Marie Antoinette and Her Son Part 33

"My child, kings receive all that they have from their people, but they give it all back to the people again; the king is the one appointed by G.o.d to govern his people, and the people owe respect and obedience to the king, and have to pay taxes to him. And so, if he needs money, he is justified in asking his subjects for it, and so does what is called 'laying taxes' upon them. Do you understand me?"

"Oh! yes, papa," cried the child, who had listened with open eyes and breathless attention, "I understand all very well. But I don't like it. It seems to me that if a man is king, every thing belongs to him, and that the king ought to have all the money so as to give it to the people. They ought to ask HIM, and not he THEM!"

"In former and more happy times it was so," said the king, with a sigh. "But many kings have misused their power and authority, and now the king cannot pay out money unless the people understand all about it and consent!"

"Have you given out money, papa, without asking the people's leave?

Was that the reason they came to Versailles yesterday, and were so wicked, ah! so very wicked? For those bad men-they were the people, were they not?"

"No, my son," answered Louis, "I hope they were not the people. The people cannot come to me in such great ma.s.ses; they must have their representatives. The representatives of the people I have myself called to me; they are the States-General, which I a.s.sembled at Versailles. I asked of them money for the outlays which I had to make for the people, but they asked things of me that I could not grant, either for my own sake, or for yours, my son, who are some day to be my successor. Then wicked men came and stirred up the people, and told them that I did not love the people any more, and that I wanted to trouble my subjects. And the poor people have believed what these evil advisers and slanderers have told them, and have been led astray into making the riot against me. But every thing will come out right again, and my subjects will see that I love them, and am ready to share every thing with them. That is the reason I have come to Paris, to live here among my people. It is certainly not so pleasant as in Versailles; our rooms are not so fine and convenient, and we do not have the beautiful gardens here that we had there. But we must learn to be contented here, and put up with what we have. We must remember that there is no one in Paris better than we, and that the Parisians must acknowledge that the king loves them, for he has given up his beautiful Versailles, in order to live with them, and share all their need, and all the disagreeable things which they have to bear."

"Papa king, I have understood every thing, and I am very much ashamed that I have complained before. I promise you, sire," he continued, with earnest mien, and laying his hand upon his breast, "yes, sire, I promise you, that I will take pains to give the people a good example, and to be really good and kind. I will never complain again that we are living in Paris, and I will take pains to be happy and contented here."

And the dauphin kept his word. He took pains to be contented; he said not another word about the old pleasant life at Versailles, but appeared to have forgotten all about ever having been anywhere but in this great, desolate palace, with its halls filled with faded tapestry; stately, solemn furniture, their golden adornments having grown dim, and their upholstery hard; he seemed never to have known any garden but this, only one little corner of which was set apart for the royal family, and through the iron gate of which threatening words were often heard, and spiteful faces seen.

One day, when the dauphin heard such words, and saw such faces beyond the paling, he shrank back, and ran to his mother, earnestly imploring her with trembling voice to leave the garden, and go into the palace. But Marie Antoinette led him farther into the garden, instead of complying with his wish. In the little pavilion which stood at the corner of the enclosure on the side of the quay, she sat down, and lifting her boy up in her arms, set him before her on the marble table, wiped away his tears with her handkerchief, and tenderly implored him not to weep or feel badly any more.

"If you weep, my child," she said, sadly, as the dauphin could not control his tears, "if you weep, I shall have no courage left, and it will be as dark and dreary to me as if the sun had gone down. If you weep, I should want to weep with you; and you see, my son, that it would not be becoming for a queen to weep. The wicked people, who want to hurt our feelings, they find pleasure in it, and therefore we must be altogether too proud to let them see what we suffer. I have this pride, but when I see you suffer it takes away all my strength. You remember our ride from Versailles here, my son? How the bad men who surrounded us, mocked at me and said foul things to me! I was cold and calm, but I could not help weeping, my child, when you complained of being hungry."

"Mamma," cried the child, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes, "I will never complain again, and the bad men shall never have the pleasure of seeing me weep."

"But good men, my child, you must always treat kindly, and behave very prettily to them."

"I will do so," answered the dauphin, thoughtfully. "But, mamma queen, tell me who the good men are!"

"You must believe, Louis, that all men are good, and therefore you must be kind to all. If then they despise your goodness or friendliness, and cast it from them, it will not be your fault, and our heavenly Father and your parents will be pleased with you."

"But, mamma," cried the prince, and a shadow pa.s.sed over his pure, beautiful child's face, "but, mamma, I cannot see that all men are good. When they were abusing us, and cursing us, and speaking bad words at us in the carriage, and were talking so angrily at you, dear mamma, the men were not good, and I never could treat them friendly if they should come again."

"They will not come again, Louis. No, we will hope that the bad men will not come again, and that those who come to see us here are good men; so be very kind and polite to everybody, that all may love you, and see that their future king is good and polite, even while a child."

