Marie Antoinette (41 page)

For some time it seemed that Marie Antoinette’s gloomy presentiments were unjustified. The popular mood was vividly described by Fersen in a letter to his father: “It’s a delirium; everyone sees himself as a legislator, and everyone talks of nothing but progress; in the antechambers the footmen are reading pamphlets, ten or twelve new ones appear every day.” Fersen also commented—a typical perspective, perhaps—that young men who wished to woo the ladies were having to tailor their conversation to their new interests: “To please them, they have to talk about Estates General and governments and constitutions.” Another foreigner, Jefferson, had a slightly different view of the situation. All this talk of politics, he grumbled, was ruining the gaiety and the insouciance of French society—“The tender breasts of ladies were not formed for political convulsion”—so that French women were miscalculating their own happiness when they wandered “from the true field of their own influence into politics.” In this climate, Necker did indeed manage to ride the storm, if more by pliancy than coherent policy.

As part of the holding operation in the continuing financial crisis, the Parlements were recalled. The Assembly of Notables was invited back for consultation on the composition of the Estates General. The
Mémoire des Princes
was also drawn up, denouncing the alteration of “institutions held sacred and by which monarchies for so long have prospered” in response to public agitation. This conservative princely protest was not, however, signed by the increasingly radical Orléans, nor by Provence (although Artois did sign). Both of these Princes accepted the principle of
doublement
by which the representation of the Third Estate would be increased to twice that of the past. In spite of the indecisiveness of Necker, compounded by that of Louis XVI,
doublement
was finally accepted on 27 December 1788, although the law that allowed nobles and clergy also to stand as deputies for the Third Estate meant that their influence was not completely diminished. The Queen, although silent on the subject in Council, was believed to approve the measure. In the case of both Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, it was the idea of the Third Estate, as the crown’s natural ally against the other two, that prevailed. “Ah, their illusions will be short lived!” wrote the Marquis de Bombelles, gloomily, after a New Year’s Eve visit to Versailles. Yet the popular salutations of “Long live the King” coupled with “Long live the Third Estate” could not but give rise to hope.

Concurrent with her belief in the usefulness of the Third Estate was Marie Antoinette’s realism concerning the relationship of France and Austria. On 27 January 1789, in a letter to Mercy, she pointed out the impossibility of France coming to the aid of Austria (and Russia) with troops at the present time. She wrote with full knowledge of Joseph II’s own declining health but that fact could not alter her verdict. Although the impending Estates General were not supposed to treat of peace and war, they would certainly give vent to “complaints and cries of protest” at the idea of such expense. She went on: “You know the prejudices against my brother, you know how some people here are even on the point of believing that I have sent millions to Germany [
sic
]. Inevitably they would attribute this new treaty to me, and so the ministers of the Estates General would excuse themselves, using the excuse of my credit and influence. Judge for yourself the odious role I would be made to play!”

By a coincidence, Nature herself now struck a blow against the finances of France. Eighteen months earlier a bad summer had resulted in poor harvests throughout most of the country. Now the winter of 1789 was the most severe in living memory. Beginning with a heavy snowfall on New Year’s Eve, there were to be two months of freezing temperatures, so that couriers en route between Versailles and the capital froze to death, and Jefferson felt he was in Siberia rather than in Paris. The rich skated and sledged happily (as Marie Antoinette had done in her careless youth, before abandoning the practice as appearing too “Austrian”). But the sufferings of the poor were terrible as the all-important bread prices rose. In such conditions of misery, it was easy for rumours of a famine plot to spread; the great ones, including Artois and the Queen, were supposed to be conspiring to produce a shortage of flour in order to make further profits. Meanwhile Orléans made a number of very public and “very liberal” donations to alleviate the condition of the poor. Master of the art of propaganda, he richly enjoyed his position as the people’s champion and took every opportunity to underline it.

In the months leading up to the meeting of the Estates General, the private hell of the King and Queen continued with the illness of the Dauphin, who had a bad relapse on 1 February. Meanwhile the unhappy parents were as before ritually denounced in the
libelles
, he as an impotent drunkard, she as a vicious adulteress. Public scorn was one thing. But it was a remarkable demonstration of the lack of respect into which even the courtiers had slipped—without any wisdom as to where their best interests lay—that one particular set of satiric rhymes was actually sung in the salon of the Comtesse de Brionne, on 23 January, in the presence of the most elegant Parisian society; the hostess was the same ambitious woman who had previously sought so much favour from Marie Antoinette.

The verses that had been circulating everywhere for the previous two days had left no member of the royal family untouched: not the Comtesse de Provence with her growing addiction to the bottle; not the Comtesse d’Artois who had given birth to a bastard child; not Provence—“I am neither princely nor a king”—and, of course, not the King and Queen. Louis XVI was quoted as reproaching the Duc de Normandie for being a bastard. It ended with a chorus of the Three Estates together, after which Louis XVI sang merrily: “What need is there for me to think? When I can hunt and I can drink!” The priorities of French society in early 1789 were summed up by the fact that one of those present at the Comtesse’s salon criticised the men for wearing the informal frockcoat, while pardoning the
libelles
as being the welcome return of a little spark of “our old French gaiety.”

