The Ruin of a Princess as told by the Duchesse d'Angoulême, Madame Elisabeth, Sister of Louis XVI, and Cléry, the King's Valet de Chambre, translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. New York: The Lamb Publishing Co., 1912.

THE

Ruin of a Princess

as told by
The Duchesse d'Angoulême,
Madame Elizabeth, Sister of Louis XVI,
and Cléry, the King's Valet de Chambre,

Literally Translated by
KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY

Illustrated with Photogravures from
the Original Paintings

NEW YORK
THE LAMB PUBLISHING CO.
1912

Copyright 1912 by
THE LAMB PUBLISHING COMPANY
All Rights Reserved

FOREWORD

Some twelve years ago a translation by Katharine Prescott Wormeley of this thrilling narrative was issued in an elaborate and correspondingly expensive style. The cost of translation and reproduction was considerable, and the work was of necessity sold at a price which practically placed it beyond the reach of the ordinary reader. The present issue, complete in every respect, with all the illustrations of the costly original edition, is published to meet the demand for a less expensive form of a narrative which in tragic interest has perhaps never been excelled.

The Princess Élisabeth, sister of the unfortunate Louis XVI, is almost the only figure which emerges unsullied from the unspeakable corruption of the French Court under Louis XV. She was endowed with a nobility of character which her more admired, though cruelly maligned sister-in-law, Marie Antoinette, scarcely could claim. When the Revolution broke out, she shared the misfortunes of the royal family. She was incarcerated with them in the Temple, but was separated from the king on his trial before the Convention. Finally sentenced to death upon the charge of her devotion to her brother, the king, she met her fate with the same calm fortitude which had marked her life.

Clery's own descriptions of the imprisonment are intensely interesting, as are also those of the Duchesse d'Angoulême, the captive daughter of the unfortunate king.

G. E. C.

NEW YORK, April, 1912.

LIST OF
PHOTOGRAVURE ILLUSTRATIONS.

CONTENTS.

Part First.

LIFE AND LETTERS OF MADAME ÉLISABETH DE FRANCE.

CHAPTER I.

Introductory.–Sketch of the Life of Madame Élisabeth from her Childhood until August 10, 1792 . . . . 1

CHAPTER II.

Letters of Madame Élisabeth to the Marquise de Bombelles, the Marquise de Raigecourt, the Abbé de Lubersac, and others . . . . 33

CHAPTER III.

Madame Élisabeth's Life in the Tower of the Temple recorded only by her Niece, Marie-Thérèse de France, and by Cléry, Louis XVI.'s Valet.–Her Removal to the Conciergerie.–Her Examination, Condemnation, and Death . . . . 90

Part Second.

JOURNAL OF THE TOWER OF THE TEMPLE,
BY CLÉRY.

CHAPTER I.

The 10th of August, 1792. Cléry permitted to serve the King and his Family.–Life and Treatment of the Royal Family in the Tower of the Temple . . . . 111

[Page vi] 

CHAPTER II.

Continuation of their Life and Treatment.–The King separated from his Family, and summoned for Trial before the Convention . . . . 138

CHAPTER III.

The King's Trial.–His Will.–The Decree of the Convention condemning the King to Death.–Last Meeting with his Family.– Leaves the Temple for his Execution . . . . 175

Part Third.

NARRATIVE OF MARIE-THÉRÈSE DE FRANCE,
DUCHESSE D'ANGOULÊME.

First Uprising of the Populace on the 5th and 6th of October, 1789.–Removal of my Family to the Capital . . . . 210

Flight of my Father; his Stoppage at Varennes; his Return to Paris . . . . 216

Assault on the Tuileries by the Populace, June 20, 1792 . . . . 230

Massacre at the Tuileries; Dethronement of my Father.–The Days from the 10th to the 13th of August, 1792 . . . . 236

Imprisonment of my Family in the Tower of the Temple, August 13, 1792, followed by the Trial and Martyrdom of my Father, January 21, 1793 . . . . 243

Life in the Tower of the Temple from the Death of Louis XVI. to that of the Queen, October 16, 1793 . . . . 259

Life in the Temple till the Martyrdom of Madame Élisabeth and the Death of the Dauphin, Louis XVII., June 9, 1795 . . . . 278

Brief sketch of the Life of Marie-Thérèse until her death, October 18, 1851 . . . . 289

THE DUCHESSE D'ANGOULÊME.

Homage to the Duchesse d'Angoulême, by C.-A. Sainte-Beuve . . . . 295

[Page vii] 

APPENDIXES.

