Marie-Therese, Child of Terror: The Fate of Marie Antoinette's Daughter

by Susan Nagel

  France’s financial situation was indeed bleak, but the fault did not rest solely with the monarchy. Years of war had cost the nation nearly 3 billion livres. The first two Estates, the clergy and the nobility, comprising only about 600,000 people, controlled most of the wealth in the country. Mindful of the need for reform, Louis XVI had made concessions from the moment of his coronation. Throughout the years of his reign, Louis XVI had been a sober if not boring man to most courtiers. He preferred to go to bed early and was not considered charismatic, as had been Louis XIV and XV. Louis XVI envisioned himself as a father figure rather than a playmate. Louis was by nature benevolent and tolerant. In the late 1770s, Louis XVI and his minister, Turgot, abolished many unfair feudal laws including personal servitude – serfdom – in the royal domain and the corvée, wherein, owing to a lack of metal money, labor was supplied as a form of tax payment, and, in an attempt to improve trade with England, opened the port of Cherbourg.

  As Louis had not impressed most courtiers with an amiable and winning way, he did not seduce this crowd of twelve hundred, and many of them, predisposed to dislike him, were waiting to hear what finance minister Necker had to say. The King, however, continued to address the assembly. He spoke of the inhumane treatment of inmates at the Conciergerie prison in Paris (which, ironically, would be the last residence of his own wife) and insisted on removing debtors from captivity with criminals. And again, ironically, it was he who had insisted on helping the colonists in America in their struggle for independence from King George III, an act that would bring the country to financial ruin. The King’s absolute power was very different from the constitutional monarchy of his ‘cousin’ and ‘brother’, King George III of England. England had gone through its transition from rule by absolute monarchy to a constitutional one over one hundred years earlier. However, as Madame de la Tour du Pin wryly reported in 1789, in France there was a mania for all things English, from style of dress to silver design. It became a compliment to tell a woman she seemed ‘English’. Britain’s form of government was also greatly admired. Although Louis did not approve of the English kind of constitutional monarchy for France, he was prepared, he said, to accept the diminished role in order to preserve his own dynasty.

  Madame Royale sat on the royal dais until 6 p.m., through long, drawn-out orations, including Necker’s three-hour harangue in which he called for more loans but no drastic reform, and during which the minister grew so hoarse that someone else had to finish his speech. Madame Royale, on the other hand, took her cue from her mother and remained collected. Exhibiting great stamina and poise, the Queen impressed many with her dignity. Madame de la Tour du Pin noticed, however, that although Marie Antoinette appeared contained, she fluttered her fan almost convulsively, a sign that the Queen was agitated. Madame Royale appeared every inch a princess, precociously regal. She sat, listened and watched as commoners hurled accusation after accusation at her parents. From this time on, despite her religious education, she learned to hate, developing a lifelong grudge against the enemies of her parents – especially the Duc d’Orléans and his family.

  For the rest of the month, the factions battled each other – the noblemen remaining intransigent for the most part while the Tiers État waged their campaign that 97 per cent of the population deserved to be heard. While the debate continued, the King and Queen became preoccupied with their own personal tragedy, making frequent visits to Meudon in order to spend time with the Dauphin. One evening toward the end of May at Versailles, Madame Campan placed four candles on the Queen’s vanity table and attempted to light them. The first blew out. The lady-in-waiting re-lit it. Shortly afterwards the second and then the third extinguished. Marie Antoinette grabbed Madame Campan’s hand, squeezed it in terror, saying that if the fourth taper went out like the rest, ‘then she could look on it as nothing but a sinister omen’.

