To the Marquise de Bombelles.
September, 1786.
I possess in the world two friends, and they are both far away from me. That is too painful; one of you must positively return. If you do not return, I shall go to Saint-Cyr without you, and I shall still further avenge myself by marrying our protégée without you. My heart is full of the happiness of that poor girl who weeps with joy–and you not there! I have visited two other poor families without you. I pray to God without you. But I pray for you, for you need his grace, and I have need that he should touch you–you who abandon me! I do not know how it is, but I love you, nevertheless, tenderly. ÉLISABETH-MARIE.
November 27, 1786.
You see that I obey you, my child, for here I am again. You spoil me; you write to me punctually; that gives me pleasure, but I am afraid it may give you a headache. I preach against my interests, for I am very happy when I see your handwriting; I love you, but I love your health better than all. You say that Fontainebleau has not spoilt me; I like to believe it. Perhaps you will think that rather vainglorious, but I assure you, my heart [mon coeur ], that I am very far from thinking I can remain good; I feel I have very much to do to be good according to God. The world judges [Page 34] lightly; on a mere nothing it gives us a good or a bad reputation. Not so with God; he judges us internally; and the more the outward imposes, the sterner he will be to the inward . . . . I have been at Montreuil since nine o'clock, the weather is charming. I have walked about with Raigecourt for an hour and three-quarters. Mme. Albert de Rioms is coming to dine with me, so that my letter cannot be long.
March 15, 1787.
You ask me, my friend, how I pass my time; I shall answer: Rather sadly, because I see many things that grieve me. The famous Assembly of Notables has met. What will it do? Nothing, except make known to the people the critical situation in which we are. The king is sincere in asking their advice. Will they be the same in giving it? I think not. I have little experience, and the tender interest I take in my brother alone induces me to concern myself with these subjects, much too serious for my nature. I do not know, but it seems to me they are taking a course directly the opposite of that they ought to take . . . . I have a presentiment that all will turn out ill. As for me, if it were not for my attachment to the king I would retire to Saint-Cyr. Intrigues fatigue me; they are not in accordance with my nature. I like peace and repose; but it is not at the moment when my brother is unfortunate that I will separate from him.
The queen is very pensive. Sometimes we are hours together alone without her saying a word. She seems to fear me. Ah! who can take a keener interest than I in my brother's happiness?
April 9, 1787.
M. de Calonne was dismissed yesterday; his malversation was so proved that the king decided upon it; I do not fear [Page 35] to tell you the extreme joy I feel, which is shared by every one. He is ordered to remain at Versailles until his successor is appointed, so as to render him an account of affairs and of his projects. One of my friends said to me some time ago that I did not like him, but that I should change my opinion before long. I don't know if his dismissal will contribute to that; he would have to do a good many things before I could change in regard to him. He must feel a little anxious about his fate. They say his friends put a good face upon it; but I believe the devil loses nothing and that they are far from being satisfied. It was M. de Montmorin who gave him his dismissal. I hoped the Baron de Breteuil would not take that upon himself; it does him honour not to have done so. 1
The Assembly continues as before and with the same plans. The Notables talk with more freedom (though they have never cramped themselves in that), and I hope good may come of it. My brother has such good intentions, he desires the right so much and to make his people happy, he has kept himself so pure, that it is impossible God should not bless his good qualities with great successes. He did his Easter duties to-day. God will encourage him, God will show him the right way: I hope much. The preacher in his address encouraged him immensely to take counsel of his own heart. He was right, for my brother is very good and very superior to the whole Court united. [Page 36]
I am at Montreuil since midday. I have been to vespers in the parish church. They were quite as long as they were last year, and your dear vicar sang the O filii in a manner quite as agreeable. Des Escars expected to burst out laughing, and I the same.
I am in despair at the sacrifice you make me of your monkey, and all the more because I cannot keep it; my Aunt Victoire has a dread of those animals and would be angry if I had one. So, my heart, in spite of all its graces and of the hand that gives it to me, I must relinquish it. If you like, I will send it back to you; if not, I will give it to M. de Guéménée. I am in despair, I feel it is very churlish, that it will vex you very much, and so I am all the more sorry. What consoles me is that you would have had to get rid of it soon on account of your children, because it might become dangerous.
Your philosophy enchants me, my heart; you will be happier, and you know how I desired you to be that. I do not understand why you say that M. de C— [Maréchal de Castries] is a bad politician; they seem to me well satisfied with him; he has done rather fine things, and M. de Ségur has just committed the most egregious blunder in accompanying the Empress Catherine on her journey to the Crimea. She is terribly restless, that good lady, which displeases me much. I am a partisan of repose.1
June 25, 1787.
The queen is very kind to me just now; we are going together to Saint-Cyr, which she calls my cradle. She calls Montreuil my little Trianon. I have been to hers the last few days with her, without any consequences, and there was no attention she did not show me. She prepared for me one [Page 37] of those surprises in which she excels; but what we did most was to weep over the death of my poor little niece [Madame Sophie de France, daughter of Louis XVI., who died an infant] . . . .
I am in a state of enchantment at the enormous gratuity they have given you. I am afraid the king will ruin himself with such liberalities. If I were your husband I would leave it with M. d'Harvelay to prove to M. de Vergennes that you demand more because you have an actual need of it; let him see it is to pay your debts for the embassy, and that as he gives you so little on account, when you get more you will have to employ it in the same way. I began by reading M. de Vergennes' letter first, thinking I was to see superb things, and I was rather shocked. However, after reflecting upon it well, I believe it is not ill-will on his part, but being obliged to give gratuities for the fêtes, he is hampered and is forced to diminish this one.
Adieu, my heart. I hope your medicine will do you good. Try to calm yourself.
June 6, 1788.
The king returns upon his steps, just as our grandfather did . . . . It seems to me that government is like education. We should not say I will until we are sure of being right. But once said, there should be no yielding of what has been ordained.
I think that my sister-in-law would act thus; but she does not yet know the soul of my brother, who fears always to make a mistake, and who, his first impulse over, is tormented by the dread of doing injustice. You will see that the parliament will be recalled within six months, and with it Necker and the States-General; that is an evil we shall not escape, and I wish they had been convoked a year ago that we might have them over and done with. Instead of that everybody [Page 38] wrangles and all are getting embittered. What the king does from clemency they will say he does from fear, for they will not do him the justice he deserves. As for me, who read his heart, I know well that all his thoughts are for the welfare of his people. But he would make that more sure by isolating himself less from his nobles. He is advised to the contrary. God grant he may never repent it! I dare not speak to him openly about many things that I see and that he does not suspect because his soul is so fine that intrigue is foreign to it. Ah! why cannot I get away and live as I like!
To Mlle. Marie de Causans. 1
March, 1789.
Yes, certainly, my heart, I will write to you before you enter the novitiate; but I hope that you will not be forbidden to receive letters afterwards. It is true that we shall be hampered by the inspection of a mistress, but that will not prevent me from saying to you what I think. You will perhaps be astonished, my heart, when I tell you that in spite of all the reflections, consultations, and tests that you have made, I am not yet sufficiently convinced of the solidity and reality of your vocation to escape a fear that you have not reflected duly. In the first place, my heart, we cannot know whether a vocation is really the work of God until, with a desire to follow his will, we have nevertheless combated, in good faith, the inclination which leads us to consecrate ourselves to him; otherwise, we run the risk of deceiving ourselves, and of following a transient fervour that is often only a need of the heart which, having no objects of attachment, thinks to save itself from the danger of forming [Page 39] any that Heaven may disapprove by consecrating itself to God. That motive is praiseworthy, but it is not sufficient; it comes from passion, it comes from the desire and need of the heart to form a tie which shall fill it, for the moment, wholly. But, I ask you, my heart, will God approve of that offering? can he be touched by the sacrifice of a soul that gives itself to him only to rid itself of responsibility? You know that in order to make any vow of any kind we must have a free, reflecting will, devoid of all species of passion; it is the same in making the religious vows, and even more essential. The world is odious to you; but is that disgust or regret? Do not think that if it is the latter your vocation is true or natural. No, my heart, Heaven sent you a temptation; you ought to bear it, and not take a resolution to consecrate yourself to God until it has passed.
Secondly, my heart, we must have our minds humbled before taking the engagements you wish to take. This is the essential thing, the true vocation. All that concerns the body costs little, one can get used to that; but not so with all that belongs to the mind and heart . . . .
If d'Ampurie [her younger sister] is not married within three years, and is obliged to go to her Chapter, can you trust to her eighteen years and believe that she will always lead a virtuous and decorous life, that she will never need the counsel of a friend, of a sister who stands in place of her mother, and for whom she has all the feelings of a daughter? Do you think that in abandoning her to herself you fulfil the most sacred duty you have ever had to fulfil,–that to a dying mother who relied upon you, who chose you as the one most fitted to replace her, a mother who would certainly not have abandoned her children to the seductions of the world that she might yield to a taste for retreat and devotion which she would never have thought incumbent upon her? [Page 40]
No, my heart, it will be impossible for me to think that you fulfil your duty, that you accomplish the will of God by consecrating yourself to him at this time. In the name of that God you seek to serve in the most perfect manner, consult with others once more; but, my heart, let it be with more enlightened persons, persons who have no interests either for or against the course you wish to take; explain to them your position; let yourself be examined in good faith; you would be as wrong to exaggerate your desire as to conceal it . . . .
Reassure me, my heart, by telling me the tests to which you have put yourself. I do not speak of those of the body; those are absolutely null to me because they belong to mere habits; but have you struggled against your vocation? have you felt perfectly calm and free from all pains of mind? are you sure it is not from excitement that you give yourself to God? . . . Do not suppose, my heart, that a convent is exempt from evils in the eyes of a nun; the more perfect she may be, the more she will want to find the same sentiments in others, and you will not be safe from that temptation, for, I admit, it is one. There are very few convents in which charity reigns sufficiently for that fault to be unknown there.