[Page 1] 

LIFE AND LETTERS

OF

MADAME ÉLISABETH DE FRANCE.

PART FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

Introductory.–Sketch of the Life of Madame Élisabeth from her Childhood until August 10, 1792.

MANY records of Madame Élisabeth exist, but only two of real authority: the "Éloge historique de Mme. Élisabeth de France," by Antoine Ferrand, minister of State and peer of France, first published in 1814 and again in 1861; and the "Vie de Madame Élisabeth," by M. A. de Beauchesne, Paris, 1869. Both works contain a number of her letters. From these volumes the following record has been made, chiefly in their own (translated) words. The parts selected are the simple historical facts of Mme. Élisabeth's story. The other parts may not be false,–far be it from us to say they are,–but they are so romantically tender as to convey a sense of extravagance, and thus do injury to the noble figure which the truth presents. For instance, it is recorded by her biographers that as her head fell into the basket a perfume of roses was wafted over the Place Louis XV. The impression that we of the present day receive from such a statement is [Page 2]  of folly and fulsome flattery; yet the essential truth is in the simple facts, where the undying

              actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

This record of Madame Élisabeth is here followed by the "Journal of the Temple," written by Cléry, the valet who attended on Louis XVI. to the last hour of his life, and by the far more valuable and even precious Narrative of that embodiment of sorrow, Marie-Thérèse de France, daughter of Louis XVI. and Marie-Antoinette, and later Duchesse d'Angoulême. There we see the end of the great monarchy (for the restored kings were not the monarchy). No one can read this series of Memoirs–Saint-Simon, d'Argenson, Bernis–without realizing the causes of that mighty fall; not to be found so much in the career of the Great Monarch as in the lowered standards he left behind him, the corruption of the regency, and the long reign of his great-grandson's vice and ineptitude which consolidated the wrongs of France.

One fact shines clear above this mass of evil; and it is allowable to call the attention of the reader to it forcibly. Beside the enervating depravity of the Regent, the personal cowardice and sloth of Louis XV., the lack of firmness and regal assertion of Louis XVI. and his brothers, stands the splendid courage, physical and moral, of the three women whose ends are here recorded.

Élisabeth-Phippine-Marie-Hélène de France, daughter of the Dauphin Louis, son of Louis XV, and Marie-Josèphe de Saxe, was born at Versailles, May 3, 1764. Her three brothers, the Duc de Berry, the Comte de Provence, and the Comte d'Artois, were taken to the chapel on the same day, immediately after the king's mass, to witness her baptism, at which were present also the king and queen, the king's sis- [Page 3]  ters Mesdames Adélaïde, Victoire, Sophie, and Louise, the Duc d'Orléans, the Duc de Chartres, the Prince de Condé, the Prince and Princess de Conti, the Duc de Penthievre, the Prince de Lamballe, and others.

At her birth Madame Élisabeth was so delicate that for months her existence was a source of continual anxiety. Her father died the following year, and her mother, the wise and excellent Dauphine Marie-Josèphe, in 1767. The little orphan was then given wholly to the care of the Comtesse de Marsan (daughter of the Prince de Soubise), governess of the Children of France, who was already bringing up Élisabeth's sister, Madame Clotilde de France, afterwards Queen of Sardinia, who was four years and eight months older than Élisabeth. The difference in character and temper was greater still. Clotilde was born with the happiest disposition, which needed only to be encouraged and aided. Élisabeth was very different; it was often necessary to oppose her nature, and always to direct it. Proud, inflexible, passionate, she had defects to be mastered which would have been regrettable in a lower rank; in a princess of royal blood they were intolerable. The task of Mme. de Marsan was a difficult one. Madame Élisabeth's self-will was powerful, proud of her birth, she exacted around her supple instruments of it; she said she had no need to learn and tire herself uselessly, inasmuch as princes had about them persons whose duty it was to think for them. She stamped with anger if one of her women did not immediately bring her the thing she asked for. The difference in the characters of the sisters made a difference in the feelings of their governess towards each. Jealousy came to increase the asperity of the younger sister's nature. "If Clotilde had asked you," she said, one day, when Mme. de Marsan had refused a request, "she would have had it." [Page 4] 

But Élisabeth was taken ill, and Clotilde insisted on taking care of her. This illness developed between them feelings of the tenderest affection; Clotilde taught her little sister the alphabet and how to spell and form words, she gave her little counsels which tended to soften her character, and she inculcated in her the first notions of religion with which she was already nourishing her own soul.

