Marie Antoinette and Her Son

by L. Mühlbach

CHAPTER XI.

KING LOUIS THE SIXTEENTH.

The 14th of July had broken upon Paris with its fearful events. The revolution had for the first time opened the crater, after subterranean thunder had long been heard, and after the ground of Paris had long been shaken. The glowing lava-streams of intense excitement, popular risings, and murder, had broken out and flooded all Paris, and before them judgment, discretion, and truth even, had taken flight.

The people had stormed the Bastile with arms, killed the governor, and for the first time the dreadful cry "To the lamp-post!" was heard in the streets of Paris; for the first time the iron arms of the lamp-posts had been transformed to gallows, on which those were suspended whom the people had declared guilty.

Meanwhile the lava-streams of revolution had not yet flowed out as far as Versailles.

On the evening of the 14th of July, peace and silence had settled early upon the palace, after a whole day spent in the apartments of the king and queen with the greatest anxiety, and after resolution had followed resolution in the efforts to come to a decision.

Marie Antoinette had early withdrawn to her rooms. The king, too, had retired to rest, and had already fallen into a deep slumber upon his bed. He had only slept a few hours, however, when he heard something moving near his bed, with the evident intention of awakening him. The king recognized his valet, who, with signs of the greatest alarm in his face, announced the Duke de Liancourt, grand maitre de la garde-robe of his majesty, who was in the antechamber, and who pressingly urged an immediate audience with the king. Louis trembled an instant, and tried to think what to do. Then he rose from his bed with a quick and energetic motion, and ordered the valet to dress him at once. After this had been done with the utmost rapidity, the king ordered that the Duke de Liancourt should be summoned to the adjacent apartment, when he would receive him.

As the king went out in the greatest excitement, he saw the duke, whose devotion to the person of the king was well known, standing before him with pale, distorted countenance and trembling limbs.

"What has happened, my friend?" asked the king, in breathless haste.

"Sire," answered the Duke de Liancourt, with suppressed voice, "in the discharge of my office, which permits the closest approach to your majesty, I have undertaken to bring you tidings which are now so confirmed, and which are so important and dreadful, that it would be a folly to try to keep what has happened longer from your knowledge."

"You speak of the occurrences in the capital?" asked the king, slightly drawing back.

"I have been told that your majesty has not yet been informed," continued the duke, "and yet in the course of yesterday the most dreadful events occurred in Paris. The head of the army had not ventured to send your majesty and the cabinet any report. It was known yesterday in Versailles at nightfall that the people, with, arms in their hands, had stormed and destroyed the Bastile. I have just received a courier from Paris, and these tidings are confirmed with the most horrible particularity. Sire, I held it my duty as a faithful servant of the crown to break the silence which has hitherto hindered your majesty from seeing clearly and acting accordingly. In Paris, not only has the Bastile been stormed by the people, but truly dreadful crimes and murders have taken place. The bloody heads of Delaunay and Flesselles were carried on pikes through the city by wild crowds of people. A part of the fortifications of the Bastile have been levelled. Several of the invalides, who were guarding the fort, have been found suspended from the lantern-posts. A want of fidelity has begun to appear in the other regiments. The armed people now arrayed in the streets of Paris are estimated at two hundred thousand men. They fear this very night a rising of the whole population of the city."

The king had listened standing, as in a sad dream. His face had become pale, but his bearing was unchanged.

"There is then a revolt!" said Louis XVI., after a pause, as if suddenly awakening from deep thought.

"No, sire," answered the duke, earnestly, "it is a revolution."

"The queen was right," said the monarch, softly, to himself; "and now rivers of blood would be necessary to hide the ruin that has grown so great. But my resolution is taken; the blood of the French shall not be poured out."

"Sire," cried Liancourt, with a solemn gesture, "the safety of France and of the royal family lies in this expression of your majesty. I ought to be and I must be plain-spoken this hour. The greatest danger lies in your majesty's following the faithless counsels of your ministers. How I bless this hour which is granted me to stand face to face with your majesty, and dare to address myself to your own judgment and to your heart! Sire, the spirit of the infatuated capital will make rapid and monstrous steps forward. I conjure you make your appearance in the National Assembly to-day, and utter there the word of peace. Your appearance will work wonders; it will disarm the parties and make this body of men the truest allies of the crown."