Nevertheless, my heart, in whatever position you find yourself, rely upon my friendship and the keen interest that I feel in you, and speak to me with confidence of all that touches you. I dare to say that I deserve it, because of the true feelings that I have for you, and the tender interest inspired in me by all the children of your honoured and loving mother. I kiss you and love you with all my heart. I ask of you the favour not to be satisfied by reading my letter once. [Page 41]
To the Marquise de Bombelles.
May 29, 1789.
My heart is so full of the king's troubles that I cannot write to you of other things. All goes worse than ever. The king alone seems satisfied with the turn that things are taking. Few sovereigns in his place would be; but he has about it all a manner of seeing which is too lucky for him. The deputies, victims of their passions, of their weakness, or of seduction, are rushing to their ruin, and that of the throne and the whole kingdom. If at this moment the king has not the necessary sternness to cut off at least three heads, all is lost.
I do not ask you to return; you might find the roads all bloody. As for me, I have sworn not to leave my brother, and I shall keep my oath.
VERSAILLES, July 15, 1789.
How kind you are, my heart! All the dreadful news of yesterday [storming and destruction of the Bastille by the populace] did not make me weep, but your letter, bringing consolation into my heart through the friendship you show me, made me shed many tears. It will be sad for me to go without you. I do not know if the king will leave Versailles. I will do what you wish if there is a question of it. I do not know what I desire as to that. God knows the best course to take. We have a pious man at the head of the Council [Baron de Breteuil] and perhaps he will enlighten it. Pray much, my heart; spare yourself, take care of yourself, do not trouble your milk. You would do wrong I think, to go out; therefore, my dear, I make the sacrifice of seeing you. Be convinced of how much it costs my heart. I love you, dear, more than I can tell. At all times, in all moments I shall think the same. [Page 42]
I hope the evil is not as great as they think it. What makes me believe this is the calmness at Versailles. It was not very certain yesterday that M. de Launay was hanged; they had mistaken another man for him in the course of the day. I will attach myself, as you advise, to the chariot of Monsieur, but I think its wheels are worthless. I don't know why it is, but I am always ready to hope. Do not imitate me; it is better to fear without reason than to hope without it; the moment when the eyes open is less painful.
PARIS, October 8,1789.
My date alone will tell you to what a point our misfortunes have come. We have left the cradle of our childhood–what am I saying? left! we were torn from it. What a journey! what sights! Never, never will they be effaced from my memory . . . . What is certain is that we are prisoners here; my brother does not believe it, but time will prove it to him. Our friends are here; they think as I do that we are lost.
To the Abbé d& Lubersac.
October 16, 1789.
I cannot resist, monsieur, the desire to give you news of me. I know the interest that you are kind enough to feel, and I doubt not it will bring me help. Believe that in the midst of the trouble and horror that pursued us I thought of you, of the pain you would feel, and the sight of your handwriting has brought me consolation. Ah! monsieur, what days were those of Monday and Tuesday [5th and 6th of October]! But they ended better than the cruelties that took place during the night could have made us expect. As soon as we entered Paris we began to feel hope in spite of the dreadful cries that we heard. But those of the people who surrounded our carriage were better. The queen, who [Page 43] has incredible courage, begins to be better liked by the people. I hope that with time and steadily sustained conduct we may recover the affection of the Parisians, who have only been misled.
But the men of Versailles, monsieur! Did you ever know a more frightful ingratitude? No, I think that God in his anger has peopled that town with monsters from hell. How much time will be needed to make them conscious of their crimes! If I were king, I should need much to make me believe in their repentance. How ungrateful to an honest man! Will you believe, monsieur, that our misfortunes, far from bringing me to God, give me a positive disgust for all that is prayer. Ask of Heaven for me the grace not to abandon it wholly. I ask of you this favour; and also, preach to me a little, I beg of you; you know the confidence that I have in you. Pray also that all the reverses of France may bring back to their better selves those who have contributed to them by their irreligion. Adieu, monsieur; believe in the esteem I have for you, and the regret I feel at your being so far away from me.
To the Marquise de Bombelles.
December 8, 1789.
I am very glad, Mademoiselle Bombelinette, that you have received my letter, as it gives you pleasure, and I am angry with it for being so long on the way. You have no idea what an uproar there has been to-day at the Assembly We heard the shouts in passing along the terrace of the Feuillants. It was horrible. They wanted to rescind a decree passed Saturday; I hope they will not do it, for the decree seems to me very reasonable. You will see it all in the newspapers.
I have not made it a point of courage to refrain from [Page 44] speaking to you of Montreuil. You judge me, my heart, too favourably. Apparently I was not thinking of it when I wrote to you. I often have news of it. Jacques comes daily to bring my cream. Fleury, Coupry, Marie, and Mme. du Coudray come to see me from time to time. They all seem to love me still; and M. Huret–I forgot him–is not very bad. Now, about the house. The salon was being furnished when I left it; it promised to be very pleasant. Jacques is in his new lodging. Mme. Jacques is pregnant; so are all my cows; a calf has just been born. The hens I will not say much about, because I have rather neglected to inquire for them. I don't know if you saw my little cabinet after it was finished. It is very pretty. My library is almost finished. 1 As for the chapel, Corille is working there all alone; you can imagine how fast it goes on! It is out of charity to him that I let him continue to put on a little plaster; as he is quite alone it cannot be called an expense. I am grieved not to go there as you can easily believe; but horses are to me a still greater privation. However, I think as little as I can about it; though I feel that as my blood grows calmer, that particular privation makes itself more and more felt; but I shall have all the more pleasure when I can satisfy that taste.
And that poor Saint-Cyr, ah! how unfortunate it is! Do you remember Croisard, the son of my sister's wardrobe woman? Well, he is to-day attached to my steps in the quality of captain of the guard. I say attached, because the guards never quit us more than the shadow of our bodies. You need not think it annoys me. As my movements are not varied, I do not care. After all, I can walk in the garden as much as I like. To-day I walked a full hour. [Page 45]
February 20, 1790.
You will only have a line from me to-day, my poor Bombe; I was told too late of an opportunity, and besides, my head and heart are so full of what happened yesterday that I have no possibility of thinking of anything else. Poor M. de Favras was hanged yesterday. I hope that his blood may not fall back upon his judges. No one (except the populace, and that class of beings to whom we must not give the name of men–it would be to degrade humanity) understands why he was condemned. He had the imprudence to wish to serve his king; that was his crime. I hope that this unjust execution will have the effect of persecutions, and that from his ashes will arise men who still love their country, and will avenge it on the traitors who are deceiving it. I hope also that Heaven, in favour of the courage he showed during the four hours he was kept at the Hôtel-de-Ville before his execution [when he was tortured and insulted], will have pardoned him his sins. Pray to God for him, my heart; you cannot do a better work.
The Assembly is still the same; the monsters are the masters. The king–can you believe it?–is not to have the necessary executive power to keep him from being absolutely null in his kingdom. For the last four days they have discussed a law to pacify the disturbances, but they have not ceased to busy themselves about other things far less essential to the happiness of men. Well, God will reward the good in heaven, and punish those who deceive the people. The king, and others, from the integrity of their own natures, cannot bring themselves to see the evil such as it is.
Adieu, my little one; I am well; I love you much; be the same, for love of your princess, and let us hope for [Page 46] happier days Ah! how we shall enjoy them. I kiss your little children with all my heart.
You know the rules just made for monks and nuns. Say nothing to any one, but I think many men, and even nuns will leave their convents. I hope that Saint-Cyr will undergo no change; but its fate is not yet decided.
March 1, 1790.
Since the king has taken that step [his appearance before the Constituent Assembly Feb. 4, 1790], a step which puts him, they say, at the head of the Revolution, and which, to my mind, takes from him the remains of the crown that he still had, the Assembly has not once thought of doing anything for him. Madness follows madness, and good will certainly never come of it . . . . If we had known how to profit by occasions, believe me, we could have done well. But it was necessary to have firmness, it was necessary to face danger; we should have come out conquerors . . . . I consider civil war as necessary. In the first place, I think it already exists; because, every time a kingdom is divided into two parties, every time the weaker party can only save its life by letting itself be despoiled, it is impossible, I think, not to call that civil war. Moreover, anarchy never can end without it; the longer it is delayed, the more blood will be shed. That is my principle; and if I were king it would be my guide; and perhaps it would avert great evils. But as, God be thanked, I do not govern, I content myself, while approving my brother's projects, with telling him incessantly that he cannot be too cautious and that he ought to risk nothing.
I am not surprised that the step he took on the 4th of February has done him great harm in the eyes of foreigners. I hope, nevertheless, that it has not discouraged our allies, and that they will at last take pity on us. Our stay here is a [Page 47] great injury to our prospects. I would give all the world to be out of Paris. It will be very difficult, but still, I hope it may come about. Though I thought for a moment that we did right in coming to Paris, I have long changed my mind. If we had known, my heart, how to profit by that moment, be sure that we could then have done great good. But it needed firmness, it needed not to fear that the provinces would rise against the capital; it needed that we should face dangers; had we done so, we should have issued victors.
May 18, 1790.
You will have seen by the public papers, my dear child, that there has been some question of your husband in the Assembly, but you will also have seen that they would not even listen to M. de Lameth. So, my heart, you need not be uneasy. Some one said, apropos of M. de Lameth's speech, that he apparently feared that your husband would make Venice aristocratic, and so, wanted to get him away. I thought that charming. Your mother, who assuredly is not cold as to your interests, is not at all troubled by what took place. Therefore, my heart, let the storm growl, and do not worry.
At last we are let out of our den. The king is to ride out on horseback to-day for the third time; and I have been out once. I was not very tired, and I hope to go again on Friday. I am going this morning to Bellevue. I want to see an English garden and I am going for that. During that time the Assembly will probably be busy in taking from the king the right to wear his crown, which is about all that is left to him.
June 27, 1790.
