Marie Antoinette and Her Son

by L. Mühlbach

CHAPTER VIII.

BEFORE THE MARRIAGE.

The wedding guests were assembled. Madame Bugeaud had just put the veil upon the head of her daughter Margaret, and impressed upon her forehead the last kiss of motherly love. It was the hour when a mother holds her daughter as a child in her arms for the last time, bids adieu to the pleasant pictures of the past, and sends her child from her parents' house to go out into the world and seek a new home. Painful always is such an hour to a mother's heart, for the future is uncertain; no one knows any thing about the new vicissitudes that may arise.

And painful, too, to the wife of Councillor Bugeaud was this parting from her dearly-loved daughter, but she suppressed her deep emotion, restrained the tears in her heart, that not one should fall upon the bridal wreath of her loved daughter. Tears dropped upon the bridal wreath are the heralds of coming misfortune, the seal of pain which destiny stamps upon the brow of the doomed one.

And the tender mother would so gladly have taken away from her loved Margaret every pain and every misfortune! The times were threatening, and the horizon of the present was so full of stormy signs that it was necessary to look into the future with hope.

"Go, my daughter," said Madame Bugeaud, with a smile, regarding which only God knew how much it cost the mother's heart—" go out into your new world, be happy, and may you never regret the moment when yon left the threshold of your father's house to enter a new home!"

"My dear mother," cried Margaret, with beaming eyes, "the house to which I am going is the house of him I love, and my new home is his heart, which is noble, great, and good, and in which all the treasures in the earth for me rest."

"God grant, my daughter, that you may after many years be able to repeat those words!"

"I shall repeat them, mother, for in my heart is a joyful trust. I can never be unhappy, for Toulan loves me. But, hark! I hear him coming; it is his step, and listen! he is calling me!"

And the young girl, with reddening cheeks, directed her glowing eyes to the door, which just then opened, where appeared her lover, in a simple, dark, holiday-suit, with a friendly, grave countenance, his tender, beaming eyes turned toward his affianced.

He hastened to her, and kissed the little trembling hand which was extended to him.

"All the wedding guests are ready, my love. The carriages are waiting, and as soon as we enter the church the clergyman will advance to the altar to perform the ceremony."

"Then let us go, Louis," said Margaret, nodding to him, and arm-in- arm they went to the door.

But Toulan held back. "Not yet, my dear one. Before we go to the church, I want to have a few words with you."

"That is to say, my dear sir, that you would like to have me withdraw," said the mother, with a smile. "Do not apologize, my son, that is only natural, and I dare not be jealous. My daughter belongs to you, and I have no longer the right to press into your secrets. So I will withdraw, and only God may hear what the lover has to say to his affianced before the wedding."

She nodded in friendly fashion to the couple, and left the room.

"We are now alone, my Margaret," said Toulan, putting his arm around the neck of the fair young maiden, and drawing her to himself. "Only God is to hear what I have to say to you."

"I hope, Louis," whispered the young girl, trembling, "I hope it is not bad news that you want to tell me. Your face is so grave, your whole look so solemn. You love me still, Louis?"

"Yes, Margaret, I do love you," answered he, softly; "but yet, before you speak the word which binds you to me forever, I must open my whole heart to you, and you must know all I feel, in order that, if there is a future to prove us, we may meet it with fixed gaze and joyful spirit."

"My God! what have I to hear?" whispered the young girl, pressing her hand to her heart, that began to beat with unwonted violence.

"You will have to hear, my Margaret, that I love you, and yet that the image of another woman is cherished in my heart."

"Who is this other woman?" cried Margaret.

"Margaret, it is Queen Marie Antoinette."

The girl breathed freely, and laughed. "Ah! how you frightened me, Louis. I was afraid you were going to name a rival, and now you mention her whom I, too, love and honor, to whom I pay my whole tribute of admiration, and who, although you ought to live there alone, has a place in my heart. I shall never be jealous of the queen. I love her just as devotedly as you do."

