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Authors: Deborah Cadbury
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BOOK: The Lost King of France: A True Story of Revolution, Revenge, and DNA
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As the debates raged about the Estates-General, Marie-Antoinette watched anxiously over the declining health of her eldest son. “The young prince fell, in a few months, from rude health into a condition which curved
his spine, distorted and lengthened his face, and rendered his legs so weak that he was unable to walk without being supported like some broken old man,” wrote Madame Campan. Still only six years old, his little body slowly became pitifully deformed as his tuberculosis spread. “He has one leg shorter than the other, and his spine is twisted and sticks out unnaturally,” the queen confided to her brother, Emperor Joseph II, in February 1788. The next month, the dauphin was sent to the Château de Meudon with his governor, in the hopes that his health would recover with the fresh country air. The king visited his son no less than forty times over the summer months, eagerly looking for any sign of improvement. There was none.
his spine, distorted and lengthened his face, and rendered his legs so weak that he was unable to walk without being supported like some broken old man,” wrote Madame Campan. Still only six years old, his little body slowly became pitifully deformed as his tuberculosis spread. “He has one leg shorter than the other, and his spine is twisted and sticks out unnaturally,” the queen confided to her brother, Emperor Joseph II, in February 1788. The next month, the dauphin was sent to the Château de Meudon with his governor, in the hopes that his health would recover with the fresh country air. The king visited his son no less than forty times over the summer months, eagerly looking for any sign of improvement. There was none.
The queen took comfort from her other two children. Marie-Thérèse, the eldest, she nicknamed
Mousseline la Sérieuse
on account of her serious, thoughtful manner. The Petite Madame took after her father in temperament, although she could be dignified sometimes to the point of seeming haughty. The queen reserved her strongest endearments for her youngest, Louis-Charles,
mon chou d’amour.
His blue eyes and blond hair resembled his mother’s, and with his affectionate and playful personality he proved a most rewarding child. In the nursery with his friends he enjoyed games of “wedding” and playing with sand or horses—his great aunts had given him eight small black ponies, which had been specially trained so he could ride them. Madame Campan observed, “His ruddy health and loveliness did, in truth, form a striking contrast to the languid look and melancholy disposition of his elder brother.” Increasingly, the king and queen’s hopes for the future of their line were now concentrated on this charming little ruler of the nursery who, at four and a half, was already wearing coat and trousers.
Mousseline la Sérieuse
on account of her serious, thoughtful manner. The Petite Madame took after her father in temperament, although she could be dignified sometimes to the point of seeming haughty. The queen reserved her strongest endearments for her youngest, Louis-Charles,
mon chou d’amour.
His blue eyes and blond hair resembled his mother’s, and with his affectionate and playful personality he proved a most rewarding child. In the nursery with his friends he enjoyed games of “wedding” and playing with sand or horses—his great aunts had given him eight small black ponies, which had been specially trained so he could ride them. Madame Campan observed, “His ruddy health and loveliness did, in truth, form a striking contrast to the languid look and melancholy disposition of his elder brother.” Increasingly, the king and queen’s hopes for the future of their line were now concentrated on this charming little ruler of the nursery who, at four and a half, was already wearing coat and trousers.
May 4, 1789. The streets of Versailles were hung with tapestries for the magnificent opening procession to mark the historic gathering of the Estates-General. With great ceremony to mark this rebirth of France—as some believed—the parade of two thousand people filed though the crowded streets for a service at the Church of St. Louis. The king walked behind the archbishop of Paris, followed by the royal family, then representatives of the three Estates, each with lighted candles.
Marie-Antoinette, sumptuously bejewelled in a silver dress, looked sad as she passed. Unable to take part, but watching the proceedings from a balcony, was her seven-year-old son; his twisted little body stretched on a daybed. She now knew he was dying and could scarcely hold back her tears as he smiled valiantly at her. At that moment, some “low women,” according to Madame Campan, “yelled out
‘Vive le Duc d’Orléans!’
in such a rebellious manner that the queen nearly fainted.” Many of the representatives, she wrote, arrived in Versailles with the “strongest prejudices” against the queen, certain she “was draining the treasury of the State in order to satisfy the most unreasonable luxury.” Some demanded to see the Trianon, convinced that there was at least one room, “totally decorated with diamonds, and columns studded with sapphires and rubies.” Disbelieving representatives searched the pavilion in vain for the diamond chamber.
