Confessions of Marie Antoinette (38 page)

We are being visited by the slaughter of the innocents. What has this to do with revolution? With the formation of a republic from the ashes of the monarchy?

I cannot express my shock, my anger, when Turgy remarks, shaking his head in disbelief, that the restaurants and theaters in le Marais remain open, as if nothing unusual is occurring. “Meanwhile the gutters overflow with the blood of your subjects, Your Majesty. Drunk on cheap wine, the rabble attacks almost everyone in sight, splitting heads as easily as hacking cabbages.” The cook’s mind is so disarranged by what he has witnessed that it takes me
several attempts to elicit any information about my precious Lamballe and the Tourzel women.

“My cousin told me she saw the Tourzels with a man—an Englishman, she believed, from the sound of his voice. He told them to follow him out of the madness.”

The only Englishman I can think of who continues to aid our cause is Monsieur de Malden. Could it be he?

As for those terrifying placards and notices demanding that the people bring to justice—in the words of Maximilien Robespierre—the “implacable enemies of the Nation,” the rabble have declared themselves “people’s courts” and have been staging mock trials and summary executions of the priests and aristocrats disgorged from the prisons. Many of the Swiss Guards who survived the debacle of August 10 only to be incarcerated afterward, have been gruesomely murdered. The lawyer from Arras has the gall to sanction these ad hoc tribunals and grisly verdicts by declaring that the “will of the people is being expressed.” Although the news of every new death sickens us, it is no surprise when we learn that no one has been ajudged innocent.

Late in the afternoon on September 3, Monsieur Daujon arrives with the most devastating news of all. My first friend at Versailles, and one of my dearest, the sympathetic and sorrowful companion during all my tribulations, has not survived what the Assembly has dubbed “the September massacres.”

Even a man such as Daujon, whose masters are the Commune and the Nation, looks shaken. He speaks haltingly, aware that every syllable stabs my heart, as if I, too, suffer every blow, every kick, every thrust of the bloodstained knives. “The rumors were false, madame. The princesse de Lamballe did not escape the terror.” I begin to tremble, my lip quivering with the onset of tears. “Are you certain you want to hear everything?” he asks solicitously. I nod, but I want to shriek until the walls of the Temple vibrate
with my anger. If such men have compassion somewhere within their hearts, how can they be such butchers?

“Madame de Lamballe was brought before one of the impromptu tribunals,” Daujon begins. “Asked to denounce you and the king, she refused. It is said that she told them with tremendous dignity, ‘I have nothing to reply to you. Dying a little earlier or a little bit later is of no consequence to me. If it is the price I must pay for my silence, I am prepared to sacrifice my life.’ Her judges took her at her word. They conducted her to the exit at La Force for the Abbaye prison, the people’s metaphor for summary execution. This portal is nothing but an entrance to hell. The princesse was forcibly dragged into the courtyard of La Force and set upon by her executioners. Like a pack of rabid dogs, they made quick work of her. She was clouted over the head with a hammer, knocking her to the paving stones. After that, she was stabbed repeatedly by numerous assailants with filthy knives and stolen swords—Are you sure you wish me to continue?”

I nod as if in a dream, as if someone is holding my head underwater and I am hearing the commissioner’s words—slurred and distant—from the bottom of a bucket. Monsieur Daujon can no longer look me in the eye. “Her limbs—and her head, madame were hacked off as though she were a hog at the abbatoir. It has been said that she was violated as well. No one can say whether she lived to suffer this indignity, or if the attackers defiled her decapitated corpse. She was then disemboweled—one man boasts of having eaten her beating heart right there in the rue du Roi de Sicile. No one can vouch for his veracity. Some say that her breasts and genitals were sliced off. It is impossible to discern what is lies; but I can unhappily confirm that her head is being paraded about the city on the point of a blacksmith’s pikestaff as a trophy of the Revolution. Other pikes display her entrails and pieces of her white gown, now stained with blood and excrement.”

Daujon is startled by my anguished cry, the high keening wail of a broken heart. Minutes pass before I can summon my thoughts, let alone force any words past my lips. “Her blood might as well be on my own hands,” I mutter. “The people murdered her because they hate
me
.”