  The King and Queen made frequent trips to Meudon to see their son, who was failing fast. One day at the end of May, as the Queen sat by her son’s bedside, she could not stop herself from crying. Her son asked her to try to stop, adding, ‘because soon you will need all of your courage’ – an eerily prophetic prognosis. On the afternoon of June 4, when the King and Queen arrived at Meudon, M. Lefèvre, the Due d’Harcourt’s secretary, informed the royal parents that they could not see their son. The King immediately anticipated the worst and said, ‘Ah! My son is dead.’ ‘No, Sire,’ Lefèvre replied; ‘He is not dead, he is worse.’ Lefèvre reported that the ensuing scene was a memory that he would never forget: the King crumpled onto a sofa and the Queen sank to her knees beside him, both weeping over their beloved son.1

  Later that night, at about 1 a.m., Louis Joseph died. The cause of death was given as a combination of rickets and pneumonia. When the King was told, he commanded M. de Villedeuil, Secretary of State in the Department of the King, to announce to the four-year-old Due de Normandie, in the presence of his governess, that he was now proclaimed Dauphin of France. The King asked the Archbishop of Paris to hold one thousand Masses for the soul of his late son. When the Archbishop enquired who, at this time of economy, would fund these services, the inconsolable King replied: ‘Sell the silverware.’

  For a while the nation seemed to unite in its grief for the Dauphin. All around the King and Queen, their friends and courtiers donned black. The Tiers Etat prepared a statement expressing its profound sorrow, stating that the Assembly had been penetrated by sadness upon the death of the Dauphin, and authorized M. le Doyen to present this sentiment to the King and Queen. The following day, on June 5, M. le Due du Chatelet, on behalf of the nobility, presented a motion to the Assembly that a statement of condolence should be delivered to their Majesties as well. One well-meaning member of the Tiers État arrived unannounced at the King’s chambers with holy water and although the King did not wish to see anyone, he received the man out of courtesy to the Tiers État.

  At Meudon, the Dauphin’s body was embalmed and put on view in a white velvet-lined casket. Neither parent was permitted to see it or attend the Dauphin’s funeral: French tradition stipulated that the Kings of France and their Queens could not associate themselves with the sick or dead. Nor were they permitted to attend funerals, as the King was regarded as the incarnation of the nation and therefore ‘never died’.

  On June 12, the Dauphin’s body was placed in the royal crypt at St. Denis; his heart, also according to custom, at Val-de-Grâce. For the second time in her short life, Marie-Thérèse was in mourning for the death of a beloved sibling. The King and Queen were suffering from insomnia and two days later the royal family moved to Marly to grieve in private.

  The knell of church bells and the shutting-down of amusement venues around the country was the least that could be expected when a Dauphin of France died. In the past, the death of a Dauphin would have caused the country to come to its knees for many months; but a year after her son’s horrendously painful demise, the Queen would write to her brother Leopold, who by that time would succeed their brother, Joseph, and become Holy Roman Emperor Leopold II, that she felt the people of France had made no more than a perfunctory show of respect. While a deep sadness took hold of the royal family, and their royal counterparts in other courts of Europe expressed sympathy, the nation went on with its business. Versailles, which had always teemed with faces familiar to Marie-Thérèse, or at least with people she would get to know, now burgeoned with strangers as the Tiers État persisted on a path of insubordination. On June 17, 1789, while the King was still grieving at Marly, the Tiers État banded together to form a National Assembly, vowing that they would create a new, written constitution; they urged the clergy and the members of the nobility to prepare for change. The people wanted equality. On June 19, the clergy voted 149 to 137 to join the États-Généraux. The next day, when they all arrived in the pouring rain at the Salle des Menus-Plaisirs, they discovered that they had been locked out of the meeting hall. Dr Joseph Guillotin suggested that the group convene at the Jeu de Paume, a grubby gymna
sium on the rue du Vieux-Versailles. In this most inelegant place, the Tiers État drew up its own Declaration of Independence, now known as ‘The Tennis Court Oath’. The Comte d’Artois, in a show of protest, reserved the hall for the next day so that the assembly could not reconvene there.

  The nobility itself was splitting into factions. One, led by the Comte d’Artois and supported by the Queen, wanted no change at all. Marie Antoinette’s loyalty toward her brother-in-law and his coterie caused their enemies to publish a pamphlet illustrating the pair having sex, ‘doggy style’. In addition it was widely believed that the Queen had stolen money and sent it to her brother, the Holy Roman Emperor. Another, more liberal, faction tried to convince the King to make further concessions and to follow the suggestions proposed by finance minister Necker, who was popular with the Tiers État. It was widely known that the Queen disliked Necker and his policies. The Queen, having learned the power of her own mother’s manipulation and theatrical tactics, gathered Marie-Thérèse and Louis Charles together, thrust them into their father’s arms, and dramatically pleaded with the King to stand firm for the sake of their children. The King, as usual, wanted to please everyone, and remained centrist.

  On June 23, Louis XVI, in style and demeanor still very much the regal, divinely ordained monarch, presided imperiously over a séance royale during which he reminded the deputies that it was he who granted the people favor and not the reverse. The King declared the June 17 and June 20 proceedings, documents and oaths null and void. Never had a king done so much for his people, said Louis, but, as a minor concession, he accepted a watered-down version of Necker’s proposals. Necker was conspicuously absent from this meeting called by His Majesty. It was an act of defiance noted by the crowd. Immediately after the King stated his position, the errant Marquis de Mirabeau, serving as a representative of the Tiers État, issued the chilling threat: ‘We will not back down without the force of bayonets!’ An angry crowd made its way through the palace of Versailles toward the Queen’s private chambers. Leaders of the new National Assembly vowed to press on with their demands for equality and fiscal reform. The angry mob would not back down until at least thirty citizens were arrested. The deputies, who in the past had thought of their King as well-meaning but impotent and bumbling, now mistrusted and feared him. The impressionable Madame Royale was shocked by the appearance of these oddly dressed, ill-spoken, belligerent people at the palace. They seemed antipathetic to her family’s sorrow. The death of her brother, however, would be the first of many traumatic and devastating losses for Marie-Thérèse that year.

  Madame de la Tour du Pin noted that tensions were high in the salons of Paris that June. She was aware that food was intentionally being withheld from Parisians in order for some to pursue a more radical political course, and that the encroachment on the King’s authority was so ‘novel’, that the royal family was simply unprepared for it.

  A moment of respite occurred for the royal family in late June when the amiable, fun-loving Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire – a great friend of Marie Antoinette’s from more carefree days – traveled to France to offer comfort. Georgiana arrived in Paris like a welcome breeze on June 22. The Englishwoman had mixed in English political circles for years and understood that contention was part of the reform process; yet even she was shocked by the degree of agitation caused by the Duc d’Orléans, another old friend. On June 25, the Duke led another insurrection, becoming even more popular among the masses, when he ceremoniously joined the Tiers État, encouraging other aristocrats to follow. Thousands of people gathered at the Palais-Royal to complain about the government, and the cafés became places of ferment for political clubs. Georgiana entertained her old acquaintances in Paris, but kept the warring parties apart. Although the Princesse de Lamballe was the widow of the brother of the Duchesse d’Orléans, Georgiana understood that Lamballe was supremely loyal to Marie Antoinette and therefore did not invite the Queen’s friend to her suite at the same time as the Duke. Georgiana attended the opera two nights in a row – one evening she sat with the Comte d’Artois, the next with his former friend and now hated rival, the Duc d’Orléans. The usually friendly rivalry between Artois and Orléans at the races had taken on a different tone. As the enmity between the two men had intensified, their horses served as a symbol for each man’s desire to vanquish the other. Artois, enraged about Orléans’s role in the recent political upheaval, spoke publicly for hours against him. Orléans, however, had gained so much momentum that the King was forced to order the dissolution of the first and second États on June 27. The National Assembly had defeated the crown, the common man enjoying a heady empowerment while an ancient monarchy tottered.