It is long since I have written to you, my little Bombelinette; so I do it to-night in advance, not to be taken short [Page 48] by the post, which often happens to those who have a taste for sacred idleness. I shall not talk to you about the decrees that are issued daily, not even of the one put forth on a certain Saturday [abolition of titles of nobility]. It does not grieve the persons it attacks, but it does afflict the malevolent and those who issued it, because in all societies it has been made a subject of much diversion. As for me, I expect to call myself Mademoiselle Capet, or Hugues, or Robert, for I don't think I shall be allowed to take my real name,–de France. All this amuses me much, and if those gentlemen would issue only such decrees as that, I would add love to the profound respect I already feel for them.
You will think my style a little frivolous, considering the circumstances, but as there is no counter-revolution in it, I can be forgiven. Far from thinking of counter-revolutions we are about to rejoice (two weeks hence) with all the militia of the kingdom and celebrate the famous days of July 14 and 15, of which you may perhaps have heard. They are making ready the Champs de Mars, which can contain, they say, six hundred thousand souls. I hope for their health and mine, that it will not be as hot as it is this week, otherwise, with the liking that I have for heat, I believe I should explode. Pardon this nonsense; but I was so suffocated last week, at the review and in my own little room, that I am still dazed. Besides, one must laugh a little, it does one good. Mme. d'Aumale always told me, when I was a child, to laugh, because it dilated the lungs.
I finish my letter at Saint-Cloud; here I am, established in the garden, with my desk and a book in my hand, and here I get patience and strength for the rest that I have to do. Adieu; I love and kiss you with all my heart. Have you weaned your little monster, and how are you? [Page 49]
July 10, 1790.
I received your letter by the gentleman who has returned to Venice, but too late to answer it by him. We touch, my dear child, as the song says, the crucial moment of the Federation. It will take place Wednesday, and I am convinced that nothing very grievous will happen. The Duc d'Orléans is not yet here; perhaps he will come to-night or to-morrow; perhaps he will not come at all. I am of opinion that it is of no consequence. He has fallen into such contempt that his presence will cause but little excitement. The Assembly seems decidedly separated into two parties: that of M. de la Fayette, and that of the Duc d'Orléans formerly called that of the Lameths. I say this because the public believes it; but, I myself am of opinion that they are not as ill together as they want it to appear. Whether that is so, or is not so, it seems that M. de la Fayette's party is much the more considerable; and that ought to be a good thing, because he is less sanguinary, and seems to wish to serve the king by consolidating the immortal work to which Target gave birth February 4, of this year 90. All the reflections you make on the stay of the king [in Paris] are very just; I have long been convinced of it. But nothing of all that will happen, unless Heaven takes part therein. Pray for that strongly, for we need it much.
To the Marquise de Raigecourt.
July 20, 1790.
Do not come here, my heart; all is calm, but you are better in the country; I do not need you for the week's service; your husband wishes you to stay with your sister-in-law; therefore as a submissive wife, do not stir.
Paris was in great disturbance yesterday, but to-night all is [Page 50] very quiet. The States-General are still issuing decrees that have not common-sense. I am anxious lest the little line I wrote you may bring you back; reassure me and tell me you are still at Marseille [the château de Marseille in Picardy]. Be at ease about your husband, your brother, and all who are dear to you; they run no risks, and will run none. Adieu; I kiss you with all my heart; I am very tranquil, and you can be so entirely.
To the Marquise de Montiers. 1
August 20, 1790.
I have received your letter, my dear child; it touched me very much; I have never doubted your feelings for me, but the signs you show of it give me great pleasure. It would have been infinitely agreeable to me to have seen you again this autumn, but I feel the position of your husband and I consent strongly to the plan he has formed of spending the winter in foreign countries. I will even own that your position makes me desire it; this country is tranquil, but from one moment to another it may be so no longer. You are too excitable to allow of your confinement in a place where from day to day an uprising is to be feared; your health could not resist it; moreover, with your disposition, recovery from confinement would be much more serious. Use all these reflections to aid you, my heart, in making the sacrifice that your husband's fortune and his position oblige you to make. If telling you that I approve of it can [Page 51] make you bear it better, I shall repeat it to you incessantly. But, my heart, what I cannot repeat to you too often, what I wish could be engraved upon your heart and mind, is that this is a decisive moment for your happiness and your reputation. You are about to be trusted to yourself in a foreign country, where you can receive no counsel but your own. Perhaps you will meet there Parisian men whose reputations are not very good; it is difficult in a foreign country not to receive one's compatriots, but do so with such prudence and regulate your actions with so much reason that no one can make talk about you.
Above all, my heart, seek to please your husband. Though you have never spoken to me about him, I know enough of him to know that he has good qualities, though he may also have some that do not please you so well. Make to yourself a law not to dwell upon those, and above all, not to let any one speak of them to you; you owe this to him, and you owe it to yourself. Try to fix his heart. If you possess it, you will always be happy. Make his house agreeable to him; let him find in it a wife eager to give him pleasure, interested in her duties and her children, and you will gain his confidence. If you once have that, you can do, with the intelligence that Heaven has given you and a little skill, all that you wish. But, dear child, above all sanctify your good qualities by loving God; practice your religion; you will find strength in that, a resource in all your troubles, and consolations that it alone can give. Ah! is there a happiness greater than that of being well with one's conscience? Preserve it, that happiness, and you will see that the tortures of life are little, indeed, compared to the tortures of those who give themselves up to all the passions.
Do not let the piety of your mother-in-law disgust you. [Page 52] There are persons to whom Heaven has not given the grace of knowing it in its true light; pray to Heaven to enlighten her. I am glad that your husband sees her defects, but I should be sorry if by jesting or otherwise, you made him remark upon them. Forgive, my dear heart, all this prating; but I love you too well not to say to you that which I think will be useful to your happiness. You tell me with the amiability of which you are so capable, that if you are worth anything in life you owe it to me; take care, that is encouraging me to tire you again.
Adieu, my heart; write me as often as you have the desire to do so. If you have need to open your heart, open it to me, and believe that you cannot do so to any one who loves you more tenderly than I.
I am forgetting to reply about M. d'A. Not being able, in view of the present position of my affairs to do anything for him just now, I desire you to tell the person who spoke to you to send you word if he should be in a more critical position; then, I will do what I possibly can. Say many things from me to your mother-in-law, to whom I will write before long.
To the Marquise de Raigecourt.
August 29, 1790.
Good-morning, my poor Raigecourt; here we are back at Saint-Cloud to my great satisfaction; Paris is fine, but in perspective; here I have the happiness of seeing as much of it as I wish; indeed, in my little garden I can scarcely see more than the sky. I no longer hear those villanous criers who, of late, not content with standing at the gates of the Tuileries, have roamed the gardens, that no one might fail to hear their infamies.
For the rest, if you want news of my little health I shall [Page 53] tell you that I still have torpor in my legs. 1 Still, if I may trust the symptoms of that horrid malady, I fancy the cure is at hand. But I have already been mistaken so many times, that I dare not flatter myself much; in fact, sincerely, I do not believe in it. Perhaps, if I had courage, I might even say I do not desire it; but you know that I am weak, and that I dread to expose myself to great pain . . . .
I am very impatient to get news of you, to know you are settled; I wish I could say happy, but that, I feel, is very difficult [Mme. de Raigecourt had just lost a little son]. Fortunately, you can give yourself up to devotion. That will be your consolation, your strength. Do not burden your spirit with scruples; that would insult God who has done you so many favours, and who deserves that you should go to him with the confidence of a child. Make use of the instructions you have received and of your rector's counsels to quiet the over-sensitiveness of your feelings towards God. . . . Yes, your soul is too sensitive: a trifle hurts it; God is more indulgent to his creatures; he knows our weakness, but in spite of it, he wants to crown us with all his favours, and, in return for so much kindness he asks for our confidence and our complete abandonment to his will. Ah! how, at this present moment do we need to repeat to ourselves that truth! You will often need to have recourse to him to fortify yourself; do not therefore put yourself in a position to be deprived of the divine nourishment. This is a real temptation which you ought to fight at its birth; if you let it make progress you will be very unhappy, you [Page 54] will offend God ceaselessly. Here am I preaching like the peasant to his priest! but when the public news worries me I fling myself into sermonizing.
October 24, 1790.
I have just received your second letter. Make ready to receive a reproach in my style. Tell me why you think yourself obliged to be always in violent states? That is bad judgment, my dear child. You will make yourself ill, and give your child an inevitable tendency towards melancholy. And why? because you are not in Paris or at Raigecourt, and because all the stories people tell you seem truths in your eyes. For pity's sake, do not do so. Put into the hands of Providence the fate of those who interest you, and rub your eyes very hard to prevent their seeing black! 1
As for news, I only know that infamous tales are still told of the queen. Among others, they say there is an intrigue with Mir [abeau], and that it is he who advises the king! My patient [the king] still has stiffness of the legs, and I am afraid it will attack the joints and there will be no cure for it. As for me, I submit myself to the orders of Providence. To each day its own evil. I shall await the last moment to fall into despair, and in that moment I hope I shall do nothing. . . . We are going to-morrow, H. and I, to Saint-Cyr, to feed a little on that celestial food, which does me much good.
November 3, 1790.
Well, my poor Rage, are you getting accustomed to the life you lead ? The late master of this place is being persecuted by his creditors who will end by killing all his friends [Page 55] with grief. Nothing that happens can decide him to part from his property: offers are made on all sides; nothing comes of them. What is to be done? we must pray to Providence to be with him.
Here we are back in Paris; if we knew how to profit by it I would not complain; but, as you know, the château of the Tuileries will be our habitual promenade. Well, as God wills; if I thought of myself only I do not know what I should prefer. Here I am more conveniently placed for my little devotions: but for walks and the gaiety of the place, Saint-Cloud is preferable; and then the neighbourhood of Saint-Cyr. On the other hand, the evenings were very long; you know I have a horror of lights, or rather they make me so sleepy that I cannot read long at a time. So on the whole I conclude that God arranges all for the best, and that I ought to be very glad to be here.
