Confessions of Marie Antoinette (25 page)

Yet even those who hate us cannot agree on what is best for the nation. “Things cannot be left as they are,” I tell Barnave when we meet. “Something must be done. But what? I do not know and I turn to you in the hope of finding a solution. I believe you have good intentions—and so do we, my husband and I. Whatever people may say, we have always had them.” He asks me what I propose. “Let me work hand in hand with you,” I reply. “If you discover a means by which we may exchange ideas I shall always answer you candidly and let you know if such a thing is within my power. Where the welfare of our people is concerned, I will shrink from no sacrifice.”

In my view, the best thing would be a return to absolute monarchy: We are not a nation of shopkeepers like the English. The delegates of the National Assembly know nothing about governance; they are merely angry little men who don’t know how to wield the authority they have wrested from us. Even as we pretend, Louis and I, to bow to the idea of a constitutional monarchy, I spend the greater part of every day with quill in hand, corresponding with my brother in Austria, with Axel, and with his king, Gustavus, who thus far has been the only sovereign brother to offer both his allegiance and his assistance to our cause. From the safety of Brussels, I fear that Louis’s brothers plot against us. Monsieur, the comte de Provence, has already declared himself regent of
France as long as his brother and
belle-soeur
are being held captive in Paris. The revolutionaries wish there to be no kings whatsoever, while Monsieur at the very least, believes there are two kings. I desire only to see my husband reign. But Louis has become even more disconsolate since the debacle of Varennes, particularly when we receive word from Axel, who writes from Brussels that
the most unseemly joy has manifested itself here because the King has been taken prisoner. The comte d’Artois is positively radiant
. I despise myself now for ever having befriended the little viper.

Yet there are those far closer to home who wish us ill.
We are surrounded by spies
, I write to Leopold. I am not as close to him as I was to Joseph when he was emperor, and I am certain that Leopold cannot fathom how desperate our situation is becoming.
The possibility of poisoning is on our minds constantly. The pastry cook is a furious Jacobin. None of us will eat anything that comes from the kitchen that is breaded: no cutlets, no meat pies, no sweets. We will only touch plain roasted meats. I no longer have toast for breakfast unless the bread has been purchased by a trusted servant. One of the bedchamber women goes to the market daily to buy bread, pastries, and pounded sugar, always disguising the purpose of her errand and always patronizing different merchants
.

On July 17, the Champ de Mars once again becomes the site of a national celebration when the National Assembly announces before an enormous crowd that Louis XVI will remain king under a constitutional monarchy, although the republican faction disapproves of this decision. We feign acceptance as I convince Barnave that we share his views, when in truth we are stalling for time, desperately waiting for Leopold’s army and his mercenary forces to rescue us.

Yet instead of general rejoicing on the Champ de Mars, there is discontent. The journalist Jacques Pierre Brissot arrives with a manifesto demanding that Louis be deposed for his desertion of
the throne, his intention to thwart the Constitution, and other, unspecified criminal acts, and amasses a crowd of people with counterrevolutionary ideals eager to sign the heinous document. Lafayette and the Garde Nationale manage to maintain order; but later that afternoon, the radical ringleaders Danton and Desmoulins inspire greater numbers to flood the Champs de Mars and a riot erupts. Martial law is declared on the spot. When Lafayette endeavors to disperse them, the petitioners fling stones at the National Guard. The soldiers’ warning shots are unheeded; whether out of panic or anger they fire directly into the crowd. The reports we read disagree as to the number of people killed or wounded. Some say as few as a dozen or two; some as many as fifty. Two scoundrels who had hidden themselves under the platform simply to peer up ladies’ skirts were mistaken for spies. The voyeurs were summarily executed on orders of the National Assembly, and their decapitated heads are displayed on pikes as a lesson to any potential counterrevolutionaries. It appears to be a matter of no importance that the beheaded men were put to death for the wrong reasons.

“What does this mean for us?” I ask Louis, Barnave, the comte de Mercy, and Axel, changing the keyword that day in our polyalphabetic cipher. Each man has a different vantage of the situation.