A light, sympathetic smile played upon the lips of Toulan. "No, Margaret," said he, gravely, "you do not love her as I do, and you cannot, for your duty to her is not like mine. Listen, my darling, and I will tell you a little story—a story which is so sacred to me that it has never passed over my lips, although, according to the ways of human thinking, there is nothing so very strange about it. Come, my dear, sit down with me a little while, and listen to me."

He led the maiden to the little divan, and took a place with her upon it. Her hand lay within his, and with a joyful and tender look she gazed into the bold, noble, and good face of the man to whom she was ready to devote her whole life.

"Speak now, Louis, I will listen!"

"I want to tell you of my father, Margaret," said the young man, with a gentle voice—" of my father, who thirsted and hungered for me, in his efforts to feed, clothe, and educate me. He had been an officer in the army, had distinguished himself in many a battle, was decorated, on account of his bravery, with the Order of St. Louis, and discharged as an invalid. That was a sad misfortune for my father, for he was poor, and his officer's pay was his only fortune. But no—he had a nobler, a fairer fortune—he had a wife whom he passionately loved, a little boy whom he adored. And now the means of existence were taken away from this loved wife, this dear boy, and from him whose service had been the offering of his life for his king and country, the storming of fortifications, the defying of the bayonets of enemies; and who in this service had been so severely wounded, that his life was saved only by the amputation of his right arm. Had it not been just this right arm, he would have been able to do something for himself, and to have found some employment in the government service. But now he was robbed of all hope of employment; now he saw for himself and his family only destruction, starvation! But he could not believe it possible; he held it to be impossible that the king should allow his bold soldier, his knight of the Order of St. Louis, to die of hunger, after becoming a cripple in his service. He resolved to go to Paris, to declare his need to the king, and to implore the royal bounty. This journey was the last hope of the family, and my father was just entering on it when my mother sickened and died. She was the prop, the right arm of my father; she was the nurse, the teacher of his poor boy; now he had no hope more, except in the favor of the king and in death. The last valuables were sold, and father and son journeyed to Paris: an invalid whose bravery had cost him an arm, and whose tears over a lost wife had nearly cost him his eyesight, and a lad of twelve years, acquainted only with pain and want from his birth, and in whose heart, notwithstanding, there was an inextinguishable germ of hope, spirit, and joy. We went on foot, and when my shoes were torn with the long march, my feet swollen and bloody, my father told me to climb upon his back and let him carry me. I would not allow it, Suppressed my pain, and went on till I dropped in a swoon."

"Oh!" cried Margaret, with tears in her eyes, "how much you have suffered; and I am learning it now for the first time, and you never told me this sad history."

"I forgot every thing sad when I began to love you, Margaret, and I did not want to trouble you with my stories. Why should we darken the clear sky of the present with the clouds of the past? the future will unquestionably bring its own clouds. I tell you all this now, in order that you may understand my feelings. Now hear me further, Margaret! At last, after long-continued efforts, we reached Versailles, and it seemed to us as if all suffering and want were taken away from us when we found ourselves in a dark, poor inn, and lay down on the hard beds. On the next, my father put on his uniform, decorated his breast with the order of St. Louis, and, as the pain in his eyes prevented his going alone, I had to accompany him. We repaired to the palace and entered the great gallery which the court daily traversed on returning from mass in the royal apartments. My father, holding in his hand the petition which I had written to his dictation, took his place near the door through which the royal couple must pass. I stood near him and looked with curious eyes at the brilliant throng which filled the great hall, and at the richly-dressed gentlemen who were present and held petitions in their hands, in spite of their cheerful looks and their fine clothes. And these gentlemen crowded in front of my father, shoved him to the wall, hid him from the eye of the king, who passed through the hall at the side of the queen, and with a pleasant face received all the petitions which were handed to him. Sadly we turned home, but on the following day we repaired to the gallery again, and I had the courage to crowd back some of the elegantly-dressed men who wanted to press before my father, and to secure for him a place in the front row. I was rewarded for my boldness. The king came, and with a gracious smile took the petition from the hand of my father, and laid it in the silver basket which the almoner near him carried."

