The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette (24 page)

Never mind. I am the happiest woman on earth.

September 1, 1788

Louis has yielded to all the criticism and destructive rioting and to the advice of Malesherbes and many others. He has declared that the Estates-General will be summoned next May. Archbishop Loménie de Brienne has resigned, and we have heard that the Parisians flocked into the Palais-Royale in the thousands when they learned this news and rejoiced noisily. Necker has been restored as finance minister. Within twentyfour hours of his appointment, they say, he had begun to raise loans and restore the government’s credit once again.

April 15, 1789

Things are happening too fast. Often I feel lost in the whirl of events. I have not thought it safe to write much because twice I discovered servants reading my journal. My old hiding place for scraps of paper in the yellow Chinese jar is no good. I have a new hiding place now. Axel knows about my journal and so does Chambertin. Should anything happen to me, I have decided that the journal must be preserved. It will go to Louis-Joseph and his heirs. I want them to know the truth about me, not the endless lies my enemies tell.

The delegates are gathering from all over France to attend the Estates-General about which there has been so much talk and debate all last fall and winter. They are coming here to Versailles, away from all the unrest and disturbance in Paris. The residents of Versailles are delighted, because the deputies need accommodation and all the rooms in the town can be rented at high prices.

We have summoned yet another specialist from England to examine Louis-Joseph, who has not gotten out of bed for three months and has a very bad sore throat. Sophie has been giving him tea made with cold water root and bathing his feet. He wears a wool scarf even though the air is mild. He complains of an odd taste in his mouth and constant pressure and pain in his side and back.

I sit by his bed and sometimes, when it has been a long time since I’ve slept, I find myself staring at Louis-Joseph’s small white hand. It is so pale in the candlelight that I can almost see right through it. The veins stand out blue and spidery, the long fingers are very narrow at the tips, like the fingers of a fine violinist. As he sleeps, coughing often, his breath catching in his throat, his fingers jerk and twitch, and I clasp his fragile small hand between my two big stronger ones, as if trying to give him what strength I possess.

April 30, 1789

The English specialist says Louis-Joseph’s lungs are slowly collapsing because his spine is becoming more twisted as he grows older. There is nothing he can do.

We continue to do our best for him, yet he vomits most of what he is given to eat. Sucking ice helps a little to prevent this. His cheeks are red with fever but he smiles at me and I know he is glad I am there beside him. Louis cannot bear his suffering and only stays by him for a few minutes at a time. He quickly becomes overcome and weeps, and does not want the servants to see his weakness. Sometimes he gets very angry and kicks at the walls or the door. His left foot is swollen and sore and Dr. Boisgilbert has put a poultice on it.

Tomorrow the Estates-General assembles officially.

May 6, 1789

Yesterday I accompanied Louis to the first meeting of the Estates-General. I drafted his speech and helped him decide what to wear. He was very nervous but performed well I thought.

We entered the chamber just as the bells were tolling the
noon hour. At once the ushers knelt and all the deputies and spectators fell silent, so silent I could hear the shuffling of Louis’s feet in his gold court slippers and the clanking swords of the Gardes du Corps who formed our escort.

It was an impressive sight, the immense room with its severe Doric columns, balconies and painted ceiling. Louis sat on his red velvet throne, and below him the hundreds of deputies were arrayed, the clerics in their black gowns and white lacetrimmed aprons, a few wearing the scarlet hats and toga-like wraps of high churchmen, the nobles in their swords and multicolored finery, jewels flashing from their hats, shoes and fingers, and the common people, the Third Estate, in their plain black suits and white wigs.

There were a few shouts of “Vive le roi!” from out of the silence, but not many. I was told afterward that Necker, when he came into the room earlier, had received very loud and prolonged applause.

Hard though it was for me to concentrate on what was going on, as my mind was on Louis-Joseph and I had not slept much the night before, I managed to listen to the speeches. Louis spoke in a kindly, fatherly way, squinting at the delegates because he couldn’t see them very well without his glasses. Necker droned on and on for three hours, his speech as long as a long sermon. I was very uncomfortably hot and nearly fell asleep several times.