December 1, 1790.
Mon Dieu, my poor Raigecourt, what extraordinary thing have they been telling you? I puzzle my head to guess, and cannot do so. Nothing has happened here. We are still in perfect tranquillity, and I cannot conceive what you mean.
I have made a mistake of twenty-four hours as to the post-day, which is the reason this letter did not go by the last courier. You now know the decree about the clergy, and I can see from here, all that you are saying, all that you are thinking, how you are wringing your arms, and shutting your eyes, and saying, "Ah! God wills it; it is well, it is well, we must submit;" and then you do not submit any more than others. Do not go and think you do because you are so resigned at the first moment; my Raigecourt's head will heat; this reflection will agitate her, that fear will torture her; such a person runs risks, what will happen to [Page 56] him? will they force him to act against his duty and his conscience? etc., etc. And then, behold my Raigecourt beside herself, all the while saying: "My God, I offer you submission." Have the goodness, mademoiselle, not to torture yourself in that way. M. de Condorcet has decided that the Church is not to be persecuted because it would make the clergy interesting; and that, he says, would do an infinite injury to the Constitution. Therefore, my heart, no martyrdom, thank God, for I own that I have no fancy for that sort of death.
December 30, 1790.
I see persecution coming, being in mortal anguish at the acceptance that the king has just given. God reserved us this blow; may it be the last, and may he not suffer that schism be established: that is all I ask. But if the days of persecution do return, ah! I should ask of God to take me from this world, for I do not feel within me the courage to bear them. This acceptance [of the decree against the clergy] was given on Saint Stephen's day; apparently that blessed martyr is now to be our model Well, as you know, I am not afraid of stones; so that suits me. They say that seven of the rectors of Paris have taken the oath. I did not think the number would be so large. All this has a very bad effect on my soul; far from rendering me devout, it takes away from me all hope that God's anger will be appeased. Your rector decides to follow the law of the Gospel and not the one just made. I am told that a member of the Commune, wanting to persuade the rector of Sainte-Marguerite, said to him that the esteem felt for him, the preponderance that he had in the world, would do much to restore peace by influencing minds. To which he answered, "Monsieur, the reasons that you give me are the very ones that oblige me to refuse the oath and not act against my conscience." [Page 57]
May God not abandon us wholly; it is to that we must limit our hopes. I have no taste for martyrdom; but I feel that I should be very glad to have the certainty of suffering it rather than abandon one iota of my faith. I hope that if I am destined to it, God will give me strength. He is so good, so good! he is a Father, so concerned for the true welfare of his children that we ought to have all confidence in him. Were you not touched on the Epiphany with God's goodness in calling the Gentiles to him at that moment? Well, we are the Gentiles. Let us thank him well; let us be faithful to our faith; let us not lose from sight what we owe to him; and as to all the rest, let us abandon ourselves to him with true filial confidence.
February 15, 1791.
I am grieved at the unnecessary fear that M. de B. has caused you. We are still far from all those evils he has put into your head . . . . I am sorry to be so far from you and to be unable to talk as I would like to do; but, my heart, calm yourself. I know that that seems difficult, but it is necessary. You excite your blood; you make yourself more unhappy than you need be: all that, my heart, is not in the order of Providence. We must submit to God's decrees, and that submission must bring calmness. Otherwise, it is on our lips only, not in our heart. When Jesus Christ was betrayed, abandoned, it was only his heart which suffered from those outrages; his exterior was calm, and proved that God was really in him. We ought to imitate him, and God ought to be in us. Therefore, calm yourself, submit, and adore in peace the decrees of Providence, without casting your eyes upon a future which is dreadful to whose sees with human eyes alone. Happily, you are not in that case; God has crowned you with so many favours that you will apply your virtue to wait patiently for the end of his wrath. [Page 58]
As for me, I am not in your condition. I will not say that virtue is the cause of this; but in the midst of many troubles and anxieties, I am more within reach of consolations; I am calm, and I hope for a happy eternity . . . . As for what you say of me, believe, my heart, that I shall never fail in honour, and that I shall always know how to fulfil the obligations that my principles, my position, and my reputation impose upon me. I hope that God will give me the light necessary to guide me wisely, and to keep me from wandering from the path that he marks out for me. But to judge of all that, my heart, others must be near me. From a distance, a chivalrous act appears enchanting; seen near-by it is often found to be an act of vexation, or of some other feeling not worth more in the eyes of the wise and good.
March 2, 1791.
I have received your little letter. I do not think that the person of whom you speak ever had the intention towards others that is attributed to her. She has defects, but I never knew her to have that one. If D. [d'Artois] would break off his alliance with Calonne, by travelling in another direction, that would give pleasure, I am sure. As for me, I desire it eagerly for the good of one I love so well, and for whom, I own to you, I dread the intimacy with Calonne. Do not say this to the man you have seen, but you can send word of it under the greatest secrecy, to her whose ideas you approve, even for interested persons; I cannot myself enter into any explanation with them, and you would do me a kindness to take charge of this.
March 18, 1791.
I profit by the departure of M. de Chamisot to tell you many things. I am infinitely uneasy at the course my brother is about to take. I believe that the wise counsels that have been given him are not to be followed. The little [Page 59] unity, the little harmony that there is among the persons who ought to be bound together by an indissoluble tie, make me tremble. I wish I could see in all that only God's will; but I own to you that I often put self into it. I hope that M. de Firmont will make me attain, by his counsels, to that necessary point of safety. You will see from this that it is he whom I have chosen to take the place of the Abbé Madier in my confidence. I confessed yesterday, and I was perfectly content with him. He has intelligence, gentleness, a great knowledge of the human heart. I hope to find in him what I have long lacked to enable me to make progress in piety. Thank God for me, my heart, that he has thus, by a peculiar stroke of his providence, led me to M. de Firmont, and ask him to make me faithful in executing the orders he may give me through that organ.
I have no news to send you from here; all is much the same. The evil-minded amuse themselves at our expense. France is about to perish. God alone can save it. I hope he will.
Extract from a letter of the Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont
to a friend, published in his Memoirs. 1
Though a foreigner, and very little worthy to be distinguished by the princess, I soon became her friend. She gave me her unlimited confidence, but I was known to neither the king nor the queen. Nevertheless, they often heard me mentioned, and during the last period of their reign they several times expressed their surprise at the facility with which I was allowed to enter the palace, while around them there was nothing but surveillance and terror. It is a fact that I never saw the danger for what it really was; and while no other [Page 60] ecclesiastic could appear at Court unless completely disguised, I went there in open day, two or three times a week without changing my dress. In truth, when I remember those days of horror I am surprised at my courage, but I suppose that Providence blinded me to danger intentionally. Though my presence excited some murmurs among the guards, I never received the slightest insult from them. I continued thus until the fatal day of the arrest of the royal family. On the 9th of August, 1792–I remember it well!–Madame Élisabeth desired to see me, and I spent the greater part of the morning in her room, not imagining the scene of horror that was then being prepared for the next day.
To the Marquise de Raigecourt.
April 3, 1791.
Ah! my heart, you ought not to complain, your pregnancy has brought you great good luck in keeping you away from schism and these awful divisions . . . . I ask no better than to be godmother to your little one. If you like, I will give her the name of Hélène; and if you will be pleased to give birth to her at one o'clock in the morning of the 3rd of May [her own birthday and hour] it will be very well, provided it gives her a happier future than mine, where she will never hear of States-Generals or schisms.
Mirabeau has taken the course of going to see in another world if the Revolution is approved of there. Good God! what an awakening his will be. They say he saw his rector for an hour. He died tranquilly, believing himself poisoned; though he had no symptoms of it. They showed him to the people after his death; many were grieved; the aristocrats regret him much. For the last three months he had put himself on the right side, and they hoped in his talents. For my part, though very aristocratic, I cannot help regard- [Page 61] ing his death as a mercy of Providence to this country. I do not believe that it is by men without principles and without morals that God intends to save us. I keep this opinion to myself, as it is not policy–but I prefer a thousand times religious policy, and I am sure you will be of my opinion.
I counted on having the happiness to take the communion on Holy Thursday and at Easter; but circumstances will deprive me of it; I fear to cause disturbance in the château, and have it said that my devotion was imprudent; a thing that above all others I desire to avoid, because I have always thought it should be a means to make one's self loved. The rumour is spread about Paris that the king is going to-morrow to high-mass in the parish church; I cannot bring myself to believe it until he has actually been there. All-powerful God! what just punishment are you reserving for a people so misguided?
May 1, 1791.
I think the reflections you make are perfectly just; we ought to guard ourselves from extremes in all opinions. I am far from thinking that to be attached to those I love forms an exclusive claim to put them in offices . . . I think it needs perfect equality in merit, or some great distinction to give a veritable claim to preference. In all things I want justice alone to guide my choice; I will even go further and say that I want it to carry the day over any desire I may have to prefer one person to another person, and that friendship should yield to it. A disinterested friendship is the only kind that touches me (yours is that, and therefore I can speak thus freely to you). I feel that in my position (of other days) my influence was employed to obtain favours, and I lent myself to it too zealously. [Page 62]
May 18, 1791.
I have received your letter; it gives me great pleasure in spite of its gloom. Believe, my heart, that I am less unhappy than you imagine; my vivacity sustains me, and in crucial moments God overwhelms me with kindness. I suffered much in Holy Week, but that over, I have calmed myself . . . The more the moment approaches, 1 the more I become, like you, incredulous. Nevertheless the news my brother receives is satisfactory. Every one says that the principalities [German States] are interested for us. I desire it eagerly, perhaps too eagerly . . . . It seems to me that our Court is rather badly informed as to the policy of the cabinets of Europe. I do not know if they distrust us, or whether we have flattered ourselves too much. I own to you that if I see the end of this month arrive with no appearance of anything, I shall have need of great resignation to the will of God, to bear the thought of passing another summer like that of 1790; and all the more because things have grown much worse since then; religion is weakened, and those who were attached to us have left for other countries where it still exists. What will become of this one, if Heaven be not merciful! . . .
