Chapter XI: Appendix: Detailed Description of the Diamond Necklace 387 (8)

“We drove along in silence for half a hour. As we entered the town I entreated her to at least burn any papers which might compromise her or the cardinal. ‘It is,’ said I, ‘a measure dictated by honour on the one side and by prudence on the other.’ She consented; I offered to assist her, and as she did not refuse, on leaving the carriage I accompanied her to her room. Her husband, who had left home early in the morning to join a hunting party, had not yet returned. We opened a large chest of sandal-wood filled with papers of all colours and dimensions. Being nervously anxious to make quick work of the matter, I inquired if there were amongst them any bills of exchange, bonds, bank-notes, or drafts, and on receiving an answer in the negative I proposed to throw the entire heap into the fire. She insisted on at least a cursory examination being made of them. We proceeded with it, very slowly on her part, very precipitately on mine. It was whilst casting furtive glances upon some of the hundreds of letters from the Cardinal de Rohan, that I saw with pity the ravages which the delirium of love, aided by that of ambition, had wrought in the mind of this unhappy man. It is fortunate for the cardinal’s memory that these letters were destroyed, but it is a loss for the history of human passions. What must have been the state of society when a prince of the church did not hesitate to write, to sign, and to address to a woman letters which in our days a man who respects himself the least in the world might commence reading, but would certainly never finish?

“Among these motley papers there were invoices, offers of estates for sale, prospectuses and advertisements of new inventions, &c. Some of the letters were from Böhmer and Bassenge, and made mention of the Necklace, spoke of terms expired, acknowledged the receipt of certain sums, and asked for larger ones. I consulted Madame de la Motte as to what should be done with them. Finding her hesitate, I took the shortest course, and threw them all into the fire. The affair occupied a considerable time. When it was over I took my leave of Madame de la Motte, urging her more strongly than ever to depart. She only answered me by promising to go to bed immediately. I then quitted her apartments, the atmosphere of which was poisoned by the odour arising from burning paper and wax impregnated with twenty different perfumes. It was three o’clock in the morning; at four o’clock she was arrested, and at half-past four was on her way to the Bastille. The examination which I had made of her papers, although a superficial one, had settled my doubts. I had observed so much extravagance in the letters of the cardinal, that I believed both he and the countess lost, and the one through the other.”[205]

The countess was sound asleep when the officers of justice arrived. An inspector of police drew aside the bed curtains, and arousing her, showed her the _lettre-de-cachet_ for her arrest.[206] From this moment until her departure from Bar-sur-Aube the countess was closely guarded by _exempts_ and cavalry of the marshalsea, while other _exempts_ compelled her husband, who had returned home in the meantime, to accompany them while they made a strict search throughout the house.[207]

“M. de la Motte,” observes Beugnot, “was very little affected at the arrest of his wife. He had been hunting the day before, and contemplated devoting several more days to this amusement. He called on me at six o’clock in the morning, and told me in a quiet, confidential sort of way, of the countess’s arrest. He assumed a calmness in my presence that surprised me. ‘Madame,’ said he, ‘will only be away for three or four days at the utmost. She is going to give the minister some explanations which he requires of her. I reckon that she will return on Wednesday or Thursday, when we will go and meet her, and bring her home in triumph.’ ‘Sir,’ I replied to him, ‘you are I dare say unaware that last night I advised your wife to start at once for England, and by the quickest route. Had she followed my counsel, she would not be as she now is, on the high road to Bastille. I now advise you to follow the course I suggested to her, which will be much safer for you than losing precious time and deceiving yourself by vain illusions.’ The count shrugged his shoulders and left me, humming a tune. On the same day he took his place in the diligence, and gained England without delay. It was on the 18th of August that he left. Four days afterwards the police came to arrest him,”[208] but found their bird had flown.

Neither the forger Villette nor the counterfeit queen D’Oliva were objects of suspicion even until several weeks had elapsed; but eight days after the arrest of the cardinal, the Count de Cagliostro and his wife were arrested and sent to join the grand almoner and the Countess de la Motte in the Bastille. In a memorial prepared by Cagliostro, wherein he puts forward a claim for damages on account of the losses sustained by him in consequence of this arrest, he says: “On August 23, 1785, the Commissary Chénon came to my house, attended by a bailiff and eight police-officers. He told me that he had orders to escort me to the lieutenant of police. He asked me for my keys, and obliged me to open my escritoire, which contained various medicines, amongst others six bottles of precious balsam. The bailiff in my presence seized upon the articles he chose to take, and particularly four bottles of the balsam. The _sbirri_ that accompanied him followed their chief’s example, and the pillage began.”

The count then proceeds to estimate the amount of this pillage item by item, and ends by bringing it up to the considerable sum of 100,000 livres (£4000 sterling). Amongst these items he cites a green pocket-book containing forty-seven bank notes of 1000 livres each, besides which he asserts there were gold and silver coin—double-louis, sequins, and Spanish quadruples—plate, jewels, diamonds, &c., taken away.[209]

The cardinal’s equerry and particular confidant, the Baron de Planta—a man of shady character, who had held a commission in a Swiss regiment in France, had been broke for some misconduct, and had been for years under a cloud at the time he was picked up by the Prince de Rohan during his Vienna embassy—was likewise arrested, but had the luck to get released after undergoing a brief examination.[210]

XXIV.