"Thank God," cried Margaret, with a sigh of relief, "thank God, you were saved!"

"That we said too, Margaret, and that restored my father's hope and made him again happy and well. We went the next day to the gallery. The king appeared, the grand almoner announced the names of those who were to receive answers to their petitions—the name of my father was not among them! But we comforted ourselves with the thought, it was not possible to receive answers so quickly, and on the next day we went to the gallery again, and so on for fourteen successive days, but all in vain; the name of my father was never called. Still we went every day to the gallery and took our old place there, only the countenance of my father was daily growing paler, his step weaker, and his poor boy more trustless and weak. We had no longer the means of stilling our hunger, we had consumed every thing, and my father's cross of St. Louis was our last possession. But that we dared not part with, for it was our passport to the palace, it opened to us the doors of the great gallery, and there was still one last hope. 'We go to-morrow for the last time,' said my father to me on the fifteenth day. 'If it should be in vain on the morrow, then I shall sell my cross, that you, Louis, may not need to be hungry any more, and then may God have mercy upon us!' So we went the next day to the gallery again. My father was to-day paler than before, but he held his head erect; he fixed his eye, full of an expression of defiance and scorn, upon the talkative, laughing gentlemen around him, who strutted in their rich clothes, and overlooked the poor chevalier who stood near them, despised and alone. In my poor boy's heart there was a fearful rage against these proud, supercilious men, who thought themselves so grand because they wore better clothes, and because they had distinguished acquaintances and relations, and yet were no more than my father—no more than suppliants and petitioners; tears of anger and of grief filled my eyes, and the depth of our poverty exasperated my soul against the injustice of fate. All at once the whispering and talking ceased,—the king and the queen had entered the gallery. The king advanced to the middle of the hall, the grand almoner called the names, and the favored ones approached the king, to receive from him the fulfilment of their wishes, or at least keep their hope alive. Near him stood the young queen, and while she was converging with some gentlemen of the court, her beautiful eyes glanced over to us, and lingered upon the noble but sad form of my father. I had noticed that on previous days, and every time it seemed to me as if a ray from the sun had warmed my poor trembling heart—as if new blossoms of hope were putting forth in my soul. To-day this sensation, when the queen looked at us, was more intense than before. My father looked at the king and whispered softly, 'I see him to-day for the last time!' But I saw only the queen, and while I pressed the cold, moist hand of my father to my lips, I whispered, 'Courage, dear father, courage! The queen has seen us.' She stopped short in her conversation with the gentleman and advanced through the hall with a quick, light step directly to us; her large gray- blue eyes beamed with kindness, a heavenly smile played around her rosy lips, her cheeks were flushed with feeling; she was simply dressed, and yet there floated around her an atmosphere of grace and nobleness. 'My dear chevalier,' said she, and her voice rang like the sweetest music, 'my dear chevalier, have you given a petition to the king?' 'Yes, madame,' answered my father trembling, 'fourteen days ago I presented a petition to the king.' 'And have you received no answer yet?' she asked quickly. 'I see you every day here with the lad there, and conclude you are still hoping for an answer.' 'So it is, madame,' answered my father, 'I expect an answer, that is I expect a decision involving my life or death.' 'Poor man!' said the queen, with a tone of deep sympathy. 'Fourteen days of such waiting must be dreadful! I pity you sincerely. Have you no one to present your claims?' 'Madame,' answered my father, 'I have no one else to present my claims than this empty sleeve which lacks a right arm—no other protection than the justice of my cause.' 'Poor man!' sighed the queen, 'you must know the world very little if you believe that this is enough. But, if you allow me, I will undertake your protection, and be your intercessor with the king. Tell me your name and address.' My father gave them, the queen listened attentively and smiled in friendly fashion. 'Be here to-morrow at this hour—I myself will bring you the king's answer.' We left the palace with new courage, with new hope. We felt no longer that we were tired and hungry, and heeded not the complaints of our host, who declared that he had no more patience, and that he would no longer give us credit for the miserable chamber which we had. His scolding and threatening troubled us that day no more. We begged him to have patience with us till to-morrow. We told him our hopes for the future, and we rejoiced in our own cheerful expectations. At length the next day arrived, the hour of the audience came, and we repaired to the great gallery. My heart beat so violently that I could feel it upon my lips, and my father's face was lighted up with a glow of hope; his eye had its old fire, his whole being was filled with new life, his carriage erect as in our happy days. At last the doors opened and the royal couple entered. 'Pray for me, my son,' my father whispered—'pray for me that my hopes be not disappointed, else I shall fall dead to the earth.' But I could not pray, I could not think. I could only gaze at the beautiful young queen, who seemed to my eyes as if beaming in a golden cloud surrounded by all the stars of heaven. The eyes of the queen darted inquiringly through the hall; at last she caught mine and smiled. Oh that smile! it shot like a ray of sunlight through my soul, it filled my whole being with rapture. I sank upon my knee, folded my hands, and now I could think, could pray: 'A blessing upon the queen! she comes to save my dear father's life, for she frees us from our sufferings.' The queen approached, so beautiful, so lovely, with such a beaming eye. She held a sealed paper in her hand and gave it to my father with a gentle inclination of her head. 'Here, sir,' she said, 'the king is happy to be able to reward, in the name of France, one of his best officers. The king grants you a yearly pension of three hundred louis-d'or, and I wish for you and your son that you may live yet many years to enjoy happiness and health. Go at once with this paper to the treasury, and you will receive the first quarterly payment.' Then, when she saw that my father was almost swooning, she summoned with a loud voice some gentlemen of the court, and commanded them to take care of my father; to take him out into the fresh air, and to arrange that he be sent home in a carriage. Now all these fine gentlemen were busy in helping us. Every one vied with the others in being friendly to us; and the poor neglected invalid who had been crowded to the wall, the overlooked officer Toulan, was now an object of universal care and attention. We rode home to our inn in a royal carriage, and the host did not grumble any longer; he was anxious to procure us food, and very active in caring for all our needs. The queen had saved us from misfortune, the queen had made us happy and well to do."