It is to the aging ambassador and political mentor of my youth that I confide most candidly:

My dear Mercy:

I correspond with the Triumvirs of the National Assembly only in order to temporize. Tell Leopold that we have not the slightest intention of following their exaggerated ideas. It appears likely that the king will be compelled to sign the Constitution, but we cannot be seen to fight it, even though he has no plans to honor his pledge. This fraud would be humiliating to me were it not absolutely necessary for us to perpetrate it. The
leaders of the Assembly must remain duped until the allies can quite literally ride to our rescue, yet I remain hopeful my brother will recognize that in my present position I can do little but acquiesce to the Assembly’s demands. Barnave tells me “The Revolution must be ended,” and insists that it is not too late for me to win back the esteem of our people. Although I do not deny that these men, the Triumvirs of the Assembly, are strong-willed and hold very fast to their opinions, they are also quite open and motivated by a fierce desire to restore order.

Everyone (unsurprisingly) accuses me of dissimulation, and no one can believe that the emperor takes so little interest in his own sister’s frightful position. By saying nothing Leopold exposes me to greater danger than he would were he to take decisive action. I can expect no aid from within France. Hatred and mistrust abound. A Fourth Estate is emerging, comprised of the rabble, their collective voice becoming as loud as that of the bourgeois who make up the Third Estate. They are not only reactionary but dangerous, and have no interest in any compromise that would still afford Louis an active role in the new form of government. Instead, insolence is king, given free rein because the people remain in a state of perpetual terror; yet at the same time, they do not believe that an attack will dare to come from across the frontier.

You will find my whole soul in this letter. Perhaps I am wrong, but it seems to me that the only means of retaining what little power and authority are left to us is to listen to what both sides have to say. I have formed my own opinion by studying that of my adversaries. Yet too often I feel as though I alone row the boat. You know the person with whom I have to deal. No sooner does one believe that he has been persuaded to accept a certain course of action, than a single word from someone
else, the most trifling argument, can convince him to change tack without warning. This is why a thousand things I should like to achieve can never even be undertaken.

The scheme that I have adopted is the least unpalatable of several options. Whatever happens, I beg of you—never desert me as a friend; never withdraw your affection. And, after all the years you have known me, I must ask you to believe that whatever you hear, whatever misfortunes I may be plunged into, although I yield to circumstances, or appear to, I will never do anything that would dishonor me as a daughter of Austria and a wife and mother of France.

Tribulation first makes one realize what one is. My proud Hapsburg blood courses through my son’s veins. I hope that the day will come when the dauphin shows his mettle and proves himself the worthy grandson of Maria Theresa.

The worst that could possibly happen would be for us to stay as we are, because we remain sitting targets for our enemies—those who, like a cancer, wish to destroy France, her monarchy, and our family, from within. However things turn out, only the foreign powers can save us. We have lost the army; we have no more money. There exists within this realm no power to restrain the armed populace.

Yours in sorrow,
~Antoinette

I have received only one letter from Axel since our return from Varennes. Among the many reasons I sleep so fitfully is that I despair for his safety. The agents of the Assembly cannot touch him while he is in the Austrian Netherlands, but should he quit Brussels and attempt to enter France, who knows what orders have been issued to detain him—or worse? My thoughts are consumed with anxiety for him, with memories of our sunlit afternoons at le Petit
Trianon, of stolen glances in the dim illumination of my box at the Paris Opéra, or through our glittering masks at the balls that followed the Saturday performances. I wish to send him a token of my affection, to tell him he is always in my thoughts no matter how many miles separate us, regardless of the terrible risk I take in communicating with him.