1785. AUG. 19–SEPT. 13.

A DREARY DAY AND NIGHT’S DRIVE.—THE BASTILLE.—A “VALOIS” SERVED OFF PEWTER.

As we have already mentioned, the Cardinal de Rohan immediately after his arrest was conducted, closely guarded, to his hotel at Versailles. In the afternoon of the same day he was removed to Paris, to the Palais-Cardinal, where he remained during the night; the officer commanding the escort of royal body-guards, having been solemnly cautioned to that effect, slept in the same apartment as his prisoner, whom he never trusted out of his sight for a single instant.

The day following the Marquis de Launay, governor of the Bastille, came to receive the grand almoner into his custody, and to transfer him to the iron grip of that mysterious state prison which rarely rendered up its victims until they were snatched away by the icy hand of Death. The cardinal wished to go thither on foot under cover of the night, so as to be free from observation. This favour was granted him, and, what is far more remarkable, he was allowed to take with him a couple of _valets de chambre_ and a secretary, and was informed that he would be permitted to see his friends at stated times in the hall of this gloomy fortress.[211] At a later period of his confinement, he was allowed to drive of an evening along the Boulevards in the Governor’s carriage, strictly guarded of course, and to give grand dinners in his rooms.[212]

The Countess de la Motte was arrested, it will be remembered, at four o’clock on the morning of the 18th of August, and was at once hurried off to Paris, distant about one hundred and forty miles from Bar-sur-Aube, “entirely ignorant,” she remarks, “whither I was intended to be conveyed, and so little anticipating the event that I was dozing in the carriage. In the course of our journey the vehicle was stopped, and questions asked by some person without, to whom the person within said: ‘Don’t you know this carriage?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ replied the other. ‘Don’t stop us then; we have nothing but a state prisoner;’ upon which the vehicle proceeded. Hearing this conversation I awoke; the termination of it roused all my faculties. ‘What do you say?’ exclaimed I in a tone of extreme agitation. ‘A state prisoner! alas! then am I a state prisoner?’ ‘Oh, no, madame, no such thing;’ and these people swore that I was not one. But there is some excuse for them; they belonged to the police, and perjury and bearing false witness is no small part of their employment. Yet they used such kind expressions that, knowing my innocence, I flattered myself I was not deceived. One of them said to me: ‘Madame, it is so very early, I’m afraid we shall not be able to get an interview with the Baron de Breteuil, who has given me orders if we arrived too early to conduct you to my house, and to wait upon him about eleven; therefore be composed and try to sleep a little.’ All this time I remained upon my seat; but soon after, they desired me to conceal myself in the bottom of the vehicle; this was when we arrived at the Porte St.-Antoine, where they endeavoured as much as possible to place themselves in such positions before me that I might neither be seen by any one nor observe the turning of the Bastille. Finding myself rather warm, ‘Let me see,’ said I; and looking out I discovered the Bastille. ‘How!’ exclaimed I, with agitated surprise; ‘is it to the Bastille then that I am going? Oh! you are all impostors!’ They endeavoured to pacify me, and begged me not to make a disturbance; told me that they were not their own masters; that they had received their orders, but that they were absolutely ignorant of the motive for which I was taken to the Bastille, and that they were persuaded in a very few days I should be liberated.

“By this time we arrived at the first bridge leading to the governor’s house. The postillion knocked, and many _invalides_ came out. The post-chaise belonging to the police drove up to the governor’s door, who came out himself in a _robe de chambre_ to the carriage to give me his hand, begging me at the same time to excuse his _déshabille_. He then conducted me into a large hall. Soon afterwards, the king’s lieutenant arrived with a large book, wherein he entered the date of my arrival, and afterwards presented it to me to sign my name, which request I complied with. During this ceremony, which only occupied a few minutes, the governor was in the court with the _exempts_, who were giving him an account of every circumstance which occurred in the execution of their orders. This over, the governor returned, and asked me if I would take any refreshment, adding: ‘We shall take great care of you, madame.’ I then asked him into which apartment I should go to receive the Baron de Breteuil, remarking at the same time that I hoped he would come at eleven, as the _exempts_ had informed me. ‘Oh, there is not the least doubt of it, madame,’ replied the governor. He then called Saint-Jean, the turnkey, to whom he gave my papers, to place them, as I have since heard, in the archives; after which the governor desired the king’s lieutenant to conduct me to my apartment. Some little conversation passed relative to the place of my destination, of which the lieutenant seemed uncertain. ‘Oh,’ said the governor, ‘_La Comtée_ is the best; it is very light.’ He then put me in charge of the king’s lieutenant, whose arm I took, persuaded that I should be shown into some other apartment, and for a far different purpose. As I went along I saw some soldiers (_invalides_) enveloped in blue cloaks, with large hoods over their heads, and long bands hanging down. As I passed them I was not a little surprised to see them turn their backs towards me, it being the rule when any prisoner arrives for them to turn themselves round lest they should take too much notice. I began to laugh with the lieutenant at the novelty of this, and particularly at these grotesque figures in their masquerade....

“We passed on till we arrived at the court, the staircase of which led to the tower of _La Comtée_. After ascending this we arrived at the apartment destined for my reception, all the gates of which were very large, and moreover open. St. Jean, who was to be my turnkey, attended me thither.