"A blessing upon the dear head of our queen!" cried Margaret, raising her folded hands to heaven. "Now I shall doubly love her, for she is the benefactor of him I love. Oh, why have you waited until now before telling me this beautiful, touching story? Why have I not enjoyed it before? But I thank you from my heart for the good which it has done me."

"My dear one," answered Toulan, gravely, "there are experiences in the human soul that one may reveal only in the most momentous epochs of life—just as in the Jewish temple the Holy of Holies was revealed only on the chief feast-days. Such a time, my dear one, is to-day, and I withdraw all veils from my heart, and let you see and know what, besides you, only God sees and knows. Since that day when I returned with my father from the palace, and when the queen had made us happy again—since that day my whole soul has belonged to the queen. I thanked her for all, for the contentment of my father, for every cheerful hour which we spent together; and all the knowledge I have gained, all the studies I have attempted, I owe to the beautiful, noble Marie Antoinette. We went to our home, and I entered the high-school in order to fit myself to be a merchant, a bookseller. My father had enjoined upon me riot to choose a soldier's lot. The sad experience of his invalid life hung over him like a dark cloud, and he did not wish that I should ever enter into the same. 'Be an independent, free man,' said he to me. 'Learn to depend on your own strength and your own will alone. Use the powers of your mind, become a soldier of labor, and so serve your country. I know, indeed, that if the hour of danger ever comes, you will be a true, bold soldier for your queen, and fight for her till your last breath.' I had to promise him on his death-bed that I would so do. Even then he saw the dark and dangerous days approach, which have now broken upon the realm—even then he heard the muttering of the tempest which now so inevitably is approaching; and often when I went home to his silent chamber I found him reading, with tears in his eyes, the pamphlets and journals which had come from Paris to us at Rouen, and which seemed to us like the storm-birds announcing the tempest. 'The queen is so good, so innocent,' he would sigh, 'and they make her goodness a crime and her innocence they make guilt! She is like a lamb, surrounded by tigers, that plays thoughtlessly with the flowers, and does not know the poison that lurks beneath them. Swear to me, Louis, that you will seek, if God gives you the power, to free the lamb from the bloodthirsty tigers. Swear to me that your whole life shall be devoted to her service.' And I did swear it, Margaret, not merely to my dear father, but to myself as well. Every day I have repeated, 'To Queen Marie Antoinette belongs my life, for every thing that makes life valuable I owe to her.' "When my father died, I left Rouen and removed to Paris, there to pursue my business as a bookseller. My suspicions told me that the time would soon come when the friends of the queen must rally around her, and must perhaps put a mask over their faces, in order to sustain themselves until the days of real danger. That time has now come, Margaret; the queen is in danger! The tigers have surrounded the lamb, and it cannot escape. Enemies everywhere, wherever you look!—enemies even in the palace itself. The Count de Provence, her own brother-in-law, has for years persecuted her with his epigrams, because he cannot forgive it in her that the king pays more attention to her counsels than he does to those of his brother, who hates the Austrian. The Count d'Artois, formerly the only friend of Marie Antoinette in the royal family, deserted her when the queen took ground against the view of the king's brothers in favor of the double representation of the Third Estate, and persuaded her husband to comply with the wishes of the nation and call together the States-General. He has gone over to the camp of her enemies, and rages against the queen, because she is inclined to favor the wishes of the people. And yet this very people is turned against her, does not believe in the love, but only in the hate of the