The solemn High Mass that would precede the inaugural meeting of the Estates General at Versailles was to be held on 4 May. At various levels, Marie Antoinette’s gloomy presentiments were now beginning to be fulfilled. On 26 March the King himself was nearly killed taking the air on the leads of the roof at Versailles, when a ladder on which he was leaning gave way; he was only saved from plunging to his death by the prompt action of a workman.
^*69
The Queen herself was beginning to spend more and more time alone in her private cabinet, according to the Saxon envoy, Count Salmour, who, because his mother had been a favoured member of the Austrian imperial household, had been immediately accepted as an intimate.

Then, in late April, a serious riot broke out in Paris, named after the wallpaper manufacturer Réveillon whose supposed decision to cut wages brought it about. Obviously such an action was as fire to tinder in a time of violently rising prices; in fact it was rumour and misunderstanding rather than Réveillon’s actions that caused the revolt. Nevertheless 300 people were killed before the riot was dispersed by troops. Apart from the loss of life, the Réveillon riot had the serious consequence of persuading the government that the people of Paris were becoming unmanageable, while the people themselves saw the government as ready to use military action against them.

Six days later, the whole royal family were due to exhibit themselves publicly in a procession through the town of Versailles. The route between Paris and Versailles became like a boulevard on a fine day, it was so crowded with traffic. Marie Antoinette sent for Léonard—this was not an occasion for his deputy,
le beau
Julian—to dress her hair grandly enough for the court dress she had to wear. He attested to her sadness on that occasion: “Come, dress my hair, Léonard, I must go like an actress, exhibit myself to a public that may hiss me.” He found her physically bowed in private, her bosom sunken and her arms thin. The next day, however, an American observer new to the scene, the American Gouverneur Morris, put a different gloss on her dramatic style: “She looks with contempt on the scene in which she acts a Part and seems to say: for the present I submit but I shall have my Turn.”

Morris—his forename Gouverneur came from his Huguenot ancestry—had arrived in Paris in February, in pursuit of a contract for imported tobacco. Trained as a lawyer (he had assisted in the final wording of the United States Constitution), he was to prove an important and a lively witness in the events that followed. A foreigner from a republican country, Morris was still able to view the Queen with humanity, in a way that it seemed many of the French had forgotten: “I see only the Woman and it seems unmanly to break a Woman with unkindness!” Most of the spectators, lacking Morris’s chivalry, saw a woman indeed, but a woman for whom their feelings went much further than unkindness; she was a Queen they hated, whom it was safe to scorn where public derision for the King was still a step too far.

The procession from the Church of Notre-Dame to the Church of Saint Louis was led by the whole royal family and the Princes and Princesses of the Blood—with one significant exception. The royals were to be followed by the deputies of the Estates General who had been chosen the previous month. Protocol had never been more rigid than in the orders given about the costumes that each rank should wear. The clergy were to wear their ecclesiastical dress; the nobility were to wear black silk and white breeches, lace cravats and plumed hats, and would carry swords; but the Third Estate were to wear plain black and, as an indication of their lowly status, were forbidden to carry swords. The Duc d’Orléans, as one of the nobility’s deputies, decided on a move of calculated provocation. Against the King’s express orders, he mingled with this swordless black-clad throng, leaving his son, the Duc de Chartres, to take his own place.

All the windows of the houses on the route were jammed with spectators for whom the appearance of Orléans was the signal for loud cheers. The Queen on the other hand was received with icy silence. At one point, a loud “Long live the Duc d’Orléans!” shouted more or less in her face as she passed actually caused her to stumble briefly before recovering her dignity. For Louis XVI, the acclaim for his cousin and the lack of applause for his wife was a double insult; according to Virieu, the Duke of Parma’s envoy, his anger was noticeable. Only one small spectator caused the royal mood of both King and Queen to soften. The Dauphin had been brought from Meudon to see the show. He lay on cushions in an embrasure with a window belonging to the Little Stables. When his parents caught sight of the tiny wizened figure, smiling so bravely in their direction, their tears came involuntarily. Virieu noted that Orléans too had tears in his eyes: tears of pleasure at the warmth of the salutations given to him.

Both King and Queen wore glittering costumes and were heavily bejewelled; it is easy to understand how one observer compared the dazzling scene to the opera, lacking only lamps and chandeliers. For once, however, it was Louis XVI who literally outshone Marie Antoinette, even if he “walked with a waddle” that inevitably contrasted with the celebrated grace of the Queen. The King wore cloth of gold scattered with brilliants, and the great white diamond known as the Regent which he had worn at his coronation. (The name derived from the Regent Duc d’Orléans, under whose auspices the crown of France had acquired it in 1717.) The King also sported the diamond sword made for him five years previously, new diamond buttons, diamond shoe buckles and diamonds on his garters; all this was in addition to the ornamentations he wore, denoting the order of the Golden Fleece and the Order of the Saint Esprit.

The Queen for her part shimmered in cloth of silver, the moon to the King’s sun. In her hair she wore another costly diamond, “perfectly flawless and brilliant,” known as the Sancy, and on her person a series of other diamonds including those called the De Guise and the Mirror of Portugal with vast drops of single gems. These were known as the Fifth and Sixth Mazarins because the English Queen Henrietta Maria, born a Princess of France, had sold them to Cardinal Mazarin in the time of her misfortunes. The Queen, however, did not wear a necklace.