“Struck with such a dismal change of situation, so very different from what I had ever been accustomed to, I could not help expressing my dissatisfaction to the lieutenant. ‘If this is the place,’ said I, ‘which the governor pleases to call my apartment, be sure I am greatly obliged to him.’ I then went to look at the bed, which was indeed a wretched one; told him that it would be impossible for me to sleep in so miserable a bed as that, and demanded if he could not accommodate me with one as good as the cardinal’s? He replied, very politely, that he really did not comprehend my meaning....

“My disapprobation of the bed, however, was attended with favourable results, for the turnkey substituted for the one which I had great reason to complain of an excellent feather bed with fine sheets and curtains. Thus accommodated, and extremely fatigued, I attempted to get some rest; but I was scarce in bed when the lieutenant, with my own and another turnkey, arrived. The two turnkeys examined my clothes and my pockets, out of which they took all the contents, consisting of several little articles, particularly a gold _étui_ set with pearls, another of tortoiseshell, a small ivory box ornamented with gold, having on its lid a miniature with a gold rim, containing a small mirror and some rouge, an English pocket-knife, a knife with a tortoiseshell handle and gold blade, my purse, containing eighteen louis and about nineteen livres, and a gold repeating watch with a diamond chain.

“Indignant at such humiliating treatment, which I could not patiently endure, I remonstrated with some asperity, and threatened to inform the Baron de Breteuil, whom I was simple enough to believe I should see. They were, however, regardless of my threats, and having executed their orders, departed through those dreadful doors which with their horrid bolts were closed upon me, and the sound pierced my very soul....

“About eight o’clock the turnkey came to my door. I spoke to him, but he paid no attention to me, and departed without saying a word. I rose to examine my dismal habitation, and traversed the room in every direction backwards and forwards. I opened the window to see if I could discover anybody, or make myself sufficiently conspicuous for any one to see me. I climbed upon the sill, and held my face close to the bars, but I could discover nothing; as for people, it was impossible to distinguish them.”[213]

At noon the lieutenant of the Bastille came to fetch the countess to an interview, as she asserts she thought, with the Baron de Breteuil, instead of which she was conducted into the presence of the lieutenant of police and the Commissary Chénon, who commenced examining her respecting the Diamond Necklace, and ended by accusing her of having first obtained possession of, and afterwards absconding to a foreign country with the missing jewel. Madame de la Motte, perfectly unabashed, says that she laughed outright in the commissary’s face at what she styles the “ridiculous absurdity” of such an accusation. Her examination was continued day by day, and when completed, the commissary, as the countess artfully states, “gabbled over something which she scarce understood,” but which she nevertheless signed. “It was this cunning dissembler,” she remarks, “who made me sign those odious things which I was supposed to have said myself, and which were so detestable that when they were read by his majesty he spat upon them, saying, ‘Fie upon the filthy creature!’”[214]

The countess, who in early life was glad to feed upon broken victuals passed through a trap-hole in the miserable hovel that sheltered the Saint-Remi family at Fontette, appears not to have entirely approved of the _cuisine_ of the Bastille. What more particularly annoyed her, however, was that she, who had been latterly accustomed to gold and silver plate, should now be expected to dine off vulgar pewter. According to her own account, she preferred enduring the pangs of hunger to submitting to such an indignity, and sent the dishes away untouched. The turnkey, she tells us, somewhat surprised at this proceeding, “said in a rude manner, ‘So then you don’t choose to eat, don’t you?’ ‘No,’ replied I, ‘I don’t choose to eat, and I desire to know if you serve the cardinal off pewter? Inform the governor that the Valois are quite as nice as and entitled to equal respect with the Rohans.’ The turnkey was astounded. He looked at me respectfully, and mildly answered that he was ignorant who I was; then begging my pardon he departed, and returned shortly afterwards with a better dinner served in beautiful dishes with silver covers.”[215]

Poor Madame de la Tour, Count de la Motte’s sister, having applied to the Marquis de Launay for permission to visit the countess in the Bastille, was arrested by two _exempts_ on leaving the governor’s house, and forthwith conducted to a cell in the gloomy old fortress, where she was kept confined for a period of six months, in spite of the efforts of her husband and family to procure her release. This was paying rather a heavy penalty for her feelings of sympathy towards an incriminated sister-in-law.

Before the countess had been immured in the Bastille a fortnight, we find her attempting a rambling exculpation of herself in a document which bears no address, but was no doubt intended to produce an impression on the Baron de Breteuil, and which she describes as “Explanatory reflections on the accusations made by Monseigneur le Cardinal de Rohan.”

“Does Monseigneur le Cardinal de Rohan believe me ass enough
not to have disappeared immediately if I had desired to retain
the Necklace under some pretext, as he accuses me of doing?

“Does Monseigneur le Cardinal believe that I caused the
Necklace to be sold here under the eyes both of the vendor
and of himself, and that I should have been able, had I been
guilty, to have so far deluded them as to remain at Paris so
tranquilly as I did, knowing all the while the date of payment?
Should I not rather have taken a safe departure before the
moment of payment arrived? Monseigneur le Cardinal de Rohan
was at Saverne for six weeks. Could not I have profited by his
absence to join my husband in England, with my whole household
and have remained there?

