The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette

by Carolly Erickson

  I knelt beside the bed and said a prayer for his soul.

  This evening when the lamplighter came, he was Lieutenant de la Tour. We were able to exchange a few words without being overheard and he told me that he and other Knights of the Golden Dagger had been present in the crowd that came to watch Louis’s execution. At one point several of the Knights attempted to rescue Louis but the Republican Guard prevented it.

  “He died bravely and well,” the lieutenant told me. “He had no bitterness. He would not let them bind his hands, or restrain him in any way. He was willing to die.”

  “There was one odd thing, however. He insisted on wearing a torn old black coat, an antique. It made him look like a vagrant and not a king.”

  “Ah, of course. That was his father’s coat. He treasured it.”

  “They made him take it off before they executed him. It was tossed into the crowd. People tore it to bits. He forgave them—for that and for everything else. He said, ‘I forgive those who are guilty of my death.’ ”

  “Yes. He would say that.”

  After the lieutenant left I stood for a long time listening for the sound of the newsboys in the street calling out the events of the day.

  “Louis Capet Executed!” they cried. “Former King Dead!” “Madame Guillotine Marries Citizen Capet!”

  March 2, 1793

  They bring me a special soup every day now, because I am so thin. After Louis died I could not eat, and soon my black clothes hung on me like rags hung from a pole.

  My leg has started to hurt again and the prison doctor lets me have laudanum drops to take when the pain becomes too hard to bear. The laudanum makes my nightmares worse, and Mousseline, who is so good to me and watches over me almost like a mother, says she is sure my moodiness and sadness are made worse by the laudanum drops and urges me not to take them.

  We all stay together at night in one room now, the two children and I. It comforts me so much to have them near me. I seldom leave this room except when our meals are served and we sit at the table in front of the hearth in the common room. Being there makes me sad, remembering Louis sitting in his large chair giving Louis-Charles his lessons. I prefer to sit on my bed, knitting, while Mousseline reads to me from novels or stories of shipwrecks or pirates.

  When I comb my hair it comes out in clumps. It is all white now.

  One of the guards amuses himself making sketches of us with pastels. He captures the children’s likenesses very well. Louis-Charles is there on the page, plump-cheeked and with a lookof liveliness and mischief in his blue eyes. Mousseline he draws very much to the life, making her look delicate and fair, pretty though not beautiful, her even gaze tinged with sorrow. But when he draws me, the image is that of a sour-faced, pinch-cheeked old woman, with dark circles beneath her eyes and deep lines etched into her skin. How could that possibly be me?

  March 24, 1793

  I fear they are trying to poison Louis-Charles. He is ill so often, his forehead is hot with fever and he cries and holds his side where it hurts him. Sometimes he has a bad cough and chokes if he tries to lie down, so I hold him in my lap and he sleeps leaning against me. I try to sleep too, but often my nightmares come and then I cry out and wake up and wake him up too.

  I have a small supply of oil of sweet almonds that Dr. Concarneau gave me. I keep it nearby in case Louis-Charles becomes severely ill.

  Louis-Charles, my precious boy, is now King Louis XVII. Of course the revolutionaries want to eliminate him. They are so heartless, so ruthless, they would not hesitate to kill a child. And if they can do it by slowly poisoning him, making it appear that he is dying of an illness rather than being murdered, then they will avoid any appearance of cruelty.

  Only a few weeks ago he was fine. Now he is pale and in pain so often. How can it be anything but poison?

  May 10, 1793

  Louis-Charles seems better and I am puzzled. Are they putting poison in his food or not?

  I have new messages from Axel but I don’t dare write here what he tells me. My spirits are lifted by his news, and by the warm mild weather and the pink and yellow roses I can see from my window.

  Is it the warm weather that makes me feel so tired? I am still living mostly on medicinal soup, and a little bread.

  May 18, 1793

  He has come. The Green Ghoul. The man they say is in charge of everyone and everything now. Maximilien Robespierre.