I want to take to my bedchamber and never emerge again, but my husband needs me, too. To help distract Louis’s mind from the horrific carnage that we remain powerless to halt, I indulge him that afternoon in a game of backgammon. But the calm the king so sorely craves is broken by an ear-shattering shriek from Madame Tison. Beyond the Temple courtyard, there is mayhem in the streets. Louis’s valet Monsieur Cléry, rushes upstairs and urges the officers of the Commune who are charged with watching our every movement to bar the shutters. “A mob is approaching from the rue du Temple. Keep Their Majesties from the windows,” he cautions. He draws Monsieur Daujon aside and murmurs, “They have come with the head and viscera of the princesse. Because so many of the citizens rejoiced in the mistaken belief that it was the queen who was beheaded, the monsters even stopped to have Madame de Lamballe’s hair coiffed in the manner of her golden days, to ensure that she—that her remains—are immediately recognizable.”

Does their savagery know no bounds? Is it possible that even the republican-minded duc d’Orléans could not save his delicate sister-in-law? This is no ordinary civil war where opposing armies clash. Innocent Frenchmen, women, and children are being slaughtered by their own countrymen. At the battle cry of
“À la lanterne!”
the mob drags anyone who looks like an “aristo” to the nearest lamppost and hangs them upon these impromptu gallows, stringing up innocent people for the “crime” of dressing too well or neglecting to wear the
tricolore
cockade, offenses that trigger the immediate suspicion of clandestine loyalty to the crown.

Has any great civilization been as vicious to its own people? I
clutch the arm of the closest chair. Daujon orders his commissioners to hang a tricolor bunting upon the main portal of the Temple, a device guaranteed to prevent the rabble from entering as sure as the mark of lambs’ blood on the lintels of the Israelites’ doorposts saved their firstborn sons from Egyptian slaughter.

Louis demands to know the reason for all the commotion. And, “What are they trying to hide from us, messieurs?” I ask anxiously. “From the sound of her screams, Madame Tison has clearly seen it.”

Below, the mob choruses for my appearance at the window, demanding that the shutters be opened. One of the members of the Garde Nationale mounts the stairs to inform us that the rioters have begun to scale the rubble of the recently destroyed houses in an effort to reach the upper story of our residence with their grisly trophies. They have not given up on their intention to force me to witness the results of their barbarity. “The head of la Lamballe has been brought here to show how the people avenge themselves against tyrants,” the soldier declares.

Cléry is too emotional to speak, but Daujon answers the king tensely. “If you must know, monsieur, they are trying to show the queen the head of her favorite. They are demanding that she kiss the waxen lips of her lover.”

A horrified gasp escapes my lips and the room begins to spin with alarming velocity as I fall, fainting, to the floor.

TWENTY-FOUR

Citoyens Capet

When I regain consciousness I overhear Monsieur Daujon speaking to the rabble in the courtyard. In an effort to stave them off, he praises their courage and their exploits this day, but tells them that if they wish to enjoy the full effect of their revenge, they are in the wrong place. “The head of Marie Antoinette is not for you to claim. It is unwise to destroy such valuable hostages of the Nation, especially while our enemies are already crossing our frontiers.” Referring to the remains of my dear Lamballe, Daujon demands, “By what right should those of you who brandish these relics of Revolution enjoy the fruits of your victory alone? Do they not belong to the entire citizenry of Paris? Dusk approaches and soon it will be too dark for your comrades to witness them. You should be displaying them in front of the Palais Royal or in the Jardin des Tuileries—for so long the bastions of the monarchy and the entitled nobility who have trodden the people underfoot with no more thought than they give to an insect. Plant your pikes in the gardens as an eternal memorial of your triumph.”

To further appease the madmen, Commissioner Daujon permits them to parade about the Temple towers with their spoils before dispersing into the encroaching twilight. His quick wits have not only prevented them from tormenting me further, they have saved the royal family from certain violence.

All through the night the tocsin rings and I cannot sleep for weeping. Although I was shielded from witnessing the princesse’s decapitated head, its gruesome image dances in my mind. Her wide blue eyes will never again look upon a sunset.

