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

by Susan Nagel

  On May 11,1823, the Comte de Villèle wrote to the Duc d’Angoulême that the people of the southwest were ‘in heaven to have Madame; she has had the kindness in passing through Toulouse to receive my mother who is very happy’. It was noted again that the Duchesse d’Angoulême became far happier when she was far from Paris. ‘I went with her on several voyages,’ wrote Pauline,

  to Bordeaux, to the waters, to the provinces, to the Vendée … she was always, for me, good, always tender … In 1823, during the war in Spain, when M. le Duc d’Angoulême was the head of the elite French army, Madame la Duchesse d’Angoulême established herself at Bordeaux, to be closer to the news … what charming affability she displayed every day at the tables and in the salons of the various business leaders of Bordeaux. It was so touching to see the goodness with which the princess entered conversation with each of these men, these details of business, which could not have had any interest for her; nonetheless Madame always found something to question them about and listened to them, leaving all of those so happy who had had the honor to meet her.9

  With 100,000 men, d’Angoulême marched without resistance through Madrid, and, on August 31, after seizing the fortress of Trocadero, restored Ferdinand VII to the throne. D’Angoulême was hailed as the man who accomplished what Napoleon could not. It was essential for Marie-Thérèse to now return to Paris for her husband’s official welcome. The Bourbons regarded his victory as a victory for the monarchy – and for the idea of monarchy. A triumphal return to the French capital was planned for December 2, the anniversary of Napoleon’s victory at Austerlitz. The royal family waited on the balcony of the Tuileries Palace as the Duc d’Angoulême and his regiment marched through the gates of Paris. Marie-Thérèse beamed with pride. She was so euphoric that she had decorated an entire room at Villeneuve-l’Étang with paintings to commemorate his military triumphs.

  Marie-Thérèse and ‘The Hero of Trocadero’ later attended a performance of the play Le Cid by Corneille, put on in her husband’s honor. Although she savored the moment, Marie-Thérèse soon left the capital once more to embark on another tour of the provinces, visiting Bordeaux, Provence and the always-loyal Vendée, where she laid the first stone of a new chapel. She was always cognizant of the mistakes that her parents had made in neglecting the provinces and remaining insular at Versailles and had long ago decided that she would have a power base outside Paris and its vicinity.

  In 1824, France was in a strong position. The treasury was sound and, since its suppression of the revolt in Spain, France had recovered its international power and prestige. Many other European territories, however, were experiencing turbulence. The newspapers were filled with reports of the Greek revolution and the daring exploits of Lord Byron. In Jena, the formation of the Burschenschaft in 1815, which espoused the ideals of the French Revolution, led to a rise of secret societies and student riots which persisted well into the mid-1820s. Curiously, at the same time, oblique references to ‘the Dark Countess’ appeared in German and French newspapers, one claiming, for example: ‘one has discovered in a small corner in Thuringia, the trail of a long-lost French princess … but there may have been reasons why the trail was no longer pursued’.10

  On March 12, 1824, anticipating the spread of social unrest, the Duke of Hildburghausen signed a Schutzbrief (protection letter) stating that all authorities in Hildburghausen are to know that ‘Vavel de Versay and his companion’ are under his special protection and are to continue to receive all consideration as they had ‘from the very moment’ they had arrived. Not only was it clear that, in case of upheaval, this couple demanded special attention, but it obviated the fact that the Duke of Hildburghausen had ‘from the very moment’ – for some twenty years – known the couple’s identity and special requirements. This document, the statement that he had personally taken responsibility for their safety, would form part of his legacy. In 1826, the Duchy of Hildburghausen was subsumed into Meiningen. The new government required registration of Vavel de Versay, which he refused. Princess (Paul) Charlotte of Württemberg offered the couple asylum; however, when the Schutzbrief from Duke Frederick of Hildburghausen, now Duke of Saxe-Altenburg, was produced, the Duke of Meiningen intervened, and the identities of Vavel de Versay and his mysterious female companion, now in her late forties, remained undisclosed to the community.

  In an unexpected turn of events, in May of the following year, Vavel de Versay was proclaimed an honorary citizen of the town in appreciation for his many years of local philanthropy. Needless to say, he had not in any way sought any kind of public acclamation.