We take so few precautions that I believe we shall be here when the first drum beats. If things are managed wisely I do not think there will be much danger; but up to this moment, I do not see clear to bid farewell to my dear country. Nevertheless, I would not answer that it may not happen some day, when no one thinks of it. Lastic, Tily, Sérent, [her ladies] they will all be gone within a month, forced away by circumstances; would that I were gone too! I am [Page 63] not sustained by your fine zeal; I feel the need of addressing myself to some one who will shake (as you call it) my soul. I see that, perfect as I thought myself, I should have had to spend at least some centuries in purgatory if Providence had not interfered. Happily it has sent me a confessor gentle without being weak, educated, enlightened, knowing me already better than I do myself, and who will not let me stay in my languor. But it is now, my little one, that I need prayers; for if I do not profit by this mercy I shall have a terrible account to render. I regret I did not know him earlier, and if I have to leave him soon it will be a great disappointment.
June 29, 1791. 1
I hope, my heart, that your health is good, and that it does not suffer from the situation of your friend. Hers is excellent; you know that her body is never conscious of the sensations of her soul. This latter is not what it should be towards its Creator, the indulgence of God is its only hope of mercy. I neither can nor will I enter into details as to all that concerns me; let it suffice you to know that I am well, that I am tranquil, that I love you with all my heart, and that I will write to you soon–if I can.
July 9, 1791.
I have just received from you the tiniest letter it is possible to see; but it gives me great pleasure because you send me word that Hélène and you are both well; try to have it last. For that reason do not think of coming here. No, my heart, the shocks to the soul are less dangerous where you are than in Paris. Stay there until minds are calmer than they are now. What should I [Page 64] do if anything happened here and you were here, too? I should be doubly unhappy, for with your acute sensibility your milk would flow into your blood, and you would be very ill.
Paris is tranquil in appearance. They say that minds are in fermentation. But, in fact, I know nothing. There is some excitement,–to-day the women of one of the clubs came to present a petition which the Assembly would not receive. They said they would return to-morrow. The petition is to be read at the opening of the Assembly; I think it demands that there shall be no longer a king. It seems to me impossible to foresee the action of the Assembly. Duport, Lameth, Barnave, Dandré, La Fayette, are for the monarchy, but I do not know if they can carry the day.
I have been very unhappy, my heart; I am still, especially in not being able to get sure news from foreign countries. I was able to see my abbé yesterday; I talked very deeply with him and that wound me up again. At present I suffer much less than you would do in my place; therefore be tranquil about me. Try to discover if a staff-officer named Goguelat, escaped with M. de Bouillé; we are uneasy about him.
Ah! my heart, pray for me, but especially for the salvation of those who may be the victims of all this. If I were sure about that, I should not suffer so much; I could say to myself that an eternity of happiness awaits them. Collect for this prayer all the souls you know; some are more interested than others, and have certainly thought of this. What troubles each individual is enduring! More fortunate than some, I have this week resumed my usual way of life, but my soul is far from being able to take pleasure in it. Yet I am calm, and if I did not fear more for others than for myself, it seems to me that I could support with ease [Page 65] my position, which, though I am not a prisoner, is nevertheless annoying. Adieu, my heart; I love and kiss you tenderly.
To the Abbé de Lubersac. 1
July 29, 1791.
I have just received your letter. I hope, monsieur, that you do not doubt the interest with which I have read it. Your health seems to me less bad: but I fear that the last news you will have received from this country will make too keen an impression on you. More than ever is one tempted to say that a feeling heart is a cruel gift. Happy he who can be indifferent to the woes of his country, and of all that he holds most dear! I have experienced how desirable that state is for this world, and I live in the hope that the contrary will be useful in the other. Nevertheless, I own to you that I am far from the resignation I desire to have. Abandonment to the will of God is so far only on the surface of my mind. Still, having been for nearly a month in a violent state, I am beginning to return to my usual condition; events seem to be calming down and that has caused it. God grant that this may last awhile and that Heaven will pity us. You cannot imagine how fervent souls are redoubling their zeal. Surely Heaven cannot be deaf to so many prayers, offered with such trustfulness. It is from the heart of Jesus that they seem to await the favours of which they are in need; the fervour of this devotion appears to redouble; the more our woes increase, the more those prayers are offered up. All the communities are making them; but indeed the whole world ought to unite to petition Heaven. Unhappily, [Page 66] it is much easier to speak strongly as to this than to execute it; I feel this constantly, and it angers me instead of humiliating me.
You ask me for my advice on the project you have formed. If you wish me to speak to you frankly, I shall say that I would not, if I were you, take the subject you have chosen. We are still too corrupted for the virtues in which many persons do not believe at all to have much effect. It would be impossible for me to give you any information upon it, for I possess none. But I believe that if you have the desire to write, all subjects of Christian morality would be well treated by you; and if you are willing that I should still further give you my opinion I shall say that, if I were you, I would choose a subject strong in reason rather than in sentiment; it is more suited to the situation in which your soul now is. Remember, in reading this, that you wished me to say to you what I think; and do not doubt, I entreat you, the perfect esteem I have for you, or the pleasure your letters give me.
To the Marquise de Bombelles.
July 10, 1791.
I have received your little letter, dear Bombe; I answer it in the same way. Though we differ in opinion the signs it contains of friendship give me great pleasure. You know I am always sensitive to that, and you can imagine that in a moment like this friendship has become a thousand-fold more precious to me . . . . Paris and the king are still in the same position; the former tranquil, the second guarded and not lost sight of a moment, and so is the queen. Yesterday a species of camp was established under their windows, for fear they might jump into the garden which is hermetically closed and full of sentinels; among them two or three under [Page 67] my windows. Adieu, my heart, I kiss you tenderly, as well as your little one. They say that the affair of the king will be reported on soon, and that he will then be set at liberty. The law against the émigrés is very severe; they forfeit three-fifths of their property. (The end of this letter is written in "white ink.")
No, my heart, I am very far from permitting your return. It is not, assuredly, that I should not be charmed to see you, but because I am convinced that you would not be safe here. Preserve yourself for happier times, when we may perhaps enjoy in peace the friendship that unites us. I have been very unhappy; I am less so. If I saw an end to all this I could more easily endure what is taking place; but now is the time to give ourselves wholly into the hands of God–a thing that indeed the Comte d'Artois ought to do. We ought to write to him and urge it. Our masters wish it. I do not think it will influence him.
Our journey with Barnave and Pétion went on most ridiculously. You believe, no doubt, that we were in torture; not at all. They behaved well, especially the first, who has much intelligence and is not ferocious as people say. I began by showing them frankly my opinion as to their actions, and after that we talked for the rest of the journey as if we ignored the whole thing. Barnave saved the gardes du corps who were with us and whom the National guards wanted to massacre.
September 8, 1791.
The Constitution is in the hands of the king since Saturday, and he is reflecting on the answer he will make. Time will tell us what he decides upon in his wisdom. We must ask the Holy Spirit to give him of its gifts; he has great need of them. [Page 68]
I wish I had something amusing to tell you, but we do not abound in that commodity; all the more because the price of bread is rising and makes us fear many riots this winter, not counting those with which the autumn threatens us. It is very sad, and there is no way to make ourselves illusions because the Assembly itself speaks of them, the riots, as an evil it expects. It is true that the strength given by the love of liberty is very reassuring, and patriotism can easily take the place of order and the subordination of troops . . . .
Yes, my heart, I wish I could transport myself near you. How sweet it would be to me! But Providence has placed me where I am; it is not I who chose it; Providence keeps me here and to that I must submit. We are still quite tranquil. A letter has appeared from the Prince, and a declaration from the emperor and the King of Prussia [at Pillnitz]. The letter is strong, but the other is not. Yet some persons think they see the heavens opening. As for me I am not so credulous; I lift my hands to heaven and ask that God will save us from useless evils. You will do the same, I think.
To the Marquise de Raigecourt.
September 12, 1791.
At last I have an opportunity to write to you; I am charmed, for I have a hundred thousand things to say; but I do not know where to begin; besides, I do not want to have to render an account of this letter in the next world, for, just now, charity is a difficult virtue to put in practice.
I begin by telling you that the Constitution is not yet signed, but it is safe to wager that it will be by the time this letter reaches you, perhaps before I close it, even. Is it a good, is it an evil? Heaven alone knows which it is. Many persons think, from their point of view, that they are certain about it. [Page 69] I am in no way called upon to give my advice, or even to speak of the matter. I am still floating as to the view to take; there are so many fors and ifs and buts to be considered that I remain uncertain. One must see all things very near to judge; these are too far-off to be able to bring them enough into one's thoughts to fix one's ideas.
To speak to you a little of myself, I will tell you that I am about what you have always seen me; rather gay, though there are moments when my position makes me feel keenly; nevertheless, on the whole, I am more calm than agitated or anxious, as you certainly fancy I am. The knowledge you have of my nature will make you understand what I say. The life I lead is about the same. We go to mass at midday; dine at half-past one. At six I return to my own apartments; at half-past seven the ladies come; at half-past nine we sup. They play billiards after dinner and after supper, to make the king take exercise. At eleven everybody goes to bed, to begin again on the morrow. Sometimes I regret my poor Montreuil, especially when the weather is warm and fine; there may come a time, perhaps, when we shall all be there again; what happiness I should then feel! but everything tells me that moment is very far-off; we are walking on a quicksand.