“Instead of which my husband was there by his orders, and
returned as agreed upon with Monseigneur le Cardinal. Would
it have been possible, with me living almost at his door, for
him not to have given me something during four years, or at
least to have taken care of me and mine, since all I had was
my pension of 800 livres? The expenses of my house were always
heavy enough to make it requisite for the cardinal to give me
large sums to keep it up; and at this time I solicited more
than ever both at Versailles and at Paris. Every day I required
_voitures de remise_, which were very dear; I had, too, a house
at Versailles to reside in when there. How, moreover, let me
ask, should I have done the bidding of a sovereign without
anticipating great returns from it, since sooner or later this
intimacy would certainly have been discovered? How could I
have exercised so little precaution, I say, as to remain in
Paris, where, if guilty, I should have taken the utmost care
on the contrary to appear more at my ease than under ordinary
circumstances, fearful of being suspected by Monseigneur
le Cardinal, whose people, and especially M. le Baron de
Planta (whom he also brought as a witness against me), came
continually to my house?

“Will Monseigneur le Cardinal dare to deny all the facts which
I have advanced in my examination, and which will at least
convince him that I have been forced to this, and that it has
only been in self-defence? But he accuses me wrongfully. I must
tell the truth to prove my innocence, and to prove that he was
not in a position to use me as a servant, as Monseigneur le
Cardinal pretends, in an affair of such importance, since it
concerned the person of the queen. Moreover I do not know any
one who is attached to her.

“I have the honour to be, with submission,

“COMTESSE DE VALOIS DE LA MOTTE DE LA PÉNICIÈRE.

“At the Bastille this Monday, 29th August, 1785.”[216]

Another letter is extant, bearing date Sept. 13, 1785, evidently written by the countess during her confinement in the Bastille, though it has no signature to it, and which, couched in terms of extreme familiarity, is addressed to the Duke de Guines, a very grand gentleman of the court, and, what is more, one of the queen’s most intimate friends. In this letter, in the midst of the most absurd and nonsensical details, the countess introduces the names of her sister and of Cagliostro and his wife, on the two last of whom she seeks to turn the accusation directed against herself.[217] The duke, who pretended not to understand the drift of the letter, sent it to the Baron de Breteuil.

XXV.

EFFECT PRODUCED ON THE PUBLIC MIND BY THESE ARRESTS.—THE ENEMIES OF THE QUEEN.

It is impossible to conceive the sensation produced throughout France, and indeed throughout Europe generally, by these arrests and the extravagant rumours to which they gave rise. Marie-Antoinette in various ways had unfortunately made numerous enemies—through her persistent efforts, for instance, to get the Duke de Choiseul appointed prime minister; through her too decided partiality for particular favourites, for whom she secured both places and pensions; and through what was affectedly styled her want of prudence—in other words, her open disregard of the rigid formalities of French court etiquette. Arrayed against her were many of the oldest families in France, each of whom cherished some particular grievance of its own. The consequence was, there were many hostile interests at work intent upon destroying her reputation and bringing about her ruin if need be, even at the expense of the monarchy itself, so that the great fraud of the Diamond Necklace was altogether regarded in the light of a political event, and no time was lost by the different inimical factions in twisting it to serve their own purposes, without the slightest regard being paid by any one of them to the real character of the act itself.

We will here interrupt the course of our narrative to examine at some length into the origin of this widespread animosity against the queen, and to trace the causes of its rapid extensions through all classes of French society. To do this it will be necessary for us to go back to the very outset of her career.

When Marie-Antoinette, then a young girl of fifteen, first set foot on French soil, nothing could exceed the enthusiasm with which she was welcomed. Her progress from Strasbourg to Versailles was one long ovation. At Versailles, save the dauphin’s old maiden aunts, who made themselves sufficiently disagreeable, and the king’s mistress, Madame Dubarry, who could not tolerate this fair and pure young spirit, every one was more or less charmed with her. The old king, worn out by excesses, and weary of the deceptive flattery which he daily had to listen to, was captivated, not merely by her personal graces, but by her frank and lively nature, her open unaffected ways. The women may have secretly envied her, but the men could not help adoring her. She far excelled the young female members of the royal family in beauty. At the time of her marriage her form was not fully developed: her stature was short, and her figure altogether small, though perfectly proportioned; her arm was finely rounded and of a dazzling whiteness, her hand plump, her fingers tapering, her nails transparent and rose-coloured, her foot charming. When she grew taller and stouter the foot and hand remained perfect, her figure only became a little inelegant, and her chest a trifle too broad. Her face formed a rather long oval; her complexion, which was really dazzling, displayed the most tender shades of colour, from pearly white to delicate rose tint; her eyes were blue, soft, and animated, and shaded by long, full lashes; her nose was aquiline, and slightly tapered at the end; her mouth was small and delicate and well arched, her lower lip prominent, after the Austrian type; her neck was slender and a trifle long, but well set; her forehead was convex, and furnished with too little of her beautiful chestnut-colour hair. The _coiffure_ of the empire would have accomplished marvels for her, for the hair turned down over her forehead would have given to her face a regular beauty.[218]

