The Project Gutenberg EBook of Memoirs Of The Court Of Marie Antoinette,
Queen Of France, Complete, by Madame Campan

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Title: Memoirs Of The Court Of Marie Antoinette, Queen Of France, Complete
       Being the Historic Memoirs of Madam Campan, First Lady in Waiting
       to the Queen


Author: Madame Campan

Release Date: October 2, 2006 [EBook #3891]
Last Updated: August 23, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS MADAM CAMPAN ***




Produced by David Widger




MEMOIRS OF THE COURT OF

MARIE ANTOINETTE,

QUEEN OF FRANCE



Being the Historic Memoirs of Madam Campan,
First Lady in Waiting to the Queen.




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Duchesse du Barry

Princesse de Lamballe

The Parisian Bonne

Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette

Beaumarchais

The Reveille

Madame Adelaide as Diana

The Bastille

Opening of The States General

Louis XVI.

Marie Antoinette on the way to the Guillotine

Madame Campan




PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR.


Louis XVI. possessed an immense crowd of confidants, advisers, and guides;
he selected them even from among the factions which attacked him. Never,
perhaps, did he make a full disclosure to any one of them, and certainly
he spoke with sincerity, to but very few.  He invariably kept the reins of
all secret intrigues in his own hand; and thence, doubtless, arose the
want of cooperation and the weakness which were so conspicuous in his
measures.  From these causes considerable chasms will be found in the
detailed history of the Revolution.

In order to become thoroughly acquainted with the latter years of the
reign of Louis XV., memoirs written by the Duc de Choiseul, the Duc
d’Aiguillon, the Marechal de Richelieu, and the Duc de La Vauguyon,
should be before us.

[I heard Le Marechal de Richelieu desire M. Campan, who was librarian to
the Queen, not to buy the Memoirs which would certainly be attributed to
him after his death, declaring them false by anticipation; and adding that
he was ignorant of orthography, and had never amused himself with writing.
Shortly after the death of the Marshal, one Soulavie put forth Memoirs of
the Marechal de Richelieu.]

To give us a faithful portrait of the unfortunate reign of Louis XVI.,
the Marechal du Muy, M. de Maurepas, M. de Vergennes, M. de Malesherbes,
the Duc d’Orleans, M. de La Fayette, the Abby de Vermond, the Abbe
Montesquiou, Mirabeau, the Duchesse de Polignac, and the Duchesse de
Luynes should have noted faithfully in writing all the transactions in
which they took decided parts.  The secret political history of a later
period has been disseminated among a much greater number of persons;
there are Ministers who have published memoirs, but only when they had
their own measures to justify, and then they confined themselves to the
vindication of their own characters, without which powerful motive they
probably would have written nothing.  In general, those nearest to the
Sovereign, either by birth or by office, have left no memoirs; and in
absolute monarchies the mainsprings of great events will be found in
particulars which the most exalted persons alone could know.  Those who
have had but little under their charge find no subject in it for a book;
and those who have long borne the burden of public business conceive
themselves to be forbidden by duty, or by respect for authority, to
disclose all they know.  Others, again, preserve notes, with the
intention of reducing them to order when they shall have reached the
period of a happy leisure; vain illusion of the ambitious, which they
cherish, for the most part, but as a veil to conceal from their sight
the hateful image of their inevitable downfall! and when it does at
length take place, despair or chagrin deprives them of fortitude to
dwell upon the dazzling period which they never cease to regret.

Louis XVI.  meant to write his own memoirs; the manner in which his
private papers were arranged indicated this design.  The Queen also had
the same intention; she long preserved a large correspondence, and a great
number of minute reports, made in the spirit and upon the event of the
moment.  But after the 20th of June, 1792, she was obliged to burn the
larger portion of what she had so collected, and the remainder were
conveyed out of France.

Considering the rank and situations of the persons I have named as capable
of elucidating by their writings the history of our political storms, it
will not be imagined that I aim at placing myself on a level with them;
but I have spent half my life either with the daughters of Louis XV. or
with Marie Antoinette.  I knew the characters of those Princesses; I
became privy to some extraordinary facts, the publication of which may be
interesting, and the truth of the details will form the merit of my work.

I was very young when I was placed about the Princesses, the daughters of
Louis XV., in the capacity of reader.  I was acquainted with the Court of
Versailles before the time of the marriage of Louis XVI. with the
Archduchess Marie Antoinette.




MADAME CAMPAN


My father, who was employed in the department of Foreign Affairs, enjoyed
the reputation due to his talents and to his useful labours.  He had
travelled much.  Frenchmen, on their return home from foreign countries,
bring with them a love for their own, increased in warmth; and no man was
more penetrated with this feeling, which ought to be the first virtue of
every placeman, than my father.  Men of high title, academicians, and
learned men, both natives and foreigners, sought my father’s acquaintance,
and were gratified by being admitted into his house.

Twenty years before the Revolution I often heard it remarked that the
imposing character of the power of Louis XIV. was no longer to be found in
the Palace of Versailles; that the institutions of the ancient monarchy
were rapidly sinking; and that the people, crushed beneath the weight of
taxes, were miserable, though silent; but that they began to give ear to
the bold speeches of the philosophers, who loudly proclaimed their
sufferings and their rights; and, in short, that the age would not pass
away without the occurrence of some great outburst, which would unsettle
France, and change the course of its progress.

Those who thus spoke were almost all partisans of M. Turgot’s system of
administration: they were Mirabeau the father, Doctor Quesnay, Abbe
Bandeau, and Abbe Nicoli, charge d’affaires to Leopold, Grand Duke of
Tuscany, and as enthusiastic an admirer of the maxims of the innovators as
his Sovereign.

My father sincerely respected the purity of intention of these
politicians.  With them he acknowledged many abuses in the Government; but
he did not give these political sectarians credit for the talent necessary
for conducting a judicious reform.  He told them frankly that in the art
of moving the great machine of Government, the wisest of them was inferior
to a good magistrate; and that if ever the helm of affairs should be put
into their hands, they would be speedily checked in the execution of their
schemes by the immeasurable difference existing between the most brilliant
theories and the simplest practice of administration.

Destiny having formerly placed me near crowned heads, I now amuse my
solitude when in retirement with collecting a variety of facts which may
prove interesting to my family when I shall be no more.  The idea of
collecting all the interesting materials which my memory affords occurred
to me from reading the work entitled “Paris, Versailles, and the Provinces
in the Eighteenth Century.”  That work, composed by a man accustomed to
the best society, is full of piquant anecdotes, nearly all of which have
been recognised as true by the contemporaries of the author.  I have put
together all that concerned the domestic life of an unfortunate Princess,
whose reputation is not yet cleared of the stains it received from the
attacks of calumny, and who justly merited a different lot in life, a
different place in the opinion of mankind after her fall.  These memoirs,
which were finished ten years ago, have met with the approbation of some
persons; and my son may, perhaps, think proper to print them after my
decease.

J.  L.  H.  C.

--When Madame Campan wrote these lines, she did not anticipate that the
death of her son would precede her own.





HISTORIC COURT MEMOIRS.


MARIE ANTOINETTE.




MEMOIR OF MADAME CAMPAN.


JEANNE LOUISE HENRIETTE GENET was born in Paris on the 6th of October,
1752.  M. Genet, her father, had obtained, through his own merit and the
influence of the Duc de Choiseul, the place of first clerk in the Foreign
Office.

Literature, which he had cultivated in his youth, was often the solace of
his leisure hours.  Surrounded by a numerous family, he made the
instruction of his children his chief recreation, and omitted nothing
which was necessary to render them highly accomplished.  His clever and
precocious daughter Henriette was very early accustomed to enter society,
and to take an intelligent interest in current topics and public events.
Accordingly, many of her relations being connected with the Court or
holding official positions, she amassed a fund of interesting
recollections and characteristic anecdotes, some gathered from personal
experience, others handed down by old friends of the family.

“The first event which made any impression on me in my childhood,” she
says in her reminiscences, “was the attempt of Damiens to assassinate
Louis XV.  This occurrence struck me so forcibly that the most minute
details relating to the confusion and grief which prevailed at Versailles
on that day seem as present to my imagination as the most recent events. I
had dined with my father and mother, in company with one of their friends.
The drawing-room was lighted up with a number of candles, and four
card-tables were already occupied, when a friend of the gentleman of the
house came in, with a pale and terrified countenance, and said, in a voice
scarcely audible, ‘I bring you terrible news.  The King has been
assassinated!’  Two ladies in the company fainted; a brigadier of the Body
Guards threw down his cards and cried out, ‘I do not wonder at it; it is
those rascally Jesuits.’--‘What are you saying, brother?’ cried a lady,
flying to him; ‘would you get yourself arrested?’--‘Arrested!  For what?
For unmasking those wretches who want a bigot for a King?’  My father came
in; he recommended circumspection, saying that the blow was not mortal,
and that all meetings ought to be suspended at so critical a moment.  He
had brought the chaise for my mother, who placed me on her knees.  We
lived in the Avenue de Paris, and throughout our drive I heard incessant
cries and sobs from the footpaths.

“At last I saw a man arrested; he was an usher of the King’s chamber, who
had gone mad, and was crying out, ‘Yes, I know them; the wretches! the
villains!’  Our chaise was stopped by this bustle.  My mother recognised
the unfortunate man who had been seized; she gave his name to the trooper
who had stopped him.  The poor usher was therefore merely conducted to the
gens d’armes’ guardroom, which was then in the avenue.

“I have often heard M. de Landsmath, equerry and master of the hounds, who
used to come frequently to my father’s, say that on the news of the
attempt on the King’s life he instantly repaired to his Majesty. I cannot
repeat the coarse expressions he made use of to encourage his Majesty; but
his account of the affair, long afterwards, amused the parties in which he
was prevailed on to relate it, when all apprehensions respecting the
consequences of the event had subsided.  This M. de Landsmath was an old
soldier, who had given proofs of extraordinary valour; nothing had been
able to soften his manners or subdue his excessive bluntness to the
respectful customs of the Court.  The King was very fond of him.  He
possessed prodigious strength, and had often contended with Marechal Saxe,
renowned for his great bodily power, in trying the strength of their
respective wrists.

[One day when the King was hunting in the forest of St. Germain,
Landemath, riding before him, wanted a cart, filled with the slime of a
pond that had just been cleansed, to draw up out of the way. The carter
resisted, and even answered with impertinence. Landsmath, without
dismounting, seized him by the breast of his coat, lifted him up, and
threw him into his cart.--MADAME CAMPAN.]

“M. de Landsmath had a thundering voice.  When he came into the King’s
apartment he found the Dauphin and Mesdames, his Majesty’s daughters,
there; the Princesses, in tears, surrounded the King’s bed.  Send out all
these weeping women, Sire,’ said the old equerry; ‘I want to speak to you
alone: The King made a sign to the Princesses to withdraw.  ‘Come,’ said
Landsmath, ‘your wound is nothing; you had plenty of waistcoats and
flannels on.’  Then uncovering his breast, ‘Look here,’ said he, showing
four or five great scars, ‘these are something like wounds; I received
them thirty years ago; now cough as loud as you can.’  The King did so.
‘‘Tis nothing at all,’ said Landsmath; ‘you must laugh at it; we shall
hunt a stag together in four days.’--‘But suppose the blade was poisoned,’
said the King.  ‘Old grandams’ tales,’ replied Landsmath; ‘if it had been
so, the waistcoats and flannels would have rubbed the poison off.’  The
King was pacified, and passed a very good night.

“His Majesty one day asked M. de Landsmath how old he was.  He was aged,
and by no means fond of thinking of his age; he evaded the question. A
fortnight later, Louis XV. took a paper out of his pocket and read aloud:
‘On such a day in the month of one thousand six hundred and eighty, was
baptised by me, rector of ------, the son of the high and mighty lord,’
etc.  ‘What’s that?’ said Landsmath, angrily; ‘has your Majesty been
procuring the certificate of my baptism?’--‘There it is, you see,
Landsmath,’ said the King.  ‘Well, Sire, hide it as fast as you can; a
prince entrusted with the happiness of twenty-five millions of people
ought not wilfully to hurt the feelings of a single individual.’

“The King learned that Landsmath had lost his confessor, a missionary
priest of the parish of Notre-Dame.  It was the custom of the Lazarists to
expose their dead with the face uncovered.  Louis XV. wished to try his
equerry’s firmness.  ‘You have lost your confessor, I hear,’ said the
King.  ‘Yes, Sire.’--‘He will be exposed with his face bare?’--‘Such is
the custom.’--‘I command you to go and see him.’--‘Sire, my confessor was
my friend; it would be very painful to me.’--‘No matter; I command
you.’--‘Are you really in earnest, Sire?’--‘Quite so.’--‘It would be the
first time in my life that I had disobeyed my sovereign’s order.  I will
go.’ The next day the King at his levee, as soon as he perceived
Landsmath, said, ‘Have you done as I desired you,
Landsmath?’--‘Undoubtedly, Sire.’--‘Well, what did you see?’--‘Faith, I
saw that your Majesty and I are no great shakes!’

“At the death of Queen Maria Leczinska, M. Campan,--[Her father-in-law,
afterwards secretary to Marie Antoinette.]--then an officer of the
chamber, having performed several confidential duties, the King asked
Madame Adelaide how he should reward him.  She requested him to create an
office in his household of master of the wardrobe, with a salary of a
thousand crowns.  ‘I will do so,’ said the King; ‘it will be an honourable
title; but tell Campan not to add a single crown to his expenses, for you
will see they will never pay him.’

“Louis XV., by his dignified carriage, and the amiable yet majestic
expression of his features, was worthy to succeed to Louis the Great. But
he too frequently indulged in secret pleasures, which at last were sure to
become known.  During several winters, he was passionately fond of
‘candles’ end balls’, as he called those parties amongst the very lowest
classes of society.  He got intelligence of the picnics given by the
tradesmen, milliners, and sempstresses of Versailles, whither he repaired
in a black domino, and masked, accompanied by the captain of his Guards,
masked like himself.  His great delight was to go ‘en brouette’--[In a
kind of sedan-chair, running on two wheels, and drawn by a
chairman.]--Care was always taken to give notice to five or six officers
of the King’s or Queen’s chamber to be there, in order that his Majesty
might be surrounded by people on whom he could depend, without finding it
troublesome.  Probably the captain of the Guards also took other
precautions of this description on his part.  My father-in-law, when the
King and he were both young, has often made one amongst the servants
desired to attend masked at these parties, assembled in some garret, or
parlour of a public-house.  In those times, during the carnival, masked
companies had a right to join the citizens’ balls; it was sufficient that
one of the party should unmask and name himself.

“These secret excursions, and his too habitual intercourse with ladies
more distinguished for their personal charms than for the advantages of
education, were no doubt the means by which the King acquired many vulgar
expressions which otherwise would never have reached his ears.

“Yet amidst the most shameful excesses the King sometimes suddenly resumed
the dignity of his rank in a very noble manner.  The familiar courtiers of
Louis XV. had one day abandoned themselves to the unrestrained gaiety, of
a supper, after returning from the chase.  Each boasted of and described
the beauty of his mistress.  Some of them amused themselves with giving a
particular account of their wives’ personal defects.  An imprudent word,
addressed to Louis XV., and applicable only to the Queen, instantly
dispelled all the mirth of the entertainment. The King assumed his regal
air, and knocking with his knife on the table twice or thrice, ‘Gentlemen;
said he, ‘here is the King!’

“Those men who are most completely abandoned to dissolute manners are not,
on that account, insensible to virtue in women.  The Comtesse de Perigord
was as beautiful as virtuous.  During some excursions she made to Choisy,
whither she had been invited, she perceived that the King took great
notice of her.  Her demeanour of chilling respect, her cautious
perseverance in shunning all serious conversation with the monarch, were
insufficient to extinguish this rising flame, and he at length addressed a
letter to her, worded in the most passionate terms.  This excellent woman
instantly formed her resolution: honour forbade her returning the King’s
passion, whilst her profound respect for the sovereign made her unwilling
to disturb his tranquillity.  She therefore voluntarily banished herself
to an estate she possessed called Chalais, near Barbezieux, the mansion of
which had been uninhabited nearly a century; the porter’s lodge was the
only place in a condition to receive her. From this seat she wrote to his
Majesty, explaining her motives for leaving Court; and she remained there
several years without visiting Paris.  Louis XV. was speedily attracted by
other objects, and regained the composure to which Madame de Perigord had
thought it her duty to sacrifice so much.  Some years after, Mesdames’
lady of honour died. Many great families solicited the place.  The King,
without answering any of their applications, wrote to the Comtesse de
Perigord: ‘My daughters have just lost their lady of honour; this place,
madame, is your due, as much on account of your personal qualities as of
the illustrious name of your family.’

“Three young men of the college of St. Germain, who had just completed
their course of studies, knowing no person about the Court, and having
heard that strangers were always well treated there, resolved to dress
themselves completely in the Armenian costume, and, thus clad, to present
themselves to see the grand ceremony of the reception of several knights
of the Order of the Holy Ghost.  Their stratagem met with all the success
with which they had flattered themselves.  While the procession was
passing through the long mirror gallery, the Swiss of the apartments
placed them in the first row of spectators, recommending every one to pay
all possible attention to the strangers.  The latter, however, were
imprudent enough to enter the ‘oeil-de-boeuf’ chamber, where, were
Messieurs Cardonne and Ruffin, interpreters of Oriental languages, and the
first clerk of the consul’s department, whose business it was to attend to
everything which related to the natives of the East who were in France.
The three scholars were immediately surrounded and questioned by these
gentlemen, at first in modern Greek.  Without being disconcerted, they
made signs that they did not understand it.  They were then addressed in
Turkish and Arabic; at length one of the interpreters, losing all
patience, exclaimed, ‘Gentlemen, you certainly must understand some of the
languages in which you have been addressed.  What country can you possibly
come from then?’--‘From St. Germain-en-Laye, sir,’ replied the boldest
among them; ‘this is the first time you have put the question to us in
French.’  They then confessed the motive of their disguise; the eldest of
them was not more than eighteen years of age.  Louis XV. was informed of
the affair.  He laughed heartily, ordered them a few hours’ confinement
and a good admonition, after which they were to be set at liberty.

“Louis XV. liked to talk about death, though he was extremely apprehensive
of it; but his excellent health and his royal dignity probably made him
imagine himself invulnerable.  He often said to people who had very bad
colds, ‘You’ve a churchyard cough there.’  Hunting one day in the forest
of Senard, in a year in which bread was extremely dear, he met a man on
horseback carrying a coffin.  ‘Whither are you carrying that coffin?’--‘To
the village of ------,’ answered the peasant.  ‘Is it for a man or a
woman?’--‘For a man.’--‘What did he die of?’--‘Of hunger,’ bluntly replied
the villager.  The King spurred on his horse, and asked no more questions.

“Weak as Louis XV. was, the Parliaments would never have obtained his
consent to the convocation of the States General.  I heard an anecdote on
this subject from two officers attached to that Prince’s household.  It
was at the period when the remonstrances of the Parliaments, and the
refusals to register the decrees for levying taxes, produced alarm with
respect to the state of the finances.  This became the subject of
conversation one evening at the coucher of Louis XV.  ‘You will see,
Sire,’ said a courtier, whose office placed him in close communication
with the King, ‘that all this will make it absolutely necessary to
assemble the States General!’

“The King, roused by this speech from the habitual apathy of his
character, seized the courtier by the arm, and said to him, in a passion,
‘Never repeat, these words.  I am not sanguinary; but had I a brother, and
were he to dare to give me such advice, I would sacrifice him, within
twenty-four hours, to the duration of the monarchy and the tranquillity of
the kingdom.’

“Several years prior to his death the Dauphin, the father of Louis XVI.,
had confluent smallpox, which endangered his life; and after his
convalescence he was long troubled with a malignant ulcer under the nose.
He was injudiciously advised to get rid of it by the use of extract of
lead, which proved effectual; but from that time the Dauphin, who was
corpulent, insensibly grew thin, and a short, dry cough evinced that the
humour, driven in, had fallen on the lungs.  Some persons also suspected
him of having taken acids in too great a quantity for the purpose of
reducing his bulk.  The state of his health was not, however, such as to
excite alarm.  At the camp at Compiegne, in July, 1764, the Dauphin
reviewed the troops, and evinced much activity in the performance of his
duties; it was even observed that he was seeking to gain the attachment of
the army.  He presented the Dauphiness to the soldiers, saying, with a
simplicity which at that time made a great sensation, ‘Mes enfans, here is
my wife.’  Returning late on horseback to Compiegne, he found he had taken
a chill; the heat of the day had been excessive; the Prince’s clothes had
been wet with perspiration.  An illness followed, in which the Prince
began to spit blood.  His principal physician wished to have him bled; the
consulting physicians insisted on purgation, and their advice was
followed.  The pleurisy, being ill cured, assumed and retained all the
symptoms of consumption; the Dauphin languished from that period until
December, 1765, and died at Fontainebleau, where the Court, on account of
his condition, had prolonged its stay, which usually ended on the 2d of
November.

“The Dauphiness, his widow, was deeply afflicted; but the immoderate
despair which characterised her grief induced many to suspect that the
loss of the crown was an important part of the calamity she lamented. She
long refused to eat enough to support life; she encouraged her tears to
flow by placing portraits of the Dauphin in every retired part of her
apartments.  She had him represented pale, and ready to expire, in a
picture placed at the foot of her bed, under draperies of gray cloth, with
which the chambers of the Princesses were always hung in court mournings.
Their grand cabinet was hung with black cloth, with an alcove, a canopy,
and a throne, on which they received compliments of condolence after the
first period of the deep mourning.  The Dauphiness, some months before the
end of her career, regretted her conduct in abridging it; but it was too
late; the fatal blow had been struck.  It may also be presumed that living
with a consumptive, man had contributed to her complaint.  This Princess
had no opportunity of displaying her qualities; living in a Court in which
she was eclipsed by the King and Queen, the only characteristics that
could be remarked in her were her extreme attachment to her husband, and
her great piety.

“The Dauphin was little known, and his character has been much mistaken.
He himself, as he confessed to his intimate friends, sought to disguise
it.  He one day asked one of his most familiar servants, ‘What do they say
in Paris of that great fool of a Dauphin?’ The person interrogated seeming
confused, the Dauphin urged him to express himself sincerely, saying,
‘Speak freely; that is positively the idea which I wish people to form of
me.’

“As he died of a disease which allows the last moment to be anticipated
long beforehand, he wrote much, and transmitted his affections and his
prejudices to his son by secret notes.

“Madame de Pompadour’s brother received Letters of Nobility from his
Majesty, and was appointed superintendent of the buildings and gardens. He
often presented to her Majesty, through the medium of his sister, the
rarest flowers, pineapples, and early vegetables from the gardens of
Trianon and Choisy.  One day, when the Marquise came into the Queen’s
apartments, carrying a large basket of flowers, which she held in her two
beautiful arms, without gloves, as a mark of respect, the Queen loudly
declared her admiration of her beauty; and seemed as if she wished to
defend the King’s choice, by praising her various charms in detail, in a
manner that would have been as suitable to a production of the fine arts
as to a living being.  After applauding the complexion, eyes, and fine
arms of the favourite, with that haughty condescension which renders
approbation more offensive than flattering, the Queen at length requested
her to sing, in the attitude in which she stood, being desirous of hearing
the voice and musical talent by which the King’s Court had been charmed in
the performances of the private apartments, and thus combining the
gratification of the ears with that of the eyes.  The Marquise, who still
held her enormous basket, was perfectly sensible of something offensive in
this request, and tried to excuse herself from singing.  The Queen at last
commanded her; she then exerted her fine voice in the solo of Armida--‘At
length he is in my power.’ The change in her Majesty’s countenance was so
obvious that the ladies present at this scene had the greatest difficulty
to keep theirs.

“The Queen was affable and modest; but the more she was thankful in her
heart to Heaven for having placed her on the first throne in Europe, the
more unwilling she was to be reminded of her elevation.  This sentiment
induced her to insist on the observation of all the forms of respect due
to royal birth; whereas in other princes the consciousness of that birth
often induces them to disdain the ceremonies of etiquette, and to prefer
habits of ease and simplicity.  There was a striking contrast in this
respect between Maria Leczinska and Marie Antoinette, as has been justly
and generally observed.  The latter unfortunate Queen, perhaps, carried
her disregard of everything belonging to the strict forms of etiquette too
far.  One day, when the Marechale de Mouchy was teasing her with questions
relative to the extent to which she would allow the ladies the option of
taking off or wearing their cloaks, and of pinning up the lappets of their
caps, or letting them hang down, the Queen replied to her, in my presence:
‘Arrange all those matters, madame, just as you please; but do not imagine
that a queen, born Archduchess of Austria, can attach that importance to
them which might be felt by a Polish princess who had become Queen of
France.’

“The virtues and information of the great are always evinced by their
conduct; their accomplishments, coming within the scope of flattery, are
difficult to be ascertained by any authentic proofs, and those who have
lived near them may be excused for some degree of scepticism with regard
to their attainments of this kind.  If they draw or paint, there is always
an able artist present, who, if he does not absolutely guide the pencil
with his own hand, directs it by his advice.  If a princess attempt a
piece of embroidery in colours, of that description which ranks amongst
the productions of the arts, a skilful embroideress is employed to undo
and repair whatever has been spoilt.  If the princess be a musician, there
are no ears that will discover when she is out of tune; at least there is
no tongue that will tell her so.  This imperfection in the accomplishments
of the great is but a slight misfortune.  It is sufficiently meritorious
in them to engage in such pursuits, even with indifferent success, because
this taste and the protection it extends produce abundance of talent on
every side.  Maria Leczinska delighted in the art of painting, and
imagined she herself could draw and paint.  She had a drawing-master, who
passed all his time in her cabinet.  She undertook to paint four large
Chinese pictures, with which she wished to ornament her private
drawing-room, which was richly furnished with rare porcelain and the
finest marbles.  This painter was entrusted with the landscape and
background of the pictures; he drew the figures with a pencil; the faces
and arms were also left by the Queen to his execution; she reserved to
herself nothing but the draperies, and the least important accessories.
The Queen every morning filled up the outline marked out for her, with a
little red, blue, or green colour, which the master prepared on the
palette, and even filled her brush with, constantly repeating, ‘Higher up,
Madame--lower down, Madame--a little to the right--more to the left.’
After an hour’s work, the time for hearing mass, or some other family or
pious duty, would interrupt her Majesty; and the painter, putting the
shadows into the draperies she had painted, softening off the colour where
she had laid too much, etc., finished the small figures.  When the work
was completed the private drawing-room was decorated with her Majesty’s
work; and the firm persuasion of this good Queen that she had painted it
herself was so entire that she left this cabinet, with all its furniture
and paintings, to the Comtesse de Noailles, her lady of honour.  She added
to the bequest: ‘The pictures in my cabinet being my own work, I hope the
Comtesse de Noailles will preserve them for my sake.’  Madame de Noailles,
afterwards Marechale de Mouchy, had a new pavilion constructed in her
hotel in the Faubourg St. Germain, in order to form a suitable receptacle
for the Queen’s legacy; and had the following inscription placed over the
door, in letters of gold: ‘The innocent falsehood of a good princess.’

“Maria Leczinska could never look with cordiality on the Princess of
Saxony, who married the Dauphin; but the attentive behaviour of the
Dauphiness at length made her Majesty forget that the Princess was the
daughter of a king who wore her father’s crown.  Nevertheless, although
the Queen now saw in the Princess of Saxony only a wife beloved by her
son, she never could forget that Augustus wore the crown of Stanislaus.
One day an officer of her chamber having undertaken to ask a private
audience of her for the Saxon minister, and the Queen being unwilling to
grant it, he ventured to add that he should not have presumed to ask this
favour of the Queen had not the minister been the ambassador of a member
of the family.  ‘Say of an enemy of the family,’ replied the Queen,
angrily; ‘and let him come in.’

“Comte de Tesse, father of the last Count of that name, who left no
children, was first equerry to Queen Maria Leczinska.  She esteemed his
virtues, but often diverted herself at the expense of his simplicity. One
day, when the conversation turned on the noble military, actions by which
the French nobility was distinguished, the Queen said to the Count: ‘And
your family, M. de Tesse, has been famous, too, in the field.’--‘Ah,
Madame, we have all been killed in our masters’ service!’--‘How rejoiced I
am,’ replied the Queen, ‘that you have revived to tell me of it.’  The son
of this worthy M. de Tesse was married to the amiable and highly gifted
daughter of the Duc d’Ayen, afterwards Marechale de Noailles.  He was
exceedingly fond of his daughter-in-law, and never could speak of her
without emotion.  The Queen, to please him, often talked to him about the
young Countess, and one day asked him which of her good qualities seemed
to him most conspicuous.  ‘Her gentleness, Madame, her gentleness,’ said
he, with tears in his eyes; ‘she is so mild, so soft,--as soft as a good
carriage.’--‘Well,’ said her Majesty, ‘that’s an excellent comparison for
a first equerry.’

“In 1730 Queen Maria Leczinska, going to mass, met old Marechal Villars,
leaning on a wooden crutch not worth fifteen pence.  She rallied him about
it, and the Marshal told her that he had used it ever since he had
received a wound which obliged him to add this article to the equipments
of the army.  Her Majesty, smiling, said she thought this crutch so
unworthy of him that she hoped to induce him to give it up.  On returning
home she despatched M. Campan to Paris with orders to purchase at the
celebrated Germain’s the handsomest cane, with a gold enamelled crutch,
that he could find, and carry it without delay to Marechal Villars’s
hotel, and present it to him from her.  He was announced accordingly, and
fulfilled his commission.  The Marshal, in attending him to the door,
requested him to express his gratitude to the Queen, and said that he had
nothing fit to offer to an officer who had the honour to belong to her
Majesty; but he begged him to accept of his old stick, saying that his
grandchildren would probably some day be glad to possess the cane with
which he had commanded at Marchiennes and Denain.  The known frugality of
Marechal Villars appears in this anecdote; but he was not mistaken with
respect to the estimation in which his stick would be held.  It was
thenceforth kept with veneration by M. Campan’s family.  On the 10th of
August, 1792, a house which I occupied on the Carrousel, at the entrance
of the Court of the Tuileries, was pillaged and nearly burnt down.  The
cane of Marechal Villars was thrown into the Carrousel as of no value, and
picked up by my servant.  Had its old master been living at that period we
should not have witnessed such a deplorable day.

“Before the Revolution there were customs and words in use at Versailles
with which few people were acquainted.  The King’s dinner was called ‘The
King’s meat.’  Two of the Body Guard accompanied the attendants who
carried the dinner; every one rose as they passed through the halls,
saying, ‘There is the King’s meat.’  All precautionary duties were
distinguished by the words ‘in case.’  One of the guards might be heard to
say, ‘I am in case in the forest of St. Germain.’  In the evening they
always brought the Queen a large bowl of broth, a cold roast fowl, one
bottle of wine, one of orgeat, one of lemonade, and some other articles,
which were called the ‘in case’ for the night.  An old medical gentleman,
who had been physician in ordinary to Louis XIV., and was still living at
the time of the marriage of Louis XV., told M. Campan’s father an anecdote
which seems too remarkable to have remained unknown; nevertheless he was a
man of honour, incapable of inventing this story. His name was Lafosse.
He said that Louis XIV. was informed that the officers of his table
evinced, in the most disdainful and offensive manner, the mortification
they felt at being obliged to eat at the table of the comptroller of the
kitchen along with Moliere, valet de chambre to his Majesty, because
Moliere had performed on the stage; and that this celebrated author
consequently declined appearing at that table.  Louis XIV., determined to
put an end to insults which ought never to have been offered to one of the
greatest geniuses of the age, said to him one morning at the hour of his
private levee, ‘They say you live very poorly here, Moliere; and that the
officers of my chamber do not find you good enough to eat with them.
Perhaps you are hungry; for my part I awoke with a very good appetite this
morning: sit down at this table.  Serve up my ‘in case’ for the night
there.’  The King, then cutting up his fowl, and ordering Moliere to sit
down, helped him to a wing, at the same time taking one for himself, and
ordered the persons entitled to familiar entrance, that is to say the most
distinguished and favourite people at Court, to be admitted.  ‘You see
me,’ said the King to them, ‘engaged in entertaining Moliere, whom my
valets de chambre do not consider sufficiently good company for them.’
From that time Moliere never had occasion to appear at the valets’ table;
the whole Court was forward enough to send him invitations.

“M. de Lafosse used also to relate that a brigade-major of the Body Guard,
being ordered to place the company in the little theatre at Versailles,
very roughly turned out one of the King’s comptrollers who had taken his
seat on one of the benches, a place to which his newly acquired office
entitled him.  In vain he insisted on his quality and his right.  The
altercation was ended by the brigade-major in these words: ‘Gentlemen Body
Guards, do your duty.’  In this case their duty was to turn the offender
out at the door.  This comptroller, who had paid sixty or eighty thousand
francs for his appointment, was a man of a good family, and had had the
honour of serving his Majesty five and twenty years in one of his
regiments; thus ignominiously driven out of the hall, he placed himself in
the King’s way in the great hall of the Guards, and, bowing to his
Majesty, requested him to vindicate the honour of an old soldier who had
wished to end his days in his Prince’s civil employment, now that age had
obliged him to relinquish his military service.  The King stopped, heard
his story, and then ordered him to follow him.  His Majesty attended the
representation in a sort of amphitheatre, in which his armchair was
placed; behind him was a row of stools for the captain of the Guards, the
first gentleman of the chamber, and other great officers.  The
brigade-major was entitled to one of these places; the King stopped
opposite the seat which ought to have been occupied by that officer and
said to the comptroller, ‘Take, monsieur, for this evening, the place near
my person of him who has offended you, and let the expression of my
displeasure at this unjust affront satisfy you instead of any other
reparation:

“During the latter years of the reign of Louis XIV. he never went out but
in a chair carried by porters, and he showed a great regard for a man
named D’Aigremont, one of those porters who always went in front and
opened the door of the chair.  The slightest preference shown by
sovereigns, even to the meanest of their servants, never fails to excite
observation.

[People of the very first rank did not disdain to descend to the level of
D’Aigremont.  “Lauzun,” said the Duchesse d’Orleans in her “Memoirs,”
 “sometimes affects stupidity in order to show people their own with
impunity, for he is very malicious.  In order to make Marechal de Tease
feel the impropriety of his familiarity with people of the common sort, he
called out, in the drawing-room at Marly, ‘Marechal, give me a pinch of
snuff; some of your best, such as you take in the morning with Monsieur
d’Aigremont, the chairman.’”--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

The King had done something for this man’s numerous family, and frequently
talked to him.  An abbe belonging to the chapel thought proper to request
D’Aigremont to present a memorial to the King, in which he requested his
Majesty to grant him a benefice.  Louis XIV.  did not approve of the
liberty thus taken by his chairman, and said to him, in a very angry tone,
‘D’Aigremont, you have been made to do a very unbecoming act, and I am
sure there must be simony in the case.’--‘No, Sire, there is not the least
ceremony in the case, I assure you,’ answered the poor man, in great
consternation; ‘the abbe only said he would give me a hundred
Louis.’--‘D’Aigremont,’ said the King, ‘I forgive you on account of your
ignorance and candour.  I will give you the hundred Louis out of my privy
purse; but I will discharge you the very next time you venture to present
a memorial to me.’

“Louis XIV. was very kind to those of his servants who were nearest his
person; but the moment he assumed his royal deportment, those who were
most accustomed to see him in his domestic character were as much
intimidated as if they were appearing in his presence for the first time
in their lives.  Some of the members of his Majesty’s civil household,
then called ‘commensalite’, enjoying the title of equerry, and the
privileges attached to officers of the King’s household, had occasion to
claim some prerogatives, the exercise of which the municipal body of St.
Germain, where they resided, disputed with them.  Being assembled in
considerable numbers in that town, they obtained the consent of the
minister of the household to allow them to send a deputation to the King;
and for that purpose chose from amongst them two of his Majesty’s valets
de chambre named Bazire and Soulaigre.  The King’s levee being over, the
deputation of the inhabitants of the town of St. Germain was called in.
They entered with confidence; the King looked at them, and assumed his
imposing attitude.  Bazire, one of these valets de chambre, was about to
speak, but Louis the Great was looking on him.  He no longer saw the
Prince he was accustomed to attend at home; he was intimidated, and could
not find words; he recovered, however, and began as usual with the word
Sire.  But timidity again overpowered him, and finding himself unable to
recollect the slightest particle of what he came to say, he repeated the
word Sire several times, and at length concluded by paying, ‘Sire, here is
Soulaigre.’  Soulaigre, who was very angry with Bazire, and expected to
acquit himself much better, then began to speak; but he also, after
repeating ‘Sire’ several times, found his embarrassment increasing upon
him, until his confusion equalled that of his colleague; he therefore
ended with ‘Sire, here is Bazire.’  The King smiled, and answered,
‘Gentlemen, I have been informed of the business upon which you have been
deputed to wait on me, and I will take care that what is right shall be
done.  I am highly satisfied with the manner in which you have fulfilled
your functions as deputies.’”

Mademoiselle Genet’s education was the object of her father’s particular
attention.  Her progress in the study of music and of foreign languages
was surprising; Albaneze instructed her in singing, and Goldoni taught her
Italian.  Tasso, Milton, Dante, and even Shakespeare, soon became familiar
to her.  But her studies were particularly directed to the acquisition of
a correct and elegant style of reading.  Rochon de Chabannes, Duclos,
Barthe, Marmontel, and Thomas took pleasure in hearing her recite the
finest scenes of Racine.  Her memory and genius at the age of fourteen
charmed them; they talked of her talents in society, and perhaps applauded
them too highly.

She was soon spoken of at Court.  Some ladies of high rank, who took an
interest in the welfare of her family, obtained for her the place of
Reader to the Princesses.  Her presentation, and the circumstances which
preceded it, left a strong impression on her mind.  “I was then fifteen,”
 she says; “my father felt some regret at yielding me up at so early an age
to the jealousies of the Court.  The day on which I first put on my Court
dress, and went to embrace him in his study, tears filled his eyes, and
mingled with the expression of his pleasure.  I possessed some agreeable
talents, in addition to the instruction which it had been his delight to
bestow on me.  He enumerated all my little accomplishments, to convince me
of the vexations they would not fail to draw upon me.”

Mademoiselle Genet, at fifteen, was naturally less of a philosopher than
her father was at forty.  Her eyes were dazzled by the splendour which
glittered at Versailles.  “The Queen, Maria Leczinska, the wife of Louis
XV., died,” she says, “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 on my senses that I could scarcely support myself when introduced
to the Princesses.  The first day of my reading in the inner apartment of
Madame Victoire I found it impossible to pronounce more than two
sentences; my heart palpitated, my voice faltered, and my sight failed.
How well understood was the potent magic of the grandeur and dignity which
ought to surround sovereigns!  Marie Antoinette, dressed in white, with a
plain straw hat, and a little switch in her hand, walking on foot,
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 the first and only real mistake of all those with which she
is reproached.”

When once her awe and confusion had subsided, Mademoiselle Genet was
enabled to form a more accurate judgment of her situation.  It was by no
means attractive; the Court of the Princesses, far removed from the revels
to which Louie XV. was addicted, was grave, methodical, and dull. Madame
Adelaide, the eldest of the Princesses, lived secluded in the interior of
her apartments; Madame Sophie was haughty; Madame Louise a devotee.
Mademoiselle Genet never quitted the Princesses’ apartments; but she
attached herself most particularly to Madame Victoire.  This Princess had
possessed beauty; her countenance bore an expression of benevolence, and
her conversation was kind, free, and unaffected.  The young reader excited
in her that feeling which a woman in years, of an affectionate
disposition, readily extends to young people who are growing up in her
sight, and who possess some useful talents.  Whole days were passed in
reading to the Princess, as she sat at work in her apartment. Mademoiselle
Genet frequently saw there Louis XV., of whom she has related the
following anecdote:

“One day, at the Chateau of Compiegne, the King came in whilst I was
reading to Madame.  I rose and went into another room.  Alone, in an
apartment from which there was no outlet, with no book but a Massillon,
which I had been reading to the Princess, happy in all the lightness and
gaiety of fifteen, I amused myself with turning swiftly round, with my
court hoop, and suddenly kneeling down to see my rose-coloured silk
petticoat swelled around me by the wind.  In the midst of this grave
employment enters his Majesty, followed by one of the Princesses.  I
attempt to rise; my feet stumble, and down I fall in the midst of my
robes, puffed out by the wind.  ‘Daughter,’ said Louis XV., laughing
heartily, ‘I advise you to send back to school a reader who makes
cheeses.’”  The railleries of Louis XV. were often much more cutting, as
Mademoiselle Genet experienced on another occasion, which, thirty years
afterwards, she could not relate without an emotion of fear. “Louis XV.,”
 she said, “had the most imposing presence.  His eyes remained fixed upon
you all the time he was speaking; and, notwithstanding the beauty of his
features, he inspired a sort of fear. I was very young, it is true, when
he first spoke to me; you shall judge whether it was in a very gracious
manner.  I was fifteen.  The King was going out to hunt, and a numerous
retinue followed him.  As he stopped opposite me he said, ‘Mademoiselle
Genet, I am assured you are very learned, and understand four or five
foreign languages.’--‘I know only two, Sire,’ I answered, trembling.
‘Which are they?’ English and Italian.’--‘Do you speak them fluently?’
Yes, Sire, very fluently.’ ‘That is quite enough to drive a husband mad.’
After this pretty compliment the King went on; the retinue saluted me,
laughing; and, for my part, I remained for some moments motionless with
surprise and confusion.”

At the time when the French alliance was proposed by the Duc de Choiseul
there was at Vienna a doctor named Gassner,--[Jean Joseph Gassner, a
pretender to miraculous powers.]--who had fled thither to seek an asylum
against the persecutions of his sovereign, one of the ecclesiastical
electors.  Gassner, gifted with an extraordinary warmth of imagination,
imagined that he received inspirations.  The Empress protected him, saw
him occasionally, rallied him on his visions, and, nevertheless, heard
them with a sort of interest.  “Tell me,”--said she to him one day,
“whether my Antoinette will be happy.”  Gassner turned pale, and remained
silent.  Being still pressed by the Empress, and wishing to give a general
expression to the idea with which he seemed deeply occupied, “Madame,” he
replied, “there are crosses for all shoulders.”

The occurrences at the Place Louis XV. on the marriage festivities at
Paris are generally known.  The conflagration of the scaffolds intended
for the fireworks, the want of foresight of the authorities, the avidity
of robbers, the murderous career of the coaches, brought about and
aggravated the disasters of that day; and the young Dauphiness, coming
from Versailles, by the Cours la Reine, elated with joy, brilliantly
decorated, and eager to witness the rejoicings of the whole people, fled,
struck with consternation and drowned in tears, from the dreadful scene.
This tragic opening of the young Princess’s life in France seemed to bear
out Gassner’s hint of disaster, and to be ominous of the terrible future
which awaited her.

In the same year in which Marie Antoinette was married to the Dauphin,
Henriette Genet married a son of M. Campan, already mentioned as holding
an office at the Court; and when the household of the Dauphiness was
formed, Madame Campan was appointed her reader, and received from Marie
Antoinette a consistent kindness and confidence to which by her loyal
service she was fully entitled.   Madame Campan’s intelligence and
vivacity made her much more sympathetic to a young princess, gay and
affectionate in disposition, and reared in the simplicity of a German
Court, than her lady of honour, the Comtesse de Noailles.  This
respectable lady, who was placed near her as a minister of the laws of
etiquette, instead of alleviating their weight, rendered their yoke
intolerable to her.

“Madame de Noailles,” says Madame Campan, “abounded in virtues.  Her
piety, charity, and irreproachable morals rendered her worthy of praise;
but etiquette was to her a sort of atmosphere; at the slightest
derangement of the consecrated order, one would have thought the
principles of life would forsake her frame.

“One day I unintentionally threw this poor lady into a terrible agony. The
Queen was receiving I know not whom,--some persons just presented, I
believe; the lady of honour, the Queen’s tirewoman, and the ladies of the
bedchamber, were behind the Queen.  I was near the throne, with the two
women on duty.  All was right,--at least I thought so.  Suddenly I
perceived the eyes of Madame de Noailles fixed on mine.  She made a sign
with her head, and then raised her eyebrows to the top of her forehead,
lowered them, raised them again, then began to make little signs with her
hand.  From all this pantomime, I could easily perceive that something was
not as it should be; and as I looked about on all sides to find out what
it was, the agitation of the Countess kept increasing.  The Queen, who
perceived all this, looked at me with a smile; I found means to approach
her Majesty, who said to me in a whisper, ‘Let down your lappets, or the
Countess will expire.’  All this bustle arose from two unlucky pins which
fastened up my lappets, whilst the etiquette of costume said ‘Lappets
hanging down.’”

Her contempt of the vanities of etiquette became the pretext for the first
reproaches levelled at the Queen.  What misconduct might not be dreaded
from a princess who could absolutely go out without a hoop! and who, in
the salons of Trianon, instead of discussing the important rights to
chairs and stools, good-naturedly invited everybody to be seated.

[M. de Fresne Forget, being one day in company with the Queen Marguerite,
told her he was astonished how men and women with such great ruffs could
eat soup without spoiling them; and still more how the ladies could be
gallant with their great fardingales.  The Queen made no answer at that
time, but a few days after, having a very large ruff on, and some ‘bouili’
to eat, she ordered a very long spoon to be brought, and ate her ‘bouili’
with it, without soiling her ruff.  Upon which, addressing herself to M.
de Fresne, she said, laughing, “There now, you see, with a little
ingenuity one may manage anything.”--“Yes, faith, madame,” said the good
man, “as far as regards the soup I am satisfied.”--LAPLACE’s “Collection,”
 vol. ii., p. 350.]

The anti-Austrian party, discontented and vindictive, became spies upon
her conduct, exaggerated her slightest errors, and calumniated her most
innocent proceedings.  “What seems unaccountable at the first glance,”
 says Montjoie, “is that the first attack on the reputation of the Queen
proceeded from the bosom of the Court.  What interest could the courtiers
have in seeking her destruction, which involved that of the King?  Was it
not drying up the source of all the advantages they enjoyed, or could hope
for?”

[Madame Campan relates the following among many anecdotes illustrative of
the Queen’s kindness of heart: “A petition was addressed to the Queen by a
corporation in the neighbourhood of Paris, praying for the destruction of
the game which destroyed their crops.  I was the bearer of this petition
to her Majesty, who said, ‘I will undertake to have these good people
relieved from so great an annoyance.’  She gave the document to M. de
Vermond in my presence, saying, ‘I desire that immediate justice be done
to this petition.’  An assurance was given that her order should be
attended to, but six weeks afterwards a second petition was sent up, for
the nuisance had not been abated after all.  If the second petition had
reached the Queen, M. de Vermond would have received a sharp reprimand.
She was always so happy when it was in her power to do good.”

The quick repartee, which was another of the Queen’s characteristics, was
less likely to promote her popularity.  “M. Brunier,” says Madame Campan,
“was physician to the royal children. During his visits to the palace, if
the death of any of his patients was alluded to, he never failed to say,
‘Ah! there I lost one of my best friends!  ‘Well,’ said the Queen, ‘if he
loses all his patients who are his friends, what will become of those who
are not?’”]

When the terrible Danton exclaimed, “The kings of Europe menace us; it
behooves us to defy them; let us throw down to them the head of a king as
our gage!” these detestable words, followed by so cruel a result, formed,
however, a formidable stroke of policy.  But the Queen!  What urgent
reasons of state could Danton, Collot d’Herbois, and Robespierre allege
against her?  What savage greatness did they discover in stirring up a
whole nation to avenge their quarrel on a woman?  What remained of her
former power?  She was a captive, a widow, trembling for her children! In
those judges, who at once outraged modesty and nature; in that people
whose vilest scoffs pursued her to the scaffold, who could have recognised
the generous people of France?  Of all the crimes which disgraced the
Revolution, none was more calculated to show how the spirit of party can
degrade the character of a nation.

The news of this dreadful event reached Madame Campan in an obscure
retreat which she had chosen.  She had not succeeded in her endeavours to
share the Queen’s captivity, and she expected every moment a similar fate.
After escaping, almost miraculously, from the murderous fury of the
Marseillais; after being denounced and pursued by Robespierre, and
entrusted, through the confidence of the King and Queen, with papers of
the utmost importance, Madame Campan went to Coubertin, in the valley of
Chevreuse.  Madame Auguid, her sister, had just committed suicide, at the
very moment of her arrest.

[Maternal affection prevailed over her religious sentiments; she wished to
preserve the wreck of her fortune for her children.  Had she deferred this
fatal act for one day she would have been saved; the cart which conveyed
Robespierre to execution stopped her funeral procession!]

The scaffold awaited Madame Campan, when the 9th of Thermidor restored her
to life; but did not restore to her the most constant object of her
thoughts, her zeal, and her devotion.

A new career now opened to Madame Campan.  At Coubertin, surrounded by her
nieces, she was fond of directing their studies.  This occupation caused
her ideas to revert to the subject of education, and awakened once more
the inclinations of her youth.  At the age of twelve years she could never
meet a school of young ladies passing through the streets without feeling
ambitious of the situation and authority of their mistress.  Her abode at
Court had diverted but not altered her inclinations.  “A month after the
fall of Robespierre,” she says, “I considered as to the means of providing
for myself, for a mother seventy years of age, my sick husband, my child
nine years old, and part of my ruined family.  I now possessed nothing in
the world but an assignat of five hundred francs. I had become responsible
for my husband’s debts, to the amount of thirty thousand francs.  I chose
St. Germain to set up a boarding-school, for that town did not remind me,
as Versailles did, both of happy times and of the misfortunes of France.
I took with me a nun of l’Enfant-Jesus, to give an unquestionable pledge
of my religious principles.  The school of St. Germain was the first in
which the opening of an oratory was ventured on.  The Directory was
displeased at it, and ordered it to be immediately shut up; and some time
after commissioners were sent to desire that the reading of the Scriptures
should be suppressed in my school.  I inquired what books were to be
substituted in their stead.  After some minutes’ conversation, they
observed: ‘Citizeness, you are arguing after the old fashion; no
reflections.  The nation commands; we must have obedience, and no
reasoning.’  Not having the means of printing my prospectus, I wrote a
hundred copies of it, and sent them to the persons of my acquaintance who
had survived the dreadful commotions.  At the year’s end I had sixty
pupils; soon afterwards a hundred.  I bought furniture and paid my debts.”

The rapid success of the establishment at St. Germain was undoubtedly
owing to the talents, experience, and excellent principles of Madame
Campan, seconded by public opinion.  All property had changed hands; all
ranks found themselves confusedly jumbled by the shock of the Revolution:
the grand seigneur dined at the table of the opulent contractor; and the
witty and elegant marquise was present at the ball by the side of the
clumsy peasant lately grown rich.  In the absence of the ancient
distinctions, elegant manners and polished language now formed a kind of
aristocracy.  The house of St. Germain, conducted by a lady who possessed
the deportment and the habits of the best society, was not only a school
of knowledge, but a school of the world.

“A friend of Madame de Beauharnais,” continues Madame Campan, “brought me
her daughter Hortense de Beauharnais, and her niece Emilie de Beauharnais.
Six months afterwards she came to inform me of her marriage with a
Corsican gentleman, who had been brought up in the military school, and
was then a general.  I was requested to communicate this information to
her daughter, who long lamented her mother’s change of name.  I was also
desired to watch over the education of little Eugene de Beauharnais, who
was placed at St. Germain, in the same school with my son.

“A great intimacy sprang up between my nieces and these young people.
Madame de Beauharnaias set out for Italy, and left her children with me.
On her return, after the conquests of Bonaparte, that general, much
pleased with the improvement of his stepdaughter, invited me to dine at
Malmaison, and attended two representations of ‘Esther’ at my school.”

He also showed his appreciation of her talents by sending his sister
Caroline to St. Germain.  Shortly before Caroline’s marriage to Murat, and
while she was yet at St. Germain, Napoleon observed to Madame Campan: “I
do not like those love matches between young people whose brains are
excited by the flames of the imagination.  I had other views for my
sister.  Who knows what high alliance I might have procured for her!  She
is thoughtless, and does not form a just notion of my situation.  The time
will come when, perhaps, sovereigns might dispute for her hand.  She is
about to marry a brave man; but in my situation that is not enough. Fate
should be left to fulfil her decrees.”

[Madame Murat one day said to Madame Campan: “I am astonished that you are
not more awed in our presence; you speak to us with as much familiarity as
when we were your pupils!”--“The best thing you can do,” replied Madame
Campan, “is to forget your titles when you are with me, for I can never be
afraid of queens whom I have held under the rod.”]

Madame Campan dined at the Tuileries in company with the Pope’s nuncio, at
the period when the Concordat was in agitation.  During dinner the First
Consul astonished her by the able manner in which he conversed on the
subject under discussion.  She said he argued so logically that his talent
quite amazed her.  During the consulate Napoleon one day said to her, “If
ever I establish a republic of women, I shall make you First Consul.”

Napoleon’s views as to “woman’s mission” are now well known.  Madame
Campan said that she heard from him that when he founded the convent of
the Sisters of la Charite he was urgently solicited to permit perpetual
vows.  He, however, refused to do so, on the ground that tastes may
change, and that he did not see the necessity of excluding from the world
women who might some time or other return to it, and become useful members
of society.  “Nunneries,” he added, “assail the very roots of population.
It is impossible to calculate the loss which a nation sustains in having
ten thousand women shut up in cloisters.  War does but little mischief;
for the number of males is at least one-twenty-fifth greater than that of
females.  Women may, if they please, be allowed to make perpetual vows at
fifty years of age; for then their task is fulfilled.”

Napoleon once said to Madame Campan, “The old systems of education were
good for nothing; what do young women stand in need of, to be well brought
up in France?”--“Of mothers,” answered Madame Campan.  “It is well said,”
 replied Napoleon.  “Well, madame, let the French be indebted to you for
bringing up mothers for their children.”--“Napoleon one day interrupted
Madame de Stael in the midst of a profound political argument to ask her
whether she had nursed her children.”

Never had the establishment at St. Germain been in a more flourishing
condition than in 1802-3.  What more could Madame Campan wish?  For ten
years absolute in her own house, she seemed also safe from the caprice of
power.  But the man who then disposed of the fate of France and Europe was
soon to determine otherwise.

After the battle of Austerlitz the State undertook to bring up, at the
public expense, the sisters, daughters, or nieces of those who were
decorated with the Cross of Honour.  The children of the warriors killed
or wounded in glorious battle were to find paternal care in the ancient
abodes of the Montmorencys and the Condes.  Accustomed to concentrate
around him all superior talents, fearless himself of superiority, Napoleon
sought for a person qualified by experience and abilities to conduct the
institution of Ecouen; he selected Madame Campan.

Comte de Lacepede, the pupil, friend, and rival of Buffon, then Grand
Chancellor of the Legion of Honour, assisted her with his enlightened
advice.  Napoleon, who could descend with ease from the highest political
subjects to the examination of the most minute details; who was as much at
home in inspecting a boarding-school for young ladies as in reviewing the
grenadiers of his guard; whom it was impossible to deceive, and who was
not unwilling to find fault when he visited the establishment at
Ecouen,--was forced to say, “It is all right.”

[Napoleon wished to be informed of every particular of the furniture,
government, and order of the house, the instruction and education of the
pupils.  The internal regulations were submitted to him.  One of the
intended rules, drawn up by Madame Campan, proposed that the children
should hear mass on Sundays and Thursdays. Napoleon himself wrote on the
margin, “every day.”]

“In the summer of 1811,” relates Madame Campan, “Napoleon, accompanied by
Marie Louise and several personages of distinction, visited the
establishment at Ecouen.  After inspecting the chapel and the refectories,
Napoleon desired that the three principal pupils might be presented to
him.  ‘Sire,’ said I, ‘I cannot select three; I must present six.’  He
turned on his heel and repaired to the platform, where, after seeing all
the classes assembled, he repeated his demand.  ‘Sire,’ said I, ‘I beg
leave to inform your Majesty that I should commit an injustice towards
several other pupils who are as far advanced as those whom I might have
the honour to present to you.’

“Berthier and others intimated to me, in a low tone of voice, that I
should get into disgrace by my noncompliance.  Napoleon looked over the
whole of the house, entered into the most trivial details, and after
addressing questions to several of the pupils: ‘Well, madame,’ said he, ‘I
am satisfied; show me your six best pupils.’”  Madame Campan presented
them to him; and as he stepped into his carriage, he desired that their
names might be sent to Berthier.  On addressing the list to the Prince de
Neufchatel, Madame Campan added to it the names of four other pupils, and
all the ten obtained a pension of 300 francs.  During the three hours
which this visit occupied, Marie Louise did not utter a single word.

M. de Beaumont, chamberlain to the Empress Josephine, one day at Malmaison
was expressing his regret that M. D-----, one of Napoleon’s generals, who
had recently been promoted, did not belong to a great family.  “You
mistake, monsieur,” observed Madame Campan, “he is of very ancient
descent; he is one of the nephews of Charlemagne.  All the heroes of our
army sprang from the elder branch of that sovereign’s family, who never
emigrated.”

When Madame Campan related this circumstance she added: “After the 30th of
March, 1814, some officers of the army of Conde presumed to say to certain
French marshals that it was a pity they were not more nobly connected.  In
answer to this, one of them said, ‘True nobility, gentlemen, consists in
giving proofs of it.  The field of honour has witnessed ours; but where
are we to look for yours?  Your swords have rusted in their scabbards.
Our laurels may well excite envy; we have earned them nobly, and we owe
them solely to our valour.  You have merely inherited a name.  This is the
distinction between us.”

[When one of the princes of the smaller German States was showing Marechal
Lannes, with a contemptuous superiority of manner but ill concealed, the
portraits of his ancestors, and covertly alluding to the absence of
Lannes’s, that general turned the tables on him by haughtily remarking,
“But I am an ancestor.”]

Napoleon used to observe that if he had had two such field-marshals as
Suchet in Spain he would have not only conquered but kept the Peninsula.
Suchet’s sound judgment, his governing yet conciliating spirit, his
military tact, and his bravery, had procured him astonishing success. “It
is to be regretted,” added he, “that a sovereign cannot improvise men of
his stamp.”

On the 19th of March, 1815, a number of papers were left in the King’s
closet.  Napoleon ordered them to be examined, and among them was found
the letter written by Madame Campan to Louis XVIII., immediately after the
first restoration.  In this letter she enumerated the contents of the
portfolio which Louis XVI. had placed under her care.  When Napoleon read
this letter, he said, “Let it be sent to the office of Foreign Affairs; it
is an historical document.”

Madame Campan thus described a visit from the Czar of Russia: “A few days
after the battle of Paris the Emperor Alexander came to Ecouen, and he did
me the honour to breakfast with me.  After showing him over the
establishment I conducted him to the park, the most elevated point of
which overlooked the plain of St. Denis.  ‘Sire,’ said I, ‘from this point
I saw the battle of Paris’--‘If,’ replied the Emperor, ‘that battle had
lasted two hours longer we should not have had a single cartridge at our
disposal.  We feared that we had been betrayed; for on arriving so
precipitately before Paris all our plans were laid, and we did not expect
the firm resistance we experienced.’  I next conducted the Emperor to the
chapel, and showed him the seats occupied by ‘le connetable’ (the
constable) of Montmorency, and ‘la connetable’ (the constable’s lady),
when they went to hear mass.  ‘Barbarians like us,’ observed the Emperor,
‘would say la connetable and le connetable.’

“The Czar inquired into the most minute particulars respecting the
establishment of Ecouen, and I felt great pleasure in answering his
questions.  I recollect having dwelt on several points which appeared to
me to be very important, and which were in their spirit hostile to
aristocratic principles.  For example, I informed his Majesty that the
daughters of distinguished and wealthy individuals and those of the humble
and obscure mingled indiscriminately in the establishment.  ‘If,’ said I,
‘I were to observe the least pretension on account of the rank or fortune
of parents, I should immediately put an end to it.  The most perfect
equality is preserved; distinction is awarded only to merit and industry.
The pupils are obliged to cut out and make all their own clothes.  They
are taught to clean and mend lace; and two at a time, they by turns, three
times a week, cook and distribute food to the poor of the village.  The
young girls who have been brought up at Ecouen, or in my boarding-school
at St. Germain, are thoroughly acquainted with everything relating to
household business, and they are grateful to me for having made that a
part of their education.  In my conversations with them I have always
taught them that on domestic management depends the preservation or
dissipation of their fortunes.’

“The post-master of Ecouen was in the courtyard at the moment when the
Emperor, as he stepped into his carriage, told me he would send some
sweetmeats for the pupils.  I immediately communicated to them the
intelligence, which was joyfully received; but the sweetmeats were looked
for in vain.  When Alexander set out for England he changed horses at
Ecouen, and the post-master said to him: ‘Sire, the pupils of Ecouen are
still expecting the sweetmeats which your Majesty promised them.’  To
which the Emperor replied that he had directed Saken to send them.  The
Cossacks had most likely devoured the sweetmeats, and the poor little
girls, who had been so highly flattered by the promise, never tasted
them.”

“A second house was formed at St. Denis, on the model of that of Ecouen.
Perhaps Madame Campan might have hoped for a title to which her long
labours gave her a right; perhaps the superintendence of the two houses
would have been but the fair recompense of her services; but her fortunate
years had passed her fate was now to depend on the most important events.
Napoleon had accumulated such a mass of power as no one but himself in
Europe could overturn.  France, content with thirty years of victories, in
vain asked for peace and repose.  The army which had triumphed in the
sands of Egypt, on the summits of the Alps, and in the marshes of Holland,
was to perish amidst the snows of Russia. Nations combined against a
single man.  The territory of France was invaded.  The orphans of Ecouen,
from the windows of the mansion which served as their asylum, saw in the
distant plain the fires of the Russian bivouacs, and once more wept the
deaths of their fathers.  Paris capitulated.  France hailed the return of
the descendants of Henri IV.; they reascended the throne so long filled by
their ancestors, which the wisdom of an enlightened prince established on
the empire of the laws.

[A lady, connected with the establishment of St. Denis, told Madame Campan
that Napoleon visited it during the Hundred Days, and that the pupils were
so delighted to see him that they crowded round him, endeavouring to touch
his clothes, and evincing the most extravagant joy.  The matron
endeavoured to silence them; but Napoleon said, ‘Let them alone; let them
alone.  This may weaken the head, but it strengthens the heart.’]”

This moment, which diffused joy amongst the faithful servants of the royal
family, and brought them the rewards of their devotion, proved to Madame
Campan a period of bitter vexation.  The hatred of her enemies had
revived.  The suppression of the school at Ecouen had deprived her of her
position; the most absurd calumnies followed her into her retreat; her
attachment to the Queen was suspected; she was accused not only of
ingratitude but of perfidy.  Slander has little effect on youth, but in
the decline of life its darts are envenomed with a mortal poison.  The
wounds which Madame Campan had received were deep.  Her sister, Madame
Auguie, had destroyed herself; M. Rousseau, her brother-in-law, had
perished, a victim of the reign of terror.  In 1813 a dreadful accident
had deprived her of her niece, Madame de Broc, one of the most amiable and
interesting beings that ever adorned the earth.  Madame Campan seemed
destined to behold those whom she loved go down to the grave before her.

Beyond the walls of the mansion of Ecouen, in the village which surrounds
it, Madame Campan had taken a small house where she loved to pass a few
hours in solitary retirement.  There, at liberty to abandon herself to the
memory of the past, the superintendent of the imperial establishment
became, once more, for the moment, the first lady of the chamber to Marie
Antoinette.  To the few friends whom she admitted into this retreat she
would show, with emotion, a plain muslin gown which the Queen had worn,
and which was made from a part of Tippoo Saib’s present.  A cup, out of
which Marie Antoinette had drunk; a writing-stand, which she had long
used, were, in her eyes, of inestimable value; and she has often been
discovered sitting, in tears, before the portrait of her royal mistress.

After so many troubles Madame Campan sought a peaceful retreat.  Paris had
become odious to her.

She paid a visit to one of her most beloved pupils, Mademoiselle Crouzet,
who had married a physician at Mantes, a man of talent, distinguished for
his intelligence, frankness, and cordiality.

[M. Maigne, physician to the infirmaries at Mantes.  Madame Campan found
in him a friend and comforter, of whose merit and affection she knew the
value.]

Mantes is a cheerful place of residence, and the idea of an abode there
pleased her.  A few intimate friends formed a pleasant society, and she
enjoyed a little tranquillity after so many disturbances.  The revisal of
her “Memoirs,” the arrangement of the interesting anecdotes of which her
“Recollections” were to consist, alone diverted her mind from the one
powerful sentiment which attached her to life.  She lived only for her
son.  M. Campan deserved the tenderness of, his mother.  No sacrifice had
been spared for his education.  After having pursued that course of study
which, under the Imperial Government, produced men of such distinguished
merit, he was waiting till time and circumstances should afford him an
opportunity of devoting his services to his country.  Although the state
of his health was far from good, it did not threaten any rapid or
premature decay; he was, however, after a few days’ illness, suddenly
taken from his family.  “I never witnessed so heartrending a scene,” M.
Maigne says, “as that which took place when Marechal Ney’s lady, her
niece, and Madame Pannelier, her sister, came to acquaint her with this
misfortune.--[The wife of Marechal Ney was a daughter of Madame Auguie,
and had been an intimate friend of Hortense Beauharnais.]--When they
entered her apartment she was in bed.  All three at once uttered a
piercing cry.  The two ladies threw themselves on their knees, and kissed
her hands, which they bedewed with tears.  Before they could speak to her
she read in their faces that she no longer possessed a son.  At that
instant her large eyes, opening wildly, seemed to wander.  Her face grew
pale, her features changed, her lips lost their colour, she struggled to
speak, but uttered only inarticulate sounds, accompanied by piercing
cries.  Her gestures were wild, her reason was suspended.  Every part of
her being was in agony.  To this state of anguish and despair no calm
succeeded, until her tears began to flow.  Friendship and the tenderest
cares succeeded for a moment in calming her grief, but not in diminishing
its power.

“This violent crisis had disturbed her whole organisation.  A cruel
disorder, which required a still more cruel operation, soon manifested
itself.  The presence of her family, a tour which she made in Switzerland,
a residence at Baden, and, above all, the sight, the tender and charming
conversation of a person by whom she was affectionately beloved,
occasionally diverted her mind, and in a slight degree relieved her
suffering.”  She underwent a serious operation, performed with
extraordinary promptitude and the most complete success.  No unfavourable
symptoms appeared; Madame Campan was thought to be restored to her
friends; but the disorder was in the blood; it took another course: the
chest became affected.  “From that moment,” says M. Maigne, “I could never
look on Madame Campan as living; she herself felt that she belonged no
more to this world.”

“My friend,” she said to her physician the day before her death, “I am
attached to the simplicity of religion.  I hate all that savours of
fanaticism.”  When her codicil was presented for her signature, her hand
trembled; “It would be a pity,” she said, “to stop when so fairly on the
road.”

Madame Campan died on the 16th of March, 1822.  The cheerfulness she
displayed throughout her malady had nothing affected in it.  Her character
was naturally powerful and elevated.  At the approach of death she evinced
the soul of a sage, without abandoning for an instant her feminine
character.






MEMOIRS OF THE COURT OF MARIE ANTOINETTE,

QUEEN OF FRANCE

Being the Historic Memoirs of Madam Campan,

First Lady in Waiting to the Queen




CHAPTER I.


I was fifteen years of age when I was appointed reader to Mesdames. I will
begin by describing the Court at that period.

Maria Leczinska was just dead; the death of the Dauphin had preceded hers
by three years; the Jesuits were suppressed, and piety was to be found at
Court only in the apartments of Mesdames.  The Duc de Choiseuil ruled.

Etiquette still existed at Court with all the forms it had acquired under
Louis XIV.; dignity alone was wanting.  As to gaiety, there was none.
Versailles was not the place at which to seek for assemblies where French
spirit and grace were displayed.  The focus of wit and intelligence was
Paris.

The King thought of nothing but the pleasures of the chase: it might have
been imagined that the courtiers indulged themselves in making epigrams by
hearing them say seriously, on those days when the King did not hunt, “The
King does nothing to-day.”--[In sporting usance (see SOULAIRE, p. 316).]

The arrangement beforehand of his movements was also a matter of great
importance with Louis XV.  On the first day of the year he noted down in
his almanac the days of departure for Compiegne, Fontainebleau, Choisy,
etc.  The weightiest matters, the most serious events, never deranged this
distribution of his time.

Since the death of the Marquise de Pompadour, the King had no titled
mistress; he contented himself with his seraglio in the Parc-aux-Cerfs. It
is well known that the monarch found the separation of Louis de Bourbon
from the King of France the most animating feature of his royal existence.
“They would have it so; they thought it for the best,” was his way of
expressing himself when the measures of his ministers were unsuccessful.
The King delighted to manage the most disgraceful points of his private
expenses himself; he one day sold to a head clerk in the War Department a
house in which one of his mistresses had lodged; the contract ran in the
name of Louis de Bourbon, and the purchaser himself took in a bag the
price of the house in gold to the King in his private closet.

[Until recently little was known about the Parc-aux-Cerfs, and it was
believed that a great number of young women had been maintained there at
enormous expense.  The investigations of M. J. A.  Le Roi, given in his
interesting work, “Curiosites Historiques sur Louis XIII., Louis XIV.,
Louis XV.,” etc., Paris, Plon, 1864, have thrown fresh light upon the
matter.  The result he arrives at (see page 229 of his work) is that the
house in question (No. 4 Rue St. Mederic, on the site of the
Parc-aux-Cerfs, or breeding-place for deer, of Louis XIII) was very small,
and could have held only one girl, the woman in charge of her, and a
servant.  Most of the girls left it only when about to be confined, and it
sometimes stood vacant for five or six months.  It may have been rented
before the date of purchase, and other houses seem sometimes to have been
used also; but in any case, it is evident that both the number of girls
and the expense incurred have been absurdly exaggerated.  The system
flourished under Madame de Pompadour, but ceased as soon as Madame du
Barry obtained full power over the King, and the house was then sold to M.
J. B. Sevin for 16,000 livres, on 27th May, 1771, Louis not acting under
the name of Louis de Bourbon, but as King,--“Vente par le Roi, notre
Sire.”  In 1755 he had also been declared its purchaser in a similar
manner.  Thus, Madame Campan is in error in saying that the King made the
contract as Louis de Bourbon.]--[And it also possible that Madam Campan
was correct and that the house she refers to as sold for a “bag of gold”
 was another of the several of the seraglio establishments of Louis XV.
D.W.]

Louis XV. saw very little of his family.  He came every morning by a
private staircase into the apartment of Madame Adelaide.

[Louis XV. seemed to feel for Madame Adelaide the tenderness he had had
for the Duchesse de Bourgogne, his mother, who perished so suddenly, under
the eyes and almost in the arms of Louis XIV.  The birth of Madame
Adelaide, 23d March, 1732, was followed by that of Madame Victoire Louise
Marie Therese on the 11th May, 1733.  Louis had, besides, six daughters:
Mesdames Sophie and Louise, who are mentioned in this chapter; the
Princesses Marie and Felicite, who died young; Madame Henriette died at
Versailles in 1752, aged twenty-four; and finally, Madame the Duchess of
Parma, who also died at the Court.]

He often brought and drank there coffee that he had made himself.  Madame
Adelaide pulled a bell which apprised Madame Victoire of the King’s visit;
Madame Victoire, on rising to go to her sister’s apartment, rang for
Madame Sophie, who in her turn rang for Madame Louise.  The apartments of
Mesdames were of very large dimensions.  Madame Louise occupied the
farthest room.  This latter lady was deformed and very short; the poor
Princess used to run with all her might to join the daily meeting, but,
having a number of rooms to cross, she frequently in spite of her haste,
had only just time to embrace her father before he set out for the chase.

Every evening, at six, Mesdames interrupted my reading to them to
accompany the princes to Louis XV.; this visit was called the King’s
‘debotter’,--[Debotter, meaning the time of unbooting.]--and was marked by
a kind of etiquette.  Mesdames put on an enormous hoop, which set out a
petticoat ornamented with gold or embroidery; they fastened a long train
round their waists, and concealed the undress of the rest of their
clothing by a long cloak of black taffety which enveloped them up to the
chin.  The chevaliers d’honneur, the ladies in waiting, the pages, the
equerries, and the ushers bearing large flambeaux, accompanied them to the
King.  In a moment the whole palace, generally so still, was in motion;
the King kissed each Princess on the forehead, and the visit was so short
that the reading which it interrupted was frequently resumed at the end of
a quarter of an hour; Mesdames returned to their apartments, and untied
the strings of their petticoats and trains; they resumed their tapestry,
and I my book.

During the summer season the King sometimes came to the residence of
Mesdames before the hour of his ‘debotter’.  One day he found me alone in
Madame Victoire’s closet, and asked me where ‘Coche’[Piggy] was; I
started, and he repeated his question, but without being at all the more
understood.  When the King was gone I asked Madame of whom he spoke.  She
told me that it was herself, and very coolly explained to me, that, being
the fattest of his daughters, the King had given her the familiar name of
‘Coche’; that he called Madame Adelaide, ‘Logue’ [Tatters], Madame Sophie,
‘Graille’[Mite], and Madame Louise, ‘Chiffie’[Rubbish].  The people of the
King’s household observed that he knew a great number of such words;
possibly he had amused himself with picking them out from dictionaries.
If this style of speaking betrayed the habits and tastes of the King, his
manner savoured nothing of such vulgarity; his walk was easy and noble, he
had a dignified carriage of the head, and his aspect, with out being
severe, was imposing; he combined great politeness with a truly regal
demeanour, and gracefully saluted the humblest woman whom curiosity led
into his path.

He was very expert in a number of trifling matters which never occupy
attention but when there is a lack of something better to employ it; for
instance, he would knock off the top of an egg-shell at a single stroke of
his fork; he therefore always ate eggs when he dined in public, and the
Parisians who came on Sundays to see the King dine, returned home less
struck with his fine figure than with the dexterity with which he broke
his eggs.

Repartees of Louis XV., which marked the keenness of his wit and the
elevation of his sentiments, were quoted with pleasure in the assemblies
of Versailles.

This Prince was still beloved; it was wished that a style of life suitable
to his age and dignity should at length supersede the errors of the past,
and justify the love of his subjects.  It was painful to judge him
harshly.  If he had established avowed mistresses at Court, the uniform
devotion of the Queen was blamed for it.  Mesdames were reproached for not
seeking to prevent the King’s forming an intimacy with some new favourite.
Madame Henriette, twin sister of the Duchess of Parma, was much regretted,
for she had considerable influence over the King’s mind, and it was
remarked that if she had lived she would have been assiduous in finding
him amusements in the bosom of his family, would have followed him in his
short excursions, and would have done the honours of the ‘petits soupers’
which he was so fond of giving in his private apartments.

Mesdames too much neglected the means of pleasing the wing, but the cause
of that was obvious in the little attention he had paid them in their
youth.

In order to console the people under their sufferings, and to shut their
eyes to the real depredations on the treasury, the ministers occasionally
pressed the most extravagant measures of reform in the King’s household,
and even in his personal expenses.

Cardinal Fleury, who in truth had the merit of reestablishing the
finances, carried this system of economy so far as to obtain from the King
the suppression of the household of the four younger Princesses. They were
brought up as mere boarders in a convent eighty leagues distant from the
Court.  Saint Cyr would have been more suitable for the reception of the
King’s daughters; but probably the Cardinal shared some of those
prejudices which will always attach to even the most useful institutions,
and which, since the death of Louis XIV., had been raised against the
noble establishment of Madame de Maintenon.  Madame Louise often assured
me that at twelve years of age she was not mistress of the whole alphabet,
and never learnt to read fluently until after her return to Versailles.

Madame Victoire attributed certain paroxysms of terror, which she was
never able to conquer, to the violent alarms she experienced at the Abbey
of Fontevrault, whenever she was sent, by way of penance, to pray alone in
the vault where the sisters were interred.

A gardener belonging to the abbey died raving mad.  His habitation,
without the walls, was near a chapel of the abbey, where Mesdames were
taken to repeat the prayers for those in the agonies of death.  Their
prayers were more than once interrupted by the shrieks of the dying man.

When Mesdames, still very young, returned to Court, they enjoyed the
friendship of Monseigneur the Dauphin, and profited by his advice.  They
devoted themselves ardently to study, and gave up almost the whole of
their time to it; they enabled themselves to write French correctly, and
acquired a good knowledge of history.  Italian, English, the higher
branches of mathematics, turning and dialing, filled up in succession
their leisure moments.  Madame Adelaide, in particular, had a most
insatiable desire to learn; she was taught to play upon all instruments,
from the horn (will it be believed!) to the Jew’s-harp.

Madame Adelaide was graced for a short time with a charming figure; but
never did beauty so quickly vanish.  Madame Victoire was handsome and very
graceful; her address, mien, and smile were in perfect accordance with the
goodness of her heart.  Madame Sophie was remarkably ugly; never did I
behold a person with so unprepossessing an appearance; she walked with the
greatest rapidity; and, in order to recognise the people who placed
themselves along her path without looking at them, she acquired the habit
of leering on one side, like a hare.  This Princess was so exceedingly
diffident that a person might be with her daily for years together without
hearing her utter a single word.  It was asserted, however, that she
displayed talent, and even amiability, in the society of some favourite
ladies.  She taught herself a great deal, but she studied alone; the
presence of a reader would have disconcerted her very much.  There were,
however, occasions on which the Princess, generally so intractable, became
all at once affable and condescending, and manifested the most
communicative good-nature; this would happen during a storm; so great was
her alarm on such an occasion that she then approached the most humble,
and would ask them a thousand obliging questions; a flash of lightning
made her squeeze their hands; a peal of thunder would drive her to embrace
them, but with the return of the calm, the Princess resumed her stiffness,
her reserve, and her repellent air, and passed all by without taking the
slightest notice of any one, until a fresh storm restored to her at once
her dread and her affability. [Which reminds one of the elder (and
puritanic) Cato who said that he “embraced” his wife only when it
thundered, but added that he did enjoy a good thunderstorm. D.W.]

Mesdames found in a beloved brother, whose rare attainments are known to
all Frenchmen, a guide in everything wanting to their education.  In their
august mother, Maria Leczinska, they possessed the noblest example of
every pious and social virtue; that Princess, by her eminent qualities and
her modest dignity, veiled the failings of the King, and while she lived
she preserved in the Court of Louis XV. that decorous and dignified tone
which alone secures the respect due to power.  The Princesses, her
daughters, were worthy of her; and if a few degraded beings did aim the
shafts of calumny at them, these shafts dropped harmless, warded off by
the elevation of their sentiments and the purity of their conduct.

If Mesdames had not tasked themselves with numerous occupations, they
would have been much to be pitied.  They loved walking, but could enjoy
nothing beyond the public gardens of Versailles; they would have
cultivated flowers, but could have no others than those in their windows.

The Marquise de Durfort, since Duchesse de Civrac, afforded to Madame
Victoire agreeable society.  The Princess spent almost all her evenings
with that lady, and ended by fancying herself domiciled with her.

Madame de Narbonne had, in a similar way, taken pains to make her intimate
acquaintance pleasant to Madame Adelaide.

Madame Louise had for many years lived in great seclusion; I read to her
five hours a day.  My voice frequently betrayed the exhaustion of my
lungs; the Princess would then prepare sugared water for me, place it by
me, and apologise for making me read so long, on the score of having
prescribed a course of reading for herself.

One evening, while I was reading, she was informed that M. Bertin,
‘ministre des parties casuelles’, desired to speak with her; she went out
abruptly, returned, resumed her silks and embroidery, and made me resume
my book; when I retired she commanded me to be in her closet the next
morning at eleven o’clock.  When I got there the Princess was gone out; I
learnt that she had gone at seven in the morning to the Convent of the
Carmelites of St. Denis, where she was desirous of taking the veil. I went
to Madame Victoire; there I heard that the King alone had been acquainted
with Madame Louise’s project; that he had kept it faithfully secret, and
that, having long previously opposed her wish, he had only on the
preceding evening sent her his consent; that she had gone alone into the
convent, where she was expected; and that a few minutes afterwards she had
made her appearance at the grating, to show to the Princesse de Guistel,
who had accompanied her to the convent gate, and to her equerry, the
King’s order to leave her in the monastery.

Upon receiving the intelligence of her sister’s departure, Madame Adelaide
gave way to violent paroxysms of rage, and reproached the King bitterly
for the secret, which he had thought it his duty to preserve. Madame
Victoire missed the society of her favourite sister, but she shed tears in
silence only.  The first time I saw this excellent Princess after Madame
Louise’s departure, I threw myself at her feet, kissed her hand, and asked
her, with all the confidence of youth, whether she would quit us as Madame
Louise had done.  She raised me, embraced me; and said, pointing to the
lounge upon which she was extended, “Make yourself easy, my dear; I shall
never have Louise’s courage.  I love the conveniences of life too well;
this lounge is my destruction.”  As soon as I obtained permission to do
so, I went to St. Denis to see my late mistress; she deigned to receive me
with her face uncovered, in her private parlour; she told me she had just
left the wash-house, and that it was her turn that day to attend to the
linen.  “I much abused your youthful lungs for two years before the
execution of my project,” added she. “I knew that here I could read none
but books tending to our salvation, and I wished to review all the
historians that had interested me.”

She informed me that the King’s consent for her to go to St. Denis had
been brought to her while I was reading; she prided herself, and with
reason, upon having returned to her closet without the slightest mark of
agitation, though she said she felt so keenly that she could scarcely
regain her chair.  She added that moralists were right when they said that
happiness does not dwell in palaces; that she had proved it; and that, if
I desired to be happy, she advised me to come and enjoy a retreat in which
the liveliest imagination might find full exercise in the contemplation of
a better world.  I had no palace, no earthly grandeur to sacrifice to God;
nothing but the bosom of a united family; and it is precisely there that
the moralists whom she cited have placed true happiness.  I replied that,
in private life, the absence of a beloved and cherished daughter would be
too cruelly felt by her family. The Princess said no more on the subject.

The seclusion of Madame Louise was attributed to various motives; some
were unkind enough to suppose it to have been occasioned by her
mortification at being, in point of rank, the last of the Princesses. I
think I penetrated the true cause.  Her aspirations were lofty; she loved
everything sublime; often while I was reading she would interrupt me to
exclaim, “That is beautiful! that is noble!”  There was but one brilliant
action that she could perform,--to quit a palace for a cell, and rich
garments for a stuff gown.  She achieved it!

I saw Madame Louise two or three times more at the grating.  I was
informed of her death by Louis XVI.  “My Aunt Louise,” said he to me,
“your old mistress, is just dead at St.  Denis.  I have this moment
received intelligence of it.  Her piety and resignation were admirable,
and yet the delirium of my good aunt recalled to her recollection that she
was a princess, for her last words were, ‘To paradise, haste, haste, full
speed.’  No doubt she thought she was again giving orders to her equerry.”

[The retirement of Madame Louise, and her removal from Court, had only
served to give her up entirely to the intrigues of the clergy. She
received incessant visits from bishops, archbishops, and ambitious priests
of every rank; she prevailed on the King, her father, to grant many
ecclesiastical preferments, and probably looked forward to playing an
important part when the King, weary of his licentious course of life,
should begin to think of religion. This, perhaps, might have been the case
had not a sudden and unexpected death put an end to his career.  The
project of Madame Louise fell to the ground in consequence of this event.
She remained in her convent, whence she continued to solicit favours, as I
knew from the complaints of the Queen, who often said to me, “Here is
another letter from my Aunt Louise.  She is certainly the most intriguing
little Carmelite in the kingdom.”  The Court went to visit her about three
times a year, and I recollect that the Queen, intending to take her
daughter there, ordered me to get a doll dressed like a Carmelite for her,
that the young Princess might be accustomed, before she went into the
convent, to the habit of her aunt, the nun.--MADAME CAMPAN]

Madame Victoire, good, sweet-tempered, and affable, lived with the most
amiable simplicity in a society wherein she was much caressed; she was
adored by her household.  Without quitting Versailles, without sacrificing
her easy chair, she fulfilled the duties of religion with punctuality,
gave to the poor all she possessed, and strictly observed Lent and the
fasts.  The table of Mesdames acquired a reputation for dishes of
abstinence, spread abroad by the assiduous parasites at that of their
maitre d’hotel.  Madame Victoire was not indifferent to good living, but
she had the most religious scruples respecting dishes of which it was
allowable to partake at penitential times.  I saw her one day exceedingly
tormented by her doubts about a water-fowl, which was often served up to
her during Lent.  The question to be determined was, whether it was
‘maigre’ or ‘gras’.  She consulted a bishop, who happened to be of the
party: the prelate immediately assumed the grave attitude of a judge who
is about to pronounce sentence.  He answered the Princess that, in a
similar case of doubt, it had been resolved that after dressing the bird
it should be pricked over a very cold silver dish; if the gravy of the
animal congealed within a quarter of an hour, the creature was to be
accounted flesh; but if the gravy remained in an oily state, it might be
eaten without scruple.  Madame Victoire immediately made the experiment:
the gravy did not congeal; and this was a source of great joy to the
Princess, who was very partial to that sort of game. The abstinence which
so much occupied the attention of Madame Victoire was so disagreeable to
her, that she listened with impatience for the midnight hour of Holy
Saturday; and then she was immediately supplied with a good dish of fowl
and rice, and sundry other succulent viands. She confessed with such
amiable candour her taste for good cheer and the comforts of life, that it
would have been necessary to be as severe in principle as insensible to
the excellent qualities of the Princess, to consider it a crime in her.

Madame Adelaide had more mind than Madame Victoire; but she was altogether
deficient in that kindness which alone creates affection for the great,
abrupt manners, a harsh voice, and a short way of speaking, rendering her
more than imposing.  She carried the idea of the prerogative of rank to a
high pitch.  One of her chaplains was unlucky enough to say ‘Dominus
vobiscum’ with rather too easy an air; the Princess rated him soundly for
it after mass, and told him to remember that he was not a bishop, and not
again to think of officiating in the style of a prelate.

Mesdames lived quite separate from the King.  Since the death of Madame de
Pompadour he had lived alone.  The enemies of the Duc de Choiseul did not
know in what department, nor through what channel, they could prepare and
bring about the downfall of the man who stood in their way.  The King was
connected only with women of so low a class that they could not be made
use of for any delicate intrigue; moreover, the Parc-aux-Cerfs was a
seraglio, the beauties of which were often replaced; it was desirable to
give the King a mistress who could form a circle, and in whose
drawing-room the long-standing attachment of the King for the Duc de
Choiseul might be overcome.  It is true that Madame du Barry was selected
from a class sufficiently low.  Her origin, her education, her habits, and
everything about her bore a character of vulgarity and shamelessness; but
by marrying her to a man whose pedigree dated from 1400, it was thought
scandal would be avoided.  The conqueror of Mahon conducted this coarse
intrigue.

[It appeared at this period as if every feeling of dignity was lost. “Few
noblemen of the French Court,” says a writer of the time, “preserved
themselves from the general corruption.  The Marechal de Brissac was one
of the latter.  He was bantered on the strictness of his principles of
honour and honesty; it was thought strange that he should be offended by
being thought, like so many others, exposed to hymeneal disgrace.  Louis
XV., who was present, and laughed at his angry fit, said to him: ‘Come, M.
de Brissac, don’t be angry; ‘tis but a trifling evil; take
courage.’--‘Sire,’ replied M. de Brissac, ‘I possess all kinds of courage,
except that which can brave shame.’”--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

Such a mistress was judiciously selected for the diversion of the latter
years of a man weary of grandeur, fatigued with pleasure, and cloyed with
voluptuousness.  Neither the wit, the talents, the graces of the Marquise
de Pompadour, her beauty, nor even her love for the King, would have had
any further influence over that worn-out being.

He wanted a Roxalana of familiar gaiety, without any respect for the
dignity of the sovereign.  Madame du Barry one day so far forgot propriety
as to desire to be present at a Council of State.  The King was weak
enough to consent to it.  There she remained ridiculously perched upon the
arm of his chair, playing all sorts of childish monkey tricks, calculated
to please an old sultan.

Another time she snatched a packet of sealed letters from the King’s hand.
Among them she had observed one from Comte de Broglie.  She told the King
that she knew that rascal Broglie spoke ill of her to him, and that for
once, at least, she would make sure he should read nothing respecting her.
The King wanted to get the packet again; she resisted, and made him run
two or three times round the table, which was in the middle of the
council-chamber, and then, on passing the fireplace, she threw the letters
into the grate, where they were consumed.  The King became furious; he
seized his audacious mistress by the arm, and put her out of the door
without speaking to her.  Madame du Barry thought herself utterly
disgraced; she returned home, and remained two hours, alone, abandoned to
the utmost distress.  The King went to her; she threw herself at his feet,
in tears, and he pardoned her.

Madame la Marechale de Beauvau, the Duchesse de Choiseul, and the Duchesse
de Grammont had renounced the honour of the King’s intimate acquaintance
rather than share it with Madame du Barry.  But a few years after the
death of Louis XV., Madame la Marechale being alone at the Val, a house
belonging to M. de Beauvau, Mademoiselle de Dillon saw the Countess’s
calash take shelter in the forest of St. Germain during a violent storm.
She invited her in, and the Countess herself related these particulars,
which I had from Madame de Beauvau.

The Comte du Barry, surnamed ‘le roue’ (the profligate), and Mademoiselle
du Barry advised, or rather prompted, Madame du Barry in furtherance of
the plans of the party of the Marechal de Richelieu and the Duc
d’Aiguillon.  Sometimes they even set her to act in such a way as to have
a useful influence upon great political measures.  Under pretence that the
page who accompanied Charles I. in his flight was a Du Barry or Barrymore,
they persuaded the Comtesse du Barry to buy in London that fine portrait
which we now have in the Museum.  She had the picture placed in her
drawing-room, and when she saw the King hesitating upon the violent
measure of breaking up his Parliament, and forming that which was called
the Maupeou Parliament, she desired him to look at the portrait of a king
who had given way to his Parliament.

[The “Memoirs of General Dumouriez,” vol. i., page 142, contain some
curious particulars about Madame Du Barry; and novel details respecting
her will be found at page 243 of “Curiosites Historiques,” by J. A. Le Rol
(Paris, Plon, 1864).  His investigations lead to the result that her real
name was Jean Becu, born, 19th August, 1743, at Vaucouleurs, the natural
daughter of Anne Becu, otherwise known as “Quantiny.”  Her mother
afterwards married Nicolas Rancon.  Comte Jean du Barry met her among the
demi-monde, and succeeded, about 1767, and by the help of his friend
Label, the valet de chambre of Louis XV., in introducing her to the King
under the name of Mademoiselle l’Ange.  To be formally mistress, a husband
had to be found.  The Comte Jean du Barry, already married himself, found
no difficulty in getting his brother, Comte Guillaume, a poor officer of
the marine troops, to accept the post of husband.  In the
marriage-contract, signed on 23d July, 1768, she was described as “the
daughter of Anne Becu and of an imaginary first husband, Sieur Jean
Jacques Gomard de Vaubernier,” and three years were taken off her age.
The marriage-contract was so drawn as to leave Madame du Barry entirely
free from all control by her husband.  The marriage was solemnised on 1st
September, 1768, after which the nominal husband returned to Toulouse.
Madame du Barry in later years provided for him; and in 1772, tired of his
applications, she obtained an act of separation from him.  He married
later Jeanne Madeleine Lemoine, and died in 1811.  Madame du Barry took
care of her mother, who figured as Madame de Montrable. In all, she
received from the King, M. Le Roi calculates, about twelve and a half
millions of livres.  On the death of Louis XV. she had to retire first to
the Abbey of Pont-aux-Dames, near Meaux, then she was allowed to go to her
small house at St. Vrain, near Arpajon, and, finally, in 1775, to her
chateau at Louveciennes. Much to her credit be it said, she retained many
of her friends, and was on the most intimate terms till his death with the
Duc de Brissac (Louis Hercule Timoldon de Cosse-Brissac), who was killed
at Versailles in the massacre of the prisoners in September, 1792, leaving
at his death a large legacy to her.  Even the Emperor Joseph visited her.
In 1791 many of her jewels were stolen and taken to England.  This caused
her to make several visits to that country, where she gained her suit.
But these visits, though she took every precaution to legalise them,
ruined her.  Betrayed by her servants, among them by Zamor, the negro
page, she was brought before the Revolutionary tribunal, and was
guillotined on 8th December, 1793, in a frenzy of terror, calling for
mercy and for delay up to the moment when her head fell.]

The men of ambition who were labouring to overthrow the Duc de Choiseul
strengthened themselves by their concentration at the house of the
favourite, and succeeded in their project.  The bigots, who never forgave
that minister the suppression of the Jesuits, and who had always been
hostile to a treaty of alliance with Austria, influenced the minds of
Mesdames.  The Duc de La Vauguyon, the young Dauphin’s governor, infected
them with the same prejudices.

Such was the state of the public mind when the young Archduchess Marie
Antoinette arrived at the Court of Versailles, just at the moment when the
party which brought her there was about to be overthrown.

Madame Adelaide openly avowed her dislike to a princess of the House of
Austria; and when M. Campan, my father-in-law, went to receive his orders,
at the moment of setting off with the household of the Dauphiness, to go
and receive the Archduchess upon the frontiers, she said she disapproved
of the marriage of her nephew with an archduchess; and that, if she had
the direction of the matter, she would not send for an Austrian.




CHAPTER II.


MARIE ANTOINETTE JOSEPHE JEANNE DE LORRAINE, Archduchess of Austria,
daughter of Francois de Lorraine and of Maria Theresa, was born on the 2d
of November, 1755, the day of the earthquake at Lisbon; and this
catastrophe, which appeared to stamp the era of her birth with a fatal
mark, without forming a motive for superstitious fear with the Princess,
nevertheless made an impression upon her mind.  As the Empress already had
a great number of daughters, she ardently desired to have another son, and
playfully wagered against her wish with the Duc de Tarouka, who had
insisted that she would give birth to an archduke.  He lost by the birth
of the Princess, and had executed in porcelain a figure with one knee bent
on the earth, and presenting tablets, upon which the following lines by
Metastasio were engraved:

I lose by your fair daughter’s birth
Who prophesied a son;
But if she share her mother’s worth,
Why, all the world has won!

