“It is our royal state that yieldsThis bitterness of woe.”—Wordsworth.
“It is our royal state that yieldsThis bitterness of woe.”—Wordsworth.
“It is our royal state that yields
This bitterness of woe.”—Wordsworth.
IN the grandsalonof Trianon stood King Louis XV., and near him, on a gold and crimson sofa, sat the Marchioness of Pompadour. In his hand the king held a letter which vividly depicted—far too vividly for royal ears—the desolation of the kingdom and the ruinous state of the finances; and his Majesty frowned gloomily as he gazed upon it, for it was not the habit of King Louis the Well-Beloved to concern himself with the interests or the wishes of his subjects, or with what took place within his wide domain of France. Turning suddenly to Madame de Pompadour, the king read aloud the missive: “Sire,—Your finances are in the greatest disorder, and the great majority of states have perished through this cause; your ministers are without capacity. Open war is waged against religion. Lose no time in restoring order to the state of the finances. Embarrassments necessitate fresh taxes, which grind the people and induce toward revolt. A time will come, sire, when the people will be enlightened, and that time is probably near at hand”; then, turning upon his heel, he added angrily, “I wish to hear no more about it. Things will last as they are as long as I shall.” And Madame la Marquise de Pompadour, rising from her gold and crimson sofa, cried gayly, “Right,mon roi!Things will lastas long as we shall, andaprès nous le deluge!” Madame la Marquise de Pompadour spoke truly, and when at last the storm burst in all its fury, and the Duc de Liancourt announced to Louis XVI. that the Bastile had fallen, and upon its smouldering ruins a people bid defiance to their king, his Majesty, astonished and alarmed, exclaimed, “It is a revolt, then!”
“Nay, sire,” replied Liancourt, “it is a revolution!”
A revolution! Aye, a revolution truly. And King Louis leaves his splendid, proud Versailles, and Queen Marie Antoinette bids sad adieu to Trianon. The royal diadem of France, torn from a kingly brow, is trampled in the dust, and the blood-red emblem of the Jacobins appears upon the gilded portals of the Tuileries Palace. Anarchy! confusion! chaos! Government, Philosophy, Religion,—all are hurled headlong in the dark abyss, and fury reigns supreme. But amid this overthrow of men and things, a daring soul arises who grasps the helm of state, and stands erect beneath the weight; who chains revolution in France, and unchains it in the rest of Europe; and who, having added to his name the brilliant synonymes of Rivoli, Jena, and Marengo, picks up the royal crown, and, burnishing it into imperial splendor, places it triumphantly upon his head, to found for a time a kind of Roman Empire,—himself the Cæsar of the nineteenth century.
Marie-Antoinette dreseed downMARIE-ANTOINETTE.
MARIE-ANTOINETTE.
All the palace, all Vienna, was full of excitement. The loyal affection and sentimental lamentation of the inhabitants gave vent to themselves in cries of grief. For the fair young daughter of their empress, in whose coming exaltation they took the utmost pride, who was to do them such honor and service at the court of France, she whose bright face ever beamed with smiles, was, on this21st of April, 1770, departing on her long journey, and, as many without much prophetic insight might have perceived, her difficult career. When the great coach rolled from the palace courtyard, the girl-bride covered her face with her hands, which yet could not conceal the tears that streamed through her slender fingers. Again and again she turned for a farewell look at the mother, the home, and the early friends, which she was never to see again. The carriage rolled away, and Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josèphe de Lorraine turned her back forever on the Prater and the Danube, Schönbrunn and the moated Laxenburg.
Spring-time in sunny France; the birds are singing merrily, the trees are putting forth their leaves, and all nature wears a look of happiness and joy. The Château de Compiègne is filled with guests,—a brilliant assemblage of thehaute noblessecomposing the court of Louis XV. Upon the terrace stands the king, and with him his three grandsons,—the Dauphin (Louis XVI.), Monsieur le Comte de Provence (Louis XVIII.), and the Comte d’ Artois (Charles X.),—and an eager, anxious crowd surrounds them. All gaze in one direction, for Louis, the Dauphin, awaits his bride,—she who is to be the future queen of France. But little like a bridegroom looks the timid, fat Louis, upon this bright spring morning. He wears an air of resigned indifference, contrasting strongly with the eagerness of his Majesty, King Louis XV., who, notwithstanding his sixty years, makes a far more gallant knight than he. There is a cloud of dust upon the horizon; theavant-couriersarrive; the king and the Dauphin mount their horses, and with a numerous retinue ride forth to meet and welcome the approaching bride. And now the old state travelling carriage is in sight. Putting spurs tohis horse, the king leads the way, and, hat in hand, rides up to the side of the cumbrous vehicle. The door flies open, and before him in all the freshness of her fifteen summers is Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josèphe de Lorraine, Archduchess of Austria. The introductions follow, and the young bride and her bashfulfiancéeare conducted back to Versailles, where, on the 16th of May, 1770, the nuptial benediction is pronounced by the Archbishop of Paris, in the chapel of the palace.
Then followed thefêtes, and notwithstanding the exchequer was in the usual chronic state of exhaustion, twenty millions of francs—a mighty sum for that period—was spent upon them.
“Fêtes magnifiques” they were termed, from their surpassing in splendor anything witnessed in France since the days ofLouis le Grand. For weeks the public rejoicings continued.
On the 30th of May, they were to close with thefêteof the Ville de Paris, and in the evening a display of illuminations and fireworks on the Place Louis XV. (now the Place de la Concorde) which were to surpass all that had preceded them. Thousands of people filled the square and all the approaching avenues. Most unfortunately, through some mismanagement, the scaffolding supporting the fireworks took fire and burned rapidly. No means were at hand for extinguishing the flames, and the terror-stricken multitude rushed in all directions. Crushing upon each other, hundreds were suffocated by the pressure. Those that fell were trampled to death. Groans and screams, and frantic cries for help that none could render, filled the air. Nothing, in fact, could be done until the fire had burnt itself out, and the extent of the calamity was ascertained. The Dauphin and Dauphiness,distressed at so sad a disaster, gave their entire year’s allowance towards mitigating the misery that had fallen upon many poor people; and the “fêtes magnifiques,” with all their splendor and rejoicing, ending thus in “lamentation, mourning, and woe,” seem to have been, as it were, a foreshadowing of the career of her for whom they had been given,—the unfortunate Marie Antoinette.