‘Vive le Duc d’Orléans!’
in such a rebellious manner that the queen nearly fainted.” Many of the representatives, she wrote, arrived in Versailles with the “strongest prejudices” against the queen, certain she “was draining the treasury of the State in order to satisfy the most unreasonable luxury.” Some demanded to see the Trianon, convinced that there was at least one room, “totally decorated with diamonds, and columns studded with sapphires and rubies.” Disbelieving representatives searched the pavilion in vain for the diamond chamber.
The first session of the Estates-General met the next day in the opulent surroundings of the
Salle des Menus Plaisirs
in the palace. The clergy, in imposing scarlet and black ecclesiastical robes, were seated on benches on the right. The nobles, richly dressed in white-feathered hats and gold trimmed suits, took the benches on the left. The commoners sat furthest from the king at the far end, dressed simply in black. One of those among them taking in the scene—the large ornate chamber, the symbolic ranking of the representatives with the Third Estate in plain clothes at the back—was a young lawyer called Maximilien Robespierre.
Salle des Menus Plaisirs
in the palace. The clergy, in imposing scarlet and black ecclesiastical robes, were seated on benches on the right. The nobles, richly dressed in white-feathered hats and gold trimmed suits, took the benches on the left. The commoners sat furthest from the king at the far end, dressed simply in black. One of those among them taking in the scene—the large ornate chamber, the symbolic ranking of the representatives with the Third Estate in plain clothes at the back—was a young lawyer called Maximilien Robespierre.
At the age of eleven, Robespierre had won a scholarship to one of the most prestigious schools in France, Louis-le-Grand, in Paris. He had graduated in law in 1780 and returned to practice in his hometown, Arras, in the northern province of Artois. When the Estates-General were summoned, he seized his chance to further his career and successfully secured a position as one of eight Third Estate deputies for Artois. Like many commoners, he arrived in Versailles determined to challenge the structures of privilege at the heart of French society and create social equality.
As the speeches and debates began, the great expectations that had preceded the opening of the Estates-General soon disintegrated. Far from even attempting to resolve the all-important financial crisis, which Necker outlined
at great length, there were increasingly bitter arguments about voting procedures, with each Estate continually plotting for positions of power over the others. As the weeks of May passed, rather than resolving the issue of tax reform, the meeting served as a catalyst, crystallizing grievances at the very heart of the constitution of France.
at great length, there were increasingly bitter arguments about voting procedures, with each Estate continually plotting for positions of power over the others. As the weeks of May passed, rather than resolving the issue of tax reform, the meeting served as a catalyst, crystallizing grievances at the very heart of the constitution of France.
At this time, the queen was almost completely preoccupied with the young dauphin. The young prince suffered as his illness slowly destroyed every trace of childish vitality. When the Princesse de Lamballe visited him at Meudon with her lady-in-waiting, they could hardly bear to look at his “beautiful eyes, the eyes of a dying child.” The queen watched helplessly as his emaciated body became covered in sores. “The things that the poor little one says are incredible; they pierce his mother’s heart; his tenderness toward her knows no bounds,” observed a friend. On the second of June, services were held for him across France and prayers were said. It was to no avail. Two days later he died in his mother’s arms.
The significance of these events was lost on the four-year-old Louis-Charles playing in the nursery at Versailles. He wept to hear of the death of his older brother, now lying in state at Meudon in a silver and white room, his coffin covered with a silver cloth, his crown and sword. All around him, the chambers of Versailles resounded to the acrimonious debates of the deputies. Louis-Charles had now become the symbol of the royal future of France, “Monsieur le Dauphin,” next in line to a throne increasingly devoid of authority as well as funds.
The king, somewhere during these events, private and public, missed his opportunity to rally the deputies and inspire their support. Overwhelmed with grief, he and the queen left Versailles to mourn their oldest son. In his absence, the deputies of the Third Estate seized the initiative. At a pivotal meeting, on June 17, 1789, they passed a motion that since they represented 95 percent of the people, the Third Estate should be renamed as a new body, called the National Assembly, which had the right to control taxation. With flagrant disregard for the king, they planned to proceed, with or without royal approval.
