Marie Antoinette: The Journey

by Antonia Fraser

  The King and Queen were upstairs, playing backgammon, when the head appeared outside the dining room, but Cléry saw it and so did Madame Tison who gave a loud cry; then they heard the frenzied laughter of “those savages” outside. Upstairs the municipal officers had had the decency to close the shutters and the commissioners kept them away from the windows. But it was one of these officers who told the King, when he asked what all the commotion was about: “If you must know, Monsieur, they are trying to show you the head of Madame de Lamballe.” Cléry too rushed in and confirmed what was happening.

  Marie Antoinette, wrote her daughter, was “frozen with horror”; it was the only time Marie Thérèse ever saw her mother’s firmness abandon her.18 Mercifully, the Queen then fainted away. But the crisis was not yet over. The “savages,” by climbing up some of the rubble of the destroyed houses, managed to get their pikes and their burdens higher up. They were still determined to secure the kiss of Marie Antoinette on the Lamballe’s lips, or better still, her own head to join that of her favourite.

  It was Commissioner Daujon who saved the day. His narrative confirms the fact that apart from the head, there was a huge blacksmith holding a pike with something—probably the heart—on it; another pike held a scrap of the dead woman’s chemise, stained with mud and blood.19 But Daujon would not permit the head to be brought inside. Instead the crowd was allowed to parade round the Tower with their pikes, and so the Queen never actually saw it, leaving the image, for better or for worse, to the eye of her appalled imagination. And Daujon prevented the entry into the Tower itself by the use of the tricolour ribbon on the door. “The head of Antoinette does not belong to you,” he said with an authority that might have a sinister impact for the future. The rioting went on until about five o’clock. Later Marie Thérèse listened to the noise of her mother’s weeping all through the night.

  The head of the Princesse was subsequently rescued by a compassionate citizen, Jacques Pointel, who asked for it to be given burial in the cemetery for foundling children. But in the end the old Duc de Penthièvre managed to have body and head buried together in his family plot—where he expected to lie himself before long. It was Louis XVI who spoke the epitaph for the Princesse when he said that her conduct “in the course of our misfortunes”—and he might have added, “her own”—amply justified the Queen’s original choice of her as a friend.20

  If the killings stopped, the chaos in Paris continued. During this period a band of enterprising professional robbers managed to lift a great many of the Crown Jewels from their storehouse, the Garde-Meuble in the Place Louis XV, because no one was guarding it. These jewels, said to be the finest royal collection in Europe, had been inventoried in June 1791 by the National Assembly at 23 million livres; the collection had been enhanced by the rich gifts of oriental sovereigns, especially Tippoo Sahib in the last years of the former regime. As Crown Jewels, they could not be disposed of by the King, unlike the gems conveyed abroad by Léonard on behalf of the Queen which, being “mounted in Germany at a much earlier date,” had been brought with her on her marriage and were thus her personal property. Over six nights, using a first-floor window, the thieves easily helped themselves to 7 million livres’ worth, much of which was never seen again, including the fabulous pearls of Anne of Austria, which she had bequeathed to the Queens of France.*10021

  In the general disorder, everyone accused everyone else of the crime. The Girondins, for example, believed that Danton intended to use the proceeds to bribe the Duke of Brunswick to retreat. Of course Marie Antoinette was blamed. The execration in best-selling pamphlets and obscene engravings did not cease, many people expecting the Queen to take Jeanne de Lamotte Valois’s former place in the Bicêtre prison.22 Any evil, including a daring jewel robbery brilliantly organized from a closed prison, could be attributed to her.