Though the young dauphiness was addicted to reverie, and displayed a fondness for retirement in the society of a few chosen friends, she was far from being of a reserved disposition; indeed, she was a good deal given to gaiety of that light, playful, almost pert character which imparts movement and life to all around. She forced every one to laugh with her. She cared nothing for the restraints imposed by the barriers of etiquette. If it did not please her to walk in stately fashion, she would run and skip about, regardless of her train or her ladies of honour. In winter-time she would scamper over the slippery ground, dragging after her the youngest lady of her court, whose duty it was to hold up her train, and delighted while glancing behind at the score of racing trains which etiquette required should follow in procession. In the old king’s days she was known to have even laughed out loud in the royal box at Preville’s funny face, to the great scandal of those who only deigned to smile.[219]

At the very first court she held after she became queen, provoked by some pleasantries on the part of one of her ladies, and the ridiculous figures cut by certain ancient court dames who had come to pay their respects to her, she could not refrain from laughing at them behind her fan. This naturally enough gave great offence to these antiquated dowagers, who vowed the queen had mocked at them, that she had not a proper respect for age, and was utterly wanting in propriety. The name of “_moqueuse_” was given to her in consequence.[220]

The young queen, with the full sanction of her husband, went early one morning to see the sun rise from the highest point of Marly gardens—a harmless enough proceeding, one would think, but which nevertheless gave rise to most disgraceful calumnies. On another occasion she displayed her skill as a charioteer, by driving about Marly in a cabriolet, preceded merely by a single officer of the king’s body-guard. This spectacle astonished the old courtiers, who had never seen a queen handle the reins before, and who therefore pronounced the proceeding highly unbecoming, if not, indeed, improper. At Marly, too, Marie-Antoinette established a kind of _café_, to which the lords and ladies of the court betook themselves in their morning gowns. All etiquette was set aside, and people enjoyed here the same kind of liberty which was ordinarily to be met with in establishments of this class. Every one had his own little table, at which he was served with whatever he asked for.[221]

Marie-Antoinette, who was fond of dancing, organized a series of fancy dress balls in the _Salle de Comédie_ at Versailles, into the spirit of which her brothers-in-law and their young wives entered most heartily. Being herself a good dancer, she was glad to secure good dancers for these entertainments, but had to undergo no end of reproaches because she, a young queen of twenty years of age, had appealed to the minister of war to grant leave of absence to certain officers, favourites at these fêtes, who had been ordered to rejoin their regiments. Everything she did was wrong. She was blamed for being present at the summer promenades on the terrace of the château of Versailles, then open to the general public, when, attired in a plain white cambric dress and a simple straw hat, she and Madame Elisabeth, and perhaps her married sisters-in-law, would mix unobserved among the crowd, or seated on a bench, would listen to the music performed by the king’s guards; watching and commenting meanwhile on the secret flirtations which under cover of the night were carried on on these occasions.

The foregoing incidents seem to have been harmless enough, but the same can hardly be said of her excursions to the _bals de l’opéra_, when “lost in their vortex, she was happy or trembling under her mask,” and whither she would resort attended merely by a single lady of the court and with her servants in undress grey liveries. On one of these occasions her carriage broke down, and she was obliged to have recourse to a public vehicle. On entering the theatre she is reported to have exclaimed to her friends, “It is I, come in a _fiacre_! Isn’t it droll?” One can well conceive an incident like this giving rise to much unpleasant scandal, and can sympathise in the reproaches which her brother the Emperor Joseph addressed to her on her frequent presence at these entertainments.

It was the misfortune of Marie-Antoinette to have made for herself a host of enemies almost from the very first day she was called upon to share a throne. Among others, of her brother-in-law, the Count de Provence, who, attached to her at the outset of her career, took to quizzing her, and criticising her conduct, and even to caricaturing her, while preserving an outward appearance of friendship towards her, soon after she became a queen. The Prince de Condé, allied to the Cardinal de Rohan by marriage, was embittered against her because she very properly declined to receive his mistress, Madame de Monaco, at court. A warm friendship had sprung up between Marie-Antoinette and the young Duke de Chartres, afterwards Orléans _Égalité_, on her first arrival in France; but after a time, Louis XVI., who disliked the duke, and made a point of insulting his friends whenever he got the chance, availed himself of the duke’s known immorality to forbid the queen associating with him on the same familiar terms as heretofore. The consequence was, the duke, who was unaware of the real cause of his disgrace, conceived a strong dislike for the queen, who on her part retaliated by saying many spiteful things respecting him. Dislike grew into hatred, and hatred grew bitter and more bitter, until at last the duke pursued Marie-Antoinette with a relentless vengeance that was positively diabolic, and which only terminated with her life. Dissolute, gouty old De Maurepas, prime minister, and all his kin, and more particularly his nephew, the Duke d’Aiguillon, a former creature of the Dubarry’s, and now a creature of the Duke d’Orléans, and whose disgrace at court had been brought about by the queen’s influence, were arrayed against her on account of the persistent exertions she made to get her favourite, De Choiseul—whom Catherine of Russia used to style the coachman of Europe, as when in power he directed all the cabinets—appointed prime minister in De Maurepas’ stead. M. de Vergennes too, whose handsome Greek wife the queen would not consent to receive, cherished a steady hatred of her—all the more dangerous because it was concealed—and even wrote regular reports respecting her to Louis XVI, which the king kept secret, and which only came to light on the discovery of the famous “_armoire de fer_” in the wall of the royal closet in the Tuileries, a few months before the king’s death.

