The Queen`s Confession (47 page)

“I am worried about the health of my eldest boy. His growth is somewhat awry, for he has one leg shorter than the other and his spine is a little twisted and unduly prominent. For some time now he has been inclined to attacks of fever and he is thin and frail.”

I wanted to be with him the whole of the time, nursing him myself. But that was not possible. The Opera House had requested that the King and I attend a gala performance and Louis said that he thought it would be expected that we should show ourselves.

I dreaded it. I told him so. They wished to see him; they loved him, but they hated me. They were fed on the cruel lest lies about me. I hated the thought of going to the Opera House, which in itself would be a reminder of those days when I had danced so madly at the Opera balls.

“It is our duty to go,” said Louis sombrely. I went to the nurseries to show the children my gown;

little Louis-Charles shrieked with delight and stroked the soft silk of my skirt.

“Beautiful beautiful Maman,” he said. And he insisted on showing me Moufflet’s latest tricks. Moufflet was the cleverest dog in the world and he wished he were his. My poor little Dauphin was lying in his bed, his misshapen body hidden; I wanted to weep as I bent over and kissed him. He put his arms about my neck and clung to me; he loved me when there was no one there to poison him against me. I left for the

Opera with the memory of my nurseries staying with me. It was a brilliant occasion and I was delighted that the King was so loudly cheered. There were no cheers for me, though, and I heard the shout of “Madame Deficit I’ and: Where is the Diamond Necklace?”

As I stepped into the royal box I saw the paper which had been pinned there. It was hastily removed, but not before I had caught sight of the words: “Tremble, Tyrants.”

I did tremble, throughout the opera, uncontrollably. But Louis sat beside me smiling with that calm smile which it seemed nothing could shake.

What joy it was when my son seemed to be recovering his health a little. I forgot all my anxieties in letting myself believe that he was really growing stronger. He was such a clever child and he was always amusing me with his sayings.

“He will be a very wise King,” I told his father; and Louis agreed with me.

They had put him into a corselet to try to straighten his spine and he never complained. He was like a little man.

I was anxious that he should learn how to manage his finances.

Finances were very much in my mind at that time and I bad ordered his governor and governess not to give him more than his allowance. He was very taken with a mechanical doll he had seen, and greatly desired it.

I planned to give it to him, for he told me. he had asked God to see that he received it.

He told me that one of his attendants had reminded him that it was better to ask God for wisdom than riches.

“To which, Maman,” he told me with a smile, “I replied that while I was about it I saw no reason not to ask for both at once.”

What could one do with such a child but marvel at him?

“My darling,” I cried, you must promise me to eat up all the nourishing food you are given. You must grow into a strong man. Your Papa was not strong as a boy, but look at him now. “

“I want that,” he told me.

“You should say we want, my darling … as the King does.” I was trying to teach him to become a King, for I

always remembered his father’s saying that he had been taught nothing.

The King and I say “we want” together, Maman. But I am right, for the King does not say we for himself. “

He looked so grave and’ wise and I did not know what I wanted to do weep or laugh.

And as I was beginning to hope, he became ill again. He awoke in the night suffering terrible convulsions. He suffered so, my dearest son;

and I could do nothing for him. The doctors were always examining, always suggesting treatment. They tortured him with blisterings and they talked of cauterising his spine. He bore all this with a sweetness which was amazing. He found it comforting to lie on a billiard table and I had a mattress placed on it for his greater comfort. He read a great deal history mostly. I was there once when the Princesse de Lamballe asked him if he picked out the exciting parts of the book it was a history of the reign of Charles VII and he looked at my dear silly Lam bane almost reprovingly and replied: “I do not know enough about it to choose, Madame; and it is all so interesting.”

As he grew weaker he did not want anyone with him but myself. His eyes would brighten as I came in.