queen, and all parties are agreed in keeping the people in this faith. The Duke d'Orleans revenges himself upon the innocent and pure queen for the scorn which she displays to this infamous prince. The aunts of the queen revenge themselves for the obscure position to which fate has consigned them, they having to play the second part at the brilliant court of Versailles, and be thrown into the shade by Marie Antoinette. The whole court—all these jealous, envious ladies— revenge themselves for the favor which the queen has shown to the Polignacs. They have undermined her good name; they have fought against her with the poisoned arrows of denunciation, calumny, pamphlets, and libels. Every thing bad that has happened has been ascribed to her. She has been held responsible for every evil that has happened to the nation.

The queen is accountable for the financial troubles that have broken over us, and since the ministry have declared the state bankrupt, Parisians call the queen Madame Deficit. Curses follow her when she drives out, and even when she enters the theatre. Even in her own gardens of St. Cloud and Trianon men dare to insult the queen as she passes by. In all the clubs of Paris they thunder at the queen, and call her the destruction of Prance. The downfall of Marie Antoinette is resolved upon by her enemies, and the time has come when her friends must be active for her. The time has come for me to pay the vow which I made to my dying father and to myself. God has blessed my efforts and crowned my industry and activity with success. I have reached an independent position. The confidence of my fellow- citizens has made me a councillor. I have accepted the position, not out of vanity or ambition, but because it will give me opportunity to serve the queen. I wear a mask before my face. I belong to the democrats and agitators. I appear to the world as an enemy of the queen, in order to be able to do her some secret service as a friend; for I say to you, and repeat it before God, to the queen belong my whole life, my whole being, and thought. I love you, Margaret! Every thing which can make my life happy will come from you, and yet I shall be ready every hour to leave you—to see my happiness go to ruin without a complaint, without a sigh, if I can be of service to the queen. You my heart loves; her my soul adores. Wherever I shall be, Margaret, if the call of the queen comes to me, I shall follow it, even if I know that death lurks at the door behind which the queen awaits me. We stand before a dark and tempestuous time, and our country is to be torn with fearful strife. All passions are unfettered, all want to fight for freedom, and against the chains with which the royal government has held them bound. An abyss has opened between the crown and the nation, and the States-General and the Third Estate will not close it, but only widen it. I tell you, Margaret, dark days are approaching; I see them coming, and I cannot, for your sake, withdraw from them, for I am the soldier of the queen. I must keep guard before her door, and, if I cannot save her, I must die in her service. Know this, Margaret, but know, too, that I love you. Let me repeat, that from you alone all fortune and happiness can come to me, and then do you decide. Will you, after all that I have told you, still accept my hand, which I offer you in tenderest affection? Will you be my wife, knowing that my life belongs not to you alone, but still more to another? Will you share with me the dangers of a stormy time, of an inevitable future with me, and devote yourself with, me to the service of the queen? Examine yourself, Margaret, before you answer. Do not forget your great and noble heart; consider that it is a vast sacrifice to devote your life to a man who is prepared every hour to give his life for another woman—to leave the one he loves, and to go to his death in defence of his queen. Prove your heart; and, if you find that the sacrifice is too great, turn your face away from me, and I will quickly go my way—will not complain, will think that it happens rightly, will love you my whole life long, and thank you for the pleasant hours which your love has granted to me."