At the head of the enemies the queen had succeeded in making among her own sex were, Mesdames Adelaide and Louise, two of the king’s aunts, the former of whom had for a while exercised a control over her nephew, and was now jealous and irritated beyond measure at the influence which the young queen had acquired over her husband. Since their exile to Lorraine, however, these old ladies had been comparatively powerless for mischief. The partiality which Marie-Antoinette displayed for the society of the Countess Jules de Polignac, had had the effect of estranging her sisters-in-law from her. Count d’Artois, wishing to bring about a reconciliation, said one day to the queen, on kissing her hand, “My little sister, for a very long time you have slighted your sisters-in-law, who are much attached to you, and who feel much afflicted at your behaviour. I beg you to bestow on them your warmest friendship, for they are worthy of it.” The queen replied somewhat petulantly, “These ladies do not render me the deference which is my due; they ought to remember that I am queen, and, moreover, that I belong to the House of Austria, which takes precedence of all.” The Count d’Artois could not help smiling, and, pressing the queen’s hand, said, “My little sister, since you jest about the affair, I am enchanted, as it proves to me that, whatever rancour may exist at present, will not last long.”[222] The count, however, did not prove himself a true prophet, for the ladies never became completely reconciled, and showed merely a distant regard for each other. Perhaps the most dangerous enemy the queen had was the stiff old Countess de Marsan—herself a Rohan, and cousin of the cardinal, for whom in past years she had secured the post of grand almoner—who during the late reign had been governess to the king’s grandchildren, and who had been from the very first greatly scandalized at Marie-Antoinette’s freedom of manners: the dauphiness’s most innocent acts being magnified by this old prude into crimes. If she glanced at any one, it was set down to coquetry; if she chanced to laugh, it was either unbecoming, or else her gaiety was all forced; if she wore her hair loose, she was compared to a bacchante; and even her simple white muslin dresses were pronounced to be stage costumes, worn solely to create an effect. The Duchess de Noailles, who had been Marie-Antoinette’s chief lady of honour from the moment of her arrival in France, and Madame de Cossé, her lady of the bedchamber, threw up their posts on the Princess de Lamballe being appointed mistress of the queen’s household, and both enlisted themselves among the malcontents, which comprised, in addition to those we have already mentioned, the powerful families of Conti, Montmorency, Clermont-Tonnerre, La Rochefoucauld, and Crillon.

XXVI.

LITTLE TRIANON, AND THE QUEEN’S SOCIETY THERE.

The enemies of the queen at the moment the Necklace scandal burst upon the public were many and formidable; the real friends that she had capable of defending her were but few. The Baron de Breteuil was well enough disposed towards her, still it was not so much the shielding of the queen’s reputation as compassing the downfall of his enemy, the Cardinal de Rohan, that he had at heart. The Abbé de Vermond, who had been Marie-Antoinette’s instructor, and was now a sort of secretary to her, had only his fidelity to recommend him. He could influence the queen, but wanted the head to direct her wisely. Specious M. de Calonne was too busy raising new loans to supply a continually emptying royal exchequer to trouble himself about necklaces or cardinals; besides, no particular friendship existed now between the queen and him. He no longer gallantly told her that if what she required was simply difficult it was already done, and that if it was impossible, it should be done. The Duke de Choiseul had been dead these several months past. Those intimate friends of Marie-Antoinette’s with whom her daily life was chiefly spent, and who formed what was styled her society, shared her unpopularity to some extent, for it was the favours heaped upon certain members of the Trianon set which had estranged so many of the old nobility from her. Moreover, with the exception of the Count d’Artois and the Duke de Coigny, there was not a man of influence among them who could do her real service in the hour of need.

