Part 25

The illusions of etiquette were necessary to Louis XV. Louis XIV. might have dispensed with them. His throne, resplendent with the triumph of arms, literature, and the fine arts, was glorious enough without them. But he would be more than a great king, this mighty Louis! And so this demi-god, when age and calamity had taught him that he was but human, endeavored to conceal the ravages of time and of disease beneath the vain pomp of ceremony. He, Louis “the Magnificent,” the most accomplished of gentlemen, habitually exacted and received from the noblest of his realm adulations and menial services better becoming the palace of Ispahan than the Château of Versailles.

“All service to the king and queen, and, in a lower degree, to the Dauphin and Dauphiness, was regarded as an honor to the persons serving,—an honor to be keenly contended for by persons of the highest rank, no matter what delay, or inconvenience, or unutterable weariness of spirit was experienced by the individuals thus served.” Her Majesty the queen could not pass from one apartment to the other, without being followed by the lords and ladies of her retinue. The ceremonies of rising and dressing were accompanied by laws and rites as irrevocable as the decrees of the Medes and Persians.

The _petites entrées_ and the _grandes entrées_ had each their appropriate ceremonies. At the former, none but the physicians, reader, and secretary had the privilege of being present, whether her Majesty breakfasted in bed or out of it. At the _grande toilette_, the toilet table, which was always the most splendid piece of furniture in the apartment, was brought forward, and the queen surrendered herself to the hands of her hairdresser. Then followed the _grande entrée_; sofas were ranged in circles for the ladies of the household. The members of the royal family, the princes of the blood, and all the great officers, having the privilege, paid their court. Only _grandes dames_ of the _haute noblesse_ could occupy the _tabouret_ in the royal presence. There were well-defined degrees of royal salutation,—a smile, a nod, a bending of the body, or leaning forward as if to rise, which was the highest form of acknowledgment. If her Majesty wished her gloves, or a glass of water, what she desired was brought by a page upon a gold salver, and the salver was presented in turn with solemn precision, according to the rank of the persons present, by the _femme de chambre_ to the lady-in-waiting; but if the chief _dame d’honneur_, or a princess of the blood, or any member of the royal family entered at the time, the salver was returned to the _femme de chambre_, and by her offered again to the _dame d’honneur_, or to the princess, that she might have the privilege of presentation, till, at last, the article reached its destination.

One winter’s morning, Marie Antoinette, who was partially disrobed, was just about to put on her body linen. The lady-in-waiting held it ready unfolded for her. The _dame d’honneur_ entered. Etiquette demanded that she should present the robe. Hastily slipping off her gloves, she took the garment, but at that moment a rustling was heard at the door. It was opened, and in came Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans. She must now be the bearer of the garment. But the laws of etiquette would not allow the _dame d’honneur_ to hand the linen directly to Madame la Duchesse. It must pass down the various grades of rank to the lowest, and by her be presented to the highest. The linen was consequently passed back again from one to another, till it was finally placed in the hands of the duchess. She was just upon the point of conveying it to its proper destination, when suddenly the door opened, and the Comtesse de Provence entered. Again the linen passed from hand to hand until it reached Madame la Comtesse. She, perceiving the uncomfortable position of the queen, who sat shivering with cold, without stopping to remove her gloves, placed the linen upon her shoulders. Her Majesty, however, was quite unable to restrain her impatience, and exclaimed, “How disagreeable, how tiresome!” Such was the etiquette of the court of Versailles, and its inexorable rules governed alike every action in the lives of the king and queen, while the cavaliers and _grandes dames_ observed with the greatest minuteness every punctilio of _la grande politesse et la grande galanterie_, that by so doing they might widen the gulf already existing between them and the new ideas of _liberté_ and _égalité_ which were beginning to pervade the realm.

“You love flowers; I give you a bouquet of them by offering you Le Petit Trianon entirely for your own private use. There you may reign sole mistress; for the Trianons, by right, belong to you, having always been the residence of the favorites of the kings of France.” For Louis XVI. this speech was a great effort of gallantry. It delighted Marie Antoinette. Here, then, was that for which she had so often longed; a place to which she could retire from the cares of state, and throw aside the pomps and punctilios of etiquette. She loved not the grand old gardens of Versailles, with their terraces and clipped yews. She would have an English garden of the day, with its thickets, waterfalls, and rustic bridges, such as the Prince de Ligny had made at _Bel-œil_ and the Marquis de Caraman at Roissy. _Le grand simple_ is to take the place of _le grand magnifique_, and attired in white muslin, with a a plain straw hat, and followed by a single attendant, the queen roams through the gardens and groves of the Petit Trianon. Through the lanes and byways she chases the butterfly, picks flowers free as a peasant girl, and leaning over the fences, chats with the country maids as they milk the cows.