"Good?" cried the boy, spiritedly. "I will be good and polite to everybody, that you may be satisfied with me. Yes, just for that will I be so."

Marie Antoinette pressed the pretty boy to herself, and kissed his lips. Just then an officer entered and announced General Lafayette and Bailly, the mayor of Paris.

"Mamma," whispered the prince, as the two gentlemen entered--"

mamma, that is the general that was at Versailles, then. I can never be kind to him, for he belongs to the bad men."

"Hus.h.!.+ my child-hus.h.!.+" whispered the queen. "For G.o.d's sake, do not let anybody hear that. No, no, General Lafayette does not belong to our enemies, he means well toward us. Treat him kindly, very kindly, my child."

And Marie Antoinette took her son by the hand, and, with a smile upon her lips, went to meet the two gentlemen, in order to inquire the reason for their appearing at this unwonted time and place.

"Madame," said General Lafayette, "I have come to ask your majesty whether you will not have the goodness to let me know the hours in which you may wish to visit the park and the garden, that I may make my arrangements accordingly."

"That means, general," cried the queen, "that it is not to depend upon my free-will when and at what times I am to walk in the park, but it will be allowed me only at certain hours, just as prisoners are allowed to take their walks at certain hours."

"I beg your pardon, madame," said the general, with great respect; "your majesty will graciously believe, that to me, the peace and security of your exalted person is sacred above every thing, and that I regard it as my first duty to protect you against every insult, and every thing that may be disagreeable."

"And so it has come to that," cried Marie Antoinette, angrily. "The Queen of France must be protected against insults and disagreeable things. She is not to go out when she will into her park, because she has to fear that, if General Lafayette has not previously made his special preparations, the people will insult her. But if this is so, sir, why do you not close the gates of the park? It is royal property, and it probably will be allowed to the king to defend his private property from the brutality of the rabble. I will myself, general, see to it that I be protected from insults, and that, at any time when it pleases me, I may go into the park and the inner gardens. I will ask his majesty the king to allow the gates of the park and. the promenade on the quay to be closed. That will close every thing, and we shall at least gain the freedom thereby of being able to take walks at any time, without first sending information to General Lafayette."

"Madame, I expected that you would answer me so," said Lafayette, sadly, "and I have therefore brought M. de Bailly with me, that he might join me in supplicating your majesty to graciously abstain from taking measures of violence, and not to further stir up the feelings of the people, already so exasperated."

"And so you are of this opinion, sir?" asked Marie Antoinette, turning to M. Bailly. "You, too, regard it as a compulsory measure, for the king to claim his own right, and to keep out of his property those who insult him."

"Your majesty, the king is, unfortunately, not free to make use of this right, as you call it."

"You will not say, sir, that if it pleases the king not to allow evil-disposed persons to enter the park of the Tuileries, he has not the right to close the gates?"

"Madame, I must indeed take the privilege of saying so," answered M.

de Bailly, with a gentle obeisance. "King Henry IV. gave the Parisians the perpetual privilege of having the park of the Tuileries open to them always, and free to be used in their walks.

The palace of the Tuileries was, as your majesty knows, originally built by Queen Catherine de Medicis, after the death of her husband, for the home of her widowhood. All sorts of stories were then current about the uncanny things which were said to occur in the park of the Tuileries. They told about laboratories in which Queen Catherine prepared her poisons; of a pavilion in which there was a martyr's chamber; of subterranean cells for those who had been buried alive; and all these dreadful stories made such an impression that no one dared approach this place of horrors after sunset. But when Queen Catherine had left Paris, and King Henry IV. resided in the Louvre, he had this dreaded Tuileries garden, with all its horrors, opened to the Parisians, and out of the queen's garden he made one for the people, in order that the curse which rested upon it might be changed into a blessing."

"And now you suppose, Mr. Mayor, that it would change the blessing into a curse again, if we should want to close the gates that Henry IV. opened?"

"I do fear it, madame, and therefore venture to ask that the right to enter the Tuileries gardens may not be taken from the people, nor their enjoyment interfered with."

"Not the people's enjoyment, only ours, is to be interfered with,"

cried Marie Antoinette, bitterly. "They are doubtless right who call the people now the real king of France, but they forget that this new king has usurped the throne only by treachery, rebellion, and murder, and that the wrath of G.o.d and the justice of man 'will one day hurl him down into the dust at our feet. In this day I hope, and until then I will bear in patience and with unshaken courage what fate may lay upon me. The wickedness and brutality of men shall at least not intimidate me, and fear shall not humiliate me to the state of a prisoner who takes her walks under the protection of M.

de Lafayette, the general of the people, at appointed hours."

"Your majesty," cried Lafayette, turning pale.

"What is your pleasure?" interrupted the queen, with a proud movement of her head. "You were a gentleman, and knew the customs and. mode of our court before you went to America. Has the want of manners there so disturbed your memory that you do not know that it is not permitted to speak in the presence of the queen without being asked or permitted by her to do so?"