The king looked at him with a long, penetrating glance. The youthful fire in which the noble duke had spoken appeared to move the king. He extended his hand and pressed the duke's in his own. Then he said softly: "You are yourself one of the most influential members of this National Assembly, my lord duke. Can you give me your personal word that my appearance there will be viewed as indicating the interest of the crown in the welfare of France?"

At this moment the first glow of the morning entered the apartment, and overpowered the pale candle-light which till then had illuminated the room.

"The Assembly longs every day and every hour for the conciliatory words of your majesty," cried Liancourt. "The doubts and disquiet into which the National Assembly is falling more and more every day are not to be dispelled in any other way than by the appearance of your majesty's gracious face. I beseech you to appear to-day at the National Assembly. The service of to-day, which begins in a few hours, may take the most unfortunate turn, if you, sire, do not take this saving step."

Just then the door opened, and Monsieur, together with Count d'Artois, entered. Both brothers of the king appeared to be in the greatest excitement. From their appearance and gestures it could be inferred that the news brought by the Duke de Liancourt had reached the palace of Versailles.

Liancourt at once approached the Count d'Artois, and said to him in decisive tones:

"Prince, your head is threatened by the people. I have with my own eyes seen the poster which announces this fearful proscription."

The prince uttered a cry of terror at these words, and stood in the middle of the room like one transfixed.

"It is good, if the people think so," he said then, recovering himself. "I am, like the people, for open war. They want my head, and I want their heads. Why do we not fire? A fixed policy, no quarter to the so-called freedom ideas-cannon well served! These alone can save us!"

"His majesty the king has come to a different conclusion!" said the Duke de Liancourt, bowing low before the king, who stood calmly by with folded arms.

"I beg my brothers, the Count de Provence and the Count d'Artois, to accompany me this morning to the Assembly of States-General," said the king, in a firm tone.

"I wish to go thither in order to announce to the Assembly my resolution to withdraw my troops. At the same time I shall announce to them my decided wish that they may complete the work of their counsels in peace, for I have no higher aim than through them to learn the will of the nation."

Count d'Artois retreated a step in amazement. Upon his mobile face appeared the sharp, satirical expression which was peculiar to the character of the prince. It was different with Provence, who, at the king's words, quickly approached him to press his hand in token of cordial agreement and help.

At this moment the door of the chamber was opened, and the queen, accompanied by several persons, her most intimate companions, entered in visible excitement.

"Does your majesty know what has happened?" she asked, with pale face and tearful eyes, as she violently grasped the king's hand.

"It will be all well yet," said the king, with gentle dignity; "it will prove a help to us that we have nothing as yet to accuse ourselves with. I am resolved to go to-day to the National Assembly, and to show it a sign of my personal confidence, in announcing the withdrawal of my troops from Paris and Versailles."

The queen looked at her husband with the greatest amazement; then, like one in a trance, she dropped his hand and stood supporting her fair head upon her hand, with a thoughtful, pained expression.

"By doing so your majesty will make the revolution an irrevocable fact," she then said, slowly raising her eyes to him; "and it troubles me, sire, that you will again set foot in an Assembly numbering so many dreadful and hostile men, and in which the resolution made last month to disband it ought to have been carried into effect long ago."

"Has the Assembly, in fact, so many dreadful members?" asked the king, with his good-natured smile. "Yet I see before me here two extremely amiable members of that Assembly, and their looks really give me courage to appear there. There is my old, true friend, the Duke de Liancourt, and even in the train of your majesty there is the valiant Count de la Marck, whom I heartily welcome. May I not, Count de la Marck, depend upon some favor with your colleagues in the National Assembly?" asked the king, with an amiable expression.

"Sire," answered the count, in his most perfect court manner, "in the variety of persons constituting the Assembly, I do not know a single one who would be able to close his heart to the direct word of the monarch, and such condescending grace. The nobility, to whose side I belong, would find itself confirmed thereby in its fidelity; the clergy would thank God for the manifestation of royal authority which shall bring peace; and the Third Estate would have to confess in its astonishment that safety comes only from the monarch's hands."

The king smiled and nodded in friendly manner to the count.

