Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

by Виктория Холт

  She smiled and danced daintily before him in the violet, white and silver gown.

  ‘Kneel down,’ said the Dauphin, ‘that I may see your feathers.’

  So she knelt, and he tried to put up a thin arm to touch them. She caught his arm and kissed it; then she held him pressed against her, that he might not see her tears.

  ‘Maman,’ he said, ‘I wish I were strong. I wish I could ride in the carriage beside you to-day. You look so pretty … all the people will love you.’

  She shook her head and tried to smile.

  ‘But they will,’ he told her. ‘You are so pretty.’

  She began to bargain then. Let him get well and I will not complain whatever they do to me. Let them vilify me; let them hiss me … shout at me … but let my baby be well and strong.

  He said: ‘Maman, could I not see the procession?’

  ‘My darling, you are not strong enough.’

  ‘It will be wonderful,’ he said. ‘All the horses, and you and Papa in the state carriages; the horses with their plumes … the beautiful coaches and all the postilions in their gay uniforms. Will you ride with Papa?’

  ‘No, he will ride in the first coach with your uncles; I shall follow him in the second one.’

  The boy’s lustreless eyes brightened a little.

  ‘I remember other ceremonies. The Cardinals in their red robes and Bishops in violet. Papa will be in cloth of gold, will he not? How I should love to see him! But you … you will be more beautiful than anybody. I wish I could be part of the procession.’

  ‘One day you shall.’

  ‘One day,’ he repeated. That was how she had consoled him in the past. ‘One day you will be strong enough.’ He always believed it, even as each day he grew weaker.

  ‘Maman, if I could but watch you … I should be so happy. Could I not … perhaps from the balcony?’

  She kissed his forehead. ‘We will arrange something. You shall see us pass by.’

  He smiled. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’ll be there, and I’ll ride in your carriage, Maman. I’d rather be in your carriage than anywhere else.’

  ‘One day,’ she said.

  And she gave orders that he should be warmly wrapped up, and that a little bed should be put for him on the veranda over the royal stables. From there he could watch the procession pass by.

  * * *

  The carriages drove out from the château – the King in the first with his brothers; the Queen in the second; and following were the noblemen and women of royal blood.

  They came to the church of Notre Dame where a short service was held; and from Notre Dame they walked in procession to the church of Saint Louis, where Mass was to be celebrated.

  It was a brilliant sight with the banners flying and the clergy and other dignitaries of Versailles leading the processions. All carried wax candles – the members of the Tiers Etat in tricorn hats, black coats and white muslin cravats; the nobility followed, their garments of cloth of gold, and their plumed hats making a marked contrast with the soberly clad members of the Tiers Etat. Among the noblemen one stood out because of the plainness of his dress. The Duc d’Orléans had allied himself with the common people by refusing to wear the garments of his rank.

  When he appeared there were loud cheers: ‘Vive le Duc d’Orléans!’ And that cry was louder and more insistent than that of ‘Vive le Roi!’

  The Cardinals in their scarlet robes and the Bishops in their violet cassocks made a splash of colour. They preceded the Host carried under a canopy by four Princes; immediately behind this came Louis, dressed as the noblemen, his candle in his hand.

  The Queen looked up, for she could see in the distance the stables and the little bed there; she smiled and she thought she saw a movement as though the little Dauphin had seen her and recognised her.

  She was thinking of him, so that she did not realise how deadly was the silence as she passed through the crowd.

  Then suddenly a group of women close to her shouted: ‘Vive le Duc d’Orléans!’

  She understood their meaning. They were telling her they hated her in her beautiful garments which were such a contrast to those affected by the Duc d’Orléans.

  Yet she could hear their shouting now: ‘Vive le Roi!’ It was only the Queen they hated.

  She knew that those about her were watching her anxiously.

  She held her head a little higher. She looked very majestic in her beautiful gown, the plumes of her headdress swaying gracefully as she walked – haughty and beautiful – the Queen who remembered only her royalty and cared nothing for the insults of the canaille.

  * * *

  Antoinette knelt by the bed of her son.

  His fevered hands were in hers; his wish was that she should not leave his side.

  ‘Maman,’ he said, ‘do not be sad; one day, you know …’

  Her lips said: ‘One day’; but she could not stop the tears falling from her eyes.

  ‘You cry for me, Maman,’ said the Dauphin. ‘Am I so very ill?’

  She said: ‘Do not speak, my darling. Save your breath for getting well.’

  He nodded. ‘I will get well, Maman.’

  She lifted her eyes to the doctors. What could they do but shake their heads? It had been obvious for many months that the Dauphin would not live.

  Louis was beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

  Poor Louis! Dear Louis! He suffered even as she did.

  The little boy was lying back on his pillows; his breathing was stertorous; desperately he was fighting for his life.

  But he was going, little Louis Joseph.

  Antoinette knelt by his bed and buried her face in her hands, because she could not bear to look at her son in his last moments.

  The King brought her other children to her – Madame Royale who was just past her tenth and little Louis Charles who had had his fourth birthday.

  ‘Comfort your mother,’ said the King.

  And Antoinette, opening her eyes, found great balm from those little ones.

