The children and I are devastated; we make no attempt to stanch the flow of tears and our words of supplication to those who control our destiny. Elisabeth throws herself onto her knees. To our surprise and great joy, they are moved: they allow us to take our meals together under the condition that we speak in loud, clear French.
Nonetheless, sometimes I can send my husband a more private message—we pray for you—in a hollow cut into a peach or in a cavity concealed inside a macaroon. We continue to eat very well, off silver, and the King has wine. At the end of October, the children and I join the King in the Great Tower, with newly decorated rooms, including a toilet made in the English style, flushed with water.
11 December 1792
The sound of snare drums rolls over my heart. Something of enormous importance is about to occur. We can hear the regular footsteps of soldiers approaching us, ascending the stairs. The volley of the drums becomes louder and louder till they fling open the door to our rooms.
Pétion stands before us to read a decree to Louis Capet. It is a lengthy, grinding denunciation for treason asserting that Louis “left France as a fugitive with the intention of returning as a conqueror.”
“Capet is not my name,” my husband replies mildly. “That detail is inaccurate, as are many others.”
Pétion says, “These children cannot remain under the influence of both their parents. One of you will be taken from them. Which one?”
Stricken to the core, I can only gasp and look at my husband. He gazes at me fondly, even with the slightest of smiles, and says, “Of course our children must remain under the care and protection of their noble mother.”
He sees my gratitude; I am sure he does. Nonetheless, I cannot prevent myself from collapsing into sobs.
“Go to her now,” he says gently to the children, who obey as though winged. Louis Charles jumps into my lap, turns to his father, and says, “We will care for her well, Papa.”
Marie Thérèse leans lovingly against my shoulder.
Only after the King has said farewell and walked from the room in perfect dignity do I realize that we three have assumed the pose in which we were last painted by Vigée-Lebrun, when I wore red velvet and a floral carpet swirled beneath the cushion for my footstool. Only my son is now a little boy and not a chubby baby, and my daughter is growing into a young woman, soon to be fourteen.
19 December 1792
Today is my daughter’s birthday, and our good and faithful hairdresser, Cléry, has brought her a present from her father, an almanac for the coming year.
“Your father sends you this gift with his blessing,” I improvise. “May the coming year bring you safety, peace, and joy, and each year following even greater joy toward a long and happy life.”
Later in the day, I ask Cléry to arrange my hair again, and that of my daughter, in case their kindness should extend to allowing the King to visit his daughter for supper on her birthday.
It is one of the few pleasures remaining to me—the gentle and caring touch of my hairdresser, as he combs and braids or pins my hair. It is my rule, in order to make both him and myself more happy, always to compliment him on the very latest creation and to find, for myself, some curl or lift that pleases me in particular.
I try to train my daughter in this courteous habit and always ask her, when Cléry has finished, what it is she likes best about her new coif.
At the end of the day, I say, “Though your dear papa was not allowed to visit, you can be sure, as you fall asleep, that he is thinking of you and blessing you.”
THERE IS A NEW COMMISSIONER—Lepître—who pities us. Because the harpsichord in the Tower is in such miserable condition that playing it only makes us sad, he has ordered a new one from an artisan I have always used in the past.
Lepître himself comes with the instrument, and we greet it and him with genuine expressions of gratitude. As I open the case, he exclaims, “What’s this?” for it is a sheaf of music.
Reverently, I examine the sheets.
“It is one of Haydn’s symphonies—from the mid-1780s,” I remark, trying very hard to control my emotion.
“Which one?” our benefactor asks curiously.
I know that I will collapse as soon as I give the title, but I make myself speak steadily till the words are out. “It is my favorite, which the composer dedicated to me, La Reine de France.”
Lepître weeps with us.
Christmas Day, 1792
I am told that the King’s trial begins tomorrow, and he is spending this sacred day writing his will. I am told that he refers to himself as Louis XVI, King of France, not as Louis Capet, and that the date is given in the Christian calendar, not the atheist revolutionary one. I am told that he advocates Christian forgiveness, and he expressly says to the Dauphin that if he should be so unfortunate as to become King, he should dedicate his entire life to his people’s happiness; on no account should he seek revenge on his father’s behalf.
So it is, the great and good Louis XVI tries to pave a safe road for his only son.
I am told by Cléry, who has memorized the language in his effort to serve as our conduit, that the King begs his wife’s forgiveness! Mine! “For all the ills she has suffered for my sake and for any grief that I may have caused her in the course of our marriage and she may be certain that I hold nothing against her.”
ROBESPIERRE, I hear from the crier beneath my window, asserts that Louis Capet’s actions warrant his death. There is little need for a trial. Of all the leaders of the revolution, Robespierre is the most cruel and blood-thirsty.
Thomas Paine, a revolutionary hero of America, begs that Louis be exiled to that far country across the ocean.
Marat ridicules Paine for his Quaker softheartedness and automatic abhorrence of death as a punishment. Oh, let the Quaker rule us all!
Danton agrees with Marat: revolutions are made with blood, not rosewater. Only a barbarous nation claims execution is justice.