The Queen was fond of talking of the first years of her youth.  Her
father, the Emperor Francis, had made a deep impression upon her heart;
she lost him when she was scarcely seven years old.  One of those
circumstances which fix themselves strongly in the memories of children
frequently recalled his last caresses to her.  The Emperor was setting out
for Innspruck; he had already left his palace, when he ordered a gentleman
to fetch the Archduchess Marie Antoinette, and bring her to his carriage.
When she came, he stretched out his arms to receive her, and said, after
having pressed her to his bosom, “I wanted to embrace this child once
more.”  The Emperor died suddenly during the journey, and never saw his
beloved daughter again.

The Queen often spoke of her mother, and with profound respect, but she
based all her schemes for the education of her children on the essentials
which had been neglected in her own.  Maria Theresa, who inspired awe by
her great qualities, taught the Archduchesses to fear and respect rather
than to love her; at least I observed this in the Queen’s feelings towards
her august mother.  She therefore never desired to place between her own
children and herself that distance which had existed in the imperial
family.  She cited a fatal consequence of it, which had made such a
powerful impression upon her that time had never been able to efface it.

The wife of the Emperor Joseph II. was taken from him in a few days by an
attack of smallpox of the most virulent kind.  Her coffin had recently
been deposited in the vault of the imperial family.  The Archduchess
Josepha, who had been betrothed to the King of Naples, at the instant she
was quitting Vienna received an order from the Empress not to set off
without having offered up a prayer in the vault of her forefathers.  The
Archduchess, persuaded that she should take the disorder to which her
sister-in-law had just fallen a victim, looked upon this order as her
death-warrant.  She loved the young Archduchess Marie Antoinette tenderly;
she took her upon her knees, embraced her with tears, and told her she was
about to leave her, not for Naples, but never to see her again; that she
was going down then to the tomb of her ancestors, and that she should
shortly go again there to remain.  Her anticipation was realised;
confluent smallpox carried her off in a very few days, and her youngest
sister ascended the throne of Naples in her place.

The Empress was too much taken up with high political interests to have it
in her power to devote herself to maternal attentions.  The celebrated
Wansvietten, her physician, went daily, to visit the young imperial
family, and afterwards to Maria Theresa, and gave the most minute details
respecting the health of the Archdukes and Archduchesses, whom she herself
sometimes did not see for eight or ten days at a time.  As soon as the
arrival of a stranger of rank at Vienna was made known, the Empress
brought her family about her, admitted them to her table, and by this
concerted meeting induced a belief that she herself presided over the
education of her children.

The chief governesses, being under no fear of inspection from Maria
Theresa, aimed at making themselves beloved by their pupils by the common
and blamable practice of indulgence, so fatal to the future progress and
happiness of children.  Marie Antoinette was the cause of her governess
being dismissed, through a confession that all her copies and all her
letters were invariably first traced out with pencil; the Comtesse de
Brandes was appointed to succeed her, and fulfilled her duties with great
exactness and talent.  The Queen looked upon having been confided to her
care so late as a misfortune, and always continued upon terms of
friendship with that lady.  The education of Marie Antoinette was
certainly very much neglected.  With the exception of the Italian
language, all that related to belles lettres, and particularly to history,
even that of her own country, was almost entirely unknown to her.  This
was soon found out at the Court of France, and thence arose the generally
received opinion that she was deficient in sense.  It will be seen in the
course of these “Memoirs” whether that opinion was well or ill founded.
The public prints, however, teemed with assertions of the superior talents
of Maria Theresa’s children.  They often noticed the answers which the
young Princesses gave in Latin to the harangues addressed to them; they
uttered them, it is true, but without understanding them; they knew not a
single word of that language.

Mention was one day made to the Queen of a drawing made by her, and
presented by the Empress to M. Gerard, chief clerk of Foreign Affairs, on
the occasion of his going to Vienna to draw up the articles for her
marriage-contract.  “I should blush,” said she, “if that proof of the
quackery of my education were shown to me.  I do not believe that I ever
put a pencil to that drawing.”  However, what had been taught her she knew
perfectly well.  Her facility of learning was inconceivable, and if all
her teachers had been as well informed and as faithful to their duty as
the Abbe Metastasio, who taught her Italian, she would have attained as
great a superiority in the other branches of her education.  The Queen
spoke that language with grace and ease, and translated the most difficult
poets.  She did not write French correctly, but she spoke it with the
greatest fluency, and even affected to say that she had lost German.  In
fact she attempted in 1787 to learn her mother-tongue, and took lessons
assiduously for six weeks; she was obliged to relinquish them, finding all
the difficulties which a Frenchwoman, who should take up the study too
late, would have to encounter.  In the same manner she gave up English,
which I had taught her for some time, and in which she had made rapid
progress.  Music was the accomplishment in which the Queen most delighted.
She did not play well on any instrument, but she had become able to read
at sight like a first-rate professor.  She attained this degree of
perfection in France, this branch of her education having been neglected
at Vienna as much as the rest.  A few days after her arrival at
Versailles, she was introduced to her singing-master, La Garde, author of
the opera of “Egle.”  She made a distant appointment with him, needing, as
she said, rest after the fatigues of the journey and the numerous fetes
which had taken place at Versailles; but her motive was her desire to
conceal how ignorant she was of the rudiments of music.  She asked M.
Campan whether his son, who was a good musician, could give her lessons
secretly for three months.  “The Dauphiness,” added she, smiling, “must be
careful of the reputation of the Archduchess.”  The lessons were given
privately, and at the end of three months of constant application she sent
for M. la Garde, and surprised him by her skill.

The desire to perfect Marie Antoinette in the study of the French language
was probably the motive which determined Maria Theresa to provide for her
as teachers two French actors: Aufresne, for pronunciation and
declamation, and Sainville, for taste in French singing; the latter had
been an officer in France, and bore a bad character.  The choice gave just
umbrage to our Court.  The Marquis de Durfort, at that time ambassador at
Vienna, was ordered to make a representation to the Empress upon her
selection.  The two actors were dismissed, and the Princess required that
an ecclesiastic should be sent to her.  Several eminent ecclesiastics
declined taking upon themselves so delicate an office; others who were
pointed out by Maria Theresa (among the rest the Abbe Grisel) belonged to
parties which sufficed to exclude them.

The Archbishop of Toulouse one day went to the Duc de Choiseul at the
moment when he was much embarrassed upon the subject of this nomination;
he proposed to him the Abby de Vermond, librarian of the College des
Quatre Nations.  The eulogistic manner in which he spoke of his protege
procured the appointment for the latter on that very day; and the
gratitude of the Abbe de Vermond towards the prelate was very fatal to
France, inasmuch as after seventeen years of persevering attempts to bring
him into the ministry, he succeeded at last in getting him named
Comptroller-General and President of the Council.--[Comte de Brienne,
later Archbishop of Sens.]

This Abbe de Vermond directed almost all the Queen’s actions.  He
established his influence over her at an age when impressions are most
durable; and it was easy to see that he had taken pains only to render
himself beloved by his pupil, and had troubled himself very little with
the care of instructing her.  He might have even been accused of having,
by a sharp-sighted though culpable policy, purposely left her in
ignorance.  Marie Antoinette spoke the French language with much grace,
but wrote it less perfectly.  The Abbe de Vermond revised all the letters
which she sent to Vienna.  The insupportable folly with which he boasted
of it displayed the character of a man more flattered at being admitted
into her intimate secrets than anxious to fulfil worthily the high office
of her preceptor.

[The Abbe de Vermond encouraged the impatience of etiquette shown by Marie
Antoinette while she was Dauphiness.  When she became Queen he endeavoured
openly to induce her to shake off the restraints she still respected.  If
he chanced to enter her apartment at the time she was preparing to go out,
“For whom,” he would say, in a tone of raillery, “is this detachment of
warriors which I found in the court? Is it some general going to inspect
his army?  Does all this military display become a young Queen adored by
her subjects?”  He would call to her mind the simplicity with which Maria
Theresa lived; the visits she made without guards, or even attendants, to
the Prince d’Esterhazy, to the Comte de Palfi, passing whole days far from
the fatiguing ceremonies of the Court.  The Abbe thus artfully flattered
the inclinations of Marie Antoinette, and showed her how she might
disguise, even from herself, her aversion for the ceremonies observed by
the descendants of Louis XIV.-MADAME CAMPAN.]

His pride received its birth at Vienna, where Maria Theresa, as much to
give him authority with the Archduchess as to make herself acquainted with
his character, permitted him to mix every evening with the private circle
of her family, into which the future Dauphiness had been admitted for some
time.  Joseph II., the elder Archduchess, and a few noblemen honoured by
the confidence of Maria Theresa, composed the party; and reflections on
the world, on courts, and the duties of princes were the usual topics of
conversation.  The Abbe de Vermond, in relating these particulars,
confessed the means which he had made use of to gain admission into this
private circle.  The Empress, meeting him at the Archduchess’s, asked him
if he had formed any connections in Vienna. “None, Madame,” replied he;
“the apartment of the Archduchess and the hotel of the ambassador of
France are the only places which the man honoured with the care of the
Princess’s education should frequent.” A month afterwards Maria Theresa,
through a habit common enough among sovereigns, asked him the same
question, and received precisely the same answer.  The next day he
received an order to join the imperial family every evening.

It is extremely probable, from the constant and well-known intercourse
between this man and Comte de Mercy, ambassador of the Empire during the
whole reign of Louis XVI., that he was useful to the Court of Vienna, and
that he often caused the Queen to decide on measures, the consequences of
which she did not consider.  Not of high birth, imbued with all the
principles of the modern philosophy, and yet holding to the hierarchy of
the Church more tenaciously than any other ecclesiastic; vain, talkative,
and at the same time cunning and abrupt; very ugly and affecting
singularity; treating the most exalted persons as his equals, sometimes
even as his inferiors, the Abbe de Vermond received ministers and bishops
when in his bath; but said at the same time that Cardinal Dubois was a
fool; that a man such as he, having obtained power, ought to make
cardinals, and refuse to be one himself.

Intoxicated with the reception he had met with at the Court of Vienna, and
having till then seen nothing of high life, the Abbe de Vermond admired no
other customs than those of the imperial family; he ridiculed the
etiquette of the House of Bourbon incessantly; the young Dauphiness was
constantly incited by his sarcasms to get rid of it, and it was he who
first induced her to suppress an infinity of practices of which he could
discern neither the prudence nor the political aim.  Such is the faithful
portrait of that man whom the evil star of Marie Antoinette had reserved
to guide her first steps upon a stage so conspicuous and so full of danger
as that of the Court of Versailles.

It will be thought, perhaps, that I draw the character of the Abbe de
Vermond too unfavourably; but how can I view with any complacency one who,
after having arrogated to himself the office of confidant and sole
counsellor of the Queen, guided her with so little prudence, and gave us
the mortification of seeing that Princess blend, with qualities which
charmed all that surrounded her, errors alike injurious to her glory and
her happiness?

While M. de Choiseul, satisfied with the person whom M. de Brienne had
presented, despatched him to Vienna with every eulogium calculated to
inspire unbounded confidence, the Marquis de Durfort sent off a
hairdresser and a few French fashions; and then it was thought sufficient
pains had been taken to form the character of a princess destined to share
the throne of France.

The marriage of Monseigneur the Dauphin with the Archduchess was
determined upon during the administration of the Duc de Choiseul. The
Marquis de Durfort, who was to succeed the Baron de Breteuil in the
embassy to Vienna, was appointed proxy for the marriage ceremony; but six
months after the Dauphin’s marriage the Duc de Choiseul was disgraced, and
Madame de Marsan and Madame de Guemenee, who grew more powerful through
the Duke’s disgrace, conferred that embassy, upon Prince Louis de Rohan,
afterwards cardinal and grand almoner.

Hence it will be seen that the Gazette de France is a sufficient answer to
those libellers who dared to assert that the young Archduchess was
acquainted with the Cardinal de Rohan before the period of her marriage. A
worse selection in itself, or one more disagreeable to Maria Theresa, than
that which sent to her, in quality, of ambassador, a man so frivolous and
so immoral as Prince Louis de Rohan, could not have been made.  He
possessed but superficial knowledge upon any subject, and was totally
ignorant of diplomatic affairs.  His reputation had gone before him to
Vienna, and his mission opened under the most unfavourable auspices.  In
want of money, and the House of Rohan being unable to make him any
considerable advances, he obtained from his Court a patent which
authorised him to borrow the sum of 600,000 livres upon his benefices, ran
in debt above a million, and thought to dazzle the city and Court of
Vienna by the most indecent and ill-judged extravagance.  He formed a
suite of eight or ten gentlemen, of names sufficiently high-sounding;
twelve pages equally well born, a crowd of officers and servants, a
company of chamber musicians, etc.  But this idle pomp did not last;
embarrassment and distress soon showed themselves; his people, no longer
receiving pay, in order to make money, abused the privileges of
ambassadors, and smuggled with so much effrontery that Maria Theresa, to
put a stop to it without offending the Court of France, was compelled to
suppress the privileges in this respect of all the diplomatic bodies, a
step which rendered the person and conduct of Prince Louis odious in
every foreign Court.

[I have often heard the Queen say that, at Vienna, in the office of the
secretary of the Prince de Rohan, there were sold in one year more silk
stockings than at Lyons and Paris together.--MADAME CAMPAN.]

He seldom obtained private audiences from the Empress, who did not esteem
him, and who expressed herself without reserve upon his conduct both as a
bishop and as an ambassador.  He thought to obtain favour by assisting to
effect the marriage of the Archduchess Elizabeth, the elder sister of
Marie Antoinette, with Louis XV., an affair which was awkwardly
undertaken, and of which Madame du Barry had no difficulty in causing the
failure.  I have deemed it my duty to omit no particular of the moral and
political character of a man whose existence was subsequently so injurious
to the reputation of Marie Antoinette.




CHAPTER III.


A superb pavilion had been prepared upon the frontier near Kehl.  It
consisted of a vast salon, connected with two apartments, one of which was
assigned to the lords and ladies of the Court of Vienna, and the other to
the suite of the Dauphiness, composed of the Comtesse de Noailles, her
lady of honour; the Duchesse de Cosse, her dame d’atours; four ladies of
the palace; the Comte de Saulx-Tavannes, chevalier d’honneur; the Comte de
Tesse, first equerry; the Bishop of Chartres, first almoner; the officers
of the Body Guard, and the equerries.

When the Dauphiness had been entirely undressed, in order that she might
retain nothing belonging to a foreign Court (an etiquette always observed
on such an occasion), the doors were opened; the young Princess came
forward, looking round for the Comtesse de Noailles; then, rushing into
her arms, she implored her, with tears in her eyes, and with heartfelt
sincerity, to be her guide and support.

While doing justice to the virtues of the Comtesse de Noailles, those
sincerely attached to the Queen have always considered it as one of her
earliest misfortunes not to have found, in the person of her adviser, a
woman indulgent, enlightened, and administering good advice with that
amiability which disposes young persons to follow it.  The Comtesse de
Noailles had nothing agreeable in her appearance; her demeanour was stiff
and her mien severe.  She was perfect mistress of etiquette; but she
wearied the young Princess with it, without making her sensible of its
importance.  It would have been sufficient to represent to the Dauphiness
that in France her dignity depended much upon customs not necessary at
Vienna to secure the respect and love of the good and submissive Austrians
for the imperial family; but the Dauphiness was perpetually tormented by
the remonstrances of the Comtesse de Noailles, and at the same time was
led by the Abbe de Vermond to ridicule both the lessons upon etiquette and
her who gave them.  She preferred raillery to argument, and nicknamed the
Comtesse de Noailles Madame l’Etiquette.

The fetes which were given at Versailles on the marriage of the Dauphin
were very splendid.  The Dauphiness arrived there at the hour for her
toilet, having slept at La Muette, where Louis XV. had been to receive
her; and where that Prince, blinded by a feeling unworthy of a sovereign
and the father of a family, caused the young Princess, the royal family,
and the ladies of the Court, to sit down to supper with Madame du Barry.

The Dauphiness was hurt at this conduct; she spoke of it openly enough to
those with whom she was intimate, but she knew how to conceal her
dissatisfaction in public, and her behaviour showed no signs of it.

She was received at Versailles in an apartment on the ground floor, under
that of the late Queen, which was not ready for her until six months after
her marriage.

The Dauphiness, then fifteen years of age, beaming with freshness,
appeared to all eyes more than beautiful.  Her walk partook at once of the
dignity of the Princesses of her house, and of the grace of the French;
her eyes were mild, her smile amiable.  When she went to chapel, as soon
as she had taken the first few steps in the long gallery, she discerned,
all the way to its extremity, those persons whom she ought to salute with
the consideration due to their rank; those on whom she should bestow an
inclination of the head; and lastly, those who were to be satisfied with a
smile, calculated to console them for not being entitled to greater
honours.

Louis XV. was enchanted with the young Dauphiness; all his conversation
was about her graces, her vivacity, and the aptness of her repartees. She
was yet more successful with the royal family when they beheld her shorn
of the splendour of the diamonds with which she had been adorned during
the first days of her marriage.  When clothed in a light dress of gauze or
taffety she was compared to the Venus dei Medici, and the Atalanta of the
Marly Gardens.  Poets sang her charms; painters attempted to copy her
features.  One artist’s fancy led him to place the portrait of Marie
Antoinette in the heart of a full-blown rose.  His ingenious idea was
rewarded by Louis XV.

The King continued to talk only of the Dauphiness; and Madame du Barry
ill-naturedly endeavoured to damp his enthusiasm.  Whenever Marie
Antoinette was the topic, she pointed out the irregularity of her
features, criticised the ‘bons mots’ quoted as hers, and rallied the King
upon his prepossession in her favour.  Madame du Barry was affronted at
not receiving from the Dauphiness those attentions to which she thought
herself entitled; she did not conceal her vexation from the King; she was
afraid that the grace and cheerfulness of the young Princess would make
the domestic circle of the royal family more agreeable to the old
sovereign, and that he would escape her chains; at the same time, hatred
to the Choiseul party contributed powerfully to excite the enmity of the
favourite.

The fall of that minister took place in November, 1770, six months after
his long influence in the Council had brought about the alliance with the
House of Austria and the arrival of Marie Antoinette at the Court of
France.  The Princess, young, frank, volatile, and inexperienced, found
herself without any other guide than the Abbe de Vermond, in a Court ruled
by the enemy of the minister who had brought her there, and in the midst
of people who hated Austria, and detested any alliance with the imperial
house.

The Duc d’Aiguillon, the Duc de La Vauguyon, the Marechal de Richelieu,
the Rohans, and other considerable families, who had made use of Madame du
Barry to overthrow the Duke, could not flatter themselves, notwithstanding
their powerful intrigues, with a hope of being able to break off an
alliance solemnly announced, and involving such high political interests.
They therefore changed their mode of attack, and it will be seen how the
conduct of the Dauphin served as a basis for their hopes.

The Dauphiness continually gave proofs of both sense and feeling.
Sometimes she even suffered herself to be carried away by those transports
of compassionate kindness which are not to be controlled by the customs
which rank establishes.

In consequence of the fire in the Place Louis XV., which occurred at the
time of the nuptial entertainments, the Dauphin and Dauphiness sent their,
whole income for the year to the relief of the unfortunate families who
lost their relatives on that disastrous day.

This was one of those ostentatious acts of generosity which are dictated
by the policy of princes, at least as much as by their compassion; but the
grief of Marie Antoinette was profound, and lasted several days; nothing
could console her for the loss of so many innocent victims; she spoke of
it, weeping, to her ladies, one of whom, thinking, no doubt, to divert her
mind, told her that a great number of thieves had been found among the
bodies, and that their pockets were filled with watches and other
valuables.  “They have at least been well punished,” added the person who
related these particulars.  “Oh, no, no, madame!” replied the Dauphiness;
“they died by the side of honest people.”

The Dauphiness had brought from Vienna a considerable number of white
diamonds; the King added to them the gift of the diamonds and pearls of
the late Dauphiness, and also put into her hands a collar of pearls, of a
single row, the smallest of which was as large as a filbert, and which had
been brought into France by Anne of Austria, and appropriated by that
Princess to the use of the Queens and Dauphinesses of France.

The three Princesses, daughters of Louis XV., joined in making her
magnificent presents.  Madame Adelaide at the same time gave the young
Princess a key to the private corridors of the Chateau, by means of which,
without any suite, and without being perceived, she could get to the
apartments of her aunts, and see them in private.  The Dauphiness, on
receiving the key, told them, with infinite grace, that if they had meant
to make her appreciate the superb presents they were kind enough to bestow
upon her, they should not at the same time have offered her one of such
inestimable value; since to that key she should be indebted for an
intimacy and advice unspeakably precious at her age.  She did, indeed,
make use of it very frequently; but Madame Victoire alone permitted her,
so long as she continued Dauphiness, to visit her familiarly.  Madame
Adelaide could not overcome her prejudices against Austrian princesses,
and was wearied with the somewhat petulant gaiety of the Dauphiness.
Madame Victoire was concerned at this, feeling that their society and
counsel would have been highly useful to a young person otherwise likely
to meet with none but sycophants.  She endeavoured, therefore, to induce
her to take pleasure in the society of the Marquise de Durfort, her lady
of honour and favourite.  Several agreeable entertainments took place at
the house of this lady, but the Comtesse de Noailles and the Abbe de
Vermond soon opposed these meetings.

A circumstance which happened in hunting, near the village of Acheres, in
the forest of Fontainebleau, afforded the young Princess an opportunity of
displaying her respect for old age, and her compassion for misfortune.  An
aged peasant was wounded by the stag; the Dauphiness jumped out of her
calash, placed the peasant, with his wife and children, in it, had the
family taken back to their cottage, and bestowed upon them every attention
and every necessary assistance.  Her heart was always open to the feelings
of compassion, and the recollection of her rank never restrained her
sensibility.  Several persons in her service entered her room one evening,
expecting to find nobody there but the officer in waiting; they perceived
the young Princess seated by the side of this man, who was advanced in
years; she had placed near him a bowl full of water, was stanching the
blood which issued from a wound he had received in his hand with her
handkerchief, which she had torn up to bind it, and was fulfilling towards
him all the duties of a pious sister of charity. The old man, affected
even to tears, out of respect allowed his august mistress to act as she
thought proper.  He had hurt himself in endeavouring to move a rather
heavy piece of furniture at the Princess’s request.

In the month of July, 1770, an unfortunate occurrence that took place in a
family which the Dauphiness honoured with her favour contributed again to
show not only her sensibility but also the benevolence of her disposition.
One of her women in waiting had a son who was an officer in the gens
d’armes of the guard; this young man thought himself affronted by a clerk
in the War Department, and imprudently sent him a challenge; he killed his
adversary in the forest of Compiegne.  The family of the young man who was
killed, being in possession of the challenge, demanded justice.  The King,
distressed on account of several duels which had recently taken place, had
unfortunately declared that he would show no mercy on the first event of
that kind which could be proved; the culprit was therefore arrested.  His
mother, in the deepest grief, hastened to throw herself at the feet of the
Dauphiness, the Dauphin, and the young Princesses.  After an hour’s
supplication they obtained from the King the favour so much desired.  On
the next day a lady of rank, while congratulating the Dauphiness, had the
malice to add that the mother had neglected no means of success on the
occasion, having solicited not only the royal family, but even Madame du
Barry.  The Dauphiness replied that the fact justified the favourable
opinion she had formed of the worthy woman; that the heart of a mother
should hesitate at nothing for the salvation of her son; and that in her
place, if she had thought it would be serviceable, she would have thrown
herself at the feet of Zamor.

[A little Indian who carried the Comtesse du Barry’s train.  Louis XV.
often amused himself with the little marmoset, and jestingly made him
Governor of Louveciennes; he received an annual income of 3,000 francs.]

Some time after the marriage entertainments the Dauphiness made her entry
into Paris, and was received with transports of joy.  After dining in the
King’s apartment at the Tuileries, she was forced, by the reiterated
shouts of the multitude, with whom the garden was filled, to present
herself upon the balcony fronting the principal walk.  On seeing such a
crowd of heads with their eyes fixed upon her, she exclaimed, “Grand-Dieu!
what a concourse!”--“Madame,” said the old Duc de Brissac, the Governor of
Paris, “I may tell you, without fear of offending the Dauphin, that they
are so many lovers.”  2 The Dauphin took no umbrage at either acclamations
or marks of homage of which the Dauphiness was the object.  The most
mortifying indifference, a coldness which frequently degenerated into
rudeness, were the sole feelings which the young Prince then manifested
towards her.  Not all her charms could gain even upon his senses.  This
estrangement, which lasted a long time, was said to be the work of the Duc
de La Vauguyon.

The Dauphiness, in fact, had no sincere friends at Court except the Duc de
Choiseul and his party.  Will it be credited that the plans laid against
Marie Antoinette went so far as divorce?  I have been assured of it by
persons holding high situations at Court, and many circumstances tend to
confirm the opinion.  On the journey to Fontainebleau, in the year of the
marriage, the inspectors of public buildings were gained over to manage so
that the apartment intended for the Dauphin, communicating with that of
the Dauphiness, should not be finished, and a room at the extremity of the
building was temporarily assigned to him.  The Dauphiness, aware that this
was the result of intrigue, had the courage to complain of it to Louis
XV., who, after severe reprimands, gave orders so positive that within the
week the apartment was ready.  Every method was tried to continue or
augment the indifference which the Dauphin long manifested towards his
youthful spouse.  She was deeply hurt at it, but she never suffered
herself to utter the slightest complaint on the subject.  Inattention to,
even contempt for, the charms which she heard extolled on all sides,
nothing induced her to break silence; and some tears, which would
involuntarily burst from her eyes, were the sole symptoms of her inward
sufferings discoverable by those in her service.

Once only, when tired out with the misplaced remonstrances of an old lady
attached to her person, who wished to dissuade her from riding on
horseback, under the impression that it would prevent her producing heirs
to the crown, “Mademoiselle,” said she, “in God’s name, leave me in peace;
be assured that I can put no heir in danger.”

The Dauphiness found at the Court of Louis XV., besides the three
Princesses, the King’s daughters, the Princes also, brothers of the
Dauphin, who were receiving their education, and Clotilde and Elisabeth,
still in the care of Madame de Marsan, governess of the children of
France.  The elder of the two latter Princesses, in 1777, married the
Prince of Piedmont, afterwards King of Sardinia.  This Princess was in her
infancy, so extremely large that the people nicknamed her ‘gros Madame.’

[Madame Clotilde of France, a sister of the King, was extraordinarily fat
for her height and age.  One of her playfellows, having been indiscreet
enough even in her presence to make use of the nickname given to her,
received a severe reprimand from the Comtesse de Marsan, who hinted to her
that she would do well in not making her appearance again before the
Princess.  Madame Clotilde sent for her the next day: “My governess,” said
she, “has done her duty, and I will do mine; come and see me as usual, and
think no more of a piece of inadvertence, which I myself have forgotten.”
 This Princess, so heavy in body, possessed the most agreeable and playful
wit.  Her affability and grace rendered her dear to all who came near
her.--NOTE BY THE EDITOR]

The second Princess was the pious Elisabeth, the victim of her respect and
tender attachment for the King, her brother.  She was still scarcely out
of her leading-strings at the period of the Dauphin’s marriage.  The
Dauphiness showed her marked preference.  The governess, who sought to
advance the Princess to whom nature had been least favourable, was
offended at the Dauphiness’s partiality for Madame Elisabeth, and by her
injudicious complaints weakened the friendship which yet subsisted between
Madame Clotilde and Marie Antoinette.  There even arose some degree of
rivalry on the subject of education; and that which the Empress Maria
Theresa bestowed on her daughters was talked of openly and unfavourably
enough.  The Abbe de Vermond thought himself affronted, took a part in the
quarrel, and added his complaints and jokes to those of the Dauphiness on
the criticisms of the governess; he even indulged himself in his turn in
reflections on the tuition of Madame Clotilde. Everything becomes known at
Court.  Madame de Marsan was informed of all that had been said in the
Dauphiness’s circle, and was very angry with her on account of it.

From that moment a centre of intrigue, or rather gossip, against Marie
Antoinette was established round Madame de Marsan’s fireside; her most
trifling actions were there construed ill; her gaiety, and the harmless
amusements in which she sometimes indulged in her own apartments with the
more youthful ladies of her train, and even with the women in her service,
were stigmatised as criminal.  Prince Louis de Rohan, sent through the
influence of this clique ambassador to Vienna, was the echo there of these
unmerited comments, and threw himself into a series of culpable
accusations which he proffered under the guise of zeal.  He ceaselessly
represented the young Dauphiness as alienating all hearts by levities
unsuitable to the dignity of the French Court.  The Princess frequently
received from the Court of Vienna remonstrances, of the origin of which
she could not long remain in ignorance.  From this period must be dated
that aversion which she never ceased to manifest for the Prince de Rohan.

About the same time the Dauphiness received information of a letter
written by Prince Louis to the Duc d’Aiguillon, in which the ambassador
expressed himself in very free language respecting the intentions of Maria
Theresa with relation to the partition of Poland.  This letter of Prince
Louis had been read at the Comtesse du Barry’s; the levity of the
ambassador’s correspondence wounded the feelings and the dignity of the
Dauphiness at Versailles, while at Vienna the representations which he
made to Maria Theresa against the young Princess terminated in rendering
the motives of his incessant complaints suspected by the Empress.

Maria Theresa at length determined on sending her private secretary, Baron
de Neni, to Versailles, with directions to observe the conduct of the
Dauphiness with attention, and form a just estimate of the opinion of the
Court and of Paris with regard to that Princess.  The Baron de Neni, after
having devoted sufficient time and intelligence to the subject, undeceived
his sovereign as to the exaggerations of the French ambassador; and the
Empress had no difficulty in detecting, among the calumnies which he had
conveyed to her under the specious excuse of anxiety for her august
daughter, proofs of the enmity of a, party which had never approved of the
alliance of the House of Bourbon with her own.

At this period the Dauphiness, though unable to obtain any influence over
the heart of her husband, dreading Louis XV., and justly mistrusting
everything connected with Madame du Barry and the Duc d’Aiguillon, had not
deserved the slightest reproach for that sort of levity which hatred and
her misfortunes afterwards construed into crime.  The Empress, convinced
of the innocence of Marie Antoinette, directed the Baron de Neni to
solicit the recall of the Prince de Rohan, and to inform the Minister for
Foreign Affairs of all the motives which made her require it; but the
House of Rohan interposed between its protege and the Austrian envoy, and
an evasive answer merely was given.

It was not until two months after the death of Louis XV.  that the Court
of Vienna obtained his recall.  The avowed grounds for requiring it were,
first, the public gallantries of Prince Louis with some ladies of the
Court and others; secondly, his surliness and haughtiness towards other
foreign ministers, which would have had more serious consequences,
especially with the ministers of England and Denmark, if the Empress
herself had not interfered; thirdly, his contempt for religion in a
country where it was particularly necessary to show respect for it. He had
been seen frequently to dress himself in clothes of different colours,
assuming the hunting uniforms of various noblemen whom he visited, with so
much audacity that one day in particular, during the Fete-Dieu, he and all
his legation, in green uniforms laced with gold, broke through a
procession which impeded them, in order to make their way to a hunting
party at the Prince de Paar’s; and fourthly, the immense debts contracted
by him and his people, which were tardily and only in part discharged.

The succeeding marriages of the Comte de Provence and the Comte d’Artois
with two daughters of the King of Sardinia procured society for the
Dauphiness more suitable to her age, and altered her mode of life.

A pair of tolerably fine eyes drew forth, in favour of the Comtesse de
Provence, upon her arrival at Versailles, the only praises which could
reasonably be bestowed upon her.  The Comtesse d’Artois, though not
deformed, was very small; she had a fine complexion; her face, tolerably
pleasing, was not remarkable for anything except the extreme length of the
nose.  But being good and generous, she was beloved by those about her,
and even possessed some influence so long as she was the only Princess who
had produced heirs to the crown.

From this time the closest intimacy subsisted between the three young
families.  They took their meals together, except on those days when they
dined in public.  This manner of living en famille continued until the
Queen sometimes indulged herself in going to dine with the Duchesse de
Polignac, when she was governess; but the evening meetings at supper were
never interrupted; they took place at the house of the Comtesse de
Provence.  Madame Elisabeth made one of the party when she had finished
her education, and sometimes Mesdames, the King’s aunts, were invited. The
custom, which had no precedent at Court, was the work of Marie Antoinette,
and she maintained it with the utmost perseverance.

The Court of Versailles saw no change in point of etiquette during the
reign of Louis XV.  Play took place at the house of the Dauphiness, as
being the first lady of the State.  It had, from the death of Queen Maria
Leczinska to the marriage of the Dauphin, been held at the abode of Madame
Adelade.  This removal, the result of an order of precedence not to be
violated, was not the less displeasing to Madame Adelaide, who established
a separate party for play in her apartments, and scarcely ever went to
that which not only the Court in general, but also the royal family, were
expected to attend.  The full-dress visits to the King on his ‘debotter’
were continued.  High mass was attended daily.  The airings of the
Princesses were nothing more than rapid races in berlins, during which
they were accompanied by Body Guards, equerries, and pages on horseback.
They galloped for some leagues from Versailles.  Calashes were used only
in hunting.

The young Princesses were desirous to infuse animation into their circle
of associates by something useful as well as pleasant.  They adopted the
plan of learning and performing all the best plays of the French theatre.
The Dauphin was the only spectator.  The three Princesses, the two
brothers of the King, and Messieurs Campan, father and son, were the sole
performers, but they endeavoured to keep this amusement as secret as an
affair of State; they dreaded the censure of Mesdames, and they had no
doubt that Louis XV. would forbid such pastimes if he knew of them.  They
selected for their performance a cabinet in the entresol which nobody had
occasion to enter.

A kind of proscenium, which could be taken down and shut up in a closet,
formed the whole theatre.  The Comte de Provence always knew his part with
imperturbable accuracy; the Comte d’Artois knew his tolerably well, and
recited elegantly; the Princesses acted badly.  The Dauphiness acquitted
herself in some characters with discrimination and feeling. The chief
pleasure of this amusement consisted in all the costumes being elegant and
accurate.  The Dauphin entered into the spirit of these diversions, and
laughed heartily at the comic characters as they came on the scene; from
these amusements may be dated his discontinuance of the timid manner of
his youth, and his taking pleasure in the society of the Dauphiness.

It was not till a long time afterwards that I learnt these particulars, M.
Campan having kept the secret; but an unforeseen event had well-nigh
exposed the whole mystery.  One day the Queen desired M. Campan to go down
into her closet to fetch something that she had forgotten; he was dressed
for the character of Crispin, and was rouged.  A private staircase led
direct to the entresol through the dressing-room.  M. Campan fancied he
heard some noise, and remained still, behind the door, which was shut.  A
servant belonging to the wardrobe, who was, in fact, on the staircase, had
also heard some noise, and, either from fear or curiosity, he suddenly
opened the door; the figure of Crispin frightened him so that he fell down
backwards, shouting with his might, “Help! help!”  My father-in-law raised
him up, made him recognise his voice, and laid upon him an injunction of
silence as to what he had seen. He felt himself, however, bound to inform
the Dauphiness of what had happened, and she was afraid that a similar
occurrence might betray their amusements.  They were therefore
discontinued.

The Princess occupied her time in her own apartment in the study of music
and the parts in plays which she had to learn; the latter exercise, at
least, produced the beneficial effect of strengthening her memory and
familiarising her with the French language.

While Louis XV.  reigned, the enemies of Marie Antoinette made no attempt
to change public opinion with regard to her.  She was always popular with
the French people in general, and particularly with the inhabitants of
Paris, who went on every opportunity to Versailles, the majority of them
attracted solely by the pleasure of seeing her.  The courtiers did not
fully enter into the popular enthusiasm which the Dauphiness had inspired;
the disgrace of the Duc de Choiseul had removed her real support from her;
and the party which had the ascendency at Court since the exile of that
minister was, politically, as much opposed to her family as to herself.
The Dauphiness was therefore surrounded by enemies at Versailles.

Nevertheless everybody appeared outwardly desirous to please her; for the
age of Louis XV., and the apathetic character of the Dauphin, sufficiently
warned courtiers of the important part reserved for the Princess during
the following reign, in case the Dauphin should become attached to her.




CHAPTER IV.


About the beginning of May, 1774, Louis XV., the strength of whose
constitution had promised a long enough life, was attacked by confluent
smallpox of the worst kind.  Mesdames at this juncture inspired the
Dauphiness with a feeling of respect and attachment, of which she gave
them repeated proofs when she ascended the throne.  In fact, nothing was
more admirable nor more affecting than the courage with which they braved
that most horrible disease.  The air of the palace was infected; more than
fifty persons took the smallpox, in consequence of having merely loitered
in the galleries of Versailles, and ten died of it.

The end of the monarch was approaching.  His reign, peaceful in general,
had inherited strength from the power of his predecessor; on the other
hand, his own weakness had been preparing misfortune for whoever should
reign after him.  The scene was about to change; hope, ambition, joy,
grief, and all those feelings which variously affected the hearts of the
courtiers, sought in vain to disguise themselves under a calm exterior. It
was easy to detect the different motives which induced them every moment
to repeat to every one the question: “How is the King?”  At length, on the
10th of May, 1774, the mortal career of Louis XV. terminated.

[Christopher de Beaumont, Archbishop of Paris, the ardent apostle of
frequent communion, arrived at Paris with the intention of soliciting, in
public, the administration of the sacrament to the King, and secretly
retarding it as much as possible.  The ceremony could not take place
without the previous and public expulsion of the, concubine, according to
the canons of the Church and the Jesuitical party, of which Christopher
was the leader.  This party, which had made use of Madame du Barry to
suppress the Parliaments, to support the Duc d’Aiguillon, and ruin the
Choiseul faction, could not willingly consent to disgrace her canonically.
The Archbishop went into the King’s bedchamber, and found there Madame
Adelaide, the Duc d’Aumont, the Bishop of Senlis, and Richelieu, in whose
presence he resolved not to say one word about confession for that day.
This reticence so encouraged Louis XV. that, on the Archbishop
withdrawing, he had Madame du Barry called in, and kissed her beautiful
hands again with his wonted affection.  On the 2d of May the King found
himself a little better.  Madame du Barry had brought him two confidential
physicians, Lorry and Borden, who were enjoined to conceal the nature of
his sickness from him in order to keep off the priests and save her from a
humiliating dismissal.  The King’s improvement allowed Madame du Barry to
divert him by her usual playfulness and conversation.  But La Martiniere,
who was of the Choiseul party, and to whom they durst not refuse his right
of entry, did not conceal from the King either the nature or the danger of
his sickness.  The King then sent for Madame du Barry, and said to her:
“My love, I have got the smallpox, and my illness is very dangerous on
account of my age and other disorders.  I ought not to forget that I am
the most Christian King, and the eldest son of the Church.  I am
sixty-four; the time is perhaps approaching when we must separate.  I wish
to prevent a scene like that of Metz.” (when, in 1744, he had dismissed
the Duchesse de Chateauroux.) “Apprise the Duc d’Aiguillon of what I say,
that he may arrange with you if my sickness grows worse; so that we may
part without any publicity.”  The Jansenists and the Duc de Choiseurs
party publicly said that M. d’Aiguillon and the Archbishop had resolved to
let the King die without receiving the sacrament rather than disturb
Madame du Barry.  Annoyed by their remarks, Beaumont determined to go and
reside at the Lazaristes, his house at Versailles, to avail himself of the
King’s last moments, and sacrifice Madame du Barry when the monarch’s
condition should become desperate.  He arrived on the 3d of May, but did
not see the King.  Under existing circumstances, his object was to humble
the enemies of his party and to support the favourite who had assisted to
overcome them.

A contrary zeal animated the Bishop of Carcassonne, who urged that “the
King ought to receive the sacrament; and by expelling the concubine to
give an example of repentance to France and Christian Europe, which he had
scandalised.”--“By what right,” said Cardinal de la Roche-Aymon, a
complaisant courtier with whom the Bishop was at daggers drawn, “do you
instruct me?”--“There is my authority,” replied the Bishop, holding up his
pectoral cross.  “Learn, monseigneur, to respect it, and do not suffer
your King to die without the sacraments of the Church, of which he is the
eldest son.”  The Duc d’Aiguillon and the Archbishop, who witnessed the
discussion, put an end to it by asking for the King’s orders relative to
Madame du Barry.  “She must be taken quietly to your seat at Ruelle,” said
the King; “I shall be grateful for the care Madame d’Aiguillon may take of
her.”

Madame du Barry saw the King again for a moment on the evening of the 4th,
and promised to return to Court upon his recovery.  She was scarcely gone
when the King asked for her.  “She is gone,” was the answer.  From that
moment the disorder gained ground; he thought himself a dead man, without
the possibility of recovery.  The 5th and 6th passed without a word of
confession, viaticum, or extreme unction.  The Duc de Fronsac threatened
to throw the Cure of Versailles out of the window if he dared to mention
them, but on the 7th, at three in the morning, the King imperatively
called for the Abbe Maudous.  Confession lasted seventeen minutes.  The
Ducs de la Vrillilere and d’Aiguillon wished to delay the viaticum; but La
Martiniere said to the King: “Sire, I have seen your Majesty in very
trying circumstances; but never admired you as I have done to-day. No
doubt your Majesty will immediately finish what you have so well begun.”
 The King had his confessor Maudoua called back; this was a poor priest who
had been placed about him for some years before because he was old and
blind.  He gave him absolution.

The formal renunciation desired by the Choiseul party, in order to humble
and annihilate Madame du Barry with solemnity, was no more mentioned.  The
grand almoner, in concert with the Archbishop, composed this formula,
pronounced in presence of the viaticum: “Although the King owes an account
of his conduct to none but God, he declares his repentance at having
scandalised his subjects, and is desirous to live solely for the
maintenance of religion and the happiness of his people.”

On the 8th and 9th the disorder grew worse; and the King beheld the whole
surface of his body coming off piecemeal and corrupted. Deserted by his
friends and by that crowd of courtiers which had so long cringed before
him, his only consolation was the piety of his daughters.--SOULAVIE,
“Historical and Political Memoirs,” vol. i.]

The Comtesse du Barry had, a few days previously, withdrawn to Ruelle, to
the Duc d’Aiguillon’s.  Twelve or fifteen persons belonging to the Court
thought it their duty to visit her there; their liveries were observed,
and these visits were for a long time grounds for disfavour.  More than
six years after the King’s death one of these persons being spoken of in
the circle of the royal family, I heard it remarked, “That was one of the
fifteen Ruelle carriages.”

The whole Court went to the Chateau; the oiel-de boeuf was filled with
courtiers, and the palace with the inquisitive.  The Dauphin had settled
that he would depart with the royal family the moment the King should
breathe his last sigh.  But on such an occasion decency forbade that
positive orders for departure should be passed from mouth to mouth.  The
heads of the stables, therefore, agreed with the people who were in the
King’s room, that the latter should place a lighted taper near a window,
and that at the instant of the King’s decease one of them should
extinguish it.

The taper was extinguished.  On this signal the Body Guards, pages, and
equerries mounted on horseback, and all was ready for setting off.  The
Dauphin was with the Dauphiness.  They were expecting together the
intelligence of the death of Louis XV.  A dreadful noise, absolutely like
thunder, was heard in the outer apartment; it was the crowd of courtiers
who were deserting the dead sovereign’s antechamber, to come and do homage
to the new power of Louis XVI.  This extraordinary tumult informed Marie
Antoinette and her husband that they were called to the throne; and, by a
spontaneous movement, which deeply affected those around them, they threw
themselves on their knees; both, pouring forth a flood of tears,
exclaimed: “O God! guide us, protect us; we are too young to reign.”

The Comtesse de Noailles entered, and was the first to salute Marie
Antoinette as Queen of France.  She requested their Majesties to
condescend to quit the inner apartments for the grand salon, to receive
the Princes and all the great officers, who were desirous to do homage to
their new sovereigns.  Marie Antoinette received these first visits
leaning upon her husband, with her handkerchief held to her eyes; the
carriages drove up, the guards and equerries were on horseback.  The
Chateau was deserted; every one hastened to fly from contagion, which
there was no longer any inducement to brave.

On leaving the chamber of Louis XV., the Duc de Villequier, first
gentleman of the bedchamber for the year, ordered M. Andouille, the King’s
chief surgeon, to open the body and embalm it.  The chief surgeon would
inevitably have died in consequence.  “I am ready,” replied Andouille;
“but while I operate you shall hold the head; your office imposes this
duty upon you.”  The Duke went off without saying a word, and the corpse
was neither opened nor embalmed.  A few under-servants and workmen
continued with the pestiferous remains, and paid the last duty to their
master; the surgeons directed that spirits of wine should be poured into
the coffin.

The entire Court set off for Choisy at four o’clock; Mesdames the King’s
aunts in their private carriage, and the Princesses under tuition with the
Comtesse de Marsan and the under-governesses.  The King, the Queen,
Monsieur, the King’s brother, Madame, and the Comte and Comtesse d’Artois
went in the same carriage.  The solemn scene that had just passed before
their eyes, the multiplied ideas offered to their imaginations by that
which was just opening, had naturally inclined them to grief and
reflection; but, by the Queen’s own confession, this inclination, little
suited to their age, wholly left them before they had gone half their
journey; a word, drolly mangled by the Comtesse d’Artois, occasioned a
general burst of laughter; and from that moment they dried their tears.

The communication between Choisy and Paris was incessant; never was a
Court seen in greater agitation.  What influence will the royal aunts
have,--and the Queen?  What fate is reserved for the Comtesse du Barry?
Whom will the young King choose for his ministers?  All these questions
were answered in a few days.  It was determined that the King’s youth
required a confidential person near him; and that there should be a prime
minister.  All eyes were turned upon De Machault and De Maurepas, both of
them much advanced in years.  The first had retired to his estate near
Paris; and the second to Pont Chartrain, to which place he had long been
exiled.  The letter recalling M. de Machault was written, when Madame
Adelaide obtained the preference of that important appointment for M. de
Maurepas.  The page to whose care the first letter had been actually
consigned was recalled.

The Duc d’Aiguillon had been too openly known as the private friend of the
King’s mistress; he was dismissed.  M. de Vergennes, at that time
ambassador of France at Stockholm, was appointed Minister for Foreign
Affairs; Comte du Muy, the intimate friend of the Dauphin, the father of
Louis XVI.[?? D.W.], obtained the War Department.  The Abbe Terray in vain
said, and wrote, that he had boldly done all possible injury to the
creditors of the State during the reign of the late King; that order was
restored in the finances; that nothing but what was beneficial to all
parties remained to be done; and that the new Court was about to enjoy the
advantages of the regenerating part of his plan of finance; all these
reasons, set forth in five or six memorials, which he sent in succession
to the King and Queen, did not avail to keep him in office.  His talents
were admitted, but the odium which his operations had necessarily brought
upon his character, combined with the immorality of his private life,
forbade his further stay at Court; he was succeeded by M. de Clugny.  De
Maupeou, the chancellor, was exiled; this caused universal joy.  Lastly,
the reassembling of the Parliaments produced the strongest sensation;
Paris was in a delirium of joy, and not more than one person in a hundred
foresaw that the spirit of the ancient magistracy would be still the same;
and that in a short time it would make new attempts upon the royal
authority.  Madame du Barry had been exiled to Pont-aux-Dames.  This was a
measure rather of necessity than of severity; a short period of compulsory
retreat was requisite in order completely to break off her connections
with State affairs.  The possession of Louveciennes and a considerable
pension were continued to her.

[The Comtesse du Barry never forgot the mild treatment she experienced
from the Court of Louis XVI.; during the most violent convulsions of the
Revolution she signified to the Queen that there was no one in France more
grieved at the sufferings of her sovereign than herself; that the honour
she had for years enjoyed, of living near the throne, and the unbounded
kindness of the King and Queen, had so sincerely attached her to the cause
of royalty that she entreated the Queen to honour her by disposing of all
she possessed. Though they did not accept her offer, their Majesties were
affected at her gratitude.  The Comtesse du Barry was, as is well known,
one of the victims of the Revolution.  She betrayed at the last great
weakness, and the most ardent desire to live.  She was the only woman who
wept upon the scaffold and implored for mercy.  Her beauty and tears made
an impression on the populace, and the execution was hurried to a
conclusion.--MADAME CAMPAN.]

Everybody expected the recall of M. de Choiseul; the regret occasioned by
his absence among the numerous friends whom he had left at Court, the
attachment of the young Princess who was indebted to him for her elevation
to the throne of France, and all concurring circumstances, seemed to
foretell his return; the Queen earnestly entreated it of the King, but she
met with an insurmountable and unforeseen obstacle.  The King, it is said,
had imbibed the strongest prejudices against that minister, from secret
memoranda penned by his father, and which had been committed to the care
of the Duc de La Vauguyon, with an injunction to place them in his hands
as soon as he should be old enough to study the art of reigning.  It was
by these memoranda that the esteem which he had conceived for the Marechal
du Muy was inspired, and we may add that Madame Adelaide, who at this
early period powerfully influenced the decisions of the young monarch,
confirmed the impressions they had made.

The Queen conversed with M. Campan on the regret she felt at having been
unable to procure the recall of M. de Choiseul, and disclosed the cause of
it to him.  The Abbe de Vermond, who, down to the time of the death of
Louis XV., had been on terms of the strictest friendship with M. Campan,
called upon him on the second day after the arrival of the Court at
Choisy, and, assuming a serious air, said, “Monsieur, the Queen was
indiscreet enough yesterday to speak to you of a minister to whom she must
of course be attached, and whom his friends ardently desire to have near
her; you are aware that we must give up all expectation of seeing the Duke
at Court; you know the reasons why; but you do not know that the young
Queen, having mentioned the conversation in question to me, it was my
duty, both as her preceptor and her friend, to remonstrate severely with
her on her indiscretion in communicating to you those particulars of which
you are in possession.  I am now come to tell you that if you continue to
avail yourself of the good nature of your mistress to initiate yourself in
secrets of State, you will have me for your most inveterate enemy.  The
Queen should find here no other confidant than myself respecting things
that ought to remain secret.”  M. Campan answered that he did not covet
the important and dangerous character at the new Court which the Abbe
wished to appropriate; and that he should confine himself to the duties of
his office, being sufficiently satisfied with the continued kindness with
which the Queen honoured him. Notwithstanding this, however, he informed
the Queen, on the very same evening, of the injunction he had received.
She owned that she had mentioned their conversation to the Abbe; that he
had indeed seriously scolded her, in order to make her feel the necessity
of being secret in concerns of State; and she added, “The Abbe cannot like
you, my dear Campan; he did not expect that I should, on my arrival in
France, find in my household a man who would suit me so exactly as you
have done.  I know that he has taken umbrage at it; that is enough.  I
know, too, that you are incapable of attempting anything to injure him in
my esteem; an attempt which would besides be vain, for I have been too
long attached to him.  As to yourself, be easy on the score of the Abbe’s
hostility, which shall not in any way hurt you.”

The Abbe de Vermond having made himself master of the office of sole
confidant to the Queen, was nevertheless agitated whenever he saw the
young King; he could not be ignorant that the Abbe had been promoted by
the Duc de Choiseul, and was believed to favour the Encyclopedists,
against whom Louis XVI.  entertained a secret prejudice, although he
suffered them to gain so great an ascendency during his reign.  The Abbe
had, moreover, observed that the King had never, while Dauphin, addressed
a single word to him; and that he very frequently only answered him with a
shrug of the shoulders.  He therefore determined on writing to Louis XVI.,
and intimating that he owed his situation at Court solely to the
confidence with which the late King had honoured him; and that as habits
contracted during the Queen’s education placed him continually in the
closest intimacy with her, he could not enjoy the honour of remaining near
her Majesty without the King’s consent.  Louis XVI. sent back his letter,
after writing upon it these words: “I approve the Abbe de Vermond
continuing in his office about the Queen.”




CHAPTER V.


At the period of his grandfather’s death, Louis XVI. began to be
exceedingly attached to the Queen.  The first period of so deep a mourning
not admitting of indulgence in the diversion of hunting, he proposed to
her walks in the gardens of Choisy; they went out like husband and wife,
the young King giving his arm to the Queen, and accompanied by a very
small suite.  The influence of this example had such an effect upon the
courtiers that the next day several couples, who had long, and for good
reasons, been disunited, were seen walking upon the terrace with the same
apparent conjugal intimacy.  Thus they spent whole hours, braving the
intolerable wearisomeness of their protracted tete-a-tetes, out of mere
obsequious imitation.

The devotion of Mesdames to the King their father throughout his dreadful
malady had produced that effect upon their health which was generally
apprehended.  On the fourth day after their arrival at Choisy they were
attacked by pains in the head and chest, which left no doubt as to the
danger of their situation.  It became necessary instantly to send away the
young royal family; and the Chateau de la Muette, in the Bois de Boulogne,
was selected for their reception.  Their arrival at that residence, which
was very near Paris, drew so great a concourse of people into its
neighbourhood, that even at daybreak the crowd had begun to assemble round
the gates.  Shouts of “Vive le Roi!”  were scarcely interrupted for a
moment between six o’clock in the morning and sunset. The unpopularity the
late King, had drawn upon himself during his latter years, and the hopes
to which a new reign gives birth, occasioned these transports of joy.

A fashionable jeweller made a fortune by the sale of mourning snuff-boxes,
whereon the portrait of the young Queen, in a black frame of shagreen,
gave rise to the pun: “Consolation in chagrin.”  All the fashions, and
every article of dress, received names expressing the spirit of the
moment.  Symbols of abundance were everywhere represented, and the
head-dresses of the ladies were surrounded by ears of wheat. Poets sang of
the new monarch; all hearts, or rather all heads, in France were filled
with enthusiasm.  Never did the commencement of any reign excite more
unanimous testimonials of love and attachment.  It must be observed,
however, that, amidst all this intoxication, the anti-Austrian party never
lost sight of the young Queen, but kept on the watch, with the malicious
desire to injure her through such errors as might arise from her youth and
inexperience.

Their Majesties had to receive at La Muette the condolences of the ladies
who had been presented at Court, who all felt themselves called on to pay
homage to the new sovereigns.  Old and young hastened to present
themselves on the day of general reception; little black bonnets with
great wings, shaking heads, low curtsies, keeping time with the motions of
the head, made, it must be admitted, a few venerable dowagers appear
somewhat ridiculous; but the Queen, who possessed a great deal of dignity,
and a high respect for decorum, was not guilty of the grave fault of
losing the state she was bound to preserve.  An indiscreet piece of
drollery of one of the ladies of the palace, however, procured her the
imputation of doing so.  The Marquise de Clermont-Tonnerre, whose office
required that she should continue standing behind the Queen, fatigued by
the length of the ceremony, seated herself on the floor, concealed behind
the fence formed by the hoops of the Queen and the ladies of the palace.
Thus seated, and wishing to attract attention and to appear lively, she
twitched the dresses of those ladies, and played a thousand other tricks.
The contrast of these childish pranks with the solemnity which reigned
over the rest of the Queen’s chamber disconcerted her Majesty: she several
times placed her fan before her face to hide an involuntary smile, and the
severe old ladies pronounced that the young Queen had decided all those
respectable persons who were pressing forward to pay their homage to her;
that she liked none but the young; that she was deficient in decorum; and
that not one of them would attend her Court again.  The epithet ‘moqueuse’
was applied to her; and there is no epithet less favourably received in
the world.

The next day a very ill-natured song was circulated; the stamp of the
party to which it was attributable might easily be seen upon it.  I
remember only the following chorus:

“Little Queen, you must not be
So saucy, with your twenty years;
Your ill-used courtiers soon will see
You pass, once more, the barriers.
Fal lal lal, fal lal la.”

The errors of the great, or those which ill-nature chooses to impute to
them, circulate in the world with the greatest rapidity, and become
historical traditions, which every one delights to repeat.

More than fifteen years after this occurrence I heard some old ladies in
the most retired part of Auvergne relating all the particulars of the day
of public condolence for the late King, on which, as they said, the Queen
had laughed in the faces of the sexagenarian duchesses and princesses who
had thought it their duty to appear on the occasion.

The King and the Princes, his brothers, determined to avail themselves of
the advantages held out by inoculation, as a safeguard against the illness
under which their grandfather had just fallen; but the utility of this new
discovery not being then generally acknowledged in France, many persons
were greatly alarmed at the step; those who blamed it openly threw all the
responsibility of it upon the Queen, who alone, they said, could have
ventured to give such rash advice, inoculation being at this time
established in the Northern Courts.  The operation upon the King and his
brothers, performed by Doctor Jauberthou, was fortunately quite
successful.

When the convalescence of the Princes was perfectly established, the
excursions to Marly became cheerful enough.  Parties on horseback and in
calashes were formed continually.  The Queen was desirous to afford
herself one very innocent gratification; she had never seen the day break;
and having now no other consent than that of the King to seek, she
intimated her wish to him.  He agreed that she should go, at three o’clock
in the morning, to the eminences of the gardens of Marly; and,
unfortunately, little disposed to partake in her amusements, he himself
went to bed.  Foreseeing some inconveniences possible in this nocturnal
party, the Queen determined on having a number of people with her; and
even ordered her waiting women to accompany her.  All precautions were
ineffectual to prevent the effects of calumny, which thenceforward sought
to diminish the general attachment that she had inspired.  A few days
afterwards, the most wicked libel that appeared during the earlier years
of her reign was circulated in Paris.  The blackest colours were employed
to paint an enjoyment so harmless that there is scarcely a young woman
living in the country who has not endeavoured to procure it for herself.
The verses which appeared on this occasion were entitled “Sunrise.”

The Duc d’Orleans, then Duc de Chartres, was among those who accompanied
the young Queen in her nocturnal ramble: he appeared very attentive to her
at this epoch; but it was the only moment of his life in which there was
any advance towards intimacy between the Queen and himself.  The King
disliked the character of the Duc de Chartres, and the Queen always
excluded him from her private society.  It is therefore without the
slightest foundation that some writers have attributed to feelings of
jealousy or wounded self-love the hatred which he displayed towards the
Queen during the latter years of their existence.

It was on this first journey to Marly that Boehmer, the jeweller, appeared
at Court,--a man whose stupidity and avarice afterwards fatally affected
the happiness and reputation of Marie Antoinette.  This person had, at
great expense, collected six pear-formed diamonds of a prodigious size;
they were perfectly matched and of the finest water.  The earrings which
they composed had, before the death of Louis XV., been destined for the
Comtesse du Barry.

Boehmer; by the recommendation of several persons about the Court, came to
offer these jewels to the Queen.  He asked four hundred thousand francs
for them.  The young Princess could not withstand her wish to purchase
them; and the King having just raised the Queen’s income, which, under the
former reign, had been but two hundred thousand livres, to one hundred
thousand crowns a year, she wished to make the purchase out of her own
purse, and not burthen the royal treasury with the payment.  She proposed
to Boehmer to take off the two buttons which formed the tops of the
clusters, as they could be replaced by two of her own diamonds.  He
consented, and then reduced the price of the earrings to three hundred and
sixty thousand francs; the payment for which was to be made by
instalments, and was discharged in the course of four or five years by the
Queen’s first femme de chambre, deputed to manage the funds of her privy
purse.  I have omitted no details as to the manner in which the Queen
first became possessed of these jewels, deeming them very needful to place
in its true light the too famous circumstance of the necklace, which
happened near the end of her reign.

It was also on this first journey to Marly that the Duchesse de Chartres,
afterwards Duchesse d’Orleans, introduced into the Queen’s household
Mademoiselle Bertin, a milliner who became celebrated at that time for the
total change she effected in the dress of the French ladies.

It may be said that the mere admission of a milliner into the house of the
Queen was followed by evil consequences to her Majesty.  The skill of the
milliner, who was received into the household, in spite of the custom
which kept persons of her description out of it, afforded her the
opportunity of introducing some new fashion every day.  Up to this time
the Queen had shown very plain taste in dress; she now began to make it a
principal occupation; and she was of course imitated by other women.

All wished instantly to have the same dress as the Queen, and to wear the
feathers and flowers to which her beauty, then in its brilliancy, lent an
indescribable charm.  The expenditure of the younger ladies was
necessarily much increased; mothers and husbands murmured at it; some few
giddy women contracted debts; unpleasant domestic scenes occurred; in many
families coldness or quarrels arose; and the general report was,--that the
Queen would be the ruin of all the French ladies.

Fashion continued its fluctuating progress; and head-dresses, with their
superstructures of gauze, flowers, and feathers, became so lofty that the
women could not find carriages high enough to admit them; and they were
often seen either stooping, or holding their heads out of the windows.
Others knelt down in order to manage these elevated objects of ridicule
with less danger.

[If the use of these extravagant feathers and head-dresses had continued,
say the memoirs of that period very seriously, it would have effected a
revolution in architecture.  It would have been found necessary to raise
the doors and ceilings of the boxes at the theatre, and particularly the
bodies of carriages.  It was not without mortification that the King
observed the Queen’s adoption of this style of dress: she was never so
lovely in his eyes as when unadorned by art.  One day Carlin, performing
at Court as harlequin, stuck in his hat, instead of the rabbit’s tail, its
prescribed ornament, a peacock’s feather of excessive length.  This new
appendage, which repeatedly got entangled among the scenery, gave him an
opportunity for a great deal of buffoonery.  There was some inclination to
punish him; but it was presumed that he had not assumed the feather
without authority.-NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

Innumerable caricatures, exhibited in all directions, and some of which
artfully gave the features of the Queen, attacked the extravagance of
fashion, but with very little effect.  It changed only, as is always the
case, through the influence of inconstancy and time.

The Queen’s toilet was a masterpiece of etiquette; everything was done in
a prescribed form.  Both the dame d’honneur and the dame d’atours usually
attended and officiated, assisted by the first femme de chambre and two
ordinary women.  The dame d’atours put on the petticoat, and handed the
gown to the Queen.  The dame d’honneur poured out the water for her hands
and put on her linen.  When a princess of the royal family happened to be
present while the Queen was dressing, the dame d’honneur yielded to her
the latter act of office, but still did not yield it directly to the
Princesses of the blood; in such a case the dame d’honneur was accustomed
to present the linen to the first femme de chambre, who, in her turn,
handed it to the Princess of the blood.  Each of these ladies observed
these rules scrupulously as affecting her rights.  One winter’s day it
happened that the Queen, who was entirely undressed, was just going to put
on her shift; I held it ready unfolded for her; the dame d’honneur came
in, slipped off her gloves, and took it.  A scratching was heard at the
door; it was opened, and in came the Duchesse d’Orleans: her gloves were
taken off, and she came forward to take the garment; but as it would have
been wrong in the dame d’honneur to hand it to her she gave it to me, and
I handed it to the Princess.  More scratching it was Madame la Comtesse de
Provence; the Duchesse d’Orleans handed her the linen.  All this while the
Queen kept her arms crossed upon her bosom, and appeared to feel cold;
Madame observed her uncomfortable situation, and, merely laying down her
handkerchief without taking off her gloves, she put on the linen, and in
doing so knocked the Queen’s cap off.  The Queen laughed to conceal her
impatience, but not until she had muttered several times, “How
disagreeable!  how tiresome!”

All this etiquette, however inconvenient, was suitable to the royal
dignity, which expects to find servants in all classes of persons,
beginning even with the brothers and sisters of the monarch.

Speaking here of etiquette, I do not allude to majestic state, appointed
for days of ceremony in all Courts.  I mean those minute ceremonies that
were pursued towards our Kings in their inmost privacies, in their hours
of pleasure, in those of pain, and even during the most revolting of human
infirmities.

These servile rules were drawn up into a kind of code; they offered to a
Richelieu, a La Rochefoucauld and a Duras, in the exercise of their
domestic functions, opportunities of intimacy useful to their interests;
and their vanity was flattered by customs which converted the right to
give a glass of water, to put on a dress, and to remove a basin, into
honourable prerogatives.

Princes thus accustomed to be treated as divinities naturally ended by
believing that they were of a distinct nature, of a purer essence than the
rest of mankind.

This sort of etiquette, which led our Princes to be treated in private as
idols, made them in public martyrs to decorum.  Marie Antoinette found in
the Chateau of Versailles a multitude of established customs which
appeared to her insupportable.

The ladies-in-waiting, who were all obliged to be sworn, and to wear full
Court dresses, were alone entitled to remain in the room, and to attend in
conjunction with the dame d’honneur and the tirewoman.  The Queen
abolished all this formality.  When her head was dressed, she curtsied to
all the ladies who were in her chamber, and, followed only by her own
women, went into her closet, where Mademoiselle Bertin, who could not be
admitted into the chamber, used to await her.  It was in this inner closet
that she produced her new and numerous dresses.  The Queen was also
desirous of being served by the most fashionable hairdresser in Paris.
Now the custom which forbade all persons in inferior offices, employed by
royalty, to exert their talents for the public, was no doubt intended to
cut off all communication between the privacy of princes and society at
large; the latter being always extremely curious respecting the most
trifling particulars relative to the private life of the former. The
Queen, fearing that the taste of the hairdresser would suffer if he should
discontinue the general practice of his art, ordered him to attend as
usual certain ladies of the Court and of Paris; and this multiplied the
opportunities of learning details respecting the household, and very often
of misrepresenting them.

One of the customs most disagreeable to the Queen was that of dining every
day in public.  Maria Leczinska had always submitted to this wearisome
practice; Marie Antoinette followed it as long as she was Dauphiness.  The
Dauphin dined with her, and each branch of the family had its public
dinner daily.  The ushers suffered all decently dressed people to enter;
the sight was the delight of persons from the country. At the dinner-hour
there were none to be met upon the stairs but honest folks, who, after
having seen the Dauphiness take her soup, went to see the Princes eat
their ‘bouilli’, and then ran themselves out of breath to behold Mesdames
at their dessert.

Very ancient usage, too, required that the Queens of France should appear
in public surrounded only by women; even at meal-times no persons of the
other sex attended to serve at table; and although the King ate publicly
with the Queen, yet he himself was served by women with everything which
was presented to him directly at table.  The dame d’honneur, kneeling, for
her own accommodation, upon a low stool, with a napkin upon her arm, and
four women in full dress, presented the plates to the King and Queen. The
dame d’honneur handed them drink.  This service had formerly been the
right of the maids of honour.  The Queen, upon her accession to the
throne, abolished the usage altogether.  She also freed herself from the
necessity of being followed in the Palace of Versailles by two of her
women in Court dresses, during those hours of the day when the
ladies-in-waiting were not with her.  From that time she was accompanied
only by a single valet de chambre and two footmen.  All the changes made
by Marie Antoinette were of the same description; a disposition gradually
to substitute the simple customs of Vienna for those of Versailles was
more injurious to her than she could possibly have imagined.

When the King slept in the Queen’s apartment he always rose before her;
the exact hour was communicated to the head femme de chambre, who entered,
preceded by a servant of the bedchamber bearing a taper; she crossed the
room and unbolted the door which separated the Queen’s apartment from that
of the King.  She there found the first valet de chambre for the quarter,
and a servant of the chamber.  They entered, opened the bed curtains on
the King’s side, and presented him slippers generally, as well as the
dressing-gown, which he put on, of gold or silver stuff.  The first valet
de chambre took down a short sword which was always laid within the
railing on the King’s side.  When the King slept with the Queen, this
sword was brought upon the armchair appropriated to the King, and which
was placed near the Queen’s bed, within the gilt railing which surrounded
the bed.  The first femme de chambre conducted the King to the door,
bolted it again, and, leaving the Queen’s chamber, did not return until
the hour appointed by her Majesty the evening before.  At night the Queen
went to bed before the King; the first femme de chambre remained seated at
the foot of her bed until the arrival of his Majesty, in order, as in the
morning, to see the King’s attendants out and bolt the door after them.
The Queen awoke habitually at eight o’clock, and breakfasted at nine,
frequently in bed, and sometimes after she had risen, at a table placed
opposite her couch.

In order to describe the Queen’s private service intelligibly, it must be
recollected that service of every kind was honour, and had not any other
denomination.  To do the honours of the service was to present the service
to a person of superior rank, who happened to arrive at the moment it was
about to be performed.  Thus, supposing the Queen asked for a glass of
water, the servant of the chamber handed to the first woman a silver gilt
waiter, upon which were placed a covered goblet and a small decanter; but
should the lady of honour come in, the first woman was obliged to present
the waiter to her, and if Madame or the Comtesse d’Artois came in at the
moment, the waiter went again from the lady of honour into the hands of
the Princess before it reached the Queen.  It must be observed, however,
that if a princess of the blood instead of a princess of the family
entered, the service went directly from the first woman to the princess of
the blood, the lady of honour being excused from transferring to any but
princesses of the royal family.  Nothing was presented directly to the
Queen; her handkerchief or her gloves were placed upon a long salver of
gold or silver gilt, which was placed as a piece of furniture of ceremony
upon a side-table, and was called a gantiere.  The first woman presented
to her in this manner all that she asked for, unless the tirewoman, the
lady of honour, or a princess were present, and then the gradation pointed
out in the instance of the glass of water was always observed.

Whether the Queen breakfasted in bed or up, those entitled to the petites
entrees were equally admitted; this privilege belonged of right to her
chief physician, chief surgeon, physician in ordinary, reader, closet
secretary, the King’s four first valets de chambre and their reversioners,
and the King’s chief physicians and surgeons.  There were frequently from
ten to twelve persons at this first entree.  The lady of honour or the
superintendent, if present, placed the breakfast equipage upon the bed;
the Princesse de Lamballe frequently performed that office.

As soon as the Queen rose, the wardrobe woman was admitted to take away
the pillows and prepare the bed to be made by some of the valets de
chambre.  She undrew the curtains, and the bed was not generally made
until the Queen was gone to mass.  Generally, excepting at St.  Cloud,
where the Queen bathed in an apartment below her own, a slipper bath was
rolled into her room, and her bathers brought everything that was
necessary for the bath.  The Queen bathed in a large gown of English
flannel buttoned down to the bottom; its sleeves throughout, as well as
the collar, were lined with linen.  When she came out of the bath the
first woman held up a cloth to conceal her entirely from the sight of her
women, and then threw it over her shoulders.  The bathers wrapped her in
it and dried her completely.  She then put on a long and wide open
chemise, entirely trimmed with lace, and afterwards a white taffety
bed-gown.  The wardrobe woman warmed the bed; the slippers were of dimity,
trimmed with lace.  Thus dressed, the Queen went to bed again, and the
bathers and servants of the chamber took away the bathing apparatus.  The
Queen, replaced in bed, took a book or her tapestry work.  On her bathing
mornings she breakfasted in the bath.  The tray was placed on the cover of
the bath.  These minute details are given here only to do justice to the
Queen’s scrupulous modesty.  Her temperance was equally remarkable; she
breakfasted on coffee or chocolate; at dinner ate nothing but white meat,
drank water only, and supped on broth, a wing of a fowl, and small
biscuits, which she soaked in a glass of water.

The tirewoman had under her order a principal under-tirewoman, charged
with the care and preservation of all the Queen’s dresses; two women to
fold and press such articles as required it; two valets, and a porter of
the wardrobe.  The latter brought every morning into the Queen’s
apartments baskets covered with taffety, containing all that she was to
wear during the day, and large cloths of green taffety covering the robes
and the full dresses.  The valet of the wardrobe on duty presented every
morning a large book to the first femme de chambre, containing patterns of
the gowns, full dresses, undresses, etc.  Every pattern was marked, to
show to which sort it belonged.  The first femme de chambre presented this
book to the Queen on her awaking, with a pincushion; her Majesty stuck
pins in those articles which she chose for the day,--one for the dress,
one for the afternoon-undress, and one for the full evening dress for card
or supper parties in the private apartments.  The book was then taken back
to the wardrobe, and all that was wanted for the day was soon after
brought in in large taffety wrappers.  The wardrobe woman, who had the
care of the linen, in her turn brought in a covered basket containing two
or three chemises and handkerchiefs.  The morning basket was called pret
du jour.  In the evening she brought in one containing the nightgown and
nightcap, and the stockings for the next morning; this basket was called
pret de la nuit.  They were in the department of the lady of honour, the
tirewoman having nothing to do with the linen.  Nothing was put in order
or taken care of by the Queen’s women.  As soon as the toilet was over,
the valets and porter belonging to the wardrobe were called in, and they
carried all away in a heap, in the taffety wrappers, to the tirewoman’s
wardrobe, where all were folded up again, hung up, examined, and cleaned
with so much regularity and care that even the cast-off clothes scarcely
looked as if they had been worn.  The tirewoman’s wardrobe consisted of
three large rooms surrounded with closets, some furnished with drawers and
others with shelves; there were also large tables in each of these rooms,
on which the gowns and dresses were spread out and folded up.

For the winter the Queen had generally twelve full dresses, twelve
undresses called fancy dresses, and twelve rich hoop petticoats for the
card and supper parties in the smaller apartments.

She had as many for the summer; those for the spring served likewise for
the autumn.  All these dresses were discarded at the end of each season,
unless, indeed, she retained some that she particularly liked.  I am not
speaking of muslin or cambric gowns, or others of the same kind--they were
lately introduced; but such as these were not renewed at each returning
season, they were kept several years.  The chief women were charged with
the care and examination of the diamonds; this important duty was formerly
confided to the tirewoman, but for many years had been included in the
business of the first femmes de chambre.

The public toilet took place at noon.  The toilet-table was drawn forward
into the middle of the room.  This piece of furniture was generally the
richest and most ornamented of all in the apartment of the Princesses. The
Queen used it in the same manner and place for undressing herself in the
evening.  She went to bed in corsets trimmed with ribbon, and sleeves
trimmed with lace, and wore a large neck handkerchief.  The Queen’s
combing cloth was presented by her first woman if she was alone at the
commencement of the toilet; or, as well as the other articles, by the
ladies of honour if they were come.  At noon the women who had been in
attendance four and twenty hours were relieved by two women in full dress;
the first woman went also to dress herself.  The grandee entrees were
admitted during the toilet; sofas were placed in circles for the
superintendent, the ladies of honour, and tirewomen, and the governess of
the children of France when she came there; the duties of the ladies of
the bedchamber, having nothing to do with any kind of domestic or private
functions, did not begin until the hour of going out to mass; they waited
in the great closet, and entered when the toilet was over.  The Princes of
the blood, captains of the Guards, and all great officers having the entry
paid their court at the hour of the toilet.  The Queen saluted by nodding
her head or bending her body, or leaning upon her toilet-table as if
moving to rise; the last mode of salutation was for the Princes of the
blood.  The King’s brothers also came very generally to pay their respects
to her Majesty while her hair was being dressed.  In the earlier years of
the reign the first part of the dressing was performed in the bedchamber
and according to the laws of etiquette; that is to say, the lady of honour
put on the chemise and poured out the water for the hands, the tirewoman
put on the skirt of the gown or full dress, adjusted the handkerchief, and
tied on the necklace.  But when the young Queen became more seriously
devoted to fashion, and the head-dress attained so extravagant a height
that it became necessary to put on the chemise from below,--when, in
short, she determined to have her milliner, Mademoiselle Benin, with her
whilst she was dressing, whom the ladies would have refused to admit to
any share in the honour of attending on the Queen, the dressing in the
bedchamber was discontinued, and the Queen, leaving her toilet, withdrew
into her closet to dress.

On returning into her chamber, the Queen, standing about the middle of it,
surrounded by the superintendent, the ladies of honour and tirewomen, her
ladies of the palace, the chevalier d’honneur, the chief equerry, her
clergy ready to attend her to mass, and the Princesses of the royal family
who happened to come, accompanied by all their chief attendants and
ladies, passed in order into the gallery as in going to mass.  The Queen’s
signatures were generally given at the moment of entry into the chamber.
The secretary for orders presented the pen.  Presentations of colonels on
taking leave were usually made at this time.  Those of ladies, and, such
as had a right to the tabouret, or sitting in the royal presence, were
made on Sunday evenings before card-playing began, on their coming in from
paying their respects.  Ambassadors were introduced to the Queen on
Tuesday mornings, accompanied by the introducer of ambassadors on duty,
and by M. de Sequeville, the secretary for the ambassadors.  The
introducer in waiting usually came to the Queen at her toilet to apprise
her of the presentations of foreigners which would be made.  The usher of
the chamber, stationed at the entrance, opened the folding doors to none
but the Princes and Princesses of the royal family, and announced them
aloud.  Quitting his post, he came forward to name to the lady of honour
the persons who came to be presented, or who came to take leave; that lady
again named them to the Queen at the moment they saluted her; if she and
the tirewoman were absent, the first woman took the place and did that
duty.  The ladies of the bedchamber, chosen solely as companions for the
Queen, had no domestic duties to fulfil, however opinion might dignify
such offices.  The King’s letter in appointing them, among other
instructions of etiquette, ran thus: “having chosen you to bear the Queen
company.”  There were hardly any emoluments accruing from this place.

The Queen heard mass with the King in the tribune, facing the grand altar
and the choir, with the exception of the days of high ceremony, when their
chairs were placed below upon velvet carpets fringed with gold. These days
were marked by the name of grand chapel day.

The Queen named the collector beforehand, and informed her of it through
her lady of honour, who was besides desired to send the purse to her. The
collectors were almost always chosen from among those who had been
recently presented.  After returning from mass the Queen dined every
Sunday with the King only, in public in the cabinet of the nobility, a
room leading to her chamber.  Titled ladies having the honours sat during
the dinner upon folding-chairs placed on each side of the table.  Ladies
without titles stood round the table; the captain of the Guards and the
first gentleman of the chamber were behind the King’s chair; behind that
of the Queen were her first maitre d’hotel, her chevalier d’honneur, and
the chief equerry.  The Queen’s maitre d’hotel was furnished with a large
staff, six or seven feet in length, ornamented with golden fleurs-de-lis,
and surmounted by fleurs-de-lis in the form of a crown.  He entered the
room with this badge of his office to announce that the Queen was served.
The comptroller put into his hands the card of the dinner; in the absence
of the maitre d’hotel he presented it to the Queen himself, otherwise he
only did him the honours of the service.  The maitre d’hotel did not leave
his place, he merely gave the orders for serving up and removing; the
comptroller and gentlemen serving placed the various dishes upon the
table, receiving them from the inferior servants.

The Prince nearest to the crown presented water to wash the King’s hands
at the moment he placed himself at table, and a princess did the same
service to the Queen.

The table service was formerly performed for the Queen by the lady of
honour and four women in full dress; this part of the women’s service was
transferred to them on the suppression of the office of maids of honour.
The Queen put an end to this etiquette in the first year of her reign.
When the dinner was over the Queen returned without the King to her
apartment with her women, and took off her hoop and train.

This unfortunate Princess, against whom the opinions of the French people
were at length so much excited, possessed qualities which deserved to
obtain the greatest popularity.  None could doubt this who, like myself,
had heard her with delight describe the patriarchal manners of the House
of Lorraine.  She was accustomed to say that, by transplanting their
manners into Austria, the Princes of that house had laid the foundation of
the unassailable popularity enjoyed by the imperial family.  She
frequently related to me the interesting manner in which the Ducs de
Lorraine levied the taxes.  “The sovereign Prince,” said she, “went to
church; after the sermon he rose, waved his hat in the air, to show that
he was about to speak, and then mentioned the sum whereof he stood in
need.  Such was the zeal of the good Lorrainers that men have been known
to take away linen or household utensils without the knowledge of their
wives, and sell them to add the value to their contribution.  It sometimes
happened, too, that the Prince received more money than he had asked for,
in which case he restored the surplus.”

All who were acquainted with the Queen’s private qualities knew that she
equally deserved attachment and esteem.  Kind and patient to excess in her
relations with her household, she indulgently considered all around her,
and interested herself in their fortunes and in their pleasures., She had,
among her women, young girls from the Maison de St. Cyr, all well born;
the Queen forbade them the play when the performances were not suitable;
sometimes, when old plays were to be represented, if she found she could
not with certainty trust to her memory, she would take the trouble to read
them in the morning, to enable her to decide whether the girls should or
should not go to see them,--rightly considering herself bound to watch
over their morals and conduct.




CHAPTER VI.


During the first few months of his reign Louis XVI. dwelt at La Muette,
Marly, and Compiegne.  When settled at Versailles he occupied himself with
a general examination of his grandfather’s papers.  He had promised the
Queen to communicate to her all that he might discover relative to the
history of the man with the iron mask, who, he thought, had become so
inexhaustible a source of conjecture only in consequence of the interest
which the pen of a celebrated writer had excited respecting the detention
of a prisoner of State, who was merely a man of whimsical tastes and
habits.

I was with the Queen when the King, having finished his researches,
informed her that he had not found anything among the secret papers
elucidating the existence of this prisoner; that he had conversed on the
matter with M. de Maurepas, whose age made him contemporary with the epoch
during which the story must have been known to the ministers; and that M.
de Maurepas had assured him he was merely a prisoner of a very dangerous
character, in consequence of his disposition for intrigue. He was a
subject of the Duke of Mantua, and was enticed to the frontier, arrested
there, and kept prisoner, first at Pignerol, and afterwards in the
Bastille.  This transfer took place in consequence of the appointment of
the governor of the former place to the government of the latter. It was
for fear the prisoner should profit by the inexperience of a new governor
that he was sent with the Governor of Pignerol to the Bastille.

Such was, in fact, the truth about the man on whom people have been
pleased to fix an iron mask.  And thus was it related in writing, and
published by M. ----- twenty years ago.  He had searched the archives of
the Foreign Office, and laid the real story before the public; but the
public, prepossessed in favour of a marvellous version, would not
acknowledge the authenticity of his account.  Every man relied upon the
authority of Voltaire; and it was believed that a natural or a twin
brother of Louis XIV. lived many years in prison with a mask over his
face.  The story of this mask, perhaps, had its origin in the old custom,
among both men and women in Italy, of wearing a velvet mask when they
exposed themselves to the sun.  It is possible that the Italian captive
may have sometimes shown himself upon the terrace of his prison with his
face thus covered.  As to the silver plate which this celebrated prisoner
is said to have thrown from his window, it is known that such a
circumstance did happen, but it happened at Valzin, in the time of
Cardinal Richelieu.  This anecdote has been mixed up with the inventions
respecting the Piedmontese prisoner.

In this survey of the papers of Louis XV. by his grandson some very
curious particulars relative to his private treasury were found.  Shares
in various financial companies afforded him a revenue, and had in course
of time produced him a capital of some amount, which he applied to his
secret expenses.  The King collected his vouchers of title to these
shares, and made a present of them to M. Thierry de Ville d’Avray, his
chief valet de chambre.

The Queen was desirous to secure the comfort of Mesdames, the daughters of
Louis XV., who were held in the highest respect.  About this period she
contributed to furnish them with a revenue sufficient to provide them an
easy, pleasant existence: The King gave them the Chateau of Bellevue; and
added to the produce of it, which was given up to them, the expenses of
their table and equipage, and payment of all the charges of their
household, the number of which was even increased.  During the lifetime of
Louis XV., who was a very selfish prince, his daughters, although they had
attained forty years of age, had no other place of residence than their
apartments in the Chateau of Versailles; no other walks than such as they
could take in the large park of that palace; and no other means of
gratifying their taste for the cultivation of plants but by having boxes
and vases, filled with them, in their balconies or their closets. They
had, therefore, reason to be much pleased with the conduct of Marie
Antoinette, who had the greatest influence in the King’s kindness towards
his aunts.

Paris did not cease, during the first years of the reign, to give proofs
of pleasure whenever the Queen appeared at any of the plays of the
capital.  At the representation of “Iphigenia in Aulis,” the actor who
sang the words, “Let us sing, let us celebrate our Queen!”  which were
repeated by the chorus, directed by a respectful movement the eyes of the
whole assembly upon her Majesty.  Reiterated cries of ‘Bis’! and clapping
of hands, were followed by such a burst of enthusiasm that many of the
audience added their voices to those of the actors in order to celebrate,
it might too truly be said, another Iphigenia.  The Queen, deeply
affected, covered her eyes with her handkerchief; and this proof of
sensibility raised the public enthusiasm to a still higher pitch.

The King gave Marie Antoinette Petit Trianon.

[The Chateau of Petit Trianon, which was built for Louis XV., was not
remarkably handsome as a building.  The luxuriance of the hothouses
rendered the place agreeable to that Prince.  He spent a few days there
several times in the year.  It was when he was setting off from Versailles
for Petit Trianon that he was struck in the side by the knife of Damiens,
and it was there that he was attacked by the smallpox, of which he died on
the 10th of May, 1774.--MADAME CAMPAN.]

Henceforward she amused herself with improving the gardens, without
allowing any addition to the building, or any change in the furniture,
which was very shabby, and remained, in 1789, in the same state as during
the reign of Louis XV.  Everything there, without exception, was
preserved; and the Queen slept in a faded bed, which had been used by the
Comtesse du Barry.  The charge of extravagance, generally made against the
Queen, is the most unaccountable of all the popular errors respecting her
character.  She had exactly the contrary failing; and I could prove that
she often carried her economy to a degree of parsimony actually blamable,
especially in a sovereign.  She took a great liking for Trianon, and used
to go there alone, followed by a valet; but she found attendants ready to
receive her,--a concierge and his wife, who served her as femme de
chambre, women of the wardrobe, footmen, etc.

When she first took possession of Petit Trianon, it was reported that she
changed the name of the seat which the King had given her, and called it
Little Vienna, or Little Schoenbrunn.  A person who belonged to the Court,
and was silly enough to give this report credit, wishing to visit Petit
Trianon with a party, wrote to M. Campan, requesting the Queen’s
permission to do so.  In his note he called Trianon Little Vienna. Similar
requests were usually laid before the Queen just as they were made: she
chose to give the permissions to see her gardens herself, liking to grant
these little favours.  When she came to the words I have quoted she was
very, much offended, and exclaimed, angrily, that there were too many,
fools ready, to aid the malicious; that she had been told of the report
circulated, which pretended that she had thought of nothing but her own
country, and that she kept an Austrian heart, while the interests of
France alone ought to engage her.  She refused the request so awkwardly
made, and desired M. Campan to reply, that Trianon was not to be seen for
some time, and that the Queen was astonished that any man in good society
should believe she would do so ill-judged a thing as to change the French
names of her palaces to foreign ones.

Before the Emperor Joseph II’s first visit to France the Queen received a
visit from the Archduke Maximilian in 1775.  A stupid act of the
ambassador, seconded on the part of the Queen by the Abbe de Vermond, gave
rise at that period to a discussion which offended the Princes of the
blood and the chief nobility of the kingdom.  Travelling incognito, the
young Prince claimed that the first visit was not due from him to the
Princes of the blood; and the Queen supported his pretension.

From the time of the Regency, and on account of the residence of the
family of Orleans in the bosom of the capital, Paris had preserved a
remarkable degree of attachment and respect for that branch of the royal
house; and although the crown was becoming more and more remote from the
Princes of the House of Orleans, they had the advantage (a great one with
the Parisians) of being the descendants of Henri IV.  An affront to that
popular family was a serious ground of dislike to the Queen.  It was at
this period that the circles of the city, and even of the Court, expressed
themselves bitterly about her levity, and her partiality for the House of
Austria.  The Prince for whom the Queen had embarked in an important
family quarrel--and a quarrel involving national prerogatives--was,
besides, little calculated to inspire interest.  Still young, uninformed,
and deficient in natural talent, he was always making blunders.

He went to the Jardin du Roi; M. de Buffon, who received him there,
offered him a copy of his works; the Prince declined accepting the book,
saying to M. de Buffon, in the most polite manner possible, “I should be
very sorry to deprive you of it.”

[Joseph II, on his visit to France, also went to see M. de Buffon, and
said to that celebrated man, “I am come to fetch the copy of your works
which my brother forgot.”--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

It may be supposed that the Parisians were much entertained with this
answer.

The Queen was exceedingly mortified at the mistakes made by her brother;
but what hurt her most was being accused of preserving an Austrian heart.
Marie Antoinette had more than once to endure that imputation during the
long course of her misfortunes.  Habit did not stop the tears such
injustice caused; but the first time she was suspected of not loving
France, she gave way to her indignation.  All that she could say on the
subject was useless; by seconding the pretensions of the Archduke she had
put arms into her enemies’ hands; they were labouring to deprive her of
the love of the people, and endeavoured, by all possible means, to spread
a belief that the Queen sighed for Germany, and preferred that country to
France.

Marie Antoinette had none but herself to rely on for preserving the fickle
smiles of the Court and the public.  The King, too indifferent to serve
her as a guide, as yet had conceived no love for her, notwithstanding the
intimacy that grew between them at Choisy.  In his closet Louis XVI. was
immersed in deep study.  At the Council he was busied with the welfare of
his people; hunting and mechanical occupations engrossed his leisure
moments, and he never thought on the subject of an heir.

The coronation took place at Rheims, with all the accustomed pomp.  At
this period the people’s love for Louis XVI.  burst forth in transports
not to be mistaken for party demonstrations or idle curiosity.  He replied
to this enthusiasm by marks of confidence, worthy of a people happy in
being governed by a good King; he took a pleasure in repeatedly walking
without guards, in the midst of the crowd which pressed around him, and
called down blessings on his head.  I remarked the impression made at this
time by an observation of Louis XVI.  On the day of his coronation he put
his hand up to his head, at the moment of the crown being placed upon it,
and said, “It pinches me.”  Henri III. had exclaimed, “It pricks me.”
 Those who were near the King were struck with the similarity between these
two exclamations, though not of a class likely to be blinded by the
superstitious fears of ignorance.

While the Queen, neglected as she was, could not even hope for the
happiness of being a mother, she had the mortification of seeing the
Comtesse d’Artois give birth to the Duc d’Angouleme.

Custom required that the royal family and the whole Court should be
present at the accouchement of the Princesses; the Queen was therefore
obliged to stay a whole day in her sister-in-law’s chamber.  The moment
the Comtesse d’Artois was informed a prince was born, she put her hand to
her forehead and exclaimed with energy, “My God, how happy I am!”  The
Queen felt very differently at this involuntary and natural exclamation.
Nevertheless, her behaviour was perfect.  She bestowed all possible marks
of tenderness upon the young mother, and would not leave her until she was
again put into bed; she afterwards passed along the staircase, and through
the hall of the guards, with a calm demeanour, in the midst of an immense
crowd.  The poissardes, who had assumed a right of speaking to sovereigns
in their own vulgar language, followed her to the very doors of her
apartments, calling out to her with gross expressions, that she ought to
produce heirs.  The Queen reached her inner room, hurried and agitated; he
shut herself up to weep with me alone, not from jealousy of her
sister-in-law’s happiness,--of that he was incapable,--but from sorrow at
her own situation.

Deprived of the happiness of giving an heir to the crown, the Queen
endeavoured to interest herself in the children of the people of her
household.  She had long been desirous to bring up one of them herself,
and to make it the constant object of her care.  A little village boy,
four or five years old, full of health, with a pleasing countenance,
remarkably large blue eyes, and fine light hair, got under the feet of the
Queen’s horses, when she was taking an airing in a calash, through the
hamlet of St. Michel, near Louveciennes.  The coachman and postilions
stopped the horses, and the child was rescued without the slightest
injury.  Its grandmother rushed out of the door of her cottage to take it;
but the Queen, standing up in her calash and extending her arms, called
out that the child was hers, and that destiny had given it to her, to
console her, no doubt, until she should have the happiness of having one
herself.  “Is his mother alive?” asked the Queen.  “No, Madame; my
daughter died last winter, and left five small children upon my hands.” “I
will take this one, and provide for all the rest; do you consent?” “Ah,
Madame, they are too fortunate,” replied the cottager; “but Jacques is a
bad boy.  I hope he will stay with you!”  The Queen, taking little Jacques
upon her knee, said that she would make him used to her, and gave orders
to proceed.  It was necessary, however, to shorten the drive, so violently
did Jacques scream, and kick the Queen and her ladies.

The arrival of her Majesty at her apartments at Versailles, holding the
little rustic by the hand, astonished the whole household; he cried out
with intolerable shrillness that he wanted his grandmother, his brother
Louis, and his sister Marianne; nothing could calm him.  He was taken away
by the wife of a servant, who was appointed to attend him as nurse. The
other children were put to school.  Little Jacques, whose family name was
Armand, came back to the Queen two days afterwards; a white frock trimmed
with lace, a rose-coloured sash with silver fringe, and a hat decorated
with feathers, were now substituted for the woollen cap, the little red
frock, and the wooden shoes.  The child was really very beautiful.  The
Queen was enchanted with him; he was brought to her every morning at nine
o’clock; he breakfasted and dined with her, and often even with the King.
She liked to call him my child, and lavished caresses upon him, still
maintaining a deep silence respecting the regrets which constantly
occupied her heart.

[This little unfortunate was nearly twenty in 1792; the fury of the people
and the fear of being thought a favourite of the Queen’s had made him the
most sanguinary terrorist of Versailles.  He was killed at the battle of
Jemappes.]

This child remained with the Queen until the time when Madame was old
enough to come home to her august mother, who had particularly taken upon
herself the care of her education.

The Queen talked incessantly of the qualities which she admired in Louis
XVI., and gladly attributed to herself the slightest favourable change in
his manner; perhaps she displayed too unreservedly the joy she felt, and
the share she appropriated in the improvement.  One day Louis XVI. saluted
her ladies with more kindness than usual, and the Queen laughingly said to
them, “Now confess, ladies, that for one so badly taught as a child, the
King has saluted you with very good grace!”

The Queen hated M. de La Vauguyon; she accused him alone of those points
in the habits, and even the sentiments, of the King which hurt her. A
former first woman of the bedchamber to Queen Maria Leczinska had
continued in office near the young Queen.  She was one of those people who
are fortunate enough to spend their lives in the service of kings without
knowing anything of what is passing at Court.  She was a great devotee;
the Abbe Grisel, an ex-Jesuit, was her director.  Being rich from her
savings and an income of 50,000 livres, she kept a very good table; in her
apartment, at the Grand Commun, the most distinguished persons who still
adhered to the Order of Jesuits often assembled.  The Duc de La Vauguyon
was intimate with her; their chairs at the Eglise des Reollets were placed
near each other; at high mass and at vespers they sang the “Gloria in
Excelsis” and the “Magnificat” together; and the pious virgin, seeing in
him only one of God’s elect, little imagined him to be the declared enemy
of a Princess whom she served and revered. On the day of his death she ran
in tears to relate to the Queen the piety, humility, and repentance of the
last moments of the Duc de La Vauguyon.  He had called his people
together, she said, to ask their pardon.  “For what?”  replied the Queen,
sharply; “he has placed and pensioned off all his servants; it was of the
King and his brothers that the holy man you bewail should have asked
pardon, for having paid so little attention to the education of princes on
whom the fate and happiness of twenty-five millions of men depend.
Luckily,” added she, “the King and his brothers, still young, have
incessantly laboured to repair the errors of their preceptor.”