While the king vacillated, hopelessly torn between the advice of ministers
such as Necker who counselled compromise, and that of his wife and brothers who argued for a tougher line, the Third Estate went even further. When the deputies of the new National Assembly found themselves locked out of their usual meeting room, they adjourned to an indoor tennis court. Here each member solemnly swore not to separate until France had a new constitution. This became known as the “Tennis Court Oath.”
such as Necker who counselled compromise, and that of his wife and brothers who argued for a tougher line, the Third Estate went even further. When the deputies of the new National Assembly found themselves locked out of their usual meeting room, they adjourned to an indoor tennis court. Here each member solemnly swore not to separate until France had a new constitution. This became known as the “Tennis Court Oath.”
The king’s power was collapsing. His specially appointed Assembly of Notables had defied him, the
parlement
had defied him, now the Third Estate was defying him. With each successive swipe at the monarchy, the king was racked with indecision. “All goes worse than ever,” Madame Élisabeth reported frankly to her friend, the Marquise de Bombelles, as she confided her despair at her brother’s lack of the “necessary sternness.” Foreseeing disaster, she wrote, “The deputies, victims of their passions … are rushing to ruin, and that of the throne and the whole kingdom. As for me,” she told the marquise ominously, “I have sworn not to leave my brother and I shall keep my oath.”
parlement
had defied him, now the Third Estate was defying him. With each successive swipe at the monarchy, the king was racked with indecision. “All goes worse than ever,” Madame Élisabeth reported frankly to her friend, the Marquise de Bombelles, as she confided her despair at her brother’s lack of the “necessary sternness.” Foreseeing disaster, she wrote, “The deputies, victims of their passions … are rushing to ruin, and that of the throne and the whole kingdom. As for me,” she told the marquise ominously, “I have sworn not to leave my brother and I shall keep my oath.”
As support grew rapidly for the new National Assembly, the king was obliged to recognize it. He ordered the other two Estates to join the Third. As a result, the commoners, who had had their representation doubled, now held a majority. Many took the Third’s victory and the king’s acquiescence as a sign that his authority had completely broken down. There was rioting on the streets; civil war seemed imminent. The king summoned extra regiments to Paris. He told the deputies of the National Assembly that the troops were stationed as a precaution, to protect the people. The Assembly, however, saw the presence of twenty-five thousand troops in and around the capital differently and feared that they themselves were under direct threat from the king. One of its members spoke out: “These preparations for war are obvious to everyone and fill every heart with indignation.”
On July 12, following the dismissal of the popular finance minister, Necker, crowds gathered to hear rousing revolutionary speeches against the tyranny of the monarchy, whom it was feared was seeking to destroy the new National Assembly that represented the people. “Citizens, they will
stop at nothing,” urged one speaker, the journalist Camille Desmoulins, a school friend of Robespierre. “They are plotting a massacre of patriots.” People rushed to arm themselves. As a wave of panic swept the Paris streets, armorers and gunsmiths were raided—one later reported that he was looted no less than thirty times. The monastery of Saint-Lazare, a depot for grain and flour, was sacked. The next day, at the Hôtel de Ville, the Marquis de La Fayette, a hero of the American war, set out to enroll a new National Guard with himself as colonel, creating a new citizens’ army. Early the next morning, on July 14, around eighty thousand people gathered at the Invalides, the army’s barracks, where they overwhelmed the troops and managed to obtain thirty thousand muskets and some cannon. Faced with rumors that royal troops were on the move, the citizens’ army needed gunpowder, and this was in the Bastille. The crowd swept forward, to rousing cries of “To the Bastille!”
stop at nothing,” urged one speaker, the journalist Camille Desmoulins, a school friend of Robespierre. “They are plotting a massacre of patriots.” People rushed to arm themselves. As a wave of panic swept the Paris streets, armorers and gunsmiths were raided—one later reported that he was looted no less than thirty times. The monastery of Saint-Lazare, a depot for grain and flour, was sacked. The next day, at the Hôtel de Ville, the Marquis de La Fayette, a hero of the American war, set out to enroll a new National Guard with himself as colonel, creating a new citizens’ army. Early the next morning, on July 14, around eighty thousand people gathered at the Invalides, the army’s barracks, where they overwhelmed the troops and managed to obtain thirty thousand muskets and some cannon. Faced with rumors that royal troops were on the move, the citizens’ army needed gunpowder, and this was in the Bastille. The crowd swept forward, to rousing cries of “To the Bastille!”