  I heard a slight commotion in the hallway outside and then he stepped into my bedroom. I was reclining on my bed, resting, and Mousseline was reading to me. When she saw the ugly little man in the bright green waistcoat and trousers, his hawklike face a mass of pox scars, his strange light eyes looking huge behind thick spectacles, she cried out involuntarily.

  “Do not be alarmed, Marie-Thérèse,” he said unctuously, his voice high and nasal. “I am here to help your family.”

  “You helped my father to his death,” my brave daughter snapped back. “Now you want to attack my mother. Can’t you see she is ill?”

  “Mousseline, dear, leave us please. Find your brother. I think he is playing ball in the courtyard.”

  “Your late father,” Robespierre said, interrupting me, “was a victim of the Convention. I could not have prevented his death. But I did not call for it.”

  “I will never believe anything you say,” Mousseline replied as she went out. “You want to kill us all.”

  My daughter’s boldness made me afraid for her. But then, I live in fear for both my children.

  The Green Ghoul—I cannot think of him otherwise—came further into the room, the high heels of his polished shoes clicking noisily on the bare boards, and pulled out a chair. He took a linen handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the chair seat, then sat down. His movements were hurried. He was evidently very tense, and struggling to control himself. He bit his nails and I noticed the muscle in his cheek that kept twitching. From time to time he put one hand up to his cheek as if trying to make the twitching stop, but it would not stop.

  “It has not escaped my notice that you are a clever woman, citizeness,” he said to me evenly, his voice soft but full of menace, “and clever women, at this moment, are a threat to France. I think, citizeness, that you are working hand in glove with another clever woman, Citizeness Roland, my rival.”

  Jeanne-Marie Roland was the celebrated leader of the war party in the Convention, the Girondins. I had never met her, much less conspired with her. But the Green Ghoul thought otherwise. I said nothing, and he went on.

  “You and Citizeness Roland are conspiring to destroy the revolution. Together you are in secret communication with the rebels in the West.” (He meant the Vendéan peasants, who had been in open revolt for months.) “And with our enemies the Austrians.” His voice remained low, but took on a sibilant hiss. He spoke through clenched teeth, the muscle in his cheek dancing convulsively.

  “The enemies are at our gates, even within our gates. Never has the country been in greater peril. Never have you and your children been in greater danger.”

  I felt the menace of his words, and was suddenly terrified, almost to the edge of panic. Where was Louis-Charles? Where was Mousseline? Had this horrible man brought troops with him to seize my children?

  Robespierre had gotten lightly to his feet and was pacing in front of me, biting his nails. “If you put an end to your futile conspiracy, I will spare your son. If not—”

  I felt my heart in my throat. For one dizzying moment I thought I would die, but the moment passed.

  “We have known for some time that the traitor Citizeness Roland and her pack of fellow-traitors want to turn the revolution backward, to restore the monarchy and enthrone your son as the next king. We are sworn to prevent that at all costs. We could simply send you all to the cold embrace of the Blade of Eternity. But I would prefer to use subtler means of gaining my ends, in order to keep my enemies guessing.”

  I was doing my best to fight against the awful fear that rose in me, fear tha
t quickened with each shrewd glare of the little deputy’s small light eyes. At the back of my mind, however, I understood that this vain, foppish, dangerous man, a man who wore lace at his neck and wrists, a powdered wig and high-heeled shoes in the old court style, had blundered. He was allowing his own fears to mislead him.

  Slowly, as he spoke on in his high, nasal voice, I thought I understood what was happening. Robespierre, the Green Ghoul, was even more afraid than I was. Afraid of everyone, not only Citizeness Roland and her Girondins, not only of the rebellious peasants in the West and the phantom Austrian army (which, I knew from Axel’s letters, was in full retreat), but of the fragility of his own power.

  Fear of a terrible retribution hounded him, and would not let him go.

  Very well then, I would use that fear to my advantage.

  I got to my feet, feeling unsteady on my sore leg and holding onto the iron bedstead for support. Never had I felt more like the queen I once had been, the queen I still was.