  * * *

  Now the conflict had grown more wild. The nobility and the clergy banded together against the Third Estate; and the Third Estate was in conflict with the Estates-General.

  The Third Estate began to call itself the National Assembly, with Jean Sylvain Bailly its President; they decided that they would draw up a Constitution which was to make understood by all how much power was in the King’s hands.

  Necker urged the King to agree to certain reforms, and drafted a speech for the King to deliver. The King was persuaded to alter this, which infuriated Necker who realised fully how desperate the situation was. Louis wanted to make it clear that he understood he must give up a certain amount of authority, but he was determined to keep the privileged classes in control of the country’s affairs; and he could not agree that the Estates-General should have the power to alter the social life of the country. Privilege must be maintained; that was to be the theme of the King’s speech.

  This was received with anger, and when the King dismissed the assembly, Mirabeau, the most dynamic member of the Tiers Etat, retorted that they had held their office by the power of the people and would not leave except at the point of the bayonet.

  Bailly, the President, pointed out more diplomatically that the nation once assembled could be dismissed by none.

  The King, alarmed, ordered that more troops be brought into Paris and Versailles. He now realised that the National Assembly which had sprung into being was his bitterest enemy. He determined to form a new government from which he would dismiss all with liberal ideas. He called in de Breteuil and dismissed Necker – the one man in whom the people had faith.

  Necker, weary of the struggle and seeing disaster very near, took his leave of Versailles and went to his native Switzerland without delay.

  The people watched the arrival of the troops with sullen eyes. The rumour spread that the King’s intention was to lodge the newly elected representatives of the common people in the Bastille.


  Louis assured the assembly that he was merely taking precautions on account of certain signs of unrest in the Capital. Food was scarce owing to last year’s bad harvest; and at such times, as had been proved in the past, it was necessary to take these measures. He wanted no repetition of the Guerre des Farines.

  He sensed, he said, that the Assembly was uneasy, so he would then arrange for its members to leave for the provinces.

  Louis and the nobility congratulated themselves. They had countered the rebellious notions of the common people. There should be no new Constitution with a manacled monarchy. The old regime should continue.

  It was the 12th of July – hot and sultry.

  The National Assembly heard that Necker had been dismissed, and they knew then that all hope was lost. Necker was the only King’s man on whom they had pinned their hopes.

  ‘Necker gone.’

  ‘Necker dismissed.’

  The news reached the fevered streets of Paris; and it was like the match applied to the fuse.

  * * *

  During those hot days of July Orléans, from the windows of his apartments at one end of the square which formed the Palais Royal, looked down on astonishing scenes; and looking was filled with gratification and ever-growing excitement. The Gardens of the Palais Royal were crowded day and night. Between the tables outside the cafés the prostitutes walked among the men who argued fiercely against the monarchy; agitators had stationed themselves under the trees to harangue the people. Throughout the evening and far into the night could be heard the shouts against religion, and most of all against the aristocrats. The wildest rumours were bred in the Palais Royal. And Orléans was King of this little world made up of merchants, beggars, vagabonds, prostitutes, certain aristocrats who believed that their safety lay with Orléans, and certain politicians who believed that the way to fame and fortune lay with him.

  Many able men were with him. Choderlos de Laclos was a useful man. His novel, Liaisons Dangereuses, had aroused anger in many because of his descriptions of the depravity of society; he was a General who, when he left the army, had become secrétaire de commandements to Orléans. He could write a pamphlet which could rouse the masses to fury – a very useful man. There was Mirabeau, an aristocrat himself, become bankrupt through many years of dissolute living, but a man of immense powers, could he but use them; and now, having reached the mature age of forty, he desired to use them; he longed for power; and he saw in France’s present position a means of attaining it. There was Camille Desmoulins, a fiery journalist and protégé of Mirabeau. There was Danton, the paid agitator.

  And there was Théroigne de Mericourt. Orléans was not sure that Théroigne was not as useful as any of the men. He had first met Théroigne when he was in England. She had been called Anne Terwagne in those days; she was a Belgian, and the Prince of Wales had mentioned her to Orléans. She had become one of Orléans’ mistresses and he had brought her to France with him, where she had quickly set up house and become one of the most sought-after courtesans of Paris society. She adopted the name of Comtesse de Campinados and found several rich protectors with whom she travelled in the utmost luxury throughout Europe.

  But Théroigne was clever. She had heard rumours. She knew of the trouble which was brewing in France; and she knew that many looked to Orléans as the leader of it. If Orléans was to lead a new society in France, if he were to become King of France, which she knew had been a secret ambition of his, she wanted to be at hand to share his triumphs.

  That was why Théroigne was in Paris; that was why she had established her salon in the rue de Bouloi where she gathered writers, politicians and disgruntled aristocrats, and served revolutionary ideas with her wine.

  It was therefore pleasing for the Duc d’Orléans to sit in his apartments and watch the rising excitement.

  Mirabeau had laid his plans. When the moment was ripe the people should rise against the King; they should appoint the Duc d’Orléans Lieutenant-General of the Kingdom. And from that, mused Orléans, it should be an easy step to the throne.