"It seems to me," he said, "that the time is approaching for us to go to the Assembly. Their royal highnesses Count de Provence and Count d'Artois will accompany me. I commission the Duke de Liancourt to go before us to the Salle des Menus, and to announce to the Assembly, directly after the opening of the session, that we shall appear there at once in person."

On this the king dismissed all who were present. The queen took tender leave of him, in a manner indicating her excited feelings. She had never seen her royal husband bearing himself in so decided and confident a manner, and it almost awakened new confidence in her troubled breast. But at the same moment all the doubts and cares returned, and sadly, with drooping head, the queen withdrew.

In the mean time, close upon the opening of the National Assembly that morning, stormy debates had begun about the new steps which they were going to take with the monarch.

Count Mirabeau had just been breaking out into an anathema in flaming words about the holiday which the king had given to the new regiments, when the Duke de Liancourt, who that moment entered the hall, advanced to the speaker's desk and announced that the king was just on the point of coming to the Assembly. The greatest amazement, followed immediately by intense disquiet, was expressed on all sides at hearing this. Men sprang up from their places and formed scattered groups to talk over this unexpected circumstance and come to an understanding in advance. They spoke in loud, angry words about the reception which should be given to the king in the National Assembly, when Mirabeau sprang upon the tribune, and, with his voice towering above every other sound, cried that "mere silent respect should be the only reception that we give to the monarch. In a moment of universal grief, silence is the true lesson of kings." [Footnote: Mirabeau's own words.—See "Memoires du Comte de Mirabeau," vol. ii., p. 301.]

A resounding bravo accompanied these words, which appeared to produce the deepest impression upon all parties in the Assembly.

Before the room was silent, the king, accompanied by his brothers, but with no other retinue besides, entered the hall. Notwithstanding all the plans and efforts which had been made, his appearance at this moment wrought so powerfully that, as soon as they saw him, the cry "Long live the king!" was taken up and repeated so often as to make the arched ceiling ring.

The king stood in the midst of the Assembly, bearing himself modestly and with uncovered head. He did not make use of an arm- chair which was placed for him, but remained standing, as, without any ceremony, he began to address the Assembly with truly patriarchal dignity. When at the very outset he said that as the chief of the nation, as he called himself, he had come with confidence to meet the nation's representatives, to testify his grief for what had happened, and to consult them respecting the re- establishing of peace and order, a pacified expression appeared upon almost all faces.

With gentle and almost humble bearing the king then entered upon the suspicions that had been breathed, that the persons of the deputies were not safe. With the tone of an honest burgher he referred to his own "well-known character," which made it superfluous for him to dismiss such a suspicion. "Ah!" he cried, "it is I who have trusted myself to you! Help me in these painful circumstances to strengthen the welfare of the state. I expect it of the National Assembly."

Then with a tone of touching kindness he said: "Counting upon the love and fidelity of my subjects, I have given orders to the troops to withdraw from Paris and Versailles. At the same time I commission and empower you to convey these my orders to the capital."

The king now closed his address, which had been interrupted by frequent expressions of delight and enthusiasm, but which was received at the close with a thunder of universal applause. After the Archbishop of Brienne had expressed the thanks of the Assembly in a few words, the king prepared to leave the hall. At that instant all present rose in order to follow the king's steps. Silently the whole National Assembly became the retinue of the king, and accompanied him to the street.

The king wished to return on foot to the palace. Behind him walked the National Assembly in delighted, joyful ranks. The startling importance of the occasion seemed to have overpowered the most hostile and the most alienated An immense crowd of people, which had gathered before the door of the hall, seeing the king suddenly reappear in the midst of the whole National Assembly, broke into jubilant cries of delight. The shouts, "Long live the king! Long live the nation!" blended in a harmonious concord which rang far and wide. Upon the Place d'Armes were standing the gardes du corps, both the Swiss and the French, with their arms in their hands. But they, too, were infected with the universal gladness, as they saw the procession, whose like had never been seen before, move on.

The cries which to-day solemnized the happy reconciliation of the king and the people now were united with the discordant clang of trumpets and the rattle of drums on all sides.

Upon the great balcony of the palace at Versailles stood the queen, awaiting the return of the king. The thousands of voices raised in behalf of Louis XVI. and the nation had drawn Marie Antoinette to the balcony, after remaining in her own room with thoughts full of evil forebodings. She held the dauphin in her arms, and led her little daughter. Her eyes, from which the heavy veils of sadness were now withdrawn, cast joyful glances over the immense, shouting crowds of people approaching the palace, at whose head she joyfully recognized her husband, the king, wearing an expression of cheerfulness which for a time she had not seen on his face.