Still, Mme. de Marsan felt the want of aid in seconding the reform in the child's nature which she had so much at heart to bring about, and she cast her eyes on Mme. de Mackau, whose husband had been minister of the king at Ratisbon. This lady was educated at Saint-Cyr, an establishment which kept notes of not only the character and merits of its pupils, but followed their careers in the world for which it had formed them. It was from information thus derived that Mme. de Marsan asked the king to appoint Mme. de Mackau, who was living in retirement in Alsace, as sub-governess. This choice proved to have all the elements required to work a happy change in the nature of a self-willed and haughty child. Mme. de Mackau possessed a firmness to which resistance yielded, and an affectionate kindness which enticed attachment. Armed with almost maternal power, she brought up the Children of France as she would have trained her own children; overlooking no fault; knowing, if need were, how to make herself feared; all the while leading them to like virtue. To a superior mind she added a dignity of tone and manners which inspired respect. When her pupil gave way to the fits of haughty temper to which she was subject, Mme. de Mackau showed on her countenance a displeased gravity, as if to remind her that princes, like other persons, could not be liked except for their virtues and good qualities. Distressed and disconcerted by this sudden and unexpected change, [Page 5]  Élisabeth, whose nature it was to be unable to feign or to hide whatever was passing in her soul, gave in this way a great advantage to her governess, quick to profit by the knowledge she thus gained of the child's inner feelings.

Little by little, Élisabeth yielded to wise and friendly management, and the defects which retarded her progress and prevented her from getting the advantages of her education gradually effaced themselves. Her wise governesses neglected nothing that could form her mind; they accustomed her to discuss questions with ease and without pedantry; to pose an argument properly, to examine it with discernment, and to bring logic to bear upon it and solve it. As all progress is accomplished only by degrees, the young princess continued for some time to commit her early faults. On such occasions, becoming more and more rare, she met a stern look, a stiff manner; and that simple show of displeasure was an efficacious correction. The proud and violent qualities changed, little by little, into firmness of principles, into a nobility and energy of feeling which made her in after years superior to the trials that filled her life.

Deprived of her parents and of the tenderest emotions of nature, her heart turned to fraternal love, which became from childhood her dominant passion. She cherished her three brothers, but a sort of predilection drew her to the Duc de Berry, the Dauphin. Was it that she already felt he would be unhappy because he was fated to be king? This tenderness of heart, which had so far served to correct Élisabeth's defects, was destined to be the source of her consolation, her courage, her sorrows, and her devotion.

About this time, on certain days, when serious study was over, a few young ladies of merit, of religious principles and good education, were admitted to the privacy of the young princesses. It was a circle created to utilize their leisure [Page 6]  as well as to amuse it, to form them to the customs of the world, to teach them to express their ideas with grace and concision, to judge of things with accuracy, and state their judgments clearly. These meetings had the precious advantage of being recreations which, under youthful gayety and perfect modesty, initiated them unconsciously in that divining tact, that knowledge of the of the world, so difficult to acquire, which consists in discerning at first sight the value of individuals, in estimating the nature and dominant spirit of each society under whatever form it presents itself: in short, the tact of sagacity, which became in the end so trained in Élisabeth that she was rarely mistaken in the opinion she formed of persons or of the spirit of the society in which she found herself. Madame Élisabeth seldom amused herself with frivolous talk, she was never really interested in a conversation unless there was something to gain from it. Time was precious to her.

The Abbé de Montégut, canon of Chartres, who was appointed, in 1774, tutor to the Children of France, contributed to develop in Madame Élisabeth the religious sentiments which never left her in after life. He explained to her the Gospels as being both the school of duty and the source of consolations. She applied herself to their study with a penetration above her age. One might almost say that a secret inspiration warned her that she was destined to find there the best and first of knowledge. As her intelligence developed, those two precepts became deeply rooted in her. Religion seemed to her a chain of duties and consolations, the first link of which, attached in heaven, was ever drawing humanity towards its origin and its completion.

Mme. de Marsan, on her side, took her often to Saint-Cyr. That royal establishment, which bore the imprint of a saintly and majestic thought, awakened all the sympathies [Page 7]  of the young girl, who never left it without regret and promises to return.

