Marie Antoinette and Her Son Part 20

Some of the deputies cried, "Long live the king!" but their words died away without finding any echo. Not a single voice was raised in honor of the queen! But outside, on the square, there were confused shouts; the crowd of people pressed hard up to the door, and called for the queen. They had seen the deputies as they entered the hall; they had seen the king as he had attended divine service at the church of St. Louis. Now the people were curious to see the queen!

A joyful look pa.s.sed over the face of the queen as she heard those cries. For a long time she had not heard such acclaims. Since the unfortunate 1786, since the necklace trial, they had become more rare; at last, they had ceased altogether, and at times the queen, when she appeared in public, was hailed with loud hisses and angry murmurs.

"The queen! The queen!" sounded louder and louder in the great square. Marie Antoinette obeyed the cry, entered the great hall, had the doors opened which led to the balcony, went out and showed herself to the people, and greeted them with friendly smiles.

But, instead of the shouts of applause which she had expected, the crowd relapsed at once into a gloomy silence. Not a hand was raised to greet her, not a mouth was opened to cry "Long live the queen!"

Soon, however, there was heard a harsh woman's voice shouting, "Long live the Duke d'Orleans! Long life to the friend of the people!"

The queen, pale and trembling, reeled back from the balcony, and sank almost in a swoon into the arms of the d.u.c.h.ess de Polignac, who was behind her. Her eyes were closed, and a convulsive spasm shook her breast.

Through the opened doors of the balcony the shouts of the people could be heard all the time, "Long live the Duke d'Orleans!"

The queen, still in her swoon, was carried into her apartments and laid upon her bed; only Madame de Campan remained in front of it to watch the queen, who, it was supposed, had fallen asleep.

A deep silence prevailed in the room, and the stillness awoke Marie Antoinette from her half insensibility. She opened her eyes, and seeing Campan kneeling before her bed, she threw her arms around the faithful friend, and with gasping breath bowed her head upon her shoulder.

"Oh, Campan," she cried, with loud, choking voice, "ruin is upon me!

I am undone! All my happiness is over, and soon my life will be over too! I have to-day tasted of the bitterness of death! We shall never be happy more, for destruction hangs over us, and our death-sentence is p.r.o.nounced!"

CHAPTER X.

THE INHERITANCE OF THE DAUPHIN.

For four weeks the National a.s.sembly met daily at Versailles; that is to say, for four weeks the political excitement grew greater day by day, the struggle of the parties more p.r.o.nounced and fierce, only with this qualification, that the party which attacked the queen was stronger than that which defended her. Or rather, to express the exact truth, there was no party for Marie Antoinette; there were only here and there devoted friends, who dared to encounter the odium which their position called down upon them--dared face the calumnies which were set in circulation by the other parties: that of the people, the democrats; that of Orleans; that of the princes and princesses of the royal family. All these united their forces in order to attack the "Austrian," to obscure the last gleams of the love and respect which were paid to her in happier days.

When Mirabeau made the proposition in the National a.s.sembly that the person of the king should be declared inviolable, there arose from all these four hundred representatives of the French nation only one man who dared to declare with a loud voice and with defiant face, "The persons of the king and queen shall be declared inviolable!"

This was Toulan, the "soldier of the queen." But the a.s.sembly replied to this demand only with loud murmurs, and scornful laughter; not a voice was raised in support of this last cry in favor of the queen, and the a.s.sembly decreed only this: "The person of the king is inviolable."

"That means," said the queen to the police minister Brienne, who brought the queen every morning tidings of what had occurred at Paris and Versailles, "that means that my death-warrant was signed yesterday."

"Your majesty goes too far!" cried the minister in horror, "I think that this has an entirely different meaning. The National a.s.sembly has not p.r.o.nounced the person of the queen inviolable, because they want to say that the queen has nothing to do with politics, and therefore it is unnecessary to pa.s.s judgment upon the inviolability of the queen."

"Ah!" sighed the queen, "I should have been happy if I had not been compelled to trouble myself with these dreadful politics. It certainly was not in my wish nor in my character. My enemies have compelled me to it; it is they who have turned the simple, artless queen into an intriguer."

"Ah! madam!" said the minister, astonished, "you use there too harsh a word; you speak as if they belonged to your enemies."

"No, I use the right word," cried Marie Antoinette, sadly. "My enemies have made an intriguer of me. Every woman who goes beyond her knowledge and the bounds of her duty in meddling with politics is nothing better than an intriguer. You see at least that I do not flatter myself, although it troubles me to have to give myself so bad a name. The Queens of France are happy only when they have nothing to trouble themselves about, and reserve only influence enough to give pleasure to their friends, and reward their faithful servants. Do you know what recently happened to me?" continued the queen, with a sad smile. "As I was going into the privy council chamber to have a consultation with the king, I heard, while pa.s.sing OEil de Boeuf, one of the musicians saying so loud that I had to listen to every word, 'A queen who does her duty stays in her own room and busies herself with her sewing and knitting.' I said within myself, 'Poor fellow, you are right, but you don't know my unhappy condition; I yield only to necessity, and my bad luck urges me forward." [Footnote: The queen's own words.--See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol ii., p. 32.]

"Ah! madame," said the minister with a sigh, "would that they who accuse you of mingling in politics out of ambition and love of power--would that they could hear your majesty complain of yourself in these moving words!"

