Abundance. Part 33

17 June I am told that the Third Estate, representing, they claim, 96 percent of the nation, has broken off from the Estates General to form a new group, the National a.s.sembly, the voice of the commoners. Each time an advisory body is formed and dissolved-the a.s.sembly of Notables, the Estates General, the National a.s.sembly-we lose power.

Who has the power? It is a man once named Comte Mirabeau, now known usually as Mirabeau. Though he is said to be anything but beautiful, his presence represents a kind of miracle. Gigantic in size, he became an outcast from his own n.o.ble family. He was a seducer of countless women, despite his hideous pockmarked face, and his own father had him imprisoned for three years for having run off with a woman. When the famines and hards.h.i.+ps came to Provence, he made himself a spokesman for the common folk of the Third Estate and was elected their representative. "Woe to the privileged orders," he is quoted as saying, "for privileges will cease, but the People are eternal." He both inflames the people and pacifies them. He claims to respect the monarchy while moving France toward the republicanism of England. His hair towers above his steep forehead like a thundercloud, and on his back the great snarl of hair is caught up in a black bag, they say.

Mirabeau himself is said to be the author of his own promotional pamphlet, which the King gave me to read: The good citizen [meaning himself] is the greatest orator of his time; his mighty voice dominates any public meeting as thunder subjugates the roaring sound of the sea; his courage astonishes all who hear him, and his strength affirms that no human power could cause him to abandon his ideals or principles.

We tremble at the name of Mirabeau. With their tears, the women and children of France bathe his hands, his clothing, even the footprints he leaves in the dirt.

He is not only feared, but loved. But so are we-still loved-to some extent.

20 June Locked out of their meeting room, the commoners meet on the tennis courts of Versailles and swear an oath to their cause. I wish I'd ordered the courts plowed up and planted in roses.

We have choices: to stand against them or to capitulate.

After I consider how to rouse the King, I take my two children-two, only two are left us-by their hands to speak to their father. I find the King in his chamber.

"Hold him in your arms," I say, pus.h.i.+ng the new Dauphin in all his robust health into his father's arms.

"Embrace your father," I say to Marie Therese.

"Protect her," I tell him. "Do not allow the monarchy to become the ghost of itself. Your brothers and the n.o.bles will stand by you."

The King kisses his children, and he opens his arms to me.

"Never doubt my love for my family," he says. "But I must decide the best course, and that course is not clear. Necker advises us to compromise with the Third Estate. Take the children away now, my dear. Necker thinks that at bottom, the Third Estate loves us. They will support us in reforms that will control the irresponsibility of the n.o.bility and the clergy. We must not be hasty. I will consider the future."

I do as I am bid, but I have witnessed the vascillation of the King too many times. I have little hope.

24 June A majority of the clergy have gone over to the position of the Third Estate, calling for a new const.i.tution to be drawn up. Mirabeau has spread the word that the wealthy clergy, unless they leave their station to join the people, do not represent the humble pastors who do serve the people; instead, like the n.o.bility, the privileged clergy are parasites. Such clergymen must become civil servants, agents of literacy for the poor. They must nurse the sick and shelter the dying.

25 June Many of the n.o.bility have agreed to support the Third Estate; among them is the King's cousin the Duc d'Orleans. They betray their own social cla.s.s but even more the monarchy by giving these rowdies their support.

I would like for us to leave Versailles, to go to Compiegne, but we would not be safe on the roads. And if we left, we might be leaving all our power behind. Count Mercy says that we have all lost our heads, while the danger of famine, bankruptcy, and civil war is imminent.

27 June There are still good hearts in France. To be loyal to the King and to the royal family is to be loyal to the country they love. When they see that we are a family, even as they too are members of a family, then their hearts are touched. Though I can no longer command their love as an enchanting princess, they can love me as the mother of France, just as my mother, with her fifteen births, became the mother of Austria. Are these ideas true?

Yes, the King is truly the embodiment of the people. When I showed him his children, he became a man again, firm in his manhood. When the deputies came to call upon me, I greeted them as I held the hand of the new Dauphin. They were charmed, and their hearts filled with loyalty. Louis Charles represents their children and the future of their children.