Louis XV. died on the 10th of May, 1774, when Élisabeth was ten years old, and the Duc de Berry, the Dauphin and his wife, Marie-Antoinette, became King and Queen of France; the first nineteen years of age, the second a year younger. That year and the next were passed by the young princesses in their secluded school life, but always accompanying the Court, whether at Versailles, Fontainebleau, Marly, Compiègne, or La Muette. The following year Madame Élisabeth was confirmed and made her first communion, and the sisters were parted by the marriage of Clotilde to the Prince of Piedmont, afterwards King of Sardinia. No sensation of sorrow had as yet affected Élisabeth's heart; her sister's departure was her first experience of it, and when the moment of separation came, she clung to her with such force that they were obliged to tear them apart. Queen Marie-Antoinette, writing a few days later to her mother, the empress, says:–

"My sister Élisabeth is a charming child, who has intelligence, character, and much grace; she showed the greatest feeling, and much above her age, at the departure of her sister. The poor little girl was in despair, and as her health is very delicate, she was taken ill and had a very severe nervous attack. I own to my dear mamma that I fear I am getting too attached to her, feeling, from the example of my aunts, how essential it is for her happiness not to remain an old maid in this country."

It was on the 12th day of May, 1776, that Turgot and Malesherbes, the two ministers whom the philosophical party, the "party of progress," had brought into power to effect reforms at the beginning of the new reign, quitted their ministry. "Ah!" cried Louis XVI., as Malesherbes asked him to accept [Page 8]  his resignation: "how fortunate you are! Would that I could get away also!" It would take too long here to enter into public details which have not as yet a close connection with the life of Madame Élisabeth; suffice it to say briefly, that all efforts at reform on the part of these ministers and the young monarch miscarried. The king's edicts which suppressed the corvée (forced labor) and abolished corporations and their privilege, were bitterly opposed in parliament; and it required a lit de justice to enforce their registration. All attempts to reform the army made by the Comte de Saint-Germain, minister of war, and his auxiliary, M. de Guibert, ¹ also failed. With singular unwisdom they contrived to displease the officers and discontent the troops at the very moment when it was so necessary to be able to count upon the inviolable fidelity of the army.

Nothing, therefore, of all that was attempted succeeded well, and Louis XVI. began the second portion of his reign with vanished illusions and fears for the future.

On the 17th of May, 1778, the Court went to Marly. The king having determined to give his sister an establishment, she was on that day resigned into his hands by her then governess, the Princess de Guéménée, and His Majesty gave her the Comtesse Diane de Polignac as lady of honor, with the Marquise de Sérent as lady-in-waiting. From that moment there was question of her marriage. Her hand seemed, in the first instance, destined to the Infant of Portugal, Prince of Brazil, who was the same age as herself and would eventually have brought her the title of queen. While she saw the conveniences of this alliance, Madame Élisabeth was far from wishing it, and though she personally put no obstacle in the way, she was comforted on learning that the negotiations were broken off. [Page 9] 

Shortly after, two other princes sought the honor of obtaining her hand. One was the duke of Aosta, who was five years older than herself and could give her, in a neighboring and friendly Court, a place on the steps of a throne beside her sister Clotilde; but the political pride of the government asserted that a secondary place at the Court of Sardinia was not becoming to a Daughter of France. Her third suitor was the Emperor Joseph II., brother of Marie-Antionette, who on the occasion of his journey to France the preceding year had been struck by the vivacity of her mind and the sweetness of her nature. But the anti-Austrian party, which by that time (1783) prevailed at Court, where it had already sown around the queen distrust and hatreds, dreaded an alliance which might be contrary to its ascendancy, and set to work to prevent it. The intrigue succeeded. It was said, without grounds, that Madame Élisabeth felt some regret at this conclusion. The emperor had not yet shown in politics the eccentricities of his mind, and he had just lost a wife whose youth, virtues, and piety had won the love and benedictions of a whole people. ¹ But Madame Élisabeth, although she assuredly possessed all the qualities that fitted her for such an inheritance, seemed to attach no greater value to this union than to the other marriages with which policy had interfered.

As time went on, Madame Élisabeth strengthened herself perceptibly against the dangers of her nature, her age, and the Court; she felt more and more what was lacking in her. Her efforts increased from her self-distrust, and the more she acquired higher qualities the less she knew herself capable of the perfection she sought to attain. It was this feeling [Page 10]  of humility which gave to her speech an exquisite restraint, to her actions a prudent reserve, and to her charity a wise discretion.

All the young girls who had been brought in contact with Madame Élisabeth or had grown up with her, sharing her studies and her pleasures, gave her a warm and sincere devotion; to them she was not the princess but the friend. "How lovable you are, my heart," she says in one place, "to wish to forget that I am princess; nothing could give me greater pleasure than to forget it myself; I say it as I think it. Friendship, you see, my Bombelles, is a second life, which sustains us in this low world."