  A new pamphlet, Le Ménage royal en déroute, whose subtitle was “Open war between Louis XVI and his wife,” had the drunken King beating up his wife, that “sacrée” bitch. The truth of Temple life was very different. “The way our family passed their days,” as Marie Thérèse put it, had an odd Rousseau-esque quality, if one forgot the circumstances. It was Rousseau—once admired by the Queen, now blamed by the King for France’s ills—who pronounced that “the real nurse is the mother and the real teacher is the father.” These roles the royal couple now proceeded to fulfil in harmony. This was a very different kind of routine from that so cheerfully described by the young Dauphine Marie Antoinette in her letter home to her mother twenty-two years earlier: “I put on my rouge and wash my hands in front of the whole world.” The Queen did not open her door until Cléry arrived. By this time the valet had already woken the King, dressed his hair and readied him to pray and read until breakfast—all with the door open so that the municipal officers could check him. Cléry then helped with the toilette of the women, doing their hair and teaching Marie Thérèse how to do her own on the Queen’s instructions. A special sign was used when he had a bit of information to impart.23

  Breakfast was at nine o’clock. After this, Cléry prepared the rooms, helped by Madame Tison, and the King gave Louis Charles his lessons. These included instruction in the works of Corneille and Racine, as well as writing; some of the seven-year-old Louis Charles’s exercise books still survive.*101 The phrases he copied are poignant enough: “Nationalement aimé,” for example, emerging rather shakily first as “Nrationnodement ainmé” and then as “Nationnalement aiméen.” The signatures he practised had something of the former regime about them: “Louis” and “Louis Dauphin.” (Nevertheless, Cléry noted how tactful the boy was, never talking about the glories of Versailles and Saint Cloud or even life at the Tuileries.) Marie Antoinette taught her daughter, with Madame Elisabeth responsible for mathematics. It was then time for exercise in the garden, something that was obligatory whatever the weather, so that their rooms could be searched. However, Louis Charles enjoyed ball games with Cléry and noisy play, like hairdressing, also covered up incriminating conversation.

  Dinner was at two o’clock, followed by a board or card game, which offered another good opportunity for private or coded talk. After that Louis XVI, watched by the women, fell into a heavy sleep, lost to the world as he snored. Then there were more lessons and play for Louis Charles before bedtime and prayers, which were taken by his mother. The King might read aloud, generally from history books although that often proved a rather depressing experience. Madame Elisabeth concentrated on her prayer book, sometimes reciting the Mass of the day at the Queen’s request. At supper the ladies took it in turn to sit by the Dauphin or to stay with the King. Bedtime was about eleven o’clock.

  This account, however, omits one important feature of the royal day: the criers who appeared outside the Temple at seven o’clock in the evening. They were a principal source of news, since the gazettes were only provided when the war was going well for the French. It was from the criers, on 21 September, that they learnt that the French monarchy, having been suspended since mid-August, had officially come to an end. The National Convention, elected by manhood suffrage, now ruled France.

  The next day the trumpets sounded. It was announced that there had been a revolution in the calendar as well as in the Constitution. In short, 22 September 1792 had been transformed into Day I of the month of Vendémiaire in Year I of the new era. Furthermore the last five days of September were designated “les jours sanscullotides.” Names underwent their own revolution. Titles were, of course, abolished and the Duc d’Orléans found himself offered a choice of two politically correct names; he chose Philippe Égalité over Publicola, the Roman consul who helped oust Tarquin Superbus. In the Temple, the new Elisabeth Capet unpicked the crowns from the linen of her brother, who was now Louis Capet (owing to the shortage of supplies, she had to wait until he was in bed). This was the surname of the dynasty that had ruled France until 1328; but Louis XVI, not only as a Bourbon but as a lover of history, disliked it; it was the name of his ancestors, not his own
.24

  The Prussian forces had captured Verdun on 3 September, news that was broken to the prisoners in the Tower by a woman in a house opposite who scrawled it on a big placard and held it up to her window just long enough for them to read it. The Duke of Brunswick predicted that he would be in Paris on 10 October. At rumours that the Prussians were about to invade Paris, the jailer Rocher drew his sabre in the presence of the King and vowed: “If the Prussians come, I will personally kill you.” Instead, an encounter at Valmy on 23 September was inconclusive. Shortly afterwards Brunswick ordered a retreat on that particular front. Louis kept his cool when presented with the reverses of people who were presumed to be his allies and came up with these emollient words: “I have prayed for the French to find that happiness which I have always wanted to procure for them.”25 Nevertheless, the inauguration of the Republic and the Valmy check marked the beginning of those increased tribulations that many already believed must end with Louis Capet’s trial.