The _habitués_ of the Little Trianon—“the queen’s society,” as they were styled—comprised, first, her youngest brother-in-law, the Count d’Artois, who danced with her, hunted with her, acted with her, and entered generally into the spirit of her amusements; then there was his wife, the countess, exceedingly short of stature, with a complexion as fresh as a rose, and a prepossessing if not a pretty face, yet with a nose which, as Marie-Antoinette wickedly remarked, had never been finished; at one time, too, there were the Count and Countess de Provence, the latter an elder sister of the Countess d’Artois, and the reverse of good-looking. Louis XVI. in his blunt way once told his brother that his wife was by no means handsome, to which the Count de Provence quietly replied, “Sire, I find her to my taste, and that is quite sufficient.”[223] Then there was the queen’s sister-in-law, Madame Elisabeth, her true and loving friend until death; next there were the Polignacs, foremost among whom was the Countess Jules, the queen’s most particular favourite, who was very handsome, with expressive blue eyes, a ravishing mouth, beautiful small white teeth, a nose just a trifle _retroussé_, a forehead perhaps a little too high, magnificent brown hair, a skin almost as white as alabaster, low shoulders and a well set neck which seemed to give height to her small figure. A touching sweetness formed the foundation of her physiognomy—looks, features, smiles, everything with her partook of the angelic. She had, moreover, wit and grace, and a natural ease and _abandon_ which were positively charming. Negligence was her coquetry, dishabille her full dress. It has been said of her that she never looked better than when in a loose morning gown, and with a simple rose, perhaps, in her hair. When the queen first took notice of her, she and her husband, with their two young children, were living in a very humble style (we have heard what Madame de la Motte had to say of her poverty)[224] on a miserable income of three hundred and twenty pounds a year. A pension of six thousand livres was immediately granted her, and ere long she was appointed governess of the royal children, with a salary of fifty thousand livres and her husband named postmaster-general, and master of the horse to the queen, with a salary of eighty thousand livres; in addition to which a joint pension of eighty thousand livres was conferred upon them, besides other considerable emoluments which brought their income almost up to three hundred thousand livres.[225] The count, who through the influence of the queen had been raised to the dignity of a duke, seems to have been an amiable sort of man, very generally liked, for he had not allowed his good fortune to spoil him. His sister, the Countess Diane, one of Madame Elisabeth’s ladies of honour, was given, we are told, to gallantry and intrigue; her son by the Marquis d’Autichamp—the same wicked rake who was so anxious to escort Madame de la Motte from Lunéville to Paris—entered the Russian service, and was killed at the battle of Austerlitz.[226] Her personal appearance was the very reverse of engaging. She was compared to a brown owl (she was a southern brunette), with all its feathers in disorder, and to a paroquet, with a crooked beak and round eyes surrounded by dark circles.[227] Nevertheless, she had only to open her mouth to have face, form, toilette, the little she had received from nature, and the little that she herself did to render herself pretty, entirely forgotten. It was impossible to know her and not to be prepossessed in her favour. Her arch way of looking at a subject, her piquant turn of thought, which was almost epigrammatic, her sudden changes from gaiety to sadness, from irony to sensibility, her audacity, which nothing could intimidate, her daring and contagious recklessness, made her a general favourite in the society over which she to some extent dominated. A woman like her was invaluable to a court already depressed with melancholy, to put life into the conversation, to dissipate dull thoughts, to defy alarm, to prophesy fine weather, and display a perfect disregard for the future.

The young Princess de Lamballe, one of the earliest friends Marie-Antoinette made in France, ranked next to the Countess Jules de Polignac in her favour. She was a trifle jealous at having been supplanted by her rival, and rather held aloof from the Trianon _coterie_. Extremely beautiful, as amiable as she was handsome, and left a widow when she was only eighteen—her husband, son of the old Duke de Penthièvre, who received Madame de la Motte so courteously at Château-Villain, having fallen a victim to early debauchery—a peculiar interest attached to her. A native of the sunny south, she nevertheless possessed all the northern graces. The sweet serenity of her countenance was its great charm: there was tranquillity even in the flash of her eye. On her beautiful forehead, shaded by her long fair hair, not a cloud, not a trace existed of the early grief she had been called upon to suffer. Her mind had all the serene beauty of her face. She was gentle, affectionate, full of caresses, always just, always ready to make sacrifices, devoted even in trifles, and disinterested above everything. Who has not felt pity for her subsequent unhappy fate?

No one occupied a more prominent position in the queen’s society at the Little Trianon than the Baron de Besenval, a handsome-looking man past middle age, tall and well proportioned, with sharply-defined profile and large well-formed nose, quick, intelligent eye, and a small mouth curled up in a mocking and disdainful pout. Of cultivated tastes, full of insolent grace, perfectly content with himself and ever ready to laugh at others, pleasure was the sole pursuit of his life until the death of Louis XV. brought him into closer contact with the Count d’Artois, colonel-general of the Swiss guards, in which corps Besenval, himself a Swiss, held a command. Of the count he made a friend, got presented through his influence to the queen, whose confidence he secured and whom he almost directed; was appointed lieutenant-general of the army, grand cross commander of St.-Louis, and inspector-general of the Swiss guards, without seeming at all astonished at his good fortune. In the hour of danger, however, he was found singularly wanting, and it was soon evident that he was not the man to save the monarchy or stem the tide of revolution. His conduct while in command of the army of Paris has been very generally and deservedly condemned.

M. de Vaudreuil was another prominent member of the Trianon _coterie_, who, entering early in life the highest and most exclusive society of Versailles, had come to the conclusion that human nature, as it was to be found in courts, was neither so very beautiful nor so very great as was commonly represented. Intellect charmed him, and above all that intellect which sparkled with wit. He was the friend of all clever men, spoke but rarely himself, but would lie in wait behind the hubbub of the talkers and suddenly discharge his arrow right at the mark. What made him a favourite with the queen was the fact of his being the best private actor of his day. When young he had been remarkably handsome, but the small-pox had destroyed his good looks. Suffering from disease of the lungs, and subject to nervous twitchings of the body and to frequent fits of depression, he had all the immunities of a sick person accorded him. The good nature of the Duchess de Polignac and the indulgence of his friends caused them to tolerate his caprices and whims. His disposition changed daily according to his bodily ailments; still he was not without certain vigorous virtues, for he was noble, generous, frank, loyal, and a devoted and constant friend.