“I heard you crying, Maman.” Madame Royale tiptoes into my bedchamber and slips under the coverlet beside me. My thirteen-year-old daughter wraps her arms about my neck, and burrows against me as if she wishes to crawl back inside my body where it is warm and innocent and safe. Her muffled sobs stain my night rail with tears. “
J’ai peur, Maman
. I’m afraid,” she says softly, her voice as small as it was when she was a little girl.

Holding her tightly I murmur into her fragrant hair, “I am so sorry,
ma petite
Mousseline. I am so sorry you have had to grow up so fast.”

The rioting continues until five the following morning. After the tocsin finally ceases, the authorities estimate the number of dead as a result of these September massacres at more than twelve hundred. Surely hundreds, if not thousands more, were injured. The citizens speak of a new dawn for France, baptized in blood. The deposed relic of a society they call the
Ancien Régime
, does not have a scintilla of authority. My husband no longer rules France. Instead, the reign of a many-headed monster has begun.

The Legislative Assembly is dissolved on September 19, replaced the following day by the establishment of the National Convention. On September 21, with a stroke of the pen this new legislative and administrative body abolishes the great and illustrious monarchy of France. All garments embroidered with the emblem
of a crown are ordered destroyed. Madame Élisabeth will need to spend the next several days unpicking the stitching from her brother’s linen while I do the same for the children’s clothing as well as my own. Even our undergarments must be altered.

The king and queen are dead—and yet we live. In consequence, we must be rebaptized by the people. The members of the National Convention debate over what to call us. “Louis the Last” is one disrespectful suggestion. In the end, the sixteenth king to bear the Christian name of Louis, and the fifth sovereign born into the House of Bourbon, along with his consort, are to be known henceforth as Citizen and Citizeness Capet.

The same day, we receive news that the French troops have repelled the foreign allies at Valmy, halting their advance. Within the week the Revolutionary forces occupy Savoy and Nice, as well as three major cities along the Rhine. It is impossible not to despair.

We live a shadow existence now; and yet during the first few weeks after the formation of the National Convention, once Louis has been deposed, we are permitted more freedom. The Commune allows us to read newspapers again, perhaps because they contain so much discouraging news. The French armies are turning the tide, forcing the allies to retreat across the frontier. Despite these setbacks, Louis and I make a point of savoring the small pleasures offered by the puzzles and mind teasers in the
Mercure de France
, exchanging periodicals with each other every morning when the family convenes at nine for breakfast. After more than twenty-two years of marriage, relieved of the responsibilities of monarchy, we have grown closer. The irony does not escape me that only after the most horrific degradation and the ultimate deprivation of our crowns and titles have I obtained the warm, affectionate, simple family life I had dreamed about as a girl.

After breakfast it is time for our son’s daily lessons. Louis is an exemplary tutor, kind and patient. Louis Charles, however, is not
always a perfect pupil. True, he is only seven years old, but his penmanship is sorely wanting. With an indulgent grin I am reminded of my own childish hand when Louis encourages him to “Show Maman your efforts.” The phrases Louis Charles has been told to commit to memory by the commissioners of the Paris Commune are horribly misspelled, even though Louis has asked him to copy them directly beneath his own example. When he continues to sign his lessons, “Louis Charles, Dauphin,” his father swallows hard and forces himself to tear up the page. “You must sign only your Christian names from now on,
mon fils
,” my husband says gently, his voice colored with melancholy.

Although there is no longer a monarchy for our son to inherit, his father insists on preparing him to be the future Louis XVII, filling his head with geography and teaching him to memorize passages of Racine and Corneille, which the poor child can barely comprehend, though he gamely recites the verses from rote, eager to please his Papa and Maman. As Louis corrects the boy’s diction and suggests that I might demonstrate how to declaim with passion, “because your lovely maman was a charming actress in her youth,” a smile comes unbidden to my lips. A flood of distant memories surface—of rosy days with my little theater troupe at Trianon, and before that, of our clandestine performances in an entresol room at Versailles where we had to hide our stage from Louis’s
grand-père
the king, and then reminiscences of abbé Vermond’s battery of lessons to prepare me to become dauphine of France. The only subject in which I had excelled was the chronology and history of the queens of France. A little gasp escapes my lips. Will I be the last of that line?