Among these young girls were two or three whom her heart distinguished specially, and with them she corresponded steadily to the last of her living life. One was Mlle. de Mackau, the daughter of the lady to whom she owed so much, who was early married to the Marquis de Bombelles, then ambassador to Portugal, and at the time of the Revolution ambassador to Venice. Another was Mlle. Marie de Causans, third daughter of the Marquise de Causans, who was appointed by the king, at the time Madame Élisabeth's establishment was formed, as lady of honor and superintendent of his sister's household. Her second daughter, Virginie, was chanoinesse at Metz, who spent the months of her vacation in Madame Élisabeth's establishment. The love between them became so strong that the princess dreading the moment of the young girl's return to her Chapter endeavored to make her one of her own ladies-in-waiting; but the Marquise de Causans, although a widow of small means and a large family, made it a principle that none of her four daughters should hold office at Court unless she was married, and she turned a deaf ear to Madame Élisabeth's entreaties. Then a thought came to the princess; [Page 11]  she went one morning to the queen and said in her coaxing, gentle way: "Promise to grant me what I am going to ask of you." The queen, before promising, wished to know the request, and a playful battle ensued. Finally Madame Élisabeth yielded and said: "I want to give Causans a dot; ask the king to advance me for five years the thirty thousand francs he always gives me as a New Year's gift." The queen very willingly took charge of the commission, and the king as willingly granted the request. The Marquis de Raigecourt presented himself as a husband, and Louis XVI. appointed the young wife as lady-in-waiting to his sister. Her joy knew no bounds. For five years she received no presents, and when the matter was mentioned she would say, "I have no presents yet, but I have my Raigecourt." The fifth year expired in 1789, but by that time public difficulties intervened, and the custom of years was given up.

A brother of Mme. de Raigecourt, the Marquis de Causans, a member of the States General, was also a friend of Madame Élisabeth, who kept up a close correspondence with him on the events of the time. Her letters were said by him to contain very just and lofty conceptions on passing events, and especially on what was taking place in the Assembly. That collection of letters, in which the energy of her spirit and the penetration of her views were visible, it is said, on every page, was confided by the Marquis de Causans, at the time he was compelled to emigrate, to hands which he had every reason to consider peculiarly safe; but it disappeared in one of those cataclysms of which the revolutionary tornado produced so many examples.

Madame Élisabeth's letters to Mme. de Bombelles and Mme. de Raigecourt, while somewhat cautious as to public affairs, nevertheless express, as we shall see later, a sound [Page 12]  and independent judgment on principles and passing events, and are the only personal revelation of her heart and mind which we possess before the black pall drops forever, on the 10th of August, 1792, between the family in the Temple and the world.

The domestic happiness which Madame Élisabeth now began to enjoy in her own little circle seems to have reigned in the palace of Versailles as well. Never before did the Court of France present such a sight: a young queen living in perfect harmony with two sisters-in-law of her own age, and a young king liking to lean on the friendship of his two brothers. "The greatest intimacy," says Mme. Campan, "existed between the three households [that of the king, that of Monsieur, the Comte de Provence, and that of the Comte d'Artois]. "They met together at meals, and ate apart only when their dinners were in public. This manner of family living lasted until the time when the queen allowed herself to dine occasionally with the Duchesse de Polignac, but the evening meeting for supper was never interrupted, and it took place always in the apartments of the Comtesse de Provence. Madame Élisabeth took her place there as soon as she had finished her education, and sometimes Mesdames, the king's aunts, were invited. This family intimacy, which had no precedent at Court, was the work of Queen Marie-Antoinette, and she maintained it with great perseverance."

The interests and pleasures of a young Court nevertheless gave rise to intrigues which at times divided the members of the royal family. The king and his brothers were each of different natures. Louis XVI., who possessed the virtues of an honest man, was far from having all those which are required in a king. His self-distrust was extreme. While he was still dauphin, if a question arose that was difficult [Page 13]  to decide, "Ask my brother of Provence about that," he would say. Trustful in others, he surrendered his own will readily; but if he discovered that any one deceived him he flew into fits of passion. He had neither firmness of character nor grace of manner. Like certain excellent fruits with a knotty rind, his exterior was rough, but the heart perfect. Stern to himself alone, he kept the laws of the Church rigorously, abstained and fasted during the forty Lenten days, but thought it right that the queen should not imitate him. Sincerely pious, but trained to tolerance by the influence of the century in which he lived, he was also disposed, too disposed perhaps, to yield the prerogatives of the throne whenever the interests of his people were alleged to him; forgetting that one of the first interests of a nation is the maintenance of a strong and incontestable power. A weak royalty is impotent both to do good and to prevent evil.