When we left a few people shouted “Vive la reine!” and I curtseyed to them. This made them cheer louder and I curtseyed again, lower this time.

May 10, 1789

Again today I heard much talk at court of the extraordinary white lights in the sky at night, the lights they call the aurora.
Axel says they are quite common in Sweden, but they are hardly ever seen in France. They are said to be an omen that an extraordinary time has come.

There has been another omen. About a week ago Louis climbed up on some scaffolding high above the inner courtyard of the palace. He was watching workmen make repairs. He missed his footing and nearly fell to the ground. He would have been killed for certain had he fallen all the way. By good fortune he was saved from falling by one of the laborers who managed to grab his coat and haul him up to safety.

The freak white lights in the sky, Louis’s near-fatal fall, plus Louis-Joseph’s sickness all happening at the same time are frightening. I have written to Joseph about all this.

May 22, 1789

My dearly loved son is only a shadow of a boy, pale and ghostly lying on his white sheets. He tries to speak but makes very little sound. Sometimes when I come into the room he turns his face to the wall. I bring him horehound candy to suck on.

The doctors examine his urine and shake their heads and say “very ill indeed” or “exceeding dangerously ill.”

I pray to St. Job and have fastened a medal around Louis-Joseph’s neck with the name of Jesus. “Suffer the little children to come unto me,” Jesus said. My hair is turning more and more gray.

May 29, 1789

I was holding my sleeping Louis-Joseph in my arms today when they came to measure him.

“Why?” I cried.

“For his coffin, madame,” I was told.

June 2, 1789

Prayers were said today in all the churches of France for the preservation of the dauphin’s life. Even the deputies stopped their quarreling and disputes over voting long enough to bow their heads and pray for the boy who should have been Louis XVII.

He has been given the last rites.

June 12, 1789

I have come to my quiet place, the grotto in the Petit Trianon, to mourn. Louis-Joseph was interred four days ago. We were not allowed to attend his funeral, being a state funeral for the heir to the throne. Etiquette forbids it. Louis and I mourned in the chapel, privately, and Abbé Vermond came to see us. He was in tears for he had loved Louis-Joseph for his meekness and his goodness.

Must all those who are good and meekdie? What are my prospects, I wonder? I have some goodness in me, I know. I continue to distribute food, not only here at the gates of Versailles but in Paris as well, where bread prices have gone up quite alarmingly in recent weeks and there is much hunger and want.

Yes, I have goodness in me. But I am certainly not meek. Quite the opposite. When the ministers come with their bundles of papers for Louis to sign (really for me to sign), and leave the bundles with me, I complain loudly.

How can you come to us at such a time? I ask. Can’t you see that we and the entire court are in mourning?

I rant away, and the ministers and their deputies avert their eyes and lay down their papers and depart in a hurry.

I cannot possibly read all the papers they bring me. I could not do it even if I were not exhausted, and in low spirits, and grieving for my son.

Thank goodness for my refuge here, in the grotto. I sit on the soft green moss and listen to the sound of the stream. Eric guards me. I am safe and protected.

June 17, 1789

I sat Louis down this morning and as forcefully as I could, I told him that he must act at once if he is to save the monarchy.

Louis was disheveled and feeling ill, as he had eaten and drunk too much last night. I gave him some wintergreen and camomile to chew on to settle his stomach.

The situation in Paris is more serious than we had been led to believe. I have heard from many sources that the deputies of the common people are gaining the upper hand in the Estates-General, encouraged by the Parisians, who no longer respect any law or tradition. The deputies are going to try to take over the government.

“Everything rests on the soldiers now,” I said, aware that my body was tense with urgency and that my jaw was clenched. “You must order them to disband the Estates-General, breakup the subversive political clubs, and impose a curfew in Paris and in every other town where disturbances have occurred.”

Louis sat chewing on his herbs, his small eyes downcast. I was well aware that he did not like what he was hearing, that
he dreaded having to act with firmness—military firmness—against his subjects.