The grey stone walls and menacing towers of this fourteenth-century fortress rose as a great, dark edifice on the Rue Saint-Antoine on the eastern side of Paris. For years, any enemies of the crown could be detained in this prison without a judicial process, merely by a royal warrant, the notorious
lettres de cachet.
Consequently, the almost-windowless walls, five feet thick, rising sheer from the moat, had come to represent a mighty symbol of royal tyranny and oppression. The cry went up to seize the Bastille, take the gunpowder and release the prisoners. Revolt was fast turning into revolution.
lettres de cachet.
Consequently, the almost-windowless walls, five feet thick, rising sheer from the moat, had come to represent a mighty symbol of royal tyranny and oppression. The cry went up to seize the Bastille, take the gunpowder and release the prisoners. Revolt was fast turning into revolution.
As nine hundred men gathered around the Bastille, the atmosphere inside was tense. The governor, Marquis Bernard-René de Launay, gave orders for his guards to defend the prison at all cost. After midday, the mob broke through the first drawbridge and behind a smoke screen formed by burning two carts of manure, they aimed their guns at the gate and the second drawbridge. With the fortress under siege, the garrison fought back, killing almost one hundred of the assailants and injuring many more. Yet the mob continued to attack. The guards eventually surrendered, defying de Launay’s orders, and lowered the second drawbridge. The crowds, now out of control, surged forward into the fortress, breaking windows and furniture, and killing
any guards who had not put down their weapons. The prisoners were released; for all the furor, there were only seven—including one madman.
any guards who had not put down their weapons. The prisoners were released; for all the furor, there were only seven—including one madman.
With the people eager for revenge, the governor, de Launay, was seized and dragged toward the Hôtel de Ville, the excited crowd wanting his death and kicking him down until the governor, unable to endure another moment, screamed, “Let me die!” As he lashed out, the crowd finished off their victim with hunting knives, swords and bayonets. Finally a cook named Désnot cut off his head with a pocket knife. The still-dripping head was twisted onto a pike and paraded around the streets to the cheering crowd. He was described on a placard as “Governor of the Bastille, disloyal and treacherous enemy of the people.” For patriots, the fall of the Bastille created a wave of euphoria, and it would not be long before it was demolished entirely.
Faced with this new crisis, the king went to the National Assembly and effectively surrendered, promising to withdraw his troops from Paris. As the sense of desperation grew, many senior members of the Versailles court now fled. On the night of July 16, the king’s young brother, Artois, and the queen’s close friend, Gabrielle de Polignac, left the palace with their families. “Nothing could be more affecting than the parting of the queen and her friend,” wrote Madame Campan. The queen “wished to go and embrace her once more” after they had parted, but knowing that her movements were watched, was too frightened that she might give her friend away. The duchess “was disguised as a
femme de chambre,”
and instead of travelling in the waiting
berline,
stepped up in front with the coachman, like a servant.
femme de chambre,”
and instead of travelling in the waiting
berline,
stepped up in front with the coachman, like a servant.
After long discussions with his ministers, the king decided that the royal family would stay at Versailles. Madame Campan saw the queen tear up the papers ordering preparations for departure “with tears in her eyes.” She was in no doubt about the danger they faced. In the event of an attack on the palace, they might not even be able to count on the loyalty of the guard at Versailles to protect them. In a bold attempt to defuse the situation, Louis agreed to a request by the National Assembly to visit Paris. Marie-Antoinette begged him not to go. Locked in her rooms with her family, she
sent for members of the court, only to find they had already fled. “Terror had driven them away,” said Madame Campan; no one expected the king to return alive. “A deadly silence reigned throughout the palace.”
sent for members of the court, only to find they had already fled. “Terror had driven them away,” said Madame Campan; no one expected the king to return alive. “A deadly silence reigned throughout the palace.”
BOOK: The Lost King of France: A True Story of Revolution, Revenge, and DNA
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