"General," cried the dauphin, at this instant, with loud, eager voice, running forward to Lafayette, and extending to him his little hand--" general, I should like to salute you. Mamma told me that I must be kind to all those who are good to us and love us, and just as you were coming in with this gentleman, mamma told me that General Lafayette does not belong to our enemies, but means well to us. Let me, therefore, greet you kindly and give you my hand." And while saying so and smiling kindly at the general, he raised his great blue eyes to the face of his mother an instant with a supplicatory expression.

Lafayette took the extended hand of the prince, and a flush of deep emotion pa.s.sed over his face that was just before kindling with anger. As if touched with reverence and astonishment, he bent his knee before this child, whose countenance beamed with innocence, love, and goodness, and pressed to his lips the little hand that rested in his own.

"My prince," said be, deeply moved, "you have just spoken to me with the tongue of an angel, and I swear to you, and to your exalted royal mother, that I will never forget this moment; that I will remember it so long as I live. The kiss which I have impressed upon the hand of my future king is at once the seal of the solemn vow, and the oath of unchangeable fidelity and devotion which I consecrate to my king and to the whole royal family, and in which nothing shall make me waver; nothing, not even the anger and the want of favor of my exalted queen. Dauphin of France, you have to- day gained a soldier for your throne who is prepared to shed his last drop of blood for you and your house, and on whose fidelity and devotion you may continually count."

With tears in his eyes, his brave, n.o.ble face quivering with emotion, Lafayette looked at the child that with cheeks all aglow and with a pleasant smile was gazing with great, thoughtful child's eyes up to the strong man, who placed himself so humbly and devotedly at his feet. Behind him stood M. de Bailly, with bended head and folded hands, listening with solemn thoughtfulness to the words of the general, upon whose strong shoulders the fate of the monarchy rested, and who, at this time, was the mightiest and most conspicuous man in France, because the National Guard of Paris was still obedient to him, and followed his commands.

Close by the dauphin stood the queen, in her old, proud att.i.tude, but upon her face a striking change had taken place. The expression of anger and suspicion which it had before displayed had not completely disappeared. The cloud which had gathered upon her lofty forehead was dissipated, and her face shone out bright and clear.

The large, grayish-blue eyes, which before had shot angry darts, now glowed with mild fire, and around her lips played an instant that fair, pleasant smile which, in her happier days, had often moved the favorites of the queen to verses of praise, and which her enemies had so often made a reproach to her.

When the general ceased there was silence--that eloquent, solemn silence which accompanies those moments in which the Genius of History hovers over the heads of men, and, touching them with its pinions, ties their tongues and opens the eyes of the spirit, so that they can look into the future, and, with presaging horror, read all the secrets of coming time as by a flash of lightning.

Such a critical moment in history was that in which Lafayette, at the feet of the dauphin, swore eternal fidelity to the monarchy of France in the presence of the unfortunate mayor of Paris, who was soon to seal his loyalty with his own blood, and in presence of the queen, whose lofty character was soon to make her a martyr.

The moments pa.s.sed by, then Marie Antoinette bowed to Lafayette with her gracious smile.

"Rise, general," she said, in gentle tones, "G.o.d has heard your oath, and I accept it in the name of the French monarchy, my husband, my son, and myself. I shall always continue mindful of it, and I hope that you will also. And I beg you, too," she continued, in a low voice, and with a deep flush upon her face, "I beg you to forgive me if I have hitherto cast unworthy reproaches upon you. I have lived through so many sad and dreadful days, that it will be set down to my favor if my nerves are agitated and easily excited. I shall probably learn to accept evil days with calmness, and to bow my head patiently beneath the yoke which my enemies are laying upon me! But still I feel the injury, and the proud habits of my birth and life war against it. But only wait, and I shall become accustomed to it."

While saying this she stooped down to the dauphin and kissed his golden hair. A tear fell from her eyes upon the forehead of her son, and glittered there like a star fallen from heaven. Marie Antoinette did not see it, did not know that the tear which she was trying to conceal was now glistening on the brow of her son--on that brow which was never to wear any other diadem than the one that the tears of love placed on his innocent head.

"Heaven defend your majesty ever being compelled to become accustomed to insult!" cried Lafayette, deeply moved. "I hope we have seen our worst days, and that after the tempest there will be suns.h.i.+ne and bright weather again. The people will look back with shame and regret upon the wild and stormy scenes to which they have allowed themselves to be drawn by unprincipled agitators; they will bow in love and obedience before the royal couple who, with so much confidence and devotion, leave their beautiful, retired home at Versailles, in order to comply with the wish of the people and come to Paris. Will your majesty have the goodness to ask the mayor of Paris, and he will tell you, madame, how deeply moved all the good citizens of Paris are at the truly n.o.ble spirit which prompted you to refuse to initiate an investigation respecting the night of horrors at Versailles, and to bring the ringleaders to justice."

"Is it true, M. de Bailly?" asked the queen, eagerly. "Was my decision approved? Have I friends still among the people of Paris?"