The progress of time, and the confidence with which the King and the
Princes, his brothers, were inspired by the change in their situation
since the death of Louis XV., had developed their characters.  I will
endeavour to depict them.

The features of Louis XVI.  were noble enough, though somewhat melancholy
in expression; his walk was heavy and unmajestic; his person greatly
neglected; his hair, whatever might be the skill of his hairdresser, was
soon in disorder.  His voice, without being harsh, was not agreeable; if
he grew animated in speaking he often got above his natural pitch, and
became shrill.  The Abbe de Radonvilliers, his preceptor, one of the Forty
of the French Academy, a learned and amiable man, had given him and
Monsieur a taste for study.  The King had continued to instruct himself;
he knew the English language perfectly; I have often heard him translate
some of the most difficult passages in Milton’s poems.  He was a skilful
geographer, and was fond of drawing and colouring maps; he was well versed
in history, but had not perhaps sufficiently studied the spirit of it.  He
appreciated dramatic beauties, and judged them accurately.  At Choisy, one
day, several ladies expressed their dissatisfaction because the French
actors were going to perform one of Moliere’s pieces.  The King inquired
why they disapproved of the choice.  One of them answered that everybody
must admit that Moliere had very bad taste; the King replied that many
things might be found in Moliere contrary to fashion, but that it appeared
to him difficult to point out any in bad taste?

[The King, having purchased the Chateau of Rambouillet from the Duc de
Penthievre, amused himself with embellishing it.  I have seen a register
entirely in his own handwriting, which proves that he possessed a great
variety of information on the minutiae of various branches of knowledge.
In his accounts he would not omit an outlay of a franc.  His figures and
letters, when he wished to write legibly, were small and very neat, but in
general he wrote very ill. He was so sparing of paper that he divided a
sheet into eight, six, or four pieces, according to the length of what he
had to write. Towards the close of the page he compressed the letters, and
avoided interlineations.  The last words were close to the edge of the
paper; he seemed to regret being obliged to begin another page.  He was
methodical and analytical; he divided what he wrote into chapters and
sections.  He had extracted from the works of Nicole and Fenelon, his
favourite authors, three or four hundred concise and sententious phrases;
these he had classed according to subject, and formed a work of them in
the style of Montesquieu.  To this treatise he had given the following
general title: “Of Moderate Monarchy” (De la Monarchie temperee), with
chapters entitled, “Of the Person of the Prince;”  “Of the Authority of
Bodies in the State;”  “Of the Character of the Executive Functions of the
Monarchy.”  Had he been able to carry into effect all the grand precepts
he had observed in Fenelon, Louis XVI. would have been an accomplished
monarch, and France a powerful kingdom.  The King used to accept the
speeches his ministers presented to him to deliver on important occasions;
but he corrected and modified them; struck out some parts, and added
others; and sometimes consulted the Queen on the subject.  The phrase of
the minister erased by the King was frequently unsuitable, and dictated by
the minister’s private feelings; but the King’s was always the natural
expression.  He himself composed, three times or oftener, his famous
answers to the Parliament which he banished.  But in his letters he was
negligent, and always incorrect.  Simplicity was the characteristic of the
King’s style; the figurative style of M. Necker did not please him; the
sarcasms of Maurepas were disagreeable to him.  Unfortunate Prince! he
would predict, in his observations, that if such a calamity should happen,
the monarchy would be ruined; and the next day he would consent in Council
to the very measure which he had condemned the day before, and which
brought him nearer the brink of the precipice.--SOULAVIE, “Historical and
Political Memoirs of the Reign of Louis XVI.,” vol.  ii.]

This Prince combined with his attainments the attributes of a good
husband, a tender father, and an indulgent master.

Unfortunately he showed too much predilection for the mechanical arts;
masonry and lock-making so delighted him that he admitted into his private
apartment a common locksmith, with whom he made keys and locks; and his
hands, blackened by that sort of work, were often, in my presence, the
subject of remonstrances and even sharp reproaches from the Queen, who
would have chosen other amusements for her husband.

[Louis XVI. saw that the art of lock-making was capable of application to
a higher study, He was an excellent geographer.  The most valuable and
complete instrument for the study of that science was begun by his orders
and under his direction.  It was an immense globe of copper, which was
long preserved, though unfinished, in the Mazarine library.  Louis XVI.
invented and had executed under his own eyes the ingenious mechanism
required for this globe.--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

Austere and rigid with regard to himself alone, the King observed the laws
of the Church with scrupulous exactness.  He fasted and abstained
throughout the whole of Lent.  He thought it right that the queen should
not observe these customs with the same strictness.  Though sincerely
pious, the spirit of the age had disposed his mind to toleration. Turgot,
Malesherbes, and Necker judged that this Prince, modest and simple in his
habits, would willingly sacrifice the royal prerogative to the solid
greatness of his people.  His heart, in truth, disposed him towards
reforms; but his prejudices and fears, and the clamours of pious and
privileged persons, intimidated him, and made him abandon plans which his
love for the people had suggested.

Monsieur had more dignity of demeanour than the King; but his corpulence
rendered his gait inelegant.  He was fond of pageantry and magnificence.
He cultivated the belles lettres, and under assumed names often
contributed verses to the Mercury and other papers.

[During his stay at Avignon, Monsieur, afterwards Louis XVIII, lodged with
the Duc de Crillon; he refused the town-guard which was offered him,
saying, “A son of France, under the roof of a Crillon, needs no
guard.”--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

His wonderful memory was the handmaid of his wit, furnishing him with the
happiest quotations.  He knew by heart a varied repertoire, from the
finest passages of the Latin classics to the Latin of all the prayers,
from the works of Racine to the vaudeville of “Rose et Colas.”

The Comte d’Artoisi had an agreeable countenance, was well made, skilful
in bodily exercises, lively, impetuous, fond of pleasure, and very
particular in his dress.  Some happy observations made by him were
repeated with approval, and gave a favourable idea of his heart.  The
Parisians liked the open and frank character of this Prince, which they
considered national, and showed real affection for him.

The dominion that the Queen gained over the King’s mind, the charms of a
society in which Monsieur displayed his wit, and to which the Comte
d’Artois--[Afterwards Charles X.]--gave life by the vivacity of youth,
gradually softened that ruggedness of manner in Louis XVI. which a
better-conducted education might have prevented.  Still, this defect often
showed itself, and, in spite of his extreme simplicity, the King inspired
those who had occasion to speak to him with diffidence. Courtiers,
submissive in the presence of their sovereign, are only the more ready to
caricature him; with little good breeding, they called those answers they
so much dreaded, Les coups de boutoir du Roi.--[The literal meaning of the
phrase “coup de boutoir,” is a thrust from the snout of a boar.]

Methodical in all his habits, the King always went to bed at eleven
precisely.  One evening the Queen was going with her usual circle to a
party, either at the Duc de Duras’s or the Princesse de Glumenee’s. The
hand of the clock was slily put forward to hasten the King’s departure by
a few minutes; he thought bed-time was come, retired, and found none of
his attendants ready to wait on him.  This joke became known in all the
drawing-rooms of Versailles, and was disapproved of there.  Kings have no
privacy.  Queens have no boudoirs.  If those who are in immediate
attendance upon sovereigns be not themselves disposed to transmit their
private habits to posterity, the meanest valet will relate what he has
seen or heard; his gossip circulates rapidly, and forms public opinion,
which at length ascribes to the most august persons characters which,
however untrue they may be, are almost always indelible.

NOTE.  The only passion ever shown by Louis XVI. was for hunting.  He was
so much occupied by it that when I went up into his private closets at
Versailles, after the 10th of August, I saw upon the staircase six frames,
in which were seen statements of all his hunts, when Dauphin and when
King.  In them was detailed the number, kind, and quality of the game he
had killed at each hunting party during every month, every season, and
every year of his reign.

The interior of his private apartments was thus arranged: a salon,
ornamented with gilded mouldings, displayed the engravings which had been
dedicated to him, drawings of the canals he had dug, with the model of
that of Burgundy, and the plan of the cones and works of Cherbourg.  The
upper hall contained his collection of geographical charts, spheres,
globes, and also his geographical cabinet.  There were to be seen drawings
of maps which he had begun, and some that he had finished.  He had a
clever method of washing them in.  His geographical memory was prodigious.
Over the hall was the turning and joining room, furnished with ingenious
instruments for working in wood.  He inherited some from Louis XV., and he
often busied himself, with Duret’s assistance, in keeping them clean and
bright.  Above was the library of books published during his reign.  The
prayer books and manuscript books of Anne of Brittany, Francois I, the
later Valois, Louis XIV., Louis XV., and the Dauphin formed the great
hereditary library of the Chateau.  Louis XVI. placed separately, in two
apartments communicating with each other, the works of his own time,
including a complete collection of Didot’s editions, in vellum, every
volume enclosed in a morocco case.  There were several English works,
among the rest the debates of the British Parliament, in a great number of
volumes in folio (this is the Moniteur of England, a complete collection
of which is so valuable and so scarce). By the side of this collection was
to be seen a manuscript history of all the schemes for a descent upon that
island, particularly that of Comte de Broglie.  One of the presses of this
cabinet was full of cardboard boxes, containing papers relative to the
House of Austria, inscribed in the King’s own hand: “Secret papers of my
family respecting the House of Austria; papers of my family respecting the
Houses of Stuart and Hanover.”  In an adjoining press were kept papers
relative to Russia. Satirical works against Catherine II.  and against
Paul I.  were sold in France under the name of histories; Louis XVIII.
collected and sealed up with his small seal the scandalous anecdotes
against Catherine II., as well as the works of Rhulieres, of which he had
a copy, to be certain that the secret life of that Princess, which
attracted the curiosity of her contemporaries, should not be made public
by his means.

Above the King’s private library were a forge, two anvils, and a vast
number of iron tools; various common locks, well made and perfect; some
secret locks, and locks ornamented with gilt copper.  It was there that
the infamous Gamin, who afterwards accused the King of having tried to
poison him, and was rewarded for his calumny with a pension of twelve
thousand livres, taught him the art of lock-making.  This Gamin, who
became our guide, by order of the department and municipality of
Versailles, did not, however, denounce the King on the 20th December,
1792.  He had been made the confidant of that Prince in an immense number
of important commissions; the King had sent him the “Red Book,” from
Paris, in a parcel; and the part which was concealed during the
Constituent Assembly still remained so in 1793.  Gamin hid it in a part of
the Chateau inaccessible to everybody, and took it from under the shelves
of a secret press before our eyes.  This is a convincing proof that Louis
XVI. hoped to return to his Chiteau.  When teaching Louis XVI. his trade
Gamin took upon himself the tone and authority of a master. “The King was
good, forbearing, timid, inquisitive, and addicted to sleep,” said Gamin
to me; “he was fond to excess of lock-making, and he concealed himself
from the Queen and the Court to file and forge with me. In order to convey
his anvil and my own backwards and forwards we were obliged to use a
thousand stratagems, the history of which would: never end.”  Above the
King’s and Gamin’s forges and anvils was an, observatory, erected upon a
platform covered with lead.  There, seated on an armchair, and assisted by
a telescope, the King observed all that was passing in the courtyards of
Versailles, the avenue of Paris, and the neighbouring gardens.  He had
taken a liking to Duret, one of the indoor servants of the palace, who
sharpened his tools, cleaned his anvils, pasted his maps, and adjusted
eyeglasses to the King’s sight, who was short-sighted.  This good Duret,
and indeed all the indoor servants, spoke of their master with regret and
affection, and with tears in their eyes.

The King was born weak and delicate; but from the age of twenty-four he
possessed a robust constitution, inherited from his mother, who was of the
House of Saxe, celebrated for generations for its robustness.  There were
two men in Louis XVI., the man of knowledge and the man of will. The King
knew the history of his own family and of the first houses of France
perfectly.  He composed the instructions for M. de la Peyrouse’s voyage
round the world, which the minister thought were drawn up by several
members of the Academy of Sciences.  His memory retained an infinite
number of names and situations.  He remembered quantities and numbers
wonderfully.  One day an account was presented to him in which the
minister had ranked among the expenses an item inserted in the account of
the preceding year.  “There is a double charge,” said the King; “bring me
last year’s account, and I will show it yet there.”  When the King was
perfectly master of the details of any matter, and saw injustice, he was
obdurate even to harshness.  Then he would be obeyed instantly, in order
to be sure that he was obeyed.

But in important affairs of state the man of will was not to be found.
Louis XVI. was upon the throne exactly what those weak temperaments whom
nature has rendered incapable of an opinion are in society.  In his
pusillanimity, he gave his confidence to a minister; and although amidst
various counsels he often knew which was the best, he never had the
resolution to say, “I prefer the opinion of such a one.”  Herein
originated the misfortunes of the State.--SOULAVIE’S “Historical and
Political Memoirs Of the Reign Of LOUIS XVI.,” VOL ii.




CHAPTER VII.


The winter following the confinement of the Comtesse d’Artois was very
severe; the recollections of the pleasure which sleighing-parties had
given the Queen in her childhood made her wish to introduce similar ones
in France.  This amusement had already been known in that Court, as was
proved by sleighs being found in the stables which had been used by the
Dauphin, the father of Louis XVI.  Some were constructed for the Queen in
a more modern style.  The Princes also ordered several; and in a few days
there was a tolerable number of these vehicles.  They were driven by the
princes and noblemen of the Court.  The noise of the bells and balls with
which the harness of the horses was furnished, the elegance and whiteness
of their plumes, the varied forms of the carriages, the gold with which
they were all ornamented, rendered these parties delightful to the eye.
The winter was very favourable to them, the snow remaining on the ground
nearly six weeks; the drives in the park afforded a pleasure shared by the
spectators.

[Louis XVI., touched with the wretched condition of the poor of Versailles
during the winter of 1776, had several cart-loads of wood distributed
among them.  Seeing one day a file of those vehicles passing by, while
several noblemen were preparing to be drawn swiftly over the ice, he
uttered these memorable words: “Gentlemen, here are my sleighs!”--NOTE BY
THE EDITOR.]

No one imagined that any blame could attach to so innocent an amusement.
But the party were tempted to extend their drives as far as the Champs
Elysees; a few sleighs even crossed the boulevards; the ladies being
masked, the Queen’s enemies took the opportunity of saying that she had
traversed the streets of Paris in a sleigh.

This became a matter of moment.  The public discovered in it a
predilection for the habits of Vienna; but all that Marie Antoinette did
was criticised.

Sleigh-driving, savouring of the Northern Courts, had no favour among the
Parisians.  The Queen was informed of this; and although all the sleighs
were preserved, and several subsequent winters lent themselves to the
amusement, she would not resume it.

It was at the time of the sleighing-parties that the Queen became
intimately acquainted with the Princesse de Lamballe, who made her
appearance in them wrapped in fur, with all the brilliancy and freshness
of the age of twenty,--the emblem of spring, peeping from under sable and
ermine.  Her situation, moreover, rendered her peculiarly interesting;
married, when she was scarcely past childhood, to a young prince, who
ruined himself by the contagious example of the Duc d’Orleans, she had had
nothing to do from the time of her arrival in France but to weep. A widow
at eighteen, and childless, she lived with the Duc de Penthievre as an
adopted daughter.  She had the tenderest respect and attachment for that
venerable Prince; but the Queen, though doing justice to his virtues, saw
that the Duc de Penthievre’s way of life, whether at Paris or at his
country-seat, could neither afford his young daughter-in-law the
amusements suited to her time of life, nor ensure her in the future an
establishment such as she was deprived of by her widowhood.  She
determined, therefore, to establish her at Versailles; and for her sake
revived the office of superintendent, which had been discontinued at Court
since the death of Mademoiselle de Clermont.  It is said that Maria
Leczinska had decided that this place should continue vacant, the
superintendent having so extensive a power in the houses of queens as to
be frequently a restraint upon their inclinations.  Differences which soon
took place between Marie Antoinette and the Princesse de Lamballe
respecting the official prerogatives of the latter, proved that the wife
of Louis XV. had acted judiciously in abolishing the office; but a kind of
treaty made between the Queen and the Princess smoothed all difficulties.
The blame for too strong an assertion of claims fell upon a secretary of
the superintendent, who had been her adviser; and everything was so
arranged that a firm friendship existed between these two Princesses down
to the disastrous period which terminated their career.

Notwithstanding the enthusiasm which the splendour, grace, and kindness of
the Queen generally inspired, secret intrigues continued in operation
against her.  A short time after the ascension of Louis XVI. to the
throne, the minister of the King’s household was informed that a most
offensive libel against the Queen was about to appear.  The lieutenant of
police deputed a man named Goupil, a police inspector, to trace this
libel; he came soon after to say that he had found out the place where the
work was being printed, and that it was at a country house near Yverdun.
He had already got possession of two sheets, which contained the most
atrocious calumnies, conveyed with a degree of art which might make them
very dangerous to the Queen’s reputation.  Goupil said that he could
obtain the rest, but that he should want a considerable sum for that
purpose.  Three thousand Louis were given him, and very soon afterwards he
brought the whole manuscript and all that had been printed to the
lieutenant of police.  He received a thousand louis more as a reward for
his address and zeal; and a much more important office was about to be
given him, when another spy, envious of Goupil’s good fortune, gave
information that Goupil himself was the author of the libel; that, ten
years before, he had been put into the Bicetre for swindling; and that
Madame Goupil had been only three years out of the Salpetriere, where she
had been placed under another name.  This Madame Goupil was very pretty
and very intriguing; she had found means to form an intimacy with Cardinal
de Rohan, whom she led, it is said, to hope for a reconciliation with the
Queen.  All this affair was hushed up; but it shows that it was the
Queen’s fate to be incessantly attacked by the meanest and most odious
machinations.

Another woman, named Cahouette de Millers, whose husband held an office in
the Treasury, being very irregular in conduct, and of a scheming turn of
mind, had a mania for appearing in the eyes of her friends at Paris as a
person in favour at Court, to which she was not entitled by either birth
or office.  During the latter years of the life of Louis XV. she had made
many dupes, and picked up considerable sums by passing herself off as the
King’s mistress.  The fear of irritating Madame du Barry was, according to
her, the only thing which prevented her enjoying that title openly.  She
came regularly to Versailles, kept herself concealed in a furnished
lodging, and her dupes imagined she was secretly summoned to Court.

This woman formed the scheme of getting admission, if possible, to the
presence of the Queen, or at least causing it to be believed that she had
done so.  She adopted as her lover Gabriel de Saint Charles, intendant of
her Majesty’s finances,--an office, the privileges of which were confined
to the right of entering the Queen’s apartment on Sunday.  Madame de
Villers came every Saturday to Versailles with M. de Saint Charles, and
lodged in his apartment.  M. Campan was there several times.  She painted
tolerably well, and she requested him to do her the favour to present to
the Queen a portrait of her Majesty which she had just copied.  M. Campan
knew the woman’s character, and refused her.  A few days after, he saw on
her Majesty’s couch the portrait which he had declined to present to her;
the Queen thought it badly painted, and gave orders that it should be
carried back to the Princesse de Lamballe, who had sent it to her.  The
ill success of the portrait did not deter the manoeuvrer from following up
her designs; she easily procured through M. de Saint Charles patents and
orders signed by the Queen; she then set about imitating her writing, and
composed a great number of notes and letters, as if written by her
Majesty, in the tenderest and most familiar style.  For many months she
showed them as great secrets to several of her particular friends.
Afterwards, she made the Queen appear to write to her, to procure various
fancy articles.  Under the pretext of wishing to execute her Majesty’s
commissions accurately, she gave these letters to the tradesmen to read,
and succeeded in having it said, in many houses, that the Queen had a
particular regard for her.  She then enlarged her scheme, and represented
the Queen as desiring to borrow 200,000 francs which she had need of, but
which she did not wish to ask of the King from his private funds.  This
letter, being shown to M. Beranger, ‘fermier general’ of the finances,
took effect; he thought himself fortunate in being able to render this
assistance to his sovereign, and lost no time in sending the 200,000
francs to Madame de Villers.  This first step was followed by some doubts,
which he communicated to people better informed than himself of what was
passing at Court; they added to his uneasiness; he then went to M. de
Sartine, who unravelled the whole plot.  The woman was sent to St.
Pelagie; and the unfortunate husband was ruined, by replacing the sum
borrowed, and by paying for the jewels fraudulently purchased in the
Queen’s name.  The forged letters were sent to her Majesty; I compared
them in her presence with her own handwriting, and the only
distinguishable difference was a little more regularity in the letters.

This trick, discovered and punished with prudence and without passion,
produced no more sensation out of doors than that of the Inspector Goupil.

A year after the nomination of Madame de Lamballe to the post of
superintendent of the Queen’s household, balls and quadrilles gave rise to
the intimacy of her Majesty with the Comtesse Jules de Polignac.  This
lady really interested Marie Antoinette.  She was not rich, and generally
lived upon her estate at Claye.  The Queen was astonished at not having
seen her at Court earlier.  The confession that her want of fortune had
even prevented her appearance at the celebration of the marriages of the
Princes added to the interest which she had inspired.

The Queen was full of consideration, and took delight in counteracting the
injustice of fortune.  The Countess was induced to come to Court by her
husband’s sister, Madame Diane de Polignac, who had been appointed lady of
honour to the Comtesse d’Artois.  The Comtesse Jules was really fond of a
tranquil life; the impression she made at Court affected her but little;
she felt only the attachment manifested for her by the Queen. I had
occasion to see her from the commencement of her favour at Court; she
often passed whole hours with me, while waiting for the Queen.  She
conversed with me freely and ingenuously about the honour, and at the same
time the danger, she saw in the kindness of which she was the object.  The
Queen sought for the sweets of friendship; but can this gratification, so
rare in any rank, exist between a Queen and a subject, when they are
surrounded, moreover, by snares laid by the artifice of courtiers?  This
pardonable error was fatal to the happiness of Marie Antoinette.

The retiring character of the Comtesse Jules, afterwards Duchesse de
Polignac, cannot be spoken of too favourably; but if her heart was
incapable of forming ambitious projects, her family and friends in her
fortune beheld their own, and endeavoured to secure the favour of the
Queen.

[The Comtesse, afterwards Duchesse de Polignac, nee Polastron, Married the
Comte (in 1780 the Duc) Jules de Polignac, the father of the Prince de
Polignac of Napoleon’s and of Charles X.’s time.  She emigrated in 1789,
and died in Vienna in 1793.]

The Comtesse de Diane, sister of M. de Polignac, and the Baron de Besenval
and M. de Vaudreuil, particular friends of the Polignac family, made use
of means, the success of which was infallible.  One of my friends (Comte
de Moustier), who was in their secret, came to tell me that Madame de
Polignac was about to quit Versailles suddenly; that she would take leave
of the Queen only in writing; that the Comtesse Diane and M. de Vaudreuil
had dictated her letter, and the whole affair was arranged for the purpose
of stimulating the attachment of Marie Antoinette.  The next day, when I
went up to the palace, I found the Queen with a letter in her hand, which
she was reading with much emotion; it was the letter from the Comtesse
Jules; the Queen showed it to me. The Countess expressed in it her grief
at leaving a princess who had loaded her with kindness.  The narrowness of
her fortune compelled her to do so; but she was much more strongly
impelled by the fear that the Queen’s friendship, after having raised up
dangerous enemies against her, might abandon her to their hatred, and to
the regret of having lost the august favour of which she was the object.

This step produced the full effect that had been expected from it.  A
young and sensitive queen cannot long bear the idea of contradiction. She
busied herself in settling the Comtesse Jules near her, by making such a
provision for her as should place her beyond anxiety.  Her character
suited the Queen; she had merely natural talents, no pedantry, no
affectation of knowledge.  She was of middle size; her complexion very
fair, her eyebrows and hair dark brown, her teeth superb, her smile
enchanting, and her whole person graceful.  She was seen almost always in
a demi-toilet, remarkable only for neatness and good taste.  I do not
think I ever once saw diamonds about her, even at the climax of her
fortune, when she had the rank of Duchess at Court.

I have always believed that her sincere attachment for the Queen, as much
as her love of simplicity, induced her to avoid everything that might
cause her to be thought a wealthy favourite.  She had not one of the
failings which usually accompany that position.  She loved the persons who
shared the Queen’s affections, and was entirely free from jealousy. Marie
Antoinette flattered herself that the Comtesse Jules and the Princesse de
Lamballe would be her especial friends, and that she should possess a
society formed according to her own taste.  “I will receive them in my
closet, or at Trianon,” said she; “I will enjoy the comforts of private
life, which exist not for us, unless we have the good sense to secure them
for ourselves.”  The happiness the Queen thought to secure was destined to
turn to vexation.  All those courtiers who were not admitted to this
intimacy became so many jealous and vindictive enemies.

It was necessary to make a suitable provision for the Countess.  The place
of first equerry, in reversion after the Comte de Tesse, given to Comte
Jules unknown to the titular holder, displeased the family of Noailles.
This family had just sustained another mortification, the appointment of
the Princesse de Lamballe having in some degree rendered necessary the
resignation of the Comtesse de Noailles, whose husband was thereupon made
a marshal of France.  The Princesse de Lamballe, although she did not
quarrel with the Queen, was alarmed at the establishment of the Comtesse
Jules at Court, and did not form, as her Majesty had hoped, a part of that
intimate society, which was in turn composed of Mesdames Jules and Diane
de Polignac, d’Andlau and de Chalon, and Messieurs de Guignes, de Coigny,
d’Adhemar, de Besenval, lieutenant-colonel of the Swiss, de Polignac, de
Vaudreuil, and de Guiche; the Prince de Ligne and the Duke of Dorset, the
English ambassador, were also admitted.

It was a long time before the Comtesse Jules maintained any great state at
Court.  The Queen contented herself with giving her very fine apartments
at the top of the marble staircase.  The salary of first equerry, the
trifling emoluments derived from M. de Polignac’s regiment, added to their
slender patrimony, and perhaps some small pension, at that time formed the
whole fortune of the favourite.  I never saw the Queen make her a present
of value; I was even astonished one day at hearing her Majesty mention,
with pleasure, that the Countess had gained ten thousand francs in the
lottery.  “She was in great want of it,” added the Queen.

Thus the Polignacs were not settled at Court in any degree of splendour
which could justify complaints from others, and the substantial favours
bestowed upon that family were less envied than the intimacy between them
and their proteges and the Queen.  Those who had no hope of entering the
circle of the Comtesse Jules were made jealous by the opportunities of
advancement it afforded.

However, at the time I speak of, the society around the Comtesse Jules was
fully engaged in gratifying the young Queen.  Of this the Marquis de
Vaudreuil was a conspicuous member; he was a brilliant man, the friend and
protector of men of letters and celebrated artists.

The Baron de Besenval added to the bluntness of the Swiss all the
adroitness of a French courtier.  His fifty years and gray hairs made him
enjoy among women the confidence inspired by mature age, although he had
not given up the thought of love affairs.  He talked of his native
mountains with enthusiasm.  He would at any time sing the “Ranz des
Vaches” with tears in his eyes, and was the best story-teller in the
Comtesse Jules’s circle.  The last new song or ‘bon mot’ and the gossip of
the day were the sole topics of conversation in the Queen’s parties. Wit
was banished from them.  The Comtesse Diane, more inclined to literary
pursuits than her sister-in-law, one day, recommended her to read the
“Iliad” and “Odyssey.”  The latter replied, laughing, that she was
perfectly acquainted with the Greek poet, and said to prove it:

“Homere etait aveugle et jouait du hautbois.”

(Homer was blind and played on the hautboy.)

[This lively repartee of the Duchesse de Polignac is a droll imitation of
a line in the “Mercure Galant.”  In the quarrel scene one of the lawyers
says to his brother quill: ‘Ton pere etait aveugle et jouait du
hautbois.’]

The Queen found this sort of humour very much to her taste, and said that
no pedant should ever be her friend.

Before the Queen fixed her assemblies at Madame de Polignac’s, she
occasionally passed the evening at the house of the Duc and Duchesse de
Duras, where a brilliant party of young persons met together.  They
introduced a taste for trifling games, such as question and answer,
‘guerre panpan’, blind man’s buff, and especially a game called
‘descampativos’.  The people of Paris, always criticising, but always
imitating the customs of the Court, were infected with the mania for these
childish sports.  Madame de Genlis, sketching the follies of the day in
one of her plays, speaks of these famous ‘descampativos’; and also of the
rage for making a friend, called the ‘inseparable’, until a whim or the
slightest difference might occasion a total rupture.




CHAPTER VIII.


The Duc de Choiseul had reappeared at Court on the ceremony of the King’s
coronation for the first time after his disgrace under Louis XV. in 1770.
The state of public feeling on the subject gave his friends hope of seeing
him again in administration, or in the Council of State; but the opposite
party was too firmly seated at Versailles, and the young Queen’s influence
was outweighed, in the mind of the King, by long-standing prejudices; she
therefore gave up for ever her attempt to reinstate the Duke.  Thus this
Princess, who has been described as so ambitious, and so strenuously
supporting the interest of the House of Austria, failed twice in the only
scheme which could forward the views constantly attributed to her; and
spent the whole of her reign surrounded by enemies of herself and her
house.

Marie Antoinette took little pains to promote literature and the fine
arts.  She had been annoyed in consequence of having ordered a performance
of the “Connstable de Bourbon,” on the celebration of the marriage of
Madame Clotilde with the Prince of Piedmont.  The Court and the people of
Paris censured as indecorous the naming characters in the piece after the
reigning family, and that with which the new alliance was formed.  The
reading of this piece by the Comte de Guibert in the Queen’s closet had
produced in her Majesty’s circle that sort of enthusiasm which obscures
the judgment.  She promised herself she would have no more readings.  Yet,
at the request of M. de Cubieres, the King’s equerry, the Queen agreed to
hear the reading of a comedy written by his brother. She collected her
intimate circle, Messieurs de Coigny, de Vaudreuil, de Besenval, Mesdames
de Polignac, de Chalon, etc., and to increase the number of judges, she
admitted the two Parnys, the Chevalier de Bertin, my father-in-law, and
myself.

Mold read for the author.  I never could satisfy myself by what magic the
skilful reader gained our unanimous approbation of a ridiculous work.
Surely the delightful voice of Mold, by awakening our recollection of the
dramatic beauties of the French stage, prevented the wretched lines of
Dorat Cubieres from striking on our ears.  I can assert that the
exclamation Charming! charming! repeatedly interrupted the reader.  The
piece was admitted for performance at Fontainebleau; and for the first
time the King had the curtain dropped before the end of the play.  It was
called the “Dramomane” or “Dramaturge.”  All the characters died of eating
poison in a pie.  The Queen, highly disconcerted at having recommended
this absurd production, announced that she would never hear another
reading; and this time she kept her word.

The tragedy of “Mustapha and Mangir,” by M. de Chamfort, was highly
successful at the Court theatre at Fontainebleau.  The Queen procured the
author a pension of 1,200 francs, but his play failed on being performed
at Paris.

The spirit of opposition which prevailed in that city delighted in
reversing the verdicts of the Court.  The Queen determined never again to
give any marked countenance to new dramatic works.  She reserved her
patronage for musical composers, and in a few years their art arrived at a
perfection it had never before attained in France.

It was solely to gratify the Queen that the manager of the Opera brought
the first company of comic actors to Paris.  Gluck, Piccini, and Sacchini
were attracted there in succession.  These eminent composers were treated
with great distinction at Court.  Immediately on his arrival in France,
Gluck was admitted to the Queen’s toilet, and she talked to him all the
time he remained with her.  She asked him one day whether he had nearly
brought his grand opera of “Armide” to a conclusion, and whether it
pleased him.  Gluck replied very coolly, in his German accent, “Madame, it
will soon be finished, and really it will be superb.”  There was a great
outcry against the confidence with which the composer had spoken of one of
his own productions.  The Queen defended him warmly; she insisted that he
could not be ignorant of the merit of his works; that he well knew they
were generally admired, and that no doubt he was afraid lest a modesty,
merely dictated by politeness, should look like affectation in him.

[Gluck often had to deal with self-sufficiency equal to his own. He was
very reluctant to introduce long ballets into “Iphigenia.” Vestris deeply
regretted that the opera was not terminated by a piece they called a
chaconne, in which he displayed all his power. He complained to Gluck
about it.  Gluck, who treated his art with all the dignity it merits,
replied that in so interesting a subject dancing would be misplaced.
Being pressed another time by Vestris on the same subject, “A chaconne!  A
chaconne!”  roared out the enraged musician; “we must describe the Greeks;
and had the Greeks chaconnes?”  “They had not?”  returned the astonished
dancer; “why, then, so much the worse for them!”--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

The Queen did not confine her admiration to the lofty style of the French
and Italian operas; she greatly valued Gretry’s music, so well adapted to
the spirit and feeling of the words.  A great deal of the poetry set to
music by Gretry is by Marmontel.  The day after the first performance of
“Zemira and Azor,” Marmontel and Gretry were presented to the Queen as she
was passing through the gallery of Fontainebleau to go to mass.  The Queen
congratulated Gretry on the success of the new opera, and told him that
she had dreamed of the enchanting effect of the trio by Zemira’s father
and sisters behind the magic mirror.  Gretry, in a transport of joy, took
Marmontel in his arms, “Ah! my friend,” cried he, “excellent music may be
made of this.”--“And execrable words,” coolly observed Marmontel, to whom
her Majesty had not addressed a single compliment.

The most indifferent artists were permitted to have the honour of painting
the Queen.  A full-length portrait, representing her in all the pomp of
royalty, was exhibited in the gallery of Versailles.  This picture, which
was intended for the Court of Vienna, was executed by a man who does not
deserve even to be named, and disgusted all people of taste.  It seemed as
if this art had, in France, retrograded several centuries.

The Queen had not that enlightened judgment, or even that mere taste,
which enables princes to foster and protect great talents.  She confessed
frankly that she saw no merit in any portrait beyond the likeness.  When
she went to the Louvre, she would run hastily over all the little “genre”
 pictures, and come out, as she acknowledged, without having once raised
her eyes to the grand compositions.

There is no good portrait of the Queen, save that by Werthmuller, chief
painter to the King of Sweden, which was sent to Stockholm, and that by
Madame Lebrun, which was saved from the revolutionary fury by the
commissioners for the care of the furniture at Versailles.

[A sketch of very great interest made when the Queen was in the Temple and
discovered many years afterwards there, recently reproduced in the memoirs
of the Marquise de Tourzel (Paris, Plon), is the last authentic portrait
of the unhappy Queen.  See also the catalogue of portraits made by Lord
Ronald Gower.]

The composition of the latter picture resembles that of Henriette of
France, the wife of the unfortunate Charles I., painted by Vandyke.  Like
Marie Antoinette, she is seated, surrounded by her children, and that
resemblance adds to the melancholy interest raised by this beautiful
production.

While admitting that the Queen gave no direct encouragement to any art but
that of music, I should be wrong to pass over in silence the patronage
conferred by her and the Princes, brothers of the King, on the art of
printing.

[In 1790 the King gave a proof of his particular good-will to the
bookselling trade.  A company consisting of the first Parisian
booksellers, being on the eve of stopping payment, succeeded in laying
before the King a statement of their distressed situation. The monarch was
affected by it; he took from the civil list the sum of which the society
stood in immediate need, and became security for the repayment of the
remainder of the 1,200,000 livres, which they wanted to borrow, and for
the repayment of which he fixed no particular time.]

To Marie Antoinette we are indebted for a splendid quarto edition of the
works of Metastasio; to Monsieur, the King’s brother, for a quarto Tasso,
embellished with engravings after Cochin; and to the Comte d’Artois for a
small collection of select works, which is considered one of the chef
d’oeuvres of the press of the celebrated Didot.

In 1775, on the death of the Marechal du Muy, the ascendency obtained by
the sect of innovators occasioned M. de Saint-Germain to be recalled to
Court and made Minister of War.  His first care was the destruction of the
King’s military household establishment, an imposing and effectual rampart
round the sovereign power.

When Chancellor Maupeou obtained from Louis XV. the destruction of the
Parliament and the exile of all the ancient magistrates, the Mousquetaires
were charged with the execution of the commission for this purpose; and at
the stroke of midnight, the presidents and members were all arrested, each
by two Mousquetaires.  In the spring of 1775 a popular insurrection had
taken place in consequence of the high price of bread. M. Turgot’s new
regulation, which permitted unlimited trade in corn, was either its cause
or the pretext for it; and the King’s household troops again rendered the
greatest services to public tranquillity.

I have never be enable to discover the true cause of the support given to
M. de Saint-Germain’s policy by the Queen, unless in the marked favour
shown to the captains and officers of the Body Guards, who by this
reduction became the only soldiers of their rank entrusted with the safety
of the sovereign; or else in the Queen’s strong prejudice against the Duc
d’Aiguillon, then commander of the light-horse.  M. de Saint-Germain,
however, retained fifty gens d’armes and fifty light-horse to form a royal
escort on state occasions; but in 1787 the King reduced both these
military bodies.  The Queen then said with satisfaction that at last she
should see no more red coats in the gallery of Versailles.

From 1775 to 1781 were the gayest years of the Queen’s life.  In the
little journeys to Choisy, performances frequently took place at the
theatre twice in one day: grand opera and French or Italian comedy at the
usual hour; and at eleven at night they returned to the theatre for
parodies in which the best actors of the Opera presented themselves in
whimsical parts and costumes.  The celebrated dancer Guimard always took
the leading characters in the latter performance; she danced better than
she acted; her extreme leanness, and her weak, hoarse voice added to the
burlesque in the parodied characters of Ernelinde and Iphigenie.

The most magnificent fete ever given to the Queen was one prepared for her
by Monsieur, the King’s brother, at Brunoy.  That Prince did me the honour
to admit me, and I followed her Majesty into the gardens, where she found
in the first copse knights in full armour asleep at the foot of trees, on
which hung their spears and shields.  The absence of the beauties who had
incited the nephews of Charlemagne and the gallants of that period to
lofty deeds was supposed to occasion this lethargic slumber.  But when the
Queen appeared at the entrance of the copse they were on foot in an
instant, and melodious voices announced their eagerness to display their
valour.  They then hastened into a vast arena, magnificently decorated in
the exact style of the ancient tournaments. Fifty dancers dressed as pages
presented to the knights twenty-five superb black horses, and twenty-five
of a dazzling whiteness, all most richly caparisoned.  The party led by
Augustus Vestris wore the Queen’s colours.  Picq, balletmaster at the
Russian Court, commanded the opposing band.  There was running at the
negro’s head, tilting, and, lastly, combats ‘a outrance’, perfectly well
imitated.  Although the spectators were aware that the Queen’s colours
could not but be victorious, they did not the less enjoy the apparent
uncertainty.

Nearly all the agreeable women of Paris were ranged upon the steps which
surrounded the area of the tourney.  The Queen, surrounded by the royal
family and the whole Court, was placed beneath an elevated canopy.  A
play, followed by a ballet-pantomime and a ball, terminated the fete.
Fireworks and illuminations were not spared.  Finally, from a prodigiously
high scaffold, placed on a rising ground, the words ‘Vive Louis!  Vive
Marie Antoinette!’  were shown in the air in the midst of a very dark but
calm night.

Pleasure was the sole pursuit of every one of this young family, with the
exception of the King.  Their love of it was perpetually encouraged by a
crowd of those officious people who, by anticipating the desires and even
the passions of princes, find means of showing their zeal, and hope to
gain or maintain favour for themselves.

Who would have dared to check the amusements of a queen, young, lively,
and handsome?  A mother or a husband alone would have had the right to do
it; and the King threw no impediment in the way of Marie Antoinette’s
inclinations.  His long indifference had been followed by admiration and
love.  He was a slave to all the wishes of the Queen, who, delighted with
the happy change in the heart and habits of the King, did not sufficiently
conceal the ascendency she was gaining over him.

The King went to bed every night at eleven precisely; he was very
methodical, and nothing was allowed to interfere with his rules.  The
noise which the Queen unavoidably made when she returned very late from
the evenings which she spent with the Princesse de Gugmenee or the Duc de
Duras, at last annoyed the King, and it was amicably agreed that the Queen
should apprise him when she intended to sit up late.  He then began to
sleep in his own apartment, which had never before happened from the time
of their marriage.

During the winter the Queen attended the Opera balls with a single lady of
the palace, and always found there Monsieur and the Comte d’Artois. Her
people concealed their liveries under gray cloth greatcoats.  She never
thought she was recognized, while all the time she was known to the whole
assembly, from the first moment she entered the theatre; they pretended,
however, not to recognise her, and some masquerade manoeuvre was always
adopted to give her the pleasure of fancying herself incognito.

Louis XVI. determined once to accompany the Queen to a masked ball; it was
agreed that the King should hold not only the grand but the petit coucher,
as if actually going to bed.  The Queen went to his apartment through the
inner corridors of the palace, followed by one of her women with a black
domino; she assisted him to put it on, and they went alone to the chapel
court, where a carriage waited for them, with the captain of the Guard of
the quarter, and a lady of the palace.  The King was but little amused,
spoke only to two or three persons, who knew him immediately, and found
nothing to admire at the masquerade but Punches and Harlequins, which
served as a joke against him for the royal family, who often amused
themselves with laughing at him about it.

An event, simple in itself, brought dire suspicion upon the Queen.  She
was going out one evening with the Duchesse de Lupnes, lady of the palace,
when her carriage broke down at the entrance into Paris; she was obliged
to alight; the Duchess led her into a shop, while a footman called a
‘fiacre’.  As they were masked, if they had but known how to keep silence,
the event would never have been known; but to ride in a fiacre is so
unusual an adventure for a queen that she had hardly entered the
Opera-house when she could not help saying to some persons whom she met
there: “That I should be in a fiacre!  Is it not droll?”

From that moment all Paris was informed of the adventure of the fiacre. It
was said that everything connected with it was mysterious; that the Queen
had kept an assignation in a private house with the Duc de Coigny. He was
indeed very well received at Court, but equally so by the King and Queen.
These accusations of gallantry once set afloat, there were no longer any
bounds to the calumnies circulated at Paris.  If, during the chase or at
cards, the Queen spoke to Lord Edward Dillon, De Lambertye, or others,
they were so many favoured lovers.  The people of Paris did not know that
none of those young persons were admitted into the Queen’s private circle
of friends; the Queen went about Paris in disguise, and had made use of a
fiacre; and a single instance of levity gives room for the suspicion of
others.

Conscious of innocence, and well knowing that all about her must do
justice to her private life, the Queen spoke of these reports with
contempt, contenting herself with the supposition that some folly in the
young men mentioned had given rise to them.  She therefore left off
speaking to them or even looking at them.  Their vanity took alarm at
this, and revenge induced them either to say, or to leave others to think,
that they were unfortunate enough to please no longer.  Other young
coxcombs, placing themselves near the private box which the Queen occupied
incognito when she attended the public theatre at Versailles, had the
presumption to imagine that they were noticed by her; and I have known
such notions entertained merely on account of the Queen’s requesting one
of those gentlemen to inquire behind the scenes whether it would be long
before the commencement of the second piece.

The list of persons received into the Queen’s closet which I gave in the
preceding chapter was placed in the hands of the ushers of the chamber by
the Princesse de Lamballe; and the persons there enumerated could present
themselves to enjoy the distinction only on those days when the Queen
chose to be with her intimates in a private manner; and this was only when
she was slightly indisposed.  People of the first rank at Court sometimes
requested special audiences of her; the Queen then received them in a room
within that called the closet of the women on duty, and these women
announced them in her Majesty’s apartment.

The Duc de Lauzun had a good deal of wit, and chivalrous manners.  The
Queen was accustomed to see him at the King’s suppers, and at the house of
the Princesse de Guemenee, and always showed him attention.  One day he
made his appearance at Madame de Guemenee’s in uniform, and with the most
magnificent plume of white heron’s feathers that it was possible to
behold.  The Queen admired the plume, and he offered it to her through the
Princesse de Guemenee.  As he had worn it the Queen had not imagined that
he could think of giving it to her; much embarrassed with the present
which she had, as it were, drawn upon herself, she did not like to refuse
it, nor did she know whether she ought to make one in return; afraid, if
she did give anything, of giving either too much or too little, she
contented herself with once letting M. de Lauzun see her adorned with the
plume.  In his secret “Memoirs” the Duke attaches an importance to his
present, which proves him utterly unworthy of an honour accorded only to
his name and rank.

A short time afterwards he solicited an audience; the Queen granted it, as
she would have done to any other courtier of equal rank.  I was in the
room adjoining that in which he was received; a few minutes after his
arrival the Queen reopened the door, and said aloud, and in an angry tone
of voice, “Go, monsieur.”  M. de Lauzun bowed low, and withdrew.  The
Queen was much agitated.  She said to me: “That man shall never again come
within my doors.”  A few years before the Revolution of 1789 the Marechal
de Biron died.  The Duc de Lauzun, heir to his name, aspired to the
important post of colonel of the regiment of French guards.  The Queen,
however, procured it for the Duc du Chaatelet.  The Duc de Biron espoused
the cause of the Duc d’Orleans, and became one of the most violent enemies
of Marie Antoinette.

It is with reluctance that I enter minutely on a defence of the Queen
against two infamous accusations with which libellers have dared to swell
their envenomed volumes.  I mean the unworthy suspicions of too strong an
attachment for the Comte d’Artois, and of the motives for the tender
friendship which subsisted between the Queen, the Princesse de Lamballe,
and the Duchesse de Polignac.  I do not believe that the Comte d’Artois
was, during his own youth and that of the Queen, so much smitten as has
been said with the loveliness of his sister-in-law; I can affirm that I
always saw that Prince maintain the most respectful demeanour towards the
Queen; that she always spoke of his good-nature and cheerfulness with that
freedom which attends only the purest sentiments; and that none of those
about the Queen ever saw in the affection she manifested towards the Comte
d’Artois more than that of a kind and tender sister for her youngest
brother.  As to the intimate connection between Marie Antoinette and the
ladies I have named, it never had, nor could have, any other motive than
the very innocent wish to secure herself two friends in the midst of a
numerous Court; and notwithstanding this intimacy, that tone of respect
observed by persons of the most exalted rank towards majesty never ceased
to be maintained.

The Queen, much occupied with the society of Madame de Polignac, and an
unbroken series of amusements, found less time for the Abbe de Vermond; he
therefore resolved to retire from Court.  The world did him the honour to
believe that he had hazarded remonstrances upon his august pupil’s
frivolous employment of her time, and that he considered himself, both as
an ecclesiastic and as instructor, now out of place at Court.  But the
world was deceived his dissatisfaction arose purely from the favour shown
to the Comtesse Jules.  After a fortnight’s absence we saw him at
Versailles again, resuming his usual functions.

The Queen could express herself with winning graciousness to persons who
merited her praise.  When M. Loustonneau was appointed to the reversion of
the post of first surgeon to the King, he came to make his
acknowledgments.  He was much beloved by the poor, to whom he had chiefly
devoted his talents, spending nearly thirty thousand francs a year on
indigent sufferers.  The Queen replied to his thanks by saying: “You are
satisfied, Monsieur; but I am far from being so with the inhabitants of
Versailles.  On the news of your appointment the town should have been
illuminated.”--“How so, Madame?” asked the astonished surgeon, who was
very modest.  “Why,” replied the Queen, “if the poor whom you have
succoured for the past twenty years had each placed a single candle in
their windows it would have been the most beautiful illumination ever
witnessed.”

The Queen did not limit her kindness to friendly words.  There was
frequently seen in the apartments of Versailles a veteran captain of the
grenadiers of France, called the Chevalier d’Orville, who for four years
had been soliciting from the Minister of War the post of major, or of
King’s lieutenant.  He was known to be very poor; but he supported his lot
without complaining of this vexatious delay in rewarding his honourable
services.  He regularly attended the Marechal de Segur, at the hour
appointed for receiving the numerous solicitations in his department.  One
day the Marshal said to him: “You are still at Versailles, M.
d’Orville?”--“Monsieur,” he replied, “you may observe that by this board
of the flooring where I regularly place myself; it is already worn down
several lines by the weight of my body.”  The Queen frequently stood at
the window of her bedchamber to observe with her glass the people walking
in the park.  Sometimes she inquired the names of those who were unknown
to her.  One day she saw the Chevalier d’Orville passing, and asked me the
name of that knight of Saint Louis, whom she had seen everywhere for a
long time past.  I knew who he was, and related his history.  “That must
be put an end to,” said the Queen, with some vivacity.  “Such an example
of indifference is calculated to discourage our soldiers.”  Next day, in
crossing the gallery to go to mass, the Queen perceived the Chevalier
d’Orville; she went directly towards him.  The poor man fell back in the
recess of a window, looking to the right and left to discover the person
whom the Queen was seeking, when she thus addressed him: “M. d’Orville,
you have been several years at Versailles, soliciting a majority or a
King’s lieutenancy.  You must have very powerless patrons.”--“I have none,
Madame,” replied the Chevalier, in great confusion.  “Well! I will take
you under my protection.  To-morrow at the same hour be here with a
petition, and a memorial of your services.”  A fortnight after, M.
d’Orville was appointed King’s lieutenant, either at La Rochelle or at
Rochefort.

[Louis XVI. vied with his Queen in benevolent actions of this kind. An old
officer had in vain solicited a pension during the administration of the
Duc de Choiseul.  He returned to the charge in the times of the Marquis de
Montesnard and the Duc d’Aiguillon.  He urged his claims, to Comte du Muy,
who made a note of them.  Tired of so many fruitless efforts, he at last
appeared at the King’s supper, and, having placed himself so as to be seen
and heard, cried out at a moment when silence prevailed, “Sire.”  The
people near him said, “What are you about?  This is not the way to speak
to the King.”--“I fear nothing,” said he, and raising his voice, repeated,
“Sire.”  The King, much surprised, looked at him and said, “What do you
want, monsieur.”--“Sire,” answered he, “I am seventy years of age; I have
served your Majesty more than fifty years, and I am dying for
want.”--“Have you a memorial?”  replied the King.  “Yes, Sire, I
have.”--“Give it to me;” and his Majesty took it without saying anything
more.  Next morning he was sent for by the, King, who said, “Monsieur, I
grant you an annuity of 1,500 livres out of my privy purse, and you may go
and receive the first year’s payment, which is now due.”  (“Secret
Correspondence of the Court: Reign of Louis XVI.”) The King preferred to
spend money in charity rather than in luxury or magnificence.  Once during
his absence, M. d’Augivillers caused an unused room in the King’s
apartment to be repaired at a cost of 30,000 francs.  On his return the
King made Versailles resound with complaints against M. d’Augivillers:
“With that sum I could have made thirty families happy,” he said.]




CHAPTER IX.


From the time of Louis XVI.’s accession to the throne, the Queen had been
expecting a visit from her brother, the Emperor Joseph II.  That Prince
was the constant theme of her discourse.  She boasted of his intelligence,
his love of occupation, his military knowledge, and the perfect simplicity
of his manners.  Those about her Majesty ardently wished to see at
Versailles a prince so worthy of his rank.  At length the coming of Joseph
II., under the title of Count Falkenstein, was announced, and the very day
on which he would be at Versailles was mentioned.  The first embraces
between the Queen and her august brother took place in the presence of all
the Queen’s household.  The sight of their emotion was extremely
affecting.

The Emperor was at first generally admired in France; learned men,
well-informed officers, and celebrated artists appreciated the extent of
his information.  He made less impression at Court, and very little in the
private circle of the King and Queen.  His eccentric manners, his
frankness, often degenerating into rudeness, and his evidently affected
simplicity,--all these characteristics caused him to be looked upon as a
prince rather singular than admirable.  The Queen spoke to him about the
apartment she had prepared for him in the Chateau; the Emperor answered
that he would not accept it, and that while travelling he always lodged at
a cabaret (that was his very expression); the Queen insisted, and assured
him that he should be at perfect liberty, and placed out of the reach of
noise.  He replied that he knew the Chateau of Versailles was very large,
and that so many scoundrels lived there that he could well find a place;
but that his valet de chambre had made up his camp-bed in a lodging-house,
and there he would stay.

He dined with the King and Queen, and supped with the whole family.  He
appeared to take an interest in the young Princesse Elisabeth, then just
past childhood, and blooming in all the freshness of that age.  An
intended marriage between him and this young sister of the King was
reported at the time, but I believe it had no foundation in truth.

The table was still served by women only, when the Queen dined in private
with the King, the royal family, or crowned heads.

[The custom was, even supposing dinner to have commenced, if a princess of
the blood arrived, and she was asked to sit down at the Queen’s table, the
comptrollers and gentlemen-in-waiting came immediately to attend, and the
Queen’s women withdrew.  These had succeeded the maids of honour in
several parts of their service, and had preserved some of their
privileges.  One day the Duchesse d’Orleans arrived at Fontainebleau, at
the Queen’s dinner-hour.  The Queen invited her to the table, and herself
motioned to her women to leave the room, and let the men take their
places.  Her Majesty said she was resolved to continue a privilege which
kept places of that description most honourable, and render them suitable
for ladies of nobility without fortune.  Madame de Misery, Baronne de
Biache, the Queen’s first lady of the chamber, to whom I was made
reversioner, was a daughter of M. le Comte de Chemant, and her grandmother
was a Montmorency.  M. le Prince de Tingry, in the presence of the Queen,
used to call her cousin.  The ancient household of the Kings of France had
prerogatives acknowledged in the state.  Many of the offices were tenable
only by those of noble blood, and were sold at from 40,000 to 300,000
franca.  A collection of edicts of the Kings in favour of the prerogatives
and right of precedence of the persons holding office in the royal
household is still in existence.]

I was present at the Queen’s dinner almost every day.  The Emperor would
talk much and fluently; he expressed himself in French with facility, and
the singularity, of his expressions added a zest to his conversation.  I
have often heard him say that he liked spectaculous objects, when he meant
to express such things as formed a show, or a scene worthy of interest.
He disguised none of his prejudices against the etiquette and customs of
the Court of France; and even in the presence of the King made them the
subject of his sarcasms.  The King smiled, but never made any answer; the
Queen appeared pained.  The Emperor frequently terminated his observations
upon the objects in Paris which he had admired by reproaching the King for
suffering himself to remain in ignorance of them.  He could not conceive
how such a wealth of pictures should remain shut up in the dust of immense
stores; and told him one day that but for the practice of placing some of
them in the apartments of Versailles he would not know even the principal
chef d’oeuvres that he possessed.

[The Emperor loudly censured the existing practice of allowing shopkeepers
to erect shops near the outward walls of all the palaces, and even to
establish something like a fair in the galleries of Versailles and
Fontainebleau, and even upon the landings of the staircases.]

He also reproached him for not having visited the Hotel des Invalides nor
the Ecole Militaire; and even went so far as to tell him before us that he
ought not only to know what Paris contained, but to travel in France, and
reside a few days in each of his large towns.

At last the Queen was really hurt at the Emperor’s remarks, and gave him a
few lectures upon the freedom with which he allowed himself to lecture
others.  One day she was busied in signing warrants and orders for payment
for her household, and was conversing with M. Augeard, her secretary for
such matters, who presented the papers one after another to be signed, and
replaced them in his portfolio.  While this was going forward, the Emperor
walked about the room; all at once he stood still, to reproach the Queen
rather severely for signing all those papers without reading them, or, at
least, without running her eye over them; and he spoke most judiciously to
her upon the danger of signing her name inconsiderately.  The Queen
answered that very wise principles might be very ill applied; that her
secretary, who deserved her implicit confidence, was at that moment laying
before her nothing but orders for payment of the quarter’s expenses of her
household, registered in the Chamber of Accounts; and that she ran no risk
of incautiously giving her signature.

The Queen’s toilet was likewise a never-failing subject for animadversion
with the Emperor.  He blamed her for having introduced too many new
fashions; and teased her about her use of rouge.  One day, while she was
laying on more of it than usual, before going to the play, he pointed out
a lady who was in the room, and who was, in truth, highly painted.  “A
little more under the eyes,” said the Emperor to the Queen; “lay on the
rouge like a fury, as that lady does.”  The Queen entreated her brother to
refrain from his jokes, or at all events to address them, when they were
so outspoken, to her alone.

The Queen had made an appointment to meet her brother at the Italian
theatre; she changed her mind, and went to the French theatre, sending a
page to the Italian theatre to request the Emperor to come to her there.
He left his box, lighted by the comedian Clairval, and attended by M. de
la Ferte, comptroller of the Queen’s privy purse, who was much hurt at
hearing his Imperial Majesty, after kindly expressing his regret at not
being present during the Italian performance, say to Clairval, “Your young
Queen is very giddy; but, luckily, you Frenchmen have no great objection
to that.”

I was with my father-in-law in one of the Queen’s apartments when the
Emperor came to wait for her there, and, knowing that M. Campan was
librarian, he conversed with him about such books as would of course be
found in the Queen’s library.  After talking of our most celebrated
authors, he casually said, “There are doubtless no works on finance or on
administration here?”

These words were followed by his opinion on all that had been written on
those topics, and the different systems of our two famous ministers, Sully
and Colbert; on errors which were daily committed in France, in points
essential to the prosperity of the Empire; and on the reform he himself
would make at Vienna.  Holding M. Campan by the button, he spent more than
an hour, talking vehemently, and without the slightest reserve, about the
French Government.  My father-in-law and myself maintained profound
silence, as much from astonishment as from respect; and when we were alone
we agreed not to speak of this interview.

The Emperor was fond of describing the Italian Courts that he had visited.
The jealous quarrels between the King and Queen of Naples amused him
highly; he described to the life the manner and speech of that sovereign,
and the simplicity with which he used to go and solicit the first
chamberlain to obtain permission to return to the nuptial bed, when the
angry Queen had banished him from it.  The time which he was made to wait
for this reconciliation was calculated between the Queen and her
chamberlain, and always proportioned to the gravity of the offence.  He
also related several very amusing stories relative to the Court of Parma,
of which he spoke with no little contempt.  If what this Prince said of
those Courts, and even of Vienna, had been written down, the whole would
have formed an interesting collection.  The Emperor told the King that the
Grand Duke of Tuscany and the King of Naples being together, the former
said a great deal about the changes he had effected in his State. The
Grand Duke had issued a mass of new edicts, in order to carry the precepts
of the economists into execution, and trusted that in so doing he was
labouring for the welfare of his people.  The King of Naples suffered him
to go on speaking for a long time, and then casually asked how many
Neapolitan families there were in Tuscany.  The Duke soon reckoned them
up, as they were but few.  “Well, brother,” replied the King of Naples, “I
do not understand the indifference of your people towards your great
reforms; for I have four times the number of Tuscan families settled in my
States that you have of Neapolitan families in yours.”

The Queen being at the Opera with the Emperor, the latter did not wish to
show himself; but she took him by the hand, and gently drew him to the
front of the box.  This kind of presentation to the public was most warmly
received.  The performance was “Iphigenia in Aulis,” and for the second
time the chorus, “Chantons, celebrons notre Reine!” was called for with
universal plaudits.

A fete of a novel description was given at Petit Trianon.  The art with
which the English garden was not illuminated, but lighted, produced a
charming effect.  Earthen lamps, concealed by boards painted green, threw
light upon the beds of shrubs and flowers, and brought out their varied
tints.  Several hundred burning fagots in the moat behind the Temple of
Love made a blaze of light, which rendered that spot the most brilliant in
the garden.  After all, this evening’s entertainment had nothing
remarkable about it but the good taste of the artists, yet it was much
talked of.  The situation did not allow the admission of a great part of
the Court; those who were uninvited were dissatisfied; and the people, who
never forgive any fetes but those they share in, so exaggerated the cost
of this little fete as to make it appear that the fagots burnt in the moat
had required the destruction of a whole forest.  The Queen being informed
of these reports, was determined to know exactly how much wood had been
consumed; and she found that fifteen hundred fagots had sufficed to keep
up the fire until four o’clock in the morning.

After staying a few months the Emperor left France, promising his sister
to come and see her again.  All the officers of the Queen’s chamber had
many opportunities of serving him during his stay, and expected that he
would make them presents before his departure.  Their oath of office
positively forbade them to receive a gift from any foreign prince; they
had therefore agreed to refuse the Emperor’s presents at first, but to ask
the time necessary for obtaining permission to accept them.  The Emperor,
probably informed of this custom, relieved the good people from their
difficulty by setting off without making a single present.

About the latter end of 1777 the Queen, being alone in her closet, sent
for my father-in-law and myself, and, giving us her hand to kiss; told us
that, looking upon us both as persons deeply interested in her happiness,
she wished to receive our congratulations,--that at length she was the
Queen of France, and that she hoped soon to have children; that till now
she had concealed her grief, but that she had shed many tears in secret.

Dating from this happy but long-delayed moment, the King’s attachment to
the Queen assumed every characteristic of love.  The good Lassone, first
physician to the King and Queen, frequently spoke to me of the uneasiness
that the King’s indifference, the cause of which he had been so long in
overcoming, had given him, and appeared to me at that time to entertain no
anxiety except of a very different description.

In the winter of 1778 the King’s permission for the return of Voltaire;
after an absence of twenty-seven years, was obtained.  A few strict
persons considered this concession on the part of the Court very
injudicious.  The Emperor, on leaving France, passed by the Chateau of
Ferney without stopping there.  He had advised the Queen not to suffer
Voltaire to be presented to her.  A lady belonging to the Court learned
the Emperor’s opinion on that point, and reproached him with his want of
enthusiasm towards the greatest genius of the age.  He replied that for
the good of the people he should always endeavour to profit by the
knowledge of the philosophers; but that his own business of sovereign
would always prevent his ranking himself amongst that sect.  The clergy
also took steps to hinder Voltaire’s appearance at Court.  Paris, however,
carried to the highest pitch the honours and enthusiasm shown to the great
poet.

It was very unwise to let Paris pronounce with such transport an opinion
so opposite to that of the Court.  This was pointed out to the Queen, and
she was told that, without conferring on Voltaire the honour of a
presentation, she might see him in the State apartments.  She was not
averse to following this advice, and appeared embarrassed solely about
what she should say to him.  She was recommended to talk about nothing but
the “Henriade,” “Merope,” and “Zaira.”  The Queen replied that she would
still consult a few other persons in whom she had great confidence. The
next day she announced that it was irrevocably decided Voltaire should not
see any member of the royal family,--his writings being too antagonistic
to religion and morals.  “It is, however, strange,” said the Queen, “that
while we refuse to admit Voltaire into our presence as the leader of
philosophical writers, the Marechale de Mouchy should have presented to me
some years ago Madame Geoffrin, who owed her celebrity to the title of
foster-mother of the philosophers.”

On the occasion of the duel of the Comte d’Artois with the Prince de
Bourbon the Queen determined privately to see the Baron de Besenval, who
was to be one of the witnesses, in order to communicate the King’s
intentions.  I have read with infinite pain the manner in which that
simple fact is perverted in the first volume of M. de Besenval’s
“Memoirs.”  He is right in saying that M. Campan led him through the upper
corridors of the Chateau, and introduced him into an apartment unknown to
him; but the air of romance given to the interview is equally culpable and
ridiculous.  M. de Besenval says that he found himself, without knowing
how he came there, in an apartment unadorned, but very conveniently
furnished, of the existence of which he was till then utterly ignorant.
He was astonished, he adds, not that the Queen should have so many
facilities, but that she should have ventured to procure them.  Ten
printed sheets of the woman Lamotte’s libels contain nothing so injurious
to the character of Marie Antoinette as these lines, written by a man whom
she honoured by undeserved kindness.  He could not have had any
opportunity of knowing the existence of the apartments, which consisted of
a very small antechamber, a bedchamber, and a closet.  Ever since the
Queen had occupied her own apartment, these had been appropriated to her
Majesty’s lady of honour in cases of illness, and were actually so used
when the Queen was confined.  It was so important that it should not be
known the Queen had spoken to the Baron before the duel that she had
determined to go through her inner room into this little apartment, to
which M. Campan was to conduct him.  When men write of recent times they
should be scrupulously exact, and not indulge in exaggerations or
inventions.

The Baron de Besenval appears mightily surprised at the Queen’s sudden
coolness, and refers it to the fickleness of her disposition.  I can
explain the reason for the change by repeating what her Majesty said to me
at the time; and I will not alter one of her expressions.  Speaking of the
strange presumption of men, and the reserve with which women ought always
to treat them, the Queen added that age did not deprive them of the hope
of pleasing, if they retained any agreeable qualities; that she had
treated the Baron de Besenval as a brave Swiss, agreeable, polished, and
witty, whose gray hairs had induced her to look upon him as a man whom she
might see without harm; but that she had been much deceived. Her Majesty,
after having enjoined me to the strictest secrecy, told me that, finding
herself alone with the Baron, he began to address her with so much
gallantry that she was thrown into the utmost astonishment, and that he
was mad enough to fall upon his knees, and make her a declaration in form.
The Queen added that she said to him: “Rise, monsieur; the King shall be
ignorant of an offence which would disgrace you for ever;” that the Baron
grew pale and stammered apologies; that she left her closet without saying
another word, and that since that time she hardly ever spoke to him.  “It
is delightful to have friends,” said the Queen; “but in a situation like
mine it is sometimes difficult for the friends of our friends to suit us.”

In the beginning of the year 1778 Mademoiselle d’Eon obtained permission
to return to France, on condition that she should appear there in female
dress.  The Comte de Vergennes entreated my father, M. Genet, chief clerk
of Foreign Affairs, who had long known the Chevalier d’Eon, to receive
that strange personage at his house, to guide and restrain, if possible,
her ardent disposition.  The Queen, on learning her arrival at Versailles,
sent a footman to desire my father to bring her into her presence; my
father thought it his duty first to inform the Minister of her Majesty’s
wish.  The Comte de Vergennes expressed himself pleased with my father’s
prudence, and desired that he would accompany him to the Queen.  The
Minister had a few minutes’ audience; her Majesty came out of her closet
with him, and condescended to express to my father the regret she felt at
having troubled him to no purpose; and added, smiling, that a few words
from M. de Vergennes had for ever cured her of her curiosity. The
discovery in London of the true sex of this pretended woman makes it
probable that the few words uttered by the Minister contained a solution
of the enigma.

The Chevalier d’Eon had been useful in Russia as a spy of Louis XV. while
very young he had found means to introduce himself at the Court of the
Empress Elizabeth, and served that sovereign in the capacity of reader.
Resuming afterwards his military dress, he served with honour and was
wounded.  Appointed chief secretary of legation, and afterwards minister
plenipotentiary at London, he unpardonably insulted Comte de Guerchy, the
ambassador.  The official order for the Chevalier’s return to France was
actually delivered to the King’s Council; but Louis XV. delayed the
departure of the courier who was to be its bearer, and sent off another
courier privately, who gave the Chevalier d’Eon a letter in his own
writing, in which he said, “I know that you have served me as effectually
in the dress of a woman as in that which you now wear. Resume it
instantly; withdraw into the city; I warn you that the King yesterday
signed an order for your return to France; you are not safe in your hotel,
and you would here find too powerful enemies.”  I heard the Chevalier
d’Eon repeat the contents of this letter, in which Louis XV. thus
separated himself from the King of France, several times at my father’s.
The Chevalier, or rather the Chevalaere d’Eon had preserved all the King’s
letters.  Messieurs de Maurepas and de Vergennes wished to get them out of
his hands, as they were afraid he would print them.  This eccentric being
had long solicited permission to return to France; but it was necessary to
find a way of sparing the family he had offended the insult they would see
in his return; he was therefore made to resume the costume of that sex to
which in France everything is pardoned.  The desire to see his native land
once more determined him to submit to the condition, but he revenged
himself by combining the long train of his gown and the three deep ruffles
on his sleeves with the attitude and conversation of a grenadier, which
made him very disagreeable company.

[The account given by Madame Campan of the Chevalier d’Eon is now known to
be incorrect in many particulars.  Enough details for most readers will be
found in the Duc de Broglie’s “Secret of the King,” vol.  ii., chaps.  vi.
and g., and at p.  89, vol.  ii.  of that work, where the Duke refers to
the letter of most dubious authenticity spoken of by Madame Campan.  The
following details will be sufficient for these memoirs: The Chevalier
Charles d’Eon de Beaumont (who was born in 1728) was an ex-captain of
dragoons, employed in both the open and secret diplomacy of Louis XV.
When at the embassy in London he quarrelled with the ambassador, his
superior, the Comte de Guerchy (Marquis do Nangis), and used his
possession of papers concerning the secret diplomacy to shield himself.
It was when hiding in London, in 1765, on account of this business, that
he seems first to have assumed woman’s dress, which he retained apparently
chiefly from love of notoriety.  In 1775 a formal agreement with the
French Court, made by the instrumentality of Beaumarchais, of all people
in the world, permitted him to return to France, retaining the dress of a
woman.  He went back to France, but again came to England, and died there,
at his residence in Millman Street, near the Foundling Hospital, May 22,
1710.  He had been a brave and distinguished officer, but his form and a
certain coldness of temperament always remarked in him assisted him in his
assumption of another sex.  There appears to be no truth in the story of
his proceedings at the Russian Court, and his appearing in female attire
was a surprise to those who must have known of any earlier affair of the
sort.]

At last, the event so long desired by the Queen, and by all those who
wished her well, took place; her Majesty became enceinte.  The King was in
ecstasies.  Never was there a more united or happier couple.  The
disposition of Louis XVI. entirely altered, and became prepossessing and
conciliatory; and the Queen was amply compensated for the uneasiness which
the King’s indifference during the early part of their union had caused
her.

The summer of 1778 was extremely hot.  July and August passed, but the air
was not cooled by a single storm.  The Queen spent whole days in close
rooms, and could not sleep until she had breathed the fresh night air,
walking with the Princesses and her brothers upon the terrace under her
apartments.  These promenades at first gave rise to no remark; but it
occurred to some of the party to enjoy the music of wind instruments
during these fine summer nights.  The musicians belonging to the chapel
were ordered to perform pieces suited to instruments of that description,
upon steps constructed in the middle of the garden.  The Queen, seated on
one of the terrace benches, enjoyed the effect of this music, surrounded
by all the royal family with the exception of the King, who joined them
but, twice, disliking to change his hour of going to bed.

Nothing could be more innocent than these parties; yet Paris, France, nay,
all Europe, were soon canvassing them in a manner most disadvantageous to
the reputation of Marie Antoinette.  It is true that all the inhabitants
of Versailles enjoyed these serenades, and that there was a crowd near the
spot from eleven at night until two or three in the morning.  The windows
of the ground floor occupied by Monsieur and Madame--[The wife of
Monsieur, the Comte de Provence.]--were kept open, and the terrace was
perfectly well lighted by the numerous wax candles burning in the two
apartments.  Lamps were likewise placed in the garden, and the lights of
the orchestra illuminated the rest of the place.

I do not know whether a few incautious women might not have ventured
farther, and wandered to the bottom of the park; it may have been so; but
the Queen, Madame, and the Comtesse d’Artois were always arm-in-arm, and
never left the terrace.  The Princesses were not remarkable when seated on
the benches, being dressed in cambric muslin gowns, with large straw hats
and muslin veils, a costume universally adopted by women at that time; but
when standing up their different figures always distinguished them; and
the persons present stood on one side to let them pass.  It is true that
when they seated themselves upon the benches private individuals would
sometimes, to their great amusement, sit down by their side.

A young clerk in the War Department, either not knowing or pretending not
to know the Queen, spoke to her of the beauty of the night, and the
delightful effect of the music.  The Queen, fancying she was not
recognised, amused herself by keeping up the incognito, and they talked of
several private families of Versailles, consisting of persons belonging to
the King’s household or her own.  After a few minutes the Queen and
Princesses rose to walk, and on leaving the bench curtsied to the clerk.
The young man knowing, or having subsequently discovered, that he had been
conversing with the Queen, boasted of it in his office. He was merely,
desired to hold his tongue; and so little attention did he excite that the
Revolution found him still only a clerk.

Another evening one of Monsieur’s body-guard seated himself near the
Princesses, and, knowing them, left the place where he was sitting, and
placed himself before the Queen, to tell her that he was very fortunate in
being able to seize an opportunity of imploring the kindness of his
sovereign; that he was “soliciting at Court”--at the word soliciting the
Queen and Princesses rose hastily and withdrew into Madame’s
apartment.--[Soulavie has most criminally perverted these two
facts.--MADAME CAMPAN.]--I was at the Queen’s residence that day.  She
talked of this little occurrence all the time of her ‘coucher’; though she
only complained that one of Monsieur’s guards should have had the
effrontery to speak to her. Her Majesty added that he ought to have
respected her incognito; and that that was not the place where he should
have ventured to make a request. Madame had recognised him, and talked of
making a complaint to his captain; the Queen opposed it, attributing his
error to his ignorance and provincial origin.

The most scandalous libels were based on these two insignificant
occurrences, which I have related with scrupulous exactness.  Nothing
could be more false than those calumnies.  It must be confessed, however,
that such meetings were liable to ill consequences.  I ventured to say as
much to the Queen, and informed her that one evening, when her Majesty
beckoned to me to go and speak to her, I thought I recognised on the bench
on which she was sitting two women deeply veiled, and keeping profound
silence; that those women were the Comtesse du Barry and her
sister-in-law; and that my suspicions were confirmed, when, at a few paces
from the seat, and nearer to her Majesty, I met a tall footman belonging
to Madame du Barry, whom I had seen in her service all the time she
resided at Court.

My advice was disregarded.  Misled by the pleasure she found in these
promenades, and secure in the consciousness of blameless conduct, the
Queen would not see the lamentable results which must necessarily follow.
This was very unfortunate; for besides the mortifications they brought
upon her, it is highly probable that they prompted the vile plot which
gave rise to the Cardinal de Rohan’s fatal error.

Having enjoyed these evening promenades about a month, the Queen ordered a
private concert within the colonnade which contained the group of Pluto
and Proserpine.  Sentinels were placed at all the entrances, and ordered
to admit within the colonnade only such persons as should produce tickets
signed by my father-in-law.  A fine concert was performed there by the
musicians of the chapel and the female musicians belonging to the. Queen’s
chamber.  The Queen went with Mesdames de Polignac, de Chalon, and
d’Andlau, and Messieurs de Polignac, de Coigny, de Besenval, and de
Vaudreuil; there were also a few equerries present.  Her Majesty gave me
permission to attend the concert with some of my female relations.  There
was no music upon the terrace.  The crowd of inquisitive people, whom the
sentinels kept at a distance from the enclosure of the colonnade, went
away highly discontented; the small number of persons admitted no doubt
occasioned jealousy, and gave rise to offensive comments which were caught
up by the public with avidity.  I do not pretend to apologise for the kind
of amusements with which the Queen indulged herself during this and the
following summer; the consequences were so lamentable that the error was
no doubt very great; but what I have said respecting the character of
these promenades may be relied on as true.

When the season for evening walks was at an end, odious couplets were
circulated in Paris; the ‘Queen was treated in them in the most insulting
manner; her situation ranked among her enemies persons attached to the
only prince who for several years had appeared likely to give heirs to the
crown.  People uttered the most inconsiderate language; and those improper
conversations took place in societies wherein the imminent danger of
violating to so criminal an extent both truth and the respect due to
sovereigns ought to have been better understood.  A few days before the
Queen’s confinement a whole volume of manuscript songs, concerning her and
all the ladies about her remarkable for rank or station was, thrown down
in the oiel-de-boeuf.--[A large room at Versailles lighted by a bull’s-eye
window, and used as a waiting-room.]--This manuscript was immediately put
into the hands of the King, who was highly incensed at it, and said that
he had himself been at those promenades; that he had seen nothing
connected with them but what was perfectly harmless; that such songs would
disturb the harmony of twenty families in the Court and city; that it was
a capital crime to have made any against the Queen herself; and that he
wished the author of the infamous libels to be discovered and punished.  A
fortnight afterwards it was known publicly that the verses were by M.
Champcenetz de Riquebourg, who was not even reprimanded.

[The author of a great many songs, some of which are very well written.
Lively and satirical by nature, he did not lose either his cheerfulness or
his carelessness before the revolutionary tribunal. After hearing his own
sentence read, he asked his judges if he might not be allowed to find a
substitute.--MADAME CAMPAN.]

I knew for a certainty that the King spoke to M. de Maurepas, before two
of his most confidential servants, respecting the risk which he saw the
Queen ran from these night walks upon the terrace of Versailles, which the
public ventured to censure thus openly, and that the old minister had the
cruelty to advise that she should be suffered to go on; she possessed
talent; her friends were very ambitious, and longed to see her take a part
in public affairs; and to let her acquire the reputation of levity would
do no harm.  M. de Vergennes was as hostile to the Queen’s influence as M.
de Maurepas.  It may therefore be fairly presumed, since the Prime
Minister durst point out to his King an advantage to be gained by the
Queen’s discrediting herself, that he and M. de Vergennes employed all
means within the reach of powerful ministers in order to ruin her in the
opinion of the public.

The Queen’s accouchement approached; Te Deums were sung and prayers
offered up in all the cathedrals.  On the 11th of December, 1778, the
royal family, the Princes of the blood, and the great officers of State
passed the night in the rooms adjoining the Queen’s bedchamber.  Madame,
the King’s daughter, came into the world before mid-day on the 19th of
December.--[Marie Therese Charlotte (1778-1861), Madame Royale; married in
1799 Louis, Duc d’Angouleme, eldest son of the Comte d’Artois.]--The
etiquette of allowing all persons indiscriminately to enter at the moment
of the delivery of a queen was observed with such exaggeration that when
the accoucheur said aloud, “La Reine va s’accoucher,” the persons who
poured into the chamber were so numerous that the rush nearly destroyed
the Queen.  During the night the King had taken the precaution to have the
enormous tapestry screens which surrounded her Majesty’s bed secured with
cords; but for this they certainly would have been thrown down upon her.
It was impossible to move about the chamber, which was filled with so
motley a crowd that one might have fancied himself in some place of public
amusement.  Two Savoyards got upon the furniture for a better sight of the
Queen, who was placed opposite the fireplace.

The noise and the sex of the infant, with which the Queen was made
acquainted by a signal previously agreed on, as it is said, with the
Princesse do Lamballe, or some error of the accoucheur, brought on
symptoms which threatened fatal consequences; the accoucheur exclaimed,
“Give her air--warm water--she must be bled in the foot!”  The windows
were stopped up; the King opened them with a strength which his affection
for the Queen gave him at the moment.  They were of great height, and
pasted over with strips of paper all round.  The basin of hot water not
being brought quickly enough, the accoucheur desired the chief surgeon to
use his lancet without waiting for it.  He did so; the blood streamed out
freely, and the Queen opened her eyes.  The Princesse de Lamballe was
carried through the crowd in a state of insensibility.  The valets de
chambre and pages dragged out by the collar such inconsiderate persons as
would not leave the room.  This cruel custom was abolished afterwards. The
Princes of the family, the Princes of the blood, the chancellor, and the
ministers are surely sufficient to attest the legitimacy of an hereditary
prince.  The Queen was snatched from the very jaws of death; she was not
conscious of having been bled, and on being replaced in bed asked why she
had a linen bandage upon her foot.

The delight which succeeded the moment of fear was equally lively and
sincere.  We were all embracing each other, and shedding tears of joy. The
Comte d’Esterhazy and the Prince de Poix, to whom I was the first to
announce that the Queen was restored to life, embraced me in the midst of
the cabinet of nobles.  We little imagined, in our happiness at her escape
from death, for how much more terrible a fate our beloved Princess was
reserved.

NOTE.  The two following specimens of the Emperor Joseph’s correspondence
forcibly demonstrate the vigour, shrewdness, and originality of his mind,
and complete the portrait left of him by Madame Campan.

Few sovereigns have given their reasons for refusing appointments with the
fullness and point of the following letter:

To a Lady.

MADAM.--I do not think that it is amongst the duties of a monarch to grant
places to one of his subjects merely because he is a gentleman. That,
however, is the inference from the request you have made to me. Your late
husband was, you say, a distinguished general, a gentleman of good family,
and thence you conclude that my kindness to your family can do no less
than give a company of foot to your second son, lately returned from his
travels.

Madam, a man may be the son of a general and yet have no talent for
command.  A man may be of a good family and yet possess no other merit
than that which he owes to chance,--the name of gentleman.

I know your son, and I know what makes the soldier; and this twofold
knowledge convinces me that your son has not the disposition of a warrior,
and that he is too full of his birth to leave the country a hope of his
ever rendering it any important service.

What you are to be pitied for, madam, is, that your son is not fit either
for an officer, a statesman or a priest; in a word, that he is nothing
more than a gentleman in the most extended acceptation of the word.

You may be thankful to that destiny, which, in refusing talents to your
son, has taken care to put him in possession of great wealth, which will
sufficiently compensate him for other deficiencies, and enable him at the
same time to dispense with any favour from me.

I hope you will be impartial enough to see the reasons which prompt me to
refuse your request.  It may be disagreeable to you, but I consider it
necessary.  Farewell, madam.--Your sincere well-wisher, JOSEPH
LACHSENBURG, 4th August, 1787.

The application of another anxious and somewhat covetous mother was
answered with still more decision and irony:

To a Lady.

MADAM.--You know my disposition; you are not ignorant that the society of
the ladies is to me a mere recreation, and that I have never sacrificed my
principles to the fair sex.  I pay but little attention to
recommendations, and I only take them into consideration when the person
in whose behalf I may be solicited possesses real merit.

Two of your sons are already loaded with favours.  The eldest, who is not
yet twenty, is chief of a squadron in my army, and the younger has
obtained a canonry at Cologne, from the Elector, my brother.  What would
you have more?  Would you have the first a general and the second a
bishop?

In France you may see colonels in leading-strings, and in Spain the royal
princes command armies even at eighteen; hence Prince Stahremberg forced
them to retreat so often that they were never able all the rest of their
lives to comprehend any other manoeuvre.

It is necessary to be sincere at Court, and severe in the field, stoical
without obduracy, magnanimous without weakness, and to gain the esteem of
our enemies by the justice of our actions; and this, madam, is what I aim
at. JOSEPH VIENNA, September, 1787.

(From the inedited Letters of Joseph IL, published at Paris, by Persan,
1822.)




CHAPTER X.


During the alarm for the life of the Queen, regret at not possessing an
heir to the throne was not even thought of.  The King himself was wholly
occupied with the care of preserving an adored wife.  The young Princess
was presented to her mother.  “Poor little one,” said the Queen, “you were
not wished for, but you are not on that account less dear to me.  A son
would have been rather the property of the State.  You shall be mine; you
shall have my undivided care, shall share all my happiness, and console me
in all my troubles.”

The King despatched a courier to Paris, and wrote letters himself to
Vienna, by the Queen’s bedside; and part of the rejoicings ordered took
place in the capital.

A great number of attendants watched near the Queen during the first
nights of her confinement.  This custom distressed her; she knew how to
feel for others, and ordered large armchairs for her women, the backs of
which were capable of being let down by springs, and which served
perfectly well instead of beds.

M. de Lassone, the chief physician, the chief surgeon, the chief
apothecary, the principal officers of the buttery, etc., were likewise
nine nights without going to bed.  The royal children were watched for a
long time, and one of the women on duty remained, nightly, up and dressed,
during the first three years from their birth.

The Queen made her entry into Paris for the churching.  One hundred
maidens were portioned and married at Notre-Dame.  There were few popular
acclamations, but her Majesty was perfectly well received at the Opera.

A few days after the Queen’s recovery from her confinement, the Cure of
the Magdelaine de la City at Paris wrote to M. Campan and requested a
private interview with him; it was to desire he would deliver into the
hands of the Queen a little box containing her wedding ring, with this
note written by the Cure: “I have received under the seal of confession
the ring which I send to your Majesty; with an avowal that it was stolen
from you in 1771, in order to be used in sorceries, to prevent your having
any children.”  On seeing her ring again the Queen said that she had in
fact lost it about seven years before, while washing her hands, and that
she had resolved to use no endeavour to discover the superstitious woman
who had done her the injury.

The Queen’s attachment to the Comtesse Jules increased every day; she went
frequently to her house at Paris, and even took up her own abode at the
Chateau de la Muette to be nearer during her confinement.  She married
Mademoiselle de Polignac, when scarcely thirteen years of age, to M. de
Grammont, who, on account of this marriage, was made Duc de Guiche, and
captain of the King’s Guards, in reversion after the Duc de Villeroi. The
Duchesse de Civrac, Madame Victoire’s dame d’honneur, had been promised
the place for the Duc de Lorges, her son.  The number of discontented
families at Court increased.

The title of favourite was too openly given to the Comtesse Jules by her
friends.  The lot of the favourite of a queen is not, in France, a happy
one; the favourites of kings are treated, out of gallantry, with much
greater indulgence.

A short time after the birth of Madame the Queen became again enceinte;
she had mentioned it only to the King, to her physician, and to a few
persons honoured with her intimate confidence, when, having overexerted
her strength in pulling lip one of the glasses of her carriage, she felt
that she had hurt herself, and eight days afterwards she miscarried.  The
King spent the whole morning at her bedside, consoling her, and
manifesting the tenderest concern for her.  The Queen wept exceedingly;
the King took her affectionately in his arms, and mingled his tears with
hers.  The King enjoined silence among the small number of persons who
were informed of this unfortunate occurrence; and it remained generally
unknown.  These particulars furnish an accurate idea of the manner in
which this august couple lived together.

The Empress Maria Theresa did not enjoy the happiness of seeing her
daughter give an heir to the crown of France.  That illustrious Princess
died at the close of 1780, after having proved by her example that, as in
the instance of Queen Blanche, the talents of a sovereign might be blended
with the virtues of a pious princess.  The King was deeply affected at the
death of the Empress; and on the arrival of the courier from Vienna said
that he could not bring himself to afflict the Queen by informing her of
an event which grieved even him so much.  His Majesty thought the Abbe de
Vermond, who had possessed the confidence of Maria Theresa during his stay
at Vienna, the most proper person to discharge this painful duty.  He sent
his first valet de chambre, M. de Chamilly, to the Abbe on the evening of
the day he received the despatches from Vienna, to order him to come the
next day to the Queen before her breakfast hour, to acquit himself
discreetly of the afflicting commission with which he was charged, and to
let his Majesty know the moment of his entering the Queen’s chamber.  It
was the King’s intention to be there precisely a quarter of an hour after
him, and he was punctual to his time; he was announced; the Abbe came out;
and his Majesty said to him, as he drew up at the door to let him pass, “I
thank you, Monsieur l’Abbe, for the service you have just done me.”  This
was the only time during nineteen years that the King spoke to him.

Within an hour after learning the event the Queen put on temporary
mourning, while waiting until her Court mourning should be ready; she kept
herself shut up in her apartments for several days; went out only to mass;
saw none but the royal family; and received none but the Princesse de
Lamballe and the Duchesse de Polignac.  She talked incessantly of the
courage, the misfortunes, the successes, and the virtues of her mother.
The shroud and dress in which Maria Theresa was to be buried, made
entirely by her own hands, were found ready prepared in one of her
closets.  She often regretted that the numerous duties of her august
mother had prevented her from watching in person over the education of her
daughters; and modestly said that she herself would have been more worthy
if she had had the good fortune to receive lessons directly from a
sovereign so enlightened and so deserving of admiration.

The Queen told me one day that her mother was left a widow at an age when
her beauty was yet striking; that she was secretly informed of a plot laid
by her three principal ministers to make themselves agreeable to her; of a
compact made between them, that the losers should not feel any jealousy
towards him who should be fortunate enough to gain his sovereign’s heart;
and that they had sworn that the successful one should be always the
friend of the other two.  The Empress being assured of this scheme, one
day after the breaking up of the council over which she had presided,
turned the conversation upon the subject of female sovereigns, and the
duties of their sex and rank; and then applying her general reflections to
herself in particular, told them that she hoped to guard herself all her
life against weaknesses of the heart; but that if ever an irresistible
feeling should make her alter her resolution, it should be only in favour
of a man proof against ambition, not engaged in State affairs, but
attached only to a private life and its calm enjoyments,--in a word, if
her heart should betray her so far as to lead her to love a man invested
with any important office, from the moment he should discover her
sentiments he would forfeit his place and his influence with the public.
This was sufficient; the three ministers, more ambitious than amorous,
gave up their projects for ever.

On the 22d of October, 1781, the Queen gave birth to a Dauphin.--[The
first Dauphin, Louis, born 1781, died 1789.]--So deep a silence prevailed
in the room that the Queen thought her child was a daughter; but after the
Keeper of the Seals had declared the sex of the infant, the King went up
to the Queen’s bed, and said to her, “Madame, you have fulfilled my wishes
and those of France: you are the mother of a Dauphin.”  The King’s joy was
boundless; tears streamed from his eyes; he gave his hand to every one
present; and his happiness carried away his habitual reserve.  Cheerful
and affable, he was incessantly taking occasion to introduce the words,
“my son,” or “the Dauphin.”  As soon as the Queen was in bed, she wished
to see the long-looked-for infant.  The Princesse de Guemenee brought him
to her.  The Queen said there was no need for commending him to the
Princess, but in order to enable her to attend to him more freely, she
would herself share the care of the education of her daughter.  When the
Dauphin was settled in his apartment, he received the customary homages
and visits.  The Duc d’Angouleme,  meeting his father at the entrance of
the Dauphin’s apartment, said to him, “Oh, papa! how little my cousin
is!”--“The day will come when you will think him great enough, my dear,”
 answered the Prince, almost involuntarily.--[Eldest son of the Comte
d’Artois, and till the birth of the Dauphin with near prospects of the
succession.]

The birth of the Dauphin appeared to give joy to all classes.  Men stopped
one another in the streets, spoke without being acquainted, and those who
were acquainted embraced each other.  In the birth of a legitimate heir to
the sovereign every man beholds a pledge of prosperity and tranquillity.

[M. Merard de Saint Just made a quatrain on the birth of the Dauphin to
the following effect:

“This infant Prince our hopes are centred in, will doubtless make us
happy, rich, and free; And since with somebody he must begin, My fervent
prayer is--that it may be me!”

--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

The rejoicings were splendid and ingenious.  The artificers and tradesmen
of Paris spent considerable sums in order to go to Versailles in a body,
with their various insignia.  Almost every troop had music with it.  When
they arrived at the court of the palace, they there arranged themselves so
as to present a most interesting living picture.  Chimney-sweepers, quite
as well dressed as those that appear upon the stage, carried an ornamented
chimney, at the top of which was perched one of the smallest of their
fraternity.  The chairmen carried a sedan highly gilt, in which were to be
seen a handsome nurse and a little Dauphin.  The butchers made their
appearance with their fat ox.  Cooks, masons, blacksmiths, all trades were
on the alert.  The smiths hammered away upon an anvil, the shoemakers
finished off a little pair of boots for the Dauphin, and the tailors a
little suit of the uniform of his regiment.  The King remained a long time
upon a balcony to enjoy the sight.  The whole Court was delighted with it.
So general was the enthusiasm that (the police not having carefully
examined the procession) the grave-diggers had the imprudence to send
their deputation also, with the emblematic devices of their ill-omened
occupation.  They were met by the Princesse Sophie, the King’s aunt, who
was thrilled with horror at the sight, and entreated the King to have the
audacious, fellows driven out of the procession, which was then drawing up
on the terrace.

The ‘dames de la halle’ came to congratulate the Queen, and were received
with the suitable ceremonies.

Fifty of them appeared dressed in black silk gowns, the established full
dress of their order, and almost all wore diamonds.  The Princesse de
Chimay went to the door of the Queen’s bedroom to receive three of these
ladies, who were led up to the Queen’s bed.  One of them addressed her
Majesty in a speech written by M. de la Harpe.  It was set down on the
inside of a fan, to which the speaker repeatedly referred, but without any
embarrassment.  She was handsome, and had a remarkably fine voice. The
Queen was affected by the address, and answered it with great
affability,--wishing a distinction to be made between these women and the
poissardes, who always left a disagreeable impression on her mind.

The King ordered a substantial repast for all these women.  One of his
Majesty’s maitres d’hotel, wearing his hat, sat as president and did the
honours of the table.  The public were admitted, and numbers of people had
the curiosity to go.

The Garden-du-Corps obtained the King’s permission to give the Queen a
dress ball in the great hall of the Opera at Versailles.  Her Majesty
opened the ball in a minuet with a private selected by the corps, to whom
the King granted the baton of an exempt.  The fete was most splendid. All
then was joy, happiness, and peace.

The Dauphin was a year old when the Prince de Guemenee’s bankruptcy
compelled the Princess, his wife, who was governess to the children of
France, to resign her situation.

The Queen was at La Muette for the inoculation of her daughter.  She sent
for me, and condescended to say she wished to converse with me about a
scheme which delighted her, but in the execution of which she foresaw some
inconveniences.  Her plan was to appoint the Duchesse de Polignac to the
office lately held by the Princesse de Guemenee.  She saw with extreme
pleasure the facilities which this appointment would give her for
superintending the education of her children, without running any risk of
hurting the pride of the governess; and that it would bring together the
objects of her warmest affections, her children and her friend.  “The
friends of the Duchesse de Polignac,” continued the Queen, “will be
gratified by the splendour and importance conferred by the employment. As
to the Duchess, I know her; the place by no means suits her simple and
quiet habits, nor the sort of indolence of her disposition.  She will give
me the greatest possible proof of her devotion if she yields to my wish.”
 The Queen also spoke of the Princesse de Chimay and the Duchesse de Duras,
whom the public pointed out as fit for the post; but she thought the
Princesse de Chimay’s piety too rigid; and as to the Duchesse de Duras,
her wit and learning quite frightened her.  What the Queen dreaded as the
consequence of her selection of the Duchesse de Polignac was principally
the jealousy of the courtiers; but she showed so lively a desire to see
her scheme executed that I had no doubt she would soon set at naught all
the obstacles she discovered.  I was not mistaken; a few days afterwards
the Duchess was appointed governess.

The Queen’s object in sending for me was no doubt to furnish me with the
means of explaining the feelings which induced her to prefer a governess
disposed by friendship to suffer her to enjoy all the privileges of a
mother.  Her Majesty knew that I saw a great deal of company.

The Queen frequently dined with the Duchess after having been present at
the King’s private dinner.  Sixty-one thousand francs were therefore added
to the salary of the governess as a compensation for this increase of
expense.

The Queen was tired of the excursions to Marly, and had no great
difficulty in setting the King against them.  He did not like the expense
of them, for everybody was entertained there gratis.  Louis XIV. had
established a kind of parade upon these excursions, differing from that of
Versailles, but still more annoying.  Card and supper parties occurred
every day, and required much dress.  On Sundays and holidays the fountains
played, the people were admitted into the gardens, and there was as great
a crowd as at the fetes of St. Cloud.