Next on the list of the queen’s favourites comes M. d’Adhémar, whose musical skill and admirable voice had procured him the applause of the master of the king’s music. He wrote verses and songs, acted well, and accompanied himself on the harpsichord. His was but a little mind; nevertheless, under a guise of modesty and humility he nourished grand schemes of ambition, and eventually succeeded in securing for himself the English embassy, in connection with which we shall hear of him again. His complaisance was proverbial; he courted every one, offended no one, made innocent jokes in an undertone of voice, and never lost his temper. It will be understood what manner of man he was when we remark, that the women spoke to him when they had nothing to say, the men when they had nothing to do. Harmless as he appears to have been, he did not escape the notice of the lampooners of the time, who characterized him as—

“Un marquis de hasard, ha, ha, ha, ha!
Chevalier d’industrie,
Major d’infanterie,
Colin de comédie,
C’est Monsieur d’Adhémar, a, a, a, a.”[228]

The remaining _habitués_ of the Little Trianon were the three Coignys: the Duke de Coigny, the queen’s most constant friend, whom the Trianon set desired to make her lover, which the Duke d’Orléans maintained he already was—styling the young dauphin “_Le fils de Coigny_;”[229] the Count de Coigny, a big, good-tempered man; and the Chevalier de Coigny, an agreeable flatterer, whom all the women strove to secure to themselves, and who was a favourite wherever he went; the Duke de Guines, the “Versailles Journal,” as he was styled, who knew and repeated all the scandal of the court, ridiculed everybody, and was consequently disliked by everybody, who was an excellent musician, and prided himself immensely on having played the flute with the great Frederick; the Prince d’Henin, a philanthropist at court like a fish out of water; the Bailli du Crussol, who made jokes with a most serious air; the Count de Polastron, who played the violin in a ravishing style, and his pale and languishing wife—the amiable “Goddess of Melancholy,” as she was called; the Count and Countess de Châlons; the Count and Countess d’Andlau; the sensible, witty, and good-natured Madame de Coigny; the Duke de Guiche, captain of the king’s guards, and his young and lovely duchess, daughter of the Duchess Jules de Polignac.[230] Besides the foregoing, there were a few distinguished foreigners, such as Prince Esterhazy, the Prince de Ligne, the Count de Fersen, a prominent member of the Swedish aristocracy, who was styled by the women the “Beau Fersen,” and who in subsequent years drove the _berline_ in which the royal family sought to escape from France, and eventually lost his life in an _émeute_ at Stockholm in the year 1810; and the Baron de Stedingk, the intimate friend of Fersen and a great favourite with Marie-Antoinette, who said to him, on parting with him in 1787: “Remember, M. de Stedingk, that under no circumstances can any harm happen to you;”[231] implying that her influence, which she believed to be paramount, would be exercised for his protection in whatever quarter of the world he might chance to be, and little dreaming that in a very few years there would not be another woman in all France so powerless as she.

Having made acquaintance with the queen’s society at the Trianon, let us now see what the Trianon itself was like; that Little Trianon to which Marie-Antoinette retired to escape the splendours, the restraints, the intrigues, and, most of all, the slanders of the court, and enjoy the society of friends of her own choosing; a retirement which unhappily gave rise to new calumnies—calumnies which it does not seem in nature for one woman to invent or propagate of another, but which Madame de la Motte more than insinuates in her lying “Mémoires Justificatifs,” and which have outlived the other hideous slanders of which Marie-Antoinette was the victim; that Little Trianon, where Madame de la Motte asserts most of her pretended interviews with the queen took place, and where she affirms Marie-Antoinette was accustomed to receive the Cardinal de Rohan, who, according to the countess’s statements, would come late at night disguised as a valet, and spend hour after hour with the queen in a small pavilion in the gardens while she remained outside on the watch.[232] On one occasion the Cardinal de Rohan certainly did go to the Little Trianon, and in a partial disguise, but it was by bribing the gatekeeper that he gained admission to the grounds. It was at the time when both building and gardens were brilliantly illuminated in honour of the visit of the Grand Duke Paul of Russia—afterwards the mad and luckless Emperor Paul—and his Grand Duchess, who were travelling about Europe under the titles of Count and Countess du Nord. The cardinal, who professed great anxiety to see these illuminations, promised the gatekeeper to remain in his lodge until all the company had left for Versailles; instead of which, when the man’s back was turned, he slunk into the gardens, and, with his cardinal’s red stockings showing below his overcoat, took up the most prominent position he could select, where he waited for the royal family and its suite to pass. The queen saw him and recognised him, and next day gave orders for the instant dismissal of the gatekeeper; but Madame Campan, who had been informed of all the circumstances, appealed to Marie-Antoinette in the man’s behalf, and succeeded in getting him retained in his post.[233]

To console Marie-Antoinette for not having appointed her favourite, the Duke de Choiseul, prime minister, Louis XVI. is said to have given her the Little Trianon, which skirts the park of Versailles and adjoins the gardens of the Great Trianon, to do as she pleased with. “You love flowers,” said he: “ah! well, I have a bouquet for you—the Little Trianon.”

The repairing and embellishing of this miniature palace, the alteration and enlargement of its grounds, with a host of artists and gardeners subject to her sway, was for the next year or two Marie-Antoinette’s greatest delight. The building, erected by the architect Gabriel, for Louis XV., is of a square form, and each of its sides has a frontage of only seventy feet. It is in the Italian style, and its different façades are ornamented with Corinthian columns or pilasters and enriched friezes and cornices. The depraved old king in the last years of his life was enamoured with this “little corner of his grand Versailles.” It was to his taste, for here he could live in retirement and at his ease. In addition to its flower garden, laid out in the formal French style, there was a botanical garden, which Louis XIV., at the time he lived at the Great Trianon, caused to be planted with exotic trees and shrubs of multifarious tints and perfumes then almost unknown in France.