When the king caught sight of his wife, he hastened to remove his hat and salute her. But few of the deputies followed the royal example, and silently, without any salutation, without any cries of acclamation, they looked up at the queen. Marie Antoinette turned pale, and stepped hack with her children into the hall.

"It is all over," she said, with a gush of tears, "it is all over with my hopes. The Queen of France is still to be the poorest and most unhappy woman in France, for she is not loved, she is despised."

Two soft young arms were laid around her neck, and with a face full of sorrow, and with tears in his great blue eyes, the dauphin looked up to the disturbed countenance of his mother.

"Mamma queen," he whispered, pressing fondly up to her, "mamma queen, I love you and everybody loves you, and my dear brother in heaven prays for you."

With a loud cry of pain, that escaped her against her will, the queen pressed her son to her heart and covered his head with her kisses.

"Love me, my son, love me," she whispered, choking, "and may thy brother in heaven pray for me that I may soon be released from the pains which I suffer!"

But as she heard now the voice of the king without, taking leave of his retinue with friendly words, Marie Antoinette hastily dried her tears, and putting down the dauphin, whispered to him, "Do not tell papa that I have been crying," and in her wonted lofty bearing, with a smile upon her trembling lips, she went to meet her husband.

As it grew late and dark in the evening, several baggage-wagons heavily laden and tightly closed moved noiselessly and hastily from the inner courts of the palace, and took the direction toward the country. In these carriages were the Count d'Artois, the Duke d'Angouleme, and the Duke de Berry, the Prince de Conde, the Duke de Bourbon, and the Duke d'Enghein, who were leaving the kingdom in secret flight.

Louis XVI. had tried to quiet the anxieties of his brother, the Count d'Artois, by advising him to leave France for some time, and to remain in a foreign land, until the times should be more quiet and peaceful. The other princes, although not so sorely threatened with popular rage as the Count d'Artois, whose head had already been demanded at Paris, had, with the exception of the king's other brother, been so overcome with their anxieties as to resolve upon flight. They were followed on the next day by the new ministers, who now, yielding to the demands of the National Assembly, had handed in their resignation to the king, but did not consider it safe to remain within range of the capital.

But another offering, and one more painful to the queen, had to be made to the hatred of the people and the hostile demands of the National Assembly. Marie Antoinette herself felt it, and had the courage to express it.

Her friends the Polignacs must be sent away. In all the libellous pamphlets which had been directed against the queen, and which Brienne had sedulously given to her, it was one of the main charges which had been hurled against her, that the queen had given to her friends enormous sums from the state's treasury; that the Duchess Julia, as governess of the royal children, and her husband the Duke de Polignac, as director of the royal mews, received a yearly salary of two million francs; and that the whole Polignac family together drew nearly six million francs yearly from the national treasury.

Marie Antoinette knew that the people hated the Polignacs on this account, and she wanted at least to put her friends in a place of safety.

At the same hour in which the brothers of the king and the princes of the royal family left Versailles, the Duke and the Duchess de Polignac were summoned to the queen, and Marie Antoinette had told them with trembling voice that they too must fly, that they must make their escape that very night. But the duchess, as well as the duke, refused almost with indignation to comply with the request of the queen. The duchess, who before had been characterized by so calm a manner, now showed for the first time a glow of affection for her royal friend, and unreckoning tenderness. "Let us remain with you, Marie," she said, choking, and throwing both her arms around the neck of the queen. "Do not drive me from you. I will not go, I will share your perils and will die for you, if it must be."

But Marie Antoinette found now in her great love the power to resist these requests—the power to hold back the tears which started from her heart and to withdraw herself from the arms of her friend.

"It must be," she said. "In the name of our friendship I conjure you, Julia, take your departure at once, for, if you are not willing to, I shall die with anxiety about you. There is still time for you and yours to escape the rage of my enemies. They hate you not for your own sake, and how would it be possible to hate my Julia? It is for my sake, and because they hate me, that they persecute my dearest friend. Go, Julia, you ought not to be the victim of your friendship for me."