  Then came the news that Necker was dismissed.

  It was the sign, and Mirabeau was ready. It was true that when Necker had been in office he had sneered at the man, called him the Genevese sou-snatcher, the clock that was always slow; and he had indeed been preparing a speech to deliver to the Assembly in which he was going to demand his dismissal and accuse him of being concerned in the famine which was the result of the failure of the previous year’s harvest.

  What did that matter? The King had dismissed Necker; the time was ripe, the mob were ready; the weather was hot, and so was the blood of the people. Necker would serve very well as an excuse.

  * * *

  Camille Desmoulins leaped onto a table outside one of the cafés in Palais Royal.

  ‘Citizens,’ he cried, ‘you know the nation has asked for Necker to be retained, and he has been driven away. Could you be more insolently defied? To arms, Citizens! To arms! I call you, my brothers, to liberty.’

  The mob crowded about him; some carried sticks, some had pistols, some hatchets, some brooms – anything that would do for a weapon.

  They seized Desmoulins and carried him high on their shoulders; they surged about the Palais Royal, crying ‘To arms! Citizens, throw off the shackles of slavery! Liberty, Citizens! We will fight for liberty.’

  Desmoulins produced effigies. One was of Necker; the other of the Duc d’Orléans.

  Through the streets of Paris the people marched carrying those effigies high, shouting ‘To arms, Citizens! Liberty!’

  * * *

  Disorder had burst on Paris. Gangs roamed the streets; the tradespeople barricaded their shops, for many of the brigands who were rioting and looting were strangers to Paris. They spoke with accents which did not belong to the Capital and its environs; they were wilder, lacking completely the grace of the Parisian which was evident even in the most humble. The Parisians were the most cultured people in France; and France had been the most cultured country in the world. They liked to sit outside the cafés and talk; they were less eager to act. They were idlers by nature, preferring the adventures of the mind to action. These coarse crude people certainly did not belong to Paris. It was becoming clear to many of the peace-loving citizens of the Capital that these hordes who roamed the streets shrieking of their ills and demanding liberty, were hirelings. This filled them with alarm.

  During those two or three days and nights which preceded the 14th, the sober men and women tried to found a band of guards who would protect them from these brigands who went about the streets shouting: ‘Des armes et du pain.’ Behind the barricaded houses parents stood over their children in the utmost anxiety, praying that the sound of shouting in the streets should not come their way.

  On the 13th the disorders had increased. Gunsmiths’ shops had been raided, and the wild men and women now were armed. The Hôtel de Ville had been broken into and more ammunition stolen.

  The citizens of Paris were seriously alarmed. Determined to protect their city from the marauders, the magistrates held meetings in the Hôtel de Ville; several men came forward to offer their services, arms were handed to the protectors of Paris, and bands were formed which were to patrol every district.

  One or two of the rioters were seized and hanged; but the ring-leaders escaped. The streets grew quieter as the day wore on, but there was great uneasiness. It was remembered that the troops, having been instructed by the King not to fire on the people, had been useless in the riots, and their presence in the city had caused only uneasiness and panic.

  Evening came and the agitators were standing on their tables in the Palais Royal and on the street corners, reminding the people of their wrongs.

  Georges Jacques Danton was the cleverest of all the agitators; he knew how to fire the people to anger while he was making them laugh.

  He shouted: ‘Shall we use the green cockade as our colours, Citizens? Never! Those are the colours of the Comte d’Artois, and the Com
te d’Artois is one of those accursed aristocrats who snatch the bread from our mouths, Citizens, that they may parade in their glory. Nay, let our colours be those of our friend Monsieur d’Orléans – the tricolor, Citizens – blue, white and red! I have a list here, Citizens. It contains the names of those who are traitors to their country. Artois is in that list. Shall we use his colours?’

  ‘No!’ screamed the crowd.

  ‘Then let it be the tricolour.’

  ‘Long live the tricolour!’

  * * *

  The 14th July dawned, a day of blazing heat and blazing emotion, a day that was to be remembered for ever after.

  Crowds gathered about the Palais Royal.

  The plan was ready, but the people of Paris did not know this. Word was sent through the city.

  ‘Troops are advancing on Paris. Citizens are to be bombarded by the guns of the Bastille.’

  ‘Citizens, will you stay in your homes and do nothing? Will you allow the guns of the Bastille to murder your wives and children and yourselves? You have seen the price of bread … rising … rising … and you have dared to complain. Those to whose interest it is to see the price of bread rise now wish to murder those who raised their voices against tyranny. To arms, Citizens! There is one way to defeat our enemies. To the Bastille!’

  The people were crowding into the streets. They assembled around the Hôtel de Ville and in the Place de Grève.

  ‘What means this?’ they asked of one another.

  And the good citizens mingled with the cut-throat hirelings.

  They had seen the guns on the battlements; those guns could be brought to bear upon the surrounding streets with devastating results.

  Many people had passed the great fortress with its eight pointed towers and its dry moat; they had passed the gate which opened into the rue Saint-Antoine; they had looked at the two drawbridges, one the Pont de l’Avancée which opened on the Cour du Gouvernement, and the other on to the prison.