One thing alone affects me deeply. It is that they are trying to put coldness into a family whom I love sincerely.1 Consequently, as you are in the way of seeing a person who might have some influence, I wish you would talk to him in private and fill him with the idea that all will be lost if the son should have other ideas for the future than those of confidence and submission to the orders of the father. All [Page 70] views, all ideas, all feelings ought to yield to that. You must feel, yourself, how necessary this is. To speak quite clearly: remember the position of that unfortunate father; events which prevent him from any longer managing his own estate throw him into the arms of his son. That son has always had as you know, a perfect conduct towards his father, in spite of all that has been done to make him quarrel with his mother-in-law. He always resisted it. I do not think it made him bitter, because he is incapable of bitterness; but I fear that those who are now allied with him may give him bad advice. The father is nearly well; his affairs are recovering; he may shortly take back the management of his estate, and that is the moment that I fear. The son, who sees the advantages of leaving them in the hands in which they now are, will hold to that idea; the mother-in-law will never allow it; and this struggle must be averted by making the young man feel that, even for his personal interests, he ought not to put forward that opinion, and so avoid placing himself in a painful position.
I wish therefore that you would talk this over with the person I indicated, and make him enter into my meaning (without telling him I have spoken thus) by making him believe the idea is his own, and then he will more readily communicate it. He ought to feel better than any one the rights of the father over his sons, for he has long experienced it. I wish also that he could persuade the young man to be a little more gracious to his mother-in-law, if only by the charm a man can employ when he chooses, and thus convince her that he wants to see her what she has always been. In this way he would avoid much vexation and could enjoy in peace the friendship and confidence of his father. But you know very well that it is only by talking tranquilly to that person, without closing the eyes [Page 71] or lengthening the face, that you can make him feel what I say. For that you must be convinced yourself. Therefore, read my letter over again, try to understand it thoroughly, and start from that to do my commission. They will tell you harm of the mother-in-law; but the sole means of preventing that from becoming a reality is the one I tell you. The young man made a blunder in not allying himself with a friend of the said lady. If no one speaks to you of this do not mention it.
P.S. I knew it! here is the Constitution settled and accepted in a letter which you will certainly hear of soon. In reading it, you will know all that I think of it, therefore I will say no more. I have much anxiety as to the results. I wish I could be in all the cabinets of Europe. The conduct of Frenchmen becomes difficult. One single thing supports me, it is the joy of knowing that those gentlemen are out of prison. 1 I go to the Assembly at midday, to follow the queen; were I mistress of myself, I certainly would not go. But, I do not know how it is, all this does not cost me as much as it does others, though assuredly I am far from being constitutional. M. de Choiseul came out of prison to-day, the others yesterday. Adieu; give me, in white ink, all the news you know, but try to have it true. That about the imperial troops does not please me. What is said in your region? The colonies are not to be subjected to the decrees. Barnave spoke with such force that he carried the day. That man has much talent; he has intellect, he might have been a great man had he willed it; he may still be one; but heaven's anger is not over. How should it be? what are we doing to make it so? [Page 72]
October 4, 1791.
They say there is to be a congress at Aix-la-Chapelle; they even quote an extract of a letter from Maréchal de Broglie saying positively that the emperor has received answers from all the other Courts, adhering to the declaration of Pillnitz, and that in consequence their ministers and ambassadors are to assemble at Aix-la-Chapelle. God grant it may be so! Then, indeed, we might have a hope of seeing our evils at an end. But this slow progress demands great prudence, much union of wills; to this all our desires should tend. I own to you that this position works upon my mind more than it should. I am pursued in my prayers with counsels that I want to give; I am very discontented with myself; I wish to be calm–but that will come.
October 12, 1791.
Very happy news is being spread here. The emperor has, they say, recognized the National flag; thus, all fears are calmed. It must be owned that in the eyes of the centuries, present and future, such pacific moderation will have a superb effect. Already I see histories relating it with enthusiasm, the people blessing it for their happiness, peace reigning in my hapless country, constitutional religion fully established, philosophy enjoying its work, and we, poor Roman-apostolicals, moaning and hiding ourselves; for if this Assembly is not driven out by the Parisians, things will be terrible for non-conformists. But, my heart, God is master of all; let us work to save ourselves; let us pray for the evil-doers, and not imitate them; God will reward us how and when he will.All is tranquil here, but who knows how long it will last? I think it may last long, because the people, meeting with no resistance, have no reason for excitement. The [Page 73] king is at this moment the object of public adoration; you cannot form an idea of the uproar there was on Saturday night at the Italian comedy; but we must wait and see how long such enthusiasm will last.
I do not number my letters any longer, because I burned all the papers I did not care to have read on my return here.
I think, as you do, that the young man of whom you speak [Comte de'Artois] will never be happy in his family; but I do not think that his mother-in-law is altogether the cause of it; I think he is tricked by the old fox [Comte de Mercy] who is the intimate friend of her brother. If the young man did wisely he would try to win him over, but there are so many conflicting interests to defeat it! What is greatly to be feared is that the mother-in-law should be as much the fox's victim as any one.
An extraordinary thing has happened within a day or two; a corporal took it upon himself to lock the king and queen into their rooms from nine o'clock at night till nine the next morning. This went on two days before it was discovered. The guard is furious, and there is to be a council of war. By rules, the corporal ought to be hanged; but I do not think he will be, and I should be sorry for it. The rumour in Paris is that the king is under arrest.
No doubt you read the newspapers, therefore I give you no news when I tell you that the decree on the priests passed yesterday, with all possible severity. It was taken to the king in spite of its unconstitutional faults. At the same time there came a deputation of, I believe, twenty-four members, to beg the king to take steps towards the Powers inviting them to prevent the great assemblages of émigrés, or else to declare war against them. In their speech they assured the king that Louis XIV. would not [Page 74] have suffered such assemblages. What do you think of that?–a pretty thing of them to talk in these days of Louis XIV., "that despot!"
To the Marquise de Bombelles.
November 8, 1791.
Do you know, my Bombe, that if I did not rely on your friendship, your indulgence, I should be rather ashamed of the long time since I have written to you. But it was to do better that I did wrong. I wanted to write you a long letter and I never have found time. Your mother wrote you a week ago, so that you know that all with us is still standing, and that, in spite of the blasphemies they never cease to vomit against God and his ministers, the skies have not yet fallen upon us . . . . [The rest is in white ink. ]
At last they feel here the necessity of drawing closer to Coblentz [the headquarters of the princes and émigrés ]. Some one is to be sent from here who will remain there, and will be in correspondence with the Baron de Breteuil. 1 But I feel one fear as to this step; I am afraid it is taken only [Page 75] to stop rash enterprises, which are much to be dreaded, and not to bring about deserved confidence. Yet, if that confidence does not exist what will happen? We shall be the dupe of all the Powers of Europe. I hope your husband will urge the Baron de Breteuil to enter sincerely into this new order of things. Here we are at the gates of winter; this is the moment for negotiation; they might have a happy issue, but only if done with harmony of action. If that does not exist, remember what I tell you: in the spring, either the most dreadful civil war will be established in France, or each province will set up its own master. Do not think that the policy of Vienna is disinterested; it is far short of that. Austria never forgets that Alsace once belonged to her. All the other Powers are very glad to have a reason to leave us in a state of humiliation. Think of the time that has passed since our return from Varennes! Did those events stir the emperor? Has he not been the first to show uncertainty as to what he would do? To believe, as many persons assert, that it is the queen who holds him back, seems to me devoid of sense, and almost a crime. But I do permit myself to think that the policy pursued towards that Power has not been conducted with sufficient skill. If that is so, I think there is some blame; but it would be unpardonable if, after the decree given yesterday against the émigrés, the present danger were not felt. Judge by the quantity of Frenchmen who are over there how impossible it will be to restrain them; and what will become of France and her king if they take such a course without foreign help? Reflect on all this, my Bombe; and if your husband sees there is real danger that . . . [the paper is torn at this place ] . . . or that he urges his friend to act in good faith; I expect that at first the man sent to Coblentz will meet with some difficulties; but he must not be alarmed; speaking in the king's name [Page 76] and putting no inflexibility into his manner of maintaining his opinion while arguing it well, he will lead the others.
Adieu; let me know that you receive this letter; if your husband takes any steps towards the baron he must not let him know that I asked it, or that I have even written to you on the subject.
To the Comte d'Artois.
February 19, 1792.
You know, my dear brother, what my friendship is for you, and how I rejoice to hear of your well-being. I believe, I who am here on the spot, that you are unjust towards that person; you have not at bottom a better friend. I pray God that he will shed upon you his blessing and his light, and you will then judge better. This estrangement is on all sides a calamity and a suffering; for it casts shadows where friendship ought to shine. I will write to you more at length by the opportunity you know of, and I will prove to you that you will never find a truer, tenderer, more devoted friend than I am to you.
To the Marquise de Raigecourt.
February 22, 1792.
I will see, my heart, when my purse is a little less empty, what I can do for those good and saintly Fathers of the sacred Valley [La Trappe]. What a life is theirs! how we ought to blush in comparing it with ours! But perhaps a part of those saints have not as many sins to expiate as we have. What ought to console us is that God does not require from everybody what he does from them, and that, provided we are faithful in the little we do, he is content.
The queen and her children were at the theatre last night, where the audience made an infernal uproar of applause. The Jacobins tried to make a disturbance, but they were [Page 77] beaten. The others called for the repetition four times of the duet between the valet and the maid in "Événements imprévus," in which they tell of the love they feel for their master and mistress; and at the passage where they say, "We must make them happy," the greater part of the audience cried out, "Yes, yes"–Can you conceive of our nation? It must be owned, it has its charming moments. On which, good-night. Your sister spent a happy day lately at the "Calvaire." Vive la Liberté! As for me, who enjoy as much as I can of it for the last three years, I envy the fate of those who can turn their steps where they will; if I could only spend a few calm days it would do me great good. It is a year since I have dared to go to Saint-Cyr.
To the Comte d'Artois.
February 22, 1792.
Your last letter was brought to me this morning, my dear brother, and I have been made very happy by finding it less bitter than the one that preceded it. Nevertheless, I promised to add a few words to one I wrote you three days ago, and I am too sincerely your friend not to do so.