  “Release me and my children immediately, and once we are delivered to the protection of the Austrian army, I will divulge what I know and enable you to crush your enemies.”

  He laughed, a dry, horrible choking sound, more a cough than a laugh. He came toward me.

  “Tell me all you know immediately, or I will order your son to the guillotine.”

  “You would not dare do that. All France would rise against you.”

  “All France, madame, would rise up and call me blessed.”

  Once again, mustering all my courage, I rose to my full height and straightened my spine. I realized, now, that even though I wore thin slippers and he had on high-heeled shoes, I was taller than Robespierre.

  “Release us, or I will give the order for the destruction of Paris.”

  I saw him blanch, and felt a surge of elation. Axel would be proud of me! I thought.

  At that moment a familiar figure in a dark cloak and pointed hat entered the room, carrying his flagon of lamp oil, his flint and tinder and his knife for trimming wicks. He was humming to himself, absorbed in his nightly task of lighting the lamps.

  “Leave that,” Robespierre cried.

  There was a brief pause, then the lamplighter came further in, and walked up to the table near where we stood, Robespierre and I, facing one another.

  “If you will allow me, sir, it is getting dark and I must light the lamps. I will only be a moment.”

  He stepped between us, so that he was only an arm’s length from the exasperated Robespierre. I saw the muscle in Robespierre’s cheek quiver.

  “Stop at once! Don’t you know who I am?”

  The lamplighter turned, as if to look into Robespierre’s face, and as he turned, he spilled his flagon of oil over Robespierre’s immaculate green waistcoat.

  “Stupid oaf!”

  What happened next happened so quickly that I could not see it, but somehow the lamplighter, who was of course Lieutenant de la Tour, struck his flint and sent up a spark that lit Robespierre’s waistcoat on fire.

  I stepped back into the corner of the room as an unearthly scream came from the Green Ghoul’s dry lips.

  “Water! Water!” Robespierre cried as he slapped at the flames—which, I have to say, were far from all-consuming. One corner of his waistcoat had flared up, but there was much more smoke, and panic, than fire.

  Three guards came running in from the outer room, carrying pitchers of water, and drenched the sputtering, smoke-blackened Robespierre. While they were putting out the fire, the lamplighter vanished. I did not see him go.

  After assuring me, in a very angry and menacing tone, that I would be hearing from him again and from the Committee of Vigilance Robespierre left in search of the prison doctor, much bedraggled and sucking on his burned fingers. He did not appear to be injured, though his wig was singed and the costly lace at his neckand wrists was dingy with smoke and ash.

  That night at supper, for the first time in months, I ate heartily.

  July 5, 1793

  They came for him quite early in the morning, four big burly coarse men from the Committee of Vigilance, bursting into the room where we all slept, Louis-Charles, Mousseline and I, and demanding that I hand over my son.

  Of course I refused, and climbed out of bed and threw myself between Louis-Charles and his kidnappers, fending them off and shouting at them when they lunged at me and tried to snatch him away.

  I had no shame or pride. All I cared about was preventing these criminals from taking Louis-Charles away. I scratched them with my brittle, breaking nails, I bit one of them in the arm until he bled. I threatened them with the only weapon I possessed, a long ivory headscratcher. In the end, I pleaded with them, in tears, not to take my son from me.

  It was all in vain, of course. They grew exasperated with me and finally told me bluntly that unless I handed Louis-Charles over to them obediently and at once they would kill both of the children.

  I had to let him go. I have been crying ever since. I fear I will never see him again.

  July 11, 1793

  If I wait long enough, I see him. He is led past the small window in the guardroom on his way to the courtyard for exercise every afternoon. Sometimes they bring him out at one or two o’clock, sometimes not until four or five. I sit by the window and wait.

  He skips past, singing, a red cap of liberty on his head. My beloved chou d’amour, my dear little king. One day, God willing, he will be crowned. How I wish I could be there to see it!

