Marie Antoinette and Her Son Part 40

par Edmondet Jules de Goneourt, p. 861.]

But Queen Marie Antoinette had met all these humiliations, these disenchantments, and trials, full of hope of a change in her fortune. Her proud soul was still unbroken, her belief in the victory of monarchy under the favor of G.o.d animated her heart with a last ray of hope, and sustained her amid all her misfortune. She still would contend with her enemies for the love of this people, of whom she hoped that, led astray by Jacobins and agitators, they would at last confess their error, respect the voice of their king and queen, and return to love and regretfulness. And Marie Antoinette would sustain herself in view of the great day when the people's love should be given back; she would seek to bring that day back, and reconcile the people to the throne. On this account she would show the people that she cherished no fear of them; that she would intrust herself with perfect confidence to them, and greet them with her smiles and all the favor of former days. She would make one more attempt to regain her old popularity, and reawaken in their cold hearts the love which the people had once displayed to her by their loud acclamations. She found power in herself to let her tears flow, not visibly, but within her heart; to disguise with her smile the pain of her soul, and so she resolved to wear a cheerful and pleasant face, and appear again publicly in the theatre, as well as in open carriage-drives through the city.

They were then giving in the great opera-house Gluck's "Alceste,"

the favorite opera of the queen--the opera in which a few years before she had received so splendid a triumph; in which the public loudly encored, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!" which the choir had sung upon the stage, and, standing with faces turned toward the royal box, had mingled their voices with those of the singers, and repeated in a general chorus, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!"

"I will try whether the public remembers that evening," said Marie Antoinette, with a faint smile, to Mademoiselle de Bugois, the only lady who had been permitted to remain with her; "I will go this evening to the opera; the public shall at least see that I intrust myself with confidence to it, and that I have not changed, however much may have been changed around."

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 pa.s.sionately-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 a.s.sembly, 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 ma.s.ses 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 n.o.ble 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.

Amid the blast of trumpets, the noise of violins and clarionets, the public had heard the light noise of the opening doors, had noticed the entrance of the officers, and this sound had made the Parisians forget even their much-loved music.

There now appeared in the open box-door a woman's form. The queen, followed by Mademoiselle de Bugois, advanced slowly through the great box to the very front. All eyes were directed to her, all looks searched her pale, n.o.ble face.

Marie Antoinette felt this, and a smile flitted over her face like the evening glow of a summer's day. With this smile and a deep blush Marie Antoinette bowed and saluted the public.

A loud, unbounded cry of applause resounded through the vast room.

In the parquette and in the boxes hundreds of spectators arose and hailed the queen with a loud, pealing "Vive la reine!" and clapped their hands like pleased children, and looked up to the queen with joyful, beaming countenances.

"Oh, my faith has not deceived!" whispered Marie Antoinette into the ear of her companion. "The good Parisians love me still; they, like me, remember past times, and the old loyalty is awaking in them."

And again she bowed her thanks right and left, and again the house broke out into loud applause. A single, angry glance of Marat's little eyes, peering out from beneath the bushy brows, met the queen.

"Only wait," said Marat, rising from his seat and directing his glances at the parterre. There stood the giant Santerre, and not far from him Simon the cobbler, in the midst of a crowd of savage- looking, defiant fellows, who all looked at their leaders, while they, Santerre and Simon, directed their eyes up to the box of Marat.

The glance of the chief met that of his two friends. A scornful, savage expression swept over Marat's ash-colored, dirty face, and he nodded lightly to his allies. Santerre and Simon returned the nod, and they, turning to their companions, gave the signal by raising the right hand.

Suddenly the applause was overborne by loud whistling and shouting, derisive laughter, and wild curses.

"The civil war has begun!" cried Marat, rubbing his hands together with delight.

The royalists continued to applaud and to shout, "Vive la reine!"

Their opponents tried to silence them by their hisses and whistling.

Marat's face glowed with demoniacal pleasure. He turned to the boxes of the second tier, and nodded smilingly to the men who sat there.

At once they began to cry, "The chorus, the chorus, let them sing, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

"Very well," said Marat. "I am a good royalist, for I have trained the people to the cry."

"Sing, sing!" shouted the men to the performers on the stage--"sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

And in the boxes, parquette, everywhere was the cry, "Sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"

"No," roared Santerre, "no, they shall not sing that!"

"No," cried Simon, "we will not hear the monkey-song!"

And hundreds of men in the parterre and the upper rows of boxes echoed the cry, "No, we will not hear the monkey-song!"

"The thing works well!" said Marat. "I hold my people by a thread, and make them gesticulate and spring up and down, like the concealed man in a Punch and Judy show."

The noise went on; the royalists would not cease their applause and their calls for the chorus, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!" The enemies of the queen did not cease hissing and shouting, "We do not want to hear any thing about the queen; we will not hear the monkey- song!"

"Oh, would I had never come here!" whispered the queen, with tearful eyes, as she sank back in her armchair, and hid her face in her handkerchief.

Perhaps because the real royalists saw the agitation of the queen, and out of compa.s.sion for her were willing to give up the controversy--perhaps Marat had given a sign to the false royalists that they had had enough of shouting and confusion--at all events the cry "Vive la reine" and the call for the chorus died away suddenly, the applause ceased, and as the enemies of the queen had now no opposition to encounter, nothing was left to them but to be silent too.

"The first little skirmish is over!" said Marat, resting his bristly head on the back of his velvet arm-chair. "Now we will listen to the music a little, and look at the pretty theatre girls."

And in fact the opera had now begun; the director of the orchestra had taken advantage of the return of quiet to give a sign to the singers on the stage to begin at once, and with fortunate presence of mind his command was obeyed.

The public, wearied it may be with the shouting and noise, remained silent, and seemed to give its attention exclusively to the stage, the development of the plot, and the n.o.ble music.

Marie Antoinette breathed freely again; her pale cheeks began to have color once more, her eyes were again bright, and she seemed transported beyond the sore battles and dreadful discords of her life; she listened respectfully to the sweet melodies, and the grand harmonies of the teacher of her youth, the great Gluck. Leaning back in her armchair, she allowed the music to flow into her soul, and the recollection of past days awoke afresh in her mind. She dreamed of the days of her childhood: she saw herself again in Schonbrunn; she saw her teacher Gluck enter the blue music-room, in which she with her sisters used to wait for him; she saw the glowing countenance of her mother, the great Maria Theresa, entering her room, in order to give Gluck a proof of her high regard, and to announce to him herself that Marie Antoinette had betrothed herself to the Dauphin of France, and that she would soon bid her teacher farewell, in order to enter upon her new and brilliant career.

A low hum in the theatre awakened the queen from her reveries; she raised herself up and leaned forward, to see what was going on. Her glance, which was directed to the stage, fell upon the singer Clairval, who was just then beginning to give, with his wonderfully full and flexible voice, the great aria in which the friend comes to console the grief-burdened, weeping Queen Alceste, and to dry her tears by a.s.suring her of the love of her faithful adherents.

Clairval had advanced in the aria to that celebrated pa.s.sage which had given to Marie Antoinette a half year before her last great triumph. It ran:

"Reine infortunee, ah! que ton coeur Ne soit plus navre de douleur!

Il vous reste encore des amis!"

But scarcely had Clairval begun the first strophe when the thundering voice of Santerre called, "None of that, we will not hear the air!"

"No, we will not hear the air!" shouted hundreds and hundreds of voices.

"Poor Gluck," whispered Marie Antoinette, with tears in her eyes, "because they hate me, they will not even hear your music!"

"Sing it, sing it!" shouted hundreds and hundreds of voices from all parts of the house.