Marie Antoinette and Her Son

by L. Mühlbach

No, the queen is not wholly unfortunate; she has friends who are ready, with her, to suffer; with her, if it must be, to die. The Polignacs are gone, but Princess Lamballe, whom the queen had sent to London, to negotiate with Pitt, has returned, in spite of the warnings and pleadings of the queen. Marie Antoinette, when she learned that the princess was on the point of leaving England, had written to her: "Do not come back at a moment so critical. You would have to weep too much for us. I feel deeply, believe me, how good you are, and what a true friend you are. But, with all my love, I enjoin you not to come here. Believe me, my tender friendship for you will cease only with death."

The warning of her royal friend had, meanwhile, not restrained Princess Lamballe from doing what friendship commanded. She had returned to France, and Marie Antoinette had, at least, the comfort of having a tender friend at her side.

No, the queen was not wholly unfortunate. Besides this friend, she had her children, too—her sweet, blooming little daughter, and the dauphin, the pride and joy of her heart.

The dauphin had no suspicion of the woes and misfortunes which were threatening them. Like flowers that grow luxuriantly and blossom upon graves, so grew and blossomed this beautiful boy in the Tuileries, which was nothing more than the grave of the old kingly glory. But the dauphin was like sunshine in this dark, sad palace, and Marie Antoinette's countenance lightened when her eye fell upon her son, looking up to her with his tender, beaming face. From the fresh, merry smile of her darling, she herself learned to smile again, and be happy.

Gradually, after the first rage of the people was appeased, the chains with which she was bound were relaxed. The royal family was at least permitted to leave the close, hot rooms, and go down into the gardens, although still watched and accompanied by the National Guard. They were permitted to close the doors of their rooms again, although armed sentries still stood before them.

There were even some weeks and months in this year 1791, when it appeared as if the exasperated spirits would be pacified, and the throne be reestablished with a portion of its old dignity. The king had, in a certain manner, received forgiveness from the National Assembly, while accepting the constitution and swearing—as indeed he could but swear, all power having been taken from him, and he being a mere lay-figure—that would control all his actions, and govern according to the expressed will of the National Assembly.

But the king, in order to make peace with his people, had even made this sacrifice, and accepted the constitution. The people seemed grateful to him for this, and appeared to be willing to return to more friendly relations. The queen was no longer insulted with contemptuous cries when she appeared in the garden of the Tuileries, or in the Bois de Boulogne, and it even began to be the fashion to speak about the dauphin as a miracle of loveliness and beauty, and to go to the Tuileries to see him working in his garden.

This garden of the dauphin was in the immediate neighborhood of the palace, at the end of the terrace on the river-side; it was surrounded with a high wire fence, and close by stood the little pavilion where dwelt Abbe Davout, the teacher of the dauphin. The dauphin had had in Versailles a little garden of his own, which he himself worked, planted, and digged, and from whose flowers he picked a bouquet every morning, to bring it with beaming countenance to his mamma queen.

For this painfully-missed garden of Versailles, the little garden on the terrace had to compensate. The child was delighted with it; and every morning, when his study-hours were over, the dauphin hastened to his little parterre, to dig and to water his flowers. The garden has, since that day, much changed; it is enlarged, laid out on a different plan, and surrounded with a higher fence, but it still remains the garden of the Dauphin Louis Charles, the same garden that Napoleon subsequently gave to the little King of Borne; the same that Charles X. gave to the Duke de Bordeaux, and that Louis Philippe gave to the Count de Paris. How many recollections cluster around this little bit of earth, which has always been prematurely left by its young possessors! One died in prison scarcely ten years old; another, hurried away by the tempest, still younger, into a foreign land, only lived to hear the name of his father, and see his dagger before he died. The third and fourth were hurled out by the storm-wind like the first two, and still wear the mantle of exile in Austria and England. And many as are the tears with which these children regard their own fate, there must be many which they must bestow upon the fate of their fathers. One died upon the scaffold, another from the knife of an assassin, a third from a fall upon the pavement of a highway; and the last, the greatest of them all, was bound, like Prometheus, to a rock, and fed on bitter recollections till he met his death.

This little garden, on the river-side terrace of the Tuileries park, which has come to have a world-wide interest, was then the Eldorado of the little Dauphin of Prance; and to see him behind the fence was the delight of the Parisians who used to visit there, and long for the moment when the glance of his blue eye fell upon them, and for some days and months had again become enthusiastic royalists.