Surely it was because they loved him that the representatives of the Third Estate insisted they be allowed to sprinkle holy water on the little silver coffin of Louis Joseph. When they stood around the coffin, some of them remarked on the presence of a great, bright light; others felt that they had glimpsed in their little leader the radiance of G.o.d.

"We will stand with you on the balcony," I tell my husband, "so that the people will see you with your family. At the same time you might wish to affirm that concessions a la Necker will be made. Because this is a new era, perhaps you should say you will allow all three of the Estates to meet together. We do not hold any longer to the traditions of 1614."

I tell myself before we step out on the balcony, our stage, that we must make the entrance as though we will all live forever. Though he is not so tall as Mirabeau, they say, the size of the King will help to establish his grandeur. The innocence of the children and their utter vulnerability will make the people feel that they are our lawful protectors, not our adversaries. I will show my joy that they have come to visit us.

"These are our people, whom we love," I say and smile at my family.

Yes, the King goes first, and the crowd roars with approval: their King is yet among them: they have not lost their souls by questioning our authority. Quickly, holding the hands of the children, we step beside him, and I radiate love as they cheer us. These are the commoners, the people whom Louis XV identified as united with the person of the monarch. But sometimes they hate us. Spontaneously, I bend and lift my son into my arms. I hold him up so that they may see him better, above the railing of the balcony. Here is the future! We have no fear in showing our only remaining son to the people. We trust in your love. We show you what love is like: we share ourselves, even our most precious and innocent member, with you because we are one with you.

Their demonstrations of affection-applause, shouting, cheering-continue and continue. They are at a visual feast, and we cannot deny them the pleasure of looking at us, on the balcony of Versailles, our official home, and the seat of their government, the locus of the glory of the nation, from the time of Louis XIV to this day. Our authority is that of a loving father.

If there is a scale whose swinging arm represents the favor of the people, Mirabeau, that gigantic count who left his origins to lead the commoners, stands in one pan of the scale. He is weighty; people say his clothing must strain to cover his great bulk; he has an enormous head, and hair that stands all around like the mane of a lion. People never tire of painting his portrait in words. Some say his face resembles the snarl of a tiger. Mirabeau, the defector from the n.o.bility, speaks endlessly, without notes, in a stentorian voice. Germaine de Stael, the daughter of our Necker, has said that it is impossible not to be entranced by Mirabeau's eloquence; she pays him this tribute even while he vilifies her father, Necker, our minister of finance.

But the eye is mightier than the ear.

The memory of what is viewed outlasts the memory of what is heard. And here in this courtyard and on beyond to the larger one, and even beyond to the widest courtyard stand far more people, enraptured, than those who listen to debates of the Third Estate and the speeches of Mirabeau.

In the other pan of the scales that weigh the loyalty of the people stand we, the royal family, the emblem of the people, a family that is the archetype of all families: a powerful husband, a charming wife, a son, a daughter. Together, as a family and the emblem of the very ident.i.ty of France, we stand on the balcony of Versailles for a length of time greater than when Mirabeau enthralled their representatives by advocating actions that presage revolution.

Sometimes I put down the Dauphin, and then when I lift him aloft again, again the people roar with pleasure. Like music, I create a rhythm to their enthusiasm by setting him down and lifting him up again. Mirabeau only spoke to their representatives; we are viewed and approved by the people themselves.

Finally, finally, we wave good-bye.

Now they understand better who we are.

Now they have demonstrated their own goodwill.

Yet, tomorrow I know they may wish to imprison us, or worse. Their addiction is to intensity, be it love or hate.

WE COME INSIDE. I kiss my children and thank them for playing their parts so well.

"Your beauty, your charm, your smiles and pleasantness," I tell them, "have contributed to the peace and future happiness of France. Always, always, you must show the people that your hearts are full of love. Even though you are small, in their own minds, they are your children. If you forever show them the trust and the abundance of your affection, then, like a mirror, they will reflect it back to you."