Philippe Égalité, the King’s cousin, formerly called the Duc d’Orléans, votes for the death penalty.
From the criers standing under our windows on the pavement below, we hear the news. My husband is sentenced to death. Tomorrow, the execution by guillotine.
WE WILL SEE HIM to say good-bye, I assure the children and Elisabeth. We will tell him of our love for him. That is all that is left. And our bottomless sorrow.
And here is the King, standing before us, a huge man, his eyes full of sadness and regret. Immediately, he speaks to his son about the necessity of forgiveness of one’s enemies. “I do not hate them, and you must never hate them.”
He knows that he is beloved of his children, that his love for them is of the most tender and sincere kind. But I see he is suffering terribly at the necessity of leaving us. We cling together, all of us, and weep.
I beg that he spend this last night with us, but the King himself says that he needs to be alone to prepare his soul. There are promises to say good-bye again in the early morning, but we withhold nothing now of our love and our grief.
When morning breaks, someone arrives for a prayer book, but the King does not come to us again. We are told he is being taken in a closed carriage to the place of execution.
Very far away, very faintly, after waiting and praying, we hear drumming. It is half past ten in the morning of 20 January.
That shout, that awful joyful shout, so far away—it must mean the King is dead.
Elisabeth explodes with hatred. “The monsters! They are satisfied.”
TO THE CONCIERGERIE
25 January 1793
When my daughter cuts her foot by accident, the color of her blood is what calls me back to my senses. The crimson gash cries out with red lips that my daughter is yet alive and she needs my help. It is I who need to procure clean rags to bind it up, and it is I who must arrange for an appropriate physician.
I hear of the courage of Malesherbes, minister to both Louis XV and Louis XVI. He volunteered to defend my husband. The tribun
al asked the aged minister from whence he drew the courage to serve Louis Capet. Malesherbes answered, “Contempt for you and contempt for death.”
7 February 1793
Now my daughter’s foot is almost well again. For some days she has been practicing the harpsichord in preparation for a little musical performance with her brother. I hear him humming from time to time, or softly singing in his sister’s ear.
Since the death of the King, the guards watch us far less carefully. We are allowed to amuse ourselves and to speak softly with one another. Lepître has been allowed to write down some words for a song and to help our little King to memorize them. The concentration in his face as he reads the words almost makes me smile. Perhaps like his father, he will become the kind of reader who gives his soul to written words.
Because my daughter wants to surprise me, she practices the music only in short phrases, saving the composition as a whole for its performance. She has written out little invitations to our municipal guards to join us for a brief musicale today. The music is original, composed to fit Lepître’s words by Madame Cléry, who is an accomplished amateur.
My daughter looks quite the young lady as she leads her brother out into the area around the harpsichord—their stage. We all clap our hands in greeting—Elisabeth and I, the municipal officers. My daughter seats herself on the little bench before the keyboard, and the little King stands in front of the instrument. She announces that they will sing a lament for the death of their father. My whole being swells with love for my family; it is almost as though we are all present. As the soloist, it is my son’s privilege to nod to his accompanist that he is ready to begin. After her short keyboard introduction, played with aplomb, he opens his precious lips and sings in an angelic voice:
All joy is ended for me on this earth,
But I am yet beside my mother.
Nothing could be more affecting. Yes. Of course, I live for my children, who love me and who need me. Together, joining their feelings and talents, they seek to comfort me, and I must respond.
There is a second verse, sung to Elisabeth, whom they hail as a dear second mother.
How can these children have known how badly Elisabeth and I needed solace? The eyes of the guards are glazed with tears at the purity of the children, and so are those of myself and Elisabeth. With enthusiastic applause, we transform our sorrow into appreciation. We request an encore, and the little King sings his lament ever more confidently in his charming voice.
This night I keep the image of my children and the sound of their music alive in my consciousness till I fall asleep.
MY HEALTH IS NOT GOOD: when the Générale pays her visit at intervals of a mere three weeks, the bleeding is very extreme, and as a result, I see a shockingly pale face whenever I look into the mirror. The Pole Kucharski comes to make my portrait, in my black widow’s dress, and he does not fail to represent me as pale as death. But my expression is serene, and I am grateful for that. I pray continually so that my soul will be at peace, no matter what shall come. My pious sister Elisabeth is a great help in leading me along the way of devotion.
I do not know what shall come, but it is possible I will be allowed to go back to Austria. In my original marriage contract, Count Mercy wrote in the stipulation that my location was to be my choice, should my husband die before me. Also, because revolutionary France is at war now with Prussia, with England, Spain, and Holland, they might wish to arrange for my release or for my ransom.
When Monsieur Moëlle, a member of the Paris Commune as well as a commissioner here at the former palace of the Knights Templar, escorts me to the top of the Tower to breathe the more healthy air there, I ask him what I might expect. Because my daughter is with us, I hesitate to ask so blunt a question, but the opportunity for frankness seems one that I should not allow to pass.