This freedom from restraint was etiquette at the court of Vienna; it was barbarism at the court of Versailles. The courtiers were amazed, the ceremony-stricken dowagers were shocked; and Paris, France, and Europe, were filled with stories of the waywardness and eccentricities of Marie Antoinette. And Mesdames, the king’s aunts, from their retreat at Bellevue, and Madame du Barry, from her domain of Luviciennes, lost no opportunity to gather reports unfavorable to the reputation of the queen, and spread them far and wide.

Still another surprise was in store for the nobility, for upon one occasion, at Trianon, when the queen seated herself, she requested in a lively, nonchalant manner the whole of the ladies, without distinction, who formed her intimate circle, to seat themselves also! What a blow to those who held so dear the privileges they derived from distinction of office and superiority of rank! _La haute_ and _la petite noblesse_, in spite of their cherished distinctions, _all_ are to sit down together! It is terrible! How many enemies are made, and allies added to the circles at Bellevue and Luviciennes, by that little act! Poor thoughtless Marie Antoinette!

But she proposed to reign at Trianon, not as queen of France, but simply as a lady of the manor, surrounded by her friends. And so she built the Swiss cottages, with their thatched roofs and rustic balconies; for it was her good pleasure that she, her king, and her friends, should be country people for the nonce. The queen’s cottage stood in the centre, and she was the _fermière_. The king was the miller, and occupied the mill, with its joyous tick-tack. Monsieur le Comte de Provence, figured as schoolmaster, while the Comte d’Artois was in his element as gamekeeper. However, one may be sure that these simple country folk had no want of retainers to do their behests. In the dairy, where the cream was put in the blue and white porcelain of Trianon, on marble tables, diligent dairymaids skimmed and churned, and displayed fresh butter and eggs. Down by the lake were more masqueraders,—washerwomen this time; and Madame la Comtesse de Chalons beat the clothes with ebony beaters. In the stable, the sheep, unconscious of the honor to be done them, stood ready for clipping with golden shears. “The Duc de Guines might not assist at this, because he was so stout and so desperately bent on resorting to art to restrain his bulk, that his valet, in selecting his master’s garments every morning, was fain to ask, ‘Does my lord the Duke sit down to-day?’ But there were other helpers,—the big, jovial Duc de Coigny, and the rough-voiced, stiff-jointed Comte d’Adhémar, who could, at least, hoist sacks of corn up the mahogany steps to the granary.” _Madame la Fermière_ distributed refreshments as she overlooked and encouraged her workers. And so the dainty work, which was the idlest pastime, went on to the accompaniment of gay jests and rippling laughter.

This descent from the throne, which was so congenial to the queen, was loudly condemned. In their first efforts for reform the people had no wish to detract from the hereditary splendor of the crown, or the “divinity,” which for so many centuries had hedged the kings of France. It was the king and queen who took the first steps. Winter comes, and with it a heavy fall of snow, and Marie Antoinette longs again for the merry sleigh rides of Vienna. “The old court sledges are brought forth—these being professedly economical times—for examination as to their possibly serviceable condition. A glance, however, suffices to show that disuse and neglect have put them completely _hors de service_.” So new ones of great magnificence are prepared, with “abundance of painting and gilding, trappings of embroidered crimson leather and velvet, with innumerable tinkling bells of gold or silver.” The horses, with nodding plumes and gorgeous caparisons, dazzled the eyes of the Parisians as they swept through the Champs Élysées, drawing their loads of lords and ladies enveloped in furs. The people frowned disapprovingly. It was a new amusement—an innovation; and angry, envious tongues declared that the “_Autrichienne_ had taken advantage of the rigor of the season which had caused such widespread misery to introduce her Austrian pastimes into the capital of France.”

Marie Antoinette was imprudent, very imprudent; that was her only crime. But much allowance must be made for one, who, at the age of fifteen years, was made _la premiere dame_ in a court the most gorgeous, and, after that of Catherine II. of Russia, the most dissolute, in Europe.

The people had already begun to compute the cost of equipages, palaces, crown jewels, and courtiers. And some few of the _grands seigneurs_, even, had begun to recognize the growing power of the _vox populi_; but Marie Antoinette did not yet know that public opinion was of any importance to her. “The slanderous tongues of Mesdames and the pious circle of Bellevue, the innuendoes of Luviciennes, and the insidious attacks of Monsieur le Comte de Provence,—all this she understood, and resented. It seemed a matter of course that it should be thus; but the right of the _people_ to interfere with her amusements and to call in question their propriety, was something she could not understand.” Alas! poor queen; the dreadful significancy of that expression “THE PEOPLE,” and the vengeful acts to which an infuriated populace could be driven, were two terrible lessons she had yet to learn.