“It is the 10th of May, 1774,—a lovely evening following a bright spring day. The sun has sunk below the horizon; the brilliant hues of the western sky have faded into the dark shades of the advancing night, and the Château of Versailles, in its sombre grandeur, looms larger in the increasing gloom. On the terrace are saunterers in earnest conversation; carriages and horses and a throng of attendants in the marble court. A group of impatient pages,écuyersbooted and spurred, an escort of the household troops, eager for an order to mount,—all are watching, with anxious eyes, the flickering glare of a candle that faintly illumines the window of a chamber in the château.”
In that chamber lies Louis, once the “well-beloved,” in the last stages of confluent small-pox. As the clock of Versailles tolls the hour of twelve, at midnight, the flame is extinguished; the king is dead! Louis XV. has breathed his last! Instantly all is movement and animation in the courtyard, while through the gilded galleries of Versailles resounds the cry, destined to be heard never again within its walls, “The king is dead! Long live the king!” as, with a noise like thunder, the courtiers rush from the antechamber of the dead monarch to the apartments of the Dauphin, to hailhimking of France. This extraordinary tumult, in the silence of midnight, conveyed to Louis and Marie Antoinette thefirst intelligence that the crown of France had fallen upon their brows; and, overcome by the violence of their emotions, they fell upon their knees exclaiming, “O God! guide us, protect us; we are too young to govern!”
Preparations had been made for an immediate flight; for all alike were anxious to escape the infectious air of thepetits appartementsandgrande galerie, whose deadly atmosphere claimed yet a hecatomb of victims. Three hours after the king’s death Versailles was a desert; for the young king and the queen, with the whole court in retinue, had set out in their carriages for Choisy. A few under-servants and priests of the “inferior clergy” remained to pray beside the body, which was ultimately placed in a coffin filled with lime, thrust into a hunting-carriage, and, followed by a few attendants, with no signs of mourning, thecortègeset out, “au grand trot” for St. Denis.
There were none to mourn the departed monarch; and in an hour Louis the Well-Beloved was forgotten, or remembered but to be despised. But a single Fontenoy veteran, inspired by the memories of other days, rushed forward and presented arms as the scanty funeralcortègeof the once vaunted hero of a brilliant fight passed through the gates of Versailles, in the dead of night, on the 13th of May, 1774. “What matters it,” murmured the old soldier, regretfully; “he was at Fontenoy!”
“It was a momentous crisis in the history of the nation when Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette ascended the throne of France. The time had arrived when the abuses of the Old Régime could no longer be tolerated, and sweeping reforms were demanded. The nation, hitherto politically a nullity, had awakened to a senseof its rights; while absolute sovereignty, with its arbitrary dictum, ‘L’état c’est moi,’ and its right divine to govern wrong, had lost its prestige, and had apparently no prospect of regaining it.”
The people, indeed, regarded the young monarch as the “hope of the nation,” and named him “Louis le Desire,”—a testimony to the ardor with which they had looked forward to his accession. And it is probable that, had a more able pilot—“a king more a king” than that feeblest of monarchs, Louis XVI.—been called to the helm at that period, “the vessel of state might have been safely guided through the shoals and quicksands surrounding her, and escaped the eddies of that devastating whirlpool in which she was eventually engulfed.” Indeed, if sincerely wishing to see his people prosperous and happy could have made them so, France would have had no more beneficent ruler than Louis XVI. But his good wishes and intentions were rendered of no avail by his utter want of energy and ability to carry them out. Infirm of purpose at the first, he remained so to the end. The decree, “Let there be light,” unfortunately, never went forth to quicken his mental faculties. The queen, on the other hand, possessed all the courage and resolution of her imperial mother, Maria Theresa; and, had she been able to control affairs, the revolution would have been crushed in its infancy with an iron hand. Again, had the king been able to hold to his milder measures, to maintain on the following day that which he had declared the day before, it is possible that France might have passed quietly from an absolute to a constitutional monarchy. But the self-will and determination of the one, and the weakness and instability of the other, rendered a union of ideas impossible and the revolution inevitable.
Little was known by the nation at large of the mental qualities of the young king. He was now in his twentieth year; and it had been noised among the people that he had inherited all the virtues of his father, “Le Grand Dauphin” to which were added the frugal tastes, the genial temper, and the air ofbonhomieto which the gallant Henry IV. owed so much of his popularity.
“No wonder, then, that the accession of Louis XVI. was hailed throughout France with general delight, or that the enthusiastic people—their many expected reforms already conceded in imagination—should have written in conspicuous characters, ‘RESURREXIT,’ beneath the statue of the gallant Henry, whose jovial humor and pliant conscience enabled him to gratify his Catholic subjects with his presence at aTe Deum.”
When the king made his public entry into the capital, the joyous demonstrations of the Parisians affected him deeply. “What have I done,” he exclaimed, “that they should love me so much?” Ah, Louis! you have as yet done nothing; but much, very much, is expected from you!
But Louis XVI. possessed no energy; and the torpid action of his mind was but too plainly evinced by the sluggish inactivity of his heavy frame, as, stolid in his immense corpulence, he sat lolling in his chariot.
Perhaps, in their eagerness for reforms, the Parisians displayed unreasonable impatience. But when, a few weeks later, the young monarch again passed through Paris, he remarked—though unfortunately the lesson was lost on him—that the acclamations of the people were far less frequent and fervid than on the former occasion. And his eyes were filled with tears when he perceived that the conspicuously displayed “RESURREXIT”was transferred from the statue of the gallant Henry to that of the slothful Louis XV. Still, with all his vices, Louis the Well-Beloved, on those rare occasions when he appeared in public, had always commanded the respectful homage of his subjects, simply by the dignity of his bearing. By the same means he imposed silence on his courtiers, when, in license of speech, they infringed the limits within which it was sometimes hisbon plaisirto restrain them. Occasionally, too, when the parliament opposed his edicts, or the dissentient opinion of a minister roused him from his habitual indolence, he could at once assume the arbitrary tone, the “je le veux” of the absolute monarch, and carry out his purposes with all thehauteurof his royal ancestor, theGrand Monarque. “And it is probable that his handsome person and majestic air—for, whatever may have been his shortcomings in other and more essential qualities, in appearance he was every inch a king—may have gone far in preventing the utter extinction of the enthusiastic affection which on several occasions during his reign the people so singularly, yet so generally, expressed towards the royaldébauché. A lingering spark of that once ardent feeling must have smouldered on in their hearts to the end; for, grievously oppressed though they were, and vicious as they knew him to be, they still toiled on under their burdens, not exactly uncomplainingly, yet in a spirit of toleration towards him; while the yearned-for relief was, as if by the tacit consent of his subjects, to be claimed only from his successor.” Truly, indications were not wanting of the approaching storm. But “Après nous le deluge!” cried Madame de Pompadour, gayly; and the king and the court echoed the cry. Madame la Marquise was right. The deluge came; and the royal authority whichRichelieu, Mazarin, and Louis XIV. had raised to such gigantic heights, and which Louis XV. had so shamefully abused, was hurled prostrate in the dust.
Bright shines the sun on this 10th day of June, 1775; and, heavy in its massive architecture, the grand old cathedral of Rheims looms up against the clear blue sky. The interior is hung with crimson cloth of gold. On the right of the altar, arrayed in their red and violet robes, point lace, gold crosses, chains, and mitres, sit the great grandees of the church. On the left, in their mantles of state, stand the temporal peers of the realm, and a brilliant crowd of gold-embroidered naval and military uniforms surrounds them; while above, in the lofty galleries of the nave, in the midst of pearls and diamonds, gold, and precious stones, and lofty, waving plumes, is Marie Antoinette, proud and radiant, surrounded by the ladies of her retinue.
For on this 10th day of June, “good Louis XVI.,” as the country people say, is to be crowned. Maria Theresa was anxious that Marie Antoinette should be crowned with the king; but she evinced not the slightest inclination, and, indeed, it was only at Vienna that such an event seems to have been expected or desired. But among the glittering throng which fills the cathedral, one sees not the king. He waits in the sacristy, whither two of the dignitaries of the church proceed to lead him to the front of the altar. The door forthwith flies open, and Louis XVI. appears in all the insignia of royalty. The mantle of state is placed upon his shoulders, and anointing him with the seven unctions of thesacre, the archbishop cries aloud, “Vivat rex in aeternum!” The grand old organ peals forth as he approaches the altar, and the fresh young voices of the choristers swell through theaisles and naves as they sing the choral service. How startling is the effect when, during asotto vocepassage of the service, the archbishop places the crown upon the king’s head, and he, suddenly raising his hand, thrusts it aside, exclaiming, “Elle me gêne!” Poor Louis! Truly he was destined to find itgênantin every sense. Henry III. had said, “Elle me pique!” All knew what had been his end. “The queen, who had been a deeply interested spectator of the scene, exhibited so much agitation at the moment of the king’s exclamation, that she was near fainting, and was conducted from the cathedral.” The ceremony is concluded; and the clanging of bells, the roaring of cannon, the lively chirping of thousands of birds, freed from their cages, to symbolize the “vieilles franchises” of France, and the tumultuous shouts of “Vive le roi!” proclaim to the multitude that “Louis le Desire,” is crowned king of France.
Marie Antoinette had been reared in all the freedom of the Austrian court, and it was some time before she could habituate herself to the etiquette-laden atmosphere of Versailles, where every look, every motion, every gesture, were governed alike by the inexorable rules ofla grande politesse, laid down with such precision and exactitude by King Louis XIV. From the cradle to the tomb, in sickness and in health, at table, at council, in the chase, in the army, in the midst of their court, and in their private apartments, kings and princes, in France, were governed by ceremonial rules. The pomp and glitter at Versailles dazzled the beholder. There all breathed of greatness, of exaltation, and of unapproachableness; and the people, awestruck at the splendor and gorgeous trappings of royalty, fell prostrate before the throne.
Madame Campan thus describes her feelings upon first entering this charmed spot:—
“The queen, Marie Leckzinska, wife of Louis XV., died just before I was presented at court. The grand apartments hung with black, the great chairs of state raised on several steps and surmounted by a canopy adorned with plumes, the caparisoned horses, the immense retinue in court mourning, the enormous shoulder-knots embroidered with gold and silver spangles which decorated the coats of the pages and footmen,—all this magnificence had such an effect upon my senses, that I could scarcely support myself when introduced to the princesses.
“How well was the potent magic of grandeur and dignity, which ought to surround sovereigns, understood at Versailles!
“Marie Antoinette, dressed in white, with a plain straw hat, and a little switch in her hand, walking on foot, and followed by a single servant, through the walks leading to the Petit Trianon, would never have thus disconcerted me. And I believe this extreme simplicity was thefirstand onlyrealfault of all those with which she is reproached.”
The illusions of etiquette were necessary to Louis XV. Louis XIV. might have dispensed with them. His throne, resplendent with the triumph of arms, literature, and the fine arts, was glorious enough without them. But he would be more than a great king, this mighty Louis! And so this demi-god, when age and calamity had taught him that he was but human, endeavored to conceal the ravages of time and of disease beneath the vain pomp of ceremony. He, Louis “the Magnificent,” the most accomplished of gentlemen, habitually exacted and received from the noblest of his realm adulations and menial services better becoming the palace of Ispahan than the Château of Versailles.
“All service to the king and queen, and, in a lower degree, to the Dauphin and Dauphiness, was regarded as an honor to the persons serving,—an honor to be keenly contended for by persons of the highest rank, no matter what delay, or inconvenience, or unutterable weariness of spirit was experienced by the individuals thus served.” Her Majesty the queen could not pass from one apartment to the other, without being followed by the lords and ladies of her retinue. The ceremonies of rising and dressing were accompanied by laws and rites as irrevocable as the decrees of the Medes and Persians.
Thepetites entréesand thegrandes entréeshad each their appropriate ceremonies. At the former, none but the physicians, reader, and secretary had the privilege of being present, whether her Majesty breakfasted in bed or out of it. At thegrande toilette, the toilet table, which was always the most splendid piece of furniture in the apartment, was brought forward, and the queen surrendered herself to the hands of her hairdresser. Then followed thegrande entrée;sofas were ranged in circles for the ladies of the household. The members of the royal family, the princes of the blood, and all the great officers, having the privilege, paid their court. Onlygrandes damesof thehaute noblessecould occupy thetabouretin the royal presence. There were well-defined degrees of royal salutation,—a smile, a nod, a bending of the body, or leaning forward as if to rise, which was the highest form of acknowledgment. If her Majesty wished her gloves, or a glass of water, what she desired was brought by a page upon a gold salver, and the salver was presented in turn with solemn precision, according to the rank of the persons present, by thefemme de chambreto the lady-in-waiting; but if the chiefdame d’honneur, ora princess of the blood, or any member of the royal family entered at the time, the salver was returned to thefemme de chambre, and by her offered again to thedame d’honneur, or to the princess, that she might have the privilege of presentation, till, at last, the article reached its destination.
One winter’s morning, Marie Antoinette, who was partially disrobed, was just about to put on her body linen. The lady-in-waiting held it ready unfolded for her. Thedame d’honneurentered. Etiquette demanded that she should present the robe. Hastily slipping off her gloves, she took the garment, but at that moment a rustling was heard at the door. It was opened, and in came Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans. She must now be the bearer of the garment. But the laws of etiquette would not allow thedame d’honneurto hand the linen directly to Madame la Duchesse. It must pass down the various grades of rank to the lowest, and by her be presented to the highest. The linen was consequently passed back again from one to another, till it was finally placed in the hands of the duchess. She was just upon the point of conveying it to its proper destination, when suddenly the door opened, and the Comtesse de Provence entered. Again the linen passed from hand to hand until it reached Madame la Comtesse. She, perceiving the uncomfortable position of the queen, who sat shivering with cold, without stopping to remove her gloves, placed the linen upon her shoulders. Her Majesty, however, was quite unable to restrain her impatience, and exclaimed, “How disagreeable, how tiresome!” Such was the etiquette of the court of Versailles, and its inexorable rules governed alike every action in the lives of the king and queen, while the cavaliers andgrandes damesobserved with the greatestminuteness every punctilio ofla grande politesse et la grande galanterie, that by so doing they might widen the gulf already existing between them and the new ideas oflibertéandégalitéwhich were beginning to pervade the realm.
“You love flowers; I give you a bouquet of them by offering you Le Petit Trianon entirely for your own private use. There you may reign sole mistress; for the Trianons, by right, belong to you, having always been the residence of the favorites of the kings of France.” For Louis XVI. this speech was a great effort of gallantry. It delighted Marie Antoinette. Here, then, was that for which she had so often longed; a place to which she could retire from the cares of state, and throw aside the pomps and punctilios of etiquette. She loved not the grand old gardens of Versailles, with their terraces and clipped yews. She would have an English garden of the day, with its thickets, waterfalls, and rustic bridges, such as the Prince de Ligny had made atBel-œiland the Marquis de Caraman at Roissy.Le grand simpleis to take the place ofle grand magnifique, and attired in white muslin, with a a plain straw hat, and followed by a single attendant, the queen roams through the gardens and groves of the Petit Trianon. Through the lanes and byways she chases the butterfly, picks flowers free as a peasant girl, and leaning over the fences, chats with the country maids as they milk the cows.
This freedom from restraint was etiquette at the court of Vienna; it was barbarism at the court of Versailles. The courtiers were amazed, the ceremony-stricken dowagers were shocked; and Paris, France, and Europe, were filled with stories of the waywardness and eccentricities of Marie Antoinette. And Mesdames, the king’s aunts, from their retreat at Bellevue, and Madame duBarry, from her domain of Luviciennes, lost no opportunity to gather reports unfavorable to the reputation of the queen, and spread them far and wide.
Still another surprise was in store for the nobility, for upon one occasion, at Trianon, when the queen seated herself, she requested in a lively, nonchalant manner the whole of the ladies, without distinction, who formed her intimate circle, to seat themselves also! What a blow to those who held so dear the privileges they derived from distinction of office and superiority of rank!La hauteandla petite noblesse, in spite of their cherished distinctions,allare to sit down together! It is terrible! How many enemies are made, and allies added to the circles at Bellevue and Luviciennes, by that little act! Poor thoughtless Marie Antoinette!