Every age has its peculiar colouring; Marly showed that of Louis XIV. even
more than Versailles.  Everything in the former place appeared to have
been produced by the magic power of a fairy’s wand.  Not the slightest
trace of all this splendour remains; the revolutionary spoilers even tore
up the pipes which served to supply the fountains.  Perhaps a brief
description of this palace and the usages established there by Louis XIV.
may be acceptable.

The very extensive gardens of Marly ascended almost imperceptibly to the
Pavilion of the Sun., which was occupied only by the King and his family.
The pavilions of the twelve zodiacal signs bounded the two sides of the
lawn.  They were connected by bowers impervious to the rays of the sun.
The pavilions nearest to that of the sun were reserved for the Princes of
the blood and the ministers; the rest were occupied by persons holding
superior offices at Court, or invited to stay at Marly.  Each pavilion was
named after fresco paintings, which covered its walls, and which had been
executed by the most celebrated artists of the age of Louis XIV. On a line
with the upper pavilion there was on the left a chapel; on the right a
pavilion called La Perspective, which concealed along suite of offices,
containing a hundred lodging-rooms intended for the persons belonging to
the service of the Court, kitchens, and spacious dining-rooms, in which
more than thirty tables were splendidly laid out.

During half of Louis XV.’s reign the ladies still wore the habit de cour
de Marly, so named by Louis XIV., and which differed little from, that
devised for Versailles.  The French gown, gathered in the back, and with
great hoops, replaced this dress, and continued to be worn till the end of
the reign of Louis XVI.  The diamonds, feathers, rouge, and embroidered
stuffs spangled with gold, effaced all trace of a rural residence; but the
people loved to see the splendour of their sovereign and a brilliant Court
glittering in the shades of the woods.

After dinner, and before the hour for cards, the Queen, the Princesses,
and their ladies, paraded among the clumps of trees, in little carriages,
beneath canopies richly embroidered with gold, drawn by men in the King’s
livery.  The trees planted by Louis XIV. were of prodigious height, which,
however, was surpassed in several of the groups by fountains of the
clearest water; while, among others, cascades over white marble, the
waters of which, met by the sunbeams, looked like draperies of silver
gauze, formed a contrast to the solemn darkness of the groves.

In the evening nothing more was necessary for any well-dressed man to
procure admission to the Queen’s card parties than to be named and
presented, by some officer of the Court, to the gentleman usher of the
card-room.  This room, which was very, large, and of octagonal shape, rose
to the top of the Italian roof, and terminated in a cupola furnished with
balconies, in which ladies who had not been presented easily obtained
leave to place themselves, and enjoy, the sight of the brilliant
assemblage.

Though not of the number of persons belonging to the Court, gentlemen
admitted into this salon might request one of the ladies seated with the
Queen at lansquenet or faro to bet upon her cards with such gold or notes
as they presented to her.  Rich people and the gamblers of Paris did not
miss one of the evenings at the Marly salon, and there were always
considerable sums won and lost.  Louis XVI.  hated high play, and very
often showed displeasure when the loss of large sums was mentioned.  The
fashion of wearing a black coat without being in mourning had not then
been introduced, and the King gave a few of his ‘coups de boutoir’ to
certain chevaliers de St. Louis, dressed in this manner, who came to
venture two or three louis, in the hope that fortune would favour the
handsome duchesses who deigned to place them on their cards.

[Bachaumont in his “Memoirs,” (tome xii., p. 189), which are often
satirical; and always somewhat questionable, speaks of the singular
precautions taken at play at Court.  “The bankers at the Queen’s table,”
 says he, “in order to prevent the mistakes [I soften the harshness of his
expression] which daily happen, have obtained permission from her Majesty
that before beginning to play the table shall be bordered by a ribbon
entirely round it, and that no other money than that upon the cards beyond
the ribbon shall be considered as staked.”--NOTE By THE EDITOR.]

Singular contrasts are often seen amidst the grandeur of courts.  In order
to manage such high play at the Queen’s faro table, it was necessary to
have a banker provided with large, sums of money; and this necessity
placed at the table, to which none but the highest titled persons were
admitted in general, not only M. de Chalabre, who was its banker, but also
a retired captain of foot, who officiated as his second. A word, trivial,
but perfectly appropriate to express the manner in which the Court was
attended there, was often heard.  Gentlemen presented at Court, who had
not been invited to stay at Marly, came there notwithstanding, as they did
to Versailles, and returned again to Paris; under such circumstances, it
was said such a one had been to Marly only ‘en polisson’;--[A contemptuous
expression, meaning literally “as a scamp” or “rascal”]--and it appeared
odd to hear a captivating marquis, in answer to the inquiry whether he was
of the royal party at Marly, say, “No, I am only here ‘en polisson’,”
 meaning simply “I am here on the footing of all those whose nobility is of
a later date than 1400.”  The Marly excursions were exceedingly expensive
to the King.  Besides the superior tables, those of the almoners,
equerries, maitres d’hotel, etc., were all supplied with such a degree of
magnificence as to allow of inviting strangers to them; and almost all the
visitors from Paris were boarded at the expense of the Court.

The personal frugality of the unfortunate Prince who sank beneath the
weight of the national debts thus favoured the Queen’s predilection for
her Petit Trianon; and for five or six years preceding the Revolution the
Court very seldom visited Marly.

The King, always attentive to the comfort of his family, gave Mesdames,
his aunts, the use of the Chateau de Bellevue, and afterwards purchased
the Princesse de Guemenee’s house, at the entrance to Paris, for
Elisabeth.  The Comtesse de Provence bought a small house at Montreuil;
Monsieur already had Brunoy; the Comtesse d’Artois built Bagatelle;
Versailles became, in the estimation of all the royal family, the least
agreeable of residences.  They only fancied themselves at home in the
plainest houses, surrounded by English gardens, where they better enjoyed
the beauties of nature.  The taste for cascades and statues was entirely
past.

The Queen occasionally remained a whole month at Petit Trianon, and had
established there all the ways of life in a chateau.  She entered the
sitting-room without driving the ladies from their pianoforte or
embroidery.  The gentlemen continued their billiards or backgammon without
suffering her presence to interrupt them.  There was but little room in
the small Chateau of Trianon.  Madame Elisabeth accompanied the Queen
there, but the ladies of honour and ladies of the palace had no
establishment at Trianon.  When invited by the Queen, they came from
Versailles to dinner.  The King and Princes came regularly to sup.  A
white gown, a gauze kerchief, and a straw hat were the uniform dress of
the Princesses.

[The extreme simplicity of the Queen’s toilet began to be strongly
censured, at first among the courtiers, and afterwards throughout the
kingdom; and through one of those inconsistencies more common in France
than elsewhere, while the Queen was blamed, she was blindly imitated.
There was not a woman but would have the same undress, the same cap, and
the same feathers as she had been seen to wear. They crowded to
Mademoiselle Bertin, her milliner; there was an absolute revolution in the
dress of our ladies, which gave importance to that woman.  Long trains,
and all those fashions which confer a certain nobility on dress, were
discarded; and at last a duchess could not be distinguished from an
actress.  The men caught the mania; the upper classes had long before
given up to their lackeys feathers, tufts of ribbon, and laced hats.  They
now got rid of red heels and embroidery; and walked about our streets in
plain cloth, short thick shoes, and with knotty cudgels in their hands.
Many humiliating scrapes were the consequence of this metamorphosis.
Bearing no mark to distinguish them from the common herd, some of the
lowest classes got into quarrels with them, in which the nobles had not
always the best of it.--MONTJOIE, “History of Marie Antoinette.”]

Examining all the manufactories of the hamlet, seeing the cows milked, and
fishing in the lake delighted the Queen; and every year she showed
increased aversion to the pompous excursions to Marly.

The idea of acting comedies, as was then done in almost all country
houses, followed on the Queen’s wish to live at Trianon without ceremony.

[The Queen got through the characters she assumed indifferently enough;
she could hardly be ignorant of this, as her performances evidently
excited little pleasure.  Indeed, one day while she was thus exhibiting,
somebody ventured to say, by no means inaudibly, “well, this is royally
ill played!”  The lesson was thrown away upon her, for never did she
sacrifice to the opinion of another that which she thought permissible.
When she was told that her extreme plainness in dress, the nature of her
amusements, and her dislike to that splendour which ought always to attend
a Queen, had an appearance of levity, which was misinterpreted by a
portion of the public, she replied with Madame de Maintenon: “I am upon
the stage, and of course I shall be either hissed or applauded.”  Louis
XIV. had a similar taste; he danced upon the stage; but he had shown by
brilliant actions that he knew how to enforce respect; and besides, he
unhesitatingly gave up the amusement from the moment he heard those
beautiful lines in which Racine pointed out how very unworthy of him such
pastimes were.--MONTJOIE, “History of Marie Antoinette.”]

It was agreed that no young man except the Comte d’Artois should be
admitted into the company of performers, and that the audience should
consist only of the King, Monsieur, and the Princesses, who did not play;
but in order to stimulate the actors a little, the first boxes were to be
occupied by the readers, the Queen’s ladies, their sisters and daughters,
making altogether about forty persons.

The Queen laughed heartily at the voice of M. d’Adhemar, formerly a very
fine one, but latterly become rather tremulous.  His shepherd’s dress in
Colin, in the “Devin du Village,” contrasted very ridiculously with his
time of life, and the Queen said it would be difficult for malevolence
itself to find anything to criticise in the choice of such a lover. The
King was highly amused with these plays, and was present at every
performance.  Caillot, a celebrated actor, who had long quitted the stage,
and Dazincourt, both of acknowledged good character, were selected to give
lessons, the first in comic opera, of which the easier sorts were
preferred, and the second in comedy.  The office of hearer of rehearsals,
prompter, and stage manager was given to my father-in-law.  The Duc de
Fronsac, first gentleman of the chamber, was much hurt at this.  He
thought himself called upon to make serious remonstrances upon the
subject, and wrote to the Queen, who made him the following answer: “You
cannot be first gentleman when we are the actors.  Besides, I have already
intimated to you my determination respecting Trianon.  I hold no court
there, I live like a private person, and M. Campan shall be always
employed to execute orders relative to the private fetes I choose to give
there.”  This not putting a stop to the Duke’s remonstrances, the King was
obliged to interfere.  The Duke continued obstinate, and insisted that he
was entitled to manage the private amusements as much as those which were
public.  It became absolutely necessary to end the argument in a positive
manner.

The diminutive Duc de Fronsac never failed, when he came to pay his
respects to the Queen at her toilet, to turn the conversation upon
Trianon, in order to make some ironical remarks on my father-in-law, of
whom, from the time of his appointment, he always spoke as “my colleague
Campan.”  The Queen would shrug her shoulders, and say, when he was gone,
“It is quite shocking to find so little a man in the son of the Marechal
de Richelieu.”

So long as no strangers were admitted to the performances they were but
little censured; but the praise obtained by the performers made them look
for a larger circle of admirers.  The company, for a private company, was
good enough, and the acting was applauded to the skies; nevertheless, as
the audience withdrew, adverse criticisms were occasionally heard.  The
Queen permitted the officers of the Body Guards and the equerries of the
King and Princes to be present at the plays.  Private boxes were provided
for some of the people belonging to the Court; a few more ladies were
invited; and claims arose on all sides for the favour of admission.  The
Queen refused to admit the officers of the body guards of the Princes, the
officers of the King’s Cent Suisses, and many other persons, who were
highly mortified at the refusal.

While delight at having given an heir to the throne of the Bourbons, and a
succession of fetes and amusements, filled up the happy days of Marie
Antoinette, the public was engrossed by the Anglo-American war.  Two
kings, or rather their ministers, planted and propagated the love of
liberty in the new world; the King of England, by shutting his ears and
his heart against the continued and respectful representations of subjects
at a distance from their native land, who had become numerous, rich, and
powerful, through the resources of the soil they had fertilised; and the
King of France, by giving support to this people in rebellion against
their ancient sovereign.  Many young soldiers, belonging to the first
families of the country, followed La Fayette’s example, and forsook
luxury, amusement, and love, to go and tender their aid to the revolted
Americans.  Beaumarchais, secretly seconded by Messieurs de Maurepas and
de Vergennes, obtained permission to send out supplies of arms and
clothing.  Franklin appeared at Court in the dress of an American
agriculturist.  His unpowdered hair, his round hat, his brown cloth coat
formed a contrast to the laced and embroidered coats and the powder and
perfume of the courtiers of Versailles.  This novelty turned the light
heads of the Frenchwomen.  Elegant entertainments were given to Doctor
Franklin, who, to the reputation of a man of science, added the patriotic
virtues which invested him with the character of an apostle of liberty.  I
was present at one of these entertainments, when the most beautiful woman
out of three hundred was selected to place a crown of laurels upon the
white head of the American philosopher, and two kisses upon his cheeks.
Even in the palace of Versailles Franklin’s medallion was sold under the
King’s eyes, in the exhibition of Sevres porcelain.  The legend of this
medallion was:

“Eripuit coelo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis.”

The King never declared his opinion upon an enthusiasm which his correct
judgment no doubt led him to blame.  The Queen spoke out more plainly
about the part France was taking respecting the independence of the
American colonies, and constantly opposed it.  Far was she from foreseeing
that a revolution at--such a distance could excite one in which a
misguided populace would drag her from her palace to a death equally
unjust and cruel.  She only saw something ungenerous in the method which
France adopted of checking the power of England.

However, as Queen of France, she enjoyed the sight of a whole people
rendering homage to the prudence, courage, and good qualities of a young
Frenchman; and she shared the enthusiasm inspired by the conduct and
military success of the Marquis de La Fayette.  The Queen granted him
several audiences on his first return from America, and, until the 10th of
August, on which day my house was plundered, I preserved some lines from
Gaston and Bayard, in which the friends of M. de La Fayette saw the exact
outline of his character, written by her own hand:

         “Why talk of youth,
          When all the ripe experience of the old
          Dwells with him?  In his schemes profound and cool,
          He acts with wise precaution, and reserves
          For time of action his impetuous fire.
          To guard the camp, to scale the leaguered wall,
          Or dare the hottest of the fight, are toils
          That suit th’ impetuous bearing of his youth;
          Yet like the gray-hair’d veteran he can shun
          The field of peril.  Still before my eyes
          I place his bright example, for I love
          His lofty courage, and his prudent thought.
          Gifted like him, a warrior has no age.”

[During the American war a general officer in the service of the United
States advanced with a score of men under the English batteries to
reconnoitre their position.  His aide-de-camp, struck by a ball, fell at
his side.  The officers and orderly dragoons fled precipitately.  The
general, though under the fire of the cannon, approached the wounded man
to see whether any help could be afforded him.  Finding the wound had been
mortal, he slowly rejoined the group which had got out of the reach of the
cannon.  This instance of courage and humanity took place at the battle of
Monmouth. General Clinton, who commanded the English troops, knew that the
Marquis de La Fayette generally rode a white horse; it was upon a white
horse that the general officer who retired so slowly was mounted; Clinton
desired the gunners not to fire.  This noble forbearance probably saved M.
de La Fayette’s life, for he it was. At that time he was but twenty-two
years of age.--“Historical Anecdotes of the Reign of Louis XVI.”]

These lines had been applauded and encored at the French theatre;
everybody’s head was turned.  There was no class of persons that did not
heartily approve of the support given openly by the French Government to
the cause of American independence.  The constitution planned for the new
nation was digested at Paris, and while liberty, equality, and the rights
of man were commented upon by the Condorcets, Baillys, Mirabeaus, etc.,
the minister Segur published the King’s edict, which, by repealing that of
1st November, 1750, declared all officers not noble by four generations
incapable of filling the rank of captain, and denied all military rank to
the roturiers, excepting sons of the chevaliers de St. Louis.

[“M. de Segur,” says Chamfort, “having published an ordinance which
prohibited the admission of any other than gentlemen into the artillery
corps, and, on the other hand, none but well-educated persons being proper
for admission, a curious scene took place: the Abbe Bossat, examiner of
the pupils, gave certificates only to plebeians, while Cherin gave them
only to gentlemen.  Out of one hundred pupils, there were not above four
or five who were qualified in both respects.”]

The injustice and absurdity of this law was no doubt a secondary cause of
the Revolution.  To understand the despair and rage with which this law
inspired the Tiers Etat one should have belonged to that honourable class.
The provinces were full of roturier families, who for ages had lived as
people of property upon their own domains, and paid the taxes. If these
persons had several sons, they would place one in the King’s service, one
in the Church, another in the Order of Malta as a chevalier servant
d’armes, and one in the magistracy; while the eldest preserved the
paternal manor, and if he were situated in a country celebrated for wine,
he would, besides selling his own produce, add a kind of commission trade
in the wines of the canton.  I have seen an individual of this justly
respected class, who had been long employed in diplomatic business, and
even honoured with the title of minister plenipotentiary, the son-in-law
and nephew of colonels and town mayors, and, on his mother’s side, nephew
of a lieutenant-general with a cordon rouge, unable to introduce his sons
as sous-lieutenants into a regiment of foot.

Another decision of the Court, which could not be announced by an edict,
was that all ecclesiastical benefices, from the humblest priory up to the
richest abbey, should in future be appanages of the nobility.  Being the
son of a village surgeon, the Abbe de Vermond, who had great influence in
the disposition of benefices, was particularly struck with the justice of
this decree.

During the absence of the Abbe in an excursion he made for his health, I
prevailed on the Queen to write a postscript to the petition of a cure,
one of my friends, who was soliciting a priory near his curacy, with the
intention of retiring to it.  I obtained it for him.  On the Abbe’s return
he told me very harshly that I should act in a manner quite contrary to
the King’s wishes if I again obtained such a favour; that the wealth of
the Church was for the future to be invariably devoted to the support of
the poorer nobility; that it was the interest of the State that it should
be so; and a plebeian priest, happy in a good curacy, had only to remain
curate.

Can we be astonished at the part shortly afterwards taken by the deputies
of the Third Estate, when called to the States General?




CHAPTER XI.


About the close of the last century several of the Northern sovereigns
took a fancy for travelling.  Christian III., King of Denmark, visited the
Court of France in 1763, during the reign of Louis XV.  We have seen the
King of Sweden and Joseph II.  at Versailles.  The Grand Duke of Russia
(afterwards Paul I.), son of Catherine II., and the Princess of
Wurtemberg, his wife, likewise resolved to visit France.  They travelled
under the titles of the Comte and Comtesse du Nord.  They were presented
on the 20th of May, 1782.  The Queen received them with grace and dignity.
On the day of their arrival at Versailles they dined in private with the
King and Queen.

The plain, unassuming appearance of Paul I. pleased Louis XVI.  He spoke
to him with more confidence and cheerfulness than he had spoken to Joseph
II.  The Comtesse du Nord was not at first so successful with the Queen.
This lady was of a fine height, very fat for her age, with all the German
stiffness, well informed, and perhaps displaying her acquirements with
rather too much confidence.  When the Comte and Comtesse du Nord were
presented the Queen was exceedingly nervous.  She withdrew into her closet
before she went into the room where she was to dine with the illustrious
travellers, and asked for a glass of water, confessing “she had just
experienced how much more difficult it was to play the part of a queen in
the presence of other sovereigns, or of princes born to become so, than
before courtiers.”  She soon recovered from her confusion, and reappeared
with ease and confidence.  The dinner was tolerably cheerful, and the
conversation very animated.

Brilliant entertainments were given at Court in honour of the King of
Sweden and the Comte du Nord.  They were received in private by the King
and Queen, but they were treated with much more ceremony than the Emperor,
and their Majesties always appeared to me to be very, cautious before
these personages.  However, the King one day asked the Russian Grand Duke
if it were true that he could not rely on the fidelity of any one of those
who accompanied him.  The Prince answered him without hesitation, and
before a considerable number of persons, that he should be very sorry to
have with him even a poodle that was much attached to him, because his
mother would take care to have it thrown into the Seine, with a stone
round its neck, before he should leave Paris.  This reply, which I myself
heard, horrified me, whether it depicted the disposition of Catherine, or
only expressed the Prince’s prejudice against her.

The Queen gave the Grand Duke a supper at Trianon, and had the gardens
illuminated as they had been for the Emperor.  The Cardinal de Rohan very
indiscreetly ventured to introduce himself there without the Queen’s
knowledge.  Having been treated with the utmost coolness ever since his
return from Vienna, he had not dared to ask her himself for permission to
see the illumination; but he persuaded the porter of Trianon to admit him
as soon as the Queen should have set off for Versailles, and his Eminence
engaged to remain in the porter’s lodge until all the carriages should
have left the chateau.  He did not keep his word, and while the porter was
busy in the discharge of his duty, the Cardinal, who wore his red
stockings and had merely thrown on a greatcoat, went down into the garden,
and, with an air of mystery, drew up in two different places to see the
royal family and suite pass by.

Her Majesty was highly offended at this piece of boldness, and next day
ordered the porter to be discharged.  There was a general feeling of
disgust at the Cardinal’s conduct, and of commiseration towards the porter
for the loss of his place.  Affected at the misfortune of the father of a
family, I obtained his forgiveness; and since that time I have often
regretted the feeling which induced me to interfere.  The notoriety of the
discharge of the porter of Trianon, and the odium that circumstance would
have fixed upon the Cardinal, would have made the Queen’s dislike to him
still more publicly known, and would probably have prevented the
scandalous and notorious intrigue of the necklace.

The Queen, who was much prejudiced against the King of Sweden, received
him very coldly.

[Gustavus III., King of Sweden, travelled in France under the title of
Comte d’Haga.  Upon his accession to the throne, he managed the revolution
which prostrated the authority of the Senate with equal skill, coolness,
and courage.  He was assassinated in 1792, at a masked ball, by
Auckarstrum.--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

All that was said of the private character of that sovereign, his
connection with the Comte de Vergennes, from the time of the Revolution of
Sweden, in 1772, the character of his favourite Armfeldt, and the
prejudices of the monarch himself against the Swedes who were well
received at the Court of Versailles, formed the grounds of this dislike.
He came one day uninvited and unexpected, and requested to dine with the
Queen.  The Queen received him in the little closet, and desired me to
send for her clerk of the kitchen, that she might be informed whether
there was a proper dinner to set before Comte d’Haga, and add to it if
necessary.  The King of Sweden assured her that there would be enough for
him; and I could not help smiling when I thought of the length of the menu
of the dinner of the King and Queen, not half of which would have made its
appearance had they dined in private.  The Queen looked significantly at
me, and I withdrew.  In the evening she asked me why I had seemed so
astonished when she ordered me to add to her dinner, saying that I ought
instantly to have seen that she was giving the King of Sweden a lesson for
his presumption.  I owned to her that the scene had appeared to me so much
in the bourgeois style, that I involuntarily thought of the cutlets on the
gridiron, and the omelette, which in families in humble circumstances
serve to piece out short commons.  She was highly diverted with my answer,
and repeated it to the King, who also laughed heartily at it.

The peace with England satisfied all classes of society interested in the
national honour.  The departure of the English commissary from Dunkirk,
who had been fixed at that place ever since the shameful peace of 1763 as
inspector of our navy, occasioned an ecstasy of joy.

[By the Treaty of Utrecht (1713) it was stipulated that the fortifications
and port of Dunkirk should be destroyed.  By the Treaty of Paris (1763) a
commissary was to reside at Dunkirk to see that no attempt was made to
break this treaty.  This stipulation was revoked by the Peace of
Versailles, in 1783.--see DYER’S “Modern Europe,” 1st edition, vol. i.,
pp.  205-438 and 539.]

The Government communicated to the Englishman the order for his departure
before the treaty was made public.  But for that precaution the populace
would have probably committed some excess or other, in order to make the
agent of English power feel the effects of the resentment which had
constantly increased during his stay at that port.  Those engaged in trade
were the only persons dissatisfied with the treaty of 1783.  That article
which provided for, the free admission of English goods annihilated at one
blow the trade of Rouen and the other manufacturing towns throughout the
kingdom.  The English swarmed into Paris.  A considerable number of them
were presented at Court.  The Queen paid them marked attention; doubtless
she wished them to distinguish between the esteem she felt for their noble
nation and the political views of the Government in the support it had
afforded to the Americans.  Discontent was, however, manifested at Court
in consequence of the favour bestowed by the Queen on the English
noblemen; these attentions were called infatuations.  This was illiberal;
and the Queen justly complained of such absurd jealousy.

The journey to Fontainebleau and the winter at Paris and at Court were
extremely brilliant.  The spring brought back those amusements which the
Queen began to prefer to the splendour of fetes.  The most perfect harmony
subsisted between the King and Queen; I never saw but one cloud between
them.  It was soon dispelled, and the cause of it is perfectly unknown to
me.

My father-in-law, whose penetration and experience I respected greatly,
recommended me, when he saw me placed in the service of a young queen, to
shun all kinds of confidence.  “It procures,” said he, “but a very
fleeting, and at the same time dangerous sort of favour; serve with zeal
to the best of your judgment, but never do more than obey.  Instead of
setting your wits to work to discover why an order or a commission which
may appear of consequence is given to you, use them to prevent the
possibility of your knowing anything of the matter.”  I had occasion to
act on this wise advice.  One morning at Trianon I went into the Queen’s
chamber; there were letters lying upon the bed, and she was weeping
bitterly.  Her tears and sobs were occasionally interrupted by
exclamations of “Ah! that I were dead!--wretches! monsters! What have I
done to them?”  I offered her orange-flower water and ether.  “Leave me,”
 said she, “if you love me; it would be better to kill me at once.”  At
this moment she threw her arm over my shoulder and began weeping afresh. I
saw that some weighty trouble oppressed her heart, and that she wanted a
confidant.  I suggested sending for the Duchesse de Polignac; this she
strongly opposed.  I renewed my arguments, and her opposition grew weaker.
I disengaged myself from her arms, and ran to the antechamber, where I
knew that an outrider always waited, ready to mount and start at a
moment’s warning for Versailles.  I ordered him to go full speed, and tell
the Duchesse de Polignac that the Queen was very uneasy, and desired to
see her instantly.  The Duchess always had a carriage ready.  In less than
ten minutes she was at the Queen’s door.  I was the only person there,
having been forbidden to send for the other women.  Madame de Polignac
came in; the Queen held out her arms to her, the Duchess rushed towards
her.  I heard her sobs renewed and withdrew.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the Queen, who had become calmer, rang to
be dressed.  I sent her woman in; she put on her gown and retired to her
boudoir with the Duchess.  Very soon afterwards the Comte d’Artois arrived
from Compiegne, where he had been with the King.  He eagerly inquired
where the Queen was; remained half an hour with her and the Duchess; and
on coming out told me the Queen asked for me.  I found her seated on the
couch by the side of her friend; her features had resumed their usual
cheerful and gracious appearance.  She held out her hand to me, and said
to the Duchess, “I know I have made her so uncomfortable this morning that
I must set her poor heart at ease.”  She then added, “You must have seen,
on some fine summer’s day, a black cloud suddenly appear and threaten to
pour down upon the country and lay it waste.  The lightest wind drives it
away, and the blue sky and serene weather are restored.  This is just the
image of what has happened to me this morning.”  She afterwards told me
that the King would return from Compiegne after hunting there, and sup
with her; that I must send for her purveyor, to select with him from his
bills of fare all such dishes as the King liked best; that she would have
no others served up in the evening at her table; and that this was a mark
of attention that she wished the King to notice.  The Duchesse de Polignac
also took me by the hand, and told me how happy she was that she had been
with the Queen at a moment when she stood in need of a friend.  I never
knew what could have created in the Queen so lively and so transient an
alarm; but I guessed from the particular care she took respecting the King
that attempts had been made to irritate him against her; that the malice
of her enemies had been promptly discovered and counteracted by the King’s
penetration and attachment; and that the Comte d’Artois had hastened to
bring her intelligence of it.

It was, I think, in the summer of 1787, during one of the Trianon
excursions, that the Queen of Naples--[Caroline, sister of Marie
Antoinette.]--sent the Chevalier de Bressac to her Majesty on a secret
mission relative to a projected marriage between the Hereditary Prince,
her son, and Madame, the King’s daughter; in the absence of the lady of
honour he addressed himself to me.  Although he said a great deal to me
about the close confidence with which the Queen of Naples honoured him,
and about his letter of credit, I thought he had the air of an
adventurer.--[He afterwards spent several years shut up in the Chateau de
l’Oeuf.]--He had, indeed, private letters for the Queen, and his mission
was not feigned; he talked to me very rashly even before his admission,
and entreated me to do all that lay in my power to dispose the Queen’s
mind in favour of his sovereign’s wishes; I declined, assuring him that it
did not become me to meddle with State affairs. He endeavoured, but in
vain, to prove to me that the union contemplated by the Queen of Naples
ought not to be looked upon in that light.

I procured M. de Bressac the audience he desired, but without suffering
myself even to seem acquainted with the object of his mission.  The Queen
told me what it was; she thought him a person ill-chosen for the occasion;
and yet she thought that the Queen, her sister, had done wisely in not
sending a man worthy to be avowed,--it being impossible that what she
solicited should take place.  I had an opportunity on this occasion, as
indeed on many others, of judging to what extent the Queen valued and
loved France and the dignity of our Court.  She then told me that Madame,
in marrying her cousin, the Duc d’Angouleme, would not lose her rank as
daughter of the Queen; and that her situation would be far preferable to
that of queen of any other country; and that there was nothing in Europe
to be compared to the Court of France; and that it would be necessary, in
order to avoid exposing a French Princess to feelings of deep regret, in
case she should be married to a foreign prince, to take her from the
palace of Versailles at seven years of age, and send her immediately to
the Court in which she was to dwell; and that at twelve would be too late;
for recollections and comparisons would ruin the happiness of all the rest
of her life.  The Queen looked upon the destiny of her sisters as far
beneath her own; and frequently mentioned the mortifications inflicted by
the Court of Spain upon her sister, the Queen of Naples, and the necessity
she was under of imploring the mediation of the King of France.

She showed me several letters that she had received from the Queen of
Naples relative to her differences with the Court of Madrid respecting the
Minister Acton.  She thought him useful to her people, inasmuch as he was
a man of considerable information and great activity.  In these letters
she minutely acquainted her Majesty with the nature of the affronts she
had received, and represented Mr. Acton to her as a man whom malevolence
itself could not suppose capable of interesting her otherwise than by his
services.  She had had to suffer the impertinences of a Spaniard named Las
Casas, who had been sent to her by the King, her father-in-law, to
persuade her to dismiss Mr. Acton from the business of the State, and from
her intimacy.  She complained bitterly to the Queen, her sister, of the
insulting proceedings of this charge d’affaires, whom she told, in order
to convince him of the nature of the feelings which attached her to Mr.
Acton, that she would have portraits and busts of him executed by the most
eminent artists of Italy, and that she would then send them to the King of
Spain, to prove that nothing but the desire to retain a man of superior
capacity had induced her to bestow on him the favour he enjoyed.  This Las
Casas dared to answer her that it would be useless trouble; that the
ugliness of a man did not always render him displeasing; and that the King
of Spain had too much experience not to know that there was no accounting
for the caprices of a woman.

This audacious reply filled the Queen of Naples with indignation, and her
emotion caused her to miscarry on the same day.  In consequence of the
mediation of Louis XVI. the Queen of Naples obtained complete
satisfaction, and Mr. Acton continued Prime Minister.

Among the characteristics which denoted the goodness of the Queen, her
respect for personal liberty should have a place.  I have seen her put up
with the most troublesome importunities from people whose minds were
deranged rather than have them arrested.  Her patient kindness was put to
a very disagreeable trial by an ex-councillor of the Bordeaux Parliament,
named Castelnaux; this man declared himself the lover of the Queen, and
was generally known by that appellation.  For ten successive years did he
follow the Court in all its excursions.  Pale and wan, as people who are
out of their senses usually are, his sinister appearance occasioned the
most uncomfortable sensations.  During the two hours that the Queen’s
public card parties lasted, he would remain opposite her Majesty.  He
placed himself in the same manner before her at chapel, and never failed
to be at the King’s dinner or the dinner in public.  At the theatre he
invariably seated himself as near the Queen’s box as possible.  He always
set off for Fontainebleau or St. Cloud the day before the Court, and when
her Majesty arrived at her various residences, the first person she met on
getting out of her carriage was this melancholy madman, who never spoke to
any one.  When the Queen stayed at Petit Trianon the passion of this
unhappy man became still more annoying.  He would hastily swallow a morsel
at some eating-house, and spend all the rest of the day, even when it
rained, in going round and round the garden, always walking at the edge of
the moat.  The Queen frequently met him when she was either alone or with
her children; and yet she would not suffer any violence to be used to
relieve her from this intolerable annoyance.  Having one day given M. de
Seze permission to enter Trianon, she sent to desire he would come to me,
and directed me to inform that celebrated advocate of M. de Castelnaux’s
derangement, and then to send for him that M. de Seze might have some
conversation with him.  He talked to him nearly an hour, and made
considerable impression upon his mind; and at last M. de Castelnaux
requested me to inform the Queen positively that, since his presence was
disagreeable to her, he would retire to his province.  The Queen was very
much rejoiced, and desired me to express her full satisfaction to M. de
Seze.  Half an hour after M. de Seze was gone the unhappy madman was
announced.  He came to tell me that he withdrew his promise, that he had
not sufficient command of himself to give up seeing the Queen as often as
possible.  This new determination: was a disagreeable message to take to
her Majesty but how was I affected at hearing her say, “Well, let him
annoy me!  but do not let him be deprived of the blessing of freedom.”

[On the arrest of the King and Queen at Varennes, this unfortunate
Castelnaux attempted to starve himself to death.  The people in whose
house he lived, becoming uneasy at his absence, had the door of his room
forced open, when he was found stretched senseless on the floor.  I do not
know what became of him after the 10th of August.--MADAME CAMPAN.]

The direct influence of the Queen on affairs during the earlier years of
the reign was shown only in her exertions to obtain from the King a
revision of the decrees in two celebrated causes.  It was contrary to her
principles to interfere in matters of justice, and never did she avail
herself of her influence to bias the tribunals.  The Duchesse de Praslin,
through a criminal caprice, carried her enmity to her husband so far as to
disinherit her children in favour of the family of M. de Guemenee. The
Duchesse de Choiseul, who, was warmly interested in this affair, one day
entreated the Queen, in my presence, at least to condescend to ask the
first president when the cause would be called on; the Queen replied that
she could not even do that, for it would manifest an interest which it was
her duty not to show.

If the King had not inspired the Queen with a lively feeling of love, it
is quite certain that she yielded him respect and affection for the
goodness of his disposition and the equity of which he gave so many proofs
throughout his reign.  One evening she returned very late; she came out of
the King’s closet, and said to M. de Misery and myself, drying her eyes,
which were filled with tears, “You see me weeping, but do not be uneasy at
it: these are the sweetest tears that a wife can shed; they are caused by
the impression which the justice and goodness of the King have made upon
me; he has just complied with my request for a revision of the proceedings
against Messieurs de Bellegarde and de Monthieu, victims of the Duc
d’Aiguillon’s hatred to the Duc de Choiseul. He has been equally just to
the Duc de Guines in his affair with Tort. It is a happy thing for a queen
to be able to admire and esteem him who has admitted her to a
participation of his throne; and as to you, I congratulate you upon your
having to live under the sceptre of so virtuous a sovereign.”

The Queen laid before the King all the memorials of the Duc de Guines,
who, during his embassy to England, was involved in difficulties by a
secretary, who speculated in the public funds in London on his own
account, but in such a manner as to throw a suspicion of it on the
ambassador.  Messieurs de Vergennes and Turgot, bearing but little
good-will to the Duc de Guines, who was the friend of the Duc de Choiseul,
were not disposed to render the ambassador any service.  The Queen
succeeded in fixing the King’s particular attention on this affair, and
the innocence of the Duc de Guines triumphed through the equity of Louis
XVI.

An incessant underhand war was carried on between the friends and
partisans of M. de Choiseul, who were called the Austrians, and those who
sided with Messieurs d’Aiguillon, de Maurepas, and de Vergennes, who, for
the same reason, kept up the intrigues carried on at Court and in Paris
against the Queen.  Marie Antoinette, on her part, supported those who had
suffered in this political quarrel, and it was this feeling which led her
to ask for a revision of the proceedings against Messieurs de Bellegarde
and de Monthieu.  The first, a colonel and inspector of artillery, and the
second, proprietor of a foundry at St. Etienne, were, under the Ministry
of the Duc d’Aiguillon, condemned to imprisonment for twenty years and a
day for having withdrawn from the arsenals of France, by order of the Duc
de Choiseul, a vast number of muskets, as being of no value except as old
iron, while in point of fact the greater part of those muskets were
immediately embarked and sold to the Americans.  It appears that the Duc
de Choiseul imparted to the Queen, as grounds of defence for the accused,
the political views which led him to authorise that reduction and sale in
the manner in which it had been executed.  It rendered the case of
Messieurs de Bellegarde and de Monthieu more unfavourable that the
artillery officer who made the reduction in the capacity of inspector was,
through a clandestine marriage, brother-in-law of the owner of the
foundry, the purchaser of the rejected arms.  The innocence of the two
prisoners was, nevertheless, made apparent; and they came to Versailles
with their wives and children to throw themselves at the feet of their
benefactress.  This affecting scene took place in the grand gallery, at
the entrance to the Queen’s apartment.  She wished to restrain the women
from kneeling, saying that they had only had justice done them; and that
she ought to be congratulated upon the most substantial happiness
attendant upon her station, that of laying just appeals before the King.

On every occasion, when the Queen had to speak in public, she used the
most appropriate and elegant language, notwithstanding the difficulty a
foreigner might be expected to experience.  She answered all addresses
herself, a custom which she learned at the Court of Maria Theresa.  The
Princesses of the House of Bourbon had long ceased to take the trouble of
speaking in such cases.  Madame Addlaide blamed the Queen for not doing as
they did, assuring her that it was quite sufficient to mutter a few words
that might sound like an answer, while the addressers, occupied with what
they had themselves been saying, would always take it for granted that a
proper answer had been returned.  The Queen saw that idleness alone
dictated such a proceeding, and that as the practice even of muttering a
few words showed the necessity of answering in some way, it must be more
proper to reply simply but clearly, and in the best style possible.
Sometimes indeed, when apprised of the subject of the address, she would
write down her answer in the morning, not to learn it by heart, but in
order to settle the ideas or sentiments she wished to introduce.

The influence of the Comtesse de Polignac increased daily; and her friends
availed themselves of it to effect changes in the Ministry. The dismissal
of M. de Montbarrey, a man without talents or character, was generally
approved of.  It was rightly attributed to the Queen.  He had been placed
in administration by M. de Maurepas, and maintained by his aged wife;
both, of course, became more inveterate than ever against the Queen and
the Polignac circle.

The appointment of M. de Segur to the place of Minister of War, and of M.
de Castries to that of Minister of Marine, were wholly the work of that
circle.  The Queen dreaded making ministers; her favourite often wept when
the men of her circle compelled her to interfere.  Men blame women for
meddling in business, and yet in courts it is continually the men
themselves who make use of the influence of the women in matters with
which the latter ought to have nothing to do.

When M. de Segur was presented to the Queen on his new appointment, she
said to me, “You have just seen a minister of my making.  I am very glad,
so far as regards the King’s service, that he is appointed, for I think
the selection a very good one; but I almost regret the part I have taken
in it.  I take a responsibility upon myself.  I was fortunate in being
free from any; and in order to relieve myself from this as much as
possible I have just promised M. de Segur, and that upon my word of
honour, not to back any petition, nor to hinder any of his operations by
solicitations on behalf of my proteges.”

During the first administration of M. Necker, whose ambition had not then
drawn him into schemes repugnant to his better judgment, and whose views
appeared to the Queen to be very judicious, she indulged in hopes of the
restoration of the finances.  Knowing that M. de Maurepas wished to drive
M. Necker to resign, she urged him to have patience until the death of an
old man whom the King kept about him from a fondness for his first choice,
and out of respect for his advanced age.  She even went so far as to tell
him that M. de Maurepas was always ill, and that his end could not be very
distant.  M. Necker would not wait for that event.  The Queen’s prediction
was fulfilled.  M. de Maurepas ended his days immediately after a journey
to Fontainebleau in 1781.

M. Necker had retired.  He had been exasperated by a piece of treachery in
the old minister, for which he could not forgive him.  I knew something of
this intrigue at the time; it has since been fully explained to me by
Madame la Marechale de Beauvau.  M. Necker saw that his credit at Court
was declining, and fearing lest that circumstance should injure his
financial operations, he requested the King to grant him some favour which
might show the public that he had not lost the confidence of his
sovereign.  He concluded his letter by pointing out five requests--such an
office, or such a mark of distinction, or such a badge of honour, and so
on, and handed it to M. de Maurepas.  The or’s were changed into and’s;
and the King was displeased at M. Necker’s ambition, and the assurance
with which he displayed it.  Madame la Marechale de Beauvau assured me
that the Marechal de Castries saw the minute of M. Necker’s letter, and
that he likewise saw the altered copy.

The interest which the Queen took in M. Necker died away during his
retirement, and at last changed into strong prejudice against him.  He
wrote too much about the measures he would have pursued, and the benefits
that would have resulted to the State from them.  The ministers who
succeeded him thought their operations embarrassed by the care that M.
Necker and his partisans incessantly took to occupy the public with his
plans; his friends were too ardent.  The Queen discerned a party spirit in
these combinations, and sided wholly with his enemies.

After those inefficient comptrollers-general, Messieurs Joly de Fleury and
d’Ormesson, it became necessary to resort to a man of more acknowledged
talent, and the Queen’s friends, at that time combining with the Comte
d’Artois and with M. de Vergennes, got M. de Calonne appointed. The Queen
was highly displeased, and her close intimacy with the Duchesse de
Polignac began to suffer for this.

Her Majesty, continuing to converse with me upon the difficulties she had
met with in private life, told me that ambitious men without merit
sometimes found means to gain their ends by dint of importunity, and that
she had to blame herself for having procured M. d’Adhemar’s appointment to
the London embassy, merely because he teased her into it at the Duchess’s
house.  She added, however, that it was at a time of perfect peace with
the English; that the Ministry knew the inefficiency of M. d’Adhemar as
well as she did, and that he could do neither harm nor good.

Often in conversations of unreserved frankness the Queen owned that she
had purchased rather dearly a piece of experience which would make her
carefully watch over the conduct of her daughters-in-law, and that she
would be particularly scrupulous about the qualifications of the ladies
who might attend them; that no consideration of rank or favour should bias
her in so important a choice.  She attributed several of her youthful
mistakes to a lady of great levity, whom she found in her palace on her
arrival in France.  She also determined to forbid the Princesses coming
under her control the practice of singing with professors, and said,
candidly, and with as much severity as her slanderers could have done, “I
ought to have heard Garat sing, and never to have sung duets with him.”

The indiscreet zeal of Monsieur Augeard contributed to the public belief
that the Queen disposed of all the offices of finance.  He had, without
any authority for doing so, required the committee of fermiers-general to
inform him of all vacancies, assuring them that they would be meeting the
wishes of the Queen.  The members complied, but not without murmuring.
When the Queen became aware of what her secretary had done, she highly
disapproved of it, caused her resentment to be made known to the
fermiers-general, and abstained from asking for appointments,--making only
one request of the kind, as a marriage portion for one of her attendants,
a young woman of good family.




CHAPTER XII.


The Queen did not sufficiently conceal the dissatisfaction she felt at
having been unable to prevent the appointment of M. de Calonne; she even
one day went so far as to say at the Duchess’s, in the midst of the
partisans and protectors of that minister, that the finances of France
passed alternately from the hands of an honest man without talent into
those of a skilful knave.  M. de Calonne was thus far from acting in
concert with the Queen all the time that he continued in office; and,
while dull verses were circulated about Paris describing the Queen and her
favourite dipping at pleasure into the coffers of the comptroller-general,
the Queen was avoiding all communication with him.

During the long and severe winter of 1783-84 the King gave three millions
of livres for the relief of the indigent.  M. de Calonne, who felt the
necessity of making advances to the Queen, caught at this opportunity of
showing her respect and devotion.  He offered to place in her hands one
million of the three, to be distributed in her name and under her
direction.  His proposal was rejected; the Queen answered that the charity
ought to be wholly distributed in the King’s name, and that she would this
year debar herself of even the slightest enjoyments, in order to
contribute all her savings to the relief of the unfortunate.

The moment M. de Calonne left the closet the Queen sent for me:
“Congratulate me, my dear,” said she; “I have just escaped a snare, or at
least a matter which eventually might have caused me much regret.” She
related the conversation which had taken place word for word to me,
adding, “That man will complete the ruin of the national finances.  It is
said that I placed him in his situation.  The people are made to believe
that I am extravagant; yet I have refused to suffer a sum of money from
the royal treasury, although destined for the most laudable purpose, even
to pass through my hands.”

The Queen, making monthly retrenchments from the expenditure of her privy
purse, and not having spent the gifts customary at the period of her
confinement, was in possession of from five to six hundred thousand
francs, her own savings.  She made use of from two to three hundred
thousand francs of this, which her first women sent to M. Lenoir, to the
cures of Paris and Versailles, and to the Soeurs Hospitalieres, and so
distributed them among families in need.

Desirous to implant in the breast of her daughter not only a desire to
succour the unfortunate, but those qualities necessary for the due
discharge of that duty, the Queen incessantly talked to her, though she
was yet very young, about the sufferings of the poor during a season so
inclement.  The Princess already had a sum of from eight to ten thousand
francs for charitable purposes, and the Queen made her distribute part of
it herself.

Wishing to give her children yet another lesson of beneficence, she
desired me on New Year’s eve to get from Paris, as in other years, all the
fashionable playthings, and have them spread out in her closet. Then
taking her children by the hand, she showed them all the dolls and
mechanical toys which were ranged there, and told them that she had
intended to give them some handsome New Year’s gifts, but that the cold
made the poor so wretched that all her money was spent in blankets and
clothes to protect them from the rigour of the season, and in supplying
them with bread; so that this year they would only have the pleasure of
looking at the new playthings.  When she returned with her children into
her sitting-room, she said there was still an unavoidable expense to be
incurred; that assuredly many mothers would at that season think as she
did,--that the toyman must lose by it; and therefore she gave him fifty
Louis to repay him for the cost of his journey, and console him for having
sold nothing.

The purchase of St. Cloud, a matter very simple in itself, had, on account
of the prevailing spirit, unfavourable consequences to the Queen.

The palace of Versailles, pulled to pieces in the interior by a variety of
new arrangements, and mutilated in point of uniformity by the removal of
the ambassadors’ staircase, and of the peristyle of columns placed at the
end of the marble court, was equally in want of substantial and ornamental
repair.  The King therefore desired M. Micque to lay before him several
plans for the repairs of the palace.  He consulted me on certain
arrangements analogous to some of those adopted in the Queen’s
establishment, and in my presence asked M. Micque how much money would be
wanted for the execution of the whole work, and how many years he would be
in completing it.  I forget how many millions were mentioned: M. Micque
replied that six years would be sufficient time if the Treasury made the
necessary periodical advances without any delay.  “And how many years
shall you require,” said the King, “if the advances are not punctually
made?”--“Ten, Sire,” replied the architect.  “We must then reckon upon ten
years,” said his Majesty, “and put off this great undertaking until the
year 1790; it will occupy the rest of the century.”

The King afterwards talked of the depreciation of property which took
place at Versailles whilst the Regent removed the Court of Louis XV. to
the Tuileries, and said that he must consider how to prevent that
inconvenience; it was the desire to do this that promoted the purchase of
St. Cloud.  The Queen first thought of it one day when she was riding out
with the Duchesse de Polignac and the Comtesse Diane; she mentioned it to
the King, who was much pleased with the thought,--the purchase confirming
him in the intention, which he had entertained for ten years, of quitting
Versailles.

The King determined that the ministers, public officers, pages, and a
considerable part of his stabling should remain at Versailles.  Messieurs
de Breteuil and de Calonne were instructed to treat with the Duc d’Orleans
for the purchase of St. Cloud; at first they hoped to be able to conclude
the business by a mere exchange.  The value of the Chateau de Choisy, de
la Muette, and a forest was equivalent to the sum demanded by the House of
Orleans; and in the exchange which the Queen expected she only saw a
saving to be made instead of an increase of expense.  By this arrangement
the government of Choisy, in the hands of the Duc de Coigny, and that of
La Muette, in the hands of the Marechal de Soubise, would be suppressed.
At the same time the two concierges, and all the servants employed in
these two royal houses, would be reduced; but while the treaty was going
forward Messieurs de Breteuil and de Calonne gave up the point of
exchange, and some millions in cash were substituted for Choisy and La
Muette.

The Queen advised the King to give her St. Cloud, as a means of avoiding
the establishment of a governor; her plan being to have merely a concierge
there, by which means the governor’s expenses would be saved. The King
agreed, and St. Cloud was purchased for the Queen.  She provided the same
liveries for the porters at the gates and servants at the chateau as for
those at Trianon.  The concierge at the latter place had put up some
regulations for the household, headed, “By order of the Queen.”  The same
thing was done at St. Cloud.  The Queen’s livery at the door of a palace
where it was expected none but that of the King would be seen, and the
words “By order of the Queen” at the head of the printed papers pasted
near the iron gates, caused a great sensation, and produced a very
unfortunate effect, not only among the common people, but also among
persons of a superior class.  They saw in it an attack upon the customs of
monarchy, and customs are nearly equal to laws.  The Queen heard of this,
but she thought that her dignity would be compromised if she made any
change in the form of these regulations, though they might have been
altogether superseded without inconvenience.  “My name is not out of
place,” said she, “in gardens belonging to myself; I may give orders there
without infringing on the rights of the State.”  This was her only answer
to the representations which a few faithful servants ventured to make on
the subject.  The discontent of the Parisians on this occasion probably
induced M. d’Espremenil, upon the first troubles about the Parliament, to
say that it was impolitic and immoral to see palaces belonging to a Queen
of France.

[The Queen never forgot this affront of M. d’Espremenil’s; she said that
as it was offered at a time when social order had not yet been disturbed,
she had felt the severest mortification at it.  Shortly before the
downfall of the throne M. Espremenil, having openly espoused the King’s
side, was insulted in the gardens of the Tuileries by the Jacobins, and so
ill-treated that he was carried home very ill.  Somebody recommended the
Queen, on account of the royalist principles he then professed, to send
and inquire for him. She replied that she was truly grieved at what had
happened to M. d’Espremenil, but that mere policy should never induce her
to show any particular solicitude about the man who had been the first to
make so insulting an attack upon her character.--MADAME CAMPAN]

The Queen was very much dissatisfied with the manner in which M. de
Calonne had managed this matter.  The Abbe de Vermond, the most active and
persevering of that minister’s enemies, saw with delight that the
expedients of those from whom alone new resources might be expected were
gradually becoming exhausted, because the period when the Archbishop of
Toulouse would be placed over the finances was thereby hastened.

The royal navy had resumed an imposing attitude during the war for the
independence of America; glorious peace with England had compensated for
the former attacks of our enemies upon the fame of France; and the throne
was surrounded by numerous heirs.  The sole ground of uneasiness was in
the finances, but that uneasiness related only to the manner in which they
were administered.  In a word, France felt confident in its own strength
and resources, when two events, which seem scarcely worthy of a place in
history, but which have, nevertheless, an important one in that of the
French Revolution, introduced a spirit of ridicule and contempt, not only
against the highest ranks, but even against the most august personages.  I
allude to a comedy and a great swindling transaction.

Beaumarchais had long possessed a reputation in certain circles in Paris
for his wit and musical talents, and at the theatres for dramas more or
less indifferent, when his “Barbier de Seville” procured him a higher
position among dramatic writers.  His “Memoirs” against M. Goesman had
amused Paris by the ridicule they threw upon a Parliament which was
disliked; and his admission to an intimacy with M. de Maurepas procured
him a degree of influence over important affairs.  He then became
ambitious of influencing public opinion by a kind of drama, in which
established manners and customs should be held up to popular derision and
the ridicule of the new philosophers.  After several years of prosperity
the minds of the French had become more generally critical; and when
Beaumarchais had finished his monstrous but diverting “Mariage de Figaro,”
 all people of any consequence were eager for the gratification of hearing
it read, the censors having decided that it should not be performed.
These readings of “Figaro” grew so numerous that people were daily heard
to say, “I have been (or I am going to be) at the reading of
Beaumarchais’s play.”  The desire to see it performed became universal; an
expression that he had the art to use compelled, as it were, the
approbation of the nobility, or of persons in power, who aimed at ranking
among the magnanimous; he made his “Figaro” say that “none but little
minds dreaded little books.”  The Baron de Breteuil, and all the men of
Madame de Polignac’s circle, entered the lists as the warmest protectors
of the comedy.  Solicitations to the King became so pressing that his
Majesty determined to judge for himself of a work which so much engrossed
public attention, and desired me to ask M. Le Noir, lieutenant of police,
for the manuscript of the “Mariage de Figaro.”  One morning I received a
note from the Queen ordering me to be with her at three o’clock, and not
to come without having dined, for she should detain me some time.  When I
got to the Queen’s inner closet I found her alone with the King; a chair
and a small table were ready placed opposite to them, and upon the table
lay an enormous manuscript in several books.  The King said to me, “There
is Beaumarchais’s comedy; you must read it to us.  You will find several
parts troublesome on account of the erasures and references.  I have
already run it over, but I wish the Queen to be acquainted with the work.
You will not mention this reading to any one.”

I began.  The King frequently interrupted me by praise or censure, which
was always just.  He frequently exclaimed, “That’s in bad taste; this man
continually brings the Italian concetti on the stage.”  At that soliloquy
of Figaro in which he attacks various points of government, and especially
at the tirade against State prisons, the King rose up and said,
indignantly:

“That’s detestable; that shall never be played; the Bastille must be
destroyed before the license to act this play can be any other than an act
of the most dangerous inconsistency.  This man scoffs at everything that
should be respected in a government.”

“It will not be played, then?”  said the Queen.

“No, certainly,” replied Louis XVI.; “you may rely upon that.”

Still it was constantly reported that “Figaro” was about to be performed;
there were even wagers laid upon the subject; I never should have laid any
myself, fancying that I was better informed as to the probability than
anybody else; if I had, however, I should have been completely deceived.
The protectors of Beaumarchais, feeling certain that they would succeed in
their scheme of making his work public in spite of the King’s prohibition,
distributed the parts in the “Mariage de Figaro” among the actors of the
Theatre Francais.  Beaumarchais had made them enter into the spirit of his
characters, and they determined to enjoy at least one performance of this
so-called chef d’oeuvre.  The first gentlemen of the chamber agreed that
M. de la Ferte should lend the theatre of the Hotel des Menus Plaisirs, at
Paris, which was used for rehearsals of the opera; tickets were
distributed to a vast number of leaders of society, and the day for the
performance was fixed.  The King heard of all this only on the very
morning, and signed a ‘lettre de cachet,’--[A ‘lettre de cachet’ was any
written order proceeding from the King.  The term was not confined merely
to orders for arrest.]--which prohibited the performance.  When the
messenger who brought the order arrived, he found a part of the theatre
already filled with spectators, and the streets leading to the Hotel des
Menus Plaisirs filled with carriages; the piece was not performed.  This
prohibition of the King’s was looked upon as an attack on public liberty.

The disappointment produced such discontent that the words oppression and
tyranny were uttered with no less passion and bitterness at that time than
during the days which immediately preceded the downfall of the throne.
Beaumarchais was so far put off his guard by rage as to exclaim, “Well,
gentlemen, he won’t suffer it to be played here; but I swear it shall be
played,--perhaps in the very choir of Notre-Dame!”  There was something
prophetic in these words.  It was generally insinuated shortly afterwards
that Beaumarchais had determined to suppress all those parts of his work
which could be obnoxious to the Government; and on pretence of judging of
the sacrifices made by the author, M. de Vaudreuil obtained permission to
have this far-famed “Mariage de Figaro” performed at his country house.
M. Campan was asked there; he had frequently heard the work read, and did
not now find the alterations that had been announced; this he observed to
several persons belonging to the Court, who maintained that the author had
made all the sacrifices required.  M. Campan was so astonished at these
persistent assertions of an obvious falsehood that he replied by a
quotation from Beaumarchais himself, and assuming the tone of Basilio in
the “Barbier de Seville,” he said, “Faith, gentlemen, I don’t know who is
deceived here; everybody is in the secret.”  They then came to the point,
and begged him to tell the Queen positively that all which had been
pronounced reprehensible in M. de Beaumarchais’s play had been cut out.
My father-in-law contented himself with replying that his situation at
Court would not allow of his giving an opinion unless the Queen should
first speak of the piece to him. The Queen said nothing to him about the
matter.  Shortly, afterwards permission to perform this play was at length
obtained.  The Queen thought the people of Paris would be finely tricked
when they saw merely an ill-conceived piece, devoid of interest, as it
must appear when deprived of its Satire.

[“The King,” says Grimm, “made sure that the public would judge
unfavourably of the work.”  He said to the Marquis de Montesquiou, who was
going to see the first representation, ‘Well, what do you augur of its
success?’--‘Sire, I hope the piece will fail.’--‘And so do I,’ replied the
King.

“There is something still more ridiculous than my piece,” said
Beaumarchais himself; “that is, its success.”  Mademoiselle Arnould
foresaw it the first day, and exclaimed, “It is a production that will
fail fifty nights successively.”  There was as crowded an audience on the
seventy-second night as on the first.  The following is extracted from
Grimm’s ‘Correspondence.’

“Answer of M. de Beaumarchais to -----, who requested the use of his
private box for some ladies desirous of seeing ‘Figaro’ without being
themselves seen.

“I have no respect for women who indulge themselves in seeing any play
which they think indecorous, provided they can do so in secret. I lend
myself to no such acts.  I have given my piece to the public, to amuse,
and not to instruct, not to give any compounding prudes the pleasure of
going to admire it in a private box, and balancing their account with
conscience by censuring it in company.  To indulge in the pleasure of vice
and assume the credit of virtue is the hypocrisy of the age.  My piece is
not of a doubtful nature; it must be patronised in good earnest, or
avoided altogether; therefore, with all respect to you, I shall keep my
box.”  This letter was circulated all over Paris for a week.]

Under the persuasion that there was not a passage left capable of
malicious or dangerous application, Monsieur attended the first
performance in a public box.  The mad enthusiasm of the public in favour
of the piece and Monsieur’s just displeasure are well known.  The author
was sent to prison soon afterwards, though his work was extolled to the
skies, and though the Court durst not suspend its performance.

The Queen testified her displeasure against all who had assisted the
author of the “Mariage de Figaro” to deceive the King into giving his
consent that it should be represented.  Her reproaches were more
particularly directed against M. de Vaudreuil for having had it performed
at his house.  The violent and domineering disposition of her favourite’s
friend at last became disagreeable to her.

One evening, on the Queen’s return from the Duchess’s, she desired her
‘valet de chambre’ to bring her billiard cue into her closet, and ordered
me to open the box that contained it.  I took out the cue, broken in two.
It was of ivory, and formed of one single elephant’s tooth; the butt was
of gold and very tastefully wrought.  “There,” said she, “that is the way
M. de Vaudreuil has treated a thing I valued highly.  I had laid it upon
the couch while I was talking to the Duchess in the salon; he had the
assurance to make use of it, and in a fit of passion about a blocked ball,
he struck the cue so violently against the table that he broke it in two.
The noise brought me back into the billiard-room; I did not say a word to
him, but my looks showed him how angry I was.  He is the more provoked at
the accident, as he aspires to the post of Governor to the Dauphin.  I
never thought of him for the place.  It is quite enough to have consulted
my heart only in the choice of a governess; and I will not suffer that of
a Governor to the Dauphin to be at all affected by the influence of my
friends.  I should be responsible for it to the nation. The poor man does
not know that my determination is taken; for I have never expressed it to
the Duchess.  Therefore, judge of the sort of an evening he must have
passed!”




CHAPTER XIII.


Shortly after the public mind had been thrown into agitation by the
performance of the “Mariage de Figaro,” an obscure plot, contrived by
swindlers, and matured in a corrupted society, attacked the Queen’s
character in a vital point and assailed the majesty of the throne.

I am about to speak of the notorious affair of the necklace purchased, as
it was said, for the Queen by Cardinal de Rohan.  I will narrate all that
has come to my knowledge relating to this business; the most minute
particulars will prove how little reason the Queen had to apprehend the
blow by which she was threatened, and which must be attributed to a
fatality that human prudence could not have foreseen, but from which, to
say the truth, she might have extricated herself with more skill.

I have already said that in 1774 the Queen purchased jewels of Boehmer to
the value of three hundred and sixty thousand franca, that she paid for
them herself out of her own private funds, and that it required several
years to enable her to complete the payment.  The King afterwards
presented her with a set of rubies and diamonds of a fine water, and
subsequently with a pair of bracelets worth two hundred thousand francs.
The Queen, after having her diamonds reset in new patterns, told Boehmer
that she found her jewel case rich enough, and was not desirous of making
any addition to it.

[Except on those days when the assemblies at Court were particularly
attended, such as the 1st of January and the 2d of February, devoted to
the procession of the Order of the Holy Ghost, and on the festivals of
Easter, Whitsuntide, and Christmas, the Queen no longer wore any dresses
but muslin or white Florentine taffety.  Her head-dress was merely a hat;
the plainest were preferred; and her diamonds never quitted their caskets
but for the dresses of ceremony, confined to the days I have mentioned.
Before the Queen was five and twenty she began to apprehend that she might
be induced to make too frequent use of flowers and of ornaments, which at
that time were exclusively reserved for youth.  Madame Bertin having
brought a wreath for the head and neck, composed of roses, the Queen
feared that the brightness of the flowers might be disadvantageous to her
complexion.  She was unquestionably too severe upon herself, her beauty
having as yet experienced no alteration; it is easy to conceive the
concert of praise and compliment that replied to the doubt she had
expressed.  The Queen, approaching me, said, “I charge you, from this day,
to give me notice when flowers shall cease to become me.”--“I shall do no
such thing,” I replied, immediately; “I have not read ‘Gil Bias’ without
profiting in some degree from it, and I find your Majesty’s order too much
like that given him by the Archbishop of Granada, to warn him of the
moment when he should begin to fall off in the composition of his
homilies.”--“Go,” said the Queen; “You are less sincere than Gil Blas; and
I world have been more amenable than the Archbishop.”--MADAME CAMPAN.]

Still, this jeweller busied himself for some years in forming a collection
of the finest diamonds circulating in the trade, in order to compose a
necklace of several rows, which he hoped to induce her Majesty to
purchase; he brought it to M. Campan, requesting him to mention it to the
Queen, that she might ask to see it, and thus be induced to wish to
possess it.  This M. Campan refused to do, telling him that he should be
stepping out of the line of his duty were he to propose to the Queen an
expense of sixteen hundred thousand francs, and that he believed neither
the lady of honour nor the tirewoman would take upon herself to execute
such a commission.  Boehmer persuaded the King’s first gentleman for the
year to show this superb necklace to his Majesty, who admired it so much
that he himself wished to see the Queen adorned with it, and sent the case
to her; but she assured him she should much regret incurring so great an
expense for such an article, that she had already very beautiful diamonds,
that jewels of that description were now worn at Court not more than four
or five times a year, that the necklace must be returned, and that the
money would be much better employed in building a man-of-war.

[Messieurs Boehmer and Bassange, jewellers to the Crown, were proprietors
of a superb diamond necklace, which had, as it was said, been intended for
the Comtesse du Barry.  Being under the necessity of selling it, they
offered it, during the last war, to the king and Queen; but their
Majesties made the following prudent answer: “We stand more in need of
ships than of jewels.”--“Secret Correspondence of the Court of Louis
XVI.”]

Boehmer, in sad tribulation at finding his expectations delusive,
endeavoured for some time, it is said, to dispose of his necklace among
the various Courts of Europe.

A year after his fruitless attempts, Boehmer again caused his diamond
necklace to be offered to the King, proposing that it should be paid for
partly by instalments, and partly in life annuities; this proposal was
represented as highly advantageous, and the King, in my presence,
mentioned the matter once more to the Queen.  I remember the Queen told
him that, if the bargain really was not bad, he might make it, and keep
the necklace until the marriage of one of his children; but that, for her
part, she would never wear it, being unwilling that the world should have
to reproach her with having coveted so expensive an article.  The King
replied that their children were too young to justify such an expense,
which would be greatly increased by the number of years the diamonds would
remain useless, and that he would finally decline the offer. Boehmer
complained to everybody of his misfortune, and all reasonable people
blamed him for having collected diamonds to so considerable an amount
without any positive order for them.  This man had purchased the office of
jeweller to the Crown, which gave him some rights of entry at Court.
After several months spent in ineffectual attempts to carry his point, and
in idle complaints, he obtained an audience of the Queen, who had with her
the young Princess, her daughter; her Majesty did not know for what
purpose Boehmer sought this audience, and had not the slightest idea that
it was to speak to her again about an article twice refused by herself and
the King.

Boehmer threw himself upon his knees, clasped his hands, burst into tears,
and exclaimed, “Madame, I am ruined and disgraced if you do not purchase
my necklace.  I cannot outlive so many misfortunes.  When I go hence I
shall throw myself into the river.”

“Rise, Boehmer,” said the Queen, in a tone sufficiently severe to recall
him to himself; “I do not like these rhapsodies; honest men have no
occasion to fall on their knees to make their requests.  If you were to
destroy yourself I should regret you as a madman in whom I had taken an
interest, but I should not be in any way responsible for that misfortune.
Not only have I never ordered the article which causes your present
despair, but whenever you have talked to me about fine collections of
jewels I have told you that I should not add four diamonds to those which
I already possessed.  I told you myself that I declined taking the
necklace; the King wished to give it to me, but I refused him also; never
mention it to me again.  Divide it and try to sell it piecemeal, and do
not drown yourself.  I am very angry with you for acting this scene of
despair in my presence and before this child.  Let me never see you behave
thus again.  Go.”  Baehmer withdrew, overwhelmed with confusion, and
nothing further was then heard of him.

When Madame Sophie was born the Queen told me M. de Saint-James, a rich
financier, had apprised her that Boehmer was still intent upon the sale of
his necklace, and that she ought, for her own satisfaction, to endeavour
to learn what the man had done with it; she desired me the first time I
should meet him to speak to him about it, as if from the interest I took
in his welfare.  I spoke to him about his necklace, and he told me he had
been very fortunate, having sold it at Constantinople for the favourite
sultana.  I communicated this answer to the Queen, who was delighted with
it, but could not comprehend how the Sultan came to purchase his diamonds
in Paris.

The Queen long avoided seeing Boehmer, being fearful of his rash
character; and her valet de chambre, who had the care of her jewels, made
the necessary repairs to her ornaments unassisted.  On the baptism of the
Duc d’Angouleme, in 1785, the King gave him a diamond epaulet and buckles,
and directed Baehmer to deliver them to the Queen.  Boehmer presented them
on her return from mass, and at the same time gave into her hands a letter
in the form of a petition.  In this paper he told the Queen that he was
happy to see her “in possession of the finest diamonds known in Europe,”
 and entreated her not to forget him.  The Queen read Boehmer’s address to
her aloud, and saw nothing in it but a proof of mental aberration; she
lighted the paper at a wax taper standing near her, as she had some
letters to seal, saying, “It is not worth keeping.” She afterwards much
regretted the loss of this enigmatical memorial. After having burnt the
paper, her Majesty said to me, “That man is born to be my torment; he has
always some mad scheme in his head; remember, the first time you see him,
to tell him that I do not like diamonds now, and that I will buy no more
so long as I live; that if I had any money to spare I would rather add to
my property at St. Cloud by the purchase of the land surrounding it; now,
mind you enter into all these particulars and impress them well upon him.”
 I asked her whether she wished me to send for him; she replied in the
negative, adding that it would be sufficient to avail myself of the first
opportunity afforded by meeting him; and that the slightest advance
towards such a man would be misplaced.

On the 1st of August I left Versailles for my country house at Crespy; on
the 3d came Boehmer, extremely uneasy at not having received any answer
from the Queen, to ask me whether I had any commission from her to him; I
replied that she had entrusted me with none; that she had no commands for
him, and I faithfully repeated all she had desired me to say to him.

“But,” said Boehmer, “the answer to the letter I presented to her,--to
whom must I apply for that?”

“To nobody,” answered I; “her Majesty burnt your memorial without even
comprehending its meaning.”

“Ah! madame,” exclaimed he, “that is impossible; the Queen knows that she
has money to pay me!”

“Money, M. Boehmer?  Your last accounts against the Queen were discharged
long ago.”

“Madame, you are not in the secret.  A man who is ruined for want of
payment of fifteen hundred thousand francs cannot be said to be
satisfied.”

“Have you lost your senses?” said I.  “For what can the Queen owe you so
extravagant a sum?”

“For my necklace, madame,” replied Boehmer, coolly.

“What!” I exclaimed, “that necklace again, which you have teased the Queen
about so many years!  Did you not tell me you had sold it at
Constantinople?”

“The Queen desired me to give that answer to all who should speak to me on
the subject,” said the wretched dupe.  He then told me that the Queen
wished to have the necklace, and had had it purchased for her by
Monseigneur, the Cardinal de Rohan.

“You are deceived,” I exclaimed; “the Queen has not once spoken to the
Cardinal since his return from Vienna; there is not a man at her Court
less favourably looked upon.”

“You are deceived yourself, madame,” said Boehmer; “she sees him so much
in private that it was to his Eminence she gave thirty thousand francs,
which were paid me as an instalment; she took them, in his presence, out
of the little secretaire of Sevres porcelain next the fireplace in her
boudoir.”

“And the Cardinal told you all this?”

“Yes, madame, himself.”

“What a detestable plot!”  cried I.

“Indeed, to say the truth, madame, I begin to be much alarmed, for his
Eminence assured me that the Queen would wear the necklace on Whit-Sunday,
but I did not see it upon her, and it was that which induced me to write
to her Majesty.”

He then asked me what he ought to do.  I advised him to go on to
Versailles, instead of returning to Paris, whence he had just arrived; to
obtain an immediate audience from the Baron de Breteuil, who, as head of
the King’s household, was the minister of the department to which Boehmer
belonged, and to be circumspect; and I added that he appeared to me
extremely culpable,--not as a diamond merchant, but because being a sworn
officer it was unpardonable of him to have acted without the direct orders
of the King, the Queen, or the Minister.  He answered, that he had not
acted without direct orders; that he had in his possession all the notes
signed by the Queen, and that he had even been obliged to show them to
several bankers in order to induce them to extend the time for his
payments.  I urged his departure for Versailles, and he assured me he
would go there immediately.  Instead of following my advice, he went to
the Cardinal, and it was of this visit of Boehmer’s that his Eminence made
a memorandum, found in a drawer overlooked by the Abbe Georgel when he
burnt, by order of the Cardinal, all the papers which the latter had at
Paris.  The memorandum was thus worded: “On this day, 3d August, Boehmer
went to Madame Campan’s country house, and she told him that the Queen had
never had his necklace, and that he had been deceived.”

When Boehmer was gone, I wanted to follow him, and go to the Queen; my
father-in-law prevented me, and ordered me to leave the minister to
elucidate such an important affair, observing that it was an infernal
plot; that I had given Boehmer the best advice, and had nothing more to do
with the business.  Boehmer never said one word to me about the woman De
Lamotte, and her name was mentioned for the first time by the Cardinal in
his answers to the interrogatories put to him before the King.  After
seeing the Cardinal, Boehmer went to Trianon, and sent a message to the
Queen, purporting that I had advised him to come and speak to her.  His
very words were repeated to her Majesty, who said, “He is mad; I have
nothing to say to him, and will not see him.”  Two or three days
afterwards the Queen sent for me to Petit Trianon, to rehearse with me the
part of Rosina, which she was to perform in the “Barbier de Seville.” I
was alone with her, sitting upon her couch; no mention was made of
anything but the part.  After we had spent an hour in the rehearsal, her
Majesty asked me why I had sent Boehmer to her; saying he had been in my
name to speak to her, and that she would not see him.  It was in this
manner I learnt that he had not followed my advice in the slightest
degree.  The change of my countenance, when I heard the man’s name, was
very perceptible; the Queen perceived it, and questioned me.  I entreated
her to see him, and assured her it was of the utmost importance for her
peace of mind; that there was a plot going on, of which she was not aware;
and that it was a serious one, since engagements signed by herself were
shown about to people who had lent Boehmer money.  Her surprise and
vexation were great.  She desired me to remain at Trianon, and sent off a
courier to Paris, ordering Boehmer to come to her upon some pretext which
has escaped my recollection.  He came next morning; in fact it was the day
on which the play was performed, and that was the last amusement the Queen
allowed herself at that retreat.

The Queen made him enter her closet, and asked him by what fatality it was
that she was still doomed to hear of his foolish pretence of selling her
an article which she had steadily refused for several years.  He replied
that he was compelled, being unable to pacify his creditors any longer.
“What are your creditors to me?”  said her Majesty.  Boehmer then
regularly related to her all that he had been made to believe had passed
between the Queen and himself through the intervention of the Cardinal.
She was equally incensed and surprised at each thing she heard.  In vain
did she speak; the jeweller, equally importunate and dangerous, repeated
incessantly, “Madame, there is no longer time for feigning; condescend to
confess that you have my necklace, and let some assistance be given to me,
or my bankruptcy will soon bring the whole to light.”

It is easy to imagine how the Queen must have suffered.  On Boehmer’s
going away, I found her in an alarming condition; the idea that any one
could have believed that such a man as the Cardinal possessed her full
confidence; that she should have employed him to deal with a tradesman
without the King’s knowledge, for a thing which she had refused to accept
from the King himself, drove her to desperation.  She sent first for the
Abbe de Vermond, and then for the Baron de Breteuil.  Their hatred and
contempt for the Cardinal made them too easily forget that the lowest
faults do not prevent the higher orders of the empire from being defended
by those to whom they have the honour to belong; that a Rohan, a Prince of
the Church, however culpable he might be, would be sure to have a
considerable party which would naturally be joined by all the discontented
persons of the Court, and all the frondeurs of Paris. They too easily
believed that he would be stripped of all the advantages of his rank and
order, and given up to the disgrace due to his irregular conduct; they
deceived themselves.

I saw the Queen after the departure of the Baron and the Abbe; her
agitation made me shudder.  “Fraud must be unmasked,” said she; “when the
Roman purple and the title of Prince cover a mere money-seeker, a cheat
who dares to compromise the wife of his sovereign, France and all Europe
should know it.”  It is evident that from that moment the fatal plan was
decided on.  The Queen perceived my alarm; I did not conceal it from her.
I knew too well that she had many enemies not to be apprehensive on seeing
her attract the attention of the whole world to an intrigue that they
would try to complicate still more.  I entreated her to seek the most
prudent and moderate advice.  She silenced me by desiring me to make
myself easy, and to rest satisfied that no imprudence would be committed.

On the following Sunday, the 15th of August, being the Assumption, at
twelve o’clock, at the very moment when the Cardinal, dressed in his
pontifical garments, was about to proceed to the chapel, he was sent for
into the King’s closet, where the Queen then was.

The King said to him, “You have purchased diamonds of Boehmer?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“What have you done with them?”

“I thought they had been delivered to the Queen.”

“Who commissioned you?”

“A lady, called the Comtesse de Lamotte-Valois, who handed me a letter
from the Queen; and I thought I was gratifying her Majesty by taking this
business on myself.”

The Queen here interrupted him and said, “How, monsieur, could you believe
that I should select you, to whom I have not spoken for eight years, to
negotiate anything for me, and especially through the mediation of a woman
whom I do not even know?”

“I see plainly,” said the Cardinal, “that I have been duped.  I will pay
for the necklace; my desire to please your Majesty blinded me; I suspected
no trick in the affair, and I am sorry for it.”

He then took out of his pocket-book a letter from the Queen to Madame de
Lamotte, giving him this commission.  The King took it, and, holding it
towards the Cardinal, said:

“This is neither written nor signed by the Queen.  How could a Prince of
the House of Rohan, and a Grand Almoner of France, ever think that the
Queen would sign Marie Antoinette de France?  Everybody knows that queens
sign only by their baptismal names.  But, monsieur,” pursued the King,
handing him a copy of his letter to Baehmer, “have you ever written such a
letter as this?”

Having glanced over it, the Cardinal said, “I do not remember having
written it.”

“But what if the original, signed by yourself, were shown to you?”

“If the letter be signed by myself it is genuine.”

He was extremely confused, and repeated several times, “I have been
deceived, Sire; I will pay for the necklace.  I ask pardon of your
Majesties.”

“Then explain to me,” resumed the King, “the whole of this enigma.  I do
not wish to find you guilty; I had rather you would justify yourself.
Account for all the manoeuvres with Baehmer, these assurances and these
letters.”

The Cardinal then, turning pale, and leaning against the table, said,
“Sire, I am too much confused to answer your Majesty in a way--”

“Compose yourself, Cardinal, and go into my cabinet; you will there find
paper, pens, and ink,--write what you have to say to me.”

The Cardinal went into the King’s cabinet, and returned a quarter of an
hour afterwards with a document as confused as his verbal answers had
been.  The King then said, “Withdraw, monsieur.”  The Cardinal left the
King’s chamber, with the Baron de Breteuil, who gave him in custody to a
lieutenant of the Body Guard, with orders to take him to his apartment. M.
d’Agoult, aide-major of the Body Guard, afterwards took him into custody,
and conducted him to his hotel, and thence to the Bastille.  But while the
Cardinal had with him only the young lieutenant of the Body Guard, who was
much embarrassed at having such an order to execute, his Eminence met his
heyduc at the door of the Salon of Hercules; he spoke to him in German and
then asked the lieutenant if he could lend him a pencil; the officer gave
him that which he carried about him, and the Cardinal wrote to the Abbe
Georgel, his grand vicar and friend, instantly to burn all Madame de
Lamotte’s correspondence, and all his other letters.

[The Abbe Georgel thus relates the circumstance: “The Cardinal, at that
trying moment, gave an astonishing proof of his presence of mind;
notwithstanding the escort which surrounded him, favoured by the attendant
crowd, he stopped, and stooping down with his face towards the wall, as if
to fasten his buckle, snatched out his pencil and hastily wrote a few
words upon a scrap of paper placed under his hand in his square red cap.
He rose again and proceeded. On entering his house, his people formed a
lane; he slipped this paper, unperceived, into the hand of a confidential
valet de chambre, who waited for him at the door of his apartment.”  This
story is scarcely credible; it is not at the moment of a prisoner’s
arrest, when an inquisitive crowd surrounds and watches him, that he can
stop and write secret messages.  However, the valet de chambre posts off
to Paris.  He arrives at the palace of the Cardinal between twelve and one
o’clock; and his horse falls dead in the stable.  “I was in my apartment,”
 said the Abbe Georgel, “the valet de chambre entered wildly, with a deadly
paleness on his countenance, and exclaimed, ‘All is lost; the Prince is
arrested.’ He instantly fell, fainting, and dropped the note of which he
was the bearer.”  The portfolio containing the papers which might
compromise the Cardinal was immediately placed beyond the reach of all
search.  Madame de Lamotte also was foolishly allowed sufficient time
after she heard of the arrest of the Cardinal to burn all the letters she
had received from him.  Assisted by Beugnot, she completed this at three
the same morning that she was: arrested at four.--See “Memoirs of Comte de
Beugnot,” vol i., p. 74.]

This commission was executed before M. de Crosne, lieutenant of police,
had received an order from the Baron de Breteuil to put seals upon the
Cardinal’s papers.  The destruction of all his Eminence’s correspondence,
and particularly that with Madame de Lamotte, threw an impenetrable cloud
over the whole affair.

From that moment all proofs of this intrigue disappeared.  Madame de
Lamotte was apprehended at Bar-sur-Aube; her husband had already gone to
England.  From the beginning of this fatal affair all the proceedings of
the Court appear to have been prompted by imprudence and want of
foresight; the obscurity resulting left free scope for the fables of which
the voluminous memorials written on one side and the other consisted.  The
Queen so little imagined what could have given rise to the intrigue, of
which she was about to become the victim, that, at the moment when the
King was interrogating the Cardinal, a terrific idea entered her mind.
With that rapidity of thought caused by personal interest and extreme
agitation, she fancied that, if a design to ruin her in the eyes of the
King and the French people were the concealed motive of this intrigue, the
Cardinal would, perhaps, affirm that she had the necklace; that he had
been honoured with her confidence for this purchase, made without the
King’s knowledge; and point out some secret place in her apartment, where
he might have got some villain to hide it. Want of money and the meanest
swindling were the sole motives for this criminal affair.  The necklace
had already been taken to pieces and sold, partly in London, partly in
Holland, and the rest in Paris.

The moment the Cardinal’s arrest was known a universal clamour arose.
Every memorial that appeared during the trial increased the outcry. On
this occasion the clergy took that course which a little wisdom and the
least knowledge of the spirit of such a body ought to have foreseen. The
Rohans and the House of Conde, as well as the clergy, made their
complaints heard everywhere.  The King consented to having a legal
judgment, and early in September he addressed letters-patent to the
Parliament, in which he said that he was “filled with the most just
indignation on seeing the means which, by the confession of his Eminence
the Cardinal, had been employed in order to inculpate his most dear spouse
and companion.”

Fatal moment!  in which the Queen found herself, in consequence of this
highly impolitic step, on trial with a subject, who ought to have been
dealt with by the power of the King alone.  The Princes and Princesses of
the House of Conde, and of the Houses of Rohan, Soubise, and Guemenee, put
on mourning, and were seen ranged in the way of the members of the Grand
Chamber to salute them as they proceeded to the palace, on the days of the
Cardinal’s trial; and Princes of the blood openly canvassed against the
Queen of France.

The Pope wished to claim, on behalf of the Cardinal de Rohan, the right
belonging to his ecclesiastical rank, and demanded that he should be
judged at Rome.  The Cardinal de Bernis, ambassador from France to his
Holiness, formerly Minister for Foreign Affairs, blending the wisdom of an
old diplomatist with the principles of a Prince of the Church, wished that
this scandalous affair should be hushed up.  The King’s aunts, who were on
very intimate terms with the ambassador, adopted his opinion, and the
conduct of the King and Queen was equally and loudly censured in the
apartments of Versailles and in the hotels and coffee-houses of Paris.

Madame, the King’s sister-in-law, had been the sole protectress of De
Lamotte, and had confined her patronage to granting her a pension of
twelve to fifteen hundred francs.  Her brother was in the navy, but the
Marquis de Chabert, to whom he had been recommended, could never train a
good officer.  The Queen in vain endeavoured to call to mind the features
of this person, of whom she had often heard as an intriguing woman, who
came frequently on Sundays to the gallery of Versailles.  At the time when
all France was engrossed by the persecution against the Cardinal, the
portrait of the Comtesse de Lamotte  Valois was publicly sold.  Her
Majesty desired me one day, when I was going to Paris, to buy her the
engraving, which was said to be a tolerable likeness, that she might
ascertain whether she could recognise in it any person whom she might have
seen in the gallery.

[The public, with the exception of the lowest class, were admitted into
the gallery and larger apartments of Versailles, as they were into the
park.--MADAME CAMPAN.]

The woman De Lamotte’s father was a peasant at Auteuil, though he called
himself Valois.  Madame de Boulainvilliers once saw from her terrace two
pretty little peasant girls, each labouring under a heavy bundle of
sticks.  The priest of the village, who was walking with her, told her
that the children possessed some curious papers, and that he had no doubt
they were descendants of a Valois, an illegitimate son of one of the
princes of that name.

The family of Valois had long ceased to appear in the world.  Hereditary
vices had gradually plunged them into the deepest misery.  I have heard
that the last Valois then known occupied the estate called Gros Bois; that
as he seldom came to Court, Louis XIII. asked him what he was about that
he remained so constantly in the country; and that this M. de Valois
merely answered, “Sire, I only do there what I ought.”  It was shortly
afterwards discovered that he was coining.

Neither the Queen herself nor any one near her ever had the slightest
connection with the woman De Lamotte; and during her prosecution she could
point out but one of the Queen’s servants, named Desclos, a valet of the
Queen’s bedchamber, to whom she pre tended she had delivered Boehmer’s
necklace.  This Desclos was a very honest man; upon being confronted with
the woman De Lamotte, it was proved that she had never seen him but once,
which was at the house of the wife of a surgeon-accoucheur at Versailles,
the only person she visited at Court; and that she had not given him the
necklace.  Madame de Lamotte married a private in Monsieur’s body-guard;
she lodged at Versailles at the Belle Image, a very inferior furnished
house; and it is inconceivable how so obscure a person could succeed in
making herself believed to be a friend of the Queen, who, though so
extremely affable, seldom granted audiences, and only to titled persons.

The trial of the Cardinal is too generally known to require me to repeat
its details here.  The point most embarrassing to him was the interview he
had in February, 1785, with M. de Saint-James, to whom he confided the
particulars of the Queen’s pretended commission, and showed the contract
approved and signed Marie Antoinette de France.  The memorandum found in a
drawer of the Cardinal’s bureau, in which he had himself written what
Baehmer told him after having seen me at my country house, was likewise an
unfortunate document for his Eminence.

I offered to the King to go and declare that Baehmer had told me that the
Cardinal assured him he had received from the Queen’s own hand the thirty
thousand francs given on account upon the bargain being concluded, and
that his Eminence had seen her Majesty take that sum in bills from the
porcelain secretaire in her boudoir.  The King declined my offer, and said
to me, “Were you alone when Boehmer told you this?”  I answered that I was
alone with him in my garden.  “Well,” resumed he, “the man would deny the
fact; he is now sure of being paid his sixteen hundred thousand francs,
which the Cardinal’s family will find it necessary to make good to him; we
can no longer rely upon his sincerity; it would look as if you were sent
by the Queen, and that would not be proper.”

[The guilty woman no sooner knew that all was about to be discovered than
she sent for the jewellers, and told them the Cardinal had perceived that
the agreement, which he believed to have been signed by the Queen, was a
false and forged document.  “However,” added she, “the Cardinal possesses
a considerable fortune, and he can very well pay you.”  These words reveal
the whole secret.  The Countess had taken the necklace to herself, and
flattered herself that M. de Rohan, seeing himself deceived and cruelly
imposed upon, would determine to pay and make the beat terms he could,
rather than suffer a matter of this nature to become public.-“Secret
Correspondence of the Court of Louis XVI.”]

The procureur general’s information was severe on the Cardinal.  The
Houses of Conde and Rohan and the majority of the nobility saw in this
affair only an attack on the Prince’s rank, the clergy only a blow aimed
at the privileges of a cardinal.  The clergy demanded that the unfortunate
business of the Prince Cardinal de Rohan should be submitted to
ecclesiastical jurisdiction, and the Archbishop of Narbonne, then
President of the Convocation, made representations upon the subject to the
King; the bishops wrote to his Majesty to remind him that a private
ecclesiastic implicated in the affair then pending would have a right to
claim his constitutional judges, and that this right was refused to a
cardinal, his superior in the hierarchical order.  In short, the clergy
and the greater part of the nobility were at that time outrageous against
authority, and chiefly against the Queen.

The procureur-general’s conclusions, and those of a part of the heads of
the magistracy, were as severe towards the Cardinal as the information had
been; yet he was fully acquitted by a majority of three voices; the woman
De Lamotte was condemned to be whipped, branded, and imprisoned; and her
husband, for contumacy, was condemned to the galleys for life.

[The following extract is from the “Memoirs” of the Abbe Georgel: “The
sittings were long and multiplied; it was necessary to read the whole
proceedings; more than fifty judges sat; a master of requests; a friend of
the Prince, wrote down all that was said there, and sent it to his
advisers, who found means to inform the Cardinal of it, and to add the
plan of conduct he ought to pursue.”  D’Epremesnil, and other young
counsellors, showed upon that occasion but too much audacity in braving
the Court, too much eagerness in seizing an opportunity of attacking it.
They were the first to shake that authority which their functions made it
a duty in them to respect.--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

M. Pierre de Laurencel, the procureur general’s substitute, sent the Queen
a list of the names of the members of the Grand Chamber, with the means
made use of by the friends of the Cardinal to gain their votes during the
trial.  I had this list to keep among the papers which the Queen deposited
in the house of M. Campan, my father-in-law, and which, at his death, she
ordered me to preserve.  I burnt this statement, but I remember ladies
performed a part not very creditable to their principles; it was by them,
in consideration of large sums which they received, that some of the
oldest and most respected members were won over.  I did not see a single
name amongst the whole Parliament that was gained directly.

The belief confirmed by time is, that the Cardinal was completely duped by
the woman De Lamotte and Cagliostro.  The King may have been in error in
thinking him an accomplice in this miserable and criminal scheme, but I
have faithfully repeated his Majesty’s judgment about it.

However, the generally received opinion that the Baron de Breteuil’s
hatred for the Cardinal was the cause of the scandal and the unfortunate
result of this affair contributed to the disgrace of the former still more
than his refusal to give his granddaughter in marriage to the son of the
Duc de Polignac.  The Abbe de Vermond threw the whole blame of the
imprudence and impolicy of the affair of the Cardinal de Rohan upon the
minister, and ceased to be the friend and supporter of the Baron de
Breteuil with the Queen.

In the early part of the year 1786, the Cardinal, as has been said, was
fully acquitted, and came out of the Bastille, while Madame de Lamotte was
condemned to be whipped, branded, and imprisoned.  The Court, persisting
in the erroneous views which had hitherto guided its measures, conceived
that the Cardinal and the woman De Lamotte were equally culpable and
unequally punished, and sought to restore the balance of justice by
exiling the Cardinal to La Chaise-Dieu, and suffering Madame de Lamotte to
escape a few days after she entered l’Hopital.  This new error confirmed
the Parisians in the idea that the wretch De Lamotte, who had never been
able to make her way so far as to the room appropriated to the Queen’s
women, had really interested the Queen herself.

[Further particulars will be found in the “Memoirs of the Comte de
Beugnot” (London: Hurst & Blackett, 1871), as he knew Madame de Lamotte
from the days of her early childhood (when the three children, the Baron
de Valois, who died captain of a frigate, and the two Mademoiselles de
Saint-Remi, the last descendants of the Baron de Saint-Remi, a natural son
of Henri II., were almost starving) to the time of her temporary
prosperity.  In fact, he was with her when she burnt the correspondence of
the Cardinal, in the interval the Court foolishly allowed between his
arrest and her capture, and De Beugnot believed he had met at her house,
at the moment of their return from their successful trick, the whole party
engaged in deluding the Cardinal.  It is worth noting that he was then
struck by the face of Mademoiselle d’Oliva, who had just personated the
Queen in presenting a rose to the Cardinal.  It may also be cited as a
pleasing quality of Madame de Lamotte that she, “in her ordinary
conversation, used the words stupid and honest as synonymous.”--See
“Beugnot,” vol. i., p. 60.]




CHAPTER XIV.


The Abbe de Vermond could not repress his exultation when he succeeded in
getting the Archbishop of Sens appointed head of the council of finance. I
have more than once heard him say that seventeen years of patience were
not too long a term for success in a Court; that he spent all that time in
gaining the end he had in view; but that at length the Archbishop was
where he ought to be for the good of the State.  The Abbe, from this time,
in the Queen’s private circle no longer concealed his credit and
influence; nothing could equal the confidence with which he displayed the
extent of his pretensions.  He requested the Queen to order that the
apartments appropriated to him should be enlarged, telling her that, being
obliged to give audiences to bishops, cardinals, and ministers, he
required a residence suitable to his present circumstances.  The Queen
continued to treat him as she did before the Archbishop’s arrival at
Court; but the household showed him increased consideration: the word
“Monsieur” preceded that of Abbe; and from that moment not only the livery
servants, but also the people of the antechambers rose when Monsieur
l’Abbe was passing, though there never was, to my knowledge, any order
given to that effect.

The Queen was obliged, on account of the King’s disposition and the very
limited confidence he placed in the Archbishop of Sens, to take a part in
public affairs.  While M. de Maurepas lived she kept out of that danger,
as may be seen by the censure which the Baron de Besenval passes on her in
his memoirs for not availing herself of the conciliation he had promoted
between the Queen and that minister, who counteracted the ascendency which
the Queen and her intimate friends might otherwise have gained over the
King’s mind.

The Queen has often assured me that she never interfered respecting the
interests of Austria but once; and that was only to claim the execution of
the treaty of alliance at the time when Joseph II. was at war with Prussia
and Turkey; that, she then demanded that an army of twenty-four thousand
men should be sent to him instead of fifteen millions, an alternative
which had been left to option in the treaty, in case the Emperor should
have a just war to maintain; that she could not obtain her object, and M.
de Vergennes, in an interview which she had with him upon the subject, put
an end to her importunities by observing that he was answering the mother
of the Dauphin and not the sister of the Emperor. The fifteen millions
were sent.  There was no want of money at Vienna, and the value of a
French army was fully appreciated.

“But how,” said the Queen, “could they be so wicked as to send off those
fifteen millions from the general post-office, diligently publishing, even
to the street porters, that they were loading carriages with money that I
was sending to my brother!--whereas it is certain that the money would
equally have been sent if I had belonged to another house; and, besides,
it was sent contrary to my inclination.”

[This was not the first time the Queen had become unpopular in consequence
of financial support afforded by France to her brother. The Emperor Joseph
II, made, in November, 1783, and in May, 1784, startling claims on the
republic of the United Provinces; he demanded the opening of the Scheldt,
the cession of Maeatricht with its dependencies, of the country beyond the
Meuse, the county of Vroenhoven, and a sum of seventy millions of florins.
The first gun was fired by the Emperor on the Scheldt 6th November, 1784.
Peace was concluded 8th November, 1785, through the mediation of France.
The singular part was the indemnification granted to the Emperor: this was
a sum of ten millions of Dutch florins; the articles 15, 16, and 17 of the
treaty stipulated the quotas of it.  Holland paid five millions and a
half, and France, under the direction of M. de Vergennes, four millions
and a half of florins, that is to say, nine millions and forty-five
thousand francs, according to M. Soulavie. M. de augur, in his “Policy of
Cabinets” (vol. iii.), says relative to this affair:

“M. de Vergennes has been much blamed for having terminated, by a
sacrifice of seven millions, the contest that existed between the United
Provinces and the Emperor.  In that age of philosophy men were still very
uncivilised; in that age of commerce they made very erroneous
calculations; and those who accused the Queen of sending the gold of
France to her brother would have been better pleased if, to support a
republic devoid of energy, the blood of two hundred thousand men, and
three or four hundred millions of francs, had been sacrificed, and at the
same time the risk run of losing the advantage of peace dictated to
England.”  MADAME CAMPAN.]

