by Susan Nagel
After her father-in-law’s death, Marie-Thérèse had been referred to as ‘Queen’; however, with Louis-Antoine dead the now Dowager Queen, Marie-Thérèse, insisted on following ancient protocol and curtsying to her nephew whenever he entered or left the room and rising in his presence. While Marie-Thérèse settled in at Frohsdorf, she dispatched her niece and nephew to Venice to meet with their mother. From Venice, Henri wrote to Marie-Thérèse and, on June 9, 1845, she replied: ‘I thank you so much, Dear Child, for your letter of June 3. It is so full of sense … so touching, so well expressed.’ She then went on to tell him that they were suffering a terrible heat, asked him to send ‘a thousand loves to your mother’, and reminded him that they were all to work together for the wedding of his sister, Louise, to take place that autumn.
For all of the foolish things that Marie Caroline had done, she had also kept her word to her late husband. She had honored his memory and taken care of the children that the Duc de Berry had had with Amy Brown and then grandchildren born of those daughters. De Berry’s English-born daughter, entitled the Comtesse d’Issoudun upon his death, had married the Prince de Faucigny-Lucinge. Their son, born only four years after Henri, was as much a member of the Lucchesi-Palli brood as the Countess’s own children. The young Prince de Faucigny-Lucinge recalled arriving with Marie Caroline at Frohsdorf in September 1845, for the wedding of Princess Louise of France. He had not seen Marie-Thérèse since staying with her at Holyrood in 1831, he recalled, and when he saw her now, ‘at about sixty-seven years’, he noted that her carriage was straight as it had been years before. He also commented that for all of the time she spent at her needlework, she stood quite erect, displaying none of the round-shoulderedness he had expected. She moved with great dignity, in fact, majesty; her hair, still abundant, had turned gray, and she immediately tried to put him at his ease. ‘The august and sainted daughter of the martyred king’, although kind, seemed to always have a sad expression on her face, and he thought that she was most serious.
Faucigny-Lucinge was surprised at how quickly Marie-Thérèse ate her meals. Scarcely had one finished, or even if one had not, if she had finished the plates were immediately cleared. He quickly learned that this was a habit from the days when, having to eat at the King’s table in public view, she learned ‘to get it over with’ as rapidly as possible. Later, when she was a guest in other’s houses, he recalled, her sense of urgency disappeared, and she relaxed and laughed among her friends and family.
Faucigny-Lucinge, as had many others, wrote about the salon evenings where the men would play cards, and the women would work on embroidery. The Dowager Queen bid her company goodnight at nine o’clock, and, after the ladies left, he would join the men in the fumoir where he questioned her staff as to the etiquette at Frohsdorf. They advised him to be on time for everything. He made a point, then, of rushing to his room to gargle, in order to rid himself of the smell of smoke, and comb his hair ten minutes before each outing with Marie-Thérèse. One day, she invited him to accompany her on a carriage ride. It was a small carriage, built for two passengers. He was surprised when she had invited a friend along and instructed him to sit in the front seat with the driver. At first he felt insulted and agitated. He then smiled to himself, remembering that his uncle, Gaspard, had sat similarly when he smuggled the Princess from Vichy to Rambouillet in 1830. They drove for a while until Marie-Thérèse asked the driver to stop. Alighting from the carriage, she took the young Prince by his arm and, as if she had read his mind, recounted to him the very same story he had been thinking about. As she told him of her adventure and of her affection for his uncle, Faucigny-Lucinge fully relaxed, understanding that she had seated him with that intention, and recalled that he, in her presence, felt part of that history.
On November 10, 1845, the whole family celebrated the marriage of Louise, who would remain very close to her aunt. She and her husband purchased a house near Frohsdorf and when their first child, a daughter, was born in 1847, they named her Marie-Thérèse. Little Marie-Thérèse, known as ‘Marguerite’, would go on to marry her cousin, the Duke of Madrid, and during the First World War lived under house arrest at Frohsdorf. ‘Marguerite’ was followed by Robert, who would marry twice and have twenty-four children, countless grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren, many of whom are still living today. Two more children followed: Alice, who would marry Ferdinand IV of Habsburg-Tuscany, and Henri, who became the husband of the daughter of Ferdinand of Modena. There are hundreds of Bourbons, directly descended from the late King Charles X, many of whom are male, alive today.