“Maman,” he would say, ‘you are so beautiful. I feel happier when you are near me. Tell me of the olden days. “

He meant by that, those days when he was able to run about and play as his young brother loved to do. And Moufflet would curl up beside him and I would tell him of little incidents from the past such as the occasion at the Trianon theatre when he had sat on Papa’s knee and watched me on the stage.

“I remember, I remember,” he would cry.

“And what happened?”

He would nod as I told, knowing it word for word, for indeed I had told him the story many times, of how I had forgotten my words and Monsieur Campan in the prompter’s box, his large spectacles on his nose, had sought to find the place. My little son cried out in a dramatic tone which could be heard all over the theatre, “Monsieur Campan, take off

those big spectacles. Maman cannot hear you.” 350 He laughed and I laughed with him, but as always I was near to tears.

The air of Versailles was perhaps not pure enough for him. La Muette would perhaps be better, suggested one of the doctors.

It is unprotected from the cold winds,” said another.

Ah, but those winds sweep the air clear. “

“Monseigneur’s chamber at Versailles is damp,” said Sabatier.

“The windows look on the Swiss Lake, which is stagnant.”

“Nonsense,” replied Lassone.

“The air of Versailles is healthy.”

My husband remembered that when he was a child he had been sent to Meudon and the air there was said to have made him stronger.

Louis had made the decision. The Dauphin was sent to Meudon.

The members of the States-General were to assemble in Versailles. I was afraid of the States-General, because I was aware of an anxiety among those whom I considered to be my true friends. Axel on those occasions when we exchanged a word or two made me aware of his alarm.

I knew that he considered the position very grave and that he was afraid for me.

“Louis,” I said to my husband, ‘would it not be better to hold the Assembly some distance from Paris? “

“They must come to Versailles and the capital,” my husband replied.

“They will rob you of your power and your dignity,” I said. I was certain of it. They were elected from all classes of society. Members of the lower classes would have a say in the affairs of the Government. It was a state of affairs that neither Louis XIV nor Louis XV would have tolerated. But my husband assured me that it was necessary.

There were great preparations for the opening ceremony;

hopes had risen in the country; it seemed as though everyone was hoping for a miracle from the States-General.

When I went to Meudon to see my son I forgot all my 35i anxieties about the coming ordeal—for I must take my place in the procession—because the Dauphin was clearly rapidly failing.

His face lit up when he saw me.

“The best times,” he said, ‘are when you are with me. “

I sat by his billiard table holding his hand. What should I wear, he wanted to know.

I told him that my gown was to be of violet, white and silver.

That will be beautiful,”” he said.

“If I were strong and well I should ride in the carriage with you.”

“Yes, my darling. So you must get well quickly.”

“I could not do it in time, Maman,” he said gravely. And then: “Maman, I want to see the procession. Please, please let me see you ride by. I want to see you and dear Papa.”

“It would tire you.”

“It never tires me to see you. It makes me feel better. Please, Maman.”

I knew that I could not deny him this and I told him that it should be arranged.

The bells were ringing and the sun shone brightly. This was the 4th of May in the year 1789—the year of the assembling of the States-General. The streets of Versailles were colourful with decorations and everywhere the fleur-delis was fluttering in the light breeze. I had heard that there was not a single room to be found in Versailles.

There was optimism everywhere. I heard it whispered that the old methods were passing, now that the people were to have a hand in managing the country’s affairs. That was what the States-General was all about. The King was a good man. He had invited the States-General.

Taxes were to be abolished—or equally shared. Bread would be cheap.

France was to be a heaven on earth.

I remember that day clearly. I was so unhappy. I hated the warm sunshine, the faces of the people, their cheering voices (none of the cheers were for me). The bands were playing. There were the French

and Swiss Guards. Six hundred men in black with white cravats and slouched hats 352 marched in the procession. They were the Tiers Etai, deputies of the commoners from all over the country; there were three hundred and seventy-four lawyers among them. Following these men were the Princes, and the most notable of these was the Due d’Orieans, who was already well known to the people as their friend. What a contrast the nobles made with those men in black—in lace and gold and enormous plumes waving in their hats. There were the Cardinals and Bishops in their rochets and violet robes— a magnificent sight. No wonder the people had waited for hours to see them pass. In that procession were men whose names were to haunt me in the years ahead—Mirabeau, Robespierre; and the Cardinal de Rohan was there too.