  The King was separated from his family at the beginning of October and taken alone to the Great Tower. This was a more serious step than the removal of the Cordon Rouge from his breast by Manuel, although that too was intended to signify humiliation. The cries and protests of the Queen and the children at the separation resulted in a dispensation that they were still allowed to eat together, provided everyone spoke in “loud and clear French.” However, pen, ink, paper and pencils were removed (although the royal ladies managed to conceal some potential hiding-places being found in hollowed-out peaches and pockets cut in macaroons). The soap essence for shaving the erstwhile King was suspected of being a poison. Scissors were taken away. Louis watched Madame Elisabeth biting off a thread as she embroidered and observed sadly: “At your lovely house at Montreuil, you had everything you needed. What a contrast!” How could she have any regrets, replied Madame Elisabeth in her ardent way, so long as she was sharing her brother’s misfortunes.26

  Cléry and Turgy continued to be their mainstays, for although Cléry was briefly taken away for interrogation he was allowed to return. The news gathered on Turgy’s shopping expeditions would sometimes be passed on by him to Cléry by dint of the men dressing each other’s hair—yet another demonstration of the uses of coiffure. As for Turgy, notes by Madame Elisabeth are still in existence with elaborate instructions for the signs that the serving-men should give: “If the Austrians are successful on the Belgian frontier, place the second finger of the right hand on the right eye . . . Be sure to keep the finger stationary for a longer or shorter time according to the importance of the battle.”27

  At the end of October, Marie Antoinette, Madame Elisabeth and the children were moved into the new apartments in the Grand Tower. Although the windows here were disagreeably barred, the accommodation itself had been freshly decorated and there were lavatories à l’anglaise, which flushed with water. The room that Marie Antoinette shared with her daughter (Louis Charles was now to share his father’s room) had a striped blue and green wallpaper; there was a green damask bed for Madame Elisabeth, white cotton curtains and valances, and a chest of drawers with a marble top.*102 There were some luxuries. One of the municipal officers, Goret, recalled being shown lockets of the blond hair of her children by Marie Antoinette, after which the erstwhile Queen rubbed her hands with one of the flower-essences she had always loved, passing them in front of Goret’s face so he could share the sweet perfume.*10328 The food continued to be magnificent and to be served on silver; anything that was not eaten was distributed to the servants. There was always wine, which only the King drank.

  When all the family in turn fell ill with colds and rheumatic fever, due to the fact that the Tower remained very damp, they were allowed after some argument to call the old royal doctor Le Mounier who was in his mid-seventies. Louis XVI was the sickest of them all, and there was, put crudely, an obvious danger of letting him die while in the custody of the Commune. Who would believe such a death was natural?

  In the meantime the discussions over Louis Capet’s trial raged in the Convention itself, while the French armies continued to be victorious. By the end of October, General de Custine had occupied the Rhineland, including Frankfurt and Mainz; in the south, Savoy and Nice had been captured. There was a further victory on 6 November at Jemappes, just west of Mons, for the troops under General Dumouriez, who had led the French at Valmy. Among those who now had to flee were the Archduchess Marie Christine, Count Mercy—and Fersen, who went to Düsseldorf. On 13 November the French pressed forward and entered Brussels. As a result, on 19 November the National Convention felt empowered to offer fraternal aid “to any nation wishing to recover its liberty.” The ideological war was spreading, summed up by a decree of 15 December: “War on the châteaux, peace for the cottages.”30

  The favourable progress of the war from the French point of view was not the immediate catalyst of the former King’s trial. This was provided by a coincidental and highly damaging discovery: the so-called iron chest (armoire de fer) in which Louis stored a number of his papers. It was the locksmith employed to install it, Gameau, who gave the game away. The revelations were actually more embarrassing than criminal. Here was the King’s correspondence with Mirabeau, La Fayette and Dumouriez uncovered, rather than any proof of contacts with the Austrians. Barnave, however, was compromised and subsequently arrested. One draft in the King’s handwriting reflected on the Varennes adventure, and insisted that his motives had been honourable: “I had to escape any captivity.”31 But a climate had been created in which the deceitful, manipulative Louis Capet could be portrayed as worthy of the nation’s punishment.