On the 22d of October, 1781, a child is born at Versailles. The king advances towards the queen’s couch; with a profound bow, and in a voice that falters with emotion, he exclaims, “Madame, you have fulfilled the dearest wishes of my heart and the anxious hopes of the nation; you are the mother of a _Dauphin_.” Nothing could exceed the public rejoicings; the triumph became well-nigh frantic. For it is recorded that their superabundant joy found expression in a sort of delirium,—people of all grades, and who had no previous acquaintance with each other, indulging in fraternal embraces in the street. The king himself went through a similar display of excessive joy. He laughed, he wept, the tears streaming down his fat face. He ran in and out of the antechamber, presenting his hand to kiss or to shake—or both, if they pleased—to all and each indiscriminately, from the solemn _grandees_, who were there to attest the birth, to the humblest lackey in attendance. “The royal infant, splendidly arrayed and with the grand cross of St. Louis on his breast, was placed in his satin and point-lace bassinet to receive the homage of the great officers of state. It is recorded that he replied in a most suitable manner to the many flattering speeches addressed to him; and this being the first opportunity he had had of exhibiting the power of his lungs, he availed himself of it freely.” Madame Royale had been born three years before; two other children were subsequently added,—the Duc de Normandie, and the Princess Sophie; but only Madame Royale and the Duc de Normandie were destined to survive to endure those woes which eventually overwhelmed the royal family.

Marie Antoinette was now in the flower of her beauty, on which French biographers love to dwell. Tilly said, “Her eyes recalled all the changes of the waves of the sea, and seemed made to reveal and reflect the blue of the sky.” Her fine throat and the lofty carriage of her head were remarkable; and she once said, laughingly, to Madame Le Brun, “If I were not a queen, should not I look insolent?”

“As one would have offered a chair to another woman, one would have offered a throne to her; and when she descended the marble staircase at Versailles, preceded by the officers who announced her approach, saluted in the great court by the beating of drums and the presentation of arms, all heads were uncovered respectfully, all hearts were filled with admiration of the woman, as well as with loyalty to the queen.”

Who shall tell the true story of the diamond necklace? It will probably never be told. The papers of the Cardinal de Rohan, which might have thrown much light upon the subject, were unfortunately destroyed. Little did Marie Antoinette think, as she entered Strasburg in triumph on her marriage journey, that she would encounter, in the magnificent robes of a cardinal’s coadjutor, a man who was to prove her deadly foe,—the insolent and profligate Prince Louis de Rohan. He had been ambassador at Vienna, where he had disgusted Maria Theresa by his profligacy and arrogance. She had procured his withdrawal. He had not been allowed to appear at the court of Versailles; and now for ten long years he had fretted and fumed under a sense of the royal displeasure. Boehmer, the crown jeweller, had, for a period of years, been collecting and assorting the stones which should form an incomparable necklace, in row upon row, pendants and tassels of lustrous diamonds, till the price had reached the royal pitch of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This costly “collar” he offered to the king, who would willingly have bought it for the queen had she desired it; but Marie Antoinette replied, that if the money were to be spent, it had better be used in fitting a frigate for the royal navy. His Most Christian Majesty concurred exactly in this sentiment, and, returning the necklace to Boehmer with the words, “We have more need of ships than of diamonds,” thought no more about the matter. Not so did the Cardinal de Rohan, and the _intrigante_ Madame de Lamotte. They had made up their minds to possess the three hundred and fifty thousand dollars represented by the glittering gems. So they laid their clever heads together, and, by forging notes of the queen and sundry other little plots which were wonderfully successful, obtained the necklace, leaving Boehmer to look to the queen for payment. Of course payment was not forthcoming, and in his distress the jeweller related the affair to Madame Campan, telling her he feared he had been duped. Madame Campan proceeded at once to Versailles, and laid the matter before the queen. It was the 15th of August, 1784, Assumption day, and Prince Louis de Rohan, in full pontificals, and wearing the Grand Cross of St. Louis, arrived at Versailles to perform mass in the royal chapel; but he had scarcely entered the _Œil de Bœuf_, when he was summoned to the cabinet of the king. As he entered, Louis XVI. turned upon him suddenly, inquiring, “You have purchased diamonds of Boehmer?” “Yes, sire,” was the trembling reply. “What have you done with them?” the king added. “I thought,” replied the cardinal, “that they had been delivered to the queen.” “Who commissioned you to make this purchase?” “The Comtesse de Lamotte,” was the reply; “she handed me a letter from her Majesty, requesting me to obtain the necklace for her. Indeed, I thought I was obeying her Majesty’s wishes by taking this business upon myself.”