When the Comte de Moustier set out on his mission to the United States,
after having had his public audience of leave he came and asked me to
procure him a private one.  I could not succeed even with the strongest
solicitations; the Queen desired me to wish him a good voyage, but added
that none but ministers could have anything to say to him in private,
since he was going to a country where the names of King and Queen must be
detested.

Marie Antoinette had then no direct influence over State affairs until
after the deaths of M. de Maurepas and M. de Vergennes, and the retirement
of M. de Calonne.  She frequently regretted her new situation, and looked
upon it as a misfortune which she could not avoid.  One day, while I was
assisting her to tie up a number of memorials and reports, which some of
the ministers had handed to her to be given to the King, “Ah!” said she,
sighing, “there is an end of all happiness for me, since they have made an
intriguer of me.”  I exclaimed at the word.

“Yes,” resumed, the Queen, “that is the right term; every woman who
meddles with affairs above her understanding or out of her line of duty is
an intriguer and nothing else; you will remember, however, that it is not
my own fault, and that it is with regret I give myself such a title;
Queens of France are happy only so long as they meddle with nothing, and
merely preserve influence sufficient to advance their friends and reward a
few zealous servants.  Do you know what happened to me lately?  One day
since I began to attend private committees at the King’s, while crossing
the oiel-de-boeuf, I heard one of the musicians of the chapel say so loud
that I lost not a single word, ‘A Queen who does her duty will remain in
her apartment to knit.’ I said within myself, ‘Poor wretch, thou art
right; but thou knowest not my situation; I yield to necessity and my evil
destiny.’”

This situation was the more painful to the Queen inasmuch as Louis XVI.
had long accustomed himself to say nothing to her respecting State
affairs; and when, towards the close of his reign, she was obliged to
interfere in the most important matters, the same habit in the King
frequently kept from her particulars which it was necessary she should
have known.  Obtaining, therefore, only insufficient information, and
guided by persons more ambitious than skilful, the Queen could not be
useful in important affairs; yet, at the same time, her ostensible
interference drew upon her, from all parties and all classes of society,
an unpopularity the rapid progress of which alarmed all those who were
sincerely attached to her.

Carried away by the eloquence of the Archbishop of Sens, and encouraged in
the confidence she placed in that minister by the incessant eulogies of
the Abbe de Vermond on his abilities, the Queen unfortunately followed up
her first mistake of bringing him into office in 1787 by supporting him at
the time of his disgrace, which was obtained by the despair of a whole
nation.  She thought it was due to her dignity to give him some marked
proof of her regard at the moment of his departure; misled by her
feelings, she sent him her portrait enriched with jewelry, and a brevet
for the situation of lady of the palace for Madame de Canisy, his niece,
observing that it was necessary to indemnify a minister sacrificed to the
intrigues of the Court and a factious spirit of the nation; that otherwise
none would be found willing to devote themselves to the interests of the
sovereign.

On the day of the Archbishop’s departure the public joy was universal,
both at Court and at Paris there were bonfires; the attorneys’ clerks
burnt the Archbishop in effigy, and on the evening of his disgrace more
than a hundred couriers were sent out from Versailles to spread the happy
tidings among the country seats.  I have seen the Queen shed bitter tears
at the recollection of the errors she committed at this period, when
subsequently, a short time before her death, the Archbishop had the
audacity to say, in a speech which was printed, that the sole object of
one part of his operations, during his administration, was the salutary
crisis which the Revolution had produced.

The benevolence and generosity shown by the King and Queen during the
severe winter of 1788, when the Seine was frozen over and the cold was
more intense than it had been for eighty years, procured them some
fleeting popularity.  The gratitude of the Parisians for the succour their
Majesties poured forth was lively if not lasting.  The snow was so
abundant that since that period there has never been seen such a
prodigious quantity in France.  In different parts of Paris pyramids and
obelisks of snow were erected with inscriptions expressive of the
gratitude of the people.  The pyramid in the Rue d’Angiviller was
supported on a base six feet high by twelve broad; it rose to the height
of fifteen feet, and was terminated by a globe.  Four blocks of stone,
placed at the angles, corresponded with the obelisk, and gave it an
elegant appearance.  Several inscriptions, in honour of the King and
Queen, were affixed to it.  I went to see this singular monument, and
recollect the following inscription:

“TO MARIE ANTOINETTE.”
           “Lovely and good, to tender pity true,
          Queen of a virtuous King, this trophy view;
          Cold ice and snow sustain its fragile form,
          But ev’ry grateful heart to thee is warm.
          Oh, may this tribute in your hearts excite,
          Illustrious pair, more pure and real delight,
          Whilst thus your virtues are sincerely prais’d,
          Than pompous domes by servile flatt’ry rais’d.”
 The theatres generally rang with praises of the beneficence of the
sovereigns: “La Partie de Chasse de Henri IV.” was represented for the
benefit of the poor.  The receipts were very considerable.

When the fruitless measure of the Assembly of the Notables, and the
rebellious spirit in the parliaments, had created the necessity for
States General, it was long discussed in council whether they should be
assembled at Versailles or at forty or sixty leagues from the capital;
the Queen was for the latter course, and insisted to the King that they
ought to be far away from the immense population of Paris.

[The Assembly of the Notables, as may be seen in “Weber’s Memoirs,” vol.
i., overthrew the plans and caused the downfall of M. de Calonne.  A
prince of the blood presided over each of the meetings of that assembly.
Monsieur, afterwards Louis XVIII., presided over the first meeting.

“Monsieur,” says a contemporary, “gained great reputation at the Assembly
of the Notables in 1787.  He did not miss attending his meeting a single
day, and he displayed truly patriotic virtues. His care in discussing the
weighty matters of administration, in throwing light upon them, and in
defending the interests and the cause of the people, was such as even to
inspire the King with some degree of jealousy.  Monsieur openly said that
a respectful resistance to the orders of the monarch was not blamable, and
that authority might be met by argument, and forced to receive information
without any offence whatever.”--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

She feared that the people would influence the deliberations of the
deputies; several memorials were presented to the King upon that
question; but M. Necker prevailed, and Versailles was the place fixed
upon.

The day on which the King announced that he gave his consent to the
convocation of the States General, the Queen left the public dinner, and
placed herself in the recess of the first window of her bedchamber, with
her face towards the garden.  Her chief butler followed her, to present
her coffee, which she usually took standing, as she was about to leave the
table.  She beckoned to me to come close to her.  The King was engaged in
conversation with some one in his room.  When the attendant had served her
he retired; and she addressed me, with the cup still in her hand: “Great
Heavens! what fatal news goes forth this day!  The King assents to the
convocation of the States General.”  Then she added, raising her eyes to
heaven, “I dread it; this important event is a first fatal signal of
discord in France.”  She cast her eyes down, they were filled with tears.
She could not take the remainder of her coffee, but handed me the cup, and
went to join the King.  In the evening, when she was alone with me, she
spoke only of this momentous decision.  “It is the Parliament,” said she,
“that has compelled the King to have recourse to a measure long considered
fatal to the repose of the kingdom.  These gentlemen wish to restrain the
power of the King; but they give a great shock to the authority of which
they make so bad a use, and they will bring on their own destruction.”

The double representation granted to the Tiers Etat was now the chief
topic of conversation.  The Queen favoured this plan, to which the King
had agreed; she thought the hope of obtaining ecclesiastical favours would
secure the clergy of the second order, and that M. Necker was sure to have
the same degree of influence over the lawyers, and other people of that
class comprised in the Tiers Dat.  The Comte d’Artois, holding the
contrary opinion, presented a memorial in the names of himself and several
princes of the blood to the King against the double representation.  The
Queen was displeased with him for this; her confidential advisers infused
into her apprehensions that the Prince was made the tool of a party; but
his conduct was approved of by Madame de Polignac’s circle, which the
Queen thenceforward only frequented to avoid the appearance of a change in
her habits.  She almost always returned unhappy; she was treated with the
profound respect due to a queen, but the devotion of friendship had
vanished, to make way for the coldness of etiquette, which wounded her
deeply.  The alienation between her and the Comte Artois was also very
painful to her, for she had loved him almost as tenderly as if he had been
her own brother.

The opening of the States General took place on the 4th of May, 1789. The
Queen on that occasion appeared for the last time in her life in regal
magnificence.  During the procession some low women, seeing the Queen
pass, cried out “Vive le Duc d’ Orleans!”  in so threatening a manner that
she nearly fainted.  She was obliged to be supported, and those about her
were afraid it would be necessary to stop the procession. The Queen,
however, recovered herself, and much regretted that she had not been able
to command more presence of mind.

The rapidly increasing distrust of the King and Queen shown by the
populace was greatly attributable to incessant corruption by English gold,
and the projects, either of revenge or of ambition, of the Duc d’Orleans.
Let it not be thought that this accusation is founded on what has been so
often repeated by the heads of the French Government since the Revolution.
Twice between the 14th of July and the 6th of October, 1789, the day on
which the Court was dragged to Paris, the Queen prevented me from making
little excursions thither of business or pleasure, saying to me, “Do not
go on such a day to Paris; the English have been scattering gold, we shall
have some disturbance.”  The repeated visits of the Duc d’Orleans to
England had excited the Anglomania to such a pitch that Paris was no
longer distinguishable from London.  The French, formerly imitated by the
whole of Europe, became on a sudden a nation of imitators, without
considering the evils that arts and manufactures must suffer in
consequence of the change.  Since the treaty of commerce made with England
at the peace of 1783, not merely equipages, but everything, even to
ribands and common earthenware, were of English make.  If this
predominance of English fashions had been confined to filling our
drawing-rooms with young men in English frock-coats, instead of the French
dress, good taste and commerce might alone have suffered; but the
principles of English government had taken possession of these young
heads.  Constitution, Upper House, Lower House, national guarantee,
balance of power, Magna Charta, Law of Habeas Corpus,--all these words
were incessantly repeated, and seldom understood; but they were of
fundamental importance to a party which was then forming.

The first sitting of the States took place on the following day.  The King
delivered his speech with firmness and dignity; the Queen told me that he
had taken great pains about it, and had repeated it frequently. His
Majesty gave public marks of attachment and respect for the Queen, who was
applauded; but it was easy to see that this applause was in fact rendered
to the King alone.

It was evident, during the first sittings, that Mirabeau would be very
dangerous to the Government.  It affirmed that at this period he
communicated to the King, and still more fully to the Queen, part of his
schemes for abandoning them.  He brandished the weapons afforded him by
his eloquence and audacity, in order to make terms with the party he meant
to attack.  This man played the game of revolution to make his own
fortune.  The Queen told me that he asked for an embassy, and, if my
memory does not deceive me, it was that of Constantinople.  He was refused
with well-deserved contempt, though policy would doubtless have concealed
it, could the future have been foreseen.

The enthusiasm prevailing at the opening of this assembly, and the debates
between the Tiers Etat, the nobility, and even the clergy, daily increased
the alarm of their Majesties, and all who were attached to the cause of
monarchy.  The Queen went to bed late, or rather she began to be unable to
rest.  One evening, about the end of May, she was sitting in her room,
relating several remarkable occurrences of the day; four wax candles were
placed upon her toilet-table; the first went out of itself; I relighted
it; shortly afterwards the second, and then the third went out also; upon
which the Queen, squeezing my hand in terror, said to me: “Misfortune
makes us superstitious; if the fourth taper should go out like the rest,
nothing can prevent my looking upon it as a sinister omen.”  The fourth
taper went out.  It was remarked to the Queen that the four tapers had
probably been run in the same mould, and that a defect in the wick had
naturally occurred at the same point in each, since the candles had all
gone out in the order in which they had been lighted.

The deputies of the Tiers Etat arrived at Versailles full of the strongest
prejudices against the Court.  They believed that the King indulged in the
pleasures of the table to a shameful excess; and that the Queen was
draining the treasury of the State in order to satisfy the most unbridled
luxury.  They almost all determined to see Petit Trianon.  The extreme
plainness of the retreat in question not answering the ideas they had
formed, some of them insisted upon seeing the very smallest closets,
saying that the richly furnished apartments were concealed from them. They
particularised one which, according to them, was ornamented with diamonds,
and with wreathed columns studded with sapphires and rubies. The Queen
could not get these foolish ideas out of her mind, and spoke to the King
on the subject.  From the description given of this room by the deputies
to the keepers of Trianon, the King concluded that they were looking for
the scene enriched with paste ornaments, made in the reign of Louis XV.
for the theatre of Fontainebleau.

The King supposed that his Body Guards, on their return to the country,
after their quarterly duty at Court, related what they had seen, and that
their exaggerated accounts, being repeated, became at last totally
perverted.  This idea of the King, after the search for the diamond
chamber, suggested to the Queen that the report of the King’s propensity
for drinking also sprang from the guards who accompanied his carriage when
he hunted at Rambouillet.  The King, who disliked sleeping out of his
usual bed, was accustomed to leave that hunting-seat after supper; he
generally slept soundly in his carriage, and awoke only on his arrival at
the courtyard of his palace; he used to get down from his carriage in the
midst of his Body Guards, staggering, as a man half awake will do, which
was mistaken for intoxication.

The majority of the deputies who came imbued with prejudices produced by
error or malevolence, went to lodge with the most humble private
individuals of Versailles, whose inconsiderate conversation contributed
not a little to nourish such mistakes.  Everything, in short, tended to
render the deputies subservient to the schemes of the leaders of the
rebellion.

Shortly after the opening of the States General the first Dauphin died.
That young Prince suffered from the rickets, which in a few months curved
his spine, and rendered his legs so weak that he could not walk without
being supported like a feeble old man.

[Louis, Dauphin of France, who died at Versailles on the 4th of June,
1789, gave promise of intellectual precocity.  The following particulars,
which convey some idea of his disposition, and of the assiduous attention
bestowed upon him by the Duchesse de Polignac, will be found in a work of
that time: “At two years old the Dauphin was very pretty; he articulated
well, and answered questions put to him intelligently.  While he was at
the Chateau de La Muette everybody was at liberty to see him.  The Dauphin
was dressed plainly, like a sailor; there was nothing to distinguish him
from other children in external appearance but the cross of Saint Louis,
the blue ribbon, and the Order of the Fleece, decorations that are the
distinctive signs of his rank.  The Duchesse Jules de Polignac, his
governess, scarcely ever left him for a single instant: she gave up all
the Court excursions and amusements in order to devote her whole attention
to him.  The Prince always manifested a great regard for M. de Bourset,
his valet de chambre.  During the illness of which he died, he one day
asked for a pair of scissors; that gentleman reminded him that they were
forbidden.  The child insisted mildly, and they were obliged to yield to
him.  Having got the scissors, he cut off a lock of his hair, which he
wrapped in a sheet of paper: ‘There, monsieur,’ said he to his valet de
chambre,’ there is the only present I can make you, having nothing at my
command; but when I am dead you will present this pledge to my papa and
mamma; and while they remember me, I hope they will not forget
you.’”--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

How many maternal tears did his condition draw from the Queen, already
overwhelmed with apprehensions respecting the state of the kingdom!  Her
grief was enhanced by petty intrigues, which, when frequently renewed,
became intolerable.  An open quarrel between the families and friends of
the Duc Harcourt, the Dauphin’s governor, and those of the Duchesse de
Polignac, his governess, added greatly to the Queen’s affliction.  The
young Prince showed a strong dislike to the Duchesse de Polignac, who
attributed it either to the Duc or the Duchesse d’Harcourt, and came to
make her complaints respecting it to the Queen.  The Dauphin twice sent
her out of his room, saying to her, with that maturity of manner which
long illness always gives to children: “Go out, Duchess; you are so fond
of using perfumes, and they always make me ill;” and yet she never used
any.  The Queen perceived, also, that his prejudices against her friend
extended to herself; her son would no longer speak in her presence.  She
knew that he had become fond of sweetmeats, and offered him some
marshmallow and jujube lozenges.  The under-governors and the first valet
de chambre requested her not to give the Dauphin anything, as he was to
receive no food of any kind without the consent of the faculty. I forbear
to describe the wound this prohibition inflicted upon the Queen; she felt
it the more deeply because she was aware it was unjustly believed she gave
a decided preference to the Duc de Normandie, whose ruddy health and
amiability did, in truth, form a striking contrast to the languid look and
melancholy disposition of his elder brother.  She even suspected that a
plot had for some time existed to deprive her of the affection of a child
whom she loved as a good and tender mother ought.  Previous to the
audience granted by the King on the 10th August, 1788, to the envoy of the
Sultan Tippoo Saib, she had begged the Duc d’Harcourt to divert the
Dauphin, whose deformity was already apparent, from his, intention to be
present at that ceremony, being unwilling to expose him to the gaze of the
crowd of inquisitive Parisians who would be in the gallery.
Notwithstanding this injunction, the Dauphin was suffered to write to his
mother, requesting her permission to be present at the audience.  The
Queen was obliged to refuse him, and warmly reproached the governor, who
merely answered that he could not oppose the wishes of a sick child.  A
year before the death of the Dauphin the Queen lost the Princesse Sophie;
this was, as the Queen said, the first of a series of misfortunes.

NOTE:  As Madame Campan has stated in the foregoing pages that the money
to foment sedition was furnished from English sources, the decree of the
Convention of August, 1793, maybe quoted as illustrative of the entente
cordiale alleged to exist between the insurrectionary Government and its
friends across the Channel!  The endeavours made by the English Government
to save the unfortunate King are well known.  The motives prompting the
conduct of the Duc d’Orleans are equally well known.

Art.  i.  The National Convention denounces the British Government to
Europe and the English nation.

Art.  ii.  Every Frenchman that shall place his money in the English funds
shall be declared a traitor to his country.

Art.  iii.  Every Frenchman who has money in the English funds or those of
any other Power with whom France is at war shall be obliged to declare the
same.

Art.  iv.  All foreigners, subjects of the Powers now at war with France,
particularly the English, shall be arrested, and seals put upon their
papers.

Art.  v.  The barriers of Paris shall be instantly shut.

Art.  vi.  All good citizens shall be required in the name of the country
to search for the foreigners concerned in any plot denounced.

Art.  vii.  Three millions shall be at the disposal of the Minister at War
to facilitate the march of the garrison of Mentz to La Vendee.

Art.  viii.  The Minister at War shall send to the army on the coast of
Rochelle all the combustible materials necessary to set fire to the
forests and underwood of La Vendee.

Art.  ix.  The women, the children, and old men shall be conducted to the
interior parts of the country.

Art.  x.  The property of the rebels shall be confiscated for the benefit
of the Republic.

Art.  xi.  A camp shall be formed without delay between Paris and the
Northern army.

Art.  xii.  All the family of the Capets shall be banished from the French
territory, those excepted who are under the sword of the law, and the
offspring of Louis Capet, who shall both remain in the Temple.

Art.  xiii.  Marie Antoinette shall be delivered over to the Revolutionary
Tribunal, and shall be immediately conducted to the prison of the
Conciergerie.  Louise Elisabeth shall remain in the Temple till after the
judgment of Marie Antoinette.

Art.  xiv.  All the tombs of the Kings which are at St. Denis and in the
departments shall be destroyed on August the 10th.

Art.  xv.  The present decree shall be despatched by extraordinary
couriers to all the departments.






MEMOIRS OF THE COURT OF MARIE ANTOINETTE, QUEEN OF FRANCE

Being the Historic Memoirs of Madam Campan,
First Lady in Waiting to the Queen.



BOOK 2.



CHAPTER I.


The ever-memorable oath of the States General, taken at the Tennis Court
of Versailles, was followed by the royal sitting of the 23d of June.  In
this seance the King declared that the Orders must vote separately, and
threatened, if further obstacles were met with, to himself act for the
good of the people.  The Queen looked on M. Necker’s not accompanying the
King as treachery or criminal cowardice: she said that he had converted a
remedy into poison; that being in full popularity, his audacity, in openly
disavowing the step taken by his sovereign, had emboldened the factious,
and led away the whole Assembly; and that he was the more culpable
inasmuch as he had the evening before given her his word to accompany the
King.  In vain did M. Necker endeavour to excuse himself by saying that
his advice had not been followed.

Soon afterwards the insurrections of the 11th, 12th, and 14th of
July--[The Bastille was taken on the 14th July, 1789.]--opened the
disastrous drama with which France was threatened.  The massacre of M. de
Flesselles and M. de Launay drew bitter tears from the Queen, and the idea
that the King had lost such devoted subjects wounded her to the heart.

The character of the movement was no longer merely that of a popular
insurrection; cries of “Vive la Nation!  Vive le Roi!  Vive la Liberte!”
 threw the strongest light upon the views of the reformers.  Still the
people spoke of the King with affection, and appeared to think him
favourable to the national desire for the reform of what were called
abuses; but they imagined that he was restrained by the opinions and
influence of the Comte d’Artois and the Queen; and those two august
personages were therefore objects of hatred to the malcontents.  The
dangers incurred by the Comte d’Artois determined the King’s first step
with the States General.  He attended their meeting on the morning of the
15th of July with his brothers, without pomp or escort; he spoke standing
and uncovered, and pronounced these memorable words: “I trust myself to
you; I only wish to be at one with my nation, and, counting on the
affection and fidelity of my subjects, I have given orders to the troops
to remove from Paris and Versailles.”  The King returned on foot from the
chamber of the States General to his palace; the deputies crowded after
him, and formed his escort, and that of the Princes who accompanied him.
The rage of the populace was pointed against the Comte d’Artois, whose
unfavourable opinion of the double representation was an odious crime in
their eyes.  They repeatedly cried out, “The King for ever, in spite of
you and your opinions, Monseigneur!” One woman had the impudence to come
up to the King and ask him whether what he had been doing was done
sincerely, and whether he would not be forced to retract it.

The courtyards of the Chateau were thronged with an immense concourse of
people; they demanded that the King and Queen, with their children, should
make their appearance in the balcony.  The Queen gave me the key of the
inner doors, which led to the Dauphin’s apartments, and desired me to go
to the Duchesse de Polignac to tell her that she wanted her son, and had
directed me to bring him myself into her room, where she waited to show
him to the people.  The Duchess said this order indicated that she was not
to accompany the Prince.  I did not answer; she squeezed my hand, saying,
“Ah! Madame Campan, what a blow I receive!”  She embraced the child and me
with tears.  She knew how much I loved and valued the goodness and the
noble simplicity of her disposition.  I endeavoured to reassure her by
saying that I should bring back the Prince to her; but she persisted, and
said she understood the order, and knew what it meant. She then retired to
her private room, holding her handkerchief to her eyes.  One of the
under-governesses asked me whether she might go with the Dauphin; I told
her the Queen had given no order to the contrary, and we hastened to her
Majesty, who was waiting to lead the Prince to the balcony.

Having executed this sad commission, I went down into the courtyard, where
I mingled with the crowd.  I heard a thousand vociferations; it was easy
to see, by the difference between the language and the dress of some
persons among the mob, that they were in disguise.  A woman, whose face
was covered with a black lace veil, seized me by the arm with some
violence, and said, calling me by my name, “I know you very well; tell
your Queen not to meddle with government any longer; let her leave her
husband and our good States General to effect the happiness of the
people.”  At the same moment a man, dressed much in the style of a
marketman, with his hat pulled down over his eyes, seized me by the other
arm, and said, “Yes, yes; tell her over and over again that it will not be
with these States as with the others, which produced no good to the
people; that the nation is too enlightened in 1789 not to make something
more of them; and that there will not now be seen a deputy of the ‘Tiers
Etat’ making a speech with one knee on the ground; tell her this, do you
hear?”  I was struck with dread; the Queen then appeared in the balcony.
“Ah!” said the woman in the veil, “the Duchess is not with her.”--“No,”
 replied the man, “but she is still at Versailles; she is working
underground, molelike; but we shall know how to dig her out.”  The
detestable pair moved away from me, and I reentered the palace, scarcely
able to support myself.  I thought it my duty to relate the dialogue of
these two strangers to the Queen; she made me repeat the particulars to
the King.

About four in the afternoon I went across the terrace to Madame Victoire’s
apartments; three men had stopped under the windows of the throne-chamber.
“Here is that throne,” said one of them aloud, “the vestiges of which will
soon be sought for.”  He added a thousand invectives against their
Majesties.  I went in to the Princess, who was at work alone in her
closet, behind a canvass blind, which prevented her from being seen by
those without.  The three men were still walking upon the terrace; I
showed them to her, and told her what they had said.  She rose to take a
nearer view of them, and informed me that one of them was named
Saint-Huruge; that he was sold to the Duc d’Orleans, and was furious
against the Government, because he had been confined once under a ‘lettre
de cachet’ as a bad character.

The King was not ignorant of these popular threats; he also knew the days
on which money was scattered about Paris, and once or twice the Queen
prevented my going there, saying there would certainly be a riot the next
day, because she knew that a quantity of crown pieces had been distributed
in the faubourgs.

[I have seen a six-franc crown piece, which certainly served to pay some
wretch on the night of the 12th of July; the words “Midnight, 12th July,
three pistols,” were rather deeply engraven on it.  They were, no doubt, a
password for the first insurrection.--MADAME COMPAN]

On the evening of the 14th of July the King came to the Queen’s
apartments, where I was with her Majesty alone; he conversed with her
respecting the scandalous report disseminated by the factious, that he had
had the Chamber of the National Assembly undermined, in order to blow it
up; but he added that it became him to treat such absurd assertions with
contempt, as usual; I ventured to tell him that I had the evening before
supped with M. Begouen, one of the deputies, who said that there were very
respectable persons who thought that this horrible contrivance had been
proposed without the King’s knowledge.  “Then,” said his Majesty, “as the
idea of such an atrocity was not revolting to so worthy a man as M.
Begouen, I will order the chamber to be examined early to-morrow morning.”
 In fact, it will be seen by the King’s, speech to the National Assembly,
on the 15th of July, that the suspicions excited obtained his attention.
“I know,” said he in the speech in question, “that unworthy insinuations
have been made; I know there are those who have dared to assert that your
persons are not safe; can it be necessary to give you assurances upon the
subject of reports so culpable, denied beforehand by my known character?”

The proceedings of the 15th of July produced no mitigation of the
disturbances.  Successive deputations of poissardes came to request the
King to visit Paris, where his presence alone would put an end to the
insurrection.

On the 16th a committee was held in the King’s apartments, at which a most
important question was discussed: whether his Majesty should quit
Versailles and set off with the troops whom he had recently ordered to
withdraw, or go to Paris to tranquillise the minds of the people.  The
Queen was for the departure.  On the evening of the 16th she made me take
all her jewels out of their cases, to collect them in one small box, which
she might carry off in her own carriage.  With my assistance she burnt a
large quantity of papers; for Versailles was then threatened with an early
visit of armed men from Paris.

The Queen, on the morning of the 16th, before attending another committee
at the King’s, having got her jewels ready, and looked over all her
papers, gave me one folded up but not sealed, and desired me not to read
it until she should give me an order to do so from the King’s room, and
that then I was to execute its contents; but she returned herself about
ten in the morning; the affair was decided; the army was to go away
without the King; all those who were in imminent danger were to go at the
same time.  “The King will go to the Hotel de Ville to-morrow,” said the
Queen to me; “he did not choose this course for himself; there were long
debates on the question; at last the King put an end to them by rising and
saying, ‘Well, gentlemen, we must decide; am I to go or to stay?  I am
ready to do either.’  The majority were for the King staying; time will
show whether the right choice has been made.”  I returned the Queen the
paper she had given me, which was now useless; she read it to me; it
contained her orders for the departure; I was to go with her, as well on
account of my office about her person as to serve as a teacher to Madame.
The Queen tore the paper, and said, with tears in her eyes, “When I wrote
this I thought it would be useful, but fate has ordered otherwise, to the
misfortune of us all, as I much fear.”

After the departure of the troops the new administration received thanks;
M. Necker was recalled.  The artillery soldiers were undoubtedly
corrupted.  “Wherefore all these guns?”  exclaimed the crowds of women who
filled the streets.  “Will you kill your mothers, your wives, your
children?”--“Don’t be afraid,” answered the soldiers; “these guns shall
rather be levelled against the tyrant’s palace than against you!”

The Comte d’Artois, the Prince de Conde, and their children set off at the
same time with the troops.  The Duc and Duchesse de Polignac, their
daughter, the Duchesse de Guiche, the Comtesse Diane de Polignac, sister
of the Duke, and the Abbe de Baliviere, also emigrated on the same night.
Nothing could be more affecting than the parting of the Queen and her
friend; extreme misfortune had banished from their minds the recollection
of differences to which political opinions alone had given rise.  The
Queen several times wished to go and embrace her once more after their
sorrowful adieu, but she was too closely watched.  She desired M. Campan
to be present at the departure of the Duchess, and gave him a purse of
five hundred Louis, desiring him to insist upon her allowing the Queen to
lend her that sum to defray her expenses on the road.  The Queen added
that she knew her situation; that she had often calculated her income, and
the expenses occasioned by her place at Court; that both husband and wife
having no other fortune than their official salaries, could not possibly
have saved anything, however differently people might think at Paris.

M. Campan remained till midnight with the Duchess to see her enter her
carriage.  She was disguised as a femme de chambre, and got up in front of
the Berlin; she requested M. Campan to remember her frequently to the
Queen, and then quitted for ever that palace, that favour, and that
influence which had raised her up such cruel enemies.  On their arrival at
Sens the travellers found the people in a state of insurrection; they
asked all those who came from Paris whether the Polignacs were still with
the Queen.  A group of inquisitive persons put that question to the Abbe
de Baliviere, who answered them in the firmest tone, and with the most
cavalier air, that they were far enough from Versailles, and that we had
got rid of all such bad people.  At the following stage the postilion got
on the doorstep and said to the Duchess, “Madame, there are some good
people left in the world: I recognised you all at Sens.”  They gave the
worthy fellow a handful of gold.

On the breaking out of these disturbances an old man above seventy years
of age gave the Queen an extraordinary proof of attachment and fidelity.
M. Peraque, a rich inhabitant of the colonies, father of M. d’Oudenarde,
was coming from Brussels to Paris; while changing horses he was met by a
young man who was leaving France, and who recommended him if he carried
any letters from foreign countries to burn them immediately, especially if
he had any for the Queen.  M. Peraque had one from the Archduchess, the
Gouvernante of the Low Countries, for her Majesty.  He thanked the
stranger, and carefully concealed his packet; but as he approached Paris
the insurrection appeared to him so general and so violent, that he
thought no means could be relied on for securing this letter from seizure.
He took upon him to unseal it, and learned it by heart, which was a
wonderful effort for a man at his time of life, as it contained four pages
of writing.  On his arrival at Paris he wrote it down, and then presented
it to the Queen, telling her that the heart of an old and faithful subject
had given him courage to form and execute such a resolution.  The Queen
received M. Peraque in her closet, and expressed her gratitude in an
affecting manner most honourable to the worthy old man.  Her Majesty
thought the young stranger who had apprised him of the state of Paris was
Prince George of Hesse-Darmstadt, who was very devoted to her, and who
left Paris at that time.

The Marquise de Tourzel replaced the Duchess de Polignac.  She was
selected by the Queen as being the mother of a family and a woman of
irreproachable conduct, who had superintended the education of her own
daughters with the greatest success.

The King went to Paris on the 17th of July, accompanied by the Marechal de
Beauvau, the Duc de Villeroi, and the Duc de Villequier; he also took the
Comte d’Estaing, and the Marquis de Nesle, who were then very popular, in
his carriage.  Twelve Body Guards, and the town guard of Versailles,
escorted him to the Pont du Jour, near Sevres, where the Parisian guard
was waiting for him.  His departure caused equal grief and alarm to his
friends, notwithstanding the calmness he exhibited.  The Queen restrained
her tears, and shut herself up in her private rooms with her family.  She
sent for several persons belonging to her Court; their doors were locked.
Terror had driven them away.  The silence of death reigned throughout the
palace; they hardly dared hope that the King would return?  The Queen had
a robe prepared for her, and sent orders to her stables to have all her
equipages ready.  She wrote an address of a few lines for the Assembly,
determining to go there with her family, the officers of her palace, and
her servants, if the King should be detained prisoner at Paris.  She got
this address by heart; it began with these words: “Gentlemen, I come to
place in your hands the wife and family of your sovereign; do not suffer
those who have been united in heaven to be put asunder on earth.”  While
she was repeating this address she was often interrupted by tears, and
sorrowfully exclaimed: “They will not let him return!”

It was past four when the King, who had left Versailles at ten in the
morning, entered the Hotel de Ville.  At length, at six in the evening, M.
de Lastours, the King’s first page, arrived; he was not half an hour in
coming from the Barriere de la Conference to Versailles.  Everybody knows
that the moment of calm in Paris was that in which the unfortunate
sovereign received the tricoloured cockade from M. Bailly, and placed it
in his hat.  A shout of “Vive le Roi!” arose on all sides; it had not been
once uttered before.  The King breathed again, and with tears in his eyes
exclaimed that his heart stood in need of such greetings from the people.
One of his equerries (M. de Cubieres) told him the people loved him, and
that he could never have doubted it.  The King replied in accents of
profound sensibility:

“Cubieres, the French loved Henri IV., and what king ever better deserved
to be beloved?”

[Louis XVI. cherished the memory of Henri IV.: at that moment he thought
of his deplorable end; but he long before regarded him as a model.
Soulavie says on the subject: “A tablet with the inscription ‘Resurrexit’
placed upon the pedestal of Henri IV.’s statue on the accession of Louis
XVI. flattered him exceedingly.  ‘What a fine compliment,’ said he, ‘if it
were true!  Tacitus himself never wrote anything so concise or so happy.’
Louis XVI. wished to take the reign of that Prince for a model.  In the
following year the party that raised a commotion among the people on
account of the dearness of corn removed the tablet inscribed Resurrexit
from the statue of Henri IV., and placed it under that of Louis XV., whose
memory was then detested, as he was believed to have traded on the
scarcity of food.  Louis XVI., who was informed of it, withdrew into his
private apartments, where he was found in a fever shedding tears; and
during the whole of that day he could not be prevailed upon either to
dine, walk out, or sup.  From this circumstance we may judge what he
endured at the commencement of the Revolution, when he was accused of not
loving the French people.”--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

His return to Versailles filled his family with inexpressible joy; in the
arms of the Queen, his sister, and his children, he congratulated himself
that no accident had happened; and he repeated several times, “Happily no
blood has been shed, and I swear that never shall a drop of French blood
be shed by my order,”--a determination full of humanity, but too openly
avowed in such factious times!

The King’s last measure raised a hope in many that general tranquillity
would soon enable the Assembly to resume its, labours, and promptly bring
its session to a close.  The Queen never flattered herself so far; M.
Bailly’s speech to the King had equally wounded her pride and hurt her
feelings.  “Henri IV. conquered his people, and here are the people
conquering their King.”  The word “conquest” offended her; she never
forgave M. Bailly for this fine academical phrase.

Five days after the King’s visit to Paris, the departure of the troops,
and the removal of the Princes and some of the nobility whose influence
seemed to alarm the people, a horrible deed committed by hired assassins
proved that the King had descended the steps of his throne without having
effected a reconciliation with his people.

M. Foulon, adjoint to the administration while M. de Broglie was
commanding the army assembled at Versailles, had concealed himself at
Viry.  He was there recognised, and the peasants seized him, and dragged
him to the Hotel de Ville.  The cry for death was heard; the electors, the
members of committee, and M. de La Fayette, at that time the idol of
Paris, in vain endeavoured to save the unfortunate man.  After tormenting
him in a manner which makes humanity shudder, his body was dragged about
the streets, and to the Palais Royal, and his heart was carried by women
in the midst of a bunch of white carnations!  M. Berthier, M. Foulon’s
son-in-law, intendant of Paris, was seized at Compiegne, at the same time
that his father-in-law was seized at Viry, and treated with still more
relentless cruelty.

The Queen was always persuaded that this horrible deed was occasioned by
some indiscretion; and she informed me that M. Foulon had drawn up two
memorials for the direction of the King’s conduct at the time of his being
called to Court on the removal of M. Necker; and that these memorials
contained two schemes of totally different nature for extricating the King
from the dreadful situation in which he was placed. In the first of these
projects M. Foulon expressed himself without reserve respecting the
criminal views of the Duc d’Orleans; said that he ought to be put under
arrest, and that no time should be lost in commencing a prosecution
against him, while the criminal tribunals were still in existence; he
likewise pointed out such deputies as should be apprehended, and advised
the King not to separate himself from his army until order was restored.

His other plan was that the King should make himself master of the
revolution before its complete explosion; he advised his Majesty to go to
the Assembly, and there, in person, to demand the cahiers, and to make
the greatest sacrifices to satisfy the legitimate wishes of the people,
and not to give the factious time to enlist them in aid of their
criminal designs.

[Cahiers, the memorials or lists of complaints, grievances, and
requirements of the electors drawn up by the primary assemblies and sent
with the deputies.]

Madame Adelaide had M. Foulon’s two memorials read to her in the
presence of four or five persons.  One of them, Comte Louis de Narbonne,
was very intimate with Madame de Stael, and that intimacy gave the Queen
reason to believe that the opposite party had gained information of M.
Foulon’s schemes.

It is known that young Barnave, during an aberration of mind, since
expiated by sincere repentance, and even by death, uttered these atrocious
words: “Is then the blood now, flowing so pure?” when M. Berthier’s son
came to the Assembly to implore the eloquence of M. de Lally to entreat
that body to save his father’s life.  I have since been informed that a
son of M. Foulon, having returned to France after these first ebullitions
of the Revolution, saw Barnave, and gave him one of those memorials in
which M. Foulon advised Louis XVI. to prevent the revolutionary explosion
by voluntarily granting all that the Assembly required before the 14th of
July.  “Read this memorial,” said he; “I have brought it to increase your
remorse: it is the only revenge I wish to inflict on you.”  Barnave burst
into tears, and said to him all that the profoundest grief could dictate.




CHAPTER II.


After the 14th of July, by a manoeuvre for which the most skilful factions
of any age might have envied the Assembly, the whole population of France
was armed and organised into a National Guard.  A report was spread
throughout France on the same day, and almost at the same hour, that four
thousand brigands were marching towards such towns or villages as it was
wished to induce to take arms.  Never was any plan better laid; terror
spread at the same moment all over the kingdom.  In 1791 a peasant showed
me a steep rock in the mountains of the Mont d’Or on which his wife
concealed herself on the day when the four thousand brigands were to
attack their village, and told me they had been obliged to make use of
ropes to let her down from the height which fear alone had enabled her to
climb.

Versailles was certainly the place where the national military uniform
appeared most offensive.  All the King’s valets, even of the lowest class,
were metamorphosed into lieutenants or captains; almost all the musicians
of the chapel ventured one day to make their appearance at the King’s mass
in a military costume; and an Italian soprano adopted the uniform of a
grenadier captain.  The King was very much offended at this conduct, and
forbade his servants to appear in his presence in so unsuitable a dress.

The departure of the Duchesse de Polignac naturally left the Abbe de
Vermond exposed to all the dangers of favouritism.  He was already talked
of as an adviser dangerous to the nation.  The Queen was alarmed at it,
and recommended him to remove to Valenciennes, where Count Esterhazy was
in command.  He was obliged to leave that place in a few days and set off
for Vienna, where he remained.

On the night of the 17th of July the Queen, being unable to sleep, made me
watch by her until three in the morning.  I was extremely surprised to
hear her say that it would be a very long time before the Abbe de Vermond
would make his appearance at Court again, even if the existing ferment
should subside, because he would not readily be forgiven for his
attachment to the Archbishop of Sens; and that she had lost in him a very
devoted servant.  Then she suddenly remarked to me, that although he was
not much prejudiced against me I could not have much regard for him,
because he could not bear my father-in-law to hold the place of secretary
of the closet.  She went on to say that I must have studied the Abbe’s
character, and, as I had sometimes drawn her portraits of living
characters, in imitation of those which were fashionable in the time of
Louis XIV., she desired me to sketch that of the Abbe, without any
reserve.  My astonishment was extreme; the Queen spoke of the man who, the
day before, had been in the greatest intimacy with her with the utmost
coolness, and as a person whom, perhaps, she might never see again!  I
remained petrified; the Queen persisted, and told me that he had been the
enemy of my family for more than twelve years, without having been able to
injure it in her opinion; so that I had no occasion to dread his return,
however severely I might depict him.  I promptly summarised my ideas about
the favourite; but I only remember that the portrait was drawn with
sincerity, except that everything which could denote antipathy was kept
out of it.  I shall make but one extract from it: I said that he had been
born talkative and indiscreet, and had assumed a character of singularity
and abruptness in order to conceal those two failings.  The Queen
interrupted me by saying, “Ah! how true that is!”  I have since discovered
that, notwithstanding the high favour which the Abbe de Vermond enjoyed,
the Queen took precautions to guard herself against an ascendency the
consequences of which she could not calculate.

On the death of my father-in-law his executors placed in my hands a box
containing a few jewels deposited by the Queen with M. Campan on the
departure from Versailles of the 6th of October, and two sealed packets,
each inscribed, “Campan will take care of these papers for me.”  I took
the two packets to her Majesty, who kept the jewels and the larger packet,
and, returning me the smaller, said, “Take care of that for me as your
father-in-law did.”

After the fatal 10th of August, 1792,--[The day of the attack on the
Tuileries, slaughter of the Swiss guard, and suspension of the King from
his functions.]--when my house was about to be surrounded, I determined to
burn the most interesting papers of which I was the depositary; I thought
it my duty, however, to open this packet, which it might perhaps be
necessary for me to preserve at all hazards. I saw that it contained a
letter from the Abbe de Vermond to the Queen. I have already related that
in the earlier days of Madame de Polignac’s favour he determined to remove
from Versailles, and that the Queen recalled him by means of the Comte de
Mercy.  This letter contained nothing but certain conditions for his
return; it was the most whimsical of treaties; I confess I greatly
regretted being under the necessity of destroying it.  He reproached the
Queen for her infatuation for the Comtesse Jules, her family, and society;
and told her several truths about the possible consequences of a
friendship which ranked that lady among the favourites of the Queens of
France, a title always disliked by the nation.  He complained that his
advice was neglected, and then came to the conditions of his return to
Versailles; after strong assurances that he would never, in all his life,
aim at the higher church dignities, he said that he delighted in an
unbounded confidence; and that he asked but two things of her Majesty as
essential: the first was, not to give him her orders through any third
person, and to write to him herself; he complained much that he had had no
letter in her own hand since he had left Vienna; then he demanded of her
an income of eighty thousand livres, in ecclesiastical benefices; and
concluded by saying that, if she condescended to assure him herself that
she would set about procuring him what he wished, her letter would be
sufficient in itself to show him that her Majesty had accepted the two
conditions he ventured to make respecting his return.  No doubt the letter
was written; at least it is very certain that the benefices were granted,
and that his absence from Versailles lasted only a single week.

In the course of July, 1789, the regiment of French guards, which had been
in a state of insurrection from the latter end of June, abandoned its
colours.  One single company of grenadiers remained faithful, to its post
at Versailles.  M. le Baron de Leval was the captain of this company.  He
came every evening to request me to give the Queen an account of the
disposition of his soldiers; but M. de La Fayette having sent them a note,
they all deserted during the night and joined their comrades, who were
enrolled in the Paris guard; so that Louis XVI. on rising saw no guard
whatever at the various posts entrusted to them.

The decrees of the 4th of August, by which all privileges were abolished,
are well known.

[“It was during the night of the 4th of August,” says Rivarol, “that the
demagogues of the nobility, wearied with a protracted discussion upon the
rights of man, and burning to signalise their zeal, rose all at once, and
with loud exclamations called for the last sighs of the feudal system.
This demand electrified the Assembly.  All heads were frenzied.  The
younger sons of good families, having nothing, were delighted to sacrifice
their too fortunate elders upon the altar of the country; a few country
cures felt no less pleasure in renouncing the benefices of others; but
what posterity will hardly believe is that the same enthusiasm infected
the whole nobility; zeal walked hand in hand with malevolence; they made
sacrifice upon sacrifice.  And as in Japan the point of honour lies in a
man’s killing himself in the presence of the person who has offended him,
so did the deputies of the nobility vie in striking at themselves and
their constituents.  The people who were present at this noble contest
increased the intoxication of their new allies by their shouts; and the
deputies of the commons, seeing that this memorable night would only
afford them profit without honour, consoled their self-love by wondering
at what Nobility, grafted upon the Third Estate, could do.  They named
that night the ‘night of dupes’; the nobles called it the ‘night of
sacrifices’.”--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

The King sanctioned all that tended to the diminution of his own personal
gratifications, but refused his consent to the other decrees of that
tumultuous night; this refusal was one of the chief causes of the ferments
of the month of October.

In the early part of September meetings were held at the Palais Royal, and
propositions made to go to Versailles; it was said to be necessary to
separate the King from his evil counsellors, and keep him, as well as the
Dauphin, at the Louvre.  The proclamations by the officers of the commune
for the restoration of tranquillity were ineffectual; but M. de La Fayette
succeeded this time in dispersing the populace.  The Assembly declared
itself permanent; and during the whole of September, in which no doubt the
preparations were made for the great insurrections of the following month,
the Court was not disturbed.

The King had the Flanders regiment removed to Versailles; unfortunately
the idea of the officers of that regiment fraternising with the Body
Guards was conceived, and the latter invited the former to a dinner, which
was given in the great theatre of Versailles, and not in the Salon of
Hercules, as some chroniclers say.  Boxes were appropriated to various
persons who wished to be present at this entertainment.  The Queen told me
she had been advised to make her appearance on the occasion, but that
under existing circumstances she thought such a step might do more harm
than good; and that, moreover, neither she nor the King ought directly to
have anything to do with such a festival.  She ordered me to go, and
desired me to observe everything closely, in order to give a faithful
account of the whole affair.

The tables were set out upon the stage; at them were placed one of the
Body Guard and an officer of the Flanders regiment alternately.  There was
a numerous orchestra in the room, and the boxes were filled with
spectators.  The air, “O Richard, O mon Roi!” was played, and shouts of
“Vive de Roi!” shook the roof for several minutes.  I had with me one of
my nieces, and a young person brought up with Madame by her Majesty. They
were crying “Vive le Roi!” with all their might when a deputy of the Third
Estate, who was in the next box to mine, and whom I had never seen, called
to them, and reproached them for their exclamations; it hurt him, he said,
to see young and handsome Frenchwomen brought up in such servile habits,
screaming so outrageously for the life of one man, and with true
fanaticism exalting him in their hearts above even their dearest
relations; he told them what contempt worthy American women would feel on
seeing Frenchwomen thus corrupted from their earliest infancy.  My niece
replied with tolerable spirit, and I requested the deputy to put an end to
the subject, which could by no means afford him any satisfaction, inasmuch
as the young persons who were with me lived, as well as myself, for the
sole purpose of serving and loving the King.  While I was speaking what
was my astonishment at seeing the King, the Queen, and the Dauphin enter
the chamber!  It was M. de Luxembourg who had effected this change in the
Queen’s determination.

The enthusiasm became general; the moment their Majesties arrived the
orchestra repeated the air I have just mentioned, and afterwards played a
song in the “Deserter,” “Can we grieve those whom we love?”  which also
made a powerful impression upon those present: on all sides were heard
praises of their Majesties, exclamations of affection, expressions of
regret for what they had suffered, clapping of hands, and shouts of “Vive
le Roi! Vive la Reine! Vive le Dauphin!”  It has been said that white
cockades were worn on this occasion; that was not the case; the fact is,
that a few young men belonging to the National Guard of Versailles, who
were invited to the entertainment, turned the white lining of their
national cockades outwards.  All the military men quitted the hall, and
reconducted the King and his family to their apartments.  There was
intoxication in these ebullitions of joy: a thousand extravagances were
committed by the military, and many of them danced under the King’s
windows; a soldier belonging to the Flanders regiment climbed up to the
balcony of the King’s chamber in order to shout “Vive le Roi!”  nearer his
Majesty; this very soldier, as I have been told by several officers of the
corps, was one of the first and most dangerous of their insurgents in the
riots of the 5th and 6th of October.  On the same evening another soldier
of that regiment killed himself with a sword.  One of my relations,
chaplain to the Queen, who supped with me, saw him stretched out in a
corner of the Place d’Armes; he went to him to give him spiritual
assistance, and received his confession and his last sighs. He destroyed
himself out of regret at having suffered himself to be corrupted by the
enemies of his King, and said that, since he had seen him and the Queen
and the Dauphin, remorse had turned his brain.

I returned home, delighted with all that I had seen.

I found a great many people there.  M. de Beaumetz, deputy for Arras,
listened to my description with a chilling air, and, when I had finished,
told me that all that had passed was terrific; that he knew the
disposition of the Assembly, and that the greatest misfortunes would
follow the drama of that night; and he begged my leave to withdraw that he
might take time for deliberate reflection whether he should on the very
next day emigrate, or pass over to the left side of the Assembly. He
adopted the latter course, and never appeared again among my associates.

On the 2d of October the military entertainment was followed up by a
breakfast given at the hotel of the Body Guards.  It is said that a
discussion took place whether they should not march against the Assembly;
but I am utterly ignorant of what passed at that breakfast.  From that
moment Paris was constantly in commotion; there were continual mobs, and
the most virulent proposals were heard in all public places; the
conversation was invariably about proceeding to Versailles.  The King and
Queen did not seem apprehensive of such a measure, and took no precaution
against it; even when the army had actually left Paris, on the evening of
the 5th of October, the King was shooting at Meudon, and the Queen was
alone in her gardens at Trianon, which she then beheld for the last time
in her life.  She was sitting in her grotto absorbed in painful
reflection, when she received a note from the Comte de Saint-Priest,
entreating her to return to Versailles.  M. de Cubieres at the same time
went off to request the King to leave his sport and return to the palace;
the King did so on horseback, and very leisurely.  A few minutes
afterwards he was informed that a numerous body of women, which preceded
the Parisian army, was at Chaville, at the entrance of the avenue from
Paris.

The scarcity of bread and the entertainment of the Body Guards were the
pretexts for the insurrection of the 5th and 6th of October, 1789; but it
is clear to demonstration that this new movement of the people was a part
of the original plan of the factious, insomuch as, ever since the
beginning of September, a report had been industriously circulated that
the King intended to withdraw, with his family and ministers, to some
stronghold; and at all the popular assemblies there had been always a
great deal said about going to Versailles to seize the King.

At first only women showed themselves; the latticed doors of the Chateau
were closed, and the Body Guard and Flanders regiment were drawn up in the
Place d’Armes.  As the details of that dreadful day are given with
precision in several works, I will only observe that general consternation
and disorder reigned throughout the interior of the palace.

I was not in attendance on the Queen at this time.  M. Campan remained
with her till two in the morning.  As he was leaving her she
condescendingly, and with infinite kindness, desired him to make me easy
as to the dangers of the moment, and to repeat to me M. de La Fayette’s
own words, which he had just used on soliciting the royal family to retire
to bed, undertaking to answer for his army.

The Queen was far from relying upon M. de La Fayette’s loyalty; but she
has often told me that she believed on that day, that La Fayette, having
affirmed to the King, in the presence of a crowd of witnesses, that he
would answer for the army of Paris, would not risk his honour as a
commander, and was sure of being able to redeem his pledge.  She also
thought the Parisian army was devoted to him, and that all he said about
his being forced to march upon Versailles was mere pretence.

On the first intimation of the march of the Parisians, the Comte de
Saint-Priest prepared Rambouillet for the reception of the King, his
family, and suite, and the carriages were even drawn out; but a few cries
of “Vive le Roi!”  when the women reported his Majesty’s favourable
answer, occasioned the intention of going away to be given up, and orders
were given to the troops to withdraw.

[Compare this account with the particulars given in the “Memoirs” of
Ferribres, Weber, Bailly, and Saint-Priest, from the latter of which the
following sentence is taken:

“M. d’Estaing knew not what to do with the Body Guards beyond bringing
them into the courtyard of the ministers, and shutting the grilles.
Thence they proceeded to the terrace of the Chateau, then to Trianon, and
lastly to Rambouillet.

“I could not refrain from expressing to M. d’Estaing, when he came to the
King, my astonishment at not seeing him make any military disposition.
‘Monsieur,’ replied he, ‘I await the orders of the King’ (who did not open
his mouth).  ‘When the King gives no orders,’ pursued I, ‘a general should
decide for himself in a soldierly manner.’  This observation remained
unanswered.”]

The Body Guards were, however, assailed with stones and musketry while
they were passing from the Place d’Armes to, their hotel.  Alarm revived;
again it was thought necessary that the royal family should go away; some
carriages still remained ready for travelling; they were called for; they
were stopped by a wretched player belonging to the theatre of the town,
seconded by the mob: the opportunity for flight had been lost.

The insurrection was directed against the Queen in particular; I shudder
even now at the recollection of the poissardes, or rather furies, who wore
white aprons, which they screamed out were intended to receive the bowels
of Marie Antoinette, and that they would make cockades of them, mixing the
most obscene expressions with these horrible threats.

The Queen went to bed at two in the morning, and even slept, tired out
with the events of so distressing a day.  She had ordered her two women to
bed, imagining there was nothing to dread, at least for that night; but
the unfortunate Princess was indebted for her life to that feeling of
attachment which prevented their obeying her.  My sister, who was one of
the ladies in question, informed me next day of all that I am about to
relate.

On leaving the Queen’s bedchamber, these ladies called their femmes de
chambre, and all four remained sitting together against her Majesty’s
bedroom door.  About half-past four in the morning they heard horrible
yells and discharges of firearms; one ran to the Queen to awaken her and
get her out of bed; my sister flew to the place from which the tumult
seemed to proceed; she opened the door of the antechamber which leads to
the great guard-room, and beheld one of the Body Guard holding his musket
across the door, and attacked by a mob, who were striking at him; his face
was covered with blood; he turned round and exclaimed: “Save the Queen,
madame; they are come to assassinate her!”  She hastily shut the door upon
the unfortunate victim of duty, fastened it with the great bolt, and took
the same precaution on leaving the next room.  On reaching the Queen’s
chamber she cried out to her, “Get up, Madame!  Don’t stay to dress
yourself; fly to the King’s apartment!”  The terrified Queen threw herself
out of bed; they put a petticoat upon her without tying it, and the two
ladies conducted her towards the oile-de-boeuf.  A door, which led from
the Queen’s dressing-room to that apartment, had never before been
fastened but on her side.  What a dreadful moment!  It was found to be
secured on the other side.  They knocked repeatedly with all their
strength; a servant of one of the King’s valets de chambre came and opened
it; the Queen entered the King’s chamber, but he was not there. Alarmed
for the Queen’s life, he had gone down the staircases and through the
corridors under the oeil-de-boeuf, by means of which he was accustomed to
go to the Queen’s apartments without being under the necessity of crossing
that room.  He entered her Majesty’s room and found no one there but some
Body Guards, who had taken refuge in it.  The King, unwilling to expose
their lives, told them to wait a few minutes, and afterwards sent to
desire them to go to the oeil-de-boeuf.  Madame de Tourzel, at that time
governess of the children of France, had just taken Madame and the Dauphin
to the King’s apartments.  The Queen saw her children again.  The reader
must imagine this scene of tenderness and despair.

It is not true that the assassins penetrated to the Queen’s chamber and
pierced the bed with their swords.  The fugitive Body Guards were the only
persons who entered it; and if the crowd had reached so far they would all
have been massacred.  Besides, when the rebels had forced the doors of the
antechamber, the footmen and officers on duty, knowing that the Queen was
no longer in her apartments, told them so with that air of truth which
always carries conviction.  The ferocious horde instantly rushed towards
the oeil-de-boeuf, hoping, no doubt, to intercept her on her way.

Many have asserted that they recognised the Duc d’Orleans in a greatcoat
and slouched hat, at half-past four in the morning, at the top of the
marble staircase, pointing out with his hand the guard-room, which led to
the Queen’s apartments.  This fact was deposed to at the Chatelet by
several individuals in the course of the inquiry instituted respecting the
transactions of the 5th and 6th of October.

[The National Assembly was sitting when information of the march of the
Parisians was given to it by one of the deputies who came from Paris.  A
certain number of the members were no strangers, to this movement.  It
appears that Mirabeau wished to avail himself of it to raise the Duc
d’Orleans to the throne.  Mounier, who presided over the National
Assembly, rejected the idea with horror.  “My good man,” said Mirabeau to
him, “what difference will it make to you to have Louis XVII. for your
King instead of Louis XVI.?” (The Duc d’Orleans was baptised Louis.)]

The prudence and honourable feeling of several officers of the Parisian
guards, and the judicious conduct of M. de Vaudreuil, lieutenant-general
of marine, and of M. de Chevanne, one of the King’s Guards, brought about
an understanding between the grenadiers of the National Guard of Paris and
the King’s Guard.  The doors of the oeil-de-boeuf were closed, and the
antechamber which precedes that room was filled with grenadiers who wanted
to get in to massacre the Guards.  M. de Chevanne offered himself to them
as a victim if they wished for one, and demanded what they would have.  A
report had been spread through their ranks that the Body Guards set them
at defiance, and that they all wore black cockades.  M. de Chevanne showed
them that he wore, as did the corps, the cockade of their uniform; and
promised that the Guards should exchange it for that of the nation.  This
was done; they even went so far as to exchange their grenadiers’ caps for
the hats of the Body Guards; those who were on guard took off their
shoulder-belts; embraces and transports of fraternisation instantly
succeeded to the savage eagerness to murder the band which had shown so
much fidelity to its sovereign.  The cry was now “Vivent le Roi, la
Nation, et les Gardes-du-corps!”

The army occupied the Place d’Armes, all the courtyards of the Chateau,
and the entrance to the avenue.  They called for the Queen to appear in
the balcony: she came forward with Madame and the Dauphin.  There was a
cry of “No children!”  Was this with a view to deprive her of the interest
she inspired, accompanied as she was by her young family, or did the
leaders of the democrats hope that some madman would venture to aim a
mortal blow at her person?  The unfortunate Princess certainly was
impressed with the latter idea, for she sent away her children, and with
her hands and eyes raised towards heaven, advanced upon the balcony like a
self-devoted victim.

A few voices shouted “To Paris!”  The exclamation soon became general.
Before the King agreed to this removal he wished to consult the National
Assembly, and caused that body to be invited to sit at the Chateau.
Mirabeau opposed this measure.  While these discussions were going forward
it became more and more difficult to restrain the immense disorderly
multitude.  The King, without consulting any one, now said to the people:
“You wish, my children, that I should follow you to Paris: I consent, but
on condition that I shall not be separated from my wife and family.”  The
King added that he required safety also for his Guards; he was answered by
shouts of “Vivo le Roi!  Vivent les Gardes-du-corps!” The Guards, with
their hats in the air, turned so as to exhibit the cockade, shouted “Vive
le Roi!  Vive la Nation!”  shortly afterwards a general discharge of all
the muskets took place, in token of joy.  The King and Queen set off from
Versailles at one o’clock.  The Dauphin, Madame, the King’s daughter,
Monsieur, Madame,--[Madame, here, the wife of Monsieur le Comte de
Provence.]--Madame Elisabeth, and Madame de Tourzel, were in the carriage;
the Princesse de Chimay and the ladies of the bedchamber for the week, the
King’s suite and servants, followed in Court carriages; a hundred deputies
in carriages, and the bulk of the Parisian army, closed the procession.

The poissardes went before and around the carriage of their Majesties,
Crying, “We shall no longer want bread!  We have the baker, the baker’s
wife, and the baker’s boy with us!”  In the midst of this troop of
cannibals the heads of two murdered Body Guards were carried on poles. The
monsters, who made trophies of them, conceived the horrid idea of forcing
a wigmaker of Sevres to dress them up and powder their bloody locks.  The
unfortunate man who was forced to perform this dreadful work died in
consequence of the shock it gave him.

[The King did not leave Versailles till one o’clock.  The Queen, the
Dauphin, Madame Royale, Monsieur, Madame Elisabeth, and Madame de Tourzel
were in his Majesty’s carriage.  The hundred deputies in their carriages
came next.  A detachment of brigands, bearing the heads of the two Body
Guards in triumph, formed the advance guard, and set out two hours
earlier.  These cannibals stopped a moment at Sevres, and carried their
cruelty to the length of forcing an unfortunate hairdresser to dress the
gory heads; the bulk of the Parisian army followed them closely.  The
King’s carriage was preceded by the ‘poissardes’, who had arrived the day
before from Paris, and a rabble of prostitutes, the vile refuse of their
sex, still drunk with fury and wine.  Several of them rode astride upon
cannons, boasting, in the most horrible songs, of the crimes they had
committed themselves, or seen others commit.  Those who were nearest the
King’s carriage sang ballads, the allusions in which by means of their
vulgar gestures they applied to the Queen.  Wagons, full of corn and
flour,--which had been brought into Versailles, formed a train escorted by
grenadiers, and surrounded by women and bullies, some armed with pikes,
and some carrying long branches of poplar.  At some distance this part of
the procession had a most singular effect: it looked like a moving forest,
amidst which shone pike-heads and gun-barrels.  In the paroxysms of their
brutal joy the women stopped passengers, and, pointing to the King’s
carriage, howled in their ears: “Cheer up, friends; we shall no longer be
in want of bread!  We bring you the baker, the baker’s wife, and the
baker’s little boy!”  Behind his Majesty’s carriage were several of his
faithful Guards, some on foot, and some on horseback, most of them
uncovered, all unarmed, and worn out with hunger and fatigue; the
dragoons, the Flanders regiment, the hundred Swiss, and the National
Guards preceded, accompanied, or followed the file of carriages.  I
witnessed this heartrending spectacle; I saw the ominous procession.  In
the midst of all the tumult, clamour, and singing, interrupted by frequent
discharges of musketry, which the hand of a monster or a bungler might so
easily render fatal, I saw the Queen preserving most courageous
tranquillity of soul, and an air of nobleness and inexpressible dignity,
and my eyes were suffused with tears of admiration and grief.--“Memoirs of
Bertrand de Molleville.”]

The progress of the procession was so slow that it was near six in the
evening when this august family, made prisoners by their own people,
arrived at the Hotel de Ville.  Bailly received them there; they were
placed upon a throne, just when that of their ancestors had been
overthrown.  The King spoke in a firm yet gracious manner; he said that he
always came with pleasure and confidence among the inhabitants of his good
city of Paris.  M. Bailly repeated this observation to the representatives
of the commune, who came to address the King; but he forgot the word
confidence.  The Queen instantly and loudly reminded him of the omission.
The King and Queen, their children, and Madame Elisabeth, retired to the
Tuileries.  Nothing was ready for their reception there.  All the
living-rooms had been long given up to persons belonging to the Court;
they hastily quitted them on that day, leaving their furniture, which was
purchased by the Court.  The Comtesse de la Marck, sister to the Marechaux
de Noailles and de Mouchy, had occupied the apartments now appropriated to
the Queen.  Monsieur and Madame retired to the Luxembourg.

The Queen had sent for me on the morning of the 6th of October, to leave
me and my father-in-law in charge of her most valuable property.  She took
away only her casket of diamonds.  Comte Gouvernet de la Tour-du-Pin, to
whom the military government of Versailles was entrusted ‘pro tempore’,
came and gave orders to the National Guard, which had taken possession of
the apartments, to allow us to remove everything that we should deem
necessary for the Queen’s accommodation.

I saw her Majesty alone in her private apartments a moment before her
departure for Paris; she could hardly speak; tears bedewed her face, to
which all the blood in her body seemed to have rushed; she condescended to
embrace me, gave her hand to M. Campan to kiss, and said to us, “Come
immediately and settle at Paris; I will lodge you at the Tuileries; come,
and do not leave me henceforward; faithful servants at moments like these
become useful friends; we are lost, dragged away, perhaps to death; when
kings become prisoners they are very near it.”

I had frequent opportunities during the course of our misfortunes of
observing that the people never entirely give their allegiance to factious
leaders, but easily escape their control when some cause reminds them of
their duty.  As soon as the most violent Jacobins had an opportunity of
seeing the Queen near at hand, of speaking to her, and of hearing her
voice, they became her most zealous partisans; and even when she was in
the prison of the Temple several of those who had contributed to place her
there perished for having attempted to get her out again.

On the morning of the 7th of October the same women who the day before
surrounded the carriage of the august prisoners, riding on cannons and
uttering the most abusive language, assembled under the Queen’s windows,
upon the terrace of the Chateau, and desired to see her.  Her Majesty
appeared.  There are always among mobs of this description orators, that
is to say, beings who have more assurance than the rest; a woman of this
description told the Queen that she must now remove far from her all such
courtiers as ruin kings, and that she must love the inhabitants of her
good city.  The Queen answered that she had loved them at Versailles, and
would likewise love them at Paris.  “Yes, yes,” said another; “but on the
14th of July you wanted to besiege the city and have it bombarded; and on
the 6th of October you wanted to fly to the frontiers.”  The Queen
replied, affably, that they had been told so, and had believed it; that
there lay the cause of the unhappiness of the people and of the best of
kings.  A third addressed a few words to her in German: the Queen told her
she did not understand it; that she had become so entirely French as even
to have forgotten her mother tongue.  This declaration was answered with
“Bravo!” and clapping of hands; they then desired her to make a compact
with them.  “Ah,” said she, “how can I make a compact with you, since you
have no faith in that which my duty points out to me, and which I ought
for my own happiness to respect?”  They asked her for the ribbons and
flowers out of her hat; her Majesty herself unfastened them and gave them;
they were divided among the party, which for above half an hour cried out,
without ceasing, “Marie Antoinette for ever!  Our good Queen for ever!”

Two days after the King’s arrival at Paris, the city and the National
Guard sent to request the Queen to appear at the theatre, and prove by her
presence and the King’s that it was with pleasure they resided in their
capital.  I introduced the deputation which came to make this request.
Her Majesty replied that she should have infinite pleasure in acceding to
the invitation of the city of Paris; but that time must be allowed her to
soften the recollection of the distressing events which had just occurred,
and from which she had suffered too much.  She added, that having come
into Paris preceded by the heads of the faithful Guards who had perished
before the door of their sovereign, she could not think that such an entry
into the capital ought to be followed by rejoicings; but that the
happiness she had always felt in appearing in the midst of the inhabitants
of Paris was not effaced from her memory, and that she should enjoy it
again as soon as she found herself able to do so.

Their Majesties found some consolation in their private life: from
Madame’s--[Madame, here, the Princesse Marie Therese, daughter of Marie
Antoinette.]--gentle manners and filial affection, from the
accomplishments and vivacity of the little Dauphin, and the attention and
tenderness of the pious Princess Elisabeth, they still derived moments of
happiness.  The young Prince daily gave proofs of sensibility and
penetration; he was not yet beyond female care, but a private tutor, the
Abbe Davout, gave him all the instruction suitable to his age; his memory
was highly cultivated, and he recited verses with much grace and feeling.

[On the 19th of October, that is to say, thirteen days after he had taken
up his abode at Paris, the King went, on foot and almost alone, to review
some detachments of the National Guard.  After the review Louis XVI. met
with a child sweeping the street, who asked him for money.  The child
called the King “M. le Chevalier.”  His Majesty gave him six francs.  The
little sweeper, surprised at receiving so large a sum, cried out, “Oh! I
have no change; you will give me money another time.”  A person who
accompanied the monarch said to the child, “Keep it all, my friend; the
gentleman is not chevalier, he is the eldest of the family.”--NOTE BY THE
EDITOR.]

The day after the arrival of the Court at Paris, terrified at hearing some
noise in the gardens of the Tuileries, the young prince threw himself into
the arms of the Queen, crying out, “Grand-Dieu, mamma! will it be
yesterday over again?”  A few days after this affecting exclamation, he
went up to the King, and looked at him with a pensive air.  The King asked
him what he wanted; he answered, that he had something very serious to say
to him.  The King having prevailed on him to explain himself, the young
Prince asked why his people, who formerly loved him so well, were all at
once angry with him; and what he had done to irritate them so much.  His
father took him upon his knees, and spoke to him nearly as follows: “I
wished, child, to render the people still happier than they were; I wanted
money to pay the expenses occasioned by wars.  I asked my people for
money, as my predecessors have always done; magistrates, composing the
Parliament, opposed it, and said that my people alone had a right to
consent to it.  I assembled the principal inhabitants of every town,
whether distinguished by birth, fortune, or talents, at Versailles; that
is what is called the States General.  When they were assembled they
required concessions of me which I could not make, either with due respect
for myself or with justice to you, who will be my successor; wicked men
inducing the people to rise have occasioned the excesses of the last few
days; the people must not be blamed for them.”

The Queen made the young Prince clearly comprehend that he ought to treat
the commanders of battalions, the officers of the National Guard, and all
the Parisians who were about him, with affability; the child took great
pains to please all those people, and when he had had an opportunity of
replying obligingly to the mayor or members of the commune he came and
whispered in his mother’s ear, “Was that right?”

He requested M. Bailly to show him the shield of Scipio, which is in the
royal library; and M. Bailly asking him which he preferred, Scipio or
Hannibal, the young Prince replied, without hesitation, that he preferred
him who had defended his own country.  He gave frequent proofs of ready
wit.  One day, while the Queen was hearing Madame repeat her exercises in
ancient history, the young Princess could not at the moment recollect the
name of the Queen of Carthage; the Dauphin was vexed at his sister’s want
of memory, and though he never spoke to her in the second person singular,
he bethought himself of the expedient of saying to her, “But ‘dis donc’
the name of the Queen, to mamma; ‘dis donc’ what her name was.”

Shortly after the arrival of the King and his family at Paris the Duchesse
de Luynes came, in pursuance of the advice of a committee of the
Constitutional Assembly, to propose to the Queen a temporary retirement
from France, in order to leave the constitution to perfect itself, so that
the patriots should not accuse her of influencing the King to oppose it.
The Duchess knew how far the schemes of the conspirers extended, and her
attachment to the Queen was the principal cause of the advice she gave
her.  The Queen perfectly comprehended the Duchesse de Luynes’s motive;
but replied that she would never leave either the King or her son; that if
she thought herself alone obnoxious to public hatred she would instantly
offer her life as a sacrifice;--but that it was the throne which was aimed
at, and that, in abandoning the King, she should be merely committing an
act of cowardice, since she saw no other advantage in it than that of
saving her own life.

One evening, in the month of November, 1790, I returned home rather late;
I there found the Prince de Poix; he told me he came to request me to
assist him in regaining his peace of mind; that at the commencement of the
sittings of the National Assembly he had suffered himself to be seduced
into the hope of a better order of things; that he blushed for his error,
and that he abhorred plans which had already produced such fatal results;
that he broke with the reformers for the rest of his life; that he had
given in his resignation as a deputy of the National Assembly; and,
finally, that he was anxious that the Queen should not sleep in ignorance
of his sentiments.  I undertook his commission, and acquitted myself of it
in the best way I could; but I was totally unsuccessful.  The Prince de
Poix remained at Court; he there suffered many mortifications, never
ceasing to serve the King in the most dangerous commissions with that zeal
for which his house has always been distinguished.

When the King, the Queen, and the children were suitably established at
the Tuileries, as well as Madame Elisabeth and the Princesse de Lamballe,
the Queen resumed her usual habits; she employed her mornings in
superintending the education of Madame, who received all her lessons in
her presence, and she herself began to work large pieces of tapestry. Her
mind was too much occupied with passing events and surrounding dangers to
admit her of applying herself to reading; the needle was the only
employment which could divert her.

[There was long preserved at Paris, in the house of Mademoiselle
Dubuquois, a tapestry-worker, a carpet worked by the Queen and Madame
Elisabeth for the large room of her Majesty’s ground-floor apartments at
the Tuileries.  The Empress Josephine saw and admired this carpet, and
desired it might be taken care of, in the hope of one day sending it to
Madame--MADAME CAMPAN.]

She received the Court twice a week before going to mass, and on those
days dined in public with the King; she spent the rest of the time with
her family and children; she had no concert, and did not go to the play
until 1791, after the acceptation of the constitution.  The Princesse de
Lamballe, however, had some evening parties in her apartments at the
Tuileries, which were tolerably brilliant in consequence of the great
number of persons who attended them.  The Queen was present at a few of
these assemblies; but being soon convinced that her present situation
forbade her appearing much in public, she remained at home, and conversed
as she sat at work.  The sole topic of her discourse was, as may well be
supposed, the Revolution.  She sought to discover the real opinions of the
Parisians respecting her, and how she could have so completely lost the
affections of the people, and even of many persons in the higher ranks.
She well knew that she ought to impute the whole to the spirit of party,
to the hatred of the Duc d’Orleans, and the folly of the French, who
desired to have a total change in the constitution; but she was not the
less desirous of ascertaining the private feelings of all the people in
power.

From the very commencement of the Revolution General Luckner indulged in
violent sallies against her.  Her Majesty, knowing that I was acquainted
with a lady who had been long connected with the General, desired me to
discover through that channel what was the private motive on which
Luckner’s hatred against her was founded.  On being questioned upon this
point, he answered that Marechal de Segur had assured him he had proposed
him for the command of a camp of observation, but that the Queen had made
a bar against his name; and that this ‘par’, as he called it, in his
German accent, he could not forget.

The Queen ordered me to repeat this reply to the King myself, and said to
him: “See, Sire, whether I was not right in telling you that your
ministers, in order to give themselves full scope in the distribution of
favours, persuaded the French that I interfered in everything; there was
not a single license given out in the country for the sale of salt or
tobacco but the people believed it was given to one of my favourites.”

“That is very, true,” replied the King; “but I find it very difficult to
believe that Marechal de Segur ever said any such thing to Luckner; he
knew too well that you never interfered in the distribution of favours.

“That Luckner is a good-for-nothing fellow, and Segur is a brave and
honourable man who never uttered such a falsehood; however, you are right;
and because you provided for a few dependents, you are most unjustly
reported to have disposed of all offices, civil and military.”

All the nobility who had not left Paris made a point of presenting
themselves assiduously to the King, and there was a considerable influx to
the Tuileries.  Marks of attachment were exhibited even in external
symbols; the women wore enormous bouquets of lilies in their bosoms and
upon their heads, and sometimes even bunches of white ribbon.  At the play
there were often disputes between the pit and the boxes about removing
these ornaments, which the people thought dangerous emblems. National
cockades were sold in every corner of Paris; the sentinels stopped all who
did not wear them; the young men piqued themselves upon breaking through
this regulation, which was in some degree sanctioned by the acquiescence
of Louis XVI.  Frays took place, which were to be regretted, because they
excited a spirit of lawlessness.  The King adopted conciliatory measures
with the Assembly in order to promote tranquillity; the revolutionists
were but little disposed to think him sincere; unfortunately the royalists
encouraged this incredulity by incessantly repeating that the King was not
free, and that all that he did was completely null, and in no way bound
him for the time to come. Such was the heat and violence of party spirit
that persons the most sincerely attached to the King were not even
permitted to use the language of reason, and recommend greater reserve in
conversation. People would talk and argue at table without considering
that all the servants belonged to the hostile army; and it may truly be
said there was as much imprudence and levity in the party assailed as
there was cunning, boldness, and perseverance in that which made the
attack.




CHAPTER III.


In February, 1790, another matter gave the Court much uneasiness; a
zealous individual of the name of Favras had conceived the scheme of
carrying off the King, and affecting a counter-revolution.  Monsieur,
probably out of mere benevolence, gave him some money, and thence arose a
report that he thereby wished to favour the execution of the enterprise.
The step taken by Monsieur in going to the Hotel de Ville to explain
himself on this matter was unknown to the Queen; it is more than probable
that the King was acquainted with it.  When judgment was pronounced upon
M. de Favras the Queen did not conceal from me her fears about the
confessions of the unfortunate man in his last moments.

I sent a confidential person to the Hotel de Ville; she came to inform the
Queen that the condemned had demanded to be taken from Notre-Dame to the
Hotel de Ville to make a final declaration, and give some particulars
verifying it.  These particulars compromised nobody; Favras corrected his
last will after writing it, and went to the scaffold with heroic courage
and coolness.  The judge who read his condemnation to him told him that
his life was a sacrifice which he owed to public tranquillity.  It was
asserted at the time that Favras was given up as a victim in order to
satisfy the people and save the Baron de Besenval, who was a prisoner in
the Abbaye.

[Thomas Mahy, Marquis de Favras, was accused in the month of December,
1789, of having conspired against the Revolution.  Having been arrested by
order of the committee of inquiry of the National Assembly, he was
transferred to the Chatelet, where he defended himself with much coolness
and presence of mind, repelling the accusations brought against him by
Morel, Turcati, and Marquis, with considerable force.  These witnesses
declared he had imparted his plan to them; it was to be carried into
execution by 12,000 Swiss and 12,000 Germans, who were to be assembled at
Montargis, thence to march upon Paris, carry off the King, and assassinate
Bailly, La Fayette, and Necker.  The greater number of these charges he
denied, and declared that the rest related only to the levy of a troop
intended to favour the revolution preparing in Brabant.  The judge having
refused to disclose who had denounced him, he complained to the Assembly,
which passed to the order of the day.  His death was obviously inevitable.
During the whole time of the proceedings the populace never ceased
threatening the judges and shouting, “A la lanterne!”  It was even
necessary to keep numerous troops and artillery constantly ready to act in
the courtyard of the Chatelet. The judges, who had just acquitted M. de
Besenval in an affair nearly similar, doubtless dreaded the effects of
this fury.  When they refused to hear Favras’s witnesses in exculpation,
he compared them to the tribunal of the Inquisition.  The principal charge
against him was founded on a letter from M. de Foucault, asking him,
“where are your troops?  in which direction will they enter Paris? I
should like to be employed among them.”  Favras was condemned to make the
‘amende honorable’ in front of the Cathedral, and to be hanged at the
Place de Greve.  He heard this sentence with wonderful calmness, and said
to his judges, “I pity you much if the testimony of two men is sufficient
to induce you to condemn.”  The judge having said to him, “I have no other
consolation to hold out to you than that which religion affords,” he
replied, nobly, “My greatest consolation is that which I derive from my
innocence.”--“Biographic Universelle”]

On the morning of the Sunday following this execution M. de la Villeurnoy
came to my house to tell me that he was going that day to the public
dinner of the King and Queen to present Madame de Favras and her son, both
of them in mourning for the brave Frenchman who fell a sacrifice for his
King; and that all the royalists expected to see the Queen load the
unfortunate family with favours.  I did all that lay in my power to
prevent this proceeding.  I foresaw the effect it would have upon the
Queen’s feeling heart, and the painful constraint she would experience,
having the horrible Santerre, the commandant of a battalion of the
Parisian guard, behind her chair during dinner-time.  I could not make M.
de la Villeurnoy comprehend my argument; the Queen was gone to mass,
surrounded by her whole Court, and I had not even means of apprising her
of his intention.

When dinner was over I heard a knocking at the door of my apartment, which
opened into the corridor next that of the Queen; it was herself. She asked
me whether there was anybody with me; I was alone; she threw herself into
an armchair, and told me she came to weep with me over the foolish conduct
of the ultras of the King’s party.  “We must fall,” said she, “attacked as
we are by men who possess every talent and shrink from no crime, while we
are defended only by those who are no doubt very estimable, but have no
adequate idea of our situation.  They have exposed me to the animosity of
both parties by presenting the widow and son of Favras to me.  Were I free
to act as I wish, I should take the child of the man who has just
sacrificed himself for us and place him at table between the King and
myself; but surrounded by the assassins who have destroyed his father, I
did not dare even to cast my eyes upon him.  The royalists will blame me
for not having appeared interested in this poor child; the revolutionists
will be enraged at the idea that his presentation should have been thought
agreeable to me.”  However, the Queen added that she knew Madame de Favras
was in want, and that she desired me to send her next day, through a
person who could be relied on, a few rouleaus of fifty Louis, and to
direct that she should be assured her Majesty would always watch over the
fortunes of herself and her son.

In the month of March following I had an opportunity of ascertaining the
King’s sentiments respecting the schemes which were continually proposed
to him for making his escape.  One night about ten o’clock Comte
d’Inisdal, who was deputed by the nobility, came to request that I would
see him in private, as he had an important matter to communicate to me. He
told me that on that very night the King was to be carried off; that the
section of the National Guard, that day commanded by M. d’Aumont, was
gained over, and that sets of horses, furnished by some good royalists,
were placed in relays at suitable distances; that he had just left a
number of the nobility assembled for the execution of this scheme, and
that he had been sent to me that I might, through the medium of the Queen,
obtain the King’s positive consent to it before midnight; that the King
was aware of their plan, but that his Majesty never would speak decidedly,
and that it was necessary he should consent to the undertaking.  I greatly
displeased Comte d’Inisdal by expressing my astonishment that the nobility
at the moment of the execution of so important a project should send to
me, the Queen’s first woman, to obtain a consent which ought to have been
the basis of any well-concerted scheme.  I told him, also, that it would
be impossible for me to go at that time to the Queen’s apartments without
exciting the attention of the people in the antechambers; that the King
was at cards with the Queen and his family, and that I never broke in upon
their privacy unless I was called for.  I added, however, that M. Campan
could enter without being called; and if the Count chose to give him his
confidence he might rely upon him.

My father-in-law, to whom Comte d’Inisdal repeated what he had said to me,
took the commission upon himself, and went to the Queen’s apartments. The
King was playing at whist with the Queen, Monsieur, and Madame; Madame
Elisabeth was kneeling on a stool near the table.  M. Campan informed the
Queen of what had been communicated to me; nobody uttered a word.  The
Queen broke silence and said to the King, “Do you hear, Sire, what Campan
says to us?”--“Yes, I hear,” said the King, and continued his game.
Monsieur, who was in the habit of introducing passages from plays into his
conversation, said to my father-in-law, “M. Campan, that pretty little
couplet again, if you please;” and pressed the King to reply.  At length
the Queen said, “But something must be said to Campan.”  The King then
spoke to my father-in-law in these words: “Tell M. d’Inisdal that I cannot
consent to be carried off!”  The Queen enjoined M. Campan to take care
and, report this answer faithfully.  “You understand,” added she, “the
King cannot consent to be carried off.”

Comte d’Inisdal was very much dissatisfied with the King’s answer, and
went out, saying, “I understand; he wishes to throw all the blame,
beforehand, upon those who are to devote themselves for him.”

He went away, and I thought the enterprise would be abandoned.  However,
the Queen remained alone with me till midnight, preparing her cases of
valuables, and ordered me not to go to bed.  She imagined the King’s
answer would be understood as a tacit consent, and merely a refusal to
participate in the design.  I do not know what passed in the King’s
apartments during the night; but I occasionally looked out at the windows:
I saw the garden clear; I heard no noise in the palace, and day at length
confirmed my opinion that the project had been given up.  “We must,
however, fly,” said the Queen to me, shortly afterwards; “who knows how
far the factious may go?  The danger increases every day.”

[The disturbances of the 13th of April, 1790, occasioned by the warmth of
the discussions upon Dom Gerle’s imprudent motion in the National
Assembly, having afforded room for apprehension that the enemies of the
country would endeavour to carry off the King from the capital, M. de La
Fayette promised to keep watch, and told Louis XVI. that if he saw any
alarming movement among the disaffected he would give him notice of it by
the discharge of a cannon from Henri IV.’s battery on the Pont Neuf.  On
the same night a few casual discharges of musketry were heard from the
terrace of the Tuileries. The King, deceived by the noise, flew to the
Queen’s apartments; he did not find her; he ran to the Dauphin’s room,
where he found the Queen holding her son in her arms. “Madame;” said the
King to her, “I have been seeking you; and you have made me uneasy.”  The
Queen, showing her son, said to him, “I was at my post.”--“Anecdotes of
the Reign of Louis XVI.”]

This Princess received advice and memorials from all quarters.  Rivarol
addressed several to her, which I read to her.  They were full of
ingenious observations; but the Queen did not find that they, contained
anything of essential service under the circumstances in which the royal
family was placed.  Comte du Moustier also sent memorials and plans of
conduct.  I remember that in one of his writings he said to the King,
“Read ‘Telemachus’ again, Sire; in that book which delighted your Majesty
in infancy you will find the first seeds of those principles which,
erroneously followed up by men of ardent imaginations, are bringing on the
explosion we expect every moment.”  I read so many of these memorials that
I could hardly give a faithful account of them, and I am determined to
note in this work no other events than such as I witnessed; no other words
than such as (notwithstanding the lapse of time) still in some measure
vibrate in my ears.

Comte de Segur, on his return from Russia, was employed some time by the
Queen, and had a certain degree of influence over her; but that did not
last long.  Comte Augustus de la Marck likewise endeavoured to negotiate
for the King’s advantage with the leaders of the factious.  M. de
Fontanges, Archbishop of Toulouse, possessed also the Queen’s confidence;
but none of the endeavours which were made on the spot produced any,
beneficial result.  The Empress Catherine II. also conveyed her opinion
upon the situation of Louis XVI. to the Queen, and her Majesty made me
read a few lines in the Empress’s own handwriting, which concluded with
these words:

“Kings ought to proceed in their career undisturbed by the cries of the
people, even as the moon pursues her course unimpeded by the baying of
dogs.”  This maxim of the despotic sovereign of Russia was very
inapplicable to the situation of a captive king.

Meanwhile the revolutionary party followed up its audacious enterprise in
a determined manner, without meeting any opposition.  The advice from
without, as well from Coblentz as from Vienna, made various impressions
upon the members of the royal family, and those cabinets were not in
accordance with each other.  I often had reason to infer from what the
Queen said to me that she thought the King, by leaving all the honour of
restoring order to the Coblentz party,--[The Princes and the chief of the
emigrant nobility assembled at Coblentz, and the name was used to
designate the reactionary party.]--would, on the return of the emigrants,
be put under a kind of guardianship which would increase his own
misfortunes.  She frequently said to me, “If the emigrants succeed, they
will rule the roast for a long time; it will be impossible to refuse them
anything; to owe the crown to them would be contracting too great an
obligation.”  It always appeared to me that she wished her own family to
counterbalance the claims of the emigrants by disinterested services. She
was fearful of M. de Calonne, and with good reason.  She had proof that
this minister was her bitterest enemy, and that he made use of the most
criminal means in order to blacken her reputation.  I can testify that I
have seen in the hands of the Queen a manuscript copy of the infamous
memoirs of the woman De Lamotte, which had been brought to her from
London, and in which all those passages where a total ignorance of the
customs of Courts had occasioned that wretched woman to make blunders
which would have been too palpable were corrected in M. de Calonne’s own
handwriting.

The two King’s Guards who were wounded at her Majesty’s door on the 6th of
October were M. du Repaire and M. de Miomandre de Sainte-Marie; on the
dreadful night of the 6th of October the latter took the post of the
former the moment he became incapable of maintaining it.

A considerable number of the Body Guards, who were wounded on the 6th of
October, betook themselves to the infirmary at Versailles.  The brigands
wanted to make their way into the infirmary in order to massacre them. M.
Viosin, head surgeon of that infirmary, ran to the entrance hall, invited
the assailants to refresh themselves, ordered wine to be brought, and
found means to direct the Sister Superior to remove the Guards into a ward
appropriated to the poor, and dress them in the caps and greatcoats
furnished by the institution.  The good sisters executed this order so
promptly that the Guards were removed, dressed as paupers, and their beds
made, while the assassins were drinking.  They searched all the wards, and
fancied they saw no persons there but the sick poor; thus the Guards were
saved.

M. de Miomandre was at Paris, living on terms of friendship with another
of the Guards, who, on the same day, received a gunshot wound from the
brigands in another part of the Chateau.  These two officers, who were
attended and cured together at the infirmary of Versailles, were almost
constant companions; they were recognised at the Palais Royal, and
insulted.  The Queen thought it necessary for them to quit Paris.  She
desired me to write to M. de Miomandre de Sainte-Marie, and tell him to
come to me at eight o’clock in the evening; and then to communicate to him
her wish to hear of his being in safety; and ordered me, when he had made
up his mind to go, to tell him in her name that gold could not repay such
a service as he had rendered; that she hoped some day to be in
sufficiently happy circumstances to recompense him as she ought; but that
for the present her offer of money was only that of a sister to a brother
situated as he then was, and that she requested he would take whatever
might be necessary to discharge his debts at Paris and defray the expenses
of his journey.  She told me also to desire he would bring his friend
Bertrand with him, and to make him the same offer.

The two Guards came at the appointed hour, and accepted, I think, each one
or two hundred louis.  A moment afterwards the Queen opened my door; she
was accompanied by the King and Madame Elisabeth; the King stood with his
back against the fireplace; the Queen sat down upon a sofa and Madame
Elisabeth sat near her; I placed myself behind the Queen, and the two
Guards stood facing the King.  The Queen told them that the King wished to
see before they went away two of the brave men who had afforded him the
strongest proofs of courage and attachment.  Miomandre said all that the
Queen’s affecting observations were calculated to inspire.  Madame
Elisabeth spoke of the King’s gratitude; the Queen resumed the subject of
their speedy departure, urging the necessity of it; the King was silent;
but his emotion was evident, and his eyes were suffused with tears.  The
Queen rose, the King went out, and Madame Elisabeth followed him; the
Queen stopped and said to me, in the recess of a window, “I am sorry I
brought the King here!  I am sure Elisabeth thinks with me; if the King
had but given utterance to a fourth part of what he thinks of those brave
men they would have been in ecstacies; but he cannot overcome his
diffidence.”

The Emperor Joseph died about this time.  The Queen’s grief was not
excessive; that brother of whom she had been so proud, and whom she had
loved so tenderly, had probably suffered greatly in her opinion; she
reproached him sometimes, though with moderation, for having adopted
several of the principles of the new philosophy, and perhaps she knew that
he looked upon our troubles with the eye of the sovereign of Germany
rather than that of the brother of the Queen of France.

The Emperor on one occasion sent the Queen an engraving which represented
unfrocked nuns and monks.  The first were trying on fashionable dresses,
the latter were having their hair arranged; the picture was always left in
the closet, and never hung up.  The Queen told me to have it taken away;
for she was hurt to see how much influence the philosophers had over her
brother’s mind and actions.

Mirabeau had not lost the hope of becoming the last resource of the
oppressed Court; and at this time some communications passed between the
Queen and him.  The question was about an office to be conferred upon him.
This transpired, and it must have been about this period that the Assembly
decreed that no deputy could hold an office as a minister of the King
until the expiration of two years after the cessation of his legislative
functions.  I know that the Queen was much hurt at this decision, and
considered that the Court had lost a promising opening.

The palace of the Tuileries was a very disagreeable residence during the
summer, which made the Queen wish to go to St. Cloud.  The removal was
decided on without any opposition; the National Guard of Paris followed
the Court thither.  At this period new opportunities of escape were
presented; nothing would have been more easy than to execute them.  The
King had obtained leave (!) to go out without guards, and to be
accompanied only by an aide-de-camp of M. de La Fayette.  The Queen also
had one on duty with her, and so had the Dauphin.  The King and Queen
often went out at four in the afternoon, and did not return until eight or
nine.

I will relate one of the plans of emigration which the Queen communicated
to me, the success of which seemed infallible.  The royal family were to
meet in a wood four leagues from St. Cloud; some persons who could be
fully relied on were to accompany the King, who was always followed by his
equerries and pages; the Queen was to join him with her daughter and
Madame Elisabeth.  These Princesses, as well as the Queen, had equerries
and pages, of whose fidelity no doubt could be entertained.  The Dauphin
likewise was to be at the place of rendezvous with Madame de Tourzel; a
large berlin and a chaise for the attendants were sufficient for the whole
family; the aides-de-camp were to have been gained over or mastered.  The
King was to leave a letter for the President of the National Assembly on
his bureau at St. Cloud.  The people in the service of the King and Queen
would have waited until nine in the evening without anxiety, because the
family sometimes did not return until that hour. The letter could not be
forwarded to Paris until ten o’clock at the earliest.  The Assembly would
not then be sitting; the President must have been sought for at his own
house or elsewhere; it would have been midnight before the Assembly could
have been summoned and couriers sent off to have the royal family stopped;
but the latter would have been six or seven hours in advance, as they
would have started at six leagues’ distance from Paris; and at this period
travelling was not yet impeded in France.

The Queen approved of this plan; but I did not venture to interrogate her,
and I even thought if it were put in execution she would leave me in
ignorance of it.  One evening in the month of June the people of the
Chateau, finding the King did not return by nine o’clock, were walking
about the courtyards in a state of great anxiety.  I thought the family,
was gone, and I could scarcely breathe amidst the confusion of my good
wishes, when I heard the sound of the carriages.  I confessed to the Queen
that I thought she had set off; she told me she must wait until Mesdames
the King’s aunts had quitted France, and afterwards see whether the plan
agreed with those formed abroad.




CHAPTER IV.


There was a meeting at Paris for the first federation on the 14th of July,
1790, the anniversary of the taking of the Bastille.  What an astonishing
assemblage of four hundred thousand men, of whom there were not perhaps
two hundred who did not believe that the King found happiness and glory in
the order of things then being established.  The love which was borne him
by all, with the exception of those who meditated his ruin, still reigned
in the hearts of the French in the departments; but if I may judge from
those whom I had an opportunity of seeing, it was totally impossible to
enlighten them; they were as much attached to the King as to the
constitution, and to the constitution as to the King; and it was
impossible to separate the one from the other in their hearts and minds.

The Court returned to St. Cloud after the federation.  A wretch, named
Rotondo, made his way into the palace with the intention of assassinating
the Queen.  It is known that he penetrated to the inner gardens: the rain
prevented her Majesty from going out that day.  M. de La Fayette, who was
aware of this plot, gave all the sentinels the strictest orders, and a
description of the monster was distributed throughout the palace by order
of the General.  I do not know how he was saved from punishment. The
police belonging to the King discovered that there was likewise a scheme
on foot for poisoning the Queen.  She spoke to me, as well as to her head
physician, M. Vicq-d’Azyr, about it, without the slightest emotion, but
both he and I consulted what precautions it would be proper to take.  He
relied much upon the Queen’s temperance; yet he recommended me always to
have a bottle of oil of sweet almonds within reach, and to renew it
occasionally, that oil and milk being, as is known, the most certain
antidotes to the divellication of corrosive poisons.

The Queen had a habit which rendered M. Vicq-d’Azyr particularly uneasy:
there was always some pounded sugar upon the table in her Majesty’s
bedchamber; and she frequently, without calling anybody, put spoonfuls of
it into a glass of water when she wished to drink.  It was agreed that I
should get a considerable quantity of sugar powdered; that I should always
have some papers of it in my bag, and that three or four times a day, when
alone in the Queen’s room, I should substitute it for that in her
sugar-basin.  We knew that the Queen would have prevented all such
precautions, but we were not aware of her reason.  One day she caught me
alone making this exchange, and told me, she supposed it was agreed on
between myself and M. Vicq-d’Azyr, but that I gave myself very unnecessary
trouble.  “Remember,” added she, “that not a grain of poison will be put
in use against me.  The Brinvilliers do not belong to this century: this
age possesses calumny, which is a much more convenient instrument of
death; and it is by that I shall perish.”

Even while melancholy presentiments afflicted this unfortunate Princess,
manifestations of attachment to her person, and to the King’s cause, would
frequently raise agreeable illusions in her mind, or present to her the
affecting spectacle of tears shed for her sorrows.  I was one day, during
this same visit to St. Cloud, witness of a very touching scene, which we
took great care to keep secret.  It was four in the afternoon; the guard
was not set; there was scarcely anybody at St. Cloud that day, and I was
reading to the Queen, who was at work in a room the balcony of which hung
over the courtyard.  The windows were closed, yet we heard a sort of
inarticulate murmur from a great number of voices.  The Queen desired me
to go and see what it was; I raised the muslin curtain, and perceived more
than fifty persons beneath the balcony: this group consisted of women,
young and old, perfectly well dressed in the country costume, old
chevaliers of St. Louis, young knights of Malta, and a few ecclesiastics.
I told the Queen it was probably an assemblage of persons residing in the
neighbourhood who wished to see her.  She rose, opened the window, and
appeared in the balcony; immediately all these worthy people said to her,
in an undertone: “Courage, Madame; good Frenchmen suffer for you, and with
you; they pray for you.  Heaven will hear their prayers; we love you, we
respect you, we will continue to venerate our virtuous King.”  The Queen
burst into tears, and held her handkerchief to her eyes.  “Poor Queen! she
weeps!”  said the women and young girls; but the dread of exposing her
Majesty, and even the persons who showed so much affection for her, to
observation, prompted me to take her hand, and prevail upon her to retire
into her room; and, raising my eyes, I gave the excellent people to
understand that my conduct was dictated by prudence.  They comprehended
me, for I heard, “That lady is right;” and afterwards, “Farewell, Madame!”
 from several of them; and all this in accents of feeling so true and so
mournful, that I am affected at the recollection of them even after a
lapse of twenty years.

A few days afterwards the insurrection of Nancy took place.

[The insurrection of the troops at Nancy broke out in August 1790, and was
put down by Marechal de Bouille on the last day of that month.  See
“Bouille,” p. 195.]

Only the ostensible cause is known; there was another, of which I might
have been in full possession, if the great confusion I was in upon the
subject had not deprived me of the power of paying attention to it.  I
will endeavour to make myself understood.  In the early part of September
the Queen, as she was going to bed, desired me to let all her people go,
and to remain with her myself; when we were alone she said to me, “The
King will come here at midnight.  You know that he has always shown you
marks of distinction; he now proves his confidence in you by selecting you
to write down the whole affair of Nancy from his dictation.  He must have
several copies of it.”  At midnight the King came to the Queen’s
apartments, and said to me, smiling, “You did not expect to become my
secretary, and that, too, during the night.”  I followed the King into the
council chamber.  I found there sheets of paper, an inkstand, and pens all
ready prepared.  He sat down by my side and dictated to me the report of
the Marquis de Bouille, which he himself copied at the same time.  My hand
trembled; I wrote with difficulty; my reflections scarcely left me
sufficient power of attention to listen to the King.  The large table, the
velvet cloth, seats which ought to have been filled by none but the King’s
chief councillors; what that chamber had been, and what it was at that
moment, when the King was employing a woman in an office which had so
little affinity with her ordinary functions; the misfortunes which had
brought him to the necessity of doing so,--all these ideas made such an
impression upon me that when I had returned to the Queen’s apartments I
could not sleep for the remainder of the night, nor could I remember what
I had written.

The more I saw that I had the happiness to be of some use to my employers,
the more scrupulously careful was I to live entirely with my family; and I
never indulged in any conversation which could betray the intimacy to
which I was admitted; but nothing at Court remains long concealed, and I
soon saw I had many enemies.  The means of injuring others in the minds of
sovereigns are but too easily obtained, and they had become still more so,
since the mere suspicion of communication with partisans of the Revolution
was sufficient to forfeit the esteem and confidence of the King and Queen;
happily, my conduct protected me, with them, against calumny.  I had left
St. Cloud two days, when I received at Paris a note from the Queen,
containing these words:

“Come to St. Cloud immediately; I have something concerning you to
communicate.”  I set off without loss of time.  Her Majesty told me she
had a sacrifice to request of me; I answered that it was made.  She said
it went so far as the renunciation of a friend’s society; that such a
renunciation was always painful, but that it must be particularly so to
me; that, for her own part, it might have been very useful that a deputy,
a man of talent, should be constantly received at my house; but at this
moment she thought only of my welfare.  The Queen then informed me that
the ladies of the bedchamber had, the preceding evening, assured her that
M. de Beaumetz, deputy from the nobility of Artois, who had taken his seat
on the left of the Assembly, spent his whole time at my house. Perceiving
on what false grounds the attempt to injure, me was based, I replied
respectfully, but at the same time smiling, that it was impossible for me
to make the sacrifice exacted by her Majesty; that M. de Beaumetz, a man
of great judgment, had not determined to cross over to the left of the
Assembly with the intention of afterwards making himself unpopular by
spending his time with the Queen’s first woman; and that, ever since the
1st of October, 1789, I had seen him nowhere but at the play, or in the
public walks, and even then without his ever coming to speak to me; that
this line of conduct had appeared to me perfectly consistent: for whether
he was desirous to please the popular party, or to be sought after by the
Court, he could not act in any other way towards me.  The Queen closed
this explanation by saying, “Oh! it is clear, as clear as the day! this
opportunity for trying to do you an injury is very ill chosen; but be
cautious in your slightest actions; you perceive that the confidence
placed in you by the King and myself raises you up powerful enemies.”

The private communications which were still kept up between the Court and
Mirabeau at length procured him an interview with the Queen, in the
gardens of St. Cloud.  He left Paris on horseback, on pretence of going
into the country, to M. de Clavieres, one of his friends; but he stopped
at one of the gates of the gardens of St.  Cloud, and was led to a spot
situated in the highest part of the private garden, where the Queen was
waiting for him.  She told me she accosted him by saying, “With a common
enemy, with a man who had sworn to destroy monarchy without appreciating
its utility among a great people, I should at this moment be guilty of a
most ill-advised step; but in speaking to a Mirabeau,” etc.  The poor
Queen was delighted at having discovered this method of exalting him above
all others of his principles; and in imparting the particulars of this
interview to me she said, “Do you know that those words, ‘a Mirabeau,’
appeared to flatter him exceedingly.”  On leaving the Queen he said to her
with warmth, “Madame, the monarchy is saved!”  It must have been soon
afterwards that Mirabeau received considerable sums of money.  He showed
it too plainly by the increase of his expenditure. Already did some of his
remarks upon the necessity of arresting the progress of the democrats
circulate in society.  Being once invited to meet a person at dinner who
was very much attached to the Queen, he learned that that person withdrew
on hearing that he was one of the guests; the party who invited him told
him this with some degree of satisfaction; but all were very much
astonished when they heard Mirabeau eulogise the absent guest, and declare
that in his place he would have done the same; but, he added, they had
only to invite that person again in a few months, and he would then dine
with the restorer of the monarchy.  Mirabeau forgot that it was more easy
to do harm than good, and thought himself the political Atlas of the whole
world.

Outrages and mockery were incessantly mingled with the audacious
proceedings of the revolutionists.  It was customary to give serenades
under the King’s windows on New Year’s Day.  The band of the National
Guard repaired thither on that festival in 1791; in allusion to the
liquidation of the debts of the State, decreed by the Assembly, they
played solely, and repeatedly, that air from the comic opera of the
“Debts,” the burden of which is, “But our creditors are paid, and that
makes us easy.”

On the same day some “conquerors of the Bastille,” grenadiers of the
Parisian guard, preceded by military music, came to present to the young
Dauphin, as a New Year’s gift, a box of dominoes, made of some of the
stone and marble of which that state prison was built.  The Queen gave me
this inauspicious curiosity, desiring me to preserve it, as it would be a
curious illustration of the history of the Revolution.  Upon the lid were
engraved some bad verses, the purport of which was as follows: “Stones
from those walls, which enclosed the innocent victims of arbitrary power,
have been converted into a toy, to be presented to you, Monseigneur, as a
mark of the people’s love; and to teach you their power.”

The Queen said that M. de La Fayette’s thirst for popularity induced him
to lend himself, without discrimination, to all popular follies.  Her
distrust of the General increased daily, and grew so powerful that when,
towards the end of the Revolution, he seemed willing to support the
tottering throne, she could never bring herself to incur so great an
obligation to him.

M. de J-----, a colonel attached to the staff of the army, was fortunate
enough to render several services to the Queen, and acquitted himself with
discretion and dignity of various important missions.

[During the Queen’s detention in the Temple he introduced himself Into
that prison in the dress of a lamplighter, and there discharged his duty
unrecognised.--MADAME CAMPAN.]

Their Majesties had the highest confidence in him, although it frequently
happened that his prudence, when inconsiderate projects were under
discussion, brought upon him the charge of adopting the principles of the
constitutionals.  Being sent to Turin, he had some difficulty in
dissuading the Princes from a scheme they had formed at that period of
reentering France, with a very weak army, by way of Lyons; and when, in a
council which lasted till three o’clock in the morning, he showed his
instructions, and demonstrated that the measure would endanger the King,
the Comte d’Artois alone declared against the plan, which emanated from
the Prince de Conde.

Among the persons employed in subordinate situations, whom the critical
circumstances of the times involved in affairs of importance, was M. de
Goguelat, a geographical engineer at Versailles, and an excellent
draughtsman.  He made plans of St. Cloud and Trianon for the Queen; she
was very much pleased with them, and had the engineer admitted into the
staff of the army.  At the commencement of the Revolution he was sent to
Count Esterhazy, at Valenciennes, in the capacity of aide-de-camp.  The
latter rank was given him solely to get him away from Versailles, where
his rashness endangered the Queen during the earlier months of the
Assembly of the States General.  Making a parade of his devotion to the
King’s interests, he went repeatedly to the tribunes of the Assembly, and
there openly railed at all the motions of the deputies, and then returned
to the Queen’s antechamber, where he repeated all that he had just heard,
or had had the imprudence to say.  Unfortunately, at the same time that
the Queen sent away M. de Goguelat, she still believed that, in a
dangerous predicament, requiring great self-devotion, the man might be
employed advantageously.  In 1791 he was commissioned to act in concert
with the Marquis de Bouille in furtherance of the King’s intended escape.

[See the “Memoirs” of M. de Bouille, those of the Duc de Choiseul, and the
account of the journey to Varennes, by M. de Fontanges, in “Weber’s
Memoirs.”--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

Projectors in great numbers endeavoured to introduce themselves not only
to the Queen, but to Madame Elisabeth, who had communications with many
individuals who took upon themselves to make plans for the conduct of the
Court.  The Baron de Gilliers and M. de Vanoise were of this description;
they went to the Baronne de Mackau’s, where the Princess spent almost all
her evenings.  The Queen did not like these meetings, where Madame
Elisabeth might adopt views in opposition to the King’s intentions or her
own.

The Queen gave frequent audiences to M. de La Fayette.  One day, when he
was in her inner closet, his aides-de-camp, who waited for him, were
walking up and down the great room where the persons in attendance
remained.  Some imprudent young women were thoughtless enough to say, with
the intention of being overheard by those officers, that it was very
alarming to see the Queen alone with a rebel and a brigand.  I was annoyed
at their indiscretion, and imposed silence on them.  One of them persisted
in the appellation “brigand.”  I told her that M. de La Fayette well
deserved the name of rebel, but that the title of leader of a party was
given by history to every man commanding forty thousand men, a capital,
and forty leagues of country; that kings had frequently treated with such
leaders, and if it was convenient to the Queen to do the same, it remained
for us only to be silent and respect her actions.  On the morrow the
Queen, with a serious air; but with the greatest kindness, asked what I
had said respecting M. de La Fayette on the preceding day; adding that she
had been assured I had enjoined her women silence, because they did not
like him, and that I had taken his part.  I repeated what had passed to
the Queen, word for word.  She condescended to tell me that I had done
perfectly right.

Whenever any false reports respecting me were conveyed to her she was kind
enough to inform me of them; and they had no effect on the confidence with
which she continued to honour me, and which I am happy to think I have
justified even at the risk of my life.

Mesdames, the King’s aunts, set out from Bellevue in the beginning of the
year 1791.  Alexandre Berthier, afterwards Prince de Neufchatel, then a
colonel on the staff of the army, and commandant of the National Guard of
Versailles, facilitated the departure of Mesdames.  The Jacobins of that
town procured his dismissal, and he ran the greatest risk, on account of
having rendered this service to these Princesses.

I went to take leave of Madame Victoire.  I little thought that I was then
seeing her for the last time.  She received me alone in her closet, and
assured me that she hoped, as well as wished, soon to return to France;
that the French would be much to be pitied if the excesses of the
Revolution should arrive at such a pitch as to force her to prolong her
absence.

[General Berthier justified the monarch’s confidence by a firm and prudent
line of conduct which entitled him to the highest military honours, and to
the esteem of the great warrior whose fortune, dangers, and glory he
afterwards shared.  This officer, full of honour, and gifted with the
highest courage, was shut into the courtyard of Bellevue by his own troop,
and ran great risk of being murdered.  It was not until the 14th of March
that he succeeded in executing his instructions (“Memoirs of Mesdames,” by
Montigny, vol. i.)]

I knew from the Queen that the departure of Mesdames was deemed
necessary, in order to leave the King free to act when he should be
compelled to go away with his family.  It being impossible that the
constitution of the clergy should be otherwise than in direct opposition
to the religious principles of Mesdames, they thought their journey to
Rome would be attributed to piety alone.  It was, however, difficult to
deceive an Assembly which weighed the slightest actions of the royal
family, and from that moment they were more than ever alive to what was
passing at the Tuileries.

Mesdames were desirous of taking Madame Elisabeth to Rome.  The free
exercise of religion, the happiness of taking refuge with the head of the
Church, and the prospect of living in safety with her aunts, whom she
tenderly loved, were sacrificed by that virtuous Princess to her
attachment to the King.

The oath required of priests by the civil constitution of the clergy
introduced into France a division which added to the dangers by which the
King was already surrounded.

[The priests were required to swear to the civil constitution of the
clergy of 1790, by which all the former bishoprics and parishes were
remodelled, and the priests and bishops elected by the people.  Most
refused, and under the name of ‘pretres insermentes’ (as opposed to the
few who took the oath, ‘pretres assermentes’) were bitterly persecuted.  A
simple promise to obey the constitution of the State was substituted by
Napoleon as soon as he came to power.]

Mirabeau spent a whole night with the cure of St. Eustache, confessor of
the King and Queen, to persuade him to take the oath required by that
constitution.  Their Majesties chose another confessor, who remained
unknown.

A few months afterwards (2d April, 1791), the too celebrated Mirabeau, the
mercenary democrat and venal royalist, terminated his career.  The Queen
regretted him, and was astonished at her own regret; but she had hoped
that he who had possessed adroitness and weight enough to throw everything
into confusion would have been able by the same means to repair the
mischief he had caused.  Much has been said respecting the cause of
Mirabeau’s death.  M. Cabanis, his friend and physician, denied that he
was poisoned.  M. Vicq-d’Azyr assured the Queen that the ‘proces-verbal’
drawn up on the state of the intestines would apply just as well to a case
of death produced by violent remedies as to one produced by poison.  He
said, also, that the report had been faithful; but that it was prudent to
conclude it by a declaration of natural death, since, in the critical
state in which France then was, if a suspicion of foul play were admitted,
a person innocent of any such crime might be sacrificed to public
vengeance.




CHAPTER V.


In the beginning of the spring of 1791, the King, tired of remaining at
the Tuileries, wished to return to St. Cloud.  His whole household had
already gone, and his dinner was prepared there.  He got into his carriage
at one; the guard mutinied, shut the gates, and declared they would not
let him pass.  This event certainly proceeded from some suspicion of a
plan to escape.  Two persons who drew near the King’s carriage were very
ill treated.  My father-in-law was violently laid hold of by the guards,
who took his sword from him.  The King and his family were obliged to
alight and return to their apartments.

They did not much regret this outrage in their hearts; they saw in it a
justification, even in the eyes of the people, of their intention to leave
Paris.

So early as the month of March in the same year, the Queen began to busy
herself in preparing for her departure.  I spent that month with her, and
executed a great number of secret orders which she gave me respecting the
intended event.  It was with uneasiness that I saw her occupied with cares
which seemed to me useless, and even dangerous, and I remarked to her that
the Queen of France would find linen and gowns everywhere. My observations
were made in vain; she determined to have a complete wardrobe with her at
Brussels, as well for her children as herself. I went out alone and almost
disguised to purchase the articles necessary and have them made up.

I ordered six chemises at the shop of one seamstress, six at that of
another, gowns, combing cloths, etc.  My sister had a complete set of
clothes made for Madame, by the measure of her eldest daughter, and I
ordered clothes for the Dauphin from those of my son.  I filled a trunk
with these things, and addressed them, by the Queen’s orders, to one of
her women, my aunt, Madame Cardon,--a widow living at Arras, by virtue of
an unlimited leave of absence,--in order that she might be ready to start
for Brussels, or any other place, as soon as she should be directed to do
so.  This lady had landed property in Austrian Flanders, and could at any
time quit Arras unobserved.

The Queen was to take only her first woman in attendance with her from
Paris.  She apprised me that if I should not be on duty at the moment of
departure, she would make arrangements for my joining her.  She determined
also to take her travelling dressing-case.  She consulted me on her idea
of sending it off, under pretence of making a present of it to the
Archduchess Christina, Gouvernante of the Netherlands.  I ventured to
oppose this plan strongly, and observed that, amidst so many people who
watched her slightest actions, there would be found a sufficient number
sharp-sighted enough to discover that it was only a pretext for sending
away the property in question before her own departure; she persisted in
her intention, and all I could arrange was that the dressing-case should
not be removed from her apartment, and that M. de charge d’afaires from
the Court of Vienna during the absence of the Comte de Mercy, should come
and ask her, at her toilet, before all her people, to order one exactly
like her own for Madame the Gouvernante of the Netherlands.  The Queen,
therefore, commanded me before the charge d’affaires to order the article
in question.  This occasioned only an expense of five hundred louis, and
appeared calculated to lull suspicion completely.

About the middle of May, 1791, a month after the Queen had ordered me to
bespeak the dressing-case, she asked me whether it would soon be finished.
I sent for the ivory-turner who had it in hand.  He could not complete it
for six weeks.  I informed the Queen of this, and she told me she should
not be able to wait for it, as she was to set out in the course of June.
She added that, as she had ordered her sister’s dressing-case in the
presence of all her attendants, she had taken a sufficient precaution,
especially by saying that her sister was out of patience at not receiving
it, and that therefore her own must be emptied and cleaned, and taken to
the charge d’affaires, who would send it off. I executed this order
without any, appearance of mystery.  I desired the wardrobe woman to take
out of the dressing-case all that it contained, because that intended for
the Archduchess could not be finished for some time; and to take great
care to leave no remains of the perfumes which might not suit that
Princess.

The woman in question executed her commission punctually; but, on the
evening of that very day, the 15th of May, 1791, she informed M. Bailly,
the Mayor of Paris, that preparations were making at the Queen’s residence
for a departure; and that the dressing-case was already sent off, under
pretence of its being presented to the Archduchess Christina.

[After the return from Varennes M. Bailly put this woman’s deposition into
the Queen’s hands.--MADAME CAMPAN.]

It was necessary, likewise, to send off all the diamonds belonging to the
Queen.  Her Majesty shut herself up with me in a closet in the entresol,
looking into the garden of the Tuileries, and we packed all the diamonds,
rubies, and pearls she possessed in a small chest.  The cases containing
these ornaments, being altogether of considerable bulk, had been
deposited, ever since the 6th of October, 1789, with the valet de chambre
who had the care of the Queen’s jewels.  That faithful servant, himself
detecting the use that was to be made of the valuables, destroyed all the
boxes, which were, as usual, covered with red morocco, marked with the
cipher and arms of France.  It would have been impossible for him to hide
them from the eyes of the popular inquisitors during the domiciliary
visits in January, 1793, and the discovery might have formed a ground of
accusation against the Queen.

I had but a few articles to place in the box when the Queen was compelled
to desist from packing it, being obliged to go down to cards, which began
at seven precisely.  She therefore desired me to leave all the diamonds
upon the sofa, persuaded that, as she took the key of her closet herself,
and there was a sentinel under the window, no danger was to be apprehended
for that night, and she reckoned upon returning very early next day to
finish the work.

The same woman who had given information of the sending away of the
dressing-case was also deputed by the Queen to take care of her more
private rooms.  No other servant was permitted to enter them; she renewed
the flowers, swept the carpets, etc.  The Queen received back the key,
when the woman had finished putting them in order, from her own hands;
but, desirous of doing her duty well, and sometimes having the key in her
possession for a few minutes only, she had probably on that account
ordered one without the Queen’s knowledge.  It is impossible not to
believe this, since the despatch of the diamonds was the subject of a
second accusation which the Queen heard of after the return from Varennes.
She made a formal declaration that her Majesty, with the assistance of
Madame Campan, had packed up all her jewelry some time before the
departure; that she was certain of it, as she had found the diamonds, and
the cotton which served to wrap them, scattered upon the sofa in the
Queen’s closet in the ‘entresol’; and most assuredly she could only have
seen these preparations in the interval between seven in the evening and
seven in the morning.  The Queen having met me next day at the time
appointed, the box was handed over to Leonard, her Majesty’s
hairdresser,--[This unfortunate man, after having emigrated for some time,
returned to France, and perished upon the scaffold.--NOTE BY EDITOR]--who
left the country with the Duc de Choiseul.  The box remained a long time
at Brussels, and at length got into the hands of Madame la Duchesse
d’Angouleme, being delivered to her by the Emperor on her arrival at
Vienna.

In order not to leave out any of the Queen’s diamonds, I requested the
first tirewoman to give me the body of the full dress, and all the
assortment which served for the stomacher of the full dress on days of
state, articles which always remained at the wardrobe.

The superintendent and the dame d’honneur being absent, the first
tirewoman required me to sign a receipt, the terms of which she dictated,
and which acquitted her of all responsibility for these diamonds. She had
the prudence to burn this document on the 10th of August, 1792.--[The date
of the sack of the Tuileries and slaughter of the Swiss Guard]--The Queen
having determined, upon the arrest at Varennes, not to have her diamonds
brought back to France, was often anxious about them during the year which
elapsed between that period and the 10th of August, and dreaded above all
things that such a secret should be discovered.

In consequence of a decree of the Assembly, which deprived the King of the
custody of the Crown diamonds, the Queen had at this time already given up
those which she generally used.

She preferred the twelve brilliants called Hazarins, from the name of the
Cardinal who had enriched the treasury with them, a few rose-cut diamonds,
and the Sanci.  She determined to deliver, with her own hands, the box
containing them to the commissioner nominated by the National Assembly to
place them with the Crown diamonds.  After giving them to him, she offered
him a row of pearls of great beauty, saying to him that it had been
brought into France by Anne of Austria; that it was invaluable, on account
of its rarity; that, having been appropriated by that Princess to the use
of the Queens and Dauphinesses, Louis XV.  had placed it in her hands on
her arrival in France; but that she considered it national property.
“That is an open question, Madame,” said the commissary.  “Monsieur,”
 replied the Queen, “it is one for me to decide, and is now settled.”

My father-in-law, who was dying of the grief he felt for the misfortunes
of his master and mistress, strongly interested and occupied the thoughts
of the Queen.  He had been saved from the fury of the populace in the
courtyard of the Tuileries.

On the day on which the King was compelled by an insurrection to give up a
journey to St. Cloud, her Majesty looked upon this trusty servant as
inevitably lost, if, on going away, she should leave him in the apartment
he occupied in the Tuileries.  Prompted by her apprehensions, she ordered
M. Vicq-d’Azyr, her physician, to recommend him the waters of Mont d’Or in
Auvergne, and to persuade him to set off at the latter end of May. At the
moment of my going away the Queen assured me that the grand project would
be executed between the 15th and the 20th of June; that as it was not my
month to be on duty, Madame Thibaut would take the journey; but that she
had many directions to give me before I went.  She then desired me to
write to my aunt, Madame Cardon, who was by that time in possession of the
clothes which I had ordered, that as soon as she should receive a letter
from M. Augur, the date of which should be accompanied with a B, an L, or
an M, she was to proceed with her property to Brussels, Luxembourg, or
Montmedy.  She desired me to explain the meaning of these three letters
clearly to my sister, and to leave them with her in writing, in order that
at the moment of my going away she might be able to take my place in
writing to Arras.

The Queen had a more delicate commission for me; it was to select from
among my acquaintance a prudent person of obscure rank, wholly devoted to
the interests of the Court, who would be willing to receive a portfolio
which she was to give up only to me, or some one furnished with a note
from the Queen.  She added that she would not travel with this portfolio,
and that it was of the utmost importance that my opinion of the fidelity
of the person to whom it was to be entrusted should be well founded.  I
proposed to her Madame Vallayer Coster, a painter of the Academy, and an
amiable and worthy artist, whom I had known from my infancy.  She lived in
the galleries of the Louvre.  The choice seemed a good one.  The Queen
remembered that she had made her marriage possible by giving her a place
in the financial offices, and added that gratitude ought sometimes to be
reckoned on.  She then pointed out to me the valet belonging to her
toilet, whom I was to take with me, to show him the residence of Madame
Coster, so that he might not mistake it when he should take the portfolio
to her.  The day before her departure the Queen particularly recommended
me to proceed to Lyons and the frontiers as soon as she should have
started.  She advised me to take with me a confidential person, fit to
remain with M. Campan when I should leave him, and assured me that she
would give orders to M. ------ to set off as soon as she should be known
to be at the frontiers in order to protect me in going out.  She
condescended to add that, having a long journey to make in foreign
countries, she determined to give me three hundred louis.

I bathed the Queen’s hands with tears at the moment of this sorrowful
separation; and, having money at my disposal, I declined accepting her
gold.  I did not dread the road I had to travel in order to rejoin her;
all my apprehension was that by treachery or miscalculation a scheme, the
safety of which was not sufficiently clear to me, should fail.  I could
answer for all those who belonged to the service immediately about the
Queen’s person, and I was right; but her wardrobe woman gave me
well-founded reason for alarm.  I mentioned to the Queen many
revolutionary remarks which this woman had made to me a few days before.
Her office was directly under the control of the first femme de chambre,
yet she had refused to obey the directions I gave her, talking insolently
to me about “hierarchy overturned, equality among men,” of course more
especially among persons holding offices at Court; and this jargon, at
that time in the mouths of all the partisans of the Revolution, was
terminated by an observation which frightened me.  “You know many
important secrets, madame,” said this woman to me, “and I have guessed
quite as many.  I am not a fool; I see all that is going forward here in
consequence of the bad advice given to the King and Queen; I could
frustrate it all if I chose.”  This argument, in which I had been promptly
silenced, left me pale and trembling.  Unfortunately, as I began my
narrative to the Queen with particulars of this woman’s refusal to obey
me,--and sovereigns are all their lives importuned with complaints upon
the rights of places,--she believed that my own dissatisfaction had much
to do with the step I was taking; and she did not sufficiently fear the
woman.  Her office, although a very inferior one, brought her in nearly
fifteen thousand francs a year.  Still young, tolerably handsome, with
comfortable apartments in the entresols of the Tuileries, she saw a great
deal of company, and in the evening had assemblies, consisting of deputies
of the revolutionary party.  M. de Gouvion, major-general of the National
Guard, passed almost every day with her; and it is to be presumed that she
had long worked for the party in opposition to the Court.  The Queen asked
her for the key of a door which led to the principal vestibule of the
Tuileries, telling her she wished to have a similar one, that she might
not be under the necessity of going out through the pavilion of Flora. M.
de Gouvion and M. de La Fayette would, of course, be apprised of this
circumstance, and well-informed persons have assured me that on the very
night of the Queen’s departure this wretched woman had a spy with her, who
saw the royal family set off.

As soon as I had executed all the Queen’s orders, on the 30th of May,
1791, I set out for Auvergne, and was settled in the gloomy narrow valley
of Mont d’Or, when, about four in the afternoon of the 25th of June, I
heard the beat of a drum to call the inhabitants of the hamlet together.
When it had ceased I heard a hairdresser from Bresse proclaim in the
provincial dialect of Auvergne: “The King and Queen were taking flight in
order to ruin France, but I come to tell you that they are stopped, and
are well guarded by a hundred thousand men under arms.”  I still ventured
to hope that he was repeating only a false report, but he went on: “The
Queen,” with her well-known haughtiness, lifted up the veil which covered
her face, and said to the citizens who were upbraiding the King, “Well,
since you recognise your sovereign, respect him.”  Upon hearing these
expressions, which the Jacobin club of Clermont could not have invented, I
exclaimed, “The news is true!”

I immediately learnt that, a courier being come from Paris to Clermont,
the ‘procureur’ of the commune had sent off messengers to the chief places
of the canton; these again sent couriers to the districts, and the
districts in like manner informed the villages and hamlets which they
contained.  It was through this ramification, arising from the
establishment of clubs, that the afflicting intelligence of the misfortune
of my sovereigns reached me in the wildest part of France, and in the
midst of the snows by which we were environed.

On the 28th I received a note written in a hand which I recognised as that
of M. Diet,--[This officer was slain in the Queen’s chamber on the 10th of
August]--usher of the Queen’s chamber, but dictated by her Majesty.  It
contained these words: “I am this moment arrived; I have just got into my
bath; I and my family exist, that is all.  I have suffered much.  Do not
return to Paris until I desire you.  Take good care of my poor Campan,
soothe his sorrow.  Look for happier times.” This note was for greater
safety addressed to my father-in-law’s valet-de-chambre.  What were my
feelings on perceiving that after the most distressing crisis we were
among the first objects of the kindness of that unfortunate Princess!

M. Campan having been unable to benefit by the waters of Mont d’Or, and
the first popular effervescence having subsided, I thought I might return
to Clermont.  The committee of surveillance, or that of general safety,
had resolved to arrest me there; but the Abbe Louis, formerly a
parliamentary counsellor, and then a member of the Constituent Assembly,
was kind enough to affirm that I was in Auvergne solely for the purpose of
attending my father-in-law, who was extremely ill.  The precautions
relative to my absence from Paris were limited to placing us under the
surveillance of the ‘procureur’ of the commune, who was at the same time
president of the Jacobin club; but he was also a physician of repute, and
without having any doubt that he had received secret orders relative to
me, I thought it would favour the chances of our safety if I selected him
to attend my patient.  I paid him according to the rate given to the best
Paris physicians, and I requested him to visit us every morning and every
evening.  I took the precaution to subscribe to no other newspaper than
the Moniteur.  Doctor Monestier (for that was the physician’s name)
frequently took upon himself to read it to us.  Whenever he thought proper
to speak of the King and Queen in the insulting and brutal terms at that
time unfortunately adopted throughout France, I used to stop him and say,
coolly, “Monsieur, you are here in company with the servants of Louis XVI.
and Marie Antoinette.  Whatever may be the wrongs with which the nation
believes it has to reproach them, our principles forbid our losing sight
of the respect due to them from us.”  Notwithstanding that he was an
inveterate patriot, he felt the force of this remark, and even procured
the revocation of a second order for our arrest, becoming responsible for
us to the committee of the Assembly, and to the Jacobin society.

The two chief women about the Dauphin, who had accompanied the Queen to
Varennes, Diet, her usher, and Camot, her garcon de toilette,--the women
on account of the journey, and the men in consequence of the denunciation
of the woman belonging to the wardrobe,--were sent to the prisons of the
Abbaye.  After my departure the garcon de toilette whom I had taken to
Madame Vallayer Coster’s was sent there with the portfolio she had agreed
to receive.  This commission could not escape the detestable spy upon the
Queen.  She gave information that a portfolio had been carried out on the
evening of the departure, adding that the King had placed it upon the
Queen’s easy-chair, that the garcon de toilette wrapped it up in a napkin
and took it under his arm, and that she did not know where he had carried
it.  The man, who was remarkable for his fidelity, underwent three
examinations without making the slightest disclosure.  M. Diet, a man of
good family, a servant on whom the Queen placed particular reliance,
likewise experienced the severest treatment.  At length, after a lapse of
three weeks, the Queen succeeded in obtaining the release of her servants.

The Queen, about the 15th of August, had me informed by letter that I
might come back to Paris without being under any apprehension of arrest
there, and that she greatly desired my return.  I brought my father-in-law
back in a dying state, and on the day preceding that of the acceptation of
the constitutional act, I informed the Queen that he was no more.  “The
loss of Lassonne and Campan,” said she, as she applied her handkerchief to
her streaming eyes, “has taught me how valuable such subjects are to their
masters.  I shall never find their equals.”

I resumed my functions about the Queen on the 1st of September, 1791. She
was unable then to converse with me on all the lamentable events which had
occurred since the time of my leaving her, having on guard near her an
officer whom she dreaded more than all the others.  She merely told me
that I should have some secret services to perform for her, and that she
would not create uneasiness by long conversations with me, my return being
a subject of suspicion.  But next day the Queen, well knowing the
discretion of the officer who was to be on guard that night, had my bed
placed very near hers, and having obtained the favour of having the door
shut, when I was in bed she began the narrative of the journey, and the
unfortunate arrest at Varennes.  I asked her permission to put on my gown,
and kneeling by her bedside I remained until three o’clock in the morning,
listening with the liveliest and most sorrowful interest to the account I
am about to repeat, and of which I have seen various details, of tolerable
exactness, in papers of the time.

The King entrusted Count Fersen with all the preparations for departure.
The carriage was ordered by him; the passport, in the name of Madame de
Korf, was procured through his connection with that lady, who was a
foreigner.  And lastly, he himself drove the royal family, as their
coachman, as far as Bondy, where the travellers got into their berlin.
Madame Brunier and Madame Neuville, the first women of Madame and the
Dauphin, there joined the principal carriage.  They were in a cabriolet.
Monsieur and Madame set out from the Luxembourg and took another road.
They as well as the King were recognised by the master of the last post in
France, but this man, devoting himself to the fortunes of the Prince, left
the French territory, and drove them himself as postilion.  Madame
Thibaut, the Queen’s first woman, reached Brussels without the slightest
difficulty.  Madame Cardon, from Arras, met with no hindrance; and
Leonard, the Queen’s hairdresser, passed through Varennes a few hours
before the royal family.  Fate had reserved all its obstacles for the
unfortunate monarch.

Nothing worthy of notice occurred in the beginning of the journey.  The
travellers were detained a short time, about twelve leagues from Paris, by
some repairs which the carriage required.  The King chose to walk up one
of the hills, and these two circumstances caused a delay of three hours,
precisely at the time when it was intended that the berlin should have
been met, just before reaching Varennes, by the detachment commanded by M.
de Goguelat.  This detachment was punctually stationed upon the spot fixed
on, with orders to wait there for the arrival of certain treasure, which
it was to escort; but the peasantry of the neighbourhood, alarmed at the
sight of this body of troops, came armed with staves, and asked several
questions, which manifested their anxiety.  M. de Goguelat, fearful of
causing a riot, and not finding the carriage arrive as he expected,
divided his men into two companies, and unfortunately made them leave the
highway in order to return to Varennes by two cross roads. The King looked
out of the carriage at Ste. Menehould, and asked several questions
concerning the road.  Drouet, the post-master, struck by the resemblance
of Louis to the impression of his head upon the assignats, drew near the
carriage, felt convinced that he recognised the Queen also, and that the
remainder of the travellers consisted of the royal family and their suite,
mounted his horse, reached Varennes by cross roads before the royal
fugitives, and gave the alarm.--[Varennes lies between Verdun and
Montmedy, and not far from the French frontier.]

The Queen began to feel all the agonies of terror; they were augmented by
the voice of a person unknown, who, passing close to the carriage in full
gallop, cried out, bending towards the window without slackening his
speed, “You are recognised!”  They arrived with beating hearts at the
gates of Varennes without meeting one of the horsemen by whom they were to
have been escorted into the place.  They were ignorant where to find their
relays, and some minutes were lost in waiting, to no purpose.  The
cabriolet had preceded them, and the two ladies in attendance found the
bridge already blocked up with old carts and lumber.  The town guards were
all under arms.  The King at last entered Varennes.  M. de Goguelat had
arrived there with his detachment.  He came up to the King and asked him
if he chose to effect a passage by force!  What an unlucky question to put
to Louis XVI., who from the very beginning of the Revolution had shown in
every crisis the fear he entertained of giving the least order which might
cause an effusion of blood!  “Would it be a brisk action?” said the King.
“It is impossible that it should be otherwise, Sire,” replied the
aide-decamp.  Louis XVI. was unwilling to expose his family. They
therefore went to the house of a grocer, Mayor of Varennes.  The King
began to speak, and gave a summary of his intentions in departing,
analogous to the declaration he had made at Paris.  He spoke with warmth
and affability, and endeavoured to demonstrate to the people around him
that he had only put himself, by the step he had taken, into a fit
situation to treat with the Assembly, and to sanction with freedom the
constitution which he would maintain, though many of its articles were
incompatible with the dignity of the throne, and the force by which it was
necessary that the sovereign should be surrounded.  Nothing could be more
affecting, added the Queen, than this moment, in which the King felt bound
to communicate to the very humblest class of his subjects his principles,
his wishes for the happiness of his people, and the motives which had
determined him to depart.

Whilst the King was speaking to this mayor, whose name was Sauce, the
Queen, seated at the farther end of the shop, among parcels of soap and
candles, endeavoured to make Madame Sauce understand that if she would
prevail upon her husband to make use of his municipal authority to cover
the flight of the King and his family, she would have the glory of having
contributed to restore tranquillity to France.  This woman was moved; she
could not, without streaming eyes, see herself thus solicited by her
Queen; but she could not be got to say anything more than, “Bon Dieu,
Madame, it would be the destruction of M. Sauce; I love my King, but I
love my husband too, you must know, and he would be answerable, you see.”
 Whilst this strange scene was passing in the shop, the people, hearing
that the King was arrested, kept pouring in from all parts.  M. de
Goguelat, making a last effort, demanded of the dragoons whether they
would protect the departure of the King; they replied only by murmurs,
dropping the points of their swords.  Some person unknown fired a pistol
at M. de Goguelat; he was slightly wounded by the ball.  M. Romeuf,
aide-de-camp to M. de La Fayette, arrived at that moment.  He had been
chosen, after the 6th of October, 1789, by the commander of the Parisian
guard to be in constant attendance about the Queen.  She reproached him
bitterly with the object of his mission.  “If you wish to make your name
remarkable, monsieur,” said the Queen to him, “you have chosen strange and
odious means, which will produce the most fatal consequences.”  This
officer wished to hasten their departure.  The Queen, still cherishing the
hope of seeing M. de Bouille arrive with a sufficient force to extricate
the King from his critical situation, prolonged her stay at Varennes by
every means in her power.

The Dauphin’s first woman pretended to be taken ill with a violent colic,
and threw herself upon a bed, in the hope of aiding the designs of her
superiors; she went and implored for assistance.  The Queen understood her
perfectly well, and refused to leave one who had devoted herself to follow
them in such a state of suffering.  But no delay in departing was allowed.
The three Body Guards (Valory, Du Moustier, and Malden) were gagged and
fastened upon the seat of the carriage.  A horde of National Guards,
animated with fury and the barbarous joy with which their fatal triumph
inspired them, surrounded the carriage of the royal family.

The three commissioners sent by the Assembly to meet the King, MM. de
Latour-Maubourg, Barnave, and Potion, joined them in the environs of
Epernay.  The two last mentioned got into the King’s carriage.  The Queen
astonished me by the favourable opinion she had formed of Barnave. When I
quitted Paris a great many persons spoke of him only with horror. She told
me he was much altered, that he was full of talent and noble feeling.  “A
feeling of pride which I cannot much blame in a young man belonging to the
Tiers Etat,” she said, “made him applaud everything which smoothed the
road to rank and fame for that class in which he was born.  And if we get
the power in our own hands again, Barnave’s pardon is already written on
our hearts.”  The Queen added, that she had not the same feeling towards
those nobles who had joined the revolutionary party, who had always
received marks of favour, often to the injury of those beneath them in
rank, and who, born to be the safeguard of the monarchy, could never be
pardoned for having deserted it.  She then told me that Barnave’s conduct
upon the road was perfectly correct, while Potion’s republican rudeness
was disgusting; that the latter ate and drank in the King’s berlin in a
slovenly manner, throwing the bones of the fowls out through the window at
the risk of sending them even into the King’s face; lifting up his glass,
when Madame Elisabeth poured him out wine, to show her that there was
enough, without saying a word; that this offensive behaviour must have
been intentional, because the man was not without education; and that
Barnave was hurt at it.  On being pressed by the Queen to take something,
“Madame,” replied Barnave, “on so solemn an occasion the deputies of the
National Assembly ought to occupy your Majesties solely about their
mission, and by no means about their wants.” In short, his respectful
delicacy, his considerate attentions, and all that he said, gained the
esteem not only of the Queen, but of Madame Elisabeth also.

The King began to talk to Petion about the situation of France, and the
motives of his conduct, which were founded upon the necessity of giving to
the executive power a strength necessary for its action, for the good even
of the constitutional act, since France could not be a republic. “Not yet,
‘tis true,” replied Petion, “because the French are not ripe enough for
that.”  This audacious and cruel answer silenced the King, who said no
more until his arrival at Paris.  Potion held the little Dauphin upon his
knees, and amused himself with curling the beautiful light hair of the
interesting child round his fingers; and, as he spoke with much
gesticulation, he pulled his locks hard enough to make the Dauphin cry
out.  “Give me my son,” said the Queen to him; “he is accustomed to
tenderness and delicacy, which render him little fit for such
familiarity.”

The Chevalier de Dampierre was killed near the King’s carriage upon
leaving Varennes.  A poor village cure, some leagues from the place where
the crime was committed, was imprudent enough to draw near to speak to the
King; the cannibals who surrounded the carriage rushed upon him. “Tigers,”
 exclaimed Barnave, “have you ceased to be Frenchmen?  Nation of brave men,
are you become a set of assassins?”  These words alone saved the cure, who
was already upon the ground, from certain death.  Barnave, as he spoke to
them, threw himself almost out of the coach window, and Madame Elisabeth,
affected by this noble burst of feeling, held him by the skirt of his
coat.  The Queen, while speaking of this event, said that on the most
momentous occasions whimsical contrasts always struck her, and that even
at such a moment the pious Elisabeth holding Barnave by the flap of his
coat was a ludicrous sight.

The deputy was astonished in another way.  Madame Elisabeth’s comments
upon the state of France, her mild and persuasive eloquence, and the, ease
and simplicity with which she talked to him, yet without sacrificing her
dignity in the slightest degree, appeared to him unique, and his heart,
which was doubtless inclined to right principles though he had followed
the wrong path, was overcome by admiration.  The conduct of the two
deputies convinced the Queen of the total separation between the
republican and constitutional parties.  At the inns where she alighted she
had some private conversation with Barnave.  The latter said a great deal
about the errors committed by the royalists during the Revolution, adding
that he had found the interest of the Court so feebly and so badly
defended that he had been frequently tempted to go and offer it, in
himself, an aspiring champion, who knew the spirit of the age and nation.
The Queen asked him what was the weapon he would have recommended her to
use.

“Popularity, Madame.”

“And how could I use that,” replied her Majesty, “of which I have been
deprived?”

“Ah!  Madame, it was much more easy for you to regain it, than for me to
acquire it.”

The Queen mainly attributed the arrest at Varennes to M. de Goguelat; she
said he calculated the time that would be spent in the journey
erroneously.  He performed that from Montmedy to Paris before taking the
King’s last orders, alone in a post-chaise, and he founded all his
calculations upon the time he spent thus.  The trial has been made since,
and it was found that a light carriage without any courier was nearly
three hours less in running the distance than a heavy carriage preceded by
a courier.

The Queen also blamed him for having quitted the high-road at
Pont-de-Sommevelle, where the carriage was to meet the forty hussars
commanded by him.  She thought that he ought to have dispersed the very
small number of people at Varennes, and not have asked the hussars whether
they were for the King or the nation; that, particularly, he ought to have
avoided taking the King’s orders, as he was previously aware of the reply
M. d’Inisdal had received when it was proposed to carry off the King.

After all that the Queen had said to me respecting the mistakes made by M.
de Goguelat, I thought him of course disgraced.  What was my surprise
when, having been set at liberty after the amnesty which followed the
acceptance of the constitution, he presented himself to the Queen, and was
received with the greatest kindness!  She said he had done what he could,
and that his zeal ought to form an excuse for all the rest.

[Full details of the preparations for the flight to Varennes will be found
in “Le Comte de Fersen et La Cour de France,” Paris, Didot et Cie, 1878 (a
review of which was given in the Quarterly Review for July, 1880), and in
the “Memoirs of the Marquis de Bouille”, London, Cadell and Davis, 1797;
Count Fersen being the person who planned the actual escape, and De
Bouille being in command of the army which was to receive the King.  The
plan was excellent, and would certainly have succeeded, if it had not been
for the royal family themselves.  Marie Antoinette, it will have been seen
by Madame Campan’s account, nearly wrecked the plan from inability to do
without a large dressing or travelling case.  The King did a more fatal
thing.  De Bouille had pointed out the necessity for having in the King’s
carriage an officer knowing the route, and able to show himself to give
all directions, and a proper person had been provided.  The King, however,
objected, as “he could not have the Marquis d’Agoult in the same carriage
with himself; the governess of the royal children, who was to accompany
them, having refused to abandon her privilege of constantly remaining with
her charge.”  See “De Bouille,” pp. 307 and 334.  Thus, when Louis was
recognised at the window of the carriage by Drouet, he was lost by the
very danger that had been foreseen, and this wretched piece of etiquette
led to his death.]

When the royal family was brought back from Varennes to the Tuileries, the
Queen’s attendants found the greatest difficulty in making their way to
her apartments; everything had been arranged so that the wardrobe woman,
who had acted as spy, should have the service; and she was to be assisted
in it only by her sister and her sister’s daughter.

M. de Gouvion, M. de La Fayette’s aide-de-camp, had this woman’s portrait
placed at the foot of the staircase which led to the Queen’s apartments,
in order that the sentinel should not permit any other women to make their
way in.  As soon as the Queen was informed of this contemptible
precaution, she told the King of it, who sent to ascertain the fact. His
Majesty then called for M. de La Fayette, claimed freedom in his
household, and particularly in that of the Queen, and ordered him to send
a woman in, whom no one but himself could confide out of the palace. M. de
La Fayette was obliged to comply.

On the day when the return of the royal family was expected, there were no
carriages in motion in the streets of Paris.  Five or six of the Queen’s
women, after being refused admittance at all the other gates, went with
one of my sisters to that of the Feuillans, insisting that the sentinel
should admit them.  The poissardes attacked them for their boldness in
resisting the order excluding them.  One of them seized my sister by the
arm, calling her the slave of the Austrian.  “Hear me,” said my sister to
her, “I have been attached to the Queen ever since I was fifteen years of
age; she gave me my marriage portion; I served her when she was powerful
and happy.  She is now unfortunate.  Ought I to abandon her?”--“She is
right,” cried the poissardes; “she ought not to abandon her mistress; let
us make an entry for them.”  They instantly surrounded the sentinel,
forced the passage, and introduced the Queen’s women, accompanying them to
the terrace of the Feuillans.  One of these furies, whom the slightest
impulse would have driven to tear my sister to pieces, taking her under
her protection, gave her advice by which she might reach the palace in
safety.  “But of all things, my dear friend,” said she to her, “pull off
that green ribbon sash; it is the color of that D’Artois, whom we will
never forgive.”

The measures adopted for guarding the King were rigorous with respect to
the entrance into the palace, and insulting as to his private apartments.
The commandants of battalion, stationed in the salon called the grand
cabinet, and which led to the Queen’s bedchamber, were ordered to keep the
door of it always open, in order that they might have their eyes upon the
royal family.  The King shut this door one day; the officer of the guard
opened it, and told him such were his orders, and that he would always
open it; so that his Majesty in shutting it gave himself useless trouble.
It remained open even during the night, when the Queen was in bed; and the
officer placed himself in an armchair between the two doors, with his head
turned towards her Majesty.  They only obtained permission to have the
inner door shut when the Queen was rising.  The Queen had the bed of her
first femme de chambre placed very near her own; this bed, which ran on
casters, and was furnished with curtains, hid her from the officer’s
sight.

Madame de Jarjaye, my companion, who continued her functions during the
whole period of my absence, told me that one night the commandant of
battalion, who slept between the two doors, seeing that she was sleeping
soundly, and that the Queen was awake, quitted his post and went close to
her Majesty, to advise her as to the line of conduct she should pursue.
Although she had the kindness to desire him to speak lower in order that
he might not disturb Madame de Jarjaye’s rest, the latter awoke, and
nearly died with fright at seeing a man in the uniform of the Parisian
guard so near the Queen’s bed.  Her Majesty comforted her, and told her
not to rise; that the person she saw was a good Frenchman, who was
deceived respecting the intentions and situation of his sovereign and
herself, but whose conversation showed sincere attachment to the King.

There was a sentinel in the corridor which runs behind the apartments in
question, where there is a staircase, which was at that time an inner one,
and enabled the King and Queen to communicate freely.  This post, which
was very onerous, because it was to be kept four and twenty hours, was
often claimed by Saint Prig, an actor belonging to the Theatre Francais.
He took it upon himself sometimes to contrive brief interviews between the
King and Queen in this corridor.  He left them at a distance, and gave
them warning if he heard the slightest noise.  M. Collot, commandant of
battalion of the National Guard, who was charged with the military duty of
the Queen’s household, in like manner softened down, so far as he could
with prudence, all, the revolting orders he received; for instance, one to
follow the Queen to the very door of her wardrobe was never executed.  An
officer of the Parisian guard dared to speak insolently of the Queen in
her own apartment.  M. Collot wished to make a complaint to M. de La
Fayette against him, and have him dismissed.  The Queen opposed it, and
condescended to say a few words of explanation and kindness to the man; he
instantly became one of her most devoted partisans.

The first time I saw her Majesty after the unfortunate catastrophe of the
Varennes journey, I found her getting out of bed; her features were not
very much altered; but after the first kind words she uttered to me she
took off her cap and desired me to observe the effect which grief had
produced upon her hair.  It had become, in one single night, as white as
that of a woman of seventy.  Her Majesty showed me a ring she had just had
mounted for the Princesse de Lamballe; it contained a lock of her whitened
hair, with the inscription, “Blanched by sorrow.”  At the period of the
acceptance of the constitution the Princess wished to return to France.
The Queen, who had no expectation that tranquillity would be restored,
opposed this; but the attachment of Madame de Lamballe to the royal family
impelled her to come and seek death.

When I returned to Paris most of the harsh precautions were abandoned; the
doors were not kept open; greater respect was paid to the sovereign; it
was known that the constitution soon to be completed would be accepted,
and a better order of things was hoped for.




CHAPTER VI.


On my arrival at Paris on the 25th of August I found the state of feeling
there much more temperate than I had dared to hope.  The conversation
generally ran upon the acceptance of the constitution, and the fetes which
would be given in consequence.  The struggle between the Jacobins and the
constitutionals on the 17th of July, 1791, nevertheless had thrown the
Queen into great terror for some moments; and the firing of the cannon
from the Champ de Mars upon a party which called for a trial of the King,
and the leaders of which were in the very bosom of the Assembly, left the
most gloomy impressions upon her mind.

The constitutionals, the Queen’s connection with whom was not slackened by
the intervention of the three members already mentioned, had faithfully
served the royal family during their detention.

“We still hold the wire by which this popular mass is moved,” said Barnave
to M. de J----- one day, at the same time showing him a large volume, in
which the names of all those who were influenced with the power of gold
alone were registered.  It was at that time proposed to hire a
considerable number of persons in order to secure loud acclamations when
the King and his family should make their appearance at the play upon the
acceptance of the constitution.  That day, which afforded a glimmering
hope of tranquillity, was the 14th of September; the fetes were brilliant;
but already fresh anxieties forbade the royal family to encourage much
hope.

The Legislative Assembly, which had just succeeded the Constituent
Assembly (October, 1791), founded its conduct upon the wildest republican
principles; created from the midst of popular assemblies, it was wholly
inspired by the spirit which animated them.  The constitution, as I have
said, was presented to the King on the 3d of September, 1791.  The
ministers, with the exception of M. de Montmorin, insisted upon the
necessity of accepting the constitutional act in its entirety.  The Prince
de Kaunitz--[Minister of Austria]--was of the same opinion. Malouet wished
the King to express himself candidly respecting any errors or dangers that
he might observe in the constitution.  But Duport and Barnave, alarmed at
the spirit prevailing in the Jacobin Club, and even in the Assembly,
where Robespierre had already denounced them as traitors to the country,
and dreading still greater evils, added their opinions to those of the
majority of the ministers and M. de Kaunitz; those who really desired
that the constitution should be maintained advised that it should not be
accepted thus literally.

[The extreme revolutionary party, so called from the club, originally
“Breton,” then “Amis de la Constitution,” sitting at the convent of the
Dominicans (called in France Jacobins) of the Rue Saint Honore.]

The King seemed inclined to this advice; and this is one of the
strongest proofs of his sincerity.

Alexandre Lameth, Duport, and Barnave, still relying on the resources of
their party, hoped to have credit for directing the King through the
influence they believed they had acquired over the mind of the Queen. They
also consulted people of acknowledged talent, but belonging to no council
nor to any assembly.  Among these was M. Dubucq, formerly intendant of the
marine and of the colonies.  He answered laconically in one phrase:
“Prevent disorder from organising itself.”

The letter written by the King to the Assembly, claiming to accept the
constitution in the very place where it had been created, and where he
announced he would be on the 14th September at mid-day, was received with
transport, and the reading was repeatedly interrupted by plaudits.  The
sitting terminated amidst the greatest enthusiasm, and M. de La Fayette
obtained the release of all those who were detained on account of the
King’s journey [to Varennes], the abandonment of all proceedings relative
to the events of the Revolution, and the discontinuance of the use of
passports and of temporary restraints upon free travelling, as well in the
interior as without.  The whole was conceded by acclamation.  Sixty
members were deputed to go to the King and express to him fully the
satisfaction his Majesty’s letter had given.  The Keeper of the Seals
quitted the chamber, in the midst of applause, to precede the deputation
to the King.

The King answered the speech addressed to him, and concluded by saying to
the Assembly that a decree of that morning, which had abolished the order
of the Holy Ghost, had left him and his son alone permission to be
decorated with it; but that an order having no value in his eyes, save for
the power of conferring it, he would not use it.

The Queen, her son, and Madame, were at the door of the chamber into which
the deputation was admitted.  The King said to the deputies, “You see
there my wife and children, who participate in my sentiments;” and the
Queen herself confirmed the King’s assurance.  These apparent marks of
confidence were very inconsistent with the agitated state of her mind.
“These people want no sovereigns,” said she.  “We shall fall before their
treacherous though well-planned tactics; they are demolishing the monarchy
stone by stone.”

Next day the particulars of the reception of the deputies by the King were
reported to the Assembly, and excited warm approbation.  But the President
having put the question whether the Assembly ought not to remain seated
while the King took the oath “Certainly,” was repeated by many voices;
“and the King, standing, uncovered.”  M. Malouet observed that there was
no occasion on which the nation, assembled in the presence of the King,
did not acknowledge him as its head; that the omission to treat the head
of the State with the respect due to him would be an offence to the
nation, as well as to the monarch.  He moved that the King should take the
oath standing, and that the Assembly should also stand while he was doing
so.  M. Malouet’s observations would have carried the decree, but a deputy
from Brittany exclaimed, with a shrill voice, that he had an amendment to
propose which would render all unanimous.  “Let us decree,” said he, “that
M. Malouet, and whoever else shall so please, may have leave to receive
the King upon their knees; but let us stick to the decree.”

The King repaired to the chamber at mid-day.  His speech was followed by
plaudits which lasted several minutes.  After the signing of the
constitutional act all sat down.  The President rose to deliver his
speech; but after he had begun, perceiving that the King did not rise to
hear him, he sat down again.  His speech made a powerful impression; the
sentence with which it concluded excited fresh acclamations, cries of
“Bravo!” and “Vive le Roi!”--“Sire,” said he, “how important in our eyes,
and how dear to our hearts--how sublime a feature in our history--must be
the epoch of that regeneration which gives citizens to France, and a
country to Frenchmen,--to you, as a king, a new title of greatness and
glory, and, as a man, a source of new enjoyment.”  The whole Assembly
accompanied the King on his return, amidst the people’s cries of
happiness, military music, and salvoes of artillery.

At length I hoped to see a return of that tranquillity which had so long
vanished from the countenances of my august master and mistress.  Their
suite left them in the salon; the Queen hastily saluted the ladies, and
returned much affected; the King followed her, and, throwing himself into
an armchair, put his handkerchief to his eyes.  “Ah! Madame,” cried he,
his voice choked by tears, “why were you present at this sitting?  to
witness--” these words were interrupted by sobs.  The Queen threw herself
upon her knees before him, and pressed him in her arms.  I remained with
them, not from any blamable curiosity, but from a stupefaction which
rendered me incapable of determining what I ought to do.  The Queen said
to me, “Oh! go, go!” with an accent which expressed, “Do not remain to see
the dejection and despair of your sovereign!”  I withdrew, struck with the
contrast between the shouts of joy without the palace and the profound
grief which oppressed the sovereigns within.  Half an hour afterwards the
Queen sent for me.  She desired to see M. de Goguelat, to announce to him
his departure on that very night for Vienna.  The renewed attacks upon the
dignity of the throne which had been made during the sitting; the spirit
of an Assembly worse than the former; the monarch put upon a level with
the President, without any deference to the throne,--all this proclaimed
but too loudly that the sovereignty itself was aimed at.  The Queen no
longer saw any ground for hope from the Provinces. The King wrote to the
Emperor; she told me that she would herself, at midnight, bring the letter
which M. de Goguelat was to bear to the Emperor, to my room.

During all the remainder of the day the Chateau and the Tuileries were
crowded; the illuminations were magnificent.  The King and Queen were
requested to take an airing in their carriage in the Champs-Elysees,
escorted by the aides-decamp, and leaders of the Parisian army, the
Constitutional Guard not being at the time organised.  Many shouts of
“Vive le Roi!”  were heard; but as often as they ceased, one of the mob,
who never quitted the door of the King’s carriage for a single instant,
exclaimed with a stentorian voice, “No, don’t believe them!  Vive la
Nation!”  This ill-omened cry struck terror into the Queen.

A few days afterwards M. de Montmorin sent to say he wanted to speak to
me; that he would come to me, if he were not apprehensive his doing so
would attract observation; and that he thought it would appear less
conspicuous if he should see me in the Queen’s great closet at a time
which he specified, and when nobody would be there.  I went.  After having
made some polite observations upon the services I had already performed,
and those I might yet perform, for my master and mistress, he spoke to me
of the King’s imminent danger, of the plots which were hatching, and of
the lamentable composition of the Legislative Assembly; and he
particularly dwelt upon the necessity of appearing, by prudent remarks,
determined as much as possible to abide by the act the King had just
recognised.  I told him that could not be done without committing
ourselves in the eyes of the royalist party, with which moderation was a
crime; that it was painful to hear ourselves taxed with being
constitutionalists, at the same time that it was our opinion that the only
constitution which was consistent with the King’s honour, and the
happiness and tranquillity of his people, was the absolute power of the
sovereign; that this was my creed, and it would pain me to give any room
for suspicion that I was wavering in it.

“Could you ever believe,” said he, “that I should desire any other order
of things?  Have you any doubt of my attachment to the King’s person, and
the maintenance of his rights?”

“I know it, Count,” replied I; “but you are not ignorant that you lie
under the imputation of having adopted revolutionary ideas.”

“Well, madame, have resolution enough to dissemble and to conceal your
real sentiments; dissimulation was never more necessary.  Endeavours are
being made to paralyse the evil intentions of the factious as much as
possible; but we must not be counteracted here by certain dangerous
expressions which are circulated in Paris as coming from the King and
Queen.”

I told him that I had been already struck with apprehension of the evil
which might be done by the intemperate observations of persons who had no
power to act; and that I had felt ill consequences from having repeatedly
enjoined silence on those in the Queen’s service.

“I know that,” said the Count; “the Queen informed me of it, and that
determined me to come and request you to increase and keep alive, as much
as you can, that spirit of discretion which is so necessary.”

While the household of the King and Queen were a prey to all these fears,
the festivities in celebration of the acceptance of the constitution
proceeded.  Their Majesties went to the Opera; the audience consisted
entirely of persons who sided with the King, and on that day the happiness
of seeing him for a short time surrounded by faithful subjects might be
enjoyed.  The acclamations were then sincere.

“La Coquette Corrigee” had been selected for representation at the Theatre
Francais solely because it was the piece in which Mademoiselle Contat
shone most.  Yet the notions propagated by the Queen’s enemies coinciding
in my mind with the name of the play, I thought the choice very
ill-judged.  I was at a loss, however, how to tell her Majesty so; but
sincere attachment gives courage.  I explained myself; she was obliged to
me, and desired that another play might be performed.  They accordingly
selected “La Gouvernante,” almost equally unfortunate in title.

The Queen, Madame the King’s daughter, and Madame Elisabeth were all well
received on this occasion.  It is true that the opinions and feelings of
the spectators in the boxes could not be otherwise than favourable, and
great pains had been taken, previously to these two performances, to fill
the pit with proper persons.  But, on the other hand, the Jacobins took
the same precautions on their side at the Theatre Italien, and the tumult
was excessive there.  The play was Gretry’s “Les Evenements Imprevus.”
 Unfortunately, Madame Dugazon thought proper to bow to the Queen as she
sang the words, “Ah, how I love my mistress!” in a duet.  Above twenty
voices immediately exclaimed from the pit, “No mistress!  no master!
liberty!”  A few replied from the boxes and slips, “Vive le Roi!  vive la
Reine!”  Those in the pit answered, “No master! no Queen!” The quarrel
increased; the pit formed into parties; they began fighting, and the
Jacobins were beaten; tufts of their black hair flew about the
theatre.--[At this time none but the Jacobins had discontinued the use of
hairpowder.--MADAME CAMPAN.]--A military guard arrived.  The Faubourg St.
Antoine, hearing of what was going on at the Theatre Italien, flocked
together, and began to talk of marching towards the scene of action.  The
Queen preserved the calmest demeanour; the commandants of the guard
surrounded and encouraged her; they conducted themselves promptly and
discreetly.  No accident happened.  The Queen was highly applauded as she
quitted the theatre; it was the last time she was ever in one!

While couriers were bearing confidential letters from the King to the
Princes, his brothers, and to the foreign sovereigns, the Assembly invited
him to write to the Princes in order to induce them to return to France.
The King desired the Abbe de Montesquiou to write the letter he was to
send; this letter, which was admirably composed in a simple and affecting
style, suited to the character of Louis XVI., and filled with very
powerful arguments in favour of the advantages to be derived from adopting
the principles of the constitution, was confided to me by the King, who
desired me to make him a copy of it.

At this period M. M-----, one of the intendants of Monsieur’s household,
obtained a passport from the Assembly to join that Prince on business
relative to his domestic concerns.  The Queen selected him to be the
bearer of this letter.  She determined to give it to him herself, and to
inform him of its object.  I was astonished at her choice of this courier.
The Queen assured me he was exactly the man for her purpose, that she
relied even upon his indiscretion, and that it was merely necessary that
the letter from the King to his brothers should be known to exist.  The
Princes were doubtless informed beforehand on the subject by the private
correspondence.  Monsieur nevertheless manifested some degree of surprise,
and the messenger returned more grieved than pleased at this mark of
confidence, which nearly cost him his life during the Reign of Terror.

Among the causes of uneasiness to the Queen there was one which was but
too well founded, the thoughtlessness of the French whom she sent to
foreign Courts.  She used to say that they had no sooner passed the
frontiers than they disclosed the most secret matters relative to the
King’s private sentiments, and that the leaders of the Revolution were
informed of them through their agents, many of whom were Frenchmen who
passed themselves off as emigrants in the cause of their King.

After the acceptance of the constitution, the formation of the King’s
household, as well military as civil, formed a subject of attention. The
Duc de Brissac had the command of the Constitutional Guard, which was
composed of officers and men selected from the regiments, and of several
officers drawn from the National Guard of Paris.  The King was satisfied
with the feelings and conduct of this band, which, as is well known,
existed but a very short time.

The new constitution abolished what were called honours, and the
prerogatives belonging to them.  The Duchesse de Duras resigned her place
of lady of the bedchamber, not choosing to lose her right to the tabouret
at Court.  This step hurt the Queen, who saw herself forsaken through the
loss of a petty privilege at a time when her own rights and even life were
so hotly attacked.  Many ladies of rank left the Court for the same
reason.  However, the King and Queen did not dare to form the civil part
of their household, lest by giving the new names of the posts they should
acknowledge the abolition of the old ones, and also lest they should admit
into the highest positions persons not calculated to fill them well.  Some
time was spent in discussing the question, whether the household should be
formed without chevaliers and without ladies of honour.  The Queen’s
constitutional advisers were of opinion that the Assembly, having decreed
a civil list adequate to uphold the splendour of the throne, would be
dissatisfied at seeing the King adopting only a military household, and
not forming his civil household upon the new constitutional plan.  “How is
it, Madame,” wrote Barnave to the Queen, “that you will persist in giving
these people even the smallest doubt as to your sentiments?  When they
decree you a civil and a military household, you, like young Achilles
among the daughters of Lycomedes, eagerly seize the sword and scorn the
mere ornaments.”  The Queen persisted in her determination to have no
civil household.  “If,” said she, “this constitutional household be
formed, not a single person of rank will remain with us, and upon a change
of affairs we should be obliged to discharge the persons received into
their place.”

“Perhaps,” added she, “perhaps I might find one day that I had saved the
nobility, if I now had resolution enough to afflict them for a time; I
have it not.  When any measure which injures them is wrested from us they
sulk with me; nobody comes to my card party; the King goes unattended to
bed.  No allowance is made for political necessity; we are punished for
our very misfortunes.”

The Queen wrote almost all day, and spent part of the night in reading:
her courage supported her physical strength; her disposition was not at
all soured by misfortunes, and she was never seen in an ill-humour for a
moment.  She was, however, held up to the people as a woman absolutely
furious and mad whenever the rights of the Crown were in any way attacked.

I was with her one day at one of her windows.  We saw a man plainly
dressed, like an ecclesiastic, surrounded by an immense crowd.  The Queen
imagined it was some abbe whom they were about to throw into the basin of
the Tuileries; she hastily opened her window and sent a valet de chambre
to know what was going forward in the garden.  It was Abbe Gregoire, whom
the men and women of the tribunes were bringing back in triumph, on
account of a motion he had just made in the National Assembly against the
royal authority.  On the following day the democratic journalists
described the Queen as witnessing this triumph, and showing, by expressive
gestures at her window, how highly she was exasperated by the honours
conferred upon the patriot.

The correspondence between the Queen and the foreign powers was carried on
in cipher.  That to which she gave the preference can never be detected;
but the greatest patience is requisite for its use.  Each correspondent
must have a copy of the same edition of some work.  She selected “Paul and
Virginia.”  The page and line in which the letters required, and
occasionally a monosyllable, are to be found are pointed out in ciphers
agreed upon.  I assisted her in finding the letters, and frequently I made
an exact copy for her of all that she had ciphered, without knowing a
single word of its meaning.

There were always several secret committees in Paris occupied in
collecting information for the King respecting the measures of the
factions, and in influencing some of the committees of the Assembly. M.
Bertrand de Molleville was in close correspondence with the Queen. The
King employed M. Talon and others; much money was expended through the
latter channel for the secret measures.  The Queen had no confidence in
them.  M. de Laporte, minister of the civil list and of the household,
also attempted to give a bias to public opinion by means of hireling
publications; but these papers influenced none but the royalist party,
which did not need influencing.  M. de Laporte had a private police which
gave him some useful information.

I determined to sacrifice myself to my duty, but by no means to any
intrigue, and I thought that, circumstanced as I was, I ought to confine
myself to obeying the Queen’s orders.  I frequently sent off couriers to
foreign countries, and they were never discovered, so many precautions did
I take.  I am indebted for the preservation of my own existence to the
care I took never to admit any deputy to my abode, and to refuse all
interviews which even people of the highest importance often requested of
me; but this line of conduct exposed me to every species of ill-will, and
on the same day I saw myself denounced by Prud’homme, in his ‘Gazette
Revolutionnaire’, as capable of making an aristocrat of the mother of the
Gracchi, if a person so dangerous as myself could have got into her
household; and by Gauthier’s Gazette Royaliste, as a monarchist, a
constitutionalist, more dangerous to the Queen’s interests than a Jacobin.

At this period an event with which I had nothing to do placed me in a
still more critical situation.  My brother, M. Genet, began his diplomatic
career successfully.  At eighteen he was attached to the embassy to
Vienna; at twenty he was appointed chief secretary of Legation in England,
on occasion of the peace of 1783.  A memorial which he presented to M. de
Vergennes upon the dangers of the treaty of commerce then entered into
with England gave offence to M. de Calonne, a patron of that treaty, and
particularly to M. Gerard de Rayneval, chief clerk for foreign affairs.
So long as M. de Vergennes lived, having upon my father’s death declared
himself the protector of my brother, he supported him against the enemies
his views had created.  But on his death M. de Montmorin, being much in
need of the long experience in business which he found in M. de Rayneval,
was guided solely by the latter.  The office of which my brother was the
head was suppressed.  He then went to St. Petersburg, strongly recommended
to the Comte de Segur, minister from France to that Court, who appointed
him secretary of Legation.  Some time afterwards the Comte de Segur left
him at St. Petersburg, charged with the affairs of France.  After his
return from Russia, M. Genet was appointed ambassador to the United States
by the party called Girondists, the deputies who headed it being from the
department of the Gironde.  He was recalled by the Robespierre party,
which overthrew the former faction, on the 31st of May, 1793, and
condemned to appear before the Convention.  Vice-President Clinton, at
that time Governor of New York, offered him an asylum in his house and the
hand of his daughter, and M. Genet established himself prosperously in
America.

When my brother quitted Versailles he was much hurt at being deprived of a
considerable income for having penned a memorial which his zeal alone had
dictated, and the importance of which was afterwards but too well
understood.  I perceived from his correspondence that he inclined to some
of the new notions.  He told me it was right he should no longer conceal
from me that he sided with the constitutional party; that the King had in
fact commanded it, having himself accepted the constitution; that he would
proceed firmly in that course, because in this case disingenuousness would
be fatal, and that he took that side of the question because he had had it
proved to him that the foreign powers would not serve the King’s cause
without advancing pretensions prompted by long-standing interests, which
always would influence their councils; that he saw no salvation for the
King and Queen but from within France, and that he would serve the
constitutional King as he served him before the Revolution.  And lastly,
he requested me to impart to the Queen the real sentiments of one of his
Majesty’s agents at a foreign Court.  I immediately went to the Queen and
gave her my brother’s letter; she read it attentively, and said, “This is
the letter of a young man led astray by discontent and ambition; I know
you do not think as he does; do not fear that you will lose the confidence
of the King and myself.”  I offered to discontinue all correspondence with
my brother; she opposed that, saying it would be dangerous.  I then
entreated she would permit me in future to show her my own and my
brother’s letters, to which she consented.  I wrote warmly to my brother
against the course he had adopted.  I sent my letters by sure channels; he
answered me by the post, and no longer touched upon anything but family
affairs.  Once only he informed me that if I should write to him
respecting the affairs of the day he would give me no answer.  “Serve your
august mistress with the unbounded devotion which is due from you,” said
he, “and let us each do our duty.  I will only observe to you that at
Paris the fogs of the Seine often prevent people from seeing that immense
capital, even from the Pavilion of Flora, and I see it more clearly from
St. Petersburg.” The Queen said, as she read this letter, “Perhaps he
speaks but too truly; who can decide upon so disastrous a position as ours
has become?” The day on which I gave the Queen my brother’s first letter
to read she had several audiences to give to ladies and other persons
belonging to the Court, who came on purpose to inform her that my brother
was an avowed constitutionalist and revolutionist.  The Queen replied, “I
know it; Madame Campan has told me so.”  Persons jealous of my situation
having subjected me to mortifications, and these unpleasant circumstances
recurring daily, I requested the Queen’s permission to withdraw from
Court.  She exclaimed against the very idea, represented it to me as
extremely dangerous for my own reputation, and had the kindness to add
that, for my sake as well as for her own, she never would consent to it.
After this conversation I retired to my apartment.  A few minutes later a
footman brought me this note from the Queen: “I have never ceased to give
you and yours proofs of my attachment; I wish to tell you in writing that
I have full faith in your honour and fidelity, as well as in your other
good qualities; and that I ever rely on the zeal and address you exert to
serve me.”

[I had just received this letter from the Queen when M. de la Chapelle,
commissary-general of the King’s household, and head of the offices of M.
de Laporte, minister of the civil list, came to see me.  The palace having
been already sacked by the brigands on the 20th of June, 1792, he proposed
that I should entrust the paper to him, that he might place it in a safer
situation than the apartments of the Queen.  When he returned into his
offices he placed the letter she had condescended to write to me behind a
large picture in his closet; but on the loth of August M. de la Chapelle
was thrown into the prisons of the Abbaye, and the committee of public
safety established themselves in his offices, whence they issued all their
decrees of death.  There it was that a villainous servant belonging to M.
de Laporte went to declare that in the minister’s apartments, under a
board in the floor, a number of papers would be found.  They were brought
forth, and M. de Laporte was sent to the scaffold, where he suffered for
having betrayed the State by serving his master and sovereign.  M. de la
Chapelle was saved, as if by a miracle, from the massacres of the 2d of
September.  The committee of public safety having removed to the King’s
apartments at the Tuileries, M. de la Chapelle had permission to return to
his closet to take away some property belonging to him. Turning round the
picture, behind which he had hidden the Queen’s letter, he found it in the
place into which he had slipped it, and, delighted to see that I was safe
from the ill consequences the discovery of this paper might have brought
upon me, he burnt it instantly.  In times of danger a mere nothing may
save life or destroy it.--MADAME CAMPAN]

At the moment that I was going to express my gratitude to the Queen I
heard a tapping at the door of my room, which opened upon the Queen’s
inner corridor.  I opened it; it was the King.  I was confused; he
perceived it, and said to me, kindly: “I alarm you, Madame Campan; I come,
however, to comfort you; the Queen has told me how much she is hurt at the
injustice of several persons towards you.  But how is it that you complain
of injustice and calumny when you see that we are victims of them?  In
some of your companions it is jealousy; in the people belonging to the
Court it is anxiety.  Our situation is so disastrous, and we have met with
so much ingratitude and treachery, that the apprehensions of those who
love us are excusable!  I could quiet them by telling them all the secret
services you perform for us daily; but I will not do it.  Out of good-will
to you they would repeat all I should say, and you would be lost with the
Assembly.  It is much better, both for you and for us, that you should be
thought a constitutionalist.  It has been mentioned to me a hundred times
already; I have never contradicted it; but I come to give you my word that
if we are fortunate enough to see an end of all this, I will, at the
Queen’s residence, and in the presence of my brothers, relate the
important services you have rendered us, and I will recompense you and
your son for them.”  I threw myself at the King’s feet and kissed his
hand.  He raised me up, saying, “Come, come, do not grieve; the Queen, who
loves you, confides in you as I do.”

Down to the day of the acceptance it was impossible to introduce Barnave
into the interior of the palace; but when the Queen was free from the
inner guard she said she would see him.  The very great precautions which
it was necessary for the deputy to take in order to conceal his connection
with the King and Queen compelled them to spend two hours waiting for him
in one of the corridors of the Tuileries, and all in vain.  The first day
that he was to be admitted, a man whom Barnave knew to be dangerous having
met him in the courtyard of the palace, he determined to cross it without
stopping, and walked in the gardens in order to lull suspicion.  I was
desired to wait for Barnave at a little door belonging to the entresols of
the palace, with my hand upon the open lock.  I was in that position for
an hour.  The King came to me frequently, and always to speak to me of the
uneasiness which a servant belonging to the Chateau, who was a patriot,
gave him.  He came again to ask me whether I had heard the door called de
Decret opened.  I assured him nobody had been in the corridor, and he
became easy.  He was dreadfully apprehensive that his connection with
Barnave would be discovered.  “It would,” said the King, “be a ground for
grave accusations, and the unfortunate man would be lost.”  I then
ventured to remind his Majesty that as Barnave was not the only one in the
secret of the business which brought him in contact with their Majesties,
one of his colleagues might be induced to speak of the association with
which they were honoured, and that in letting them know by my presence
that I also was informed of it, a risk was incurred of removing from those
gentlemen part of the responsibility of the secret.  Upon this observation
the King quitted me hastily and returned a moment afterwards with the
Queen.  “Give me your place,” said she; “I will wait for him in my turn.
You have convinced the King.  We must not increase in their eyes the
number of persons informed of their communications with us.”

The police of M. de Laporte, intendant of the civil list, apprised him, as
early as the latter end of 1791, that a man belonging to the King’s
offices who had set up as a pastrycook at the Palais Royal was about to
resume the duties of his situation, which had devolved upon him again on
the death of one who held it for life; that he was so furious a Jacobin
that he had dared to say it would be a good thing for France if the King’s
days were shortened.  His duty was confined to making the pastry; he was
closely watched by the head officers of the kitchen, who were devoted to
his Majesty; but it is so easy to introduce a subtle poison into made
dishes that it was determined the King and Queen should eat only plain
roast meat in future; that their bread should be brought to them by M.
Thierry de Ville-d’Avray, intendant of the smaller apartments, and that he
should likewise take upon himself to supply the wine.  The King was fond
of pastry; I was directed to order some, as if for myself, sometimes of
one pastry-cook, and sometimes of another.  The pounded sugar, too, was
kept in my room.  The King, the Queen, and Madame Elisabeth ate together,
and nobody remained to wait on them.  Each had a dumb waiter and a little
bell to call the servants when they were wanted. M. Thierry used himself
to bring me their Majesties’ bread and wine, and I locked them up in a
private cupboard in the King’s closet on the ground floor.  As soon as the
King sat down to table I took in the pastry and bread.  All was hidden
under the table lest it might be necessary to have the servants in.  The
King thought it dangerous as well as distressing to show any apprehension
of attempts against his person, or any mistrust of his officers of the
kitchen.  As he never drank a whole bottle of wine at his meals (the
Princesses drank nothing but water), he filled up that out of which he had
drunk about half from the bottle served up by the officers of his butlery.
I took it away after dinner.  Although he never ate any other pastry than
that which I brought, he took care in the same manner that it should seem
that he had eaten of that served at table. The lady who succeeded me found
this duty all regulated, and she executed it in the same manner; the
public never was in possession of these particulars, nor of the
apprehensions which gave rise to them.  At the end of three or four months
the police of M. de Laporte gave notice that nothing more was to be
dreaded from that sort of plot against the King’s life; that the plan was
entirely changed; and that all the blows now to be struck would be
directed as much against the throne as against the person of the
sovereign.

There are others besides myself who know that at this time one of the
things about which the Queen most desired to be satisfied was the opinion
of the famous Pitt.  She would sometimes say to me, “I never pronounce the
name of Pitt without feeling a chill like that of death.”  (I repeat here
her very expressions.) “That man is the mortal enemy of France; and he
takes a dreadful revenge for the impolitic support given by the Cabinet of
Versailles to the American insurgents.  He wishes by our destruction to
guarantee the maritime power of his country forever against the efforts
made by the King to improve his marine power and their happy results
during the last war.  He knows that it is not only the King’s policy but
his private inclination to be solicitous about his fleets, and that the
most active step he has taken during his whole reign was to visit the port
of Cherbourg.  Pitt had served the cause of the French Revolution from the
first disturbances; he will perhaps serve it until its annihilation.  I
will endeavour to learn to what point he intends to lead us, and I am
sending M.----- to London for that purpose. He has been intimately
connected with Pitt, and they have often had political conversations
respecting the French Government.  I will get him to make him speak out,
at least so far as such a man can speak out.” Some time afterwards the
Queen told me that her secret envoy was returned from London, and that all
he had been able to wring from Pitt, whom he found alarmingly reserved,
was that he would not suffer the French monarchy to perish; that to suffer
the revolutionary spirit to erect an organised republic in France would be
a great error, affecting the tranquillity of Europe.  “Whenever,” said
she, “Pitt expressed himself upon the necessity of supporting monarchy in
France, he maintained the most profound silence upon what concerns the
monarch.  The result of these conversations is anything but encouraging;
but, even as to that monarchy which he wishes to save, will he have means
and strength to save it if he suffers us to fall?”

The death of the Emperor Leopold took place on the 1st of March, 1792.
When the news of this event reached the Tuileries, the Queen was gone out.
Upon her return I put the letter containing it into her hands.  She
exclaimed that the Emperor had been poisoned; that she had remarked and
preserved a newspaper, in which, in an article upon the sitting of the
Jacobins, at the time when the Emperor Leopold declared for the coalition,
it was said, speaking of him, that a pie-crust would settle that matter.
At this period Barnave obtained the Queen’s consent that he should read
all the letters she should write.  He was fearful of private
correspondences that might hamper the plan marked out for her; he
mistrusted her Majesty’s sincerity on this point; and the diversity of
counsels, and the necessity of yielding, on the one hand, to some of the
views of the constitutionalists, and on the other, to those of the French
Princes, and even of foreign Courts, were unfortunately the circumstances
which most rapidly impelled the Court towards its ruin.

However, the emigrants showed great apprehensions of the consequences
which might follow in the interior from a connection with the
constitutionalists, whom they described as a party existing only in idea,
and totally without means of repairing their errors.  The Jacobins were
preferred to them, because, said they, there would be no treaty to be made
with any one at the moment of extricating the King and his family from the
abyss in which they were plunged.




CHAPTER VII.


In the beginning of the year 1792, a worthy priest requested a private
interview with me.  He had learned the existence of a new libel by Madame
de Lamotte.  He told me that the people who came from London to get it
printed in Paris only desired gain, and that they were ready to deliver
the manuscript to him for a thousand louis, if he could find any friend of
the Queen disposed to make that sacrifice for her peace; that he had
thought of me, and if her Majesty would give him the twenty-four thousand
francs, he would hand the manuscript to me.

I communicated this proposal to the Queen, who rejected it, and desired me
to answer that at the time when she had power to punish the hawkers of
these libels she deemed them so atrocious and incredible that she despised
them too much to stop them; that if she were imprudent and weak enough to
buy a single one of them, the Jacobins might possibly discover the
circumstance through their espionage; that were this libel brought up, it
would be printed nevertheless, and would be much more dangerous when they
apprised the public of the means she had used to suppress it.

Baron d’Aubier, gentleman-in-ordinary to the King, and my particular
friend, had a good memory and a clear way of communicating the substance
of the debates and decrees of the National Assembly.  I went daily to the
Queen’s apartments to repeat all this to the King, who used to say, on
seeing me, “Ah! here’s the Postillon par Calais,”--a newspaper of the
time.

M. d’Aubier one day said to me: “The Assembly has been much occupied with
an information laid by the workmen of the Sevres manufactory.  They
brought to the President’s office a bundle of pamphlets which they said
were the life of Marie Antoinette.  The director of the manufactory was
ordered up to the bar, and declared he had received orders to burn the
printed sheets in question in the furnaces used for baking his china.”

While I was relating this business to the Queen the King coloured and held
his head down over his plate.  The Queen said to him, “Do you know
anything about this, Sire?”  The King made no answer.  Madame Elisabeth
requested him to explain what it meant.  Louis was still silent.  I
withdrew hastily.  A few minutes afterwards the Queen came to my room and
informed me that the King, out of regard for her, had purchased the whole
edition struck off from the manuscript which I had mentioned to her, and
that M. de Laporte had not been able to devise any more secret way of
destroying the work than that of having it burnt at Sevres, among two
hundred workmen, one hundred and eighty of whom must, in all probability,
be Jacobins!  She told me she had concealed her vexation from the King;
that he was in consternation, and that she could say nothing, since his
good intentions and his affection for her had been the cause of the
mistake.

[M. de Laporte had by order of the King bought up the whole edition of the
“Memoirs” of the notorious Madame de Lamotte against the Queen.  Instead
of destroying them immediately, he shut them up in one of the closets in
his house, The alarming and rapid growth of the rebellion, the arrogance
of the crowd of brigands, who in great measure composed the populace of
Paris, and the fresh excesses daily resulting from it, rendered the
intendant of the civil list apprehensive that some mob might break into
his house, carry off these “Memoirs,” and spread them among the public.
In order to prevent this he gave orders to have the “Memoirs” burnt with
every necessary precaution; and the clerk who received the order entrusted
the execution of it to a man named Riston, a dangerous Intriguer, formerly
an advocate of Nancy, who had a twelve-month before escaped the gallows by
favour of the new principles and the patriotism of the new tribunals,
although convicted of forging the great seal, and fabricating decrees of
the council.  This Riston, finding himself entrusted with a commission
which concerned her Majesty, and the mystery attending which bespoke
something of importance, was less anxious to execute it faithfully than to
make a parade of this mark of confidence.  On the 30th of May, at ten in
the morning, he had the sheets carried to the porcelain manufactory at
Sevres, in a cart which he himself accompanied, and made a large fire of
them before all the workmen, who were expressly forbidden to approach it.
All these precautions, and the suspicions to which they gave rise, under
such critical circumstances, gave so much publicity to this affair that it
was denounced to the Assembly that very night.  Brissot, and the whole
Jacobin party, with equal effrontery and vehemence, insisted that the
papers thus secretly burnt could be no other than the registers and
documents of the correspondence of the Austrian committee.  M. de Laporte
was ordered to the bar, and there gave the most precise account of the
circumstances.  Riston was also called up, and confirmed M. de Laporte’s
deposition.  But these explanations, however satisfactory, did not calm
the violent ferment raised in the Assembly by this affair.--“Memoirs of
Bertrand de Molleville.”]

Some time afterwards the Assembly received a denunciation against M. de
Montmorin.  The ex-minister was accused of having neglected forty
despatches from M. Genet, the charge d’affaires from France in Russia, not
having even unsealed them, because M. Genet acted on constitutional
principles.  M. de Montmorin appeared at the bar to answer this
accusation.  Whatever distress I might feel in obeying the order I had
received from the King to go and give him an account of the sitting, I
thought I ought not to fail in doing so.  But instead of giving my brother
his family name, I merely said “your Majesty’s charge d’affaires at St.
Petersburg.”

The King did me the favour to say that he noticed a reserve in my account,
of which he approved.  The Queen condescended to add a few obliging
remarks to those of the King.  However, my office of journalist gave me in
this instance so much pain that I took an opportunity, when the King was
expressing his satisfaction to me at the manner in which I gave him this
daily account, to tell him that its merits belonged wholly to M. d’Aubier;
and I ventured to request the King to suffer that excellent man to give
him an account of the sittings himself.  I assured the King that if he
would permit it, that gentleman might proceed to the Queen’s apartments
through mine unseen; the King consented to the arrangement.  Thenceforward
M. d’Aubier gave the King repeated proofs of zeal and attachment.

The Cure of St. Eustache ceased to be the Queen’s confessor when he took
the constitutional oath.  I do not remember the name of the ecclesiastic
who succeeded him; I only know that he was conducted into her apartments
with the greatest mystery.  Their Majesties did not perform their Easter
devotions in public, because they could neither declare for the
constitutional clergy, nor act so as to show that they were against them.

The Queen did perform her Easter devotions in 1792; but she went to the
chapel attended only by myself.  She desired me beforehand to request one
of my relations, who was her chaplain, to celebrate a mass for her at five
o’clock in the morning.  It was still dark; she gave me her arm, and I
lighted her with a taper.  I left her alone at the chapel door. She did
not return to her room until the dawn of day.

Dangers increased daily.  The Assembly were strengthened in the eyes of
the people by the hostilities of the foreign armies and the army of the
Princes.  The communication with the latter party became more active; the
Queen wrote almost every day.  M. de Goguelat possessed her confidence for
all correspondence with the foreign parties, and I was obliged to have him
in my apartments; the Queen asked for him very frequently, and at times
which she could not previously appoint.

All parties were exerting themselves either to ruin or to save the King.
One day I found the Queen extremely agitated; she told me she no longer
knew where she was; that the leaders of the Jacobins offered themselves to
her through the medium of Dumouriez; or that Dumouriez, abandoning the
Jacobins, had come and offered himself to her; that she had granted him an
audience; that when alone with her, he had thrown himself at her feet, and
told her that he had drawn the ‘bonnet rouge’ over his head to the very
ears; but that he neither was nor could be a Jacobin; that the Revolution
had been suffered to extend even to that rabble of destroyers who,
thinking of nothing but pillage, were ripe for anything, and might furnish
the Assembly with a formidable army, ready to undermine the remains of a
throne already but too much shaken.  Whilst speaking with the utmost
ardour he seized the Queen’s hand and kissed it with transport,
exclaiming, “Suffer yourself to be saved!”  The Queen told me that the
protestations of a traitor were not to be relied on; that the whole of
his conduct was so well known that undoubtedly the wisest course was not
to trust to it; that, moreover, the Princes particularly recommended
that no confidence should be placed in any proposition emanating from
within the kingdom; that the force without became imposing; and that it
was better to rely upon their success, and upon the protection due from
Heaven to a sovereign so virtuous as Louis XVI.  and to so just a cause.

[The sincerity of General Dumouriez cannot be doubted in this instance.
The second volume of his Memoirs shows how unjust the mistrust and
reproaches of the Queen were.  By rejecting his services, Marie Antoinette
deprived herself of her only remaining support.  He who saved France in
the defiles of Argonne would perhaps have saved France before the 20th of
June, had he obtained the full confidence of Louis XVI. and the
Queen.--NOTE BY THE EDITOR.]

The constitutionalists, on their part, saw that there had been nothing
more than a pretence of listening to them.  Barnave’s last advice was as
to the means of continuing, a few weeks longer, the Constitutional Guard,
which had been denounced to the Assembly, and was to be disbanded.  The
denunciation against the Constitutional Guard affected only its staff, and
the Duc de Brissac.  Barnave wrote to the Queen that the staff of the
guard was already attacked; that the Assembly was about to pass a decree
to reduce it; and he entreated her to prevail on the King, the very
instant the decree should appear, to form the staff afresh of persons
whose names he sent her.  Barnave said that all who were set down in it
passed for decided Jacobins, but were not so in fact; that they, as well
as himself, were in despair at seeing the monarchical government attacked;
that they had learnt to dissemble their sentiments, and that it would be
at least a fortnight before the Assembly could know them well, and
certainly before it could succeed in making them unpopular; that it would
be necessary to take advantage of that short space of time to get away
from Paris, immediately after their nomination.  The Queen was of opinion
that she ought not to yield to this advice.  The Duc de Brissac was sent
to Orleans, and the guard was disbanded.

Barnave, seeing that the Queen did not follow his counsel in anything, and
convinced that she placed all her reliance on assistance from abroad,
determined to quit Paris.  He obtained a last audience.  “Your
misfortunes, Madame,” said he, “and those which I anticipate for France,
determined me to sacrifice myself to serve you.  I see, however, that my
advice does not agree with the views of your Majesties.  I augur but
little advantage from the plan you are induced to pursue,--you are too
remote from your succours; you will be lost before they reach you.  Most
ardently do I wish I may be mistaken in so lamentable a prediction; but I
am sure to pay with my head for the interest your misfortunes have raised
in me, and the services I have sought to render you.  I request, for my
sole reward, the honour of kissing your hand.”  The Queen, her eyes
suffused with tears, granted him that favour, and remained impressed with
a favourable idea of his sentiments.  Madame Elisabeth participated in
this opinion, and the two Princesses frequently spoke of Barnave.  The
Queen also received M. Duport several times, but with less mystery.  Her
connection with the constitutional deputies transpired.  Alexandre de
Lameth was the only one of the three who survived the vengeance of the
Jacobins.

[Barnave was arrested at Grenoble.  He remained in prison in that town
fifteen months, and his friends began to hope that he would be forgotten,
when an order arrived that he should be removed to Paris. At first he was
imprisoned in the Abbaye, but transferred to the Conciergerie, and almost
immediately taken before the revolutionary tribunal.  He appeared there
with wonderful firmness, summed up the services he had rendered to the
cause of liberty with his usual eloquence, and made such an impression
upon the numerous auditors that, although accustomed to behold only
conspirators worthy of death in all those who appeared before the
tribunal, they themselves considered his acquittal certain.  The decree of
death was read amidst the deepest silence; but Barnave’a firmness was
immovable. When he left the court, he cast upon the judges, the jurors,
and the public looks expressive of contempt and indignation.  He was led
to his fate with the respected Duport du Tertre, one of the last ministers
of Louis XVI. when he had ascended the scaffold, Barnave stamped, raised
his eyes to heaven, and said: “This, then, is the reward of all that I
have done for liberty!”  He fell on the 29th of October, 1793, in the
thirty-second year of his age; his bust was placed in the Grenoble Museum.
The Consular Government placed his statue next to that of Vergniaud, on
the great staircase of the palace of the Senate.--“Biographie de
Bruxelles.”]

The National Guard, which succeeded the King’s Guard, having occupied the
gates of the Tuileries, all who came to see the Queen were insulted with
impunity.  Menacing cries were uttered aloud even in the Tuileries; they
called for the destruction of the throne, and the murder of the sovereign;
the grossest insults were offered by the very lowest of the mob.

About this time the King fell into a despondent state, which amounted
almost to physical helplessness.  He passed ten successive days without
uttering a single word, even in the bosom of his family; except, indeed,
when playing at backgammon after dinner with Madame Elisabeth.  The Queen
roused him from this state, so fatal at a critical period, by throwing
herself at his feet, urging every alarming idea, and employing every
affectionate expression.  She represented also what he owed to his family;
and told him that if they were doomed to fall they ought to fall
honourably, and not wait to be smothered upon the floor of their
apartment.

