Marie Antoinette and Her Son

by L. Mühlbach

Mademoiselle de Bugois looked with deep sadness at the pale face of the queen, that would show the public that she had not altered, and upon which, once so fair and bright, grief had recorded its ineradicable characters, and almost extinguished its old beauty. Deeply moved, the waiting-lady turned away in order not to let the tears be seen which, against her will, streamed from her eyes.

But Marie Antoinette had seen them nevertheless. With a sad smile she laid her hand upon the shoulder of the lady-in-waiting. "Ah!" said she, mildly, "do not conceal your tears. You are much happier than I, for you can shed tears; mine have been flowing almost two years in silence, and I have had to swallow them! [Footnote: Marie Antoinette's own words.—See Goncourt, p. 264.]

"But I will not weep this evening," she continued, "I will meet these Parisians at least in composure. Yes, I will do more, I will try to smile to them. They hate me now, but perhaps they will remember then that once they truly loved me. There is a trace of magnanimity in the people, and my confidence will perhaps touch it. Be quick, and make my toilet. I will be fair to-day. I will adorn myself for the Parisians. They will not be my enemies alone who will be at the theatre; some of my friends will be there, and they at least will be glad to see me. Quick, mademoiselle, let us begin my toilet."

And with a liveliness and a zeal which, in her threatened situation, had something touching in it, Marie Antoinette arrayed herself for the public, for the good Parisians.

The news that the queen was to appear that evening at the theatre had quickly run through all Paris; the officer on duty told it at his relief to some of the guards, they to those whom they met, and it spread like wildfire. It was therefore very natural that, long before the curtain was raised, the great opera-house was completely filled, parquette, boxes, and parterre, with a passionately-excited throng. The friends of the queen went in order to give her a long- looked-for triumph; her enemies—and these the poor queen had in overwhelming numbers—to fling their hate, their malice, their scorn, into the face of Marie Antoinette.

And enemies of the queen had taken places for themselves in every part of the great house. They even sat in the boxes of the first rank, on those velvet-cushioned chairs which had formerly been occupied exclusively by the enthusiastic admirers of the court, the ladies and gentlemen of the aristocracy. But now the aristocracy did not dare to sit there. The most of them, friends of the queen, had fled, giving way before her enemies and persecutors; and in the boxes where they once sat, now were the chief members of the National Assembly, together with the leading orators of the clubs, and the societies of Jacobins.

To the box above, where the people had once been accustomed to see Princess Lamballe, the eyes of the public were directed again and again. Marie Antoinette had been compelled to send away this last of her friends to London, to have a conference with Pitt. Instead of the fair locks of the princess, was now to be seen the head of a man, who, resting both arms on the velvet lining of the box, was gazing down with malicious looks into the surging masses of the parterre. This man was Marat, once the veterinary of the Count d'Artois, now the greatest and most formidable orator of the wild Jacobins.

He too had come to see the hated she-wolf, as he had lately called the queen in his "Ami du Peuple," and, to prepare for her a public insult, sat drunk with vanity in the splendid box of the Princess Lamballe; his friends and confidants were in the theatre, among them Santerre the brewer, and Simon the cobbler, often looking up at Marat, waiting for the promised motion which should be his signal for the great demonstration.

At length the time arrived for the opera to begin, and, although the queen had not come, the director of the orchestra did not venture to detain the audience even for a few minutes. He went to his place, took his baton, and gave the sign. The overture began, and all was silent, in parquette and parterre, as well as in the boxes. Every one seemed to be listening only to the music, equally full of sweetness and majesty—only to have ears for the noble rhythm with which Gluck begins his "Alceste."

Suddenly there arose a dull, suppressed sound in parquette, parterre, and boxes, and all heads which had before been directed toward the stage, were now turned backward toward the great royal box. No one paid any more attention to the music, no one noticed that the overture was ended and that the curtain was raised.