In the summer of 1846, Marie Caroline returned Marie-Thérèse’s kindness and invited her sister-in-law to her home in Brunnsee. Henri accompanied his beloved aunt on the journey. Faucigny-Lucinge recalled that there was much merriment when they arrived at Brunnsee. Marie Caroline was the same vivacious, fun-loving woman she had always been. One of her charms was that she had never quite mastered French, despite the fact that it was the language of the aristocracy. One time in Venice she felt unwell and arrived late for an appointment with an important German aristocrat. Transforming the Italian word constipato, meaning ‘suffering from a cold or bronchitis’, she apologized, telling him in French: ‘Je suis si constipé’ – ‘I am constipated’. The German was stunned. Another time in Venice, she remarked that she loved the city, and she loved to be among its people, its crowds. Instead of saying, ‘dans le tas’, she said, ‘dans la tasse’ – ‘in the cups’, or ‘drunk’. Faucigny-Lucinge recognized that one of the secrets to Marie Caroline’s success with people was that she was a wonderful hostess, and before her sister-in-law’s arrival they spent days planning activities and entertainment for Marie-Thérèse’s comfort and amusement. They put on plays in which they all took parts, went on merry jaunts around the countryside, and had very pleasant evenings during which the two women would conspire on how to marry off Henri. It would not be an easy task because, although he was called Henri V by legitimists, he had no throne and therefore his prospects were limited.
There had been discussions with Naples for Henri to marry an aunt, and with Russia, for Henri to marry an archduchess. Neither materialized. Finally, in 1846, Henri married the elder, less attractive, daughter of the Duke of Modena, the head of the house of Austria-Este, the younger branch of the house of Austria. She, too, was called Marie-Thérèse. Although it was not a love match, Marie-Thérèse of Modena made a very good impression on the woman who mattered most to her husband – Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte of France who, with great relief at a good match, declared her nephew’s fiancée ‘an angel’.
Despite Metternich’s admonishment that their attendance might displease King Louis-Philippe, two Austrian empresses – the fourth wife of Franz II and the wife of Ferdinand I – and a number of princes and princesses made the trip to Frohsdorf for the wedding. Faucigny-Lucinge recalled that when Marie-Thérèse appeared at the wedding dinner she was absolutely radiant – resplendent in a soft gray gown, a diamond diadem, and wearing a fabulous suite of jewelry that had belonged to Marie Antoinette. She appeared luminous, majestic and young. According to Faucigny-Lucinge, the illusion was so strong he thought his eyes were deceiving him.
Marie-Thérèse happily agreed for Frohsdorf to be the main residence of Henri and his very rich bride – that is, when they were not traveling. The pair became quite international, visiting many popular and very social places around Europe, and Henri, the King without a throne, was welcomed at many fashionable resorts, balls and shooting parties. They bought the Palazzo Cavalli on the Grand Canal in Venice, where they would entertain many aristocrats and, with his aunt’s encouragement, Henri would frequently call on his mother, Contessa Lucchesi-Palli, and her rather large family.
It was in Venice, in February 1848, that Henri heard news of the first rumblings of strife that would lead to a series of revolutions across the West. The year 1848 was to be one of seismic events around the world. Europe and North America had seen a g
roundswell of demonstrations for women’s rights, workers’ rights, and equal rights for all. While republicans, socialists and abolitionists drafted manifestos, Marie-Thérèse remained quietly at Frohsdorf, where she would turn seventy at the end of the year. She had lived through revolutions, assassinations, coups, political uncertainty and exile; at seventy, she was undaunted and prepared for any outcome.