My carriage was next. I sat very still looking neither to right nor left. I was aware of the hostile silence. I caught whispers of “The Austrian Woman!”

“Madame Deficit.”

“She is not wearing the necklace today.” Then someone shouted “Vive d’Orieans.” I knew what that meant.

Long live my enemy. They were shouting for him as I rode by.

I tried not to think of them. I must smile. I must remember that my little son would be watching the procession from the veranda over the stables where I had ordered he should be taken.

I thought of him instead of these people who showed so clearly that they hated me. I said to myself: “What should I care for them? Only let him grow strong and well and I shall care for nothing else.”

I could hear the crowd shouting for my husband as his carriage came along. They did not hate him. I was the foreigner, the author of all their misfortunes. They had chosen me for the scapegoat.

How glad I was to return to my apartments, the ordeal over.

I was sitting at my dressing-table, my women about me. I was tired, but I knew I should not sleep when I retired to bed. Madame Campan had placed four wax tapers on my toilette table and I watched her light them. We talked of the Dauphin and his latest sayings and how 353

he had enjoyed the procession; and suddenly the first of the candles went out of its own accord.

I said: “That is strange. There is no draught And I signed to Madame to relight it.

This she did, and no sooner had she done so than the second candle went out.

There was a shocked silence among the women. I gave a nervous laugh and said: “What candles are these, Madame Campan? Both go out.”

“It is a fault in the wick, Madame,” she said.

“I doubt not.” Yet the manner in which she said it suggested that she did doubt her statement.

A few minutes after she had lighted the second candle the third went out.

Now I felt my hands trembling.

“There is no draught,” I said.

“Yet three of these candles have gone out … one after another.”

“Madame,” said my good Campan, it is surely a fault. “

There have been so many misfortunes,” I said.

“Do you think, Madame Campan, that misfortune makes us superstitious?”

“I believe this could well be so, Madame,” she answered.

“If the fourth taper goes out, nothing can prevent my looking upon it as a fatal omen.”

She was about to say something reassuring when the fourth taper went out.

I felt my heart heavy. I said: “I will go to bed now. I am very tired.”

And I lay in bed, thinking of the hostile faces in the procession, the whispering voices; and of the little face which I had seen from the stable veranda.

And I could not sleep.

We were summoned to Meudon—Louis and I—and we set out with all speed.

I sat by my son’s bed; he did not wish me to go. His hot little hand was in mine and he kept whispering, “Maman, my beautiful Maman.”

I felt the tears running-down my cheeks and I could not stop them.

“You are crying for me, Maman,” he said, ‘because I am dying, but you must not be sad. We all have to die. “

I begged him not to speak. He must save his breath.

“Papa will look after you,” he said.

“He is a good kind man.”

Louis was deeply affected; I felt his hand on my shoulder, kind and tender. It was true he was a good man. I thought of how we had longed for children, how we had suffered because we could not have a son, and now how we suffered because we had one.

Little Louis-Joseph was fighting for his life. I think he was trying to cling to it because he knew I so much warned him to live. He was thinking of me even in those last moments.

I cried to myself: “Oh God, leave me my son. Take anything from me but leave me my son.”

But one does not make bargains with God.

I felt a warm hand in mine and there was my youngest boy. Louis had sent for my daughter and son to remind me that they were left to me.

On one side of me my lovely ten-year-old daughter, and on the other, four-year-old Louis Charles

“You should comfort your mother,” said the King gently.

And I held my children close to me and was, in some measure, comforted.