"My friend," said Marie Antoinette, with a sad smile, "if they heard it they would say that it was only something learned by heart, with which I was trying to disarm the righteous anger of my enemies. It is in vain to want to excuse or justify myself, for no one will hear a word. I must be guilty, I must be criminal, that they who accuse me may appear to have done right; that they may ascend while they pull me down. But let us not speak more of this! I know my future, I feel it clear and plain in my mind and in my soul that I am lost, but I will at least fight courageously and zealously till the last moment; and, if I must go down, it shall be at least with honor, true to myself and true to the views and opinions in which I have been trained. Now, go on; let me know the new libels and accusations which have been disseminated about me." The minister drew from his portfolio a whole package of pamphlets, and spread them upon a little table before the queen.

"So much at once!" said the queen, sadly, turning over the papers.

"How much trouble I make to my enemies, and how much they must hate me that I have such tenacity of life! Here is a pamphlet ent.i.tled 'Good advice to Madame Deficit to leave France as soon as possible.'

'Madame Deficit!' that means me, doesn't it?"

"It is a name, your majesty, which the wickedness of the Duke d'Orleans has imposed upon your majesty, answered the minister, with a shrug of his shoulders.

The eyes of the queen flashed in anger. She opened her lips to utter a choleric word, but she governed herself, and went on turning over the pamphlets and caricatures. While doing that, while reading the words charged with poison of wickedness and hate, the tears coursed slowly over her cheeks, and once in a while a convulsive gasp forced itself from her breast.

Brienne pitied the deep sorrow of the queen. He begged her to discontinue this sad perusal. He wanted to gather up again the contumelious writings, but Marie Antoinette held his hand back.

"I must know every thing, every thing," said she. "Go on bringing me every thing, and do not be hindered by my tears. It is of course natural that I am sensitive to the evil words that are spoken about me, and to the bad opinion that is cherished toward me by a people that I love, and to win whose love I am prepared to make every sacrifice." [Footnote: The queen's own words.--See Malleville, "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 197]

At this moment the door of the cabinet was dashed open without ceremony, and the d.u.c.h.ess de Polignac entered.

"Forgiveness! your majesty, forgiveness that I have ventured to disturb you, but--"

"What is it?" cried the queen, springing up. "You come to announce misfortune to me, d.u.c.h.ess. It concerns the dauphin, does it not? His illness has increased?"

"Yes, your majesty, cramps have set in, and the physicians fear the worst."

"O G.o.d! O G.o.d!" cried the queen, raising both her hands to heaven, "is every misfortune to beat down upon me? I shall lose my son, my dear child! Here I sit weeping pitiful tears about the malice of my enemies, and all this while my child is wrestling in the pains of death! Farewell, sir, I must go to my child."

And the queen, forgetting every thing else, thinking only of her child--the sick, dying dauphin--hurried forward, das.h.i.+ng through the room with such quick step that the d.u.c.h.ess could scarcely follow her.

"Is he dead?" cried Marie Antoinette to the servant standing in the antechamber of the dauphin. She did not await the reply, but burst forward, hastily opened the door of the sick-room, and entered.

There upon the bed, beneath the gold-fringed canopy, lay the pale, motionless boy, with open, staring eyes, with parched lips, and wandering mind--and it was her child, it was the Dauphin of France.

Around his bed stood the physicians, the quickly-summoned priests, and the servants, looking with sorrowful eyes at the poor, deathly- pale creature that was now no more than a withered flower, a son of dust that must return to dust; then they looked sadly at the pale, trembling wife who crouched before the bed, and who now was nothing more than a sorrow-stricken mother, who must bow before the hand of Fate, and feel that she had no more power over life and death than the meanest of her subjects.

She bent over the bed; she put her arms tenderly around the little shrunken form of the poor child that had long been sick, and that was now confronting death. She covered the pale face of her son with kisses, and watered it with her tears.

And these kisses, these tears of his mother, awakened the child out of his stupor, and called him back to life. The Dauphin Louis roused up once more, raised his great eyes, and, when he saw the countenance of his mother above him bathed in tears, he smiled and sought to raise his head and move his hand to greet her. But Death had already laid his iron bands upon him, and held him back upon the couch of his last sufferings.

"Are you in pain, my child?" whispered Marie Antoinette, kissing him affectionately. "Are you suffering?"

The boy looked at her tenderly. "I do not suffer," he whispered so softly that it sounded like the last breath of a departing spirit.

"I only suffer if I see you weep, mamma." [Footnote: The very words of the dying dauphin.--See Weber, "Memoires," vol. L, p. 209.]

Marie Antoinette quickly dried her tears, and, kneeling near the bed, found power in her motherly love to summon a smile to her lips, in order that the dauphin, whose eyes remained fixed upon her, might not see that she was suffering.

A deep silence prevailed now in the apartment; nothing was heard but the gently-whispered prayers of the spectators, and the slow, labored breathing of the dying child.

Once the door was lightly opened, and a man's figure stole lightly in, advanced on tiptoe to the bed, and sank on his knees close by Marie Antoinette. It was the king, who had just been summoned from the council-room to see his son die.

And now with a loud voice the priest began the prayers for the dying, and all present softly repeated them. Only the queen could not; her eyes were fastened upon her son, who now saw her no more, for his eyes were fixed in the last death-struggle.

Still one last gasp, one last breath; then came a cry from Marie Antoinette's lips, and her head sank upon the hand of her son, which rested in her own, and which was now stiff. A few tears coursed slowly over the cheeks of the king, and his hands, folded in prayer, trembled.

The priest raised his arms, and with a loud, solemn voice cried: "The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord. Amen."