a moment, now broke out into
fresh shrieks. "I want to go home! I won't stay here in this big house!
Take me to my grandmother!"
"Hush, you unconscionable little savage!" said Madame de Campan.
"Oh, Campan!" cried, the queen deprecatingly, "how can you chide the
little fellow! His cries are so many proofs of the honesty of his heart,
which is not to be bribed of its love by all that royalty can bestow!"
[Footnote: The queen kept her word. The boy was brought up as her own
child. He always breakfasted and dined by her side, and she never called
him by any other name save that of "my child." When Jacques grew up, he
displayed a taste for painting, and of course had every advantage which
royal protection could afford him. He was privileged to approach the
queen unannounced. But when the Revolution broke out, this miserable
wretch, to avoid popularity, joined the Jacobins, and was one of the
queen's bitterest enemies and most frenzied accusers.]