Monsieur Moëlle thinks I may be spoken for and claimed by my nephew, Francis II, now the new Emperor of Austria. He reassures me that further bloodshed (meaning my own execution—I was grateful for his circumlocution) would be considered “a gratuitous horror,” which is against the precepts of the revolution. At this point, my daughter gives a little gasp of hope, and we cannot resist exchanging a reassuring glance. Ah, I remember how it was when she was born that I said she would become my friend!
THROUGH LETTERS to the brothers of my late husband, I try to form a connection, with the hope that they who are safely out of France will confer with foreign powers, led by the King of Sweden, for our release. When the King rode to his death, he sent me his collection of hair from his family and also his wedding ring. He had managed to keep these precious items with him. I send the first of these sacred mementos to the Comte de Provence and the second to the Comte d’Artois. In a postscript, the children and Elisabeth also add their signatures and a few loving phrases.
Through my secretary, I send the briefest of notes to Count von Fersen with an impression of my seal and its motto, which means “All things lead me toward you.” I can only hope that my message goes before me and that someday I shall be reunited with him.
In these quiet days, my thoughts turn often, especially when I listen to my daughter practice the harpsichord, to what Fersen has meant in my life. He has often been absent from me, in the physical sense, but he has always been present in the inner chambers of my soul. After he came back from the American War—partly because of our correspondence during this period—it became impossible for him to ever become fully absent from me again, no matter where he traveled. He has been the mirror, not of my soul, but of what has been best in me. He has been the reassuring reflection of all that I aspired to be. He has believed in my goodness, that I was not trivial, that I made every effort to add to the happiness of those around me. In the hard days, he saw that I had some capacity for courage, and, again, his belief in me made me fear nothing for myself, even when my anxiety for my family has been overwhelming. Still, within me was a calmness, a faith that I could never be violated—not in my essence, for it was known by this beloved and esteemed man.
I used to think that if Axel von Fersen held my hand on my deathbed that I would have no fear of the moment of death. His touch would ease even that passage. Now I know that I do not have actually to hold his hand. The thought of him and the perfection with which our souls fit together is enough, both now and at the hour of my death, howsoever it should come.
3 July
I worry for the health of my son. In May he had a persistent fever; in June he asked me to feel his groin, and there my fingertips found a swelling that thoroughly alarmed me. Upon summoning a physician, the diagnosis of a hernia was made, and an expert truss-maker was called in to fit the leather and steel harness to his small body. Also, the dear little King spoke of an accident with his hobbyhorse whereby he bruised a testicle.
At this news, I look at Elisabeth with some alarm, for we both have found the boy masturbating from time to time, and I fear that he may have done injury to himself that way, rather than in play. We have spoken to him firmly about not abusing his body, but I cannot believe that we have cured him of this habit. I wish that I could ask a man to speak to him about the body and its proper care.
But he is the dearest of children, and I feel confident that just as he outgrew his temper tantrums, he will also be able to practice self-control in other areas. Although I enjoy his fanciful imaginings, I am careful to try to train him in the difference between fancy and fact.
THOUGH IT IS NIGHT, and we are all tired, I suddenly hear a commotion on the stairs, steps of great determination and loud voices.
Through our door come a handful of commissioners, with a decree. In the candlelight and its dancing shadows, their faces quickly take on the distorted countenance of demons. They read that whereas there have been reports of possible plots to abduct the “young King,” he is now to be removed from his family and taken up to the most secure compartment in the higher Tower.
Understanding everything, my little boy throws himself into my arms, in
which I enclose him with a wild strength that I have never felt before.
“Never,” I shout. “You shall never take him from me!”
He sobs and presses his face into my thin chest.
They demand, they threaten, but I am adamant. For an hour we display our wills and our steadfast determination.
“We shall kill you, if you do not release him. We shall cut off your arms at the shoulders, if we must.”
“Never. Never!”
They are amazed at my power. They step back a little to whisper among themselves. Then one of them takes my daughter by her wrist while another announces, “We will kill this girl, if you do not release the boy to us.”
Another says, “What we do is for his own safekeeping and protection. You must reassure him, instead of defying us.”
“And we will kill the girl, if we must.”
I look at my daughter and see no fear in her eyes. It is her courage, her fearlessness so like my own, that somehow convinces me. Whispering to Louis Charles, “They mean you no harm,” I drop my arms to my sides. Quickly, he is pulled into their group.
“He is in his nightgown,” Elisabeth says. “Allow us to dress him properly.”
I have no strength left in my hands and arms with which to clothe my son. His sister and his aunt bring his clothing and help his arms into his shirt and his small legs into his pants. His sister kneels before him to place his shoes upon his feet.
As they lead him away, he does not scream but he sobs.
Far into the night, I listen to his sobs, for they echo throughout the stone tower. I send him all the love in my heart whispering over and over, “You are not alone,” until finally his sobs subside into what must be blessed sleep.
NOW MY DAYS PASS entirely in trying to find positions from which I can catch a glimpse of my son as they take him into the courtyard for exercise. Sometimes I see him. How my heart runs toward him then, and I crucify myself, both hoping that he will glance my way and hoping that he does not, lest they take him farther away from me.
Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette Page 48