  August 3, 1793

  They gave me half an hour to say goodbye to my beloved daughter and pack my things. When I asked whether I would be returning to the Temple the official in charge just shook his head. I know what he meant. I know what my fate is to be.

  At first I felt lightheaded and ill, but that passed. I had an unexpected fleeting thought, which was that perhaps I will see Louis again.

  I sat down with Mousseline, just as my mother sat down with me many years ago before I left Vienna, and talked to her, both of us knowing that unless by some miracle we are rescued it will be our last conversation. We said the thing that matters most, that we love each other very dearly. She said—blessed, blessed girl!—that she wished she could give her life for mine.

  “Take care of your brother,” I told her. “One day the two of you will be freed. Be a mother to him.”

  Together we prayed for strength and for deliverance out of the hands of our enemies. Then the captain of the guard came for me and I was taken under heavy escort to the Conciergerie, where I was stripped of my clothing and inspected for diseases and most of my few possessions were taken away.

  I am now officially Citizeness Marie Antoinette Capet, Widow, Prisoner 280, awaiting trial where I will be sentenced to die.

  EIGHTEEN

  August 11, 1793

  It is barely dawn. The first faint light is coming through the one tiny barred window in this cramped room, and as I have no candle I write by this dawn light.

  The guards who sleep in the room with me snore on, unaware of me. This is the only time of day I can have any privacy—now, and late at night when the guards have drunk themselves to sleep.

  I have been ill, but am better now. The shock of this place, and the knowledge that soon I will be brought to my trial, weakened me and for several days I was at the mercy of the prison doctor and the maid they have assigned to me, a sweet, obedient girl named Rosalie. For those few days I was barely aware of being alive. I only remember seeing the doctor’s face and smelling the lime-flower water he poured out for me, and also being fed by Rosalie.

  The truth is, and I may as well admit it, I have become old. And being old, I am weak. Sometimes I am afraid of dying, sometimes I feel brave and fearless. My body has grown limp and slack, I am like an old tree in autumn that has lost its leaves and begun to wither. I was beautiful once, of that I am still sure.

  I sleep badly here, and my mind is not always clear. Images from the past blur with those from the present, and now and then I am con
fused. This room is so small, so dark, so bare. It smells of mold and water drips down the stone walls when it rains.

  August 14, 1793

  After many months with no bleeding at all I have now begun to bleed without stopping. Rosalie takes away the old linens and brings me clean ones but I must change them often and only a thin stained screen separates me from the guards when I do so. I am often embarrassed. A dirty black-haired thief named Barassin, with a constant grin on his face, comes in at all hours of the day and night to empty my chamber pot. He also makes money by allowing visitors to enter my room and gape at me in return for a few coins.

  I am quite a spectacle, I’m sure. The former queen, who once lived in a great palace full of gold and marble, crystal chandeliers and velvet curtains, now living in one small prison room with rotting walls and a few shabby sticks of furniture. I have only two dresses here, a torn black one and a plain white morning gown. Rosalie sends my one pair of dusty black shoes to the kitchen to be brushed each night. She whispers to me that many of the other prisoners here, most of them aristocrats, come to the kitchen to pay homage to my shoes and even kiss them in reverence!

  A very touching and comforting thing to hear. Of course, I know that they are really paying tribute to my late husband, not to me. I am merely a symbol of all they have lost.

  August 27, 1793

  Wonder of wonders, I can hardly believe what has happened!

  Last night at about nine o’clock, just as the guards in my room were getting very drunk and beginning to nod off, the hairy grinning Barassin brought a visitor in, with his large wolfhound.

  “There she is, Prisoner 280, the queen that was. Won’t be here much longer, they say.”

  The guards stirred slightly in their chairs as Barassin ushered the visitor in, but took little notice of him. They were accustomed to having me displayed.

  I knew as soon as I saw Malachi, who came over to me and licked my hands with his wet pink tongue, that my visitor was Axel. My breath came quickly and I did not look at him. I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks.