Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (50 page)

When the king finished speaking, he lowered himself into the throne and gave Monsieur Necker a nod. The Minister of Finance took the floor to resounding cheers, but after a few minutes it became painfully clear that at the pinnacle of his career the great Swiss banker was losing the courage of his progressive convictions. What followed for the next three hours—he became so hoarse that his assistant had to read the remainder of his speech—was a monotonous recitation of financial statistics. Where was the call for a Constitution that the Third Estate had expected him to proclaim? A tide of murmurs spread throughout the hall. Had the king forbidden him to mention it?

By the end of the session no one came away satisfied. I was becoming convinced that the entire assembly was not only a waste of time but a dangerous referendum against the monarchy in general, and most specifically, against the royal family.

Over the next several days, the deputies—308 from the First Estate, 285 from the Second, and 621 from the Third, presented their
cahiers
, or lists of grievances, to the king. These consisted of complaints that the price of salt was too high, that farmlands had been greatly reduced because of hailstorms, or abused due to foot traffic caused by a detour from the roadway. High taxes, or the fact that taxes and duties were levied at all, was a perpetual objection. No progress had been made in weeks other than the decision by some of the lower orders of the clergy to join the ranks of the Third Estate. By the end of May, although most of the Second Estate firmly insisted on retaining their aristocratic perquisites, there were a few members of the nobility, most notably the duc d’Orléans, and one of our heroes of the American Revolution, the russet-haired marquis de Lafayette, who declared that they would not mind forfeiting a few of their privileges in exchange for a Constitution.

I had no stomach for their political haranguing. The dauphin
had been conveyed a few miles away to Meudon where his doctors had insisted on assuming control of his care. Tiny Louis Joseph, covered with sores and as wizened and misshapen as an old man, lay atop the green baize of the brand-new billiard table—an odd wish, for he looked as though he were laid upon a bier; but it had been his own, and I was determined to indulge him, knowing it would be one of his final requests.

Every day I rode out to visit my son, and all too often I was met with “You may not see him,
Majesté
,” from one of his
médecins
.

“But I must—I am his mother!” I would implore, clasping the physician by the arms, and when they remained impassive, I would beseech the dauphin’s preceptor, the duc d’Harcourt, to intercede for me and allow me to attend him.

“You know the etiquette,
Majesté
. I can only accept instructions from one of His Royal Highness’s doctors,” the duc would reply stiffly.

There is something remarkable about children who know they are about to enter the kingdom of Heaven; they are stronger than we can ever imagine ourselves, were we to be faced with the same fate. When Louis and I were granted permission to visit the dauphin, my son would insist that his cooks prepare
my
favorite dishes; he would gallantly play the host, propped up on the green velvet cushions of his mechanical wheelchair, although his diminutive body was nearly swallowed up by the metal and wicker contraption. And he could not bear to dismiss the footman who served us merely because the man was clumsy. “He is only shortsighted like Papa, and if a servant can suffer the same malady as a king, why should he be punished for it when the sovereign is not?”

I endeavored to assume a bright countenance in his presence, foolishly tried to convince the dauphin that I was at least as brave
as he. He told me he had wished for the room to be painted the color of the summer sky so he could pretend to be outdoors. But finally, he admitted his true reason for choosing that particular shade of blue. “I want to grow accustomed to looking at Paradise, Maman.”

There was not one specific day when I was summoned, told that the end was near, for his doctors truly did not know. Each hour was much like the last and would be like the next. And so I made certain to travel from Versailles to Meudon every day, unable to concentrate on the contentious meetings of the Estates General as my son was slipping further and further from our earthly grasp. Special prayers for the dauphin were ordered to be said in all the churches on June 2. And on the morning of June 4, shortly after the hour of one, as I held my firstborn son in my arms, he looked at me as if to tell me something, and then his eyelids gently fluttered closed for the last time.

I had been sent to France for one purpose: to bear this little boy. And now he was gone. Wracked with agonized convulsions, I rocked his ruined body in my arms, raining tears upon his lifeless form.

A few minutes later, Monsieur Lamartine, the dauphine’s
premier médecin
, entered the room. “
Pardon, Majesté
, but I must ask you to leave. Etiquette demands that the monarchs remain absent during the examination of the corpse and the ensuing autopsy.”

“But he is my son,” I cried, choking on my sobs. “
Je m’en fous!
I
never
gave a damn for etiquette and I certainly do not care a whit for it now.” I saw Lamartine look to another physician for assistance. “Try to restrain the Queen of France—try to stop me from staying with
mon pauvre petit—
”

Madame Campan rushed into the chamber and helped me to my feet. Her round face was wet with tears. “Come, Madame,” she soothed. “His Majesty will have need of you most.”

When we reached Versailles, Louis, whose temperament was maddeningly placid even on the direst of occasions, was in a foul mood. His valet, the faithful Hanet Cléry, was collecting discarded handkerchiefs from the floor of his study. My husband’s light eyes, like mine, were rimmed with red, the lids puffy and swollen. He threw his hands in the air. “The Paris deputy from the Third Estate, the astronomer fellow—Bailly,” he began. “He insisted on seeing me today. Today! ‘I must have an audience with the king,’ he said. I sent a man to tell him ‘Monsieur, His Majesty is grieving. The dauphin died this morning.’ But the heathen only said, ‘I am mightily sorry for His Majesty’s loss. Nevertheless, I and a delegation of others need to speak with him as soon as possible.’ So I went to the threshold myself and opened the door and let him see my face. And before he could say a word, I asked him, ‘Are there no fathers among you?’ ”

All they cared about was politics. At the death of my poor little dauphin, the nation hardly seemed to notice.

I slipped into Louis’s embrace and we clung to each other. I wept anew, my tears staining his embroidered waistcoat, while he rested his cheek against my hair, claiming one new handkerchief after another from Cléry.

“We must tell the children,” I said tearfully, and summoned the duchesse de Polignac. When Gabrielle entered the room, it was clear that she, too, had been crying. “Please bring Mousseline
et mon chou d’amour
here,” I said, using my pet names for Madame Royale and Louis Charles.

As ever, our daughter’s countenance was grave. “What will happen now, Papa?” she asked, addressing her father directly.

Louis pulled her onto his knee. Balanced in the crook of his arm was our surviving son, as pink and sturdy of limb as his late brother had been sickly and pale. “You are the dauphin now,
mon brave
,” said the king, chucking the tot under the chin. Still only
four, Louis Charles giggled uncomprehendingly, bringing the first smile in weeks to his father’s broad face.

“What then shall
I
be?”

“You shall marry your charming cousin the duc d’Angoulême, and become a great lady,
ma petite
, just like we always talk about,” I said without hesitation. But I knew what Marie Thérèse was really asking. Royal daughters were simply not as important as their brothers. I did not make the rules. She thought I loved her the less for it. And that knowledge daily cracked my heart.

The dauphin lay in state for several days; his tiny form reposed inside a coffin lined with royal blue velvet and draped with a silver cloth that was embroidered with a crown, a sword, and the Order of the Dauphin of France.

The political insults heaped upon us by the three Estates continued to inflict deeply personal wounds as well. According to royal custom, Louis Joseph’s heart was not to be buried with his body. The honors of escorting the urn that contained the vital organ to the Benedictine convent of Val-de-Grâce fell to the highest-ranking Prince of the Blood.

“He will not go,” Louis informed me angrily.

“Quoi?!”

“Philippe d’Orléans will not escort the heart of his cousin to the convent.”

I was brushing my hair at the time and noticed with each stroke how many strands remained in the boar-bristle brush. “Does he give a reason?” I demanded, my hatred for the duc increasing with each passing moment.

Louis hesitated. “I don’t wish to vex you. You are distraught enough,” he said gently.

“Then another moment of pique will hardly make things much worse.”

He came behind me and affectionately stroked my cheek.
“Philippe says that his role as deputy and the affairs of the Estates keep him too busy to depart on other business. He has offered to send his oldest son in his stead.”

I rested my chin in my hands and gazed at my husband in the mirror. “I should not be surprised, I suppose.” I sighed with regret to think that our son had not been conceived in as much intimacy as the pair of us now shared while we prepared to discuss his funeral arrangements.

The dauphin was buried on June 12. In keeping with tradition, the king and I were not permitted to attend the rites at the Cathedral of Saint-Denis, but that night I dreamt of him. And I did so for several nights thereafter. I was no longer able to fall asleep with ease. One evening, I was telling Madame Campan about my dreams, how the dauphin looked, what he said to me. Four guttering candles illuminated my mirrored dressing table. As one went out, I assumed that a slight draft had extinguished the flame. Campan relit it, but a minute or so later two of the others died out. As Madame Campan went to relight them, I clasped her wrist. “My mother taught her children not to be superstitious, but we talk of shades tonight. If that fourth candle goes out, with all that has happened of late, I will regard it as a very bad omen.”

As if on cue, the flame sputtered, hissed, and expired.

“They shout ‘Down with the rich!’ and cry for ‘Democracy’ and ‘Liberty’ outside the Palais Royal where it seems every hour a new pamphlet is being hawked by the newsboys. Three or four madmen lead the whole thing. They have frightened a waxworker named Curtius into lending them his busts of Necker and the duc d’Orléans and the rabble parade them through the streets as through they are holy relics.”

“You must be our eyes and ears,” I urged Axel. “For we could not travel to the capital even if we dared.” Louis was equally appreciative that we had a trusted advocate to keep us apprised of the ever-changing mood in the Parisian
rues
. In the two short weeks since the death of the dauphin, an insolent new order was emerging with little interest, it seemed, in the way of the world for the past thousand years. The king’s blue and gold library with its leather-bound monogrammed volumes and thick soft carpets had become an oasis from the storm.

“I do not know from whence they derive such power, such
authority.” Louis groaned, speaking of the Third Estate. “Other than sheer numbers. Perhaps, in hindsight, it was a mistake for me to extend them the privilege of voting by head rather than
en bloc
.”

He had experimented with being a progressive leader in an attempt to mollify the bourgeoisie, a course I had not supported in the least; in fact I had strongly advised him against it. I could almost hear Maman’s warning in my head:
Give the rabble an inch and they will take a country
.

“The duc d’Orléans has become the most popular man in Paris, even if he has to subsidize his acclaim,” Artois declared rhetorically, thumbing through a volume of
Candide
. “I am certain it is he who convinced the clergy and nobility to join the Third Estate.”

“I would agree. It is all part of a plot to discredit you and to turn himself into a man of the people. Something must be done to stop him. To stop all of them,” I insisted. “How much longer are you going to wait?” My husband’s indecisiveness was costing us precious time.

“I would advise you, Sire, to issue an edict immediately disbanding them,” said the comte de Mercy. “Two days ago, the Third Estate managed to convince most of the deputies from the first two Estates to make common cause with them. Some of the men have been highly persuasive—Mirabeau, Malesherbes, a provincial lawyer named Maximilien Robespierre, and of course your turncoat cousin Philippe. And this morning the entirety declared themselves a wholly new body—a
legislative
body that has decreed all taxes illegal and immoral. They are calling themselves the National Assembly.”