About the 15th of June, 1792, the King refused his sanction to the two
decrees ordaining the deportation of priests and the formation of a camp
of twenty thousand men under the walls of Paris.  He himself wished to
sanction them, and said that the general insurrection only waited for a
pretence to burst forth.  The Queen insisted upon the veto, and reproached
herself bitterly when this last act of the constitutional authority had
occasioned the day of the 20th of June.

A few days previously about twenty thousand men had gone to the Commune to
announce that, on the 20th, they would plant the tree of liberty at the
door of the National Assembly, and present a petition to the King
respecting the veto which he had placed upon the decree for the
deportation of the priests.  This dreadful army crossed the garden of the
Tuileries, and marched under the Queen’s windows; it consisted of people
who called themselves the citizens of the Faubourgs St. Antoine and St.
Marceau.  Clothed in filthy rags, they bore a most terrifying appearance,
and even infected the air.  People asked each other where such an army
could come from; nothing so disgusting had ever before appeared in Paris.

On the 20th of June this mob thronged about the Tuileries in still greater
numbers, armed with pikes, hatchets, and murderous instruments of all
kinds, decorated with ribbons of the national colours, Shouting, “The
nation for ever!  Down with the veto!”  The King was without guards. Some
of these desperadoes rushed up to his apartment; the door was about to be
forced in, when the King commanded that it should be opened. Messieurs de
Bougainville, d’Hervilly, de Parois, d’Aubier, Acloque, Gentil, and other
courageous men who were in the apartment of M. de Septeuil, the King’s
first valet de chambre, instantly ran to his Majesty’s apartment.  M. de
Bougainville, seeing the torrent furiously advancing, cried out, “Put the
King in the recess of the window, and place benches before him.”  Six
royalist grenadiers of the battalion of the Filles Saint Thomas made their
way by an inner staircase, and ranged themselves before the benches.  The
order given by M. de Bougainville saved the King from the blades of the
assassins, among whom was a Pole named Lazousky, who was to strike the
first blow.  The King’s brave defenders said, “Sire, fear nothing.”  The
King’s reply is well known: “Put your hand upon my heart, and you will
perceive whether I am afraid.” M. Vanot, commandant of battalion, warded
off a blow aimed by a wretch against the King; a grenadier of the Filles
Saint Thomas parried a sword-thrust made in the same direction.  Madame
Elisabeth ran to her brother’s apartments; when she reached the door she
heard loud threats of death against the Queen: they called for the head of
the Austrian.  “Ah!  let them think I am the Queen,” she said to those
around her, “that she may have time to escape.”

The Queen could not join the King; she was in the council chamber, where
she had been placed behind the great table to protect her, as much as
possible, against the approach of the barbarians.  Preserving a noble and
becoming demeanour in this dreadful situation, she held the Dauphin before
her, seated upon the table.  Madame was at her side; the Princesse de
Lamballe, the Princesse de Tarente, Madame de la Roche-Aymon, Madame de
Tourzel, and Madame de Mackau surrounded her.  She had fixed a tricoloured
cockade, which one of the National Guard had given her, upon her head.
The poor little Dauphin was, like the King, shrouded in an enormous red
cap.

[One of the circumstances of the 20th of June which most vexed the King’s
friends being that of his wearing the bonnet rouge nearly three hours, I
ventured to ask him for some explanation of a fact so strikingly in
contrast with the extraordinary intrepidity shown by his Majesty during
that horrible day.  This was his answer: “The cries of ‘The nation for
ever!’ violently increasing around me, and seeming to be addressed to me,
I replied that the nation had not a warmer friend than myself.  Upon this
an ill-looking man, making his way through the crowd, came up to me and
said, rather roughly, ‘Well, if you speak the truth, prove it by putting
on this red cap.’ ‘I consent,’ replied I.  One or two of them immediately
came forward and placed the cap upon my hair, for it was too small for my
head. I was convinced, I knew not why, that his intention was merely to
place the cap upon my head for a moment, and then to take it off again;
and I was so completely taken up with what was passing before me that I
did not feel whether the cap did or did not remain upon my hair.  I was so
little aware of it that when I returned to my room I knew only from being
told so that it was still there.  I was very much surprised to find it
upon my head, and was the more vexed at it because I might have taken it
off immediately without the smallest difficulty.  But I am satisfied that
if I had hesitated to consent to its being placed upon my head the drunken
fellow who offered it to me would have thrust his pike into my
stomach.”--“Memoirs of Bertrand de Molleville.”]

The horde passed in files before the table;the sort of standards which
they carried were symbols of the most atrocious barbarity.  There was
one representing a gibbet, to which a dirty doll was suspended; the
words “Marie Antoinette a la lanterne” were written beneath it.  Another
was a board, to which a bullock’s heart was fastened, with “Heart of
Louis XVI.” written round it.  And a third showed the horn of an ox,
with an obscene inscription.

One of the most furious Jacobin women who marched with these wretches
stopped to give vent to a thousand imprecations against the Queen.  Her
Majesty asked whether she had ever seen her.  She replied that she had
not.  Whether she had done her any, personal wrong?  Her answer was the
same; but she added:

“It is you who have caused the misery of the nation.”

“You have been told so,” answered the Queen; “you are deceived.  As the
wife of the King of France, and mother of the Dauphin, I am a
French-woman; I shall never see my own country again, I can be happy or
unhappy only in France; I was happy when you loved me.”

The fury began to weep, asked her pardon, and said, “It was because I did
not know you; I see that you are good.”

Santerre, the monarch of the faubourgs, made his subjects file off as
quickly as he could; and it was thought at the time that he was ignorant
of the object of this insurrection, which was the murder of the royal
family.  However, it was eight o’clock in the evening before the palace
was completely cleared.  Twelve deputies, impelled by attachment to the
King’s person, ranged themselves near him at the commencement of the
insurrection; but the deputation from the Assembly did not reach the
Tuileries until six in the evening; all the doors of the apartments were
broken.  The Queen pointed out to the deputies the state of the King’s
palace, and the disgraceful manner in which his asylum had been violated
under the very eyes of the Assembly; she saw that Merlin de Thionville was
so much affected as to shed tears while she spoke.

“You weep, M. Merlin,” said she to him, “at seeing the King and his family
so cruelly treated by a people whom he always wished to make happy.”

“True, Madame,” replied Merlin; “I weep for the misfortunes of a beautiful
and feeling woman, the mother of a family; but do not mistake, not one of
my tears falls for either King or Queen; I hate kings and queens,--it is
my religion.”

The Queen could not appreciate this madness, and saw all that was to be
apprehended by persons who evinced it.

All hope was gone, and nothing was thought of but succour from abroad. The
Queen appealed to her family and the King’s brothers; her letters probably
became more pressing, and expressed apprehensions upon the tardiness of
relief.  Her Majesty read me one to herself from the Archduchess
Christina, Gouvernante of the Low Countries: she reproached the Queen for
some of her expressions, and told her that those out of France were at
least as much alarmed as herself at the King’s situation and her own; but
that the manner of attempting to assist her might either save her or
endanger her safety; and that the members of the coalition were bound to
act prudently, entrusted as they were with interests so dear to them.

The 14th of July, 1792, fixed by the constitution as the anniversary of
the independence of the nation drew near.  The King and Queen were
compelled to make their appearance on the occasion; aware that the plot of
the 20th of June had their assassination for its object, they had no doubt
but that their death was determined on for the day of this national
festival.  The Queen was recommended, in order to give the King’s friends
time to defend him if the attack should be made, to guard him against the
first stroke of a dagger by making him wear a breastplate.  I was directed
to get one made in my apartments: it was composed of fifteen folds of
Italian taffety, and formed into an under-waistcoat and a wide belt.  This
breastplate was tried; it resisted all thrusts of the dagger, and several
balls were turned aside by it.  When it was completed the difficulty was
to let the King try it on without running the risk of being surprised.  I
wore the immense heavy waistcoat as an under-petticoat for three days
without being able to find a favourable moment. At length the King found
an opportunity one morning to pull off his coat in the Queen’s chamber and
try on the breastplate.

The Queen was in bed; the King pulled me gently by the gown, and drew me
as far as he could from the Queen’s bed, and said to me, in a very low
tone of voice: “It is to satisfy her that I submit to this inconvenience:
they will not assassinate me; their scheme is changed; they will put me to
death another way.”  The Queen heard the King whispering to me, and when
he was gone out she asked me what he had said.  I hesitated to answer; she
insisted that I should, saying that nothing must be concealed from her,
and that she was resigned upon every point.

When she was informed of the King’s remark she told me she had guessed it,
that he had long since observed to her that all which was going forward in
France was an imitation of the revolution in England in the time of
Charles I., and that he was incessantly reading the history of that
unfortunate monarch in order that he might act better than Charles had
done at a similar crisis.  “I begin to be fearful of the King’s being
brought to trial,” continued the Queen; “as to me, I am a foreigner; they
will assassinate me.  What will become of my poor children?”

These sad ejaculations were followed by a torrent of tears.  I wished to
give her an antispasmodic; she refused it, saying that only happy women
could feel nervous; that the cruel situation to which she was reduced
rendered these remedies useless.  In fact, the Queen, who during her
happier days was frequently attacked by hysterical disorders, enjoyed more
uniform health when all the faculties of her soul were called forth to
support her physical strength.

I had prepared a corset for her, for the same purpose as the King’s
under-waistcoat, without her knowledge; but she would not make use of it;
all my entreaties, all my tears, were in vain.  “If the factions
assassinate me,” she replied, “it will be a fortunate event for me; they
will deliver me from a most painful existence.”  A few days after the King
had tried on his breastplate I met him on a back staircase.  I drew back
to let him pass.  He stopped and took my hand; I wished to kiss his; he
would not suffer it, but drew me towards him by the hand, and kissed both
my cheeks without saying a single word.

The fear of another attack upon the Tuileries occasioned scrupulous search
among the King’s papers.

I burnt almost all those belonging to the Queen.  She put her family
letters, a great deal of correspondence which she thought it necessary to
preserve for the history of the era of the Revolution, and particularly
Barnave’s letters and her answers, of which she had copies, into a
portfolio, which she entrusted to M. de J----.  That gentleman was unable
to save this deposit, and it was burnt.  The Queen left a few papers in
her secretaire.  Among them were instructions to Madame de Tourzel,
respecting the dispositions of her children and the characters and
abilities of the sub-governesses under that lady’s orders.  This paper,
which the Queen drew up at the time of Madame de Tourzel’s appointment,
with several letters from Maria Theresa, filled with the best advice and
instructions, was printed after the 10th of August by order of the
Assembly in the collection of papers found in the secretaires of the King
and Queen.

Her Majesty had still, without reckoning the income of the month, one
hundred and forty thousand francs in gold.  She was desirous of depositing
the whole of it with me; but I advised her to retain fifteen hundred
louis, as a sum of rather considerable amount might be suddenly necessary
for her.  The King had an immense quantity of papers, and unfortunately
conceived the idea of privately making, with the assistance of a locksmith
who had worked with him above ten years, a place of concealment in an
inner corridor of his apartments.  The place of concealment, but for the
man’s information, would have been long undiscovered?  The wall in which
it was made was painted to imitate large stones, and the opening was
entirely concealed among the brown grooves which formed the shaded part of
these painted stones.  But even before this locksmith had denounced what
was afterwards called the iron closet to the Assembly, the Queen was aware
that he had talked of it to some of his friends; and that this man, in
whom the King from long habit placed too much confidence, was a Jacobin.
She warned the King of it, and prevailed on him to fill a very large
portfolio with all the papers he was most interested in preserving, and
entrust it to me.  She entreated him in my presence to leave nothing in
this closet; and the King, in order to quiet her, told her that he had
left nothing there.  I would have taken the portfolio and carried it to my
apartment, but it was too heavy for me to lift.  The King said he would
carry it himself; I went before to open the doors for him.  When he placed
the portfolio in my inner closet he merely said, “The Queen will tell you
what it contains.” Upon my return to the Queen I put the question to her,
deeming, from what the King had said, that it was necessary I should know.
“They are,” the Queen answered me, “such documents as would be most
dangerous to the King should they go so far as to proceed to a trial
against him.  But what he wishes me to tell you is, that the portfolio
contains a ‘proces-verbal’ of a cabinet council, in which the King gave
his opinion against the war. He had it signed by all the ministers, and,
in case of a trial, he trusts that this document will be very useful to
him.”  I asked the Queen to whom she thought I ought to commit the
portfolio.  “To whom you please,” answered she; “you alone are answerable
for it.  Do not quit the palace even during your vacation months: there
may be circumstances under which it would be very desirable that we should
be able to have it instantly.”

At this period M. de La Fayette, who had probably given up the idea of
establishing a republic in France similar to that of the United States,
and was desirous to support the first constitution which he had sworn to
defend, quitted his army and came to the Assembly for the purpose of
supporting by his presence and by an energetic speech a petition signed by
twenty thousand citizens against the late violation of the residence of
the King and his family.  The General found the constitutional party
powerless, and saw that he himself had lost his popularity.  The Assembly
disapproved of the step he had taken; the King, for whom it, was taken,
showed no satisfaction at it, and he saw himself compelled to return to
his army as quickly as he could.  He thought he could rely on the National
Guard; but on the day of his arrival those officers who were in the King’s
interest inquired of his Majesty whether they were to forward the views of
Gendral de La Fayette by joining him in such measures as he should pursue
during his stay at Paris.  The King enjoined them not to do so.  From this
answer M. de La Fayette perceived that he was abandoned by the remainder
of his party in the Paris guard.

On his arrival a plan was presented to the Queen, in which it was proposed
by a junction between La Fayette’s army and the King’s party to rescue the
royal family and convey them to Rouen.  I did not learn the particulars of
this plan; the Queen only said to me upon the subject that M. de La
Fayette was offered to them as a resource; but that it would be better for
them to perish than to owe their safety to the man who had done them the
most mischief, or to place themselves under the necessity of treating with
him.

I passed the whole month of July without going to bed; I was fearful of
some attack by night.  There was one plot against the Queen’s life which
has never been made known.  I was alone by her bedside at one o’clock in
the morning; we heard somebody walking softly down the corridor, which
passes along the whole line of her apartments, and which was then locked
at each end.  I went out to fetch the valet de chambre; he entered the
corridor, and the Queen and myself soon heard the noise of two men
fighting.  The unfortunate Princess held me locked in her arms, and said
to me, “What a situation! insults by day and assassins by night!” The
valet de chambre cried out to her from the corridor, “Madame, it is a
wretch that I know; I have him!”--“Let him go,” said the Queen; “open the
door to him; he came to murder me; the Jacobins would carry him about in
triumph to-morrow.”  The man was a servant of the King’s toilet, who had
taken the key of the corridor out of his Majesty’s pocket after he was in
bed, no doubt with the intention of committing the crime suspected.  The
valet de chambre, who was a very strong man, held him by the wrists, and
thrust him out at the door.  The wretch did not speak a word.  The valet
de chambre said, in answer to the Queen, who spoke to him gratefully of
the danger to which he had exposed himself, that he feared nothing, and
that he had always a pair of excellent pistols about him for no other
purpose than to defend her Majesty.  The next day M. de Septeuil had all
the locks of the King’s inner apartments changed.  I did the same by those
of the Queen.

We were every moment told that the Faubourg St. Antoine was preparing to
march against the palace.  At four o’clock one morning towards the latter
end of July a person came to give me information to that effect.  I
instantly sent off two men, on whom I could rely, with orders to proceed
to the usual places for assembling, and to come back speedily and give me
an account of the state of the city.  We knew that at least an hour must
elapse before the populace or the faubourgs assembled on the site of the
Bastille could reach the Tuileries.  It seemed to me sufficient for the
Queen’s safety that all about her should be awakened. I went softly into
her room; she was asleep; I did not awaken her.  I found General de
W----in the great closet; he told me the meeting was, for this once,
dispersing.  The General had endeavoured to please the populace by the
same means as M. de La Fayette had employed.  He saluted the lowest
poissarde, and lowered his hat down to his very stirrup. But the populace,
who had been flattered for three years, required far different homage to
its power, and the poor man was unnoticed.  The King had been awakened,
and so had Madame Elisabeth, who had gone to him.  The Queen, yielding to
the weight of her griefs, slept till nine o’clock on that day, which was
very unusual with her.  The King had already been to know whether she was
awake; I told him what I had done, and the care I had taken not to disturb
her.  He thanked me, and said, “I was awake, and so was the whole palace;
she ran no risk.  I am very glad to see her take a little rest.  Alas! her
griefs double mine!” What was my chagrin when, upon awaking and learning
what had passed, the Queen burst into tears from regret at not having been
called, and began to upbraid me, on whose friendship she ought to have
been able to rely, for having served her so ill under such circumstances!
In vain did I reiterate that it had been only a false alarm, and that she
required to have her strength recruited. “It is not diminished,” said she;
“misfortune gives us additional strength.  Elisabeth was with the King,
and I was asleep,--I who am determined to perish by his side!  I am his
wife; I will not suffer him to incur the smallest risk without my sharing
it.”




CHAPTER VIII.


During July the correspondence of M. Bertrand de Molleville with the King
and Queen was most active.  M. de Marsilly, formerly a lieutenant of the
Cent-Suisses of the Guard, was the bearer of the letters.

[I received by night only the King’s answer, written with his own hand, in
the margin of my letter.  I always sent him back with the day’s letter
that to which he had replied the day before, so that my letters and his
answers, of which I contented myself with taking notes only, never
remained with me twenty-four hours.  I proposed this arrangement to his
Majesty to remove all uneasiness from his mind; my letters were generally
delivered to the King or the Queen by M. de Marsilly, captain of the
King’s Guard, whose attachment and fidelity were known to their Majesties.
I also sometimes employed M. Bernard de Marigny, who had left Brest for
the purpose of sharing with his Majesty’s faithful servants the dangers
which threatened the King.--“Memoirs of Bertrand de Molleville,” vol.
ii., p.  12.]

He came to me the first time with a note from the Queen directed to M.
Bertrand himself.  In this note the Queen said: “Address yourself with
full confidence to Madame Campan; the conduct of her brother in Russia has
not at all influenced her sentiments; she is wholly devoted to us; and if,
hereafter, you should have anything to say to us verbally, you may rely
entirely upon her devotion and discretion.”

The mobs which gathered almost nightly in the faubourgs alarmed the
Queen’s friends; they entreated her not to sleep in her room on the ground
floor of the Tuileries.  She removed to the first floor, to a room which
was between the King’s apartments and those of the Dauphin.  Being awake
always from daybreak, she ordered that neither the shutters nor the
window-blinds should be closed, that her long sleepless nights might be
the less weary.  About the middle of one of these nights, when the moon
was shining into her bedchamber, she gazed at it, and told me that in a
month she should not see that moon unless freed from her chains, and
beholding the King at liberty.  She then imparted to me all that was
concurring to deliver them; but said that the opinions of their intimate
advisers were alarmingly at variance; that some vouched for complete
success, while others pointed out insurmountable dangers.  She added that
she possessed the itinerary of the march of the Princes and the King of
Prussia: that on such a day they would be at Verdun, on another day at
such a place, that Lille was about to be besieged, but that M. de J-----,
whose prudence and intelligence the King, as well as herself, highly
valued, alarmed them much respecting the success of that siege, and made
them apprehensive that, even were the commandant devoted to them, the
civil authority, which by the constitution gave great power to the mayors
of towns, would overrule the military commandant.  She was also very
uneasy as to what would take place at Paris during the interval, and spoke
to me of the King’s want of energy, but always in terms expressive of her
veneration for his virtues and her attachment to himself.--“The King,”
 said she, “is not a coward; he possesses abundance of passive courage, but
he is overwhelmed by an awkward shyness, a mistrust of himself, which
proceeds from his education as much as from his disposition.  He is afraid
to command, and, above all things, dreads speaking to assembled numbers.
He lived like a child, and always ill at ease under the eyes of Louis XV.,
until the age of twenty-one.  This constraint confirmed his timidity.

“Circumstanced as we are, a few well-delivered words addressed to the
Parisians, who are devoted to him, would multiply the strength of our
party a hundredfold: he will not utter them.  What can we expect from
those addresses to the people which he has been advised to post up?
Nothing but fresh outrages.  As for myself, I could do anything, and would
appear on horseback if necessary.  But if I were really to begin to act,
that would be furnishing arms to the King’s enemies; the cry against the
Austrian, and against the sway of a woman, would become general in France;
and, moreover, by showing myself, I should render the King a mere nothing.
A queen who is not regent ought, under these circumstances, to remain
passive and prepare to die.”

The garden of the Tuileries was full of maddened men, who insulted all who
seemed to side with the Court.  “The Life of Marie Antoinette” was cried
under the Queen’s windows, infamous plates were annexed to the book, the
hawkers showed them to the passersby.  On all sides were heard the
jubilant outcries of a people in a state of delirium almost as frightful
as the explosion of their rage.  The Queen and her children were unable to
breathe the open air any longer.  It was determined that the garden of the
Tuileries should be closed: as soon as this step was taken the Assembly
decreed that the whole length of the Terrace des Feuillans belonged to it,
and fixed the boundary between what was called the national ground and the
Coblentz ground by a tricoloured ribbon stretched from one end of the
terrace to the other.  All good citizens were ordered, by notices affixed
to it, not to go down into the garden, under pain of being treated in the
same manner as Foulon and Berthier. A young man who did not observe this
written order went down into the garden; furious outcries, threats of la
lanterne, and the crowd of people which collected upon the terrace warned
him of his imprudence, and the danger which he ran.  He immediately pulled
off his shoes, took out his handkerchief, and wiped the dust from their
soles.  The people cried out, “Bravo!  the good citizen for ever!”  He was
carried off in triumph.  The shutting up of the Tuileries did not enable
the Queen and her children to walk in the garden.  The people on the
terrace sent forth dreadful shouts, and she was twice compelled to return
to her apartments.

In the early part of August many zealous persons offered the King money;
he refused considerable sums, being unwilling to injure the fortunes of
individuals.  M. de la Ferte, intendant of the ‘menus plaisirs’, brought
me a thousand louis, requesting me to lay them at the feet of the Queen.
He thought she could not have too much money at so perilous a time, and
that every good Frenchman should hasten to place all his ready money in
her hands.  She refused this sum, and others of much greater amount which
were offered to her.

[M. Auguie, my brother-in-law, receiver-general of the finances, offered
her, through his wife, a portfolio containing one hundred thousand crowns
in paper money.  On this occasion the Queen said the most affecting things
to my sister, expressive of her happiness at having contributed to the
fortunes of such faithful subjects as herself and her husband, but
declined her offer.--MADAME CAMPAN.]

However, a few days afterwards, she told me she would accept M. de la
Ferte’s twenty-four thousand francs, because they would make up a sum
which the King had to expend.  She therefore directed, me to go and
receive those twenty-four thousand francs, to add them to the one hundred
thousand francs she had placed in my hands, and to change the whole into
assignats to increase their amount.  Her orders were executed, and the
assignats were delivered to the King.  The Queen informed me that Madame
Elisabeth had found a well-meaning man who had engaged to gain over Petion
by the bribe of a large sum of money, and that deputy would, by a
preconcerted signal, inform the King of the success of the project.  His
Majesty soon had an opportunity of seeing Petion, and on the Queen asking
him before me if he was satisfied with him, the King replied, “Neither
more nor less satisfied than usual; he did not make the concerted signal,
and I believe I have been cheated.”  The Queen then condescended to
explain the whole of the enigma to me.  “Petion,” said she, “was, while
talking to the King, to have kept his finger fixed upon his right eye for
at least two seconds.”--“He did not even put his hand up to his chin,”
 said the King; “after all, it is but so much money stolen: the thief will
not boast of it, and the affair will remain a secret.  Let us talk of
something else.”  He turned to me and said, “Your father was an intimate
friend of Mandat, who now commands the National Guard; describe him to me;
what ought I to expect from him?”  I answered that he was one of his
Majesty’s most faithful subjects, but that with a great deal of loyalty he
possessed very little sense, and that he was involved in the
constitutional vortex.  “I understand,” said the King; “he is a man who
would defend my palace and my person, because that is enjoined by the
constitution which he has sworn to support, but who would fight against
the party in favour of sovereign authority; it is well to know this with
certainty.”

On the next day the Princesse de Lamballe sent for me very early in the
morning.  I found her on a sofa facing a window that looked upon the Pont
Royal.  She then occupied that apartment of the Pavilion of Flora which
was on a level with that of the Queen.  She desired me to sit down by her.
Her Highness had a writing-desk upon her knees.  “You have had many
enemies,” said she; “attempts have been made to deprive you of the Queen’s
favour; they have been far from successful.  Do you know that even I
myself, not being so well acquainted with you as the Queen, was rendered
suspicious of you; and that upon the arrival of the Court at the Tuileries
I gave you a companion to be a spy upon you; and that I had another
belonging to the police placed at your door!  I was assured that you
received five or six of the most virulent deputies of the Tiers Etat; but
it was that wardrobe woman whose rooms were above you.

“In short,” said the Princess, “persons of integrity have nothing to fear
from the evil-disposed when they belong to so upright a prince as the
King.  As to the Queen, she knows you, and has loved you ever since she
came into France.  You shall judge of the King’s opinion of you: it was
yesterday evening decided in the family circle that, at a time when the
Tuileries is likely to be attacked, it was necessary to have the most
faithful account of the opinions and conduct of all the individuals
composing the Queen’s service.  The King takes the same precaution on his
part respecting all who are about him.  He said there was with him a
person of great integrity, to whom he would commit this inquiry; and that,
with regard to the Queen’s household, you must be spoken to, that he had
long studied your character, and that he esteemed your veracity.”

The Princess had a list of the names of all who belonged to the Queen’s
chamber on her desk.  She asked me for information respecting each
individual.  I was fortunate in having none but the most favourable
information to give.  I had to speak of my avowed enemy in the Queen’s
chamber; of her who most wished that I should be responsible for my
brother’s political opinions.  The Princess, as the head of the chamber,
could not be ignorant of this circumstance; but as the person in question,
who idolised the King and Queen, would not have hesitated to sacrifice her
life in order to save theirs, and as possibly her attachment to them,
united to considerable narrowness of intellect and a limited education,
contributed to her jealousy of me, I spoke of her in the highest terms.

The Princess wrote as I dictated, and occasionally looked at me with
astonishment.  When I had done I entreated her to write in the margin that
the lady alluded to was my declared enemy.  She embraced me, saying, “Ah!
do not write it!  we should not record an unhappy circumstance which ought
to be forgotten.”  We came to a man of genius who was much attached to the
Queen, and I described him as a man born solely to contradict, showing
himself an aristocrat with democrats, and a democrat among aristocrats;
but still a man of probity, and well disposed to his sovereign.  The
Princess said she knew many persons of that disposition, and that she was
delighted I had nothing to say against this man, because she herself had
placed him about the Queen.

The whole of her Majesty’s chamber, which consisted entirely of persons of
fidelity, gave throughout all the dreadful convulsions of the Revolution
proofs of the greatest prudence and self-devotion.  The same cannot be
said of the antechambers.  With the exception of three or four, all the
servants of that class were outrageous Jacobins; and I saw on those
occasions the necessity of composing the private household of princes of
persons completely separated from the class of the people.

The situation of the royal family was so unbearable during the months
which immediately preceded the 10th of August that the Queen longed for
the crisis, whatever might be its issue.  She frequently said that a long
confinement in a tower by the seaside would seem to her less intolerable
than those feuds in which the weakness of her party daily threatened an
inevitable catastrophe.

[A few days before the 10th of August the squabbles between the royalists
and the Jacobins, and between the Jacobins and the constitutionalists,
increased in warmth; among the latter those men who defended the
principles they professed with the greatest talent, courage, and constancy
were at the same time the most exposed to danger.  Montjoie says: “The
question of dethronement was discussed with a degree of frenzy in the
Assembly.  Such of the deputies as voted against it were abused, ill
treated, and surrounded by assassins.  They had a battle to fight at every
step they took; and at length they did not dare to sleep in their own
houses.  Of this number were Regnault de Beaucaron, Froudiere, Girardin,
and Vaublanc.  Girardin complained of having been struck in one of the
lobbies of the Assembly.  A voice cried out to him, ‘Say where were you
struck.’  ‘Where?’ replied Girardin, ‘what a question!  Behind. Do
assassins ever strike otherwise?”]

Not only were their Majesties prevented from breathing the open air, but
they were also insulted at the very foot of the altar.  The Sunday before
the last day of the monarchy, while the royal family went through the
gallery to the chapel, half the soldiers of the National Guard exclaimed,
“Long live the King!” and the other half, “No; no King!  Down with the
veto!” and on that day at vespers the choristers preconcerted to use loud
and threatening emphasis when chanting the words, “Deposuit potentes de
sede,” in the “Magnificat.”  Incensed at such an irreverent proceeding,
the royalists in their turn thrice exclaimed, “Et reginam,” after the
“Domine salvum fac regem.”  The tumult during the whole time of divine
service was excessive.

At length the terrible night of the 10th of August, 1792, arrived.  On the
preceding evening Potion went to the Assembly and informed it that
preparations were making for an insurrection on the following day; that
the tocsin would sound at midnight; and that he feared he had not
sufficient means for resisting the attack which was about to take place.
Upon this information the Assembly passed to the order of the day. Petion,
however, gave an order for repelling force by force.

[Petion was the Mayor of Paris, and Mandat on this day was commandant of
the National Guard.  Mandat was assassinated that night.--“Thiers,” vol.
i., p. 260.]

M. Mandat was armed with this order; and, finding his fidelity to the
King’s person supported by what he considered the law of the State, he
conducted himself in all his operations with the greatest energy.  On the
evening of the 9th I was present at the King’s supper.  While his Majesty
was giving me various orders we heard a great noise at the door of the
apartment.  I went to see what was the cause of it, and found the two
sentinels fighting.  One said, speaking of the King, that he was hearty in
the cause of the constitution, and would defend it at the peril of his
life; the other maintained that he was an encumbrance to the only
constitution suitable to a free people.  They were almost ready to cut one
another’s throats.  I returned with a countenance which betrayed my
emotion.  The King desired to know what was going forward at his door; I
could not conceal it from him.  The Queen said she was not at all
surprised at it, and that more than half the guard belonged to the Jacobin
party.

The tocsin sounded at midnight.  The Swiss were drawn up like walls; and
in the midst of their soldierlike silence, which formed a striking
contrast with the perpetual din of the town guard, the King informed M. de
J-----, an officer of the staff, of the plan of defence laid down by
General Viomenil.  M. de J----- said to me, after this private conference,
“Put your jewels and money into your pockets; our dangers are unavoidable;
the means of defence are nil; safety might be obtained by some degree of
energy in the King, but that is the only virtue in which he is deficient.”

An hour after midnight the Queen and Madame Elisabeth said they would lie
down on a sofa in a room in the entresols, the windows of which commanded
the courtyard of the Tuileries.

The Queen told me the King had just refused to put on his quilted
under-waistcoat; that he had consented to wear it on the 14th of July
because he was merely going to a ceremony where the blade of an assassin
was to be apprehended, but that on a day on which his party might fight
against the revolutionists he thought there was something cowardly in
preserving his life by such means.

During this time Madame Elisabeth disengaged herself from some of her
clothing which encumbered her in order to lie down on the sofa: she took a
cornelian pin out of her cape, and before she laid it down on the table
she showed it to me, and desired me to read a motto engraved upon it round
a stalk of lilies.  The words were, “Oblivion of injuries; pardon for
offences.”--“I much fear,” added that virtuous Princess, “this maxim has
but little influence among our enemies; but it ought not to be less dear
to us on that account.”

[The exalted piety of Madame Elisabeth gave to all she said and did a
noble character, descriptive of that of her soul.  On the day on which
this worthy descendant of Saint Louis was sacrificed, the executioner, in
tying her hands behind her, raised up one of the ends of her handkerchief.
Madame Elisabeth, with calmness, and in a voice which seemed not to belong
to earth, said to him, “In the name of modesty, cover my bosom.”  I
learned this from Madame de Serilly, who was condemned the same day as the
Princess, but who obtained a respite at the moment of the execution,
Madame de Montmorin, her relation, declaring that her cousin was
enceinte.-MADAME CAMPAN.]

The Queen desired me to sit down by her; the two Princesses could not
sleep; they were conversing mournfully upon their situation when a musket
was discharged in the courtyard.  They both quitted the sofa, saying,
“There is the first shot, unfortunately it will not be the last; let us go
up to the King.”  The Queen desired me to follow her; several of her women
went with me.

At four o’clock the Queen came out of the King’s chamber and told us she
had no longer any hope; that M. Mandat, who had gone to the Hotel de Ville
to receive further orders, had just been assassinated, and that the people
were at that time carrying his head about the streets.  Day came. The
King, the Queen, Madame Elisabeth, Madame, and the Dauphin went down to
pass through the ranks of the sections of the National Guard; the cry of
“Vive le Roi!” was heard from a few places.  I was at a window on the
garden side; I saw some of the gunners quit their posts, go up to the
King, and thrust their fists in his face, insulting him by the most brutal
language.  Messieurs de Salvert and de Bridges drove them off in a
spirited manner.  The King was as pale as a corpse.  The royal family came
in again.  The Queen told me that all was lost; that the King had shown no
energy; and that this sort of review had done more harm than good.

I was in the billiard-room with my companions; we placed ourselves upon
some high benches.  I then saw M. d’Hervilly with a drawn sword in his
hand, ordering the usher to open the door to the French noblesse.  Two
hundred persons entered the room nearest to that in which the family were;
others drew up in two lines in the preceding rooms.  I saw a few people
belonging to the Court, many others whose features were unknown to me, and
a few who figured technically without right among what was called the
noblesse, but whose self-devotion ennobled them at once.  They were all so
badly armed that even in that situation the indomitable French liveliness
indulged in jests.  M. de Saint-Souplet, one of the King’s equerries, and
a page, carried on their shoulders instead of muskets the tongs belonging
to the King’s antechamber, which they had broken and divided between them.
Another page, who had a pocket-pistol in his hand, stuck the end of it
against the back of the person who stood before him, and who begged he
would be good enough to rest it elsewhere.  A sword and a pair of pistols
were the only arms of those who had had the precaution to provide
themselves with arms at all.  Meanwhile, the numerous bands from the
faubourgs, armed with pikes and cutlasses, filled the Carrousel and the
streets adjacent to the Tuileries.  The sanguinary Marseillais were at
their head, with cannon pointed against the Chateau.  In this emergency
the King’s Council sent M. Dejoly, the Minister of Justice, to the
Assembly to request they would send the King a deputation which might
serve as a safeguard to the executive power.  His ruin was resolved on;
they passed to the order of the day.  At eight o’clock the department
repaired to the Chateau.  The procureur-syndic, seeing that the guard
within was ready to join the assailants, went into the King’s closet and
requested to speak to him in private.  The King received him in his
chamber; the Queen was with him.  There M. Roederer told him that the
King, all his family, and the people about them would inevitably perish
unless his Majesty immediately determined to go to the National Assembly.
The Queen at first opposed this advice, but the procureur-syndic told her
that she rendered herself responsible for the deaths of the King, her
children, and all who were in the palace.  She no longer objected.  The
King then consented to go to the Assembly.  As he set out, he said to the
minister and persons who surrounded him, “Come, gentlemen, there is
nothing more to be done here.”

[“The King hesitated, the Queen manifested the highest dissatisfaction.
‘What!’ said she,’ are we alone; is there nobody who can act?’--‘Yes,
Madame, alone; action is useless--resistance is impossible.’ One of the
members of the department, M. Gerdrot, insisted on the prompt execution of
the proposed measure.  ‘Silence, monsieur,’ said the Queen to him;
‘silence; you are the only person who ought to be silent here; when the
mischief is done, those who did it should not pretend to wish to remedy
it.’ .  .  .

“The King remained mute; nobody spoke.  It was reserved for me to give the
last piece of advice.  I had the firmness to say, ‘Let us go, and not
deliberate; honour commands it, the good of the State requires it.  Let us
go to the National Assembly; this step ought to have been taken long ago:
‘Let us go,’ said the King, raising his right hand; ‘let us start; let us
give this last mark of self-devotion, since it is necessary.’  The Queen
was persuaded.  Her first anxiety was for the King, the second for her
son; the King had none.  ‘M. Roederer--gentlemen,’ said the Queen, ‘you
answer for the person of the King; you answer for that of my
son.’--‘Madame,’ replied M. Roederer, ‘we pledge ourselves to die at your
side; that is all we can engage for.’”--MONTJOIE, “History of Marie
Antoinette.”]

The Queen said to me as she left the King’s chamber, “Wait in my
apartments; I will come to you, or I will send for you to go I know not
whither.”  She took with her only the Princesse de Lamballe and Madame de
Tourzel.  The Princesse de Tarente and Madame de la Roche-Aymon were
inconsolable at being left at the Tuileries; they, and all who belonged to
the chamber, went down into the Queen’s apartments.

We saw the royal family pass between two lines formed by the Swiss
grenadiers and those of the battalions of the Petits-Peres and the Filles
Saint Thomas.  They were so pressed upon by the crowd that during that
short passage the Queen was robbed of her watch and purse.  A man of great
height and horrible appearance, one of such as were to be seen at the head
of all the insurrections, drew near the Dauphin, whom the Queen was
leading by the hand, and took him up in his arms.  The Queen uttered a
scream of terror, and was ready to faint.  The man said to her, “Don’t be
frightened, I will do him no harm;” and he gave him back to her at the
entrance of the chamber.

I leave to history all the details of that too memorable day, confining
myself to recalling a few of the frightful scenes acted in the interior of
the Tuileries after the King had quitted the palace.

The assailants did not know that the King and his family had betaken
themselves to the Assembly; and those who defended the palace from the
aide of the courts were equally ignorant of it.  It is supposed that if
they had been aware of the fact the siege would never have taken place.

[In reading of the events of the 10th of August, 1792, the reader must
remember that there was hardly any armed force to resist the mob.  The
regiments that had shown signs of being loyal to the King had been removed
from Paris by the Assembly.  The Swiss had been deprived of their own
artillery, and the Court had sent one of their battalions into Normandy at
a time when there was an idea of taking refuge there.  The National Guard
were either disloyal or disheartened, and the gunners, especially of that
force at the Tuileries, sympathised with the mob.  Thus the King had about
800 or 900 Swiss and little more than one battalion of the National Guard.
Mandat, one of the six heads of the legions of the National Guard, to
whose turn the command fell on that day, was true to his duty, but was
sent for to the Hotel de Ville and assassinated.  Still the small force,
even after the departure of the King, would have probably beaten off the
mob had not the King given the fatal order to the Swiss to cease firing.
(See Thiers’s “Revolution Francaise,” vol.  i., chap.  xi.) Bonaparte’s
opinion of the mob may be judged by his remarks on the 20th June, 1792,
when, disgusted at seeing the King appear with the red cap on his head, he
exclaimed, “Che coglione!  Why have they let in all that rabble?  Why
don’t they sweep off 400 or 500 of them with the cannon?  The rest would
then set off.”  (“Bourrienne,” vol. i., p.13, Bentley, London, 1836.)
Bonaparte carried out his own plan against a far stronger force of
assailants on the Jour des Sections, 4th October, 1795.]

The Marseillais began by driving from their posts several Swiss, who
yielded without resistance; a few of the assailants fired upon them; some
of the Swiss officers, seeing their men fall, and perhaps thinking the
King was still at the Tuileries, gave the word to a whole battalion to
fire.  The aggressors were thrown into disorder, and the Carrousel was
cleared in a moment; but they soon returned, spurred on by rage and
revenge.  The Swiss were but eight hundred strong; they fell back into the
interior of the Chateau; some of the doors were battered in by the guns,
others broken through with hatchets; the populace rushed from all quarters
into the interior of the palace; almost all the Swiss were massacred; the
nobles, flying through the gallery which leads to the Louvre, were either
stabbed or shot, and the bodies thrown out of the windows.

M. Pallas and M. de Marchais, ushers of the King’s chamber, were killed in
defending the door of the council chamber; many others of the King’s
servants fell victims to their fidelity.  I mention these two persons in
particular because, with their hats pulled over their brows and their
swords in their hands, they exclaimed, as they defended themselves with
unavailing courage, “We will not survive!--this is our post; our duty is
to die at it.”  M. Diet behaved in the same manner at the door of the
Queen’s bedchamber; he experienced the same fate.  The Princesse de
Tarente had fortunately opened the door of the apartments; otherwise, the
dreadful band seeing several women collected in the Queen’s salon would
have fancied she was among us, and would have immediately massacred us had
we resisted them.  We were, indeed, all about to perish, when a man with a
long beard came up, exclaiming, in the name of Potion, “Spare the women;
don’t dishonour the nation!”  A particular circumstance placed me in
greater danger than the others.  In my confusion I imagined, a moment
before the assailants entered the Queen’s apartments, that my sister was
not among the group of women collected there; and I went up into an
‘entresol’, where I supposed she had taken refuge, to induce her to come
down, fancying it safer that we should not be separated.  I did not find
her in the room in question; I saw there only our two femmes de chambre
and one of the Queen’s two heyducs, a man of great height and military
aspect.  I saw that he was pale, and sitting on a bed.  I cried out to
him, “Fly! the footmen and our people are already safe.”--“I cannot,” said
the man to me; “I am dying of fear.”  As he spoke I heard a number of men
rushing hastily up the staircase; they threw themselves upon him, and I
saw him assassinated.

I ran towards the staircase, followed by our women.  The murderers left
the heyduc to come to me.  The women threw themselves at their feet, and
held their sabres.  The narrowness of the staircase impeded the assassins;
but I had already felt a horrid hand thrust into my back to seize me by my
clothes, when some one called out from the bottom of the staircase, “What
are you doing above there?  We don’t kill women.”  I was on my knees; my
executioner quitted his hold of me, and said, “Get up, you jade; the
nation pardons you.”

The brutality of these words did not prevent my suddenly experiencing an
indescribable feeling which partook almost equally of the love of life and
the idea that I was going to see my son, and all that was dear to me,
again.  A moment before I had thought less of death than of the pain which
the steel, suspended over my head, would occasion me.  Death is seldom
seen so close without striking his blow.  I heard every syllable uttered
by the assassins, just as if I had been calm.

Five or six men seized me and my companions, and, having made us get up on
benches placed before the windows, ordered us to call out, “The nation for
ever!”

I passed over several corpses; I recognised that of the old Vicomte de
Broves, to whom the Queen had sent me at the beginning of the night to
desire him and another old man in her name to go home.  These brave men
desired I would tell her Majesty that they had but too strictly obeyed the
King’s orders in all circumstances under which they ought to have exposed
their own lives in order to preserve his; and that for this once they
would not obey, though they would cherish the recollection of the Queen’s
goodness.

Near the grille, on the side next the bridge, the men who conducted me
asked whither I wished to go.  Upon my inquiring, in my turn, whether they
were at liberty to take me wherever I might wish to go, one of them, a
Marseillais, asked me, giving me at the same time a push with the butt end
of his musket, whether I still doubted the power of the people?  I
answered “No,” and I mentioned the number of my brother-in-law’s house. I
saw my sister ascending the steps of the parapet of the bridge, surrounded
by members of the National Guard.  I called to her, and she turned round.
“Would you have her go with you?” said my guardian to me. I told him I did
wish it.  They called the people who were leading my sister to prison; she
joined me.

Madame de la Roche-Aymon and her daughter, Mademoiselle Pauline de
Tourzel, Madame de Ginestoux, lady to the Princesse de Lamballe, the other
women of the Queen, and the old Comte d’Affry, were led off together to
the Abbaye.

Our progress from the Tuileries to my sister’s house was most distressing.
We saw several Swiss pursued and killed, and musket-shots were crossing
each other in all directions.  We passed under the walls of the Louvre;
they were firing from the parapet into the windows of the gallery, to hit
the knights of the dagger; for thus did the populace designate those
faithful subjects who had assembled at the Tuileries to defend the King.

The brigands broke some vessels of water in the Queen’s first antechamber;
the mixture of blood and water stained the skirts of our white gowns.  The
poissardes screamed after us in the streets that we were attached to the
Austrian.  Our protectors then showed some consideration for us, and made
us go up a gateway to pull off our gowns; but our petticoats being too
short, and making us look like persons in disguise, other poissardes began
to bawl out that we were young Swiss dressed up like women.  We then saw a
tribe of female cannibals enter the street, carrying the head of poor
Mandat.  Our guards made us hastily enter a little public-house, called
for wine, and desired us to drink with them.  They assured the landlady
that we were their sisters, and good patriots.  Happily the Marseillais
had quitted us to return to the Tuileries.  One of the men who remained
with us said to me in a low voice: “I am a gauze-worker in the faubourg.
I was forced to march; I am not for all this; I have not killed anybody,
and have rescued you.  You ran a great risk when we met the mad women who
are carrying Mandat’s head.  These horrible women said yesterday at
midnight, upon the site of the Bastille, that they must have their revenge
for the 6th of October, at Versailles, and that they had sworn to kill the
Queen and all the women attached to her; the danger of the action saved
you all.”

As I crossed the Carrousel, I saw my house in flames; but as soon as the
first moment of affright was over, I thought no more of my personal
misfortunes.  My ideas turned solely upon the dreadful situation of the
Queen.

On reaching my sister’s we found all our family in despair, believing they
should never see us again.  I could not remain in her house; some of the
mob, collected round the door, exclaimed that Marie Antoinette’s
confidante was in the house, and that they must have her head.  I
disguised myself, and was concealed in the house of M. Morel, secretary
for the lotteries.  On the morrow I was inquired for there, in the name of
the Queen.  A deputy, whose sentiments were known to her, took upon
himself to find me out.

I borrowed clothes, and went with my sister to the Feuillans--[A former
monastery near the Tuileries, so called from the Bernardines, one of the
Cistercian orders; later a revolutionary club.]--We got there at the same
time with M. Thierry de Ville d’Avray, the King’s first valet de chambre.
We were taken into an office, where we wrote down our names and places of
abode, and we received tickets for admission into the rooms belonging to
Camus, the keeper of the Archives, where the King was with his family.

As we entered the first room, a person who was there said to me, “Ah!
you are a brave woman; but where is that Thierry, that man loaded with
his master’s bounties?”

[M. Thierry, who never ceased to give his sovereign proofs of unalterable
attachment, was one of the victims of the 2d of September.--MADAME
CAMPAN.]

“He is here,” said I; “he is following me.  I perceive that even scenes
of death do not banish jealousy from among you.”

Having belonged to the Court from my earliest youth, I was known to many
persons whom I did not know.  As I traversed a corridor above the
cloisters which led to the cells inhabited by the unfortunate Louis XVI.
and his family, several of the grenadiers called me by name.  One of them
said to me, “Well, the poor King is lost!  The Comte d’Artois would have
managed it better.”--“Not at all,” said another.

The royal family occupied a small suite of apartments consisting of four
cells, formerly belonging to the ancient monastery of the Feuillans.  In
the first were the men who had accompanied the King: the Prince de Poix,
the Baron d’Aubier, M. de Saint-Pardou, equerry to Madame Elisabeth, MM.
de Goguelat, de Chamilly, and de Hue.  In the second we found the King; he
was having his hair dressed; he took two locks of it, and gave one to my
sister and one to me.  We offered to kiss his hand; he opposed it, and
embraced us without saying anything.  In the third was the Queen, in bed,
and in indescribable affliction.  We found her accompanied only by a stout
woman, who appeared tolerably civil; she was the keeper of the apartments.
She waited upon the Queen, who as yet had none of her own people about
her.  Her Majesty stretched out her arms to us, saying, “Come, unfortunate
women; come, and see one still more unhappy than yourselves, since she has
been the cause of all your misfortunes.  We are ruined,” continued she;
“we have arrived at that point to which they have been leading us for
three years, through all possible outrages; we shall fall in this dreadful
revolution, and many others will perish after us. All have contributed to
our downfall; the reformers have urged it like mad people, and others
through ambition, for the wildest Jacobin seeks wealth and office, and the
mob is eager for plunder.  There is not one real patriot among all this
infamous horde.  The emigrant party have their intrigues and schemes;
foreigners seek to profit by the dissensions of France; every one has a
share in our misfortunes.”

The Dauphin came in with Madame and the Marquise de Tourzel.  On seeing
them the Queen said to me, “Poor children!  how heartrending it is,
instead of handing down to them so fine an inheritance, to say it ends
with us!”  She afterwards conversed with me about the Tuileries and the
persons who had fallen; she condescended also to mention the burning of my
house.  I looked upon that loss as a mischance which ought not to dwell
upon her mind, and I told her so.  She spoke of the Princesse de Tarente,
whom she greatly loved and valued, of Madame de la Roche-Aymon and her
daughter, of the other persons whom she had left at the palace, and of the
Duchesse de Luynes, who was to have passed the night at the Tuileries.
Respecting her she said, “Hers was one of the first heads turned by the
rage for that mischievous philosophy; but her heart brought her back, and
I again found a friend in her.”

[During the Reign of Terror I withdrew to the Chateau de Coubertin, near
that of Dampierre.  The Duchesse de Luynes frequently came to ask me to
tell her what the Queen had said about her at the Feuillans.  She would
say as she went away, “I have often need to request you to repeat those
words of the Queen.”--MADAME CAMPAN.]

I asked the Queen what the ambassadors from foreign powers had done under
existing circumstances.  She told me that they could do nothing; and that
the wife of the English ambassador had just given her a proof of the
personal interest she took in her welfare by sending her linen for her
son.

I informed her that, in the pillaging of my house, all my accounts with
her had been thrown into the Carrousel, and that every sheet of my month’s
expenditure was signed by her, sometimes leaving four or five inches of
blank paper above her signature, a circumstance which rendered me very
uneasy, from an apprehension that an improper use might be made of those
signatures.  She desired me to demand admission to the committee of
general safety, and to make this declaration there.  I repaired thither
instantly and found a deputy, with whose name I have never become
acquainted.  After hearing me he said that he would not receive my
deposition; that Marie Antoinette was now nothing more than any other
Frenchwoman; and that if any of those detached papers bearing her
signature should be misapplied, she would have, at a future period, a
right to lodge a complaint, and to support her declaration by the facts
which I had just related.  The Queen then regretted having sent me, and
feared that she had, by her very caution, pointed out a method of
fabricating forgeries which might be dangerous to her; then again she
exclaimed, “My apprehensions are as absurd as the step I made you take.
They need nothing more for our ruin; all has been told.”

She gave us details of what had taken place subsequently to the King’s
arrival at the Assembly.  They are all well known, and I have no occasion
to record them; I will merely mention that she told us, though with much
delicacy, that she was not a little hurt at the King’s conduct since he
had quitted the Tuileries; that his habit of laying no restraint upon his
great appetite had prompted him to eat as if he had been at his palace;
that those who did not know him as she did, did not feel the piety and the
magnanimity of his resignation, all which produced so bad an effect that
deputies who were devoted to him had warned him of it; but no change could
be effected.

I still see in imagination, and shall always see, that narrow cell at the
Feuillans, hung with green paper, that wretched couch whence the
dethroned, Queen stretched out her arms to us, saying that our
misfortunes, of which she was the cause, increased her own.  There, for
the last time, I saw the tears, I heard the sobs of her whom high birth,
natural endowments, and, above all, goodness of heart, had seemed to
destine to adorn any throne, and be the happiness of any people!  It is
impossible for those who lived with Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette not to
be fully convinced, while doing full justice to the King’s virtues, that
if the Queen had been from the moment of her arrival in France the object
of the care and affection of a prince of decision and authority, she would
have only added to the glory of his reign.

What affecting things I have heard the Queen say in the affliction caused
her by the belief of part of the Court and the whole of the people that
she did not love France!  How did that opinion shock those who knew her
heart and her sentiments!  Twice did I see her on the point of going from
her apartments in the Tuileries into the gardens, to address the immense
throng constantly assembled there to insult her.  “Yes,” exclaimed she, as
she paced her chamber with hurried steps, “I will say to them Frenchmen,
they have had the cruelty to persuade you that I do not love France!--I!
the mother of a Dauphin who will reign over this noble country!--I! whom
Providence has seated upon the most powerful throne of Europe!  Of all the
daughters of Maria Theresa am I not that one whom fortune has most highly
favoured?  And ought I not to feel all these advantages?  What should I
find at Vienna?  Nothing but sepulchres!  What should I lose in France?
Everything which can confer glory!”

I protest I only repeat her own words; the soundness of her judgment soon
pointed out to her the dangers of such a proceeding.  “I should descend
from the throne,” said she, “merely, perhaps, to excite a momentary
sympathy, which the factious would soon render more injurious than
beneficial to me.”

Yes, not only did Marie Antoinette love France, but few women took greater
pride in the courage of Frenchmen.  I could adduce a multitude of proofs
of this; I will relate two traits which demonstrate the noblest
enthusiasm: The Queen was telling me that, at the coronation of the
Emperor Francis II., that Prince, bespeaking the admiration of a French
general officer, who was then an emigrant, for the fine appearance of his
troops, said to him, “There are the men to beat your sans culottes!” “That
remains to be seen, Sire,” instantly replied the officer.  The Queen
added, “I don’t know the name of that brave Frenchman, but I will learn
it; the King ought to be in possession of it.”  As she was reading the
public papers a few days before the 10th of August, she observed that
mention was made of the courage of a young man who died in defending the
flag he carried, and shouting, “Vive la Nation!”--“Ah! the fine lad!” said
the Queen; “what a happiness it would have been for us if such men had
never left off crying, ‘Vive de Roi!’”

In all that I have hitherto said of this most unfortunate of women and of
queens, those who did not live with her, those who knew her but partially,
and especially the majority of foreigners, prejudiced by infamous libels,
may imagine I have thought it my duty to sacrifice truth on the altar of
gratitude.  Fortunately I can invoke unexceptionable witnesses; they will
declare whether what I assert that I have seen and heard appears to them
either untrue or improbable.




CHAPTER IX.


The Queen having been robbed of her purse as she was passing from the
Tuileries to the Feuillans, requested my sister to lend her twenty-five
louis.

[On being interrogated the Queen declared that these five and twenty louis
had been lent to her by my sister; this formed a pretence for arresting
her and me, and led to her death.--MADAME CAMPAN.]

I spent part of the day at the Feuillans, and her Majesty told me she
would ask Potion to let me be with her in the place which the Assembly
should decree for her prison.  I then returned home to prepare everything
that might be necessary for me to accompany her.

On the same day (11th August), at nine in the evening, I returned to the
Feuillans.  I found there were orders at all the gates forbidding my being
admitted.  I claimed a right to enter by virtue of the first permission
which had been given to me; I was again refused.  I was told that the
Queen had as many people as were requisite about her.  My sister was with
her, as well as one of my companions, who came out of the prisons of the
Abbaye on the 11th.  I renewed my solicitations on the 12th; my tears and
entreaties moved neither the keepers of the gates, nor even a deputy, to
whom I addressed myself.

I soon heard of the removal of Louis XVI. and his family to the Temple. I
went to Potion accompanied by M. Valadon, for whom I had procured a place
in the post-office, and who was devoted to me.  He determined to go up to
Potion alone; he told him that those who requested to be confined could
not be suspected of evil designs, and that no political opinion could
afford a ground of objection to these solicitations.  Seeing that the
well-meaning man did not succeed, I thought to do more in person; but
Petion persisted in his refusal, and threatened to send me to La Force.
Thinking to give me a kind of consolation, he added I might be certain
that all those who were then with Louis XVI. and his family would not stay
with them long.  And in fact, two or three days afterwards the Princesse
de Lamballe, Madame de Tourzel, her daughter, the Queen’s first woman, the
first woman of the Dauphin and of Madame, M. de Chamilly, and M. de Hue
were carried off during the night and transferred to La Force. After the
departure of the King and Queen for the Temple, my sister was detained a
prisoner in the apartments their Majesties had quitted for twenty-four
hours.

From this time I was reduced to the misery of having no further
intelligence of my august and unfortunate mistress but through the medium
of the newspapers or the National Guard, who did duty at the Temple.

The King and Queen said nothing to me at the Feuillans about the portfolio
which had been deposited with me; no doubt they expected to see me again.
The minister Roland and the deputies composing the provisional government
were very intent on a search for papers belonging to their Majesties.
They had the whole of the Tuileries ransacked.  The infamous Robespierre
bethought himself of M. Campan, the Queen’s private secretary, and said
that his death was feigned; that he was living unknown in some obscure
part of France, and was doubtless the depositary of all the important
papers.  In a great portfolio belonging to the King there had been found a
solitary letter from the Comte d’Artois, which, by its date, and the
subjects of which it treated, indicated the existence of a continued
correspondence.  (This letter appeared among the documents used on the
trial of Louis XVI.)  A former preceptor of my son’s had studied with
Robespierre; the latter, meeting him in the street, and knowing the
connection which had subsisted between him and the family of M. Campan,
required him to say, upon his honour, whether he was certain of the death
of the latter.  The man replied that M. Campan had died at La Briche in
1791, and that he had seen him interred in the cemetery of Epinay.  “well,
then,” resumed Robespierre, “bring me the certificate of his burial at
twelve to-morrow; it is a document for which I have pressing occasion.”
 Upon hearing the deputy’s demand I instantly sent for a certificate of M.
Campan’s burial, and Robespierre received it at nine o’clock the next
morning.  But I considered that, in thinking of my father-in-law, they
were coming very near me, the real depositary of these important papers.
I passed days and nights in considering what I could do for the best under
such circumstances.

I was thus situated when the order to inform against those who had been
denounced as suspected on the 10th of August led to domiciliary visits. My
servants were told that the people of the quarter in which I lived were
talking much of the search that would be made in my house, and came to
apprise me of it.  I heard that fifty armed men would make themselves
masters of M. Auguies house, where I then was.  I had just received this
intelligence when M. Gougenot, the King’s maitre d’hotel and
receiver-general of the taxes, a man much attached to his sovereign, came
into my room wrapped in a ridingcloak, under which, with great difficulty,
he carried the King’s portfolio, which I had entrusted to him.  He threw
it down at my feet, and said to me, “There is your deposit; I did not
receive it from our unfortunate King’s own hands; in delivering it to you
I have executed my trust.”  After saying this he was about to withdraw. I
stopped him, praying him to consult with me what I ought to do in such a
trying emergency.  He would not listen to my entreaties, or even hear me
describe the course I intended to pursue.  I told him my abode was about
to be surrounded; I imparted to him what the Queen had said to me about
the contents of the portfolio.  To all this he answered, “There it is;
decide for yourself; I will have no hand in it.”  Upon that I remained a
few seconds thinking, and my conduct was founded upon the following
reasons.  I spoke aloud, although to myself; I walked about the room with
agitated steps; M. Gougenot was thunderstruck.  “Yes,” said I, “when we
can no longer communicate with our King and receive his orders, however
attached we may be to him, we can only serve him according to the best of
our own judgment.  The Queen said to me, ‘This portfolio contains scarcely
anything but documents of a most dangerous description in the event of a
trial taking place, if it should fall into the hands of revolutionary
persons.’  She mentioned, too, a single document which would, under the
same circumstances, be useful.  It is my duty to interpret her words, and
consider them as orders.  She meant to say, ‘You will save such a paper,
you will destroy the rest if they are likely to be taken from you.’  If it
were not so, was there any occasion for her to enter into any detail as to
what the portfolio contained?  The order to keep it was sufficient.
Probably it contains, moreover, the letters of that part of the family
which has emigrated; there is nothing which may have been foreseen or
decided upon that can be useful now; and there can be no political thread
which has not been cut by the events of the 10th of August and the
imprisonment of the King.  My house is about to be surrounded; I cannot
conceal anything of such bulk; I might, then, through want of foresight,
give up that which would cause the condemnation of the King.  Let us open
the portfolio, save the document alluded to, and destroy the rest.”  I
took a knife and cut open one side of the portfolio.  I saw a great number
of envelopes endorsed by the King’s own hand.  M. Gougenot found there the
former seals of the King, such as they were before the Assembly had
changed the inscription.

[No doubt it was in order to have the ancient seals ready at a moment’s
notice, in case of a counter-revolution, that the Queen desired me not to
quit the Tuileries.  M. Gougenot threw the seals into the river, one from
above the Pont Neuf, and the other from near the Pont Royal.--MADAME
CAMPAN.]

At this moment we heard a great noise; he agreed to tie up the portfolio,
take it again under his cloak, and go to a safe place to execute what I
had taken upon me to determine.  He made me swear, by all I held most
sacred, that I would affirm, under every possible emergency, that the
course I was pursuing had not been dictated to me by anybody; and that,
whatever might be the result, I would take all the credit or all the blame
upon myself.  I lifted up my hand and took the oath he required; he went
out.  Half an hour afterwards a great number of armed men came to my
house; they placed sentinels at all the outlets; they broke open
secretaires and closets of which they had not the keys; they ‘searched the
flower-pots and boxes; they examined the cellars; and the commandant
repeatedly said, “Look particularly for papers.”  In the afternoon M.
Gougenot returned.  He had still the seals of France about him, and he
brought me a statement of all that he had burnt.

The portfolio contained twenty letters from Monsieur, eighteen or nineteen
from the Comte d’Artois, seventeen from Madame Adelaide, eighteen from
Madame Victoire, a great many letters from Comte Alexandre de Lameth, and
many from M. de Malesherbes, with documents annexed to them.  There were
also some from M. de Montmorin and other ex-ministers or ambassadors.
Each correspondence had its title written in the King’s own hand upon the
blank paper which contained it.  The most voluminous was that from
Mirabeau.  It was tied up with a scheme for an escape, which he thought
necessary.  M. Gougenot, who had skimmed over these letters with more
attention than the rest, told me they were of so interesting a nature that
the King had no doubt kept them as documents exceedingly valuable for a
history of his reign, and that the correspondence with the Princes, which
was entirely relative to what was going forward abroad, in concert with
the King, would have been fatal to him if it had been seized.  After he
had finished he placed in my hands the proces-verbal, signed by all the
ministers, to which the King attached so much importance, because he had
given his opinion against the declaration of war; a copy of the letter
written by the King to the Princes, his brothers, inviting them to return
to France; an account of the diamonds which the Queen had sent to Brussels
(these two documents were in my handwriting); and a receipt for four
hundred thousand francs, under the hand of a celebrated banker.  This sum
was part of the eight hundred thousand francs which the Queen had
gradually saved during her reign, out of her pension of three hundred
thousand francs per annum, and out of the one hundred thousand francs
given by way of present on the birth of the Dauphin.

This receipt, written on a very small piece of paper, was in the cover of
an almanac.  I agreed with M. Gougenot, who was obliged by his office to
reside in Paris, that he should retain the proces-verbal of the Council
and the receipt for the four hundred thousand francs, and that we should
wait either for orders or for the means of transmitting these documents to
the King or Queen; and I set out for Versailles.

The strictness of the precautions taken to guard the illustrious prisoners
was daily increased.  The idea that I could not inform the King of the
course I had adopted of burning his papers, and the fear that I should not
be able to transmit to him that which he had pointed out as necessary,
tormented me to such a degree that it is wonderful my health endured the
strain.

The dreadful trial drew near.  Official advocates were granted to the
King; the heroic virtue of M. de Malesherbes induced him to brave the most
imminent dangers, either to save his master or to perish with him. I hoped
also to be able to find some means of informing his Majesty of what I had
thought it right to do.  I sent a man, on whom I could rely, to Paris, to
request M. Gougenot to come to me at Versailles he came immediately.  We
agreed that he should see M. de Malesherbes without availing himself of
any intermediate person for that purpose.

M. Gougenot awaited his return from the Temple at the door of his hotel,
and made a sign that he wished to speak to him.  A moment afterwards a
servant came to introduce him into the magistrates’ room.  He imparted to
M. de Malesherbes what I had thought it right to do with respect to the
King’s papers, and placed in his hands the proces-verbal of the Council,
which his Majesty had preserved in order to serve, if occasion required
it, for a ground of his defence.  However, that paper is not mentioned in
either of the speeches of his advocate; probably it was determined not to
make use of it.

I stop at that terrible period which is marked by the assassination of a
King whose virtues are well known; but I cannot refrain from relating what
he deigned to say in my favour to M. de Malesherbes:

“Let Madame Campan know that she did what I should myself have ordered her
to do; I thank her for it; she is one of those whom I regret I have it not
in my power to recompense for their fidelity to my person, and for their
good services.”  I did not hear of this until the morning after he had
suffered, and I think I should have sunk under my despair if this
honourable testimony had not given me some consolation.




SUPPLEMENT TO CHAPTER IX.


MADAME CAMPAN’S narrative breaking off abruptly at the time of the painful
end met with by her sister, we have supplemented it by abridged accounts
of the chief incidents in the tragedy which overwhelmed the royal house
she so faithfully served, taken from contemporary records and the best
historical authorities.


The Royal Family in the Temple.

The Assembly having, at the instance of the Commune of Paris, decreed that
the royal family should be immured in the Temple, they were removed
thither from the Feuillans on the 13th of August, 1792, in the charge of
Potion, Mayor of Paris, and Santerre, the commandant-general.  Twelve
Commissioners of the general council were to keep constant watch at the
Temple, which had been fortified by earthworks and garrisoned by
detachments of the National Guard, no person being allowed to enter
without permission from the municipality.

The Temple, formerly the headquarters of the Knights Templars in Paris,
consisted of two buildings,--the Palace, facing the Rue de Temple, usually
occupied by one of the Princes of the blood; and the Tower, standing
behind the Palace.

[Clery gives a more minute description of this singular building: “The
small tower of the Temple in which the King was then confined stood with
its back against the great tower, without any interior communication, and
formed a long square, flanked by two turrets.  In one of these turrets
there was a narrow staircase that led from the first floor to a gallery on
the platform; in the other were small rooms, answering to each story of
the tower.  The body of the building was four stories high.  The first
consisted of an antechamber, a dining-room, and a small room in the
turret, where there was a library containing from twelve to fifteen
hundred volumes.  The second story was divided nearly in the same manner.
The largest room was the Queen’s bedchamber, in which the Dauphin also
slept; the second, which was separated from the Queen’s by a small
antechamber almost without light, was occupied by Madame Royale and Madame
Elisabeth.  The King’s apartments were on the third story.  He slept in
the great room, and made a study of the turret closet.  There was a
kitchen separated from the King’s chamber by a small dark room, which had
been successively occupied by M. de Chamilly and M. de Hue.  The fourth
story was shut up; and on the ground floor there were kitchens of which no
use was made.”--“Journal,” p. 96.]

The Tower was a square building, with a round tower at each corner and a
small turret on one side, usually called the Tourelle.  In the narrative
of the Duchesse d’Angouleme she says that the soldiers who escorted the
royal prisoners wished to take the King alone to the Tower, and his family
to the Palace of the Temple, but that on the way Manuel received an order
to imprison them all in the Tower, where so little provision had been made
for their reception that Madame Elisabeth slept in the kitchen. The royal
family were accompanied by the Princesse de Lamballe, Madame de Tourzel
and her daughter Pauline, Mesdames de Navarre, de Saint-Brice, Thibaut,
and Bazire, MM. de Hug and de Chamilly, and three men-servants--An order
from the Commune soon removed these devoted attendants, and M. de Hue
alone was permitted to return.  “We all passed the day together,” says
Madame Royale.  “My father taught my brother geography; my mother history,
and to learn verses by heart; and my aunt gave him lessons in arithmetic.
My father fortunately found a library which amused him, and my mother
worked tapestry .  .  .  .  We went every day to walk in the garden, for
the sake of my brother’s health, though the King was always insulted by
the guard.  On the Feast of Saint Louis ‘Ca Ira’ was sung under the walls
of the Temple.  Manuel that evening brought my aunt a letter from her
aunts at Rome.  It was the last the family received from without.  My
father was no longer called King.  He was treated with no kind of respect;
the officers always sat in his presence and never took off their hats.
They deprived him of his sword and searched his pockets .  .  .  .  Petion
sent as gaoler the horrible man--[Rocher, a saddler by trade] who had
broken open my father’s door on the 20th June, 1792, and who had been near
assassinating him.  This man never left the Tower, and was indefatigable
in endeavouring to torment him.  One time he would sing the ‘Caramgnole,’
and a thousand other horrors, before us; again, knowing that my mother
disliked the smoke of tobacco, he would puff it in her face, as well as in
that of my father, as they happened to pass him. He took care always to be
in bed before we went to supper, because he knew that we must pass through
his room.  My father suffered it all with gentleness, forgiving the man
from the bottom of his heart.  My mother bore it with a dignity that
frequently repressed his insolence.” The only occasion, Madame Royale
adds, on which the Queen showed any impatience at the conduct of the
officials, was when a municipal officer woke the Dauphin suddenly in the
night to make certain that he was safe, as though the sight of the
peacefully sleeping child would not have been in itself the best
assurance.

Clery, the valet de chambre of the Dauphin, having with difficulty
obtained permission to resume his duties, entered the Temple on the 24th
August, and for eight days shared with M. de Hue the personal attendance;
but on the 2d September De Hue was arrested, seals were placed on the
little room he had occupied, and Clery passed the night in that of the
King.  On the following morning Manuel arrived, charged by the Commune to
inform the King that De Hue would not be permitted to return, and to offer
to send another person.  “I thank you,” answered the King.  “I will manage
with the valet de chambre of my son; and if the Council refuse I will
serve myself.  I am determined to do it.”  On the 3d September Manual
visited the Temple and assured the King that Madame de Lamballe and all
the other prisoners who had been removed to La Force were well, and safely
guarded.  “But at three o’clock,” says Madame Royale, “just after dinner,
and as the King was sitting down to ‘tric trac’ with my mother (which he
played for the purpose of having an opportunity of saying a few words to
her unheard by the keepers), the most horrid shouts were heard.  The
officer who happened to be on guard in the room behaved well. He shut the
door and the window, and even drew the curtains to prevent their seeing
anything; but outside the workmen and the gaoler Rocher joined the
assassins and increased the tumult.  Several officers of the guard and the
municipality now arrived, and on my father’s asking what was the matter, a
young officer replied, ‘Well, since you will know, it is the head of
Madame de Lamballe that they want to show you.’ At these words my mother
was overcome with horror; it was the only occasion on which her firmness
abandoned her.  The municipal officers were very angry with the young man;
but the King, with his usual goodness, excused him, saying that it was his
own fault, since he had questioned the officer.  The noise lasted till
five o’clock.  We learned that the people had wished to force the door,
and that the municipal officers had been enabled to prevent it only by
putting a tricoloured scarf across it, and allowing six of the murderers
to march round our prison with the head of the Princess, leaving at the
door her body, which they would have dragged in also.”

Clery was not so fortunate as to escape the frightful spectacle.  He had
gone down to dine with Tison and his wife, employed as servants in the
Temple, and says: “We were hardly seated when a head, on the end of a
pike, was presented at the window.  Tison’s wife gave a great cry; the
assassins fancied they recognised the Queen’s voice, and responded by
savage laughter.  Under the idea that his Majesty was still at table, they
placed their dreadful trophy where it must be seen.  It was the head of
the Princesse de Lamballe; although bleeding, it was not disfigured, and
her light hair, still in curls, hung about the pike.”

At length the immense mob that surrounded the Temple gradually withdrew,
“to follow the head of the Princess de Lamballe to the Palais Royal.”

[The pike that bore the head was fixed before the Duc d’Orleans’s window
as he was going to dinner.  It is said that he looked at this horrid sight
without horror, went into the dining-room, sat down to table, and helped
his guests without saying a word.  His silence and coolness left it
doubtful whether the assassins, in presenting him this bloody trophy,
intended to offer him an insult or to pay him homage.--DE MOLLEVILLE’S
“Annals of the French Revolution,” vol. vii., p.  398.]

Meanwhile the royal family could scarcely believe that for the time their
lives were saved.  “My aunt and I heard the drums beating to arms all
night,” says Madame Royale; “my unhappy mother did not even attempt to
sleep.  We heard her sobs.”

In the comparative tranquillity which followed the September massacres,
the royal family resumed the regular habits they had adopted on entering
the Temple.  “The King usually rose at six in the morning,” says Clery.
“He shaved himself, and I dressed his hair; he then went to his
reading-room, which, being very small, the municipal officer on duty
remained in the bedchamber with the door open, that he might always keep
the King in sight.  His Majesty continued praying on his knees for some
time, and then read till nine.  During that interval, after putting his
chamber to rights and preparing the breakfast, I went down to the Queen,
who never opened her door till I arrived, in order to prevent the
municipal officer from going into her apartment.  At nine o’clock the
Queen, the children, and Madame Elisabeth went up to the King’s chamber to
breakfast.  At ten the King and his family went down to the Queen’s
chamber, and there passed the day.  He employed himself in educating his
son, made him recite passages from Corneille and Racine, gave him lessons
in geography, and exercised him in colouring the maps.  The Queen, on her
part, was employed in the education of her daughter, and these different
lessons lasted till eleven o’clock.  The remaining time till noon was
passed in needlework, knitting, or making tapestry.  At one o’clock, when
the weather was fine, the royal family were conducted to the garden by
four municipal officers and the commander of a legion of the National
Guard. As there were a number of workmen in the Temple employed in pulling
down houses and building new walls, they only allowed a part of the
chestnut-tree walk for the promenade, in which I was allowed to share, and
where I also played with the young Prince at ball, quoits, or races.  At
two we returned to the Tower, where I served the dinner, at which time
Santerre regularly came to the Temple, attended by two aides-de-camp.  The
King sometimes spoke to him,--the Queen never.

“After the meal the royal family came down into the Queen’s room, and
their Majesties generally played a game of piquet or tric-trac.  At four
o’clock the King took a little repose, the Princesses round him, each with
a book .  .  .  .  When the King woke the conversation was resumed, and I
gave writing lessons to his son, taking the copies, according to his
instructions, from the works of, Montesquieu and other celebrated authors.
After the lesson I took the young Prince into Madame Elisabeth’s room,
where we played at ball, and battledore and shuttlecock.  In the evening
the family sat round a table, while the Queen read to them from books of
history, or other works proper to instruct and amuse the children.  Madame
Elisabeth took the book in her turn, and in this manner they read till
eight o’clock.  After that I served the supper of the young Prince, in
which the royal family shared, and the King amused the children with
charades out of a collection of French papers which he found in the
library.  After the Dauphin had supped, I undressed him, and the Queen
heard him say his prayers.  At nine the King went to supper, and
afterwards went for a moment to the Queen’s chamber, shook hands with her
and his sister for the night, kissed his children, and then retired to the
turret-room, where he sat reading till midnight.  The Queen and the
Princesses locked themselves in, and one of the municipal officers
remained in the little room which parted their chamber, where he passed
the night; the other followed his Majesty.  In this manner was the time
passed as long as the King remained in the small tower.”

But even these harmless pursuits were too often made the means of further
insulting and thwarting the unfortunate family.  Commissary Le Clerc
interrupted the Prince’s writing lessons, proposing to substitute
Republican works for those from which the King selected his copies. A
smith, who was present when the Queen was reading the history of France to
her children, denounced her to the Commune for choosing the period when
the Connstable de Bourbon took arms against France, and said she wished to
inspire her son with unpatriotic feelings; a municipal officer asserted
that the multiplication table the Prince was studying would afford a means
of “speaking in cipher,” so arithmetic had to be abandoned.  Much the same
occurred even with the needlework, the Queen and Princess finished some
chairbacks, which they wished to send to the Duchesse de Tarente; but the
officials considered that the patterns were hieroglyphics, intended for
carrying on a correspondence, and ordered that none of the Princesses work
should leave the Temple. The short daily walk in the garden was also
embittered by the rude behaviour of the military and municipal gaolers;
sometimes, however, it afforded an opportunity for marks of sympathy to be
shown.  People would station themselves at the windows of houses
overlooking the Temple gardens, and evince by gestures their loyal
affection, and some of the sentinels showed, even by tears, that their
duty was painful to them.

On the 21st September the National Convention was constituted, Petion
being made president and Collot d’Herbois moving the “abolition of
royalty” amidst transports of applause.  That afternoon a municipal
officer attended by gendarmes a cheval, and followed by a crowd of people,
arrived at the Temple, and, after a flourish of trumpets, proclaimed the
establishment of the French Republic.  The man, says Clery, “had the voice
of a Stentor.”  The royal family could distinctly hear the announcement of
the King’s deposition.  “Hebert, so well known under the title of Pere
Duchesne, and Destournelles were on guard.  They were sitting near the
door, and turned to the King with meaning smiles. He had a book in his
hand, and went on reading without changing countenance.  The Queen showed
the same firmness.  The proclamation finished, the trumpets sounded
afresh.  I went to the window; the people took me for Louis XVI. and I was
overwhelmed with insults.”

After the new decree the prisoners were treated with increased harshness.
Pens, paper, ink, and pencils were taken from them.  The King and Madame
Elisabeth gave up all, but the Queen and her daughter each concealed a
pencil.  “In the beginning of October,” says Madame Royale, “after my
father had supped, he was told to stop, that he was not to return to his
former apartments, and that he was to be separated from his family.  At
this dreadful sentence the Queen lost her usual courage.  We parted from
him with abundance of tears, though we expected to see him again in the
morning.

[At nine o’clock, says Clery, the King asked to be taken to his family,
but the municipal officers replied that they had “no orders for that.”
 Shortly afterwards a boy brought the King some bread and a decanter of
lemonade for his breakfast.  The King gave half the bread to Clery,
saying, “It seems they have forgotten your breakfast; take this, the rest
is enough for me.”  Clery refused, but the King insisted.  “I could not
contain my tears,” he adds; “the King perceived them, and his own fell
also.”]

They brought in our breakfast separately from his, however.  My mother
would take nothing.  The officers, alarmed at her silent and concentrated
sorrow, allowed us to see the King, but at meal-times only, and on
condition that we should not speak low, nor in any foreign language, but
loud and in ‘good French.’  We went down, therefore, with the greatest joy
to dine with my father.  In the evening, when my brother was in bed, my
mother and my aunt alternately sat with him or went with me to sup with my
father.  In the morning, after breakfast, we remained in the King’s
apartments while Clery dressed our hair, as he was no longer allowed to
come to my mother’s room, and this arrangement gave us the pleasure of
spending a few moments more with my father.”

[When the first deputation from the Council of the Commune visited the
Temple, and formally inquired whether the King had any complaint to make,
he replied, “No; while he was permitted to remain with his family he was
happy.”]

The royal prisoners had no comfort except their affection for each other.
At that time even common necessaries were denied them.  Their small stock
of linen had been lent them; by persons of the Court during the time they
spent at the Feuillans.  The Princesses mended their clothes every day,
and after the King had gone to bed Madame Elisabeth mended his.  “With
much trouble,” says Clrry, “I procured some fresh linen for them.  But the
workwomen having marked it with crowned letters, the Princesses were
ordered to pick them out.”  The room in the great tower to which the King
had been removed contained only one bed, and no other article of
furniture.  A chair was brought on which Clery spent the first night;
painters were still at work on the room, and the smell of the paint, he
says, was almost unbearable.  This room was afterwards furnished by
collecting from various parts of the Temple a chest of drawers, a small
bureau, a few odd chairs, a chimney-glass, and a bed hung with green
damask, which had been used by the captain of the guard to the Comte
d’Artois.  A room for the Queen was being prepared over that of the King,
and she implored the workmen to finish it quickly, but it was not ready
for her occupation for some time, and when she was allowed to remove to it
the Dauphin was taken from her and placed with his father.  When their
Majesties met again in the great Tower, says Clery, there was little
change in the hours fixed for meals, reading, walking and the education of
their children.  They were not allowed to have mass said in the Temple,
and therefore commissioned Clery to get them the breviary in use in the
diocese of Paris.  Among the books read by the King while in the Tower
were Hume’s “History of England” (in the original), Tasso, and the “De
Imitatione Christi.”  The jealous suspicions of the municipal officers led
to the most absurd investigations; a draught-board was taken to pieces
lest the squares should hide treasonable papers; macaroons were broken in
half to see that they did not contain letters; peaches were cut open and
the stones cracked; and Clery was compelled to drink the essence of soap
prepared for shaving the King, under the pretence that it might contain
poison.

In November the King and all the family had feverish colds, and Clery had
an attack of rheumatic fever.  On the first day of his illness he got up
and tried to dress his master, but the King, seeing how ill he was,
ordered him to lie down, and himself dressed the Dauphin.  The little
Prince waited on Clery all day, and in the evening the King contrived to
approach his bed, and said, in a low voice, “I should like to take care of
you myself, but you know how we are watched.  Take courage; tomorrow you
shall see my doctor.”  Madame Elisabeth brought the valet cooling
draughts, of which she deprived herself; and after Clery was able to get
up, the young Prince one night with great difficulty kept awake till
eleven o’clock in order to give him a box of lozenges when he went to make
the King’s bed.

On 7th December a deputation from the Commune brought an order that the
royal family should be deprived of “knives, razors, scissors, penknives,
and all other cutting instruments.”  The King gave up a knife, and took
from a morocco case a pair of scissors and a penknife; and the officials
then searched the room, taking away the little toilet implements of gold
and silver, and afterwards removing the Princesses’ working materials.
Returning to the King’s room, they insisted upon seeing what remained in
his pocket-case.  “Are these toys which I have in my hand also cutting
instruments?”  asked the King, showing them a cork-screw, a turn-screw,
and a steel for lighting.  These also were taken from him.  Shortly
afterwards Madame Elisabeth was mending the King’s coat, and, having no
scissors, was compelled to break the thread with her teeth.

“What a contrast!” he exclaimed, looking at her tenderly.  “You wanted
nothing in your pretty house at Montreuil.”

“Ah, brother,” she answered, “how can I have any regret when I partake
your misfortunes?”

The Queen had frequently to take on herself some of the humble duties of a
servant.  This was especially painful to Louis XVI. when the anniversary
of some State festival brought the contrast between past and present with
unusual keenness before him.

“Ah, Madame,” he once exclaimed, “what an employment for a Queen of
France!  Could they see that at Vienna!  Who would have foreseen that, in
uniting your lot to mine, you would have descended so low?”

“And do you esteem as nothing,” she replied, “the glory of being the wife
of one of the best and most persecuted of men?  Are not such misfortunes
the noblest honours?”--[Alison’s “History of Europe,” vol. ii., p. 299.]

Meanwhile the Assembly had decided that the King should be brought to
trial.  Nearly all parties, except the Girondists, no matter how bitterly
opposed to each other, could agree in making him the scapegoat; and the
first rumour of the approaching ordeal was conveyed to the Temple by
Clery’s wife, who, with a friend, had permission occasionally to visit
him.  “I did not know how to announce this terrible news to the King,” he
says; “but time was pressing, and he had forbidden my concealing anything
from him.  In the evening, while undressing him, I gave him an account of
all I had learnt, and added that there were only four days to concert some
plan of corresponding with the Queen.  The arrival of the municipal
officer would not allow me to say more.  Next morning, when the King rose,
I could not get a moment for speaking with him.  He went up with his son
to breakfast with the Princesses, and I followed.  After breakfast he
talked long with the Queen, who, by a look full of trouble, made me
understand that they were discussing what I had told the King. During the
day I found an opportunity of describing to Madame Elisabeth how much it
had cost me to augment the King’s distresses by informing him of his
approaching trial.  She reassured me, saying that the King felt this as a
mark of attachment on my part, and added, ‘That which most troubles him is
the fear of being separated from us.’  In the evening the King told me how
satisfied he was at having had warning that he was to appear before the
Convention.  ‘Continue,’ he said, ‘to endeavour to find out something as
to what they want to do with me.  Never fear distressing me.  I have
agreed with my family not to seem pre-informed, in order not to compromise
you.’”

On the 11th December, at five o’clock in the morning, the prisoners heard
the generale beaten throughout Paris, and cavalry and cannon entered the
Temple gardens.  At nine the King and the Dauphin went as usual to
breakfast with the Queen.  They were allowed to remain together for an
hour, but constantly under the eyes of their republican guardians.  At
last they were obliged to part, doubtful whether they would ever see each
other again.  The little Prince, who remained with his father, and was
ignorant of the new cause for anxiety, begged hard that the King would
play at ninepins with him as usual.  Twice the Dauphin could not get
beyond a certain number.  “Each time that I get up to sixteen,” he said,
with some vexation, “I lose the game.”  The King did not reply, but Clery
fancied the words made a painful impression on him.

At eleven, while the King was giving the Dauphin a reading lesson, two
municipal officers entered and said they had come “to take young Louis to
his mother.”  The King inquired why, but was only told that such were the
orders of the Council.  At one o’clock the Mayor of Paris, Chambon,
accompanied by Chaumette, Procureur de la Commune, Santerre, commandant of
the National Guard, and others, arrived at the Temple and read a decree to
the King, which ordered that “Louis Capet” should be brought before the
Convention.  “Capet is not my name,” he replied, “but that of one of my
ancestors.  I could have wished,” he added, “that you had left my son with
me during the last two hours.  But this treatment is consistent with all I
have experienced here.  I follow you, not because I recognise the
authority of the Convention, but because I can be compelled to obey it.”
 He then followed the Mayor to a carriage which waited, with a numerous
escort, at the gate of the Temple.  The family left behind were
overwhelmed with grief and apprehension.  “It is impossible to describe
the anxiety we suffered,” says Madame Royale.  “My mother used every
endeavour with the officer who guarded her to discover what was passing;
it was the first time she had condescended to question any of these men.
He would tell her nothing.”




Trial of the King.--Parting of the Royal Family.--Execution.


The crowd was immense as, on the morning of the 11th December, 1792, Louis
XVI. was driven slowly from the Temple to the Convention, escorted by
cavalry, infantry, and artillery.  Paris looked like an armed camp: all
the posts were doubled; the muster-roll of the National Guard was called
over every hour; a picket of two hundred men watched in the court of each
of the right sections; a reserve with cannon was stationed at the
Tuileries, and strong detachments patroled the streets and cleared the
road of all loiterers.  The trees that lined the boulevards, the doors and
windows of the houses, were alive with gazers, and all eyes were fixed on
the King.  He was much changed since his people last beheld him. The beard
he had been compelled to grow after his razors were taken from him covered
cheeks, lips, and chin with light-coloured hair, which concealed the
melancholy expression of his mouth; he had become thin, and his garments
hung loosely on him; but his manner was perfectly collected and calm, and
he recognised and named to the Mayor the various quarters through which he
passed.  On arriving at the Feuillans he was taken to a room to await the
orders of the Assembly.

It was about half-past two when the King appeared at the bar.  The Mayor
and Generaux Santerre and Wittengoff were at his side.  Profound silence
pervaded the Assembly.  All were touched by the King’s dignity and the
composure of his looks under so great a reverse of fortune.  By nature he
had been formed rather to endure calamity with patience than to contend
against it with energy.  The approach of death could not disturb his
serenity.

“Louis, you may be seated,” said Barere.  “Answer the questions that shall
be put to you.”  The King seated himself and listened to the reading of
the ‘acte enonciatif’, article by article.  All the faults of the Court
were there enumerated and imputed to Louis XVI. personally. He was charged
with the interruption of the sittings of the 20th of June, 1789, with the
Bed of Justice held on the 23d of the same month, the aristocratic
conspiracy thwarted by the insurrection of the 14th of July, the
entertainment of the Life Guards, the insults offered to the national
cockade, the refusal to sanction the Declaration of Rights, as well as
several constitutional articles; lastly, all the facts which indicated a
new conspiracy in October, and which were followed by the scenes of the
5th and 6th; the speeches of reconciliation which had succeeded all these
scenes, and which promised a change that was not sincere; the false oath
taken at the Federation of the 14th of July; the secret practices of Talon
and Mirabeau to effect a counter-revolution; the money spent in bribing a
great number of deputies; the assemblage of the “knights of the dagger” on
the 28th of February, 1791; the flight to Varennes; the fusilade of the
Champ de Mars; the silence observed respecting the Treaty of Pilnitz; the
delay in the promulgation of the decree which incorporated Avignon with
France; the commotions at Nimes, Montauban, Mende, and Jales; the
continuance of their pay to the emigrant Life Guards and to the disbanded
Constitutional Guard; the insufficiency of the armies assembled on the
frontiers; the refusal to sanction the decree for the camp of twenty
thousand men; the disarming of the fortresses; the organisation of secret
societies in the interior of Paris; the review of the Swiss and the
garrison of the palace on the 10th August; the summoning the Mayor to the
Tuileries; and lastly, the effusion of blood which had resulted from these
military dispositions.  After each article the President paused, and said,
“What have you to answer?”  The King, in a firm voice, denied some of the
facts, imputed others to his ministers, and always appealed to the
constitution, from which he declared he had never deviated.  His answers
were very temperate, but on the charge, “You spilt the blood of the people
on the 10th of August,” he exclaimed, with emphasis, “No, monsieur, no; it
was not I.”

All the papers on which the act of accusation was founded were then shown
to the King, and he disavowed some of them and disputed the existence of
the iron chest; this produced a bad impression, and was worse than
useless, as the fact had been proved.

[A secret closet which the King had directed to be constructed in a wall
in the Tuileries.  The door was of iron, whence it was afterwards known by
the name of the iron chest.  See Thiers, and Scott.]

Throughout the examination the King showed great presence of mind. He was
careful in his answers never to implicate any members of the constituent,
and legislative Assemblies; many who then sat as his judges trembled lest
he should betray them.  The Jacobins beheld with dismay the profound
impression made on the Convention by the firm but mild demeanour of the
sovereign.  The most violent of the party proposed that he should be
hanged that very night; a laugh as of demons followed the proposal from
the benches of the Mountain, but the majority, composed of the Girondists
and the neutrals, decided that he should be formally tried.

After the examination  Santerre took the King by the arm and led him back
to the waiting-room of the Convention, accompanied by Chambon and
Chaumette.  Mental agitation and the length of the proceedings had
exhausted him, and he staggered from weakness.  Chaumette inquired if he
wished for refreshment, but the King refused it.  A moment after, seeing a
grenadier of the escort offer the Procureur de la Commune half a small
loaf, Louis XVI. approached and asked him, in a whisper, for a piece.

“Ask aloud for what you want,” said Chaumette, retreating as though he
feared being suspected of pity.

“I asked for a piece of your bread,” replied the King.

“Divide it with me,” said Chaumette.  “It is a Spartan breakfast.  If I
had a root I would give you half.”--[Lamartine’s “History of the
Girondists,” edit.  1870, vol. ii., p. 313.]

Soon after six in the evening the King returned to the Temple.  “He seemed
tired,” says Clery, simply, “and his first wish was to be led to his
family.  The officers refused, on the plea that they had no orders. He
insisted that at least they should be informed of his return, and this was
promised him.  The King ordered me to ask for his supper at half-past
eight.  The intervening hours he employed in his usual reading, surrounded
by four municipals.  When I announced that supper was served, the King
asked the commissaries if his family could not come down.  They made no
reply.  ‘But at least,’ the King said, ‘my son will pass the night in my
room, his bed being here?’  The same silence.  After supper the King again
urged his wish to see his family.  They answered that they must await the
decision of the Convention.  While I was undressing him the King said, ‘I
was far from expecting all the questions they put to me.’  He lay down
with perfect calmness.  The order for my removal during the night was not
executed.”  On the King’s return to the Temple being known, “my mother
asked to see him instantly,” writes Madame Royale. “She made the same
request even to Chambon, but received no answer.  My brother passed the
night with her; and as he had no bed, she gave him hers, and sat up all
the night in such deep affliction that we were afraid to leave her; but
she compelled my aunt and me to go to bed.  Next day she again asked to
see my father, and to read the newspapers, that she might learn the course
of the trial.  She entreated that if she was to be denied this indulgence,
his children, at least, might see him.  Her requests were referred to the
Commune.  The newspapers were refused; but my brother and I were to be
allowed to see my father on condition of being entirely separated from my
mother.  My father replied that, great as his happiness was in seeing his
children, the important business which then occupied him would not allow
of his attending altogether to his son, and that his daughter could not
leave her mother.”

[During their last interview Madame Elisabeth had given Clery one of her
handkerchiefs, saying, “You shall keep it so long as my brother continues
well; if he becomes ill, send it to me among my nephew’s things.”]

The Assembly having, after a violent debate, resolved that Louis XVI.
should have the aid of counsel, a deputation was sent to the Temple to
ask whom he would choose.  The King named Messieurs Target and Tronchet.
The former refused his services on the ground that he had discontinued
practice since 1785; the latter complied at once with the King’s
request; and while the Assembly was considering whom to, nominate in
Target’s place, the President received a letter from the venerable
Malesherbes, then seventy years old, and “the most respected magistrate
in France,” in the course of which he said: “I have been twice called to
be counsel for him who was my master, in times when that duty was
coveted by every one. I owe him the same service now that it is a duty
which many people deem dangerous.  If I knew any possible means of
acquainting him with my desires, I should not take the liberty of
addressing myself to you.”

[Christian Guillaume de Lamoignon de Malesherbes, an eminent French
statesman, son of the Chancellor of France, was born at Paris in 1721.  In
1750 he succeeded his father as President of the Court of Aids, and was
also made superintendent of the press.  On the banishment of the
Parliaments and the suppression of the Court of Aids, Malesherbes was
exiled to his country-seat.  In 1775 he was appointed Minister of State.
On the decree of the Convention for the King’s trial, he emerged from his
retreat to become the voluntary advocate of his sovereign.  Malesherbes
was guillotined in 1794, and almost his whole family were extirpated by
their merciless persecutors.]

Other citizens made similar proposals, but the King, being made
acquainted with them by a deputation from the Commune, while expressing
his gratitude for all the offers, accepted only that of Malesherbes.

[The Citoyenne Olympia Degonges, calling herself a free and loyal
Republican without spot or blame, and declaring that the cold and selfish
cruelty of Target had inflamed her heroism and roused her sensibility,
asked permission to assist M, de Malesherbes in defending the King.  The
Assembly passed to the order of the day on this request.--BERTRAND DE
MOLLEVILLE, “Annals,” edit.  1802, vol, viii., p. 254.]

On 14th December M. Tronchet was allowed to confer with the King, and
later in the same day M. de Malesherbes was admitted to the Tower.  “The
King ran up to this worthy old man, whom he clasped in his arms,” said
Clery, “and the former minister melted into tears at the sight of his
master.”

[According to M. de Hue, “The first time M. de Malesherbes entered the
Temple, the King clasped him in his arms and said, ‘Ah, is it you, my
friend?  You fear not to endanger your own life to save mine; but all will
be useless.  They will bring me to the scaffold. No matter; I shall gain
my cause if I leave an unspotted memory behind me.’”]