He had dropped from the divan upon his knee, and looked up to her with supplicating and anxious eyes. But Margaret did not turn her face away from him. A heavenly smile played over her features, her eye beamed with love and emotion. And as her glance sank deep into the heart of her lover, he caught the look as if it had been a ray of sunlight. She laid her arms upon his shoulders, and pressing his head to her bosom, she bowed over him and kissed his black, curly hair.

"Ah! I love you, Louis," she whispered. "I am ready to devote my life to you, to share your dangers with you, and in all contests to stand by your side. Soldier of the queen, in me you shall always have a comrade. With you I will fight for her, with you die for her, if it must be. We will have a common love for her, we will serve her in common, and with fidelity and love thank her for the good which she has done to you and your father."

"Blessings upon you, Margaret!" cried Toulan, as breaking into tears he rested his head upon the knee of his affianced. "Blessings on you, angel of my love and happiness!" Then he sprang up, and, drawing the young girl within his arms, he impressed a glowing kiss upon her lips.

"That is my betrothal kiss, Margaret; now you are mine; in this hour our souls are united in never-ending love and faithfulness. Nothing can separate us after this, for we journey hand in hand upon the same road; we have the same great and hallowed goal! Now come, my love, let us take our place before the altar of God, and testify with an oath to the love which we cherish toward our queen!"

He offered her his arm, and, both smiling, both with beaming faces, left the room, and joined the wedding guests who had long been waiting for them with growing impatience. They entered the carriages and drove to the church. With joyful faces the bridal pair pledged their mutual fidelity before the altar, and their hands pressed one another, and their eyes met with a secret understanding of all that was meant at that wedding. They both knew that at that moment they were pledging their fidelity to the queen, and that, while seeming to give themselves away to each other, they were really giving themselves to their sovereign.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, they left the church of St. Louis to repair to the wedding dinner, which Councillor Bugeaud had ordered to be prepared in one of the most brilliant restaurants of Versailles.

"Will you not tell me now, my dear son," he said to Toulan—"will you not tell me now why you wish so strongly to celebrate the wedding in Versailles, and not in Paris, and why in the church of St. Louis?"

"I will tell you, father," answered Toulan, pressing the arm of his bride closer to his heart. "I wanted here, where the country erects its altar, where in a few days the nation will meet face to face these poor earthly majesties; here, where in a few days the States- General will convene, to defend the right of the people against the prerogative of the sovereign, here alone to give to my life its new consecration. Versailles will from this time be doubly dear to me. I shall owe to it my life's happiness as a man, my freedom as a citizen. They have done me the honor in Rouen to elect me to a place in the Third Estate, and as, in a few days, the Assembly of the Nation will meet here in Versailles, I wanted my whole future happiness to be connected with the place. And I wanted to be married in St. Louis's church, because I love the good King Louis. He is the true and sincere friend of the nation, and he would like to make his people happy, if the queen, the Austrian, would allow it."

"Yes, indeed," sighed the councillor, who, in spite of his relation to Madame de Campan, belonged to the opponents of the queen—" yes, indeed, if the Austrian woman allowed it. But she is not willing that France should be happy. Woe to the queen; all our misery comes from her!