"No, I remain," said the duchess, passionately. "Nothing shall separate me from my queen."

"Duke," implored the queen, "speak the word, say that it is necessary for you to fly!"

"Your majesty," replied the duke, gravely, "I can only repeat what Julia says: nothing shall separate us from our queen. If we have in the days of prosperity enjoyed the favor of being permitted to be near your majesty, we must claim it as the highest favor to be permitted to be near you in the days of your misfortune!"

Just then the door opened and the king entered.

"Sire," said the queen, as she advanced to meet him, "help me to persuade these noble friends that they ought to leave us!"

"The queen is right," said Louis, sadly, "they must go at once. Our misfortune compels us to part with all who love and esteem us. I have just said farewell to my brother, now I say the same to you; I command you to go. Pity us, but do not lose a minute's time. Take your children and your servants with you. Reckon at all times upon me. We shall meet again in happier days, after our dangers are past, and then you shall both resume your old places. Farewell! Once more I command you to go!" [Footnote: The king's own words. This intense parting scene is strictly historical, according to the concurrent communications of Montjoie in his "Histoire de Marie Antoinette." Campan, Mem., ii. Weber, Mem., i.]

And as the king perceived that the tears were starting into his eyes, and that his voice was trembling, he silently bowed to his friends, and hastily withdrew.

"You have heard what the king commands," said Marie Antoinette, eagerly, "and you will not venture to disobey him. Hear also this: I too, the Queen of France, command you to take your departure this very hour."

The duke bowed low before the queen, who stood with pale cheeks, but erect, and with a noble air.

"Your majesty has commanded, and it becomes us to obey. We shall go."

The duchess sank, with a loud cry of grief, on her knee before the queen, and buried her face in the royal robe.

Marie Antoinette did not disturb her, did not venture to speak to her, for she knew that, with the first word which she should utter, the pain of her heart would find expression on her lips, and she would be composed; she would not let her friend see how severe the sacrifice was which her love compelled her to make.

"Let me remain with you," implored the duchess, "do not drive me from you, Marie, my Marie!"

The queen turned her great eyes upward, and her looks were a prayer to God to give her power and steadfastness. Twice then she attempted to speak, twice her voice refused to perform its duty, and she remained silent, wrestling with her grief, and at last overcoming it.

"Julia," she said—and with every word her voice became firmer and stronger—" Julia, we must part. I should be doubly unhappy to draw you and yours into my misfortunes; it will, in all my troubles, be a consolation to me, that I have been able to save you. I do not say, as the king did, that we shall meet again in happier days, and after our perils are past—for I do not believe in any more happy days—we shall not be able to survive those perils, but shall perish in them. I say, farewell, to meet not in this, but in a better world! Not a word more. I cannot bear it! Your queen commands you to go at once! Farewell!"

She extended her hand firmly to her, but she could not look at her friend, who lay at her feet weeping and choking; she saluted the duke with a mere wave of the hand, turned quickly away, and hastened into the adjoining room, and then on till she reached her own toilet-room, where Madame de Campan was awaiting her.

"Campan," she cried, in tones of anguish, "Campan, it is done! I have lost my friend! I shall never see her again. Close the door, draw the bolt, that she cannot come in, I—I shall die!" And the queen uttered a loud cry, and sank in a swoon.

At midnight two well-packed carriages drove out of the inner courts of the palace. They were the Polignacs; they were leaving France, to take refuge in Switzerland.

In the first carriage was the Duchess de Polignac, with her husband and her daughter. She held two letters in her hand. Campan had given her both, in the name of the queen, as she was stepping into the carriage.

One was directed to Minister Necker, who, after his dismissal, had withdrawn to Basle. Since the National Assembly, the clubs, the whole population of Paris, desired Necker's return, and declared him to be the only man who could restore the shattered finances of the country; the queen had persuaded her husband to recall the minister, although an opponent of hers, and appoint him again minister of finance. The letter of the queen, which the Duchess Julia was commissioned to give to Necker, contained his recall, announced to him in flattering words.

The second letter was a parting word from the queen to her friend, a last cry from her heart. "Farewell," it ran—" farewell, tenderly- loved friend! How dreadful this parting word is! But it is needful. Farewell! I embrace thee in spirit! Farewell!"