Another deputation brought the King the Act of Accusation and the
documents relating to it, numbering more than a hundred, and taking from
four o’clock till midnight to read.  During this long process the King had
refreshments served to the deputies, taking nothing himself till they had
left, but considerately reproving Clery for not having supped.  From the
14th to the 26th December the King saw his counsel and their colleague M.
de Size every day.  At this time a means of communication between the
royal family and the King was devised: a man named Turgi, who had been in
the royal kitchen, and who contrived to obtain employment in the Temple,
when conveying the meals of the royal family to their apartments, or
articles he had purchased for them, managed to give Madame Elisabeth news
of the King.  Next day, the Princess, when Turgi was removing the dinner,
slipped into his hand a bit of paper on which she had pricked with a pin a
request for a word from her brother’s own hand. Turgi gave this paper to
Clery, who conveyed it to the King the same evening; and he, being allowed
writing materials while preparing his defence, wrote Madame Elisabeth a
short note.  An answer was conveyed in a ball of cotton, which Turgi threw
under Clery’s bed while passing the door of his room.  Letters were also
passed between the Princess’s room and that of Clery, who lodged beneath
her, by means of a string let down and drawn up at night.  This
communication with his family was a great comfort to the King, who,
nevertheless, constantly cautioned his faithful servant.  “Take care,” he
would say kindly, “you expose yourself too much.”

[The King’s natural benevolence was constantly shown while in the Temple.
His own dreadful position never prevented him from sympathy with the
smaller troubles of others.  A servant in the Temple named Marchand, the
father of a family, was robbed of two hundred francs,--his wages for two
months.  The King observed his distress, asked its cause, and gave Clery
the amount to be handed to Marchand, with a caution not to speak of it to
any one, and, above all, not to thank the King, lest it should injure him
with his employers.]

During his separation from his family the King refused to go into the
garden.  When it was proposed to him he said, “I cannot make up my mind to
go out alone; the walk was agreeable to me only when I shared it with my
family.”  But he did not allow himself to dwell on painful reflections.
He talked freely to the municipals on guard, and surprised them by his
varied and practical knowledge of their trades, and his interest in their
domestic affairs.  On the 19th December the King’s breakfast was served as
usual; but, being a fast-day, he refused to take anything.  At dinner-time
the King said to Clery, “Fourteen years ago you were up earlier than you
were to-day; it is the day my daughter was born--today, her birthday,” he
repeated, with tears, “and to be prevented from seeing her!”  Madame
Royale had wished for a calendar; the King ordered Clery to buy her the
“Almanac of the Republic,” which had replaced the “Court Almanac,” and ran
through it, marking with a pencil many names.

“On Christmas Day,” Says Clery, “the King wrote his will.”

[Madame Royale says: “On the 26th December, St. Stephen’s Day, my father
made his will, because he expected to be assassinated that day on his way
to the bar of the Convention.  He went thither, nevertheless, with his
usual calmness.”--“Royal Memoirs,” p. 196.]

On the 26th December, 1792, the King appeared a second time before the
Convention.  M. de Seze, labouring night and day, had completed his
defence.  The King insisted on excluding from it all that was too
rhetorical, and confining it to the mere discussion of essential points.

[When the pathetic peroration of M, de Seze was read to the King, the
evening before it was delivered to the Assembly, “I have to request of
you,” he said, “to make a painful sacrifice; strike out of your pleading
the peroration.  It is enough for me to appear before such judges, and
show my entire innocence; I will not move their feelings.”--LACRETELLE.]

At half-past nine in the morning the whole armed force was in motion to
conduct him from the Temple to the Feuillans, with the same precautions
and in the same order as had been observed on the former occasion. Riding
in the carriage of the Mayor, he conversed, on the way, with the same
composure as usual, and talked of Seneca, of Livy, of the hospitals.
Arrived at the Feuillans, he showed great anxiety for his defenders; he
seated himself beside them in the Assembly, surveyed with great composure
the benches where his accusers and his judges sat, seemed to examine their
faces with the view of discovering the impression produced by the pleading
of M. de Seze, and more than once conversed smilingly with Tronchet and
Malesherbes.  The Assembly received his defence in sullen silence, but
without any tokens of disapprobation.

Being afterwards conducted to an adjoining room with his counsel, the King
showed great anxiety about M. de Seze, who seemed fatigued by the long
defence.  While riding back to the Temple he conversed with his companions
with the same serenity as he had shown on leaving it.

No sooner had the King left the hall of the Convention than a violent
tumult arose there.  Some were for opening the discussion.  Others,
complaining of the delays which postponed the decision of this process,
demanded the vote immediately, remarking that in every court, after the
accused had been heard, the judges proceed to give their opinion.
Lanjuinais had from the commencement of the proceedings felt an
indignation which his impetuous disposition no longer suffered him to
repress.  He darted to the tribune, and, amidst the cries excited by his
presence, demanded the annulling of the proceedings altogether. He
exclaimed that the days of ferocious men were gone by, that the Assembly
ought not to be so dishonoured as to be made to sit in judgment on Louis
XVI., that no authority in France had that right, and the Assembly in
particular had no claim to it; that if it resolved to act as a political
body, it could do no more than take measures of safety against the
ci-devant King; but that if it was acting as a court of justice it was
overstepping all principles, for it was subjecting the vanquished to be
tried by the conquerors, since most of the present members had declared
themselves the conspirators of the 10th of August. At the word
“conspirators” a tremendous uproar arose on all aides.  Cries of
“Order!”--“To the Abbaye!”--“Down with the Tribune!” were heard.
Lanjuinais strove in vain to justify the word “conspirators,” saying that
he meant it to be taken in a favourable sense, and that the 10th of August
was a glorious conspiracy.  He concluded by declaring that he would rather
die a thousand deaths than condemn, contrary to all laws, even the most
execrable of tyrants.

A great number of speakers followed, and the confusion continually
increased.  The members, determined not to hear any more, mingled
together, formed groups, abused and threatened one another.  After a
tempest of an hour’s duration, tranquillity was at last restored; and the
Assembly, adopting the opinion of those who demanded the discussion on the
trial of Louis XVI., declared that it was opened, and that it should be
continued, to the exclusion of all other business, till sentence should be
passed.

The discussion was accordingly resumed on the 27th, and there was a
constant succession of speakers from the 28th to the 31st.  Vergniaud at
length ascended the tribune for the first time, and an extraordinary
eagerness was manifested to hear the Girondists express their sentiments
by the lips of their greatest orator.

The speech of Vergniaud produced a deep impression on all his hearers.
Robespierre was thunderstruck by his earnest and, persuasive eloquence.
Vergniaud, however, had but shaken, not convinced, the Assembly, which
wavered between the two parties.  Several members were successively heard,
for and against the appeal to the people.  Brissot, Gensonne, Petion,
supported it in their turn.  One speaker at length had a decisive
influence on the question.  Barere, by his suppleness, and his cold and
evasive eloquence, was the model and oracle of the centre.  He spoke at
great length on the trial, reviewed it in all its bearings--of facts, of
laws, and of policy--and furnished all those weak minds, who only wanted
specious reasons for yielding, with motives for the condemnation of the
King.  From that moment the unfortunate King was condemned.  The
discussion lasted till the 7th, and nobody would listen any longer to the
continual repetition of the same facts and arguments.  It was therefore
declared to be closed without opposition, but the proposal of a fresh
adjournment excited a commotion among the most violent, and ended in a
decree which fixed the 14th of January for putting the questions to the
vote.

Meantime the King did not allow the torturing suspense to disturb his
outward composure, or lessen his kindness to those around him.  On the
morning after his second appearance at the bar of the Convention, the
commissary Vincent, who had undertaken secretly to convey to the Queen a
copy of the King’s printed defence, asked for something which had belonged
to him, to treasure as a relic; the King took off his neck handkerchief
and gave it him; his gloves he bestowed on another municipal, who had made
the same request.  “On January 1st,” says Clery, “I approached the King’s
bed and asked permission to offer him my warmest prayers for the end of
his misfortunes.  ‘I accept your good wishes with affection,’ he replied,
extending his hand to me.  As soon as he had risen, he requested a
municipal to go and inquire for his family, and present them his good
wishes for the new year.  The officers were moved by the tone in which
these words, so heartrending considering the position of the King, were
pronounced .  .  .  .  The correspondence between their Majesties went on
constantly.  The King being informed that Madame Royale was ill, was very
uneasy for some days.  The Queen, after begging earnestly, obtained
permission for M. Brunnier, the medical attendant of the royal children,
to come to the Temple.  This seemed to quiet him.”

The nearer the moment which was to decide the King’s fate approached, the
greater became the agitation in, Paris.  “A report was circulated that the
atrocities of September were to be repeated there, and the prisoners and
their relatives beset the deputies with supplications that they would
snatch them from destruction.  The Jacobins, on their part, alleged that
conspiracies were hatching in all quarters to save Louis XVI.  from
punishment, and to restore royalty.  Their anger, excited by delays and
obstacles, assumed a more threatening aspect; and the two parties thus
alarmed one another by supposing that each harboured sinister designs.”

On the 14th of January the Convention called for the order of the day,
being the final judgment of Louis XVI.

“The sitting of the Convention which concluded the trial,” says Hazlitt,
“lasted seventy-two hours.  It might naturally be supposed that silence,
restraint, a sort of religious awe, would have pervaded the scene.  On the
contrary, everything bore the marks of gaiety, dissipation, and the most
grotesque confusion.  The farther end of the hall was converted into
boxes, where ladies, in a studied deshabille, swallowed ices, oranges,
liqueurs, and received the salutations of the members who went and came,
as on ordinary occasions.  Here the doorkeepers on the Mountain side
opened and shut the boxes reserved for the mistresses of the Duc
d’Orleans; and there, though every sound of approbation or disapprobation
was strictly forbidden, you heard the long and indignant ‘Ha, ha’s!’ of
the mother-duchess, the patroness of the bands of female Jacobins,
whenever her ears were not loudly greeted with the welcome sounds of
death.  The upper gallery, reserved for the people, was during the whole
trial constantly full of strangers of every description, drinking wine as
in a tavern.

“Bets were made as to the issue of the trial in all the neighbouring
coffee-houses.  Ennui, impatience, disgust sat on almost every
countenance.  The figures passing and repassing, rendered more ghastly by
the pallid lights, and who in a slow, sepulchral voice pronounced only the
word--Death; others calculating if they should have time to go to dinner
before they gave their verdict; women pricking cards with pins in order to
count the votes; some of the deputies fallen asleep, and only waking up to
give their sentence,--all this had the appearance rather of a hideous
dream than of a reality.”

The Duc d’Orleans, when called on to give his vote for the death of his
King and relation, walked with a faltering step, and a face paler than
death itself, to the appointed place, and there read these words:
“Exclusively governed by my duty, and convinced that all those who have
resisted the sovereignty of the people deserve death, my vote is for
death!”  Important as the accession of the first Prince of the blood was
to the Terrorist faction, his conduct in this instance was too obviously
selfish and atrocious not to excite a general feeling of indignation; the
agitation of the Assembly became extreme; it seemed as if by this single
vote the fate of the monarch was irrevocably sealed.

The President having examined the register, the result of the scrutiny was
proclaimed as follows:

     Against an appeal to the people........... 480
     For an appeal to the people............... 283

     Majority for final judgment............... 197


The President having announced that he was about to declare the result of
the scrutiny, a profound silence ensued, and he then gave in the following
declaration: that, out of 719 votes, 366 were for DEATH, 319 were for
imprisonment during the war, two for perpetual imprisonment, eight for a
suspension of the execution of the sentence of death until after the
expulsion of the family of the Bourbons, twenty-three were for not putting
him to death until the French territory was invaded by any foreign power,
and one was for a sentence of death, but with power of commutation of the
punishment.

After this enumeration the President took off his hat, and, lowering his
voice, said: “In consequence of this expression of opinion I declare that
the punishment pronounced by the National Convention against Louis Capet
is DEATH!”

Previous to the passing of the sentence the President announced on the
part of the Foreign Minister the receipt of a letter from the Spanish
Minister relative to that sentence.  The Convention, however, refused to
hear it.  [It will be remembered that a similar remonstrance was forwarded
by the English Government.]

M. de Malesherbes, according to his promise to the King, went to the
Temple at nine o’clock on the morning of the 17th.

[Louis was fully prepared for his fate.  During the calling of the votes
he asked M. de Malesherbes, “Have you not met near the Temple the White
Lady?”--“What do you mean?” replied he.  “Do you not know,” resumed the
King with a smile, “that when a prince of our house is about to die, a
female dressed in white is seen wandering about the palace?  My friends,”
 added he to his defenders, “I am about to depart before you for the land
of the just, but there, at least, we shall be reunited.”  In fact, his
Majesty’s only apprehension seemed to be for his family.--ALISON.]

“All is lost,” he said to Clery.  “The King is condemned.”  The King, who
saw him arrive, rose to receive him.

[When M. de Malesherbes went to the Temple to announce the result of the
vote, he found Louis with his forehead resting on his hands, and absorbed
in a deep reverie.  Without inquiring concerning his fate, he said: “For
two hours I have been considering whether, during my whole reign, I have
voluntarily given any cause of complaint to my subjects; and with perfect
sincerity I declare that I deserve no reproach at their hands, and that I
have never formed a wish but for their happiness.”  LACRETELLE.]

M. de Malesherbes, choked by sobs, threw himself at his feet.  The King
raised him up and affectionately embraced him.  When he could control his
voice, De Malesherbes informed the King of the decree sentencing him to
death; he made no movement of surprise or emotion, but seemed only
affected by the distress of his advocate, whom he tried to comfort.

On the 20th of January, at two in the afternoon, Louis XVI. was awaiting
his advocates, when he heard the approach of a numerous party.  He stopped
with dignity at the door of his apartment, apparently unmoved: Garat then
told him sorrowfully that he was commissioned to communicate to him the
decrees of the Convention.  Grouvelle, secretary of the Executive Council,
read them to him.  The first declared Louis XVI. guilty of treason against
the general safety of the State; the second condemned him to death; the
third rejected any appeal to the people; and the fourth and last ordered
his execution in twenty-four hours.  Louis, looking calmly round, took the
paper from Grouvelle, and read Garat a letter, in which he demanded from
the Convention three days to prepare for death, a confessor to assist him
in his last moments, liberty to see his family, and permission for them to
leave France.  Garat took the letter, promising to submit it immediately
to the Convention.

Louis XVI. then went back into his room with great composure, ordered his
dinner, and ate as usual.  There were no knives on the table, and his
attendants refused to let him have any.  “Do they think me so cowardly,”
 he exclaimed, “as to lay violent hands on myself?  I am innocent, and I am
not afraid to die.”

The Convention refused the delay, but granted some other demands which he
had made.  Garat sent for Edgeworth de Firmont, the ecclesiastic whom
Louis XVI. had chosen, and took him in his own carriage to the Temple. M.
Edgeworth, on being ushered into the presence of the King, would have
thrown himself at his feet, but Louis instantly raised him, and both shed
tears of emotion.  He then, with eager curiosity, asked various questions
concerning the clergy of France, several bishops, and particularly the
Archbishop of Paris, requesting him to assure the latter that he died
faithfully attached to his communion.--The clock having struck eight, he
rose, begged M. Edgeworth to wait, and retired with emotion, saying that
he was going to see his family.  The municipal officers, unwilling to lose
sight of the King, even while with his family, had decided that he should
see them in the dining-room, which had a glass door, through which they
could watch all his motions without hearing what he said.  At half-past
eight the door opened.  The Queen, holding the Dauphin by the hand, Madame
Elisabeth, and Madame Royale rushed sobbing into the arms of Louis XVI.
The door was closed, and the municipal officers, Clery, and M. Edgeworth
placed themselves behind it.  During the first moments, it was but a scene
of confusion and despair.  Cries and lamentations prevented those who were
on the watch from distinguishing anything.  At length the conversation
became more calm, and the Princesses, still holding the King clasped in
their arms, spoke with him in a low tone.  “He related his trial to my
mother,” says Madame Royale, “apologising for the wretches who had
condemned him.  He told her that he would not consent to any attempt to
save him, which might excite disturbance in the country. He then gave my
brother some religious advice, and desired him, above all, to forgive
those who caused his death; and he gave us his blessing. My mother was
very desirous that the whole family should pass the night with my father,
but he opposed this, observing to her that he much needed some hours of
repose and quiet.”  After a long conversation, interrupted by silence and
grief, the King put an end to the painful meeting, agreeing to see his
family again at eight the next morning.  “Do you promise that you will?”
 earnestly inquired the Princesses.  “Yes, yes,” sorrowfully replied the
King.

[“But when we were gone,” says his daughter, “he requested that we might
not be permitted to return, as our presence afflicted him too much.”]

At this moment the Queen held him by one arm, Madame Elisabeth by the
other, while Madame Royale clasped him round the waist, and the Dauphin
stood before him, with one hand in that of his mother.  At the moment of
retiring Madame Royale fainted; she was carried away, and the King
returned to M. Edgeworth deeply depressed by this painful interview. The
King retired to rest about midnight; M. Edgeworth threw himself upon a
bed, and Clery took his place near the pillow of his master.

Next morning, the 21st of January, at five, the King awoke, called Clery,
and dressed with great calmness.  He congratulated himself on having
recovered his strength by sleep.  Clery kindled a fire, and moved a chest
of drawers, out of which he formed an altar.  M. Edgeworth put on his
pontifical robes, and began to celebrate mass.  Clery waited on him, and
the King listened, kneeling with the greatest devotion.  He then received
the communion from the hands of M. Edgeworth, and after mass rose with new
vigour, and awaited with composure the moment for going to the scaffold.
He asked for scissors that Clery might cut his hair; but the Commune
refused to trust him with a pair.

At this moment the drums were beating in the capital.  All who belonged to
the armed sections repaired to their company with complete submission. It
was reported that four or five hundred devoted men, were to make a dash
upon the carriage, and rescue the King.  The Convention, the Commune, the
Executive Council, and the Jacobins were sitting.  At eight in the
morning, Santerre, with a deputation from the Commune, the department, and
the criminal tribunal, repaired to the Temple.  Louis XVI., on hearing
them arrive, rose and prepared to depart.  He desired Clery to transmit
his last farewell to his wife, his sister, and his children; he gave him a
sealed packet, hair, and various trinkets, with directions to deliver
these articles to them.

[In the course of the morning the King said to me: “You will give this
seal to my son and this ring to the Queen, and assure her that it is with
pain I part with it.  This little packet contains the hair of all my
family; you will give her that, too.  Tell the Queen, my dear sister, and
my children, that, although I promised to see them again this morning, I
have resolved to spare them the pang of so cruel a separation.  Tell them
how much it costs me to go away without receiving their embraces once
more!”  He wiped away some tears, and then added, in the most mournful
accents, “I charge you to bear them my last farewell.”--CLERY.]

He then clasped his hand and thanked him for his services.  After this he
addressed himself to one of the municipal officers, requesting him to
transmit his last will to the Commune.  This officer, who had formerly
been a priest, and was named Jacques Roux, brutally replied that his
business was to conduct him to execution, and not to perform his
commissions.  Another person took charge of it, and Louis, turning towards
the party, gave with firmness the signal for starting.

Officers of gendarmerie were placed on the front seat of the carriage. The
King and M. Edgeworth occupied the back.  During the ride, which was
rather long, the King read in M. Edgeworth’s breviary the prayers for
persons at the point of death; the two gendarmes were astonished at his
piety and tranquil resignation.  The vehicle advanced slowly, and amidst
universal silence.  At the Place de la Revolution an extensive space had
been left vacant about the scaffold.  Around this space were planted
cannon; the most violent of the Federalists were stationed about the
scaffold; and the vile rabble, always ready to insult genius, virtue, and
misfortune, when a signal is given it to do so, crowded behind the ranks
of the Federalists, and alone manifested some outward tokens of
satisfaction.

At ten minutes past ten the carriage stopped.  Louis XVI., rising briskly,
stepped out into the Place.  Three executioners came up; he refused their
assistance, and took off his clothes himself.  But, perceiving that they
were going to bind his hands, he made a movement of indignation, and
seemed ready to resist.  M. Edgeworth gave him a last look, and said,
“Suffer this outrage, as a last resemblance to that God who is about to be
your reward.”  At these words the King suffered himself to be bound and
conducted to the scaffold.  All at once Louis hurriedly advanced to
address the people.  “Frenchmen,” said he, in a firm voice, “I die
innocent of the crimes which are imputed to me; I forgive the authors of
my death, and I pray that my blood may not fall upon France.”  He would
have continued, but the drums were instantly ordered to beat: their
rolling drowned his voice; the executioners laid hold of him, and M.
Edgeworth took his leave in these memorable words: “Son of Saint Louis,
ascend to heaven!”  As soon as the blood flowed, furious wretches dipped
their pikes and handkerchiefs in it, then dispersed throughout Paris,
shouting “Vive la Republique!  Vive la Nation!”  and even went to the
gates of the Temple to display brutal and factious joy.

[The body of Louis was, immediately after the execution, removed to the
ancient cemetery of the Madeleine.  Large quantities of quicklime were
thrown into the grave, which occasioned so rapid a decomposition that,
when his remains were sought for in 1816, it was with difficulty any part
could be recovered.  Over the spot where he was interred Napoleon
commenced the splendid Temple of Glory, after the battle of Jena; and the
superb edifice was completed by the Bourbons, and now forms the Church of
the Madeleine, the most beautiful structure in Paris.  Louis was executed
on the same ground where the Queen, Madame Elisabeth, and so many other
noble victims of the Revolution perished; where Robespierre and Danton
afterwards suffered; and where the Emperor Alexander and the allied
sovereigns took their station, when their victorious troops entered Paris
in 1814!  The history of modern Europe has not a scene fraught with
equally interesting recollections to exhibit.  It is now marked by the
colossal obelisk of blood-red granite which was brought from Thebes, in
Upper Egypt, in 1833, by the French Government.--ALLISON.]




The Royal Prisoners.--Separation of the Dauphin from His Family.
--Removal of the Queen.


On the morning of the King’s execution, according to the narrative of
Madame Royale, his family rose at six: “The night before, my mother had
scarcely strength enough to put my brother to bed; She threw herself,
dressed as she was, on her own bed, where we heard her shivering with cold
and grief all night long.  At a quarter-past six the door opened; we
believed that we were sent for to the King, but it was only the officers
looking for a prayer-book for him.  We did not, however, abandon the hope
of seeing him, till shouts of joy from the infuriated populace told us
that all was over.  In the afternoon my mother asked to see Clery, who
probably had some message for her; we hoped that seeing him would occasion
a burst of grief which might relieve the state of silent and choking agony
in which we saw her.”  The request was refused, and the officers who
brought the refusal said Clery was in “a frightful state of despair” at
not being allowed to see the royal family; shortly afterwards he was
dismissed from the Temple.

“We had now a little more freedom,” continues the Princess; “our guards
even believed that we were about to be sent out of France; but nothing
could calm my mother’s agony; no hope could touch her heart, and life or
death became indifferent to her.  Fortunately my own affliction increased
my illness so seriously that it distracted her thoughts .  .  .  . My
mother would go no more to the garden, because she must have passed the
door of what had been my father’s room, and that she could not bear. But
fearing lest want of air should prove injurious to my brother and me,
about the end of February she asked permission to walk on the leads of the
Tower, and it was granted.”

The Council of the Commune, becoming aware of the interest which these sad
promenades excited, and the sympathy with which they were observed from
the neighbouring houses, ordered that the spaces between the battlements
should be filled up with shutters, which intercepted the view.  But while
the rules for the Queen’s captivity were again made more strict, some of
the municipal commissioners tried slightly to alleviate it, and by means
of M. de Hue, who was at liberty in Paris, and the faithful Turgi, who
remained in the Tower, some communications passed between the royal family
and their friends.  The wife of Tison, who waited on the Queen, suspected
and finally denounced these more lenient guardians,--[Toulan, Lepitre,
Vincent, Bruno, and others.]--who were executed, the royal prisoners being
subjected to a close examination.

“On the 20th of April,” says Madame Royale, “my mother and I had just gone
to bed when Hebert arrived with several municipals.  We got up hastily,
and these men read us a decree of the Commune directing that we should be
searched.  My poor brother was asleep; they tore him from his bed under
the pretext of examining it.  My mother took him up, shivering with cold.
All they took was a shopkeeper’s card which my mother had happened to
keep, a stick of sealing-wax from my aunt, and from me ‘une sacre coeur de
Jesus’ and a prayer for the welfare of France.  The search lasted from
half-past ten at night till four o’clock in the morning.”

The next visit of the officials was to Madame Elisabeth alone; they found
in her room a hat which the King had worn during his imprisonment, and
which she had begged him to give her as a souvenir.  They took it from her
in spite of her entreaties.  “It was suspicious,” said the cruel and
contemptible tyrants.

The Dauphin became ill with fever, and it was long before his mother, who
watched by him night and day, could obtain medicine or advice for him.
When Thierry was at last allowed to see him his treatment relieved the
most violent symptoms, but, says Madame Royale, “his health was never
reestablished.  Want of air and exercise did him great mischief, as well
as the kind of life which this poor child led, who at eight years of age
passed his days amidst the tears of his friends, and in constant anxiety
and agony.”

While the Dauphin’s health was causing his family such alarm, they were
deprived of the services of Tison’s wife, who became ill, and finally
insane, and was removed to the Hotel Dieu, where her ravings were reported
to the Assembly and made the ground of accusations against the royal
prisoners.

[This woman, troubled by remorse, lost her reason, threw herself at the
feet of the Queen, implored her pardon, and disturbed the Temple for many
days with the sight and the noise of her madness.  The Princesses,
forgetting the denunciations of this unfortunate being, in consideration
of her repentance and insanity, watched over her by turns, and deprived
themselves of their own food to relieve her.--LAMARTINE, “History of the
Girondists,” vol. iii., p.140.]

No woman took her place, and the Princesses themselves made their beds,
swept their rooms, and waited upon the Queen.

Far worse punishments than menial work were prepared for them.  On 3d July
a decree of the Convention ordered that the Dauphin should be separated
from his family and “placed in the most secure apartment of the Tower.”
 As soon as he heard this decree pronounced, says his sister, “he threw
himself into my mother’s arms, and with violent cries entreated not to be
parted from her.  My mother would not let her son go, and she actually
defended against the efforts of the officers the bed in which she had
placed him.  The men threatened to call up the guard and use violence.  My
mother exclaimed that they had better kill her than tear her child from
her.  At last they threatened our lives, and my mother’s maternal
tenderness forced her to the sacrifice.  My aunt and I dressed the child,
for my poor mother had no longer strength for anything. Nevertheless, when
he was dressed, she took him up in her arms and delivered him herself to
the officers, bathing him with her tears, foreseeing that she was never to
behold him again.  The poor little fellow embraced us all tenderly, and
was carried away in a flood of tears.  My mother’s horror was extreme when
she heard that Simon, a shoemaker by trade, whom she had seen as a
municipal officer in the Temple, was the person to whom her child was
confided .  .  .  .  The officers now no longer remained in my mother’s
apartment; they only came three times a day to bring our meals and examine
the bolts and bars of our windows; we were locked up together night and
day.  We often went up to the Tower, because my brother went, too, from
the other side.  The only pleasure my mother enjoyed was seeing him
through a crevice as he passed at a distance.  She would watch for hours
together to see him as he passed.  It was her only hope, her only
thought.”

The Queen was soon deprived even of this melancholy consolation.  On 1st
August, 1793, it was resolved that she should be tried.  Robespierre
opposed the measure, but Barere roused into action that deep-rooted hatred
of the Queen which not even the sacrifice of her life availed to
eradicate.  “Why do the enemies of the Republic still hope for success?”
 he asked.  “Is it because we have too long forgotten the crimes of the
Austrian?  The children of Louis the Conspirator are hostages for the
Republic .  .  .but behind them lurks a woman who has been the cause of
all the disasters of France.”

At two o’clock on the morning of the following day, the municipal officers
“awoke us,” says Madame Royale, “to read to my mother the decree of the
Convention, which ordered her removal to the Conciergerie,

[The Conciergerie was originally, as its name implies, the porter’s lodge
of the ancient Palace of Justice, and became in time a prison, from the
custom of confining there persons who had committed trifling offences
about the Court.]

preparatory to her trial.  She heard it without visible emotion, and
without speaking a single word.  My aunt and I immediately asked to be
allowed to accompany my mother, but this favour was refused us.  All the
time my mother was making up a bundle of clothes to take with her, these
officers never left her.  She was even obliged to dress herself before
them, and they asked for her pockets, taking away the trifles they
contained.  She embraced me, charging me to keep up my spirits and my
courage, to take tender care of my aunt, and obey her as a second mother.
She then threw herself into my aunt’s arms, and recommended her children
to her care; my aunt replied to her in a whisper, and she was then hurried
away.  In leaving the Temple she struck her head against the wicket, not
having stooped low enough.

[Mathieu, the gaoler, used to say, “I make Madame Veto and her sister and
daughter, proud though they are, salute me; for the door is so low they
cannot pass without bowing.”]

The officers asked whether she had hurt herself.  ‘No,’ she replied,
‘nothing can hurt me now.”




The Last Moments of Marie Antoinette.


We have already seen what changes had been made in the Temple.  Marie
Antoinette had been separated from her sister, her daughter, and her Son,
by virtue of a decree which ordered the trial and exile of the last
members of the family of the Bourbons.  She had been removed to the
Conciergerie, and there, alone in a narrow prison, she was reduced to what
was strictly necessary, like the other prisoners.  The imprudence of a
devoted friend had rendered her situation still more irksome. Michonnis, a
member of the municipality, in whom she had excited a warm interest, was
desirous of introducing to her a person who, he said, wished to see her
out of curiosity.  This man, a courageous emigrant, threw to her a
carnation, in which was enclosed a slip of very fine paper with these
words: “Your friends are ready,”--false hope, and equally dangerous for
her who received it, and for him who gave it!  Michonnis and the emigrant
were detected and forthwith apprehended; and the vigilance exercised in
regard to the unfortunate prisoner became from that day more rigorous than
ever.

[The Queen was lodged in a room called the council chamber, which was
considered as the moat unwholesome apartment in the Conciergerie on
account of its dampness and the bad smells by which it was continually
affected.  Under pretence of giving her a person to wait upon her they
placed near her a spy,--a man of a horrible countenance and hollow,
sepulchral voice.  This wretch, whose name was Barassin, was a robber and
murderer by profession.  Such was the chosen attendant on the Queen of
France!  A few days before her trial this wretch was removed and a
gendarme placed in her chamber, who watched over her night and day, and
from whom she was not separated, even when in bed, but by a ragged
curtain.  In this melancholy abode Marie Antoinette had no other dress
than an old black gown, stockings with holes, which she was forced to mend
every day; and she was entirely destitute of shoes.--DU  BROCA.]

Gendarmes were to mount guard incessantly at the door of her prison, and
they were expressly forbidden to answer anything that she might say to
them.

That wretch Hebert, the deputy of Chaumette, and editor of the disgusting
paper Pere Duchesne, a writer of the party of which Vincent, Ronsin,
Varlet, and Leclerc were the leaders--Hebert had made it his particular
business to torment the unfortunate remnant of the dethroned family. He
asserted that the family of the tyrant ought not to be better treated than
any sans-culotte family; and he had caused a resolution to be passed by
which the sort of luxury in which the prisoners in the Temple were
maintained was to be suppressed.  They were no longer to be allowed either
poultry or pastry; they were reduced to one sort of aliment for breakfast,
and to soup or broth and a single dish for dinner, to two dishes for
supper, and half a bottle of wine apiece.  Tallow candles were to be
furnished instead of wag, pewter instead of silver plate, and delft ware
instead of porcelain.  The wood and water carriers alone were permitted to
enter their room, and that only accompanied by two commissioners.  Their
food was to be introduced to them by means of a turning box.  The numerous
establishment was reduced to a cook and an assistant, two men-servants,
and a woman-servant to attend to the linen.

As soon as this resolution was passed, Hebert had repaired to the Temple
and inhumanly taken away from the unfortunate prisoners even the most
trifling articles to which they attached a high value.  Eighty Louis which
Madame Elisabeth had in reserve, and which she had received from Madame de
Lamballe, were also taken away.  No one is more dangerous, more cruel,
than the man without acquirements, without education, clothed with a
recent authority.  If, above all, he possess a base nature, if, like
Hebert, who was check-taker at the door of a theatre, and embezzled money
out of the receipts, he be destitute of natural morality, and if he leap
all at once from the mud of his condition into power, he is as mean as he
is atrocious.  Such was Hebert in his conduct at the Temple.  He did not
confine himself to the annoyances which we have mentioned.  He and some
others conceived the idea of separating the young Prince from his aunt and
sister.  A shoemaker named Simon and his wife were the instructors to whom
it was deemed right to consign him for the purpose of giving him a
sans-cullotte education.  Simon and his wife were shut up in the Temple,
and, becoming prisoners with the unfortunate child, were directed to bring
him up in their own way.  Their food was better than that of the
Princesses, and they shared the table of the municipal commissioners who
were on duty.  Simon was permitted to go down, accompanied by two
commissioners, to the court of the Temple, for the purpose of giving the
Dauphin a little exercise.

Hebert conceived the infamous idea of wringing from this boy revelations
to criminate his unhappy mother.  Whether this wretch imputed to the child
false revelations, or abused his, tender age and his condition to extort
from him what admissions soever he pleased, he obtained a revolting
deposition; and as the youth of the Prince did not admit of his being
brought before the tribunal, Hebert appeared and detailed the infamous
particulars which he had himself either dictated or invented.

It was on the 14th of October that Marie Antoinette appeared before her
judges.  Dragged before the sanguinary tribunal by inexorable
revolutionary vengeance, she appeared there without any chance of
acquittal, for it was not to obtain her acquittal that the Jacobins had
brought her before it.  It was necessary, however, to make some charges.
Fouquier therefore collected the rumours current among the populace ever
since the arrival of the Princess in France, and, in the act of
accusation, he charged her with having plundered the exchequer, first for
her pleasures, and afterwards in order to transmit money to her brother,
the Emperor.  He insisted on the scenes of the 5th and 6th of October, and
on the dinners of the Life Guards, alleging that she had at that period
framed a plot, which obliged the people to go to Versailles to frustrate
it.  He afterwards accused her of having governed her husband, interfered
in the choice of ministers, conducted the intrigues with the deputies
gained by the Court, prepared the journey to Varennes, provoked the war,
and transmitted to the enemy’s generals all our plans of campaign.  He
further accused her of having prepared a new conspiracy on the 10th of
August, of having on that day caused the people to be fired upon, having
induced her husband to defend himself by taxing him with cowardice;
lastly, of having never ceased to plot and correspond with foreigners
since her captivity in the Temple, and of having there treated her young
son as King.  We here observe how, on the terrible day of long-deferred
vengeance, when subjects at length break forth and strike such of their
princes as have not deserved the blow, everything is distorted and
converted into crime.  We see how the profusion and fondness for pleasure,
so natural to a young princess, how her attachment to her native country,
her influence over her husband, her regrets, always more indiscreet in a
woman than a man, nay, even her bolder courage, appeared to their inflamed
or malignant imaginations.

It was necessary to produce witnesses.  Lecointre, deputy of Versailles,
who had seen what had passed on the 5th and 6th of October, Hebert, who
had frequently visited the Temple, various clerks in the ministerial
offices, and several domestic servants of the old Court were summoned..
Admiral d’Estaing, formerly commandant of the guard of Versailles; Manuel,
the ex-procureur of the Commune; Latour-du-Pin, minister of war in 1789;
the venerable Bailly, who, it was said, had been, with La Fayette, an
accomplice in the journey to Varennes; lastly, Valaze one of the
Girondists destined to the scaffold, were taken from their prisons and
compelled to give evidence.

No precise fact was elicited.  Some had seen the Queen in high spirits
when the Life Guards testified their attachment; others had seen her vexed
and dejected while being conducted to Paris, or brought back from
Varennes; these had been present at splendid festivities which must have
cost enormous sums; those had heard it said in the ministerial offices
that the Queen was adverse to the sanction of the decrees.  An ancient
waiting-woman of the Queen had heard the Duc de Coigny say, in 1788, that
the Emperor had already received two hundred millions from France to make
war upon the Turks.

The cynical Hebert, being brought before the unfortunate Queen, dared at
length to prefer the charges wrung from the young Prince.  He said that
Charles Capet had given Simon an account of the journey to Varennes, and
mentioned La Fayette and Bailly as having cooperated in it.  He then added
that this boy was addicted to odious and very premature vices for his age;
that he had been surprised by Simon, who, on questioning him, learned that
he derived from his mother the vices in which he indulged. Hebert said
that it was no doubt the intention of Marie Antoinette, by weakening thus,
early the physical constitution of her son, to secure to herself the means
of ruling him in case he should ever ascend the throne. The rumours which
had been whispered for twenty years by a malicious Court had given the
people a most unfavourable opinion of the morals of the Queen.  That
audience, however, though wholly Jacobin, was disgusted at the accusations
of Hebert.

[Can there be a more infernal invention than that made against the. Queen
by Hdbert,--namely, that she had had an improper intimacy with her own
son?  He made use of this sublime idea of which he boasted in order to
prejudice the women against the Queen, and to prevent her execution from
exciting pity.  It had, however, no other effect than that of disgusting
all parties.--PRUDHOMME.]

He nevertheless persisted in supporting them.

[Hebert did not long survive her in whose sufferings he had taken such an
infamous part.  He was executed on 26th March, 1794.]

The unhappy mother made no reply.  Urged a new to explain herself, she
said, with extraordinary emotion, “I thought that human nature would
excuse me from answering such an imputation, but I appeal from it to the
heart of every mother here present.”  This noble and simple reply affected
all who heard it.

In the depositions of the witnesses, however, all was not so bitter for
Marie Antoinette.  The brave D’Estaing, whose enemy she had been, would
not say anything to inculpate her, and spoke only of the courage which she
had shown on the 5th and 6th of October, and of the noble resolution which
she had expressed, to die beside her husband rather than fly. Manuel, in
spite of his enmity to the Court during the time of the Legislative
Assembly, declared that he could not say anything against the accused.
When the venerable Bailly was brought forward, who formerly so often
predicted to the Court the calamities which its imprudence must produce,
he appeared painfully affected; and when he was asked if he knew the wife
of Capet, “Yes,” said he, bowing respectfully, “I have known Madame.”  He
declared that he knew nothing, and maintained that the declarations
extorted from the young Prince relative to the journey to Varennes were
false.  In recompense for his deposition he was assailed with outrageous
reproaches, from which he might judge what fate would soon be awarded to
himself.

In all the evidence there appeared but two serious facts, attested by
Latour-du-Pin and Valaze, who deposed to them because they could not help
it.  Latour-du-Pin declared that Marie Antoinette had applied to him for
an accurate statement of the armies while he was minister of war. Valaze,
always cold, but respectful towards misfortune, would not say anything to
criminate the accused; yet he could not help declaring that, as a member
of the commission of twenty-four, being charged with his colleagues to
examine the papers found at the house of Septeuil, treasurer of the civil
list, he had seen bonds for various sums signed Antoinette, which was very
natural; but he added that he had also seen a letter in which the minister
requested the King to transmit to the Queen the copy of the plan of
campaign which he had in his hands.  The most unfavourable construction
was immediately put upon these two facts, the application for a statement
of the armies, and the communication of the plan of campaign; and it was
concluded that they could not be wanted for any other purpose than to be
sent to the enemy, for it was not supposed that a young princess should
turn her attention, merely for her own satisfaction, to matters of
administration and military, plans.  After these depositions, several
others were received respecting the expenses of the Court, the influence
of the Queen in public affairs, the scene of the 10th of August, and what
had passed in the Temple; and the most vague rumours and most trivial
circumstances were eagerly caught at as proofs.

Marie Antoinette frequently repeated, with presence of mind and firmness,
that there was no precise fact against her; that, besides, though the
wife of Louis XVI., she was not answerable for any of the acts of his
reign.

[At first the Queen, consulting only her own sense of dignity, had
resolved on her trial to make no other reply to the questions of her
judges than “Assassinate me as you have already assassinated my husband!”
 Afterwards, however, she determined to follow the example of the King,
exert herself in her defence, and leave her judges without any excuse or
pretest for putting her to death.--WEBER’S “Memoirs of Marie Antoinette.”]

Fouquier nevertheless declared her to be sufficiently convicted;
Chaveau-Lagarde made unavailing efforts to defend her; and the
unfortunate Queen was condemned to suffer the same fate as her husband.

Conveyed back to the Conciergerie, she there passed in tolerable composure
the night preceding her execution, and, on the morning of the following
day, the 16th of October, she was conducted, amidst a great concourse of
the populace, to the fatal spot where, ten months before, Louis XVI.
had perished.

[The Queen, after having written and prayed, slept soundly for some hours.
On her waking, Bault’s daughter dressed her and adjusted her hair with
more neatness than on other days.  Marie Antoinette wore a white gown, a
white handkerchief covered her shoulders, a white cap her hair; a black
ribbon bound this cap round her temples....  The cries, the looks, the
laughter, the jests of the people overwhelmed her with humiliation; her
colour, changing continually from purple to paleness, betrayed her
agitation....  On reaching the scaffold she inadvertently trod on the
executioner’s foot.  “Pardon me,” she said, courteously.  She knelt for an
instant and uttered a half-audible prayer; then rising and glancing
towards the towers of the Temple, “Adieu, once again, my children,” she
said; “I go to rejoin your father.”--LAMARTINE.]

She listened with calmness to the exhortations of the ecclesiastic who
accompanied her, and cast an indifferent look at the people who had so
often applauded her beauty and her grace, and who now as warmly
applauded her execution.  On reaching the foot of the scaffold she
perceived the Tuileries, and appeared to be moved; but she hastened to
ascend the fatal ladder, and gave herself up with courage to the
executioner.

[Sorrow had blanched the Queen’s once beautiful hair; but her features and
air still commanded the admiration of all who beheld her; her cheeks, pale
and emaciated, were occasionally tinged with a vivid colour at the mention
of those she had lost.  When led out to execution, she was dressed in
white; she had cut off her hair with her own hands.  Placed in a tumbrel,
with her arms tied behind her, she was taken by a circuitous route to the
Place de la Revolution, and she ascended the scaffold with a firm and
dignified step, as if she had been about to take her place on a throne by
the side of her husband.-LACRETELLE.]

The infamous wretch exhibited her head to the people, as he was accustomed
to do when he had sacrificed an illustrious victim.




The Last Separation.--Execution of Madame Elisabeth.
--Death of the Dauphin.

The two Princesses left in the Temple were now almost inconsolable; they
spent days and nights in tears, whose only alleviation was that they were
shed together.  “The company of my aunt, whom I loved so tenderly,” said
Madame Royale, “was a great comfort to me.  But alas!  all that I loved
was perishing around me, and I was soon to lose her also .  .  .  .  In
the beginning of September I had an illness caused solely by my anxiety
about my mother; I never heard a drum beat that I did not expect another
3d of September.”--[when the head of the Princesse de Lamballe was carried
to the Temple.]

In the course of the month the rigour of their captivity was much
increased.  The Commune ordered that they should only have one room; that
Tison (who had done the heaviest of the household work for them, and since
the kindness they showed to his insane wife had occasionally given them
tidings of the Dauphin) should be imprisoned in the turret; that they
should be supplied with only the barest necessaries; and that no one
should enter their room save to carry water and firewood.  Their quantity
of firing was reduced, and they were not allowed candles.  They were also
forbidden to go on the leads, and their large sheets were taken away,
“lest--notwithstanding the gratings!--they should escape from the
windows.”

On 8th October, 1793, Madame Royale was ordered to go downstairs, that she
might be interrogated by some municipal officers.  “My aunt, who was
greatly affected, would have followed, but they stopped her.  She asked
whether I should be permitted to come up again; Chaumette assured her that
I should.  ‘You may trust,’ said he, ‘the word of an honest republican.
She shall return.’  I soon found myself in my brother’s room, whom I
embraced tenderly; but we were torn asunder, and I was obliged to go into
another room.--[This was the last time the brother and sister met] .  .  .
Chaumette then questioned me about a thousand shocking things of which
they accused my mother and aunt; I was so indignant at hearing such
horrors that, terrified as I was, I could not help exclaiming that they
were infamous falsehoods.

“But in spite of my tears they still pressed their questions.  There were
some things which I did not comprehend, but of which I understood enough
to make me weep with indignation and horror .  .  .  .  They then asked me
about Varennes, and other things.  I answered as well as I could without
implicating anybody.  I had always heard my parents say that it were
better to die than to implicate anybody.”  When the examination was over
the Princess begged to be allowed to join her mother, but Chaumette said
he could not obtain permission for her to do so.  She was then cautioned
to say nothing about her examination to her aunt, who was next to appear
before them.  Madame Elisabeth, her niece declares, “replied with still
more contempt to their shocking questions.”

The only intimation of the Queen’s fate which her daughter and her
sister-in-law were allowed to receive was through hearing her sentence
cried by the newsman.  But “we could not persuade ourselves that she was
dead,” writes Madame Royale.  “A hope, so natural to the unfortunate,
persuaded us that she must have been saved.  For eighteen months I
remained in this cruel suspense.  We learnt also by the cries of the
newsman the death of the Duc d’Orleans. It was the only piece of news
that reached us during the whole winter.”

[The Duc d’Orleans, the early and interested propagator of the Revolution,
was its next victim.  Billaud Varennes said in the Convention: “The time
has come when all the conspirators should be known and struck.  I demand
that we no longer pass over in silence a man whom we seem to have
forgotten, despite the numerous facts against him.  I demand that
D’ORLEANS be sent to the Revolutionary Tribunal.”  The Convention, once
his hireling adulators, unanimously supported the proposal.  In vain he
alleged his having been accessory to the disorders of 5th October, his
support of the revolt on 10th August, 1792, his vote against the King on
17th January, 1793.  His condemnation was pronounced.  He then asked only
for a delay of twenty-four hours, and had a repast carefully prepared, on
which he feasted with avidity.  When led out for execution he gazed with a
smile on the Palais Royal, the scene of his former orgies. He was detained
for a quarter of an hour before that palace by the order of Robespierre,
who had asked his daughter’s hand, and promised in return to excite a
tumult in which the Duke’s life should be saved.  Depraved though he was,
he would not consent to such a sacrifice, and he met his fate with stoical
fortitude.--ALLISON, vol. iii., p. 172.]

The severity with which the prisoners were treated was carried into every
detail of their life.  The officers who guarded them took away their
chessmen and cards because some of them were named kings and queens, and
all the books with coats of arms on them; they refused to get ointment for
a gathering on Madame Elisabeth’s arm; they, would not allow her to make a
herb-tea which she thought would strengthen her niece; they declined to
supply fish or eggs on fast-days or during Lent, bringing only coarse fat
meat, and brutally replying to all remonstances, “None but fools believe
in that stuff nowadays.”  Madame Elisabeth never made the officials
another request, but reserved some of the bread and cafe-au-lait from her
breakfast for her second meal.  The time during which she could be thus
tormented was growing short.

On 9th May, 1794, as the Princesses were going to bed, the outside bolts
of the door were unfastened and a loud knocking was heard.  “When my aunt
was dressed,” says Madame Royale, “she opened the door, and they said to
her, ‘Citoyenne, come down.’--‘And my niece?’--‘We shall take care of her
afterwards.’ She embraced me, and to calm my agitation promised to return.
‘No, citoyenne,’ said the men, ‘bring your bonnet; you shall not return.’
They overwhelmed her with abuse, but she bore it patiently, embracing me,
and exhorting me to trust in Heaven, and never to forget the last commands
of my father and mother.”

Madame Elisabeth was then taken to the Conciergerie, where she was
interrogated by the vice-president at midnight, and then allowed to take
some hours rest on the bed on which Marie Antoinette had slept for the
last time.  In the morning she was brought before the tribunal, with
twenty-four other prisoners, of varying ages and both sexes, some of whom
had once been frequently seen at Court.

“Of what has Elisabeth to complain?”  Fouquier-Tinville satirically asked.
“At the foot of the guillotine, surrounded by faithful nobility, she may
imagine herself again at Versailles.”

“You call my brother a tyrant,” the Princess replied to her accuser; “if
he had been what you say, you would not be where you are, nor I before
you!”

She was sentenced to death, and showed neither surprise nor grief.  “I am
ready to die,” she said, “happy in the prospect of rejoining in a better
world those whom I loved on earth.”

On being taken to the room where those condemned to suffer at the same
time as herself were assembled, she spoke to them with so much piety and
resignation that they were encouraged by her example to show calmness and
courage like her own.  The women, on leaving the cart, begged to embrace
her, and she said some words of comfort to each in turn as they mounted
the scaffold, which she was not allowed to ascend till all her companions
had been executed before her eyes.

[Madame Elisabeth was one of those rare personages only seen at distant
intervals during the course of ages; she set an example of steadfast piety
in the palace of kings, she lived amid her family the favourite of all and
the admiration of the world ....  When I went to Versailles Madame
Elisabeth was twenty-two years of age. Her plump figure and pretty pink
colour must have attracted notice, and her air of calmness and contentment
even more than her beauty. She was fond of billiards, and her elegance and
courage in riding were remarkable.  But she never allowed these amusements
to interfere with her religious observances.  At that time her wish to
take the veil at St. Cyr was much talked of, but the King was too fond of
his sister to endure the separation.  There were also rumours of a
marriage between Madame Elisabeth and the Emperor Joseph.  The Queen was
sincerely attached to her brother, and loved her sister-in-law most
tenderly; she ardently desired this marriage as a means of raising the
Princess to one of the first thrones in Europe, and as a possible means of
turning the Emperor from his innovations.  She had been very carefully
educated, had talent in music and painting, spoke Italian and a little
Latin, and understood mathematics....  Her last moments were worthy of her
courage and virtue.--D’HEZECQUES’s “Recollections,” pp. 72-75.]

“It is impossible to imagine my distress at finding myself separated from
my aunt,” says Madame Royale.  “Since I had been able to appreciate her
merits, I saw in her nothing but religion, gentleness, meekness, modesty,
and a devoted attachment to her family; she sacrificed her life for them,
since nothing could persuade her to leave the King and Queen.  I never can
be sufficiently grateful to her for her goodness to me, which ended only
with her life.  She looked on me as her child, and I honoured and loved
her as a second mother.  I was thought to be very like her in countenance,
and I feel conscious that I have something of her character. Would to God
I might imitate her virtues, and hope that I may hereafter deserve to meet
her, as well as my dear parents, in the bosom of our Creator, where I
cannot doubt that they enjoy the reward of their virtuous lives and
meritorious deaths.”

Madame Royale vainly begged to be allowed to rejoin her mother or her
aunt, or at least to know their fate.  The municipal officers would tell
her nothing, and rudely refused her request to have a woman placed with
her.  “I asked nothing but what seemed indispensable, though it was often
harshly refused,” she says.  “But I at least could keep myself clean.  I
had soap and water, and carefully swept out my room every day.  I had no
light, but in the long days I did not feel this privation much .  .  .  .
I had some religious works and travels, which I had read over and over. I
had also some knitting, ‘qui m’ennuyait beaucoup’.”  Once, she believes,
Robespierre visited her prison:

[It has been said that Robespierre vainly tried to obtain the hand of
Mademoiselle d’Orleans.  It was also rumoured that Madame Royale herself
owed her life to his matrimonial ambition.]

“The officers showed him great respect; the people in the Tower did not
know him, or at least would not tell me who he was.  He stared insolently
at me, glanced at my books, and, after joining the municipal officers in a
search, retired.”

[On another occasion “three men in scarfs,” who entered the Princess’s
room, told her that they did not see why she should wish to be released,
as she seemed very comfortable!  “It is dreadful,’ I replied, ‘to be
separated for more than a year from one’s mother, without even hearing
what has become of her or of my aunt.’--‘You are not ill?’--‘No, monsieur,
but the cruellest illness is that of the heart’--’ We can do nothing for
you.  Be patient, and submit to the justice and goodness of the French
people: I had nothing more to say.”--DUCHESSE D’ANGOULEME, “Royal
Memoirs,” p. 273.]

When Laurent was appointed by the Convention to the charge of the young
prisoners, Madame Royale was treated with more consideration.  “He was
always courteous,” she says; he restored her tinderbox, gave her fresh
books, and allowed her candles and as much firewood as she wanted, “which
pleased me greatly.”  This simple expression of relief gives a clearer
idea of what the delicate girl must have suffered than a volume of
complaints.

But however hard Madame Royale’s lot might be, that of the Dauphin was
infinitely harder.  Though only eight years old when he entered the
Temple, he was by nature and education extremely precocious; “his memory
retained everything, and his sensitiveness comprehended everything.”  His
features “recalled the somewhat effeminate look of Louis XV., and the
Austrian hauteur of Maria Theresa; his blue eyes, aquiline nose, elevated
nostrils, well-defined mouth, pouting lips, chestnut hair parted in the
middle and falling in thick curls on his shoulders, resembled his mother
before her years of tears and torture.  All the beauty of his race, by
both descents, seemed to reappear in him.”--[Lamartine]--For some time the
care of his parents preserved his health and cheerfulness even in the
Temple; but his constitution was weakened by the fever recorded by his
sister, and his gaolers were determined that he should never regain
strength.

“What does the Convention intend to do with him?” asked Simon, when the
innocent victim was placed in his clutches.  “Transport him?”

“No.”

“Kill him?”

“No.”

“Poison him?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“Why, get rid of him.”

For such a purpose they could not have chosen their instruments better.
“Simon and his wife, cut off all those fair locks that had been his
youthful glory and his mother’s pride.  This worthy pair stripped him of
the mourning he wore for his father; and as they did so, they called it
‘playing at the game of the spoiled king.’  They alternately induced him
to commit excesses, and then half starved him.  They beat him mercilessly;
nor was the treatment by night less brutal than that by day. As soon as
the weary boy had sunk into his first profound sleep, they would loudly
call him by name, ‘Capet!  Capet!’ Startled, nervous, bathed in
perspiration, or sometimes trembling with cold, he would spring up, rush
through the dark, and present himself at Simon’s bedside, murmuring,
tremblingly, ‘I am here, citizen.’--‘Come nearer; let me feel you.’ He
would approach the bed as he was ordered, although he knew the treatment
that awaited him.  Simon would buffet him on the head, or kick him away,
adding the remark, ‘Get to bed again, wolfs cub; I only wanted to know
that you were safe.’  On one of these occasions, when the child had fallen
half stunned upon his own miserable couch, and lay there groaning and
faint with pain, Simon roared out with a laugh, ‘Suppose you were king,
Capet, what would you do to me?’ The child thought of his father’s dying
words, and said, ‘I would forgive you.’”--[THIERS]

The change in the young Prince’s mode of life, and the cruelties and
caprices to which he was subjected, soon made him fall ill, says his
sister.  “Simon forced him to eat to excess, and to drink large quantities
of wine, which he detested .  .  .  .  He grew extremely fat without
increasing in height or strength.”  His aunt and sister, deprived of the
pleasure of tending him, had the pain of hearing his childish voice raised
in the abominable songs his gaolers taught him.  The brutality of Simon
“depraved at once the body and soul of his pupil.  He called him the young
wolf of the Temple.  He treated him as the young of wild animals are
treated when taken from the mother and reduced to captivity,--at once
intimidated by blows and enervated by taming.  He punished for
sensibility; he rewarded meanness; he encouraged vice; he made the child
wait on him at table, sometimes striking him on the face with a knotted
towel, sometimes raising the poker and threatening to strike him with it.”

[Simon left the Temple to become a municipal officer.  He was involved in
the overthrow of Robespierre, and guillotined the day after him, 29th
July, 1794.]

Yet when Simon was removed the poor young Prince’s condition became even
worse.  His horrible loneliness induced an apathetic stupor to which any
suffering would have been preferable.  “He passed his days without any
kind of occupation; they did not allow him light in the evening.  His
keepers never approached him but to give him food;” and on the rare
occasions when they took him to the platform of the Tower, he was unable
or unwilling to move about.  When, in November, 1794, a commissary named
Gomin arrived at the Temple, disposed to treat the little prisoner with
kindness, it was too late.  “He took extreme care of my brother,” says
Madame Royale.  “For a long time the unhappy child had been shut up in
darkness, and he was dying of fright.  He was very grateful for the
attentions of Gomin, and became much attached to him.”  But his physical
condition was alarming, and, owing to Gomin’s representations, a
commission was instituted to examine him.  “The commissioners appointed
were Harmond, Mathieu, and Reverchon, who visited ‘Louis Charles,’ as he
was now called, in the month of February, 1795.  They found the young
Prince seated at a square deal table, at which he was playing with some
dirty cards, making card houses and the like,--the materials having been
furnished him, probably, that they might figure in the report as evidences
of indulgence.  He did not look up from the table as the commissioners
entered.  He was in a slate-coloured dress, bareheaded; the room was
reported as clean, the bed in good condition, the linen fresh; his clothes
were also reported as new; but, in spite of all these assertions, it is
well known that his bed had not been made for months, that he had not left
his room, nor was permitted to leave it, for any purpose whatever, that it
was consequently uninhabitable, and that he was covered with vermin and
with sores.  The swellings at his knees alone were sufficient to disable
him from walking.  One of the commissioners approached the young Prince
respectfully.  The latter did not raise his head.  Harmond in a kind voice
begged him to speak to them.  The eyes of the boy remained fixed on the
table before him.  They told him of the kindly intentions of the
Government, of their hopes that he would yet be happy, and their desire
that he would speak unreservedly to the medical man that was to visit him.
He seemed to listen with profound attention, but not a single word passed
his lips.  It was an heroic principle that impelled that poor young heart
to maintain the silence of a mute in presence of these men.  He remembered
too well the days when three other commissaries waited on him, regaled him
with pastry and wine, and obtained from him that hellish accusation
against the mother that he loved.  He had learnt by some means the import
of the act, so far as it was an injury to his mother.  He now dreaded
seeing again three commissaries, hearing again kind words, and being
treated again with fine promises.  Dumb as death itself he sat before
them, and remained motionless as stone, and as mute.” [THIERS]

His disease now made rapid progress, and Gomin and Lasne, superintendents
of the Temple, thinking it necessary to inform the Government of the
melancholy condition of their prisoner, wrote on the register: “Little
Capet is unwell.”  No notice was taken of this account, which was renewed
next day in more urgent terms: “Little Capet is dangerously ill.”  Still
there was no word from beyond the walls.  “We must knock harder,” said the
keepers to each other, and they added, “It is feared he will not live,” to
the words “dangerously ill.”  At length, on Wednesday, 6th May, 1795,
three days after the first report, the authorities appointed M. Desault to
give the invalid the assistance of his art.  After having written down his
name on the register he was admitted to see the Prince. He made a long and
very attentive examination of the unfortunate child, asked him many
questions without being able to obtain an answer, and contented himself
with prescribing a decoction of hops, to be taken by spoonfuls every
half-hour, from six o’clock in the morning till eight in the evening.  On
the first day the Prince steadily refused to take it. In vain Gomin
several times drank off a glass of the potion in his presence; his example
proved as ineffectual as his words.  Next day Lasne renewed his
solicitations.  “Monsieur knows very well that I desire nothing but the
good of his health, and he distresses me deeply by thus refusing to take
what might contribute to it.  I entreat him as a favour not to give me
this cause of grief.”  And as Lasne, while speaking, began to taste the
potion in a glass, the child took what he offered him out of his hands.
“You have, then, taken an oath that I should drink it,” said he, firmly;
“well, give it me, I will drink it.”  From that moment he conformed with
docility to whatever was required of him, but the policy of the Commune
had attained its object; help had been withheld till it was almost a
mockery to supply it.

The Prince’s weakness was excessive; his keepers could scarcely drag him
to the, top of the Tower; walking hurt his tender feet, and at every step
he stopped to press the arm of Lasne with both hands upon his breast.  At
last he suffered so much that it was no longer possible for him to walk,
and his keeper carried him about, sometimes on the platform, and sometimes
in the little tower, where the royal family had lived at first. But the
slight improvement to his health occasioned by the change of air scarcely
compensated for the pain which his fatigue gave him.  On the battlement of
the platform nearest the left turret, the rain had, by perseverance
through ages, hollowed out a kind of basin.  The water that fell remained
there for several days; and as, during the spring of 1795, storms were of
frequent occurrence, this little sheet of water was kept constantly
supplied.  Whenever the child was brought out upon the platform, he saw a
little troop of sparrows, which used to come to drink and bathe in this
reservoir.  At first they flew away at his approach, but from being
accustomed to see him walking quietly there every day, they at last grew
more familiar, and did not spread their wings for flight till he came up
close to them.  They were always the same, he knew them by sight, and
perhaps like himself they were inhabitants of that ancient pile.  He
called them his birds; and his first action, when the door into the
terrace was opened, was to look towards that side,--and the sparrows were
always there.  He delighted in their chirping, and he must have envied
them their wings.

Though so little could be done to alleviate his sufferings, a moral
improvement was taking place in him.  He was touched by the lively
interest displayed by his physician, who never failed to visit him at nine
o’clock every morning.  He seemed pleased with the attention paid him, and
ended by placing entire confidence in M. Desault.  Gratitude loosened his
tongue; brutality and insult had failed to extort a murmur, but kind
treatment restored his speech he had no words for anger, but he found them
to express his thanks.  M. Desault prolonged his visits as long as the
officers of the municipality would permit.  When they announced the close
of the visit, the child, unwilling to beg them to allow a longer time,
held back M. Desault by the skirt of his coat. Suddenly M. Desault’s
visits ceased.  Several days passed and nothing was heard of him.  The
keepers wondered at his absence, and the poor little invalid was much
distressed at it.  The commissary on duty (M. Benoist) suggested that it
would be proper to send to the physician’s house to make inquiries as to
the cause of so long an absence.  Gomin and Larne had not yet ventured to
follow this advice, when next day M. Benoist was relieved by M. Bidault,
who, hearing M. Desault’s name mentioned as he came in, immediately said,
“You must not expect to see him any more; he died yesterday.”

M. Pelletan, head surgeon of the Grand Hospice de l’Humanite, was next
directed to attend the prisoner, and in June he found him in so alarming a
state that he at once asked for a coadjutor, fearing to undertake the
responsibility alone.  The physician--sent for form’s sake to attend the
dying child, as an advocate is given by law to a criminal condemned
beforehand--blamed the officers of the municipality for not having removed
the blind, which obstructed the light, and the numerous bolts, the noise
of which never failed to remind the victim of his captivity. That sound,
which always caused him an involuntary shudder, disturbed him in the last
mournful scene of his unparalleled tortures.  M. Pelletan said
authoritatively to the municipal on duty, “If you will not take these
bolts and casings away at once, at least you can make no objection to our
carrying the child into another room, for I suppose we are sent here to
take charge of him.”  The Prince, being disturbed by these words, spoken
as they were with great animation, made a sign to the physician to come
nearer.  “Speak lower, I beg of you,” said he; “I am afraid they will hear
you up-stairs, and I should be very sorry for them to know that I am ill,
as it would give them much uneasiness.”

At first the change to a cheerful and airy room revived the Prince and
gave him evident pleasure, but the improvement did not last.  Next day M.
Pelletan learned that the Government had acceded to his request for a
colleague.  M. Dumangin, head physician of the Hospice de l’Unite, made
his appearance at his house on the morning of Sunday, 7th June, with the
official despatch sent him by the committee of public safety.  They
repaired together immediately to the Tower.  On their arrival they heard
that the child, whose weakness was excessive, had had a fainting fit,
which had occasioned fears to be entertained that his end was approaching.
He had revived a little, however, when the physicians went up at about
nine o’clock.  Unable to contend with increasing exhaustion, they
perceived there was no longer any hope of prolonging an existence worn out
by so much suffering, and that all their art could effect would be to
soften the last stage of this lamentable disease.  While standing by the
Prince’s bed, Gomin noticed that he was quietly crying, and asked him.
kindly what was the matter.  “I am always alone,” he said.  “My dear
mother remains in the other tower.”  Night came,--his last night,--which
the regulations of the prison condemned him to pass once more in solitude,
with suffering, his old companion, only at his side.  This time, however,
death, too, stood at his pillow.  When Gomin went up to the child’s room
on the morning of 8th June, he said, seeing him calm, motionless, and
mute:

“I hope you are not in pain just now?”

“Oh, yes, I am still in pain, but not nearly so much,--the music is so
beautiful!”

Now there was no music to be heard, either in the Tower or anywhere near.

Gomin, astonished, said to him, “From what direction do you hear this
music?”

“From above!”

“Have you heard it long?”

“Since you knelt down.  Do you not hear it?  Listen!  Listen!”  And the
child, with a nervous motion, raised his faltering hand, as he opened his
large eyes illuminated by delight.  His poor keeper, unwilling to destroy
this last sweet illusion, appeared to listen also.

After a few minutes of attention the child again started, and cried out,
in intense rapture, “Amongst all the voices I have distinguished that of
my mother!”

These were almost his last words.  At a quarter past two he died, Lasne
only being in the room at the time.  Lasne acquainted Gomin and Damont,
the commissary on duty, with the event, and they repaired to the chamber
of death.  The poor little royal corpse was carried from the room into
that where he had suffered so long,--where for two years he had never
ceased to suffer.  From this apartment the father had gone to the
scaffold, and thence the son must pass to the burial-ground.  The remains
were laid out on the bed, and the doors of the apartment were set
open,--doors which had remained closed ever since the Revolution had
seized on a child, then full of vigour and grace and life and health!

At eight o’clock next morning (9th June) four members of the committee of
general safety came to the Tower to make sure that the Prince was really
dead.  When they were admitted to the death-chamber by Lasne and Damont
they affected the greatest indifference.  “The event is not of the least
importance,” they repeated, several times over; “the police commissary of
the section will come and receive the declaration of the decease; he will
acknowledge it, and proceed to the interment without any ceremony; and the
committee will give the necessary directions.”  As they withdrew, some
officers of the Temple guard asked to see the remains of little Capet.
Damont having observed that the guard would not permit the bier to pass
without its being opened, the deputies decided that the officers and
non-commissioned officers of the guard going off duty, together with those
coming on, should be all invited to assure themselves of the child’s
death.  All having assembled in the room where the body lay, he asked them
if they recognised it as that of the ex-Dauphin, son of the last King of
France.  Those who had seen the young Prince at the Tuileries, or at the
Temple (and most of them had), bore witness to its being the body of Louis
XVII.  When they were come down into the council-room, Darlot drew up the
minutes of this attestation, which was signed by a score of persons.
These minutes were inserted in the journal of the Temple tower, which was
afterwards deposited in the office of the Minister of the Interior.

During this visit the surgeons entrusted with the autopsy arrived at the
outer gate of the Temple.  These were Dumangin, head physician of the
Hospice de l’Unite; Pelletan, head surgeon of the Grand Hospice de
l’Humanite; Jeanroy, professor in the medical schools of Paris; and
Laasus, professor of legal medicine at the Ecole de Sante of Paris. The
last two were selected by Dumangin and Pelletan because of the former
connection of M. Lassus with Mesdames de France, and of M. Jeanroy with
the House of Lorraine, which gave a peculiar weight to their signatures.
Gomin received them in the council-room, and detained them until the
National Guard, descending from the second floor, entered to sign the
minutes prepared by Darlot.  This done, Lasne, Darlot, and Bouquet went up
again with the surgeons, and introduced them into the apartment of Louis
XVII., whom they at first examined as he lay on his death-bed; but M.
Jeanroy observing that the dim light of this room was but little
favourable to the accomplishment of their mission, the commissaries
prepared a table in the first room, near the window, on which the corpse
was laid, and the surgeons began their melancholy operation.

At seven o’clock the police commissary ordered the body to be taken up,
and that they should proceed to the cemetery.  It was the season of the
longest days, and therefore the interment did not take place in secrecy
and at night, as some misinformed narrators have said or written; it took
place in broad daylight, and attracted a great concourse of people before
the gates of the Temple palace.  One of the municipals wished to have the
coffin carried out secretly by the door opening into the chapel enclosure;
but M. Duaser, police commiasary, who was specially entrusted with the
arrangement of the ceremony, opposed this indecorous measure, and the
procession passed out through the great gate.  The crowd that was pressing
round was kept back, and compelled to keep a line, by a tricoloured
ribbon, held at short distances by gendarmes.  Compassion and sorrow were
impressed on every countenance.

A small detachment of the troops of the line from the garrison of Paris,
sent by the authorities, was waiting to serve as an escort.  The bier,
still covered with the pall, was carried on a litter on the shoulders of
four men, who relieved each other two at a time; it was preceded by six or
eight men, headed by a sergeant.  The procession was accompanied a long
way by the crowd, and a great number of persona followed it even to the
cemetery.  The name of “Little Capet,” and the more popular title of
Dauphin, spread from lip to lip, with exclamations of pity and compassion.
The funeral entered the cemetery of Ste. Marguerite, not by the church, as
some accounts assert, but by the old gate of the cemetery. The interment
was made in the corner, on the left, at a distance of eight or nine feet
from the enclosure wall, and at an equal distance from a small house,
which subsequently served as a school.  The grave was filled up,--no mound
marked its place, and not even a trace remained of the interment!  Not
till then did the commissaries of police and the municipality withdraw,
and enter the house opposite the church to draw up the declaration of
interment.  It was nearly nine o’clock, and still daylight.




Release of Madame Royale.--Her Marriage to the Duc d’Angouleme.
--Return to France.--Death.


The last person to hear of the sad events in the Temple was the one for
whom they had the deepest and most painful interest.  After her brother’s
death the captivity of Madame Royale was much lightened.  She was allowed
to walk in the Temple gardens, and to receive visits from some ladies of
the old Court, and from Madame de Chantereine, who at last, after several
times evading her questions, ventured cautiously to tell her of the deaths
of her mother, aunt, and brother.  Madame Royale wept bitterly, but had
much difficulty in expressing her feelings.  “She spoke so confusedly,”
 says Madame de la Ramiere in a letter to Madame de Verneuil, “that it was
difficult to understand her.  It took her more than a month’s reading
aloud, with careful study of pronunciation, to make herself
intelligible,--so much had she lost the power of expression.” She was
dressed with plainness amounting to poverty, and her hands were disfigured
by exposure to cold and by the menial work she had been so long accustomed
to do for herself, and which it was difficult to persuade her to leave
off.  When urged to accept the services of an attendant, she replied, with
a sad prevision of the vicissitudes of her future life, that she did not
like to form a habit which she might have again to abandon.  She suffered
herself, however, to be persuaded gradually to modify her recluse and
ascetic habits.  It was well she did so, as a preparation for the great
changes about to follow.

Nine days after the death of her brother, the city of Orleans interceded
for the daughter of Louis XVI., and sent deputies to the Convention to
pray for her deliverance and restoration to her family.  Names followed
this example; and Charette, on the part of the Vendeans, demanded, as a
condition of the pacification of La Vendee, that the Princess should be
allowed to join her relations.  At length the Convention decreed that
Madame Royale should be exchanged with Austria for the representatives and
ministers whom Dumouriez had given up to the Prince of Cobourg,--Drouet,
Semonville, Maret, and other prisoners of importance.  At midnight on 19th
December, 1795, which was her birthday, the Princess was released from
prison, the Minister of the Interior, M. Benezech, to avoid attracting
public attention and possible disturbance, conducting her on foot from the
Temple to a neighbouring street, where his carriage awaited her.  She made
it her particular request that Gomin, who had been so devoted to her
brother, should be the commissary appointed to accompany her to the
frontier; Madame de Soucy, formerly under-governess to the children of
France, was also in attendance; and the Princess took with her a dog named
Coco, which had belonged to Louis XVI.

[The mention of the little dog taken from the Temple by Madame Royale
reminds me how fond all the family were of these creatures. Each Princess
kept a different kind.  Mesdames had beautiful spaniels; little grayhounds
were preferred by Madame Elisabeth. Louis XVI. was the only one of all his
family who had no dogs in his room.  I remember one day waiting in the
great gallery for the King’s retiring, when he entered with all his family
and the whole pack, who were escorting him.  All at once all the dogs
began to bark, one louder than another, and ran away, passing like ghosts
along those great dark rooms, which rang with their hoarse cries. The
Princesses shouting, calling them, running everywhere after them,
completed a ridiculous spectacle, which made those august persons very
merry.--D’HEZECQUES, p. 49.]

She was frequently recognised on her way through France, and always with
marks of pleasure and respect.

It might have been supposed that the Princess would rejoice to leave
behind her the country which had been the scene of so many horrors and
such bitter suffering.  But it was her birthplace, and it held the graves
of all she loved; and as she crossed the frontier she said to those around
her, “I leave France with regret, for I shall never cease to consider it
my country.”  She arrived in Vienna on 9th January, 1796, and her first
care was to attend a memorial service for her murdered relatives.  After
many weeks of close retirement she occasionally began to appear in public,
and people looked with interest at the pale, grave, slender girl of
seventeen, dressed in the deepest mourning, over whose young head such
terrible storms had swept.  The Emperor wished her to marry the Archduke
Charles of Austria, but her father and mother had, even in the cradle,
destined her hand for her cousin, the Duc d’Angouleme, son of the Comte
d’Artois, and the memory of their lightest wish was law to her.

Her quiet determination entailed anger and opposition amounting to
persecution.  Every effort was made to alienate her from her French
relations.  She was urged to claim Provence, which had become her own if
Louis XVIII.  was to be considered King of France.  A pressure of opinion
was brought to bear upon her which might well have overawed so young a
girl.  “I was sent for to the Emperor’s cabinet,” she writes, “where I
found the imperial family assembled.  The ministers and chief imperial
counsellors were also present .  .  .  .  When the Emperor invited me to
express my opinion, I answered that to be able to treat fittingly of such
interests I thought, I ought to be surrounded not only by my mother’s
relatives, but also by those of my father .  .  .  .  Besides, I said, I
was above all things French, and in entire subjection to the laws of
France, which had rendered me alternately the subject of the King my
father, the King my brother, and the King my uncle, and that I would yield
obedience to the latter, whatever might be his commands.  This declaration
appeared very much to dissatisfy all who were present, and when they
observed that I was not to be shaken, they declared that my right being
independent of my will, my resistance would not be the slightest obstacle
to the measures they might deem it necessary to adopt for the preservation
of my interests.”

In their anxiety to make a German princess of Marie Therese, her imperial
relations suppressed her French title as much as possible.  When, with
some difficulty, the Duc de Grammont succeeded in obtaining an audience of
her, and used the familiar form of address, she smiled faintly, and bade
him beware.  “Call me Madame de Bretagne, or de Bourgogne, or de
Lorraine,” she said, “for here I am so identified with these
provinces--[which the Emperor wished her to claim from her uncle Louis
XVIII.]--that I shall end in believing in my own transformation.”  After
these discussions she was so closely watched, and so many restraints were
imposed upon her, that she was scarcely less a prisoner than in the old
days of the Temple, though her cage was this time gilded.  Rescue,
however, was at hand.

In 1798 Louis XVIII. accepted a refuge offered to him at Mittau by the
Czar Paul, who had promised that he would grant his guest’s first request,
whatever it might be.  Louis begged the Czar to use his influence with the
Court of Vienna to allow his niece to join him. “Monsieur, my brother,”
 was Paul’s answer, “Madame Royale shall be restored to you, or I shall
cease to be Paul I.”  Next morning the Czar despatched a courier to Vienna
with a demand for the Princess, so energetically worded that refusal must
have been followed by war. Accordingly, in May, 1799, Madame Royale was
allowed to leave the capital which she had found so uncongenial an asylum.

In the old ducal castle of Mittau, the capital of Courland, Louis XVIII.
and his wife, with their nephews, the Ducs d’Angouleme and de Berri,
were awaiting her, attended by the Abbe Edgeworth, as chief
ecclesiastic, and a little Court of refugee nobles and officers.

[The Duc d’Angonleme was quiet and reserved.  He loved hunting as means of
killing time; was given to early hours and innocent pleasures.  He was a
gentleman, and brave as became one.  He had not the “gentlemanly vices” of
his brother, and was all the better for it.  He was ill educated, but had
natural good sense, and would have passed for having more than that had he
cared to put forth pretensions.  Of all his family he was the one most ill
spoken of, and least deserving of it.--DOCTOR DORAN.]

With them were two men of humbler position, who must have been even more
welcome to Madame Royale,--De Malden, who had acted as courier to Louis
XVI. during the flight to Varennes, and Turgi, who had waited on the
Princesses in the Temple.  It was a sad meeting, though so long anxiously
desired, and it was followed on 10th June, 1799, by an equally sad
wedding,--exiles, pensioners on the bounty of the Russian monarch,
fulfilling an engagement founded, not on personal preference, but on
family policy and reverence for the wishes of the dead, the bride and
bridegroom had small cause for rejoicing.  During the eighteen months of
tranquil seclusion which followed her marriage, the favourite occupation
of the Duchess was visiting and relieving the poor.  In January, 1801, the
Czar Paul, in compliance with the demand of Napoleon, who was just then
the object of his capricious enthusiasm, ordered the French royal family
to leave Mittau.  Their wanderings commenced on the 21st, a day of bitter
memories; and the young Duchess led the King to his carriage through a
crowd of men, women, and children, whose tears and blessings attended them
on their way.

[The Queen was too ill to travel.  The Duc d’Angouleme took another route
to join a body of French gentlemen in arms for the Legitimist cause.]

The exiles asked permission from the King of Prussia to settle in his
dominions, and while awaiting his answer at Munich they were painfully
surprised by the entrance of five old soldiers of noble birth, part of the
body-guard they had left behind at Mittau, relying on the protection of
Paul.  The “mad Czar” had decreed their immediate expulsion, and,
penniless and almost starving, they made their way to Louis XVIII.  All
the money the royal family possessed was bestowed on these faithful
servants, who came to them in detachments for relief, and then the Duchess
offered her diamonds to the Danish consul for an advance of two thousand
ducats, saying she pledged her property “that in our common distress it
may be rendered of real use to my uncle, his faithful servants, and
myself.”  The Duchess’s consistent and unselfish kindness procured her
from the King, and those about him who knew her best, the name of “our
angel.”

Warsaw was for a brief time the resting-place of the wanderers, but there
they were disturbed in 1803 by Napoleon’s attempt to threaten and bribe
Louis XVIII. into abdication.  It was suggested that refusal might bring
upon them expulsion from Prussia.  “We are accustomed to suffering,” was
the King’s answer, “and we do not dread poverty.  I would, trusting in
God, seek another asylum.”  In 1808, after many changes of scene, this
asylum was sought in England, Gosfield Hall, Essex, being placed at their
disposal by the Marquis of Buckingham.  From Gosfield, the King moved to
Hartwell Hall, a fine old Elizabethan mansion rented from Sir George Lee
for L 500 a year.  A yearly grant of L 24,000 was made to the exiled
family by the British Government, out of which a hundred and forty persons
were supported, the royal dinner-party generally numbering two dozen.

At Hartwell, as in her other homes, the Duchess was most popular amongst
the poor.  In general society she was cold and reserved, and she disliked
the notice of strangers.  In March, 1814, the royalist successes at
Bordeaux paved the way for the restoration of royalty in France, and
amidst general sympathy and congratulation, with the Prince Regent himself
to wish them good fortune, the King, the Duchess, and their suite left
Hartwell in April, 1814.  The return to France was as triumphant as a
somewhat half-hearted and doubtful enthusiasm could make it, and most of
such cordiality as there was fell to the share of the Duchess.  As she
passed to Notre-Dame in May, 1814, on entering Paris, she was vociferously
greeted.  The feeling of loyalty, however, was not much longer-lived than
the applause by which it was expressed; the Duchess had scarcely effected
one of the strongest wishes of her heart,--the identification of what
remained of her parents’ bodies, and the magnificent ceremony with which
they were removed from the cemetery of the Madeleine to the Abbey of St.
Denis,--when the escape of Napoleon from Elba in February,1815, scattered
the royal family and their followers like chaff before the wind.  The Duc
d’Angouleme, compelled to capitulate at Toulouse, sailed from Cette in a
Swedish vessel.  The Comte d’Artois, the Duc de Berri, and the Prince de
Conde withdrew beyond the frontier.  The King fled from the capital.  The
Duchesse d’Angouleme, then at Bordeaux celebrating the anniversary of the
Proclamation of Louis XVIII., alone of all her family made any stand
against the general panic. Day after day she mounted her horse and
reviewed the National Guard.  She made personal and even passionate
appeals to the officers and men, standing firm, and prevailing on a
handful of soldiers to remain by her, even when the imperialist troops
were on the other side of the river and their cannon were directed against
the square where the Duchess was reviewing her scanty followers.

[“It was the Duchesse d’Angouleme who saved you,” said the gallant General
Clauzel, after these events, to a royalist volunteer; “I could not bring
myself to order such a woman to be fired upon, at the moment when she was
providing material for the noblest page in her history.”--“Fillia
Dolorosa,” vol. vii., p. 131.]

With pain and difficulty she was convinced that resistance was vain;
Napoleon’s banner soon floated over Bordeaux; the Duchess issued a
farewell proclamation to her “brave Bordelais,” and on the 1st April,
1815, she started for Pouillac, whence she embarked for Spain.  During a
brief visit to England she heard that the reign of a hundred days was
over, and the 27th of July, 1815, saw her second triumphal return to the
Tuileries.  She did not take up her abode there with any wish for State
ceremonies or Court gaieties.  Her life was as secluded as her position
would allow.  Her favourite retreat was the Pavilion, which had been
inhabited by her mother, and in her little oratory she collected relics of
her family, over which on the anniversaries of their deaths she wept and
prayed.  In her daily drives through Paris she scrupulously avoided the
spot on which they had suffered; and the memory of the past seemed to rule
all her sad and self-denying life, both in what she did and what she
refrained from doing.

[She was so methodical and economical, though liberal in her charities,
that one of her regular evening occupations was to tear off the seals from
the letters she had received during the day, in order that the wax might
be melted down and sold; the produce made one poor family “passing rich
with forty pounds a year.”--See “Filia Dolorosa,” vol. ii., p. 239.]

Her somewhat austere goodness was not of a nature to make her popular. The
few who really understood her loved her, but the majority of her
pleasure-seeking subjects regarded her either with ridicule or dread. She
is said to have taken no part in politics, and to have exerted no
influence in public affairs, but her sympathies were well known, and “the
very word liberty made her shudder;” like Madame Roland, she had seen “so
many crimes perpetrated under that name.”

The claims of three pretended Dauphins--Hervagault, the son of the tailor
of St. Lo; Bruneau, son of the shoemaker of Vergin; and Naundorf or
Norndorff, the watchmaker somewhat troubled her peace, but never for a
moment obtained her sanction.  Of the many other pseudo-Dauphins (said to
number a dozen and a half) not even the names remain.  In February,1820, a
fresh tragedy befell the royal family in the assassination of the Duc de
Berri, brother-in-law of the Duchesse d’Angouleme, as he was seeing his
wife into her carriage at the door of the Opera-house.  He was carried
into the theatre, and there the dying Prince and his wife were joined by
the Duchess, who remained till he breathed his last, and was present when
he, too, was laid in the Abbey of St. Denis.  She was present also when
his son, the Duc de Bordeaux, was born, and hoped that she saw in him a
guarantee for the stability of royalty in France.  In September, 1824, she
stood by the death-bed of Louis XVIII., and thenceforward her chief
occupation was directing the education of the little Duc de Bordeaux, who
generally resided with her at Villeneuve l’Etang, her country house near
St.  Cloud.  Thence she went in July, 1830, to the Baths of Vichy,
stopping at Dijon on her way to Paris, and visiting the theatre on the
evening of the 27th.  She was received with “a roar of execrations and
seditious cries,” and knew only too well what they signified.  She
instantly left the theatre and proceeded to Tonnere, where she received
news of the rising in Paris, and, quitting the town by night, was driven
to Joigny with three attendants.  Soon after leaving that place it was
thought more prudent that the party should separate and proceed on foot,
and the Duchess and M. de Foucigny, disguised as peasants, entered
Versailles arm-in-arm, to obtain tidings of the King. The Duchess found
him at Rambouillet with her husband, the Dauphin, and the King met her
with a request for “pardon,” being fully conscious, too late, that his
unwise decrees and his headlong flight had destroyed the last hopes of his
family.  The act of abdication followed, by which the prospect of royalty
passed from the Dauphin and his wife, as well as from Charles X.--Henri V.
being proclaimed King, and the Duc d’Orleans (who refused to take the boy
monarch under his personal protection) lieutenant-general of the kingdom.

Then began the Duchess’s third expatriation.  At Cherbourg the royal
family, accompanied by the little King without a kingdom, embarked in the
‘Great Britain’, which stood out to sea.  The Duchess, remaining on deck
for a last look at the coast of France, noticed a brig which kept, she
thought, suspiciously near them.

“Who commands that vessel?” she inquired.

“Captain Thibault.”

And what are his orders?”

“To fire into and sink the vessels in which we sail, should any attempt be
made to return to France.”

Such was the farewell of their subjects to the House of Bourbon.  The
fugitives landed at Weymouth; the Duchesse d’Angouleme under the title of
Comtesse de Marne, the Duchesse de Berri as Comtesse de Rosny, and her
son, Henri de Bordeaux, as Comte de Chambord, the title he retained till
his death, originally taken from the estate presented to him in infancy by
his enthusiastic people.  Holyrood, with its royal and gloomy
associations, was their appointed dwelling.  The Duc and Duchesse
d’Angouleme, and the daughter of the Duc de Berri, travelled thither by
land, the King and the young Comte de Chambord by sea.  “I prefer my route
to that of my sister,” observed the latter, “because I shall see the coast
of France again, and she will not.”

The French Government soon complained that at Holyrood the exiles were
still too near their native land, and accordingly, in 1832, Charles X.,
with his son and grandson, left Scotland for Hamburg, while the Duchesse
d’Angouleme and her niece repaired to Vienna.  The family were reunited at
Prague in 1833, where the birthday of the Comte de Chambord was celebrated
with some pomp and rejoicing, many Legitimists flocking thither to
congratulate him on attaining the age of thirteen, which the old law of
monarchical France had fixed as the majority of her princes. Three years
later the wanderings of the unfortunate family recommenced; the Emperor
Francis II. was dead, and his successor, Ferdinand, must visit Prague to
be crowned, and Charles X. feared that the presence of a discrowned
monarch might be embarrassing on such an occasion.  Illness and sorrow
attended the exiles on their new journey, and a few months after they were
established in the Chateau of Graffenburg at Goritz, Charles X. died of
cholera, in his eightieth year.  At Goritz, also, on the 31st May, 1844,
the Duchesse d’Angouleme, who had sat beside so many death-beds, watched
over that of her husband.  Theirs had not been a marriage of affection in
youth, but they respected each other’s virtues, and to a great extent
shared each other’s tastes; banishment and suffering had united them very
closely, and of late years they had been almost inseparable,--walking,
riding, and reading together.  When the Duchesse d’Angouleme had seen her
husband laid by his father’s side in the vault of the Franciscan convent,
she, accompanied by her nephew and niece, removed to Frohsdorf, where they
spent seven tranquil years.  Here she was addressed as “Queen” by her
household for the first time in her life, but she herself always
recognised Henri, Comte de Chambord, as her sovereign.  The Duchess lived
to see the overthrow of Louis Philippe, the usurper of the inheritance of
her family.  Her last attempt to exert herself was a characteristic one.
She tried to rise from a sick-bed in order to attend the memorial service
held for her mother, Marie Antoinette, on the 16th October, the
anniversary of her execution.  But her strength was not equal to the task;
on the 19th she expired, with her hand in that of the Comte de Chambord,
and on 28th October, 1851, Marie Therese Charlotte, Duchesse d’Angouleme,
was buried in the Franciscan convent.




The Ceremony of Expiation.


“In the spring of 1814 a ceremony took place in Paris at which I was
present because there was nothing in it that could be mortifying to a
French heart.  The death of Louis XVI. had long been admitted to be one of
the most serious misfortunes of the Revolution.  The Emperor Napoleon
never spoke of that sovereign but in terms of the highest respect, and
always prefixed the epithet unfortunate to his name.  The ceremony to
which I allude was proposed by the Emperor of Russia and the King of
Prussia.  It consisted of a kind of expiation and purification of the spot
on which Louis XVI. and his Queen were beheaded.  I went to see the
ceremony, and I had a place at a window in the Hotel of Madame de Remusat,
next to the Hotel de Crillon, and what was termed the Hotel de Courlande.

“The expiation took place on the 10th of April.  The weather was extremely
fine and warm for the season.  The Emperor of Russia and King of Prussia,
accompanied by Prince Schwartzenberg, took their station at the entrance
of the Rue Royale; the King of Prussia being on the right of the Emperor
Alexander, and Prince Schwartzenberg on his left.  There was a long
parade, during which the Russian, Prussian and Austrian military bands
vied with each other in playing the air, ‘Vive Henri IV.!’ The cavalry
defiled past, and then withdrew into the Champs Elysees; but the infantry
ranged themselves round an altar which was raised in the middle of the
Place, and which was elevated on a platform having twelve or fifteen
steps.  The Emperor of Russia alighted from his horse, and, followed by
the King of Prussia, the Grand Duke Constantine, Lord Cathcart, and Prince
Schwartzenberg, advanced to the altar.  When the Emperor had nearly
reached the altar the “Te Deum” commenced.  At the moment of the
benediction, the sovereigns and persons who accompanied them, as well as
the twenty-five thousand troops who covered the Place, all knelt down.
The Greek priest presented the cross to the Emperor Alexander, who kissed
it; his example was followed by the individuals who accompanied him,
though they were not of the Greek faith.  On rising, the Grand Duke
Constantine took off his hat, and immediately salvoes of artillery were
heard.”




NOTE.

The following titles have the signification given below during the period
covered by this work:

MONSEIGNEUR........... The Dauphin.

MONSIEUR.............. The eldest brother of the King, Comte de Provence,
afterwards Louis XVIII.

MONSIEUR LE PRINCE.... The Prince de Conde, head of the House of Conde.

MONSIEUR LE DUC....... The Duc de Bourbon, the eldest son of the Prince de
Condo (and the father of the Duc d’Enghien shot by Napoleon).

MONSIEUR LE GRAND..... The Grand Equerry under the ancien regime.

MONSIEUR LE PREMIER... The First Equerry under the ancien regime.

ENFANS DE FRANCE...... The royal children.

MADAME & MESDAMES..... Sisters or daughters of the King, or Princesses
near the Throne (sometimes used also for the wife of Monsieur, the eldest
brother of the King, the Princesses Adelaide, Victoire, Sophie, Louise,
daughters of Louis XV., and aunts of Louis XVI.)

MADAME ELISABETH...... The Princesse Elisabeth, sister of Louis XVI.

MADAME ROYALE......... The Princesse Marie Therese, daughter of Louis
XVI., afterwards Duchesse d’Angouleme.

MADEMOISELLE.......... The daughter of Monsieur, the brother of the King.





THE ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:

A man born solely to contradict
Advised the King not to separate himself from his army
Ah, Madame, we have all been killed in our masters’ service!
Alas! her griefs double mine!
Allowed her candles and as much firewood as she wanted
Better to die than to implicate anybody
Brought me her daughter Hortense de Beauharnais
Carried the idea of the prerogative of rank to a high pitch
Common and blamable practice of indulgence
Condescension which renders approbation more offensive
Customs are nearly equal to laws
Difference between brilliant theories and the simplest practice
Dignified tone which alone secures the respect due to power
Displaying her acquirements with rather too much confidence
Duc d’Orleans, when called on to give his vote for death of King
Elegant entertainments were given to Doctor Franklin
Etiquette still existed at Court, dignity alone was wanting
Extreme simplicity was the Queens first and only real mistake
Fashion of wearing a black coat without being in mourning
Favourite of a queen is not, in France, a happy one
Formed rather to endure calamity with patience than to contend
Grand-Dieu, mamma! will it be yesterday over again?
Happiness does not dwell in palaces
He is afraid to command
His ruin was resolved on; they passed to the order of the day
His seraglio in the Parc-aux-Cerfs
History of the man with the iron mask
How can I have any regret when I partake your misfortunes
I hate all that savours of fanaticism
I do not like these rhapsodies
I love the conveniences of life too well
If ever I establish a republic of women....
Indulge in the pleasure of vice and assume the credit of virtue
King (gave) the fatal order to the Swiss to cease firing
La Fayette to rescue the royal family and convey them to Rouen
Leave me in peace; be assured that I can put no heir in danger
Louis Philippe, the usurper of the inheritance of her family
Mirabeau forgot that it was more easy to do harm than good
Most intriguing little Carmelite in the kingdom
My father fortunately found a library which amused him
Never shall a drop of French blood be shed by my order
No one is more dangerous than a man clothed with recent authority
No accounting for the caprices of a woman
No ears that will discover when she (The Princess) is out of tune
None but little minds dreaded little books
Observe the least pretension on account of the rank or fortune
Of course I shall be either hissed or applauded.
On domestic management depends the preservation of their fortune
Prevent disorder from organising itself
Princes thus accustomed to be treated as divinities
Princess at 12 years was not mistress of the whole alphabet
Rabble, always ready to insult genius, virtue, and misfortune
Saw no other advantage in it than that of saving her own life
She often carried her economy to a degree of parsimony
Shocking to find so little a man in the son of the Marechal
Shun all kinds of confidence
Simplicity of the Queen’s toilet began to be strongly censured
So many crimes perpetrated under that name (liberty)
Spirit of party can degrade the character of a nation
Subjecting the vanquished to be tried by the conquerors
Taken pains only to render himself beloved by his pupil
Tastes may change
That air of truth which always carries conviction
The author (Beaumarchais) was sent to prison soon afterwards
The Jesuits were suppressed
The three ministers, more ambitious than amorous
The charge of extravagance
The emigrant party have their intrigues and schemes
The King delighted to manage the most disgraceful points
The anti-Austrian party, discontented and vindictive
There is not one real patriot among all this infamous horde
They say you live very poorly here, Moliere
Those muskets were immediately embarked and sold to the Americans
Those who did it should not pretend to wish to remedy it
To be formally mistress, a husband had to be found
True nobility, gentlemen, consists in giving proofs of it
Ventured to give such rash advice: inoculation
Was but one brilliant action that she could perform
We must have obedience, and no reasoning
Well, this is royally ill played!
What do young women stand in need of?--Mothers!
When kings become prisoners they are very near death
While the Queen was blamed, she was blindly imitated
Whispered in his mother’s ear, “Was that right?”
 “Would be a pity,” she said, “to stop when so fairly on the road”
 Young Prince suffered from the rickets
Your swords have rusted in their scabbards





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