But she proposed to reign at Trianon, not as queen of France, but simply as a lady of the manor, surrounded by her friends. And so she built the Swiss cottages, with their thatched roofs and rustic balconies; for it was her good pleasure that she, her king, and her friends, should be country people for the nonce. The queen’s cottage stood in the centre, and she was thefermière. The king was the miller, and occupied the mill, with its joyous tick-tack. Monsieur le Comte de Provence, figured as schoolmaster, while the Comte d’Artois was in his element as gamekeeper. However, one may be sure that these simple country folk had no want of retainers to do their behests. In the dairy, where the cream was put in the blue and white porcelain of Trianon, on marble tables, diligent dairymaids skimmed and churned, and displayed fresh butter and eggs. Down by the lake were more masqueraders,—washerwomen this time; and Madame la Comtesse de Chalons beat the clothes with ebony beaters.In the stable, the sheep, unconscious of the honor to be done them, stood ready for clipping with golden shears. “The Duc de Guines might not assist at this, because he was so stout and so desperately bent on resorting to art to restrain his bulk, that his valet, in selecting his master’s garments every morning, was fain to ask, ‘Does my lord the Duke sit down to-day?’ But there were other helpers,—the big, jovial Duc de Coigny, and the rough-voiced, stiff-jointed Comte d’Adhémar, who could, at least, hoist sacks of corn up the mahogany steps to the granary.”Madame la Fermièredistributed refreshments as she overlooked and encouraged her workers. And so the dainty work, which was the idlest pastime, went on to the accompaniment of gay jests and rippling laughter.
This descent from the throne, which was so congenial to the queen, was loudly condemned. In their first efforts for reform the people had no wish to detract from the hereditary splendor of the crown, or the “divinity,” which for so many centuries had hedged the kings of France. It was the king and queen who took the first steps. Winter comes, and with it a heavy fall of snow, and Marie Antoinette longs again for the merry sleigh rides of Vienna. “The old court sledges are brought forth—these being professedly economical times—for examination as to their possibly serviceable condition. A glance, however, suffices to show that disuse and neglect have put them completelyhors de service.” So new ones of great magnificence are prepared, with “abundance of painting and gilding, trappings of embroidered crimson leather and velvet, with innumerable tinkling bells of gold or silver.” The horses, with nodding plumes and gorgeous caparisons, dazzled the eyes of the Parisians as they swept through the Champs Élysées, drawing their loads of lordsand ladies enveloped in furs. The people frowned disapprovingly. It was a new amusement—an innovation; and angry, envious tongues declared that the “Autrichiennehad taken advantage of the rigor of the season which had caused such widespread misery to introduce her Austrian pastimes into the capital of France.”
Marie Antoinette was imprudent, very imprudent; that was her only crime. But much allowance must be made for one, who, at the age of fifteen years, was madela premiere damein a court the most gorgeous, and, after that of Catherine II. of Russia, the most dissolute, in Europe.
The people had already begun to compute the cost of equipages, palaces, crown jewels, and courtiers. And some few of thegrands seigneurs, even, had begun to recognize the growing power of thevox populi;but Marie Antoinette did not yet know that public opinion was of any importance to her. “The slanderous tongues of Mesdames and the pious circle of Bellevue, the innuendoes of Luviciennes, and the insidious attacks of Monsieur le Comte de Provence,—all this she understood, and resented. It seemed a matter of course that it should be thus; but the right of thepeopleto interfere with her amusements and to call in question their propriety, was something she could not understand.” Alas! poor queen; the dreadful significancy of that expression “THE PEOPLE,” and the vengeful acts to which an infuriated populace could be driven, were two terrible lessons she had yet to learn.
On the 22d of October, 1781, a child is born at Versailles. The king advances towards the queen’s couch; with a profound bow, and in a voice that falters with emotion, he exclaims, “Madame, you have fulfilled thedearest wishes of my heart and the anxious hopes of the nation; you are the mother of aDauphin.” Nothing could exceed the public rejoicings; the triumph became well-nigh frantic. For it is recorded that their superabundant joy found expression in a sort of delirium,—people of all grades, and who had no previous acquaintance with each other, indulging in fraternal embraces in the street. The king himself went through a similar display of excessive joy. He laughed, he wept, the tears streaming down his fat face. He ran in and out of the antechamber, presenting his hand to kiss or to shake—or both, if they pleased—to all and each indiscriminately, from the solemngrandees, who were there to attest the birth, to the humblest lackey in attendance. “The royal infant, splendidly arrayed and with the grand cross of St. Louis on his breast, was placed in his satin and point-lace bassinet to receive the homage of the great officers of state. It is recorded that he replied in a most suitable manner to the many flattering speeches addressed to him; and this being the first opportunity he had had of exhibiting the power of his lungs, he availed himself of it freely.” Madame Royale had been born three years before; two other children were subsequently added,—the Duc de Normandie, and the Princess Sophie; but only Madame Royale and the Duc de Normandie were destined to survive to endure those woes which eventually overwhelmed the royal family.
Marie Antoinette was now in the flower of her beauty, on which French biographers love to dwell. Tilly said, “Her eyes recalled all the changes of the waves of the sea, and seemed made to reveal and reflect the blue of the sky.” Her fine throat and the lofty carriage of her head were remarkable; and she once said, laughingly, toMadame Le Brun, “If I were not a queen, should not I look insolent?”
“As one would have offered a chair to another woman, one would have offered a throne to her; and when she descended the marble staircase at Versailles, preceded by the officers who announced her approach, saluted in the great court by the beating of drums and the presentation of arms, all heads were uncovered respectfully, all hearts were filled with admiration of the woman, as well as with loyalty to the queen.”