Early in the year, the King of Sardinia, Charles-Albert, had been forced to sign a new constitution. On February 22, violence erupted in Paris and France was once again in turmoil. On February 24, King Louis-Philippe abdicated. The following day the Citizen King fled Paris and on March 2 sailed to England under the alias ‘Mr Smith’. The Venetian police, unsure whether Henri’s life was in danger, or if he was himself a threat – a spy – immediately surrounded the Palazzo Cavalli. Growing nationalist movements became a serious problem for the Austrian Empire. There were uprisings among the Czech population, a Croatian army invaded Hungary and rioting in Vienna and Hungary forced the Emperor and Metternich to make sweeping democratic reforms. By the end of the year, they were both deposed, the Emperor in favor of his nephew, Franz Joseph. In Germany as well, where there was an immediate demand for the unification of several states, turbulence threatened. Through all of this, Marie-Thérèse waited and hoped for the people of France to call upon her nephew; but no such communiqué came.
Instead, the French turned to Charles Louis Napoleon Bonaparte (known as Louis Napoleon), son of Hortense de Beauharnais, the daughter of Napoleon Bonaparte’s first wife, Joséphine de Beauharnais, and her first husband. Although Hortense was married to her stepfather’s brother, Louis Bonaparte, her series of adulterous affairs left her son’s paternity in question. For the most part, however, in order to avoid embarrassment, people accepted his claim that he was his father’s son, and, therefore, the nephew of Napoleon Bonaparte, the Emperor of the French. A combination of nostalgia for the legend of Napoleon and the power of the name secured Louis Charles Napoleon Bonaparte’s election as President of the Republic of France.
Two years after the Revolution of 1848, Louis-Philippe died in exile. A visitor to Frohsdorf, impressed that Marie-Thérèse showed no pleasure in the sufferings of the Orléans family, commented nonetheless that God had punished the man for his role in the downfall of his own cousins. ‘It is impossible not to see God’s finger in the fall of Louis-Philippe,’ said the guest. ‘It is in everything,’ Marie-Thérèse replied, steadfast in her teleology, before organizing a memorial service for her treacherous cousin.
Her compassion, her kindness and even her wit kept her at the center of a loyal circle of loved ones. Those who were still alive and had adored her when she was seventeen adored her when she was seventy; young people who had the opportunity to meet her were awed by her spirit. She remained active in her charity work, busy with guests, and was always hospitable to anyone who showed respect to the cause of the legitimists. Madame de La Ferronnays described Marie-Thérèse as having a heart that ‘was a treasure of indulgence’. Indeed, Marie-Thérèse’s own journal of her time in the Temple Prison had displayed no bitterness despite all that she had suffered. She could be fun and enjoyed lighthearted moments with family and friends, where she displayed the side of her personality that, as a child, her mother had named ‘Mousseline’.
Henri, her nephew, continued to depend on his aunt as his most reliable source of affection. She was his most significant source of strength. When he and his supporters were negotiating to return to Paris after the abdication of Louis-Philippe, she was his mainstay. She knew him better than anyone. He would write to her regularly from his travels, concerned for both her safety and her health. In the early summer of 1849, he wrote to her from one of his fact-finding journeys that he had taken without his wife. She received his letter and answered from Frohsdorf, on July 8, 1849: ‘My Dear Child … With what pleasure did I receive at last your letter of your arrival … I share your pain that you are separated from your wife … and I thank you for sharing the details of your route.’ She offered him news of her visitors and her activities – ‘two German comedies’ – and told him that she had plans to go to Leibnitz, but she would not go to Spitz because cholera had broken out there, along the Danube. His sister and her family were all fine; she, herself, was ‘quite tranquil’, and she signed off, ‘Adieu, my most beloved Child.’
