The Queen`s Confession
Page 52
I was staring ahead of me. I saw the boy playing in the yard . my boy who was in the hands of these wicked men. I saw the dirty red cap on his head; I heard the coarse words in his mouth; I heard him singing the “Ca ira’ in his childish voice.
They had forced this ‘confession’ from him. They had taught him what to say. They had ill treated him, made him agree to what he could not understand. He was eight years old and I was his mother. I loved him.
I had lost my lover and my husband—and my boy was my life. Yet they had taught him to say these things of me . and his aunt who had taught him to say his prayers.
I heard only snatches of the report. I heard them say that they had confronted him with his sister, with his aunt, and that naturally these two had denied the accusations. It I was natural, they said, that these people who were capable j i< of such unnatural actions should. _ ,j t His Aunt Elisabeth had called him a monster. I c Oh Elisabeth, I thought, my dear Elisabeth, what did < you think of my boy?
i I had relieved when they took him from me that I had i touched the depth of despair. Now I knew that I had not done so then. There was more to be suffered. This I Horror possessed me. What had they done to my child to make him say this? They had ill treated him . starved him, beaten him. He, the King of France, my love, my darling!
Hebert—surely these people only had to look at him to understand that he was a degraded creature—was looking at me slyly. How he hated me I I remembered how he had regarded me when we had first come into his power. Devil! I thought. You are not fit to live on this earth. Oh God, save my child from such men.
I felt that I was going to faint. I fixed my eyes on the candles trying to steady myself. And then I was conscious of what I so often encountered in my prisons . the sympathy of women. There were mothers in this courtroom and they would understand how I was feeling.
I was an enemy of the State, they believed; I was haughty, arrogant, and I had frittered away the finances of France . but I was a mother and they knew I loved my son. I felt those women in the courtroom would vindicate me.
Even Hebert was aware. He was growing a little uneasy. He did not believe that this disgustingly immoral conduct was indulged in for the sake of immorality. It was solely for the purpose of weakening my son’s health, so that when he became King I should govern him, that I should be able to dominate him and rule through him.
I could only look at this man with the contempt and loathing I felt. I could not see those women in the court but I knew they were there and I felt that they were with me. Perhaps they were those who had cried
“Antoinette & la lanterne,” but I was not a Queen now, I was a mother, accused by a man with brutality written all over his face. And they did not believe him.
They believed the stories of my lovers, but they would not believe this.
I heard someone say: “The prisoner makes no comment on this accusation.”
I heard my voice loud and clear echoing through the court.
“If I have made no reply it is because nature refuses to answer such a charge brought against a mother. I appeal to all mothers present in this court.”
I sensed the excitement, the murmurs of anger.
“Take the prisoner away,” was the order. Back to my cell.
Rosalie was waiting for me. She tried to make me eat but I could not.
She made me lie down.
She told me later that she had heard Robespierre was furious with Hebert for bringing the charge against me. It was false. Everyone knew it was false. No one doubted my love for my son. Robespierre was afraid that had I stayed in that courtroom the women would have risen against my judges and demanded my freedom, that my son be given back to me.
“Oh, Madame, Madame,” sobbed Rosalie, and she knelt by my bed and wept bitterly.
I was taken back to the court. I listened to an account of my sins. I had plotted with foreign powers; I had led my husband into wrongdoing;
I had squandered the country’s money on the Trianon and my favourites; the Polignacs were mentioned; but nothing was said of that other vile charge. Then the questions were put to the jurors:
Was it established that there were intrigues and secret dealings with foreign powers and other external enemies of the Republic, which intrigues and secret dealings aimed at giving the momentary assistance enabling them to enter French territory and facilitating the progress of their armies there?
Was I convicted of having cooperated in these intrigues? Was it established that there was a plot and a conspiracy . ” to start civil war with the Republic? ” Was Marie Antoinette, widow of Louis Capet, convicted . of taking pan in this plot and conspiracy?
I was taken to a small room close to the Grande Chambre while the jury decided, but the verdict was a foregone conclusion. c At length, it came. I was guilty and I should be punished by death.
I sit in my room writing. There is little more to be said.
First I must write to Elisabeth. I think of what my son has said of her, and knowing her chaste mind I understand well how shocked she will be. I must make her try to understand. I take up my pen.
“It is to you, sister, that I write for the last time. I have just been condemned, not to a shameful death, for it is shameful only for criminals, but to rejoin your brother. Like him, innocent, I hope to display the same firmness as he did in his last moments. I am calm as one is when one’s conscience holds no reproach. I deeply regret having to abandon my poor children. You know that I lived only for them and for you, my good sister. In what a situation do I leave you, who for your affection sacrificed everything to be with us….”
I went on to write of my dear daughter who I had heard had been separated from her. I wanted her to help her brother if that were possible. And I must write of my son to Elisabeth. I must try to make her understand.
‘. I have to mention something which pains my heart. I know how much distress this child must have caused you. Forgive him, my dear sister. Remember his age and how easy it is to make a child say anything you want, even something he does not understand. The day will come, I hope, when he will be the more conscious of the worth of your goodness and tenderness. “
The tears were blinding me and I could write no more, but later I would take up my pen and finish.
The time is almost upon me.
The cart will come for me. They will cut my hair; they will tie my hands behind my back; and I shall ride through the streets along the well-known route which so many of my friends of the old days have travelled . as Louis went before me, through streets where I once rode in my carriage drawn by white horses, where Monsieur de Brissac had told me two hundred thousand Frenchmen were in love with me . through the Rue Saint Honore where Madame Berlin might be watching, to the Place de la Revolution and the monster guillotine.
They will shout at me as they have so many times before, and I shall be thinking of my life as I ride. I shall not see the streets with those shouting gesticulating crowds all calling for my blood. I shall think of Louis gone. before me, of Axel, grieving somewhere . Oh but do not mourn too bitterly, my love, for I shall be past my pains. I shall be thinking of my boy and praying that he will not suffer too great a remorse. My darling . it is nothing. I forgive you . you did not know what you said.
So now I wait and pray that during this last ride I shall be a true daughter of my mother. I shall face death with the courage she would have wished.
There is no time to write more. They are coming.
A great calm has descended on me. There is one thing of which I am certain. The worst is over; I have suffered the greatest pain. What remains is the last sharp stroke which will bring deliverance.
I am ready. And I am not afraid. It is to live that requires courage—not to die.
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