Who shall tell the true story of the diamond necklace? It will probably never be told. The papers of the Cardinal de Rohan, which might have thrown much light upon the subject, were unfortunately destroyed. Little did Marie Antoinette think, as she entered Strasburg in triumph on her marriage journey, that she would encounter, in the magnificent robes of a cardinal’s coadjutor, a man who was to prove her deadly foe,—the insolent and profligate Prince Louis de Rohan. He had been ambassador at Vienna, where he had disgusted Maria Theresa by his profligacy and arrogance. She had procured his withdrawal. He had not been allowed to appear at the court of Versailles; and now for ten long years he had fretted and fumed under a sense of the royal displeasure. Boehmer, the crown jeweller, had, for a period of years, been collecting and assorting the stones which should form an incomparable necklace, in row upon row, pendants and tassels of lustrous diamonds, till the price had reached the royal pitch of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This costly “collar” he offered to the king, who would willingly have bought it for the queen had she desired it; but Marie Antoinette replied, that if the money were to be spent, it had better be used in fitting afrigate for the royal navy. His Most Christian Majesty concurred exactly in this sentiment, and, returning the necklace to Boehmer with the words, “We have more need of ships than of diamonds,” thought no more about the matter. Not so did the Cardinal de Rohan, and theintriganteMadame de Lamotte. They had made up their minds to possess the three hundred and fifty thousand dollars represented by the glittering gems. So they laid their clever heads together, and, by forging notes of the queen and sundry other little plots which were wonderfully successful, obtained the necklace, leaving Boehmer to look to the queen for payment. Of course payment was not forthcoming, and in his distress the jeweller related the affair to Madame Campan, telling her he feared he had been duped. Madame Campan proceeded at once to Versailles, and laid the matter before the queen. It was the 15th of August, 1784, Assumption day, and Prince Louis de Rohan, in full pontificals, and wearing the Grand Cross of St. Louis, arrived at Versailles to perform mass in the royal chapel; but he had scarcely entered theŒil de Bœuf, when he was summoned to the cabinet of the king. As he entered, Louis XVI. turned upon him suddenly, inquiring, “You have purchased diamonds of Boehmer?” “Yes, sire,” was the trembling reply. “What have you done with them?” the king added. “I thought,” replied the cardinal, “that they had been delivered to the queen.” “Who commissioned you to make this purchase?” “The Comtesse de Lamotte,” was the reply; “she handed me a letter from her Majesty, requesting me to obtain the necklace for her. Indeed, I thought I was obeying her Majesty’s wishes by taking this business upon myself.”
“How could you imagine, sir,” indignantly interruptedMarie Antoinette, “that I should have selectedyoufor such a purpose, when I have not addressed you for eight years, and how could you suppose that I should have acted through the mediation of such a character as Madame la Comtesse de Lamotte?”
The cardinal was in the most violent agitation; he drew from his pocket a letter, directed to the Comtesse de Lamotte, and signed with the queen’s name. Her Majesty glanced at it, and instantly pronounced it a forgery, and the king added, “How could you, a prince of the church and grand almoner of my household, not have detected it? This letter is signedMarie Antoinette de France. Queens sign their names short; it is not even the queen’s handwriting.” Then drawing a letter from his pocket, and handing it to De Rohan, he said, “Are you the author of that letter?”
The cardinal turned pale, and, leaning upon a table, appeared as though he would fall to the floor.
“I have no wish, Monsieur le Cardinal,” the king added, “to find you guilty; explain to me this enigma; account for all these manœuvres with Boehmer. Where did you obtain these securities and these promissory notes, signed in the queen’s name?”
The cardinal was trembling in every nerve: “Sire, I am too much agitated now to answer your Majesty; give me a little time to collect my thoughts.” “Go into my cabinet,” replied the king; “you will there find papers, pens, and ink. At your leisure,writewhat you desire to to say to me.”
But the written statements of M. de Rohan were as unsatisfactory as his verbal ones. In half an hour he returned with a paper covered with blottings, alterations, and erasures. Louis’ anger was aroused, and, throwingopen the folding doors, he cried out in imperious tones,—very unusual for him,—which resounded through theŒil de Bœufandgrande galerie:“Arrest the Cardinal de Rohan!” The Baron de Bretuil approached through the crowd of astonished courtiers, and, summoning the officer on guard, he indicated the cardinal with the words, “De par le roi, Monseigneur, you are arrested; at your risk, officer.” But, before the cardinal could be removed, he had spoken three words in German to one of his officials, and given him a slip of paper. The horse on which the man rode post haste to the cardinal’s palace in Paris, fell dead in the courtyard; but the red portfolio, containing the supposed autographs of the queen’s letters, lay in ashes before it could be sealed up in the name of justice and of the king. The cardinal was taken to the Bastile. More arrests followed, including that of the Comtesse de Lamotte. For nine months the trial lasted before the Council of the Grand Chambre. The Pope protested against a prince of the church being made accountable for his acts to any but the highest ecclesiastical tribunal (an assembly of the cardinals at Rome); while thehaute noblesselooked on the cause of the Prince de Rohan as their own, considering the rights and privileges of their rank intrenched upon, when a near relative of the princes of the blood was put on his trial before the Council of the Grand Chambre. So the cardinal was eventually acquitted, and Madame de Lamotte alone was severely punished by flogging and branding on both shoulders.
Their Majesties were chagrined at the acquittal of M. de Rohan and shocked at the punishment of the countess. The former was an insult to the king, the latter to the queen; for Madame de Lamotte boasted a descentfrom the House of Valois and royal blood within her veins. Such was the affair of the Diamond Necklace, which, though apparently trivial in itself, involved consequences of the most momentous importance.
“Mind that miserable affair of the necklace,” said Talleyrand; “I should be in nowise surprised if it should overturn the French monarchy.”
Whoever were the guilty ones, Marie Antoinette was entirely innocent. She, however, experienced all the ignominy she could have encountered had she been involved in the deepest guilt, and the affair furnished a fine theme for the malevolence of Bellevue and Luviciennes.
Respect for royalty was on the wane. The king, of course, had shared with the queen in the disrespect which Mesdames, his aunts, were desirous should rest on her alone; and the insulting conduct towards him of his brothers, Monsieur le Comte de Provence and the libertine, the Comte d’Artois, who, according to an eye-witness, “on occasions of great state or solemnity, will pass before the king twenty times, push him aside, tread on his feet, and this, apparently, without any thought of apology or excuse,” together with the affair of the Diamond Necklace, were well calculated to debase him further in the eyes of his courtiers and in public opinion. Nowhere was this more evident than when the court assembled in the Grand Gallery of Versailles, where once theGrand Monarqueheld hisréunionscalled “Appartements.” At such times, “a stranger would have found it difficult to recognize the king by any particular attention or any deference paid to him.” What, then, must have been the agonized sensations of the perturbed spirit of the superbLouis Quatorze, if ever, to look on his degenerate posterity, he revisited the scene of hisformer greatness and grandeur, where once he sat enthroned like Jupiter among the inferior gods, and where all around him were but too willing to fall down in the dust at his royal feet, had it been his “bon plaisir” that they should do so! Ah, those were palmy days for church and state!
Brightly dawned the 5th of May, 1789, and Versailles, with its tapestries, its garlands, and its throngs of gayly dressed visitors, wore a festive, smiling air. To many it was indeed a joyous day,—a day of hope; for the king had granted the States General. Such an assemblage France had not witnessed for more than a hundred and fifty years. No wonder, then, it was looked forward to as the dawn of national liberty. But as the procession winds its way along the vast streets of Versailles, the people see, with pain, how marked are the distinctions of rank and costume which dividetheirrepresentatives from the nobles and the clergy. To the episcopal purple, the croziers, and grand mantles of the dignitaries of the church succeed the long black robes of the “inferior clergy.” Then in all the splendor of velvet and cloth of gold, lace ruffles and cravats, floating plumes and mantles of state, come thehaute noblesse. Then follow the modest Third Estate of the realm; the absence of finery in their humble garb is atoned for in the eyes of the populace who receive them with hearty cheers, which they have refused the nobles who have preceded them. One only is generally known. It is the “plebian count” de Mirabeau. Thecortègeof the princes, who are surrounded by courtiers, is allowed to pass in silence. Louis XVI. appears; as usual, he moves without dignity, simple, in spite of his Cross of St. Louis and hiscordon bleu. Marie Antoinette moves with her accustomed majesty, buther face wears an anxious look. Her lips are closely pressed, as if in a vain effort to dissemble her trouble, for not only is her Dauphin, whose birth had been so proudly hailed, at the point of death, but she is this day greeted, not with the old loyal shouts of “Vive la reine!” but with new insulting cries of “Vive d’Orleans!” Monsieur le Comte de Provence is grave and pensive, and apparently impressed with the importance of the occasion. He walks with difficulty, owing to his extreme corpulency. The Comte d’Artois shows evident signs ofennuiand bad temper, and casts disdainful glances to the right and left upon the crowd that lines the streets, and so, although they little think it, those high-born men and women march onward to their fate. “For although no really hostile sentiments can be said to havethenanimated that vast throng, nevertheless, alike among those who formed the procession and those who were only its spectators, there was a lurking latent feeling that something strange, something hitherto unknown, coming from the past and pressing on to the future, was moving onwards towards France.”
It was the revolution to be decreed by theÉtâts Généraux. On the 23d of June, the king held aséance royaleat Versailles. It was attended with all theappareiland state of the “bed of justice” of the old régime. Thenoblessehad determined, if possible, to crush the Third Estate; but the king hardly knew how to utter the arrogant and defiant words which had been put into his mouth. It was the lamb attempting to imitate the roar of the lion. “Je veux, j’ordonne, je commande” was the burden of the king’s speech, which was read by the keeper of the seals, upon his knees. One may imagine how it was received by theTiers État.
The address closed with the following words: “I command you, gentlemen, immediately to disperse, and to repair to-morrow morning to the chambers appropriate to your order.”
The king and his attendant court left the hall. Thenoblesseand the clergy followed him. Exultation beamed upon their faces, for they thought that theTiers Étatwas now effectually crushed. The Commons remained in their seats. The crisis had arrived. There was now no alternative but resistance or submission, rebellion or servitude. The Marquis de Brézé, grand master of ceremonies, perceiving that the assembly did not retire, advanced to the centre of the hall, and in a loud, authoritative voice,—a voice at whose command nearly fifty thousand troops were ready to march,—demanded, “Did you hear the command of the king?”
“Yes, sir,” responded Mirabeau, with a glaring eye and a thunder tone; “we have heard the king’s command, and you who have neither seat nor voice in this house are not the one to remind us of his speech. Go, tell those who sent you, that we are here by the power of the people, and that nothing shall drive us hence but the power of the bayonet.”
And the grand master of ceremonies went out backwards from the presence of the orator of the people, as it was etiquette to go from the presence of the king.
Thenoblesse, in the meantime, were in exultation. They deemed the popular movement effectually crushed, and hastened with their congratulations to the queen. Marie Antoinette was much elated, and presenting to them the Dauphin, she exclaimed, “I intrust him to the nobility.”
The Marquis de Brézé now entered the council-chamber, to inform the king that the deputies still continued theirsitting, and asked for orders. The king walked impatiently once or twice up and down the floor, and then replied hastily, “Very well! leave them alone.” Louis XIV. would have sent every man of them to the Bastile or the scaffold; but the days of Louis XIV. were no more. It was the 14th of July, 1789. All Paris was in confusion. Mobs ransacked the city in pursuit of arms. Every sword, pistol, and musket from private residences were brought forward. The royal arsenal, containing mainly curiosities and suits of ancient armor, was sacked, and while all the costly objects of interest were left untouched, every available weapon was taken away. But why all this turmoil, terror, and excitement? Out at Versailles was Marshal Broglie, proud and self-confident, in conference with the court, and having at his command fifty thousand troops abundantly armed and equipped, all of whom could in a few hours be concentrated in the streets of Paris. Upon theChamp de Mars, Benseval had assembled his force of several thousand Swiss and German troops, cavalry and artillery, and at any moment this combined force might be expected to pour, in the king’s name, upon his “good city of Paris,” and chastise his rebellious subjects with terrible severity; while the enormous fortress of the Bastile, with its walls forty feet thick at the base and fifteen at the top, rising with its gloomy towers one hundred and twenty feet in the air, with its cannon charged with grapeshot, already run out at every embrasure, commanded the city; while that remained in the hands of the enemy there was no safety. Could the Bastile be taken? Preposterous! It was as unassailable as the rock of Gibraltar. The mob surged around the Hotel de Ville demanding arms and the immediate establishment of a citizen’s guard. But arms were not tobe had. It was well known that there were large stores of them somewhere in the city, but no one knew where to find them. What is this? A rumor runs through the crowd: “There are arms at the Hotel des Invalides; muskets, thirty thousand and more;” and now the discordant cries resolve into one long and steadfast shout, “Les Invalides! Les Invalides!” and in the bright sunshine of this July morning, upon the esplanade of the Invalides, thirty thousand men stand grim and menacing. But there is no resistance. The gates are thrown open and the mob rush in. They find in the armory thirty thousand muskets and six pieces of cannon; and now, as by common instinct, resounds the cry, “La Bastile! La Bastile!” The crowds across the Seine take up the shout, while from the Champs Élysées, the Tuileries Gardens, and the Palais Royal, comes back, as it were, the echo, indistinct at first, but in ever-increasing volume, “La Bastile! La Bastile!” as one hundred thousand men, shouting, swearing, and brandishing their pikes and guns, rush forward, a living torrent, to assail with these feeble means, that fortresspar excellenceof France,—a fortress which the army of Monsieur le Prince, le grand Condé, had besieged in vain for three and twenty days.