Robert de Bourbon-Parme, Princess Louise’s eldest son, remembered an early childhood memory of his great-aunt, Marie-Thérèse. In a story he repeated to his own children about her many years later, he recalled that he was just a tiny boy when he went with his sister, their mother and great-aunt – ‘the Queen’ – for a ride in a carriage. He remembered Marie-Thérèse’s scratchy voice and understood enough to know that she intimidated many people. He, however, mostly remembered her gentleness. As the children, jammed into the coach, were being wildly tossed about, Robert began to cry. Marie-Thérèse placed him on her lap, cuddled with him and told him the following story: She was just a little girl when her mother, Queen Marie Antoinette, brought her to ride in a carriage that was part of a tailgating hunting party. Their carriage lost track of the hunt. When it arrived at a crossroads, they stopped to listen for the sounds of the bugles to determine their route. All of a sudden, and the very young Madame Royale could see this all from her window, a stag appeared. The men aimed their muskets to shoot, but the Queen commanded them to spare the animal. The trembling beast escaped, crossing a pool of water. One could thereafter only see his head and antlers. On the other side, he rose from the water, turned, as if to say ‘thank you’, and disappeared into the copse. Soon thereafter, the hunting party arrived, but the deer was gone. The King, Louis XVI, approached his wife’s carriage door and asked: ‘Have you passed the deer?’ She told him exactly what had happened and added: ‘He is my stag. I do not want him touched.’ The King laughed, declared the hunt over, and said to his Queen: ‘You have made the best catch of the year.’
Marie-Thérèse, nearing seventy-three years old, continued to promenade daily. It was during one of her customary walks, on October 12, 1851, that she caught a chill. The next day, after Mass, her condition had grown visibly worse. Dr Thévenot was called. On the 14th, she seemed a bit improved and received a visit from Archduchess Sophie, mother of the young Emperor. On the 15th, when her most devoted family members and friends arrived to celebrate her ‘Saint’s Day’, she was so ill that only Henri was permitted to enter her room. She lay in bed under the portrait of her father, Louis XVI, ascending to heaven with the Angel of Consolation. She also permitted Madame de Sainte-Preuve to assist her. On the 16th, she insisted on commemorating the fifty-eighth anniversary of her mother’s death. When the people around her protested that she was too frail to go to church, she contended: ‘Nothing could stop me from going to the chapel to render to the memory of my mother; I have never failed those duties.’ That morning she made every effort to get to the chapel and partake of communion but she was so ill she simply could not get there. Instead the Abbé Trébuquet came to her room and dispensed it to her there.
Alarmed, her Habsburg cousins dispatched the Emperor’s personal physician, Dr Seeburger, who diagnosed pneumonia and pleurisy. Owing to the quantity of people wishing to pay their respects, she was transferred from her bed to a divan. On the morning of the 17th, with the help of her secretary Charlet, she organized her papers and asked her trusted assistant to burn many of them. She instructed that after her death her parents’ rings, her father’s bloodstained shirt and her brother’s prayer stool should all remain at Frohsdorf with Henri. She also made a list of people dear to her heart to whom she would leave other personal possessions. She made Charlet promise to give generously to the poor on her behalf.
Her closest friends and family were called to her side. On the evening of the 18th, her fever was very high, and by the middle of the night as morning approached on October 19, she was nearly comatose. At 11.15 a.m., she uttered her final words to her beloved nephew, Henri: ‘Je s
uis anéantie’ – annihilated. The Abbé Trébuquet softly said, ‘Daughter of Saint Louis and of Louis XVI, ascend to heaven!’
On Saturday October 25, a funeral service was held at the Frohsdorf chapel, and according to her wishes, the casket of Marie-Thérèse remained closed. Her nephew, Henri, read her last will and testament, which included her thanks to the Emperor and the people of Gorizia and the prayer:
I die in the Roman Catholic and Apostolic religion …
After the example of my parents, I pardon, with my entire soul, and
without exception, all those who have injured or offended me …
I pray to God to shower down His blessings upon France -
France, that I have never ceased to love even under my bitterest afflictions.
She made her nephew her executor and heir and stated, ‘I have always considered my nephew Henri and my niece Louise as my children, I give them my maternal benediction … worthy descendants of Saint Louis.’
The next day the casket began its journey to Gorizia. The funeral cortège that traveled from Vienna included Marie Caroline Lucchesi-Palli. On October 28, Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte of France was buried in the Franciscan convent of Castagnavizza alongside her husband and father-in-law. On October 29, Henri left for Venice and his biological mother for Brunnsee. The woman he called ‘more than a mother … the visible sign of divine protection’, lay at rest in what for many is ‘the Saint-Denis crypt in exile’ for two Kings and a Queen of France, her tombstone bearing the inscription: ‘All you who pass this way, behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow.’