Marie Antoinette and Her Son Part 23

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 circ.u.mstances to strengthen the welfare of the state. I expect it of the National a.s.sembly."

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 a.s.sembly 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 a.s.sembly 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 a.s.sembly 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 a.s.sembly, 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 a.s.sembly, 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 a.s.sembly. 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess, as well as the duke, refused almost with indignation to comply with the request of the queen. The d.u.c.h.ess, 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 d.u.c.h.ess, pa.s.sionately. "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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble air.

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

The d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess, "do not drive me from you, Marie, my Marie!"

The queen turned her great eyes upward, and her looks were a prayer to G.o.d 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 a.s.sembly, 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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!"

CHAPTER XII.

THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER, 1789.

The morning dawned--a windy October morning, surrounding the sun with thick clouds; so the daylight came late to Paris, as if fearing to see what had taken place on the streets and squares. The national guard, summoned together by the alarm-signal of drum-beats and the clangor of trumpets and horns, collected in the gray morning light, for a fearful rumor had been spread through Paris the evening before, and one has whispered to another that tomorrow had been appointed by the clubs and by the agitators for a second act in the revolution, and the people are too quiet, they must be roused to new deeds.

"The people are too quiet," that was the watchword of the 4th of October, in all the clubs, and it was Marat who had carried it.