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