  This was a time when a translation of the trial of Charles I, in the English State Trials series, became a bestseller on the Paris bookstalls. One Frenchman told Doctor John Moore proudly that the behaviour of the English in the past—he cited the Wars of the Roses, the massacre of Glencoe and seventeenth-century Ireland—justified their own barbarities in the cause of freedom. At the theatre kings had to be tyrannical and rapacious if portrayed at all; the age of Grétry’s noble Richard I had definitely passed.32

  The sound of drums on 11 December announced the arrival of Pétion, accompanied by soldiers. The decree of the Convention was read to “Louis Capet”; he was to be brought to its bar and interrogated. The former King merely commented that “Capet” was inaccurate. At the Convention, he faced a massive denunciation for treason, ending with the events leading to Varennes: “Louis left France as a fugitive in order to return as a conqueror.”

  Before his father’s departure, Louis Charles was taken away to join his mother. An act of gratuitous cruelty followed. It was decreed that Louis XVI could either continue to see his children, or agree to leave them with their mother during the coming proceedings against him; but Marie Thérèse and Louis Charles could not be in contact with both their parents. Nobly, Louis XVI decided to put his wife’s passionate feelings for her children first. In this manner, Marie Antoinette, Madame Elisabeth and the children embarked on a yet sadder way of life. They were never allowed to visit “Louis Capet” nor have any official communication with him whatsoever. This included 19 December, Marie Thérèse’s fourteenth birthday, when Cléry brought her a little present from her father, an almanac for 1793—but she was not permitted to see him.

  It is true that the inventive Cléry started to conceal little crumpled notes in balls of string, once Louis was allowed paper to prepare his defence. The royal ladies responded by letting down their own missives on threads. But in principle, as Marie Thérèse wrote: “He knew nothing of us, nor we of him but through the municipal officers.” The royal women became increasingly dependent either on the kindness of those officers who brought them newspapers (despite the frequently depressing contents) or on the criers outside. One loyal supporter, Dame Launoy, put a magic lantern in the third-floor window of a house near the Tower, and projected letters to give them news.

  Commissioner Jacques Lep"tre who took up his position in mid-December was one of thos
e kindly disposed. He realized that the harpsichord in the Tower was in too bad a state for Marie Antoinette to continue her daughter’s lessons and agreed to replace it. Marie Antoinette gave him the name of the man she had generally used and a harpsichord, according to the accounts, duly arrived. A scrap of music was found there. It was Haydn’s La Reine de France, one of his symphonies of the mid-1780s, which had been the Queen’s favourite. “How times have changed,” said Marie Antoinette. “And we could not stop our tears,” wrote Lep"tre.33

  Even with Cléry’s scraps of paper, and the criers, a kind of unreality descended on the women. They were unaware of the long hours spent by the King with the gallant men who had agreed to act as his counsels. Chrétien de Malesherbes behaved with great style, addressing his master as “Sire” and “Majesté.” When asked at the Convention what made him so brave, he replied: “Contempt for you and contempt for death.” Although Louis told Malesherbes that they should concern themselves with his trial “as though I could win,” two weeks after it started he spent Christmas Day preparing his last will and testament.34 This was no time for “Capets”; he wrote it as Louis XVI King of France and he gave the correct date in the Christian calendar, having no truck with “Nivôse,” as the month that began in late December had become. In every way it was the document of a committed son of the Catholic Church, and it also preached the Christian doctrine of forgiveness, especially to his son. If Louis Charles should be “so unfortunate” as ever to become King, he should dedicate his whole life to his people’s happiness; on no account was he to seek vengeance on his father’s behalf. Louis remembered his other relations, including his brothers, his faithful servants such as Hüe and Cléry, and he thanked his lawyers.