  At Versailles, Georgiana was struck by the Queen’s appearance. Marie Antoinette seemed withered and distracted and had lost her elegant gaiety. Georgiana reluctantly returned to Paris, and by the beginning of July the atmosphere was so turbulent in the city that her husband decided they ought to leave. Despite the crowds and foreign troops lining the road to Versailles, Georgiana insisted on seeing Marie Antoinette once again. On July 8, dressed in mourning attire, the Duchess of Devonshire tackled the road to the Château where she and her friend, the Queen, spent some time together. Both women feared for the future of the royal family, and it was the last time they would see each other. The Devonshires fled to Brussels where they awaited word on the emigration of many of their friends during the explosive days of July 1789.

  That July, the King removed Jacques Necker from his post. The populace rioted, gathered arms, and invaded the Bastille prison looking for gunpowder. A rumor had spread that the King himself had planted explosives to blow up the National Assembly and that the Comte d’Artois and the Polignacs were going to quash the new government with force. Immediately after the fall of the Bastille on July 14, people began to advise the King to leave the country, or at least to let his children slip away for their own safety, but the King and Queen refused to part from each other or to be separated from their children. On July 16, 1789, two days after the storming of the Bastille, a council was held in the King’s bedroom. With crowds threatening to assassinate the Polignacs and the Comte d’Artois, the Queen begged the royal governess to escape, but Polignac refused. Marie Antoinette then asked the King to order their friend to depart. The duchess could not refuse an order issued by her king. A sad farewell took place in the evening as all of the people, except for her parents and brother, closest in the world to Marie-Thérèse, fled France in various disguises. The Queen, trying to keep her friend’s imminent departure a secret, passed a note to Madame de Polignac that read, ‘Adieu! The most tender of friends. The word is terrible to pronounce but it must be said. Here is the order for the horses. I have no more strength left except to embrace you.’

  The King assured the Polignacs, as they hurriedly packed for Switzerland, that he would continue to support them, and the Queen gave Madame Campan money to give to the Duchess for their traveling expenses. The King arranged for troops to accompany his youngest brother, the Comte d’Artois, the Comtesse d’Artois, and their sons, the young Dues d’Angoulême and de Berry, to safety. These two young boys, Marie-Thérèse’s first cousins, were among her closest playmates. She was distraught at their departure but relieved to learn of their safe arrival in Italy. Artois’s father-in-law, the King of Sardinia, welcomed his daughter and her family and the Condés as well as a growing number of French aristocrats settled in Turin out of reach of the revolutionaries. Marie Antoinette, certain that she, the King, and their children would be forced to flee, asked Madame Campan to help her burn papers and gather her jewelry in preparation for their own hasty escape, but that plan was dashed, according to Campan, when a ‘small committee’ instead agreed that the King would go to Paris to face the insurrection. Marie Antoinette, convinced that the King would be harmed or held hostage in Paris, planned to ask the Assembly for asylum for herself and her children if he did not return.

  The next morning, July 17, the King went with
out his family to Paris to approve a new mayor and the appointment of Lafayette as military commander. The Queen, shaking, locked herself and what was left of her family inside private chambers. The children did not leave her for one instant. The Dauphin, constantly looking out the window, assured his mother, ‘He will return. He will return. My father is so good that no one will hurt him!’ The day seemed without end as they waited to hear word or the sound of the approach of the King’s coach and horses. Finally, at 11 p.m., Louis arrived, rushed straight to the Queen, and heartily hugged his crying children. People filled the courtyard to get a glimpse of the King, who had put on the tricolor cockade of the revolution to demonstrate his support of the new government and the rights of the citizens of France.

  The Queen and their children joined the King on the balcony twice to receive acclaim from the crowd. News had reached the masses that the King had agreed to call Necker back to his job, and, for the moment, Louis seemed to have appeased his enemies. The cabals continued to meet at the cafes in Paris – Marie Antoinette referring to them as the ‘enraged’ people of the Palais-Royal. In the meantime, she sought a replacement for the Duchesse de Polignac. She summoned the forty-year-old widow, the Marquise de Tourzel, whose husband had died in 1786 while on a hunt with the King. It was a dangerous time to serve the royal family at Versailles and aristocrats were fleeing in droves, but Madame de Tourzel accepted the post.