Now for the King, I must show no fatigue, no weakness, no vacillation in my deepest principles. "Now we have said what we had to say"-I smile-"without uttering a word." I rea.s.sure him. He gazes at me with loving grat.i.tude. He is reliving the cheers of the people as we stood on the balcony together over the Marble Courtyard. "They were packed so close together," I observe, "that I could not see the light and dark squares of the marble below their feet."

No sooner have I spoken than I am shocked at my statement. Of what use is the fleeting visual picture of feet obscuring a pattern of marble? I have let down my guard. Quickly, I add, "Now having presented the vision they wished and needed to see, we must act in the way that we need to act."

The King nods.

"And the Marechal de Broglie?" I ask him. Our new minister of war is very old.

"Even in his advanced age, he shows a spirit of resolve, and of great resourcefulness."

"Yes." I pause and smile at my husband. "And how many troops does he promise?"

"Thirty thousand."

"And where will they be located?" I smile again.

"On the outskirts of Paris."

I reach out my hand to the King. I want him to feel the warmth of my small hand in his large one, and the trust that I have in him. "And by what date will the troops be in place?" I ask.

"His promise is for July thirteenth."

ALTHOUGH THE KING and I are convinced that a show of force is necessary, I continue to exhibit a relaxed and cheerful mien. I believe in our strength, and that we will show the people that the age of aristocracy is not over. We are not the British, nor the Americans, though Lafayette would offer them a const.i.tution on the American model. As G.o.d is the King of the Universe, so it is that Kings a.s.sure the order of their countries. As the angels are arranged in ranks around the throne of G.o.d, so must the sectors of society be arranged by their rank. It is a divine plan, and it is our sacred duty to uphold it, lest the chaos of h.e.l.l spread over the land.

One evening as we sip chocolate with our friends-they are all here-Fersen, Saint-Priest, the Princesse de Lamballe, the Polignacs, Artois, and the Comte de Provence, and their wives (I have heard that the Comtesse de Provence is, in fact, having a pa.s.sionate love affair with another woman), I suddenly say, "The very beauty of the palace and gardens of Versailles testify to the rightness of the rule of kings, just as the beauty of the earth reflects the glory of G.o.d." In response, they all applaud.

Later I confide to everyone how much I have always admired the painting of the Princesse de Lamballe in the bosom of her husband's family, all of them enjoying a cup of chocolate with the little pet dogs about. "I thought it the essence of our century," I say.

Everyone looks at me curiously. "All elegance and refinement," I add.

"Anyone who hoped to capture the essence of our time would have to paint Her Gracious Majesty into the picture," Fersen says gallantly.

The King attempts to raise his cup to toast Fersen's compliment, but his fingers are too pudgy to fit the delicate handle. He lifts the cup, nonetheless, by embracing the circ.u.mference of its lip. "From the moment of your arrival, France has been blessed and graced by your presence," my husband says, and they all raise their cups in a sweet salute.

I cannot help but blush with pleasure, yet almost as though there were voices outside, I seem to hear the disdainful appellation L'Austrichienne! I actually cannot resist rising and going to the window to look out. Only a few groundskeepers are moving about the pedestals of the cla.s.sical statues.

The King quickly says, "It may be dangerous to stand in front of the window."

Obediently, I turn away from the gla.s.s. Now, if anyone saw a woman standing in the lighted palace window, they would think her just a woman, not the hated Queen. Or do they love me? They loved me when I stood with the King on the balcony with our children. I have always loved the French people; it was I who would not allow the royal hunting parties to gallop across their fields. It was I who supported the tax reforms offered by the King. It was I who gave alms and last winter had the King build fires at the crossroads to warm any who had to be about in the fierce winds. Turning now to look at my friends in the mellow candlelight surrounded by the sparkling chandeliers, I say, "If our friend Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun were with us, I would ask her to paint this scene, so that we could have it always. She could do a new series of paintings by candlelight, and the corners would be dens of darkness."

The King rises and comes to stand beside me. He holds up both his hands so that the thumbs form a square angle from the fingers. He is improvising a frame for the scene, and we both look through it at our friends.

For a moment, no one stirs.

I cannot resist seeking out the eyes of Fersen, and for one quick moment he gives back the gaze to me, his soul flickers like an ember through his eyes.

Ours is a cozy sadness. We are living through the end of an era, but we are together.