In the open square outside Notre-Dame de Paris, where all manner of vendors retail their wares, there is currently a brisk trade in the latest fashion: inexpensive rings that, for a modest fee, sweethearts may customize for each other by having them engraved with a few sentimental words or a meaningful image. Although I am followed everywhere I go, when I mingle among the people, browsing the stalls, I make sure to linger for so long that I weary the guardsmen, literally boring them to distraction while I take care to examine every bouquet of flowers, all the shawls and fans, each piece of jewelry. Several items seem familiar; I am certain I have seen some of the pins or rings before, and then I realize that many of the aristocrats who have emigrated sold their gems for whatever they could get in order to begin a new life with money in hand, whether it is for rent, for food, or to bribe government officials.

By the time I have visited the sixth or seventh merchant and discussed at some length the number of threads in the weave of his cambric handkerchiefs or the beadwork on her silk purses, my bodyguards are shifting on their boot heels and their eyes are wandering in the direction of any pretty girl that passes or stray dog nosing about for a bone or a stranger’s caress.

The uniforms no longer hover about me when I complete my purchase of a pair of rings, which I have engraved with a trio of fleurs-de-lis, although the rings themselves are not identical. I enclose them in a letter to a trusted intermediary, Count Valentin Esterházy, who has been one of my dearest friends since I was the
dauphine. I rely upon him to comprehend my letter without the necessity of specifying the person I refer to by name.

Should you write him tell him that many miles and many countries can never separate hearts. I feel this truth more strongly every day. I am delighted to find this opportunity to send you a little ring which I am sure will give you pleasure. In the past few days they’ve been selling like hotcakes here and they are very hard to come by. The one that is wrapped in paper is for him. Send it to him for me. It is exactly his size. I wore it for two days before wrapping it. Tell him it comes from me. I don’t know where he is. It is dreadful to have no news of those one loves and not even to know where they are living. I have requested an address but have received no word.

The inside of the ring I purchased for Axel bears the inscription:
Lâche qui les abandonne
—“faint heart he who forsakes them.” Count Esterházy’s ring, while it is also engraved with the three fleurs-de-lis, has no message. In truth, the reason I send him one of the popular keepsakes is to provide a cover for the gift to my beloved Axel.

When I finally hear from Count von Fersen, he makes no mention of the ring. Has he received it? Instead, I am treated to a completely unwarranted scolding that wounds me to the core.

Do you really want to identify yourself with the Revolution, or do you still want help from outside? Do you have a fixed plan as to what you intend to do? I can only hope that you haven’t been taken in by those scoundrels. You say you must cozen the enemy and countenance the unthinkable as an unpleasant means to an end. But tell me that the rumors I hear are untrue—that you have not taken the deputy of the National
Assembly, Antoine Barnave, into your bed as well as into your bosom and your confidences? I do not wish to believe my own ears, to credit the stories, but when you write to me yourself and cryptically allude to an unpalatable violation of all you hold dear, what am I supposed to think?

How dare he? Can he be insane? Has the whole world gone mad? Are people seriously bruiting it about Brussels and beyond that Barnave has become my lover?
Mon Dieu, non!
How absurd! It is the lying that I find intolerable; the notion that I am playing an honest and kind man false is despicable to me. Barnave is not a bloodthirsty radical. He truly believes that there is a role for the king in the new political order, and that most of Louis’s subjects are fond of him as a benevolent father and do not want to see him deposed—if only his colleagues can be persuaded to see it. And Barnave genuinely thinks I share his view that a government can be created in which power is exercised by an executive as well as a legislature when in truth my goal is to restore my husband’s autocracy.

It is poor Barnave I am guiltily deceiving, not my beloved Axel.

When, I wonder, will we receive a glimmer of good news? I cannot remember the last time any of us has smiled. Within the royal family itself, tensions abound. Louis is morose and indecisive. Madame Élisabeth refuses to believe that her brothers across the frontier are not loyal to Louis and have their own ulterior motives. “Monsieur and the comte d’Artois may pledge their allegiance to us,” I tell her, “but what action have they taken to come to our aid?” I challenge her to name a single thing my
beaux-frères
have done to support the royalist cause. “They are raising neither armies nor funds!” I am finding it increasingly impossible to speak with her nowadays because every conversation disintegrates into a quarrel.