“How could you imagine, sir,” indignantly interrupted Marie Antoinette, “that I should have selected _you_ for such a purpose, when I have not addressed you for eight years, and how could you suppose that I should have acted through the mediation of such a character as Madame la Comtesse de Lamotte?”

The cardinal was in the most violent agitation; he drew from his pocket a letter, directed to the Comtesse de Lamotte, and signed with the queen’s name. Her Majesty glanced at it, and instantly pronounced it a forgery, and the king added, “How could you, a prince of the church and grand almoner of my household, not have detected it? This letter is signed _Marie Antoinette de France_. Queens sign their names short; it is not even the queen’s handwriting.” Then drawing a letter from his pocket, and handing it to De Rohan, he said, “Are you the author of that letter?”

The cardinal turned pale, and, leaning upon a table, appeared as though he would fall to the floor.

“I have no wish, Monsieur le Cardinal,” the king added, “to find you guilty; explain to me this enigma; account for all these manœuvres with Boehmer. Where did you obtain these securities and these promissory notes, signed in the queen’s name?”

The cardinal was trembling in every nerve: “Sire, I am too much agitated now to answer your Majesty; give me a little time to collect my thoughts.” “Go into my cabinet,” replied the king; “you will there find papers, pens, and ink. At your leisure, _write_ what you desire to to say to me.”

But the written statements of M. de Rohan were as unsatisfactory as his verbal ones. In half an hour he returned with a paper covered with blottings, alterations, and erasures. Louis’ anger was aroused, and, throwing open the folding doors, he cried out in imperious tones,—very unusual for him,—which resounded through the _Œil de Bœuf_ and _grande galerie_: “Arrest the Cardinal de Rohan!” The Baron de Bretuil approached through the crowd of astonished courtiers, and, summoning the officer on guard, he indicated the cardinal with the words, “_De par le roi, Monseigneur_, you are arrested; at your risk, officer.” But, before the cardinal could be removed, he had spoken three words in German to one of his officials, and given him a slip of paper. The horse on which the man rode post haste to the cardinal’s palace in Paris, fell dead in the courtyard; but the red portfolio, containing the supposed autographs of the queen’s letters, lay in ashes before it could be sealed up in the name of justice and of the king. The cardinal was taken to the Bastile. More arrests followed, including that of the Comtesse de Lamotte. For nine months the trial lasted before the Council of the Grand Chambre. The Pope protested against a prince of the church being made accountable for his acts to any but the highest ecclesiastical tribunal (an assembly of the cardinals at Rome); while the _haute noblesse_ looked on the cause of the Prince de Rohan as their own, considering the rights and privileges of their rank intrenched upon, when a near relative of the princes of the blood was put on his trial before the Council of the Grand Chambre. So the cardinal was eventually acquitted, and Madame de Lamotte alone was severely punished by flogging and branding on both shoulders.

Their Majesties were chagrined at the acquittal of M. de Rohan and shocked at the punishment of the countess. The former was an insult to the king, the latter to the queen; for Madame de Lamotte boasted a descent from the House of Valois and royal blood within her veins. Such was the affair of the Diamond Necklace, which, though apparently trivial in itself, involved consequences of the most momentous importance.

“Mind that miserable affair of the necklace,” said Talleyrand; “I should be in nowise surprised if it should overturn the French monarchy.”

Whoever were the guilty ones, Marie Antoinette was entirely innocent. She, however, experienced all the ignominy she could have encountered had she been involved in the deepest guilt, and the affair furnished a fine theme for the malevolence of Bellevue and Luviciennes.

Respect for royalty was on the wane. The king, of course, had shared with the queen in the disrespect which Mesdames, his aunts, were desirous should rest on her alone; and the insulting conduct towards him of his brothers, Monsieur le Comte de Provence and the libertine, the Comte d’Artois, who, according to an eye-witness, “on occasions of great state or solemnity, will pass before the king twenty times, push him aside, tread on his feet, and this, apparently, without any thought of apology or excuse,” together with the affair of the Diamond Necklace, were well calculated to debase him further in the eyes of his courtiers and in public opinion. Nowhere was this more evident than when the court assembled in the Grand Gallery of Versailles, where once the _Grand Monarque_ held his _réunions_ called “_Appartements_.” At such times, “a stranger would have found it difficult to recognize the king by any particular attention or any deference paid to him.” What, then, must have been the agonized sensations of the perturbed spirit of the superb _Louis Quatorze_, if ever, to look on his degenerate posterity, he revisited the scene of his former greatness and grandeur, where once he sat enthroned like Jupiter among the inferior gods, and where all around him were but too willing to fall down in the dust at his royal feet, had it been his “_bon plaisir_” that they should do so! Ah, those were palmy days for church and state!