I think that the son has too much severity towards his mother-in-law. She has not the faults for which he blames her. I think she may have listened to suspicious advice; but she bears the evils that overwhelm her with strong courage; and she should be pitied far more than blamed, for she has good intentions. She tries to fix the vacillations [incertitudes ] of the father, who, to the misfortune of the family, is no longer master, and–I know not if God wills that I deceive myself, but–I greatly fear that she will be one of the first victims of what is taking place, and my heart is too wrung with that presentiment to allow me to blame her. [Page 78]
God is good; he will not suffer discord to continue in a family to which unity and a good understanding would be so useful. I shudder when I think of it; it deprives me of sleep, for discord will kill us all. You know the difference in habits and societies that your sister had always had with the mother-in-law; in spite of that she feels drawn to her when she sees her unjustly accused, and when she looks the future in the face. It is very unfortunate that the son has not been willing, or perhaps able, to win over the intimate friend of the mother-in-law's brother [Comte de Mercy]. That old fox is tricking her; and the son ought to have taken the duty upon himself, if possible, and made the sacrifice of being on terms with him in order to foil him and prevent an evil which has now become alarming. Of two evils, the least. All men of his sort frighten me; they have intellect, but what good is it to them? Heart is needed as well, and they have none. They have nothing but intrigue; into which it is unfortunate that they drag so many persons. Others should have been more shrewd than they . . . .
The idea of the emperor racks me: if he makes war upon us there will be an awful explosion. May God watch over us! He has heavily laid his hand on this kingdom in a visible manner. Let us pray to him, my dear brother; he alone knows hearts, in him alone is our worthy hope. I have passed this Lent in asking him to look with pity upon us, and to arrange these matters in the family I love so much. I have that so deeply at heart that I would consecrate my life to asking it on my two knees, if that would make me worthy of being heard. It is only God who can change our fate, make the vertigo of this nation (good at bottom) cease, and restore it to health and peace. Adieu–what was it you asked me? how I pass my time? what are my occupations? whether I ride on horseback? whether I [Page 79] still go to Saint-Cyr? I scarcely dare for a whole year past to do my duties. I kiss you with all my heart. Miserere nobis.
To the Marquise de Raigecourt.
April 6, 1792.
As I do not wish you to scold me, I write on Holy Thursday, but only a little line. The King of Sweden is assassinated! Every one has his turn. He had incredible courage. We do not yet know if he is dead; but it is likely that he is from the way the pistol was loaded. Adieu, my heart; when you wean the baby I will busy myself in finding you a lodging in the château, for yours has been given to others.
April 18, 1792.
You think perhaps we are still in the agitation of the fête at Châteauvieux; not at all; everything is very tranquil. The people flocked to see Dame Liberty tottering on her triumphal car, but they shrugged their shoulders. Three or four hundred sans-culottes followed her shouting: "The Nation! Liberty! The Sans-Culottes!" It was all very noisy, but flat. The National guards would not mingle; on the contrary, they were angry, and Pétion, they say, is ashamed of his conduct. The next day a pike with a bonnet rouge walked about the garden, without shouting, and did not stay long.
The King of Sweden died with much courage. What a pity that he was not Catholic; he would have been a true hero. His country seems tranquil. Adieu, my heart.
June 23, 1792.
For three days before the 20th a great commotion was felt to exist in Paris, but it was thought that all necessary pre- [Page 80] cautions were taken to ward off danger. Wednesday morning the courtyards and garden were full of troops. At midday we heard that the faubourg Saint-Antoine was on the march; it bore a petition to the Assembly, and did not propose to cross the Tuileries. Fifteen hundred persons filed into the Assembly; few National guards and some Invalids, the rest were sans-culottes and women. Three municipal officers came to ask the king to allow the troops to enter the garden, saying that the Assembly was hampered by the crowd, and the passages so incumbered that the doors might be forced. The king told them to arrange with the commandant to defile along the terrace of the Feuillants and go out by the gate of the riding-school.
Shortly after this the other gates of the garden were opened in spite of these orders. Soon the garden was filled. The pikes began to defile in order under the terrace in front of the château where there were three lines of National guards. They went out by the gate to the Pont Royal and seemed to intend to pass through the Carrousel on their way back to the faubourg Saint-Antoine. At three o'clock they showed signs of wishing to force the gate of the grand courtyard. Two municipal officers opened it. The National Guard, which had not been able to obtain any orders since the morning, had the sorrow of seeing them cross the courtyard without being able to bar the way. The department had given orders to repulse force by force, but the municipality paid no attention to this.
We were, at this moment, at the king's window. The few persons who were with his valet de chambre came and joined us. The doors were closed. A moment later we heard raps. It was Acloque with a few grenadiers and volunteers whom he had collected. He asked the king to show himself, alone. The king passed into the first antechamber. There M.
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Louis XVI Duplessis
At the moment when the king passed into the antechamber the persons attached to the queen forced her to go into her son's room. More fortunate than she, no one tore me from the king's side. The queen had scarcely gone when the door was burst in by the pikes. The king, at that instant, mounted one of the coffers which stand in the windows. The Maréchal de Mouchy, MM. d'Hervilly, Acloque, and a dozen grenadiers surrounded him. I stood against the wall with the ministers, M. de Marcilly, and some National guards around me. The pikes entered the chamber like a thunderbolt; they looked for the king, especially one of them, who used the most dangerous language. A grenadier turned aside his weapon, saying, "Unhappy man! This is your king." All the grenadiers then began to shout Vive le Roi! The rest of the pikes responded mechanically to the cry; the chamber was filled in less time than I can tell it, the pikes demanding the sanction, and the dismissal of the ministers. 1
During four hours the same shouts were repeated. Members of the Assembly came. M. Verginiaud and Isnard spoke well to the people; told them they did wrong to demand the king's sanction thus, and urged them to withdraw; but it was as if they did not speak at all. At last Pétion and the municipality arrived. The first harangued the people, and after praising the "dignity" and "order" with which they had come, he invited them to retire with "the same calm- [Page 82] ness," in order that they might not be reproached for committing excess at "a civic fête." At last the populace began to depart.
I forgot to tell you that, shortly after the crowd entered, the grenadiers made a space and kept the people from pressing on the king. As for me, I had mounted the window-seat on the side towards the king's room. A great number of persons attached to the king had come to him that morning; but he sent them orders to go away, fearing another 18th of April. I should like to express myself as to that, but not being able to do so, I will simply say that I shall recur to it. All that I say now is that he who gave the order did well, and that the conduct of the others was perfect.
But to return to the queen, who I left dragged against her will to my nephew's room; they had carried the latter so quickly into hiding that she did not see him on entering his apartment. You can imagine her despair. But M. Huë, usher, and M. Saint-Vincent were with him and soon brought him to her. She did everything possible to return to the king, but MM. de Choiseul and d'Haussonville, also those of our ladies who were there, prevented it. A moment later, they heard the doors burst in, all but one which the people did not find. Meantime the grenadiers had entered the Council Chamber, and there they placed her, with her children, behind the Council table. The grenadiers and other attached persons surrounded her, and the populace defiled before her. One woman put a bonnet rouge upon her head, also on that of my nephew. The king had worn one from almost the first moment. Santerre, who conducted the procession, harangued her, and told her they deceived her by saying that the people did not love her. He assured her she had nothing to fear. "We fear nothing," she replied, [Page 83] "when we are with brave men." So saying, she stretched out her hand to the grenadiers who were near her, and they fell upon it. It was very touching.
The deputies who came, came with good-will. A true deputation arrived which requested the king to return to his own room. I was told of this, and not being willing to stay behind in the crowd, I left about an hour before he did, and rejoined the queen. You can judge with what joy I embraced her, though I was then ignorant of the risks she had run. The king returned to his room, and nothing could be more touching than the moment when the queen and his children threw themselves into his arms. The deputies who were there burst into tears. The deputations relieved each other every half-hour until quiet was completely restored. They were shown the violences that had been committed. They behaved very well in the apartment of the king, who was perfect to them. At ten o'clock the château was empty, and every one went to bed.
The next day, the National Guard, after expressing the greatest grief at its hands being bound, and having had before its eyes, helplessly, all that had taken place, obtained an order from Pétion to fire, of necessary. At seven o'clock it was said that the faubourgs were marching, and the Guard put itself under arms with the greatest zeal. Deputies of the Assembly came with good-will and asked the king to let the Assembly come to him, if he thought there was danger. The king thanked them. You will see their dialogue in the newspapers, also the one with Pétion, who came to tell the king that the crowd was only a few persons who wanted to plant a May tree.
At this moment we are tranquil. The arrival of M. de la Fayette from the army creates a little excitement in people's minds. The Jacobins are sleeping. These are the details of [Page 84] the 20th of June. Adieu; I am well; I kiss you, and I am thankful you are not here in the fray.
To the Abbé de Lubersac.
June 25, 1792.
This letter will be rather long on its way; but I prefer not to let this opportunity of talking with you pass. I am convinced that you will feel almost as keenly as ourselves the blow that has just been struck us; it is all the more dreadful because it lacerates the heart, and takes away our peace of mind. The future seems an abyss, from which we can only issue by a miracle of Providence. Do we deserve it? At that question I feel my courage fail me. Which of us can expect the answer, "Yes, you deserve it"? All suffer, but alas! none are penitent, none turn their hearts to God. As for me, what reproaches I have to make to myself! Swept along by the whirlwind of misfortune I have not asked of God the grace we need; I have relied on human help; I have been more guilty than others, for who has been as much as I the child of Providence? But it is not enough to recognize our faults; we must repair them. I cannot alone. Monsieur, have the charity to help me. Ask of God, not a change which it may please him to send us when, in his wisdom, he thinks suitable, but let us limit ourselves and ask him only to enlighten and touch all hearts, and especially to speak to two most unhappy beings, who would be more unhappy still if God did not call them to him. Alas! the blood of Jesus Christ flowed for them as much as for the solitary hermit who mourns for trivial faults incessantly. Say to God often, "If thou wilt, thou canst cure them," and give to him the glory of it. God knows the remedies to be applied.