1 July The so-called National a.s.sembly has voted itself a new name: Const.i.tuent National a.s.sembly with a license to create new laws.

Saint-Priest, our minister of the household, reports that the people are made nervous by the ama.s.sing of soldiers near the edges of the city, and he warns that if the military resorts to violence, such violence might be the spark to ignite a conflagration.

9 July To appease the n.o.bles (whose support we must win to survive), the King has made a firm decision, backed by myself and by his brothers, to dismiss Necker as minister of finance. The n.o.bles reject Necker's efforts to abridge their privileges in any way. Necker is to leave France as quietly as possible. Artois has been particularly firm about refusing compromise in his effort to conserve what people have begun calling the Ancien Regime.

The King's decisiveness about the minister makes me glow with happiness, and my soul sings as I walk through the Hall of Mirrors. I feel as immaterial and powerful as sunlight streaming through the windows and bouncing off the mirrors, filling the corridor with itself.

I do not know if this state of being is power or the illusion of power, but it has a wonderful and frightening ability to satisfy the soul.

12 July The rioting in Paris, at the news of Necker's dismissal, has caused the closing of the theaters and the opera. Seeking arms, the rioters were furious when they discovered that the swords and axes used dramatically onstage are nothing but cardboard. Yelling "These are real," they picked up stones from the street and flung them at the Royal German Regiment. The Prince de Lambesc's troops drew their real swords and retaliated.

When the prince was accused of excessive brutality, I privately took his side with both the King and Count Mercy: "How wrong that anyone should be punished for being loyal to the King and obeying orders!" The prince was acquitted.

14 July When I see that new troops have arrived here at Versailles, I decide that we should make them welcome with wine and song, and I enlist my friends to help me. What fresh-faced young men they are. Soon they begin to toast us for our hospitality: "Vive la Reine! Vive la d.u.c.h.esse de Polignac! Vive le Comte d'Artois!" Blessed words! My appreciation and grat.i.tude are very easy to express.

When I go to sleep, they are singing under my windows. With such loyal good fellows, surely we shall prevail. I drift to sleep on a cloud of hope. An afternoon well spent!

BEFORE DAWN HAS COME, the King is speaking softly to me, but I am loath to give up my dreams.

After some moments, I hear what he is saying: I am hearing that there has been an attack on the Bastille. How strange to hear the disembodied voice of my husband speaking new realities in the darkness.

"I was awakened at two in the morning by the Duc de Liancourt who gave me the news. When I said, 'But this is revolt,' he answered, 'No, it is a revolution.' I think I must prepare to go to Paris."

I dress as quickly as I can and then see the King off to speak to the National a.s.sembly. When he walks across the Marble Courtyard, he is accompanied only by his two brothers, and I experience the greatest anxiety for his safety. Quickly as the three pa.s.s below me, I memorize their dear and familiar faces, for I may never see them again: corpulent Provence of the square, well-cornered jaw; slender Artois, who wanted to race me when I first came here, with his narrow, sensitive face and luminous eyes like his grandfather's; Louis Auguste, my husband, with a body and head like two boulders-solid in his affection, his eyelids always half lowered. He turns back and glances up over his shoulder, as though he too would memorize me.

I hurry to the chapel, which is empty, and hasten down the aisle, where I walked as a bride. I kneel at the golden altar and look at the long rec.u.mbent form of Christ crucified, how he died for us. With bowed head and closed eyes, I spend the hour on my knees, praying for my husband's safety and that of my children. Long ago, my mother told me that I would find comfort in Jesus, when I turned to Him.

The King has said that the Bastille is destroyed, but it is an enormous fortress, and I do not see how that really could be possible.

FINALLY, I HEAR his footsteps on the marble floor. He has come to find me. I rise from the altar and fly to him, his arms open for me.

He tells me that he appealed to the group for their support. "For the first time," he says sadly, "I addressed them as the National a.s.sembly. I said, 'Help me to ensure the salvation of the state. I expect as much from the National a.s.sembly.'"

"But what has happened in Paris?"

We begin our walk to his apartments.