“You must not delay,” I went on. “Every day is costly. The soldiers have been loyal so far, but they have not been paid in months and they see what is happening more clearly than anyone. Because you fail to act decisively, the soldiers are the only government France possesses. They do their best to keep order, but how can they when the voices of dissent grow louder and louder? The soldiers are only human. They want liberty, good government, a hopeful future. They are being led astray by all the radical political talk.

“Axel and the Marquis de la Tour du Pin—who, in case you may have forgotten, is in charge of our defenses here in Versailles—have just come back from reviewing the French Guards in Paris. They say half the men have become republicans, and do not want a monarchy any more! Their loyalty may be only an illusion.”

“Then how can I order them to disband the Estates-General, if I can’t trust them?”

“Count Mercy says the way is to bring in the regiments from Brest and Rennes and Longjumeau. The west of France has not yet been infected by the anti-royalists. Bring in the western soldiers, thousands of them, and all the police within fifty kilometres of the capital. Let them shoot the delegates if necessary, and the rioters. That will quiet the dissent soon enough!”

“And what of the promises I made to the deputies only two weeks ago? In the speech you wrote for me? I promised to be their faithful friend and good father. I am their father—” He broke down, reminded no doubt, as I was at that moment, of Louis-Joseph.

I ignored his emotionalism, though there were tears in my own eyes as well.

“Then be a good father and reprimand them for disobedience! Don’t let them take all your fatherly authority away!”

“I’ve never been good at punishing the children, you know that.”

“Now is the time to learn. I will help you. Count Mercy too, and the marquis, and Axel—”

Louis waved his arms in the air, as if warding off blows. “I can’t—I mustn’t—I need time to think.”

“The time for thought is past. Now is the time for action.”

I wished, at that moment, that I were a man, a strong man, strong enough to lift my husband to his feet and force him to summon the generals, to give the orders. To bully him physically as well as with my angry words.

“My head is cloudy,” he told me. “I must go out, walk, and clear my head.”

I knew what he meant to do. “Don’t go hunting today. These hours are precious.”

But he was already on his feet, stumbling along the corridor, headed away from me and away from all that called him to stay and do what needed to be done.

I called him back, in a voice that sounded in my own ears like my mother’s voice. But he was gone.

July 15, 1789

Events have overtaken us. Louis did what he felt he could, sent some troops to form a ring around the capital. But he decided against forcibly disbanding the Estates-General. Despite all my angry speeches and even some pleading, despite the urgent messages from the ministers and from several of the military commanders, he could not bring himself to use violence, or the threat of violence.

The consequences are truly terrible.

Paris has been taken over by a governing committee answerable to no one. All the troops have withdrawn to the outskirts, but only temporarily, for the Parisians are starving and cannot hold out forever. People are breaking into gunsmiths’ shops and arming themselves. The Estates-General has turned itself into the National Assembly, and the lower classes are in charge. Yesterday a crowd attacked the old Bastille fortress, where Amélie was imprisoned, and killed the commander. Amélie is free. Eric says he doesn’t know where she has gone. She didn’t come home to him or visit the children.

July 16, 1789

Everyone is leaving. Charlot has gone, and Yolande, and Madame Solange, and my dear Abbé Vermond, and dozens of others, all vanished so suddenly, in such haste and fear. There aren’t enough horses and wagons and carriages to take away all those who are fleeing Versailles, so some have set out on foot, hoping to buy horses and wagons when they get to the next village.

The most terrible rumors are being spread. Versailles is about to be invaded. Armies of the Third Estate are on the march, coming this way, vowing to kill Louis and me and all those who hold noble rank. The English are coming, and our soldiers will not resist them. There are new rumors every hour.

I don’t know what to believe, but we must leave, of that I am certain. Several times a day I am called out onto the balcony to show myself to the noisy, hostile crowd of demonstrators in the courtyard.

“Give us the queen! We want the queen!” they shout. Sometimes they demand to see Mousseline and Louis-Charles along with me, and I dread exposing them to the angry faces and ugly words. I know I am the one they hate; they point
their muskets at me, not at the children. Each time I show myself I think, this time they will surely kill me.