Enormous, massive, blackened with age, the gloomy emblem of royal prerogative, exciting by its mysterious power and menace the terror and execration of every one who passed beneath its shadow; its eight great towers darkening the air in gloomy grandeur, the world-renowned prison of the Bastile, the fortresspar excellence, loomed lofty at the entrance of Paris, in the very heart of the Faubourg St. Antoine.
De Launey, the governor, from the summit of his towers had, for many hours, heard the roar of the insurgentcity; and now, as he saw the black mass of countless thousands approaching, he turned pale and trembled. M. Thuriot was sent by the electors of the Hotel de Ville to summon the Bastile to surrender. The drawbridge was lowered and he was admitted. De Launey received him at the head of his staff. “I summon you,” said Thuriot, “in the name of the people.” But De Launey, who was every moment expecting the arrival of troops from Versailles, refused to surrender the fortress, but added that he would not fire upon the people if they did not fire upon him. Thuriot, perceiving the cannon, and knowing that the governor had received an order from the Hotel de Ville to dismount them, exclaimed:—
“You have not had the cannon dismounted.”
“I have had them drawn in; that is all.”
“You will not have them dismounted, then?”
“No! the king’s cannon are here by the king’s order, sir; they can only be dismounted by an order from the king.”
“Monsieur De Launey,” said Thuriot, “the real king, whom I counsel you to obey, is yonder”; and he showed to the governor the vast crowd filling the square before the fortress, and whose weapons glittered in the sunshine.
“Sir,” replied De Launey haughtily, “you may, perhaps acknowledge two kings; but I, the governor of the Bastile,—I know butone, and he is Louis XVI. who has affixed his name to a commission by virtue of which I command here both men and things”; and, stamping his foot, he added angrily: “In the name of the king, sir, leave this place at once.” Thuriot withdrew, but he had hardly emerged from the massive portals and crossed the drawbridge of the moat, which was immediately raised behind him, ere the people commenced the attack. Uproarand confusion ensued. One hundred thousand men, filling all the streets and alleys, all the windows and house-tops of the adjacent buildings, opened upon the Bastile an incessant fire, harmlessly flattening their bullets against the massive stone walls. Priests, nobles, wealthy citizens, ragged and emaciate mendicants, men, women, boys, and girls, were mingled in the assault, pressing side by side; apparently the whole of Paris, with one united will, combined against the great bulwark of tyranny. For five hours the attack continued; at five in the afternoon, the French soldiers raised a flag of truce upon the towers. This movement plunged De Launey into despair. One hundred thousand men were beleaguering his fortress. The troops from Versailles had not arrived, and three-fourths of his garrison had already abandoned him, and gone over to his assailants. Death was his inevitable doom. Seizing a match he rushed toward the magazine, determined to blow up the citadel. There were one hundred and thirty-five barrels of gunpowder in the vaults. Two subaltern officers crossed their bayonets before him, and the lives of one hundred thousand people were saved. Gradually the flag of truce was seen through the smoke; the firing ceased, and the cry resounded through the crowd, and was echoed along the streets of Paris, “La Bastilesurrenders!” “The fortress which Louis XIV. and Turenne had pronounced impregnable, surrendered not to the arms of its assailants, for they had produced no impression upon it; it was conquered by the public opinion which pervaded Paris, and which vanquished its garrison.” While these scenes were transpiring at Paris, Versailles was in excitement. Courier after courier arrived, breathless, announcing that the Bastile was taken, that the troops in Paris refused to fireupon the crowd, that De Launey was slain, and that the cavalry of Lambese were flying before the people.
No eye was closed at Versailles that night, unless, perchance, it was that of the king, Louis XVI.; for all felt the counter-shock of that terrible concussion with which Paris was still trembling. The French guards, the bodyguards, and the Swiss, drawn up in platoons and grouped near the openings of all the principal streets, were conversing among themselves, or with those of the citizens whose fidelity to the monarchy inspired them with confidence; for Versailles has at all times been a royalist city. Religious respect for the monarchy and for the monarch was ingrafted in the hearts of its inhabitants as if it were a quality of its soil. Having always lived near kings, fostered by their bounty, beneath the shade of their wonders, having always inhaled the intoxicating perfume of thefleur-de-lys, and seen the brilliant gold of the garments, and the smiles upon the august lips of royalty, the inhabitants of Versailles, for whom kings had built a city of marble and porphyry, felt almost kings themselves; and, even at the present day,—even now, when the splendid palace ofLouis Quatorzestands silent in its grandeur; when no longer the marble court is thronged with gorgeous equipages, and