I ring for the King's breakfast to be brought to him, and as he eats, he tells me what he has heard, that the populace went to the Invalides looking for arms. "The people of Paris are filled with inflammable gas, like a balloon lighter than air." They were met, of course, by troops under Besenval. Besenval, my old friend, who entertained me at Trianon when I had the measles and my b.r.e.a.s.t.s were painful with unsucked milk, dared not order the charge because many of the troops were joining the populace, who helped themselves to forty thousand guns and cannons. Then they lacked only gunpowder, which they believed to be stored in the ancient fortress and prison, the Bastille.

The Bastille was attacked at the expense of one hundred lives. While the liberators found only seven prisoners incarcerated in the whole of the vast structure, the mob went wild with glee.

They took the gunpowder they found. They cut off the head of the governor of the Bastille, the Marquis de Launay, with a knife, as they did to the heads of several others who tried to stand against the mob. Their heads were mounted on pikes and paraded through the streets amid a terrible celebration in the name of liberty.

The Bastille was dismantled till not one stone lay atop another.

As the King tells me the horrifying story, I feel all the light in the room grow dim. In a terrifying grip, ice encases my heart. What can I do to save us? I remember the pleasant afternoon-only yesterday, July 14-with the young troops. Finally, the King says, "Perhaps you should gather your jewels and pack your trunks."

"Where shall we go?"

"We will convene our advisors and generals and discuss the decision."

AS THE DAY Pa.s.sES, I sometimes listen to the debate, but again and again I envision the head of the Marquis de Launay being pulled backward and his throat exposed to the edge of a knife. Perhaps they will kill us if we stay-our own heads brutally taken from our bodies. Would our absence from Versailles not signal our defeat? While I supervise the packing, I wonder if it is wise to leave. Surely at least the King and Queen should remain. And I could not bear to be parted from my children.

But I do not want my friends to endanger themselves. Yolande is almost as hated as I am, because of her love for me. I consult with the King about our friends, and we decide they should be asked to leave. None of them wish to desert us. Finally the King makes it his command to Artois to leave.

I ask if we might flee to Metz, still in France but comfortingly close to the Netherlands controlled by Austria, the territory governed by my sister Marie Christine and her husband. The faithful Marechal de Broglie hesitates; it has cost him much of his pride to have to admit that his troops could not be trusted to try to recapture Paris. Finally, he looks up; his eyes are red, and he seems to have aged another ten years, his face is so wrinkled. "Yes," he replies, "we could get to Metz. But what will we do once we have arrived?"

I take Yolande aside and regard her with all the force of my affection. "I am terrified of what may come." While her gaze mirrors my own, she reaches out to touch my shoulder, but I continue: "Now is the time for you to escape the wrath of those who hate me."

The King, who is almost as fond of Yolande as I am, tells her that if she does not agree to leave, he will order her to do so, as he has with his younger brother.

Finally the King calls for a vote of the ministers present as to what we should do. The vote goes for the royal family to remain at Versailles.

By midnight, I am too exhausted to remain upright. I sit at my secretaire, close to my bed, and write a few lines of farewell to my dearest friend. The word Adieu is a terrible word to write, and almost, the point of my pen trips over itself. But finally, fearing that I may never see her again, I pen the word and thus commit her to the care of G.o.d: Adieu. And I make her a gift of five hundred louis.

I shall not be able to help her anymore, my Yolande, fresh and sweet as a berry.

Then I stand up and straighten my back. I will face my fate here in France, though I will not consign my friends to the unspeakable possibilities. I envision the head of Launay upon a pike.

They say a bounty has been set on my head, and on that of Artois and the Polignacs. At least they will be safe in Switzerland. I will keep my place beside the King.

When the coaches roll away in the morning, toward Belgium, I note that all my friends wear disguises so that they will not be recognized by the grandeur of their clothes. Yolande is dressed to resemble a serving girl. It seems a strange thing to do. How can I play my role-that is to say-how can one maintain her ident.i.ty, without the proper costume?

17 July I beg the King not to go into Paris.

He merely says that it is required: he himself must tell the people of Paris that Necker will be restored to his position as minister of finance. He must display his loyalty to their cause, that of the Third Estate.