I am sorry to write to you in so gloomy a style; but my [Page 85] heart is so dark that it is difficult for me to speak otherwise. Do not think from this that my health suffers; no, I am well; and God has given me grace to keep my gaiety. I earnestly hope that your health may be restored; I wish I could know that it was better; but how can one hope that with your sensibilities? Let us think that there is another life where we shall be amply compensated for the troubles of this one; and let us live in the hope of meeting there once more–but not until after we have the pleasure of seeing each other again in this world; for, in spite of my excessive gloom, I cannot believe that all is hopeless. Adieu, monsieur; pray for me, I beg of you, after having prayed for those others, and send me news of yourself at times; it is a consolation to me.
To the Marquise de Raigecourt.
July 8, 1792.
It would really require all the eloquence of Mme. De Sévigné to describe what happened yesterday; for it is, indeed, the most surprising thing, the most extraordinary, the grandest, the pettiest, etc., etc. Happily, experience aids comprehension. In short, behold the Jacobins, the Feuillants, the Republicans, the Monarchists, all abjuring their discords, and, uniting beneath the immovable arch of the Constitution and Liberty, promising one another very sincerely to walk together, laws in hand, and never to deviate from them! Happily, the month of August is approaching, when, its foliage being fully developed, the tree of liberty will offer a safer shade. The city is tranquil and will be so during the Federation. I tremble lest there be no religious ceremonies; you know my taste for them. Ask of God, my heart, that he will give me strength and counsel. Adieu; I embrace and love you with all my heart. [Page 86]
July 11, 1792.
Our good patriots in the Assembly have just, my heart, declared the country to be in danger, in view of the conduct of the kings of Hungary and Prussia (not to speak of others) towards poor peaceable beings like us; for why should any one blame us? However that may be, the nation is about to rise as one man.
Our ministers have taken the course of resigning, all six at once; which astonishes many persons,–all the more because their determination was sudden and confided to no one. I had attached myself to two of them, and you will agree that that was hardly worth while.
Our Federation is making ready quietly. A few Federals are already here; they do not come in troops as they did two years ago, but gradually. I have just seen some disembarking, and they have not an elegant appearance.
Adieu; I kiss you with all my heart, and I beg of you the favour of not fretting because you are not here; the reasons are good why you should stay where you are, and you must think of the matter no longer.
July 18, 1792.
Your prayers, unworthy as you pretend they are, brought us good fortune, my heart; the famous day of the 14th [fête of the Federation] passed off tranquilly. There was much shouting of Vive Pétion! And the Sans Culottes! As we returned the whole guard which accompanied the king never ceased shouting, Vive le roi! they were all heart and soul for us; that did good. Since then Paris is very calm. They have just sent away three regiments and two battalions of the Swiss Guards to the camp at Soissons.
I am well, my heart, except for the heat, which is scarcely endurable just now. We had a frightful storm the night [Page 87] before last; it lasted an immense time; the lightning fell upon the gardens at Versailles. Adieu, my heart; my letters must tire you; I think that before long you will not have patience to read them; but how can I help it? I do not know what to tell you. I kiss you with all my heart.
To the Abbé de Lubersac.
July 22, 1792.
You will soon receive a letter from me which is a perfect jeremiad. From its style one would think I had foreseen what was to follow. I do not wish you to think, monsieur, that that is my habitual state. No, God grants me the grace to be quite otherwise; but at times my heart has need to let itself go, and I must speak of the agitations that fill it; it seems as if, by giving relaxation to the nerves, they gained more strength. You, who are more sensitive than others, must feel this need.
Since the dreadful day of the 20th we are more tranquil; but we do not the less need the prayers of saintly souls. Let those who, sheltered from the storm, feel only, so to speak, its repercussion, lift their hearts to God. Yes, God has given them the favour to live in quiet that they may make use of their freedom. Those on whom the storm lowers meet at times with such shocks that it is difficult to [Page 88] practise the great resource–that of prayer. Happy the heart of whoso can feel in the great agitations of this world that God is with it! happy the saints who, pierced by stabs, can yet praise God in every moment of their day! Ask that grace, monsieur, for those who are feeble and little faithful like me; it would be a true work of charity to do.
My aunt thanks me often for making her know you [the Abbé de Lubersac was with Madame Victoire in Rome]. It seems to me very simple that she should be pleased, and I think myself fortunate to have procured for her that advantage–or, to speak more truly, to have been one of the instruments that God has used for that work of salvation. I will not say as to that all that I think; but I am very glad to be able to speak of it to you in order that you may put your shyness more to one side, if you are still a victim to it–I can use that expression, for shyness is a real affliction.
Paris is in some fermentation; but there exists a God who watches over the city and its inhabitants. Therefore be tranquil. I wish I could think that the great heats will not make you suffer; but that is difficult. Adieu, monsieur, I hope that you do not forget me before God, and that you are convinced of the esteem I have for you.
To the Marquise de Raigecourt
July 25, 1792.
Good-day, my Raigecourt. Your Hélène must be a jewel. I do not doubt it, but I am charmed to hear it; though I should be still more charmed, I assure you, if I could see her instead of believing what you say of her. But patience! your health, I hope, will not be long in getting strong, and then you might soon come and join me. What a fine moment, my heart, will that be! we shall have bought it by a very long parting. But there is an end to all things. I [Page 89] do not flatter myself that I can see you before the autumn; but it is always sweet to be able to talk of it.
Our days pass tranquilly. The last few have not been quite the same; the people tried to force the gates; but the National Guard behaved admirably and stopped it all. There is talk of suspending the executive power to pass the time. To pass mine in another manner I go, in the mornings, for three or four hours into the garden,–not every day, however; but it does me a great deal of good. Adieu; I kiss you with my whole heart and end because there is nothing I am able to tell you.
Madame Élisabeth's last letter bore date August 8, 1792; two days before the fatal 10th, when silence fell forever between her and her friends. In that letter she spoke of the "death of the executive power," adding, "I can enter into no details."
1 The Baron de Breteuil, then minister of the king's household and of the department of Paris, had been the representative of the king towards the Elector of Cologne, Catherine II., Empress of Russia, Gustavus III., King of Sweden, and the Emperors Joseph II. and Leopold. In the various phases of his career he had won the esteem of all honourable men.–FR. ED.He was later sent by Louis XVI. to negotiate measures with all the European Powers for the rescue of the king and his family and the restoration of the monarchy. See Diary and Corr. of Count Fersen, of the present Hist. Series.–TR.
1 See the account of this journey in the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne vol. v. of this Hist. Series.–TR.
1 The third daughter of Mme. de Causans, and next younger sister of Mme. de Raigecourt. The Revolution, which broke up the convents, prevented her from becoming a nun.–TR.
1 See Appendix.
1 The Marquise des Montiers (Mlle. de la Briffe) had grown up from childhood with the princess; she was gay, vivacious, and full of imagination. Madame Élisabeth's letters to her take an almost maternal tone in advising, warning, and directing "my dear Demon," as she often called her. These friends were all Madame Élisabeth's ladies-in-waiting, and all were anxious to return to her in her cruel isolation; but although she was so dependent herself on friendship she would not, for their sakes, let them come to her.–TR.
1 This expression, and others of the same kind, Madame Élisabeth uses to express her wish that the king would leave Paris, the hopes he gave her of it, and the efforts made to prevent it. Her letters to Madame de Raigecourt, who was in France, where correspondence might be dangerous, seem less free than those to Madame de Bombelles, which went probably in the ambassador's bag, or by private hand.–TR.
1 Madame Élisabeth had exacted that Mme. de Raigecourt, who was pregnant, should leave Paris, events becoming more and more alarming. Mme. de R. fell into a sort of despair at the separation, and wanted to be allowed to return to Madame Élisabeth at any cost.–FR. ED.
1 He was an Irishman, and was recommended to Madame Élisabeth for her confessor, by the Superior of Foreign Missions. It was to him that Louis XVI. sent in his last extremity.–TR.
1 This is evidently an allusion to the approaching effort of the king to leave Paris. The parts omitted are omitted by the French Editor, not by the translator.–TR.
1 This letter is written directly after the fatal return from Varennes.–TR.
1 The Abbé de Lubersac, being Madame Victoire's chaplain, had accompanied her to Rome. Madame Élisabeth's last letter to him is dated (as we shall see) July 22, 1792. His heart clung passionately to France. Unable to live away from it he returned to Paris in August and perished in the massacre of September 2 and 3.–TR.
1 Between the king and his brothers. In the above letter the name father means the king; that of mother-in-law, the queen; that of son the Comte d'Artois.–FR. ED.
1 All the gentlemen captured during the flight to Varennes were released on the king's accepting the Constitution.–TR.
1 Luis XVI.'s confidential agent towards the Courts of Europe. The following is a copy of his full powers:–"Monsieur le Baron de Breteuil, knowing your zeal and your fidelity, and wishing to give you a proof of my confidence, I have chosen you to confide to you the interests of my crown. Circumstances do not allow me to give you instructions on this or that object, nor to hold with you a continuous correspondence. I send you the present to serve you as full powers [pleins pouvoirs ] and authorization towards the different Powers with whom you may have to negotiate for me. You know my intentions; and I leave it to your prudence to make what use you judge necessary of these powers for the good of my service. I approve of all that you may do to attain the end that I propose to myself, which is the re-establishment of my legitimate authority and the welfare of my people. On which, I pray God, M. le Baron de Breteuil, etc."
The Baron de Breteuil's headquarters were at Brussels. See "Diary and Correspondence of Count Axel Fersen," the preceding volume of this Hist. Series.–TR.
1 This was the moment, recorded by all other witnesses and forgotten by Madame Élisabeth, when, being mistaken for the queen and threatened with death, she stopped those who wished to correct the blunder. "No, no," she said, "let them think I am she." One witness mentions that she added, "Their crime would be less."It was on this occasion that a woman of the people said, the next day: "We could do nothing then; they had their Sainte Geneviève with them."–TR.
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