  A fiscally and militarily sound France was to be the legacy of Louis XVIII, and by the spring of 1824, it was clear that he was dying. His obesity had caused a variety of complications from gout to gangrene, and he was having difficulty breathing. That summer, at Saint-Cloud, he insisted on returning to Paris for the annual August 25th Fête Saint Louis. The King had always hated leaving Paris. He had been told a prediction that he would not die at the Tuileries and so he avoided going outside the capital or anywhere else whenever possible. Dressed in full uniform with golden epaulettes, he was a pitiable sight and it was apparent to all that he was clinging to life. Over the next few weeks, Louis withered away at the Tuileries. Marie-Thérèse was often by his side, crying and praying, but it was his mistress, Madame du Cayla, who had wrested a fortune out of her lover, who insisted on calling for a priest so that Louis could make his last confession, which he did before the Abbé Rocher on Monday, September 13 at 7.30 a.m. Marie-Thérèse and the Duc d’Angoulême were at his bedside when the King said: ‘Adieu, mes enfants, je vous bénis; que Dieu soit avec vous.’ (Good-bye, my children, I bless you; may God be with you.’) At 3 p.m., the infant Duc de Bordeaux and his sister were brought to his bedside so that Louis could say goodbye. He could no longer see them, but heard their voices, smiled at them and blessed them. He had always been very tender with the children and their governess noted that, despite their age, they understood that he was dying and they were very sad on their drive back to Saint-Cloud.

  On the evening of Tuesday, September 14, a crowd assembled in the Tuileries courtyard to keep vigil. Visitors and doctors recalled that during the King’s final days Marie-Thérèse stayed by his side in a constant state of grief. Each time he had difficulty breathing, he would see her tear-soaked eyes, hold her hand and say: ‘It is not yet the time. Do not worry.’ On Wednesday, September 15, the Abbé returned to speak with Louis. When, at 8 p.m., the King’s fever spiked and continued to rise, the priest placed a cross at his lips for him to kiss. The King’s Directeur-Général des Postes, the Duc de Doudeauville, gave the order to assemble the Ministers.

  Among those present in the King’s room at 3 a.m. on Thursday, September 16,1824, were his doctor, Alibert, the royal family – including the Duc and Duchesse d’Orléans – Talleyrand, Charles de Damas, the Ducs de Duras and Blacas, the Marquis d’Avaray and Baron Huü. An hour later the King died. Louis XVIII’s surgeon took a candle and held it near the King’s mouth. When the flame was not extinguished, he pronounced, ‘The King is dead’. Turning to Louis’s brother and heir, the Comte d’Artois, the doctor added, ‘Long live the King!’

  D’Artois, now Charles X, wept and turned to leave his brother’s chamber. The rest of the family followed. Marie-Thérèse, as the daughter of a king, would have followed immediately behind her uncle had it not been for the fact that her husband was now second in line to the throne. Obeying a thousand years of etiquette, she turned to d’Angoulême and said, ‘Proceed, Monsieur le Dauphin.’ Marie-Thérèse was now Dauphine of France.

  Chapter XXII

  Mending Fences

  Marie-Thérèse was an expert equestrienne. She had grown up riding with her mother, had resumed her passion in England, and the sport became a form of escapism for her from life at the Tuileries. She spent many a day on horseback in the Bois de Boulogne. When she asked her father-in-law, the new King, for her own stable at the Louvre, he ignored he
r. Instead he offered stables there to the Duc d’Orléans on the grounds that there were none at the Palais-Royal. Irritated, but aware that Charles X was determined to extend an olive branch to the junior branch of the Bourbon family, she bought her own stables in the Faubourg St Germain, directly across the Seine from the Tuileries, just to make a point. Days later, by royal ordinance, the Duc d’Orléans was granted the right to be called ‘Royal Highness’.

  More was to come. When, on September 23, Louis XVIII’s body was brought to Saint-Denis, Marie-Thérèse was forced to share a carriage in the funeral cortège with the Duc d’Orléans in a show of family solidarity. At the chapel, they watched as the chief herald threw the late King’s sword, helmet and buckler one by one down the stairs – as had been enacted for hundreds of years – repeating three times with each throw, ‘The King is Dead!’ After the ritual, the Master of Ceremony, who apparently felt that he could have done a better job, apologized to the new King and innocently blundered: ‘There were so many mistakes. Next time we will do better.’ Charles replied with a smile, ‘I am not in a hurry.’ In fact, Louis XVIII would be the last King of France to be buried in the royal crypt at Saint-Denis.

  Charles X formally entered Paris on September 27, 1824. Seated on a stallion, the King, as handsome and debonair as his brother was bloated and unattractive, entered the city followed by a dazzling parade of carriages. Once more the Duc d’Orléans traveled in line with the rest of the family. There was a 101-gun salute, the Prefect of the Seine gave Charles X the keys to the city, and the King paraded through the streets of Paris. On the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré he was distracted by excited shouts of ‘Bon-papa! Bon-papa!’ and, looking up, saw his grandchildren, Princess Louise and four-year-old Duc de Bordeaux, waving from an upper-floor balcony. Princess Louise had been initially upset that her grandfather was to be King of France. She had only known the other King to sit in a wheelchair and she thought that a wheelchair was a requirement for the job, but once she saw her grandfather slender and handsome riding his Arabian horse, she could hardly contain herself. Breaking with the solemnity and etiquette of the pageant, and to the delight of the crowds, Charles broke away from the procession, rode toward the building that housed his little ones, lifted his hat, and shouted up words of adoration to the children. As he had once charmed the late Queen Marie Antoinette with the twinkle in his eye, the nearly white-haired, affable man, who would turn sixty-seven in two weeks, but who looked much younger, sent the crowds into a dither.

  Paris was clearly smitten with its new King. To the surprise of many, the ultra-conservative Charles decided to immediately loosen the restrictions on press censorship. He also maintained the status quo among his late brother’s ministers. Villèle would remain Chief Counsel and Minister of Finance and Damas, Minister of Foreign Affairs. The Duchesse de Berry had heard that others were receiving honors and asked the King if she could be known as ‘Madame’, a title typically reserved for the daughter of the King, the sister of the King or the wife of the brother of the King. Charles refused her request stating that she had no right to it. ‘Madame, la Dauphine’ Marie-Thérèse was outraged that the Duchess had tried to obtain a title not rightfully hers. She was also becoming increasingly annoyed with her sister-in-law for what she saw as her neglect of her children – Madame Gontaut-Biron wrote that their mother rarely saw them – and for failing to perform her role as mother to a future King of France.

  Like Marie-Thérèse, Marie Caroline detested the Tuileries, for its formality rather than its memories. The young Princess was determined to have fun. She traveled, attended balls and hunting parties, and, in general, avoided the ceremonial solemnity that always surrounded the royal family of France. Marie-Thérèse wrote to her sister-in-law reminding her of her duties: ‘Who could possibly have suffered more than me to find myself once again in these places where I was with my parents and where I saw them so unhappy? And yet, my duty is to be there and my heart calls me there because that is where I find my family.’1 Her entreaty fell on deaf ears, however, and Marie Caroline’s behavior became even more outrageous. The King, who as the Comte d’Artois had famously sown his own wild oats, understood to some extent, but he advised his daughter-in-law that she must channel her energies into her children, host parties for them and be sure to invite all the Orléans children.

  On December 22, Charles presided over the opening of the Chamber of Deputies and invited his entire family along to the ceremony to show a united front. The majority of those who served in the parliament at that time were ultra-royalists. They represented a country of approximately 32 million people, most of whom had no memory of the ancien régime. A huge crowd waited to see what the King would say. Charles X reaffirmed his loyalty to the Constitutional Charter that had been forced on his brother, but he also attempted to further restore property to those families whose lands had been confiscated in the 1790s and reinstate a religious presence in a now largely secular country. The latter included the reintroduction to France of the Jesuits, who had been banned for over fifty years, which proved a deeply unpopular decision. In response to dissent on the matter, Marie-Thérèse privately remarked: ‘I am sure that those who shout “A bas les Jésuites!” do not even know what the Jesuits are.’2

  Although Marie-Thérèse could never forgive the d’Orléans clan, she still believed in the primacy of etiquette of rank. Madame de Gontaut-Biron recalled that after the King’s speech, there was a little step, which His Majesty did not see. He stumbled and his hat, which was under his arm, fell to the ground. The Duc d’Orléans retrieved it. The Duchesse d’Orléans, Marie-Thérèse’s first cousin, Marie Amélie, turned to Gontaut-Biron and said: ‘The King would have fallen, but my husband saved him.’ Gontaut-Biron disagreed: ‘No, Madame, Monseigneur only picked up His Majesty’s hat.’ The children’s governess recalled that Marie-Thérèse gave her a very frosty look and would not speak with her for years because she had contradicted a royal Princess, and even then Madame Gontaut-Biron believed that the Dauphine never truly forgave her. Similarly, despite the Dauphine’s personal animosity toward the son of Philippe Égalité, Marie-Thérèse performed her duty impeccably and obeyed her King, who had set the tone for reconciliation. Marie-Thérèse began a monthly pattern of either inviting the Duke and his Duchess to the Tuileries, as she did on February 24, 1825, or accepting an invitation to dine at the Palais-Royal, where she went a month later.

  Marie-Thérèse had become comfortable with the notion that she could perform her public duty while she maintained a balance with her own personal preferences. On the one hand, she would celebrate Easter at Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, the church in which she had been confirmed in 1790, and go to Vichy in the summertime for the waters. On the other, while the parties at the Tuileries contained none of the magic of Versailles, she would appear at the dinners that were important to the crown. While King Charles X prepared for his coronation at Reims, scheduled for Sunday, May 29, Marie-Thérèse served as his hostess in April at the Tuileries for the Prince of Saxe-Coburg and Chancellor Metternich, in May for Prince Esterhazy, and, after the coronation in Reims, she remained in Paris for a time in June to entertain the Queen of Württemberg and the Prince of Salerno.

  The famous salon hostess, Madame Récamier, recalled with amusement in her own diary that she had been absent from France after having been in Italy for three years, only to find that when she returned to Paris at the end of May, 1825, the city was deserted, everyone having gone to Reims. Alone in the capital, she received a letter from her friend, the writer-statesman, Chateaubriand, who described a personal moment during the coronation when: ‘At the ceremony of the chevaliers des ordres, I fell on my knees before the King … The King, having gone to the trouble of removing his gloves to take my hands in his, said to me, smiling: “A gloved cat cannot capture a mouse”.’3

  After the King’s formal coronation, there was a splendid dinner in the two-tiered grande salle of the fifteenth-century Palais de Tau, the home of the Archbishop
of Reims. Marie-Thérèse stayed in Reims for a few days, on June 1 visiting two hospitals for sick soldiers and a third for the public. The next day, in Châlons, she toured the cathedral, a hospice, the royal school of the arts, and a convent, after which she remained to dine with local dignitaries who hailed her as ‘the heroine of Bordeaux’. She returned to Paris to participate in the King’s own celebratory grand fête to which 8,000 people had been invited. On June 8, she attended the King’s own official gala and as the next in line as Queen of France was seated to his right. A few days later, the entire royal family attended the Théâtre-Français for a performance of Clytemnestra, and on June 19, once again, the whole family, in a grand show of solidarity, attended the Theatre Italien for the premiere performance of Il Viaggio a Reims by Rossini. The opera, a delightful account of a group of people desperately trying to get to the coronation of Charles X on time, had been composed in the new King’s honor.

  Twice a year for two weeks, in March and October, the royal family would retire to the royal palace at Compiègne, where Marie Antoinette had first met her husband. The Comte Alexandre de Puymaigre, Prefect of l’Oise during the reign of Charles X, and a frequent guest, recalled that Charles X preferred to do very little work when he was at Compiègne. He would hunt every day until around five in the evening. At 7 p.m. the royal family and their guests would congregate in a grand salon. Dinner would be served and would last about an hour. Puymaigre noticed that the King ‘did not serve first-rate wines’. After dinner, Marie-Thérèse would socialize with the women and give the children sweets. The King liked to play billiards. Sometimes Marie-Thérèse would put down her needlework and join the King at the billiard table. They would play whist, often enjoy a late-night serving of punch, and sometimes stay awake until two in the morning playing various card games. Puymaigre noted that, when it came to gambling, the Dauphine placed a limit on the stakes of 5 francs, but he recalled that sometimes, after Marie-Thérèse went to bed, the tone of the party would change, the rules would loosen, and behavior would degenerate, which suited the Duchesse de Berry who preferred a riskier game and racier conversation.