There was in Louis XVI. something honest which did not accept complete liability (solidarité ) for the preceding reign; but, heir of a régime of which he bore the weight, he was ill at ease between a past which roused repugnance and a future, not threatening as yet, but full of doubts and mystery. Simple, economical, liking to read and study, seeking to forget his throne in the exercise of hunting or of manual labour, detesting women without virtue and men without conscience, he seems a stranger in his own Court, where morals were light and consciences easy. A young king, given to moderation and faithful to duty, regarding himself as the father of all Frenchmen, but especially drawn to those who were weakest, could not be appreciated by courtiers, men for the most part frivolous and in debt, corrupters or corrupted, who regarded innovations as a danger and reforms as a crime.

The Comte de Provence, whose intellect and education [Page 14]  were on a par, concealed beneath a prudent dignity his regret at not being put by fate in the first rank. Versed in the culture of letters, aided by a wonderful memory, he felt himself, in a literary aspect, to be far superior to the king his brother. This sentiment was born in him from childhood. One day the Duc de Berry, playing with his brothers, used the expression il pleuva. "What a barbarism!" cried the Comte de Provence, "a prince ought to know his own tongue." "And you ought to hold yours," retorted the elder.

Monsieur took pleasure in the society of men of letters; he endeavored to explain to himself the source and inspiration of the new ideas that rose on the horizon, he prepared himself for events that he might not be surprised by them; he temporized with parties and united with none; he lived with his brothers without dissensions and without confidence; he toyed with opinion coldly; and when the day came that unfortunate arrangements made the king's departure a failure at Varennes, he cleverly kept out of danger and reserved himself for the future.

The Comte d'Artois was a type of the Frenchman of the olden time; careless in temperament, gay in mind, and with all the chivalrous graces. Well made, choice in his toilet, adroit at all exercises of the body, he never appreciated grandeur except for the advantages it gave him, nor fortune except for the pleasures it procures. The manner in which he regarded women followed him even into the sanctuary. "Monseigneur," said the Bishop of Limoges on one occasion, "I have a favor to ask of your Royal Highness,–it is that you will not come to mass." Born in a frivolous and voluptuous Court, he took the habits of it; but his heart was generous, and that quality survived exile, a throne, and disaster.

It is easy to see how around three such princes men of [Page 15]  different morals and ideas grouped themselves; honest men were near Louis XVI., politicians near the Comte de Provence, the frivolous and volatile near the Comte d'Artois. Thus the friends of the king were few, those of Monsieur numerous, those of the Comte d'Artois innumerable. The last had the pretension to think themselves directly under the patronage of the queen, who, lively and brilliant, wanted the pleasures of her age and took delight in the Comte d'Artois, who amused her and whose tastes were somewhat like her own. The jealous and malignant spirit of a swarm of courtiers endeavored to make a crime of the queen's liking for the gay young brother-in-law, but they have not succeeded, to the eyes of history, in poisoning amusements witnessed by the whole Court, not to speak of the Comtesse d'Artois, whose affection for the queen remained unchanged.

Such was the interior of the palace of Versailles during the years which preceded the Revolution. The princes and princesses of the blood seldom appeared there; their tastes and habits were different. "Of the three branches of the House of Bourbon," said the old Maréchal de Richelieu, one day, "each has a ruling and pronounced taste: the eldest loves hunting; the Orléans love pictures; the Condés love war." "And Louis XVI.," some one asked, "what does he love?" "Oh, he is different, he loves the people."

Except on occasions of formal etiquette, the absence from Court of the princes of the blood was noticeable. Exception must be made, however, of the Princess de Lamballe, whose functions, as superintendent of the queen's household and her affection for the queen herself, kept her always at Court. The princes of the blood, whom the quarrels with parliament had thrown into the Opposition, considered it advisable to add to the privileges of their birth the advantages of popularity obtained by the so-called independence of their opin- [Page 16]  ions. The time was coming when the great House of Bourbon was to weaken and condemn itself to impotence by the falling apart of its sheaves.

Madame Élisabeth was now, at the age of fifteen, to find herself mistress of her actions, surrounded by the splendours of fortune, invited to share all pleasures, and observed by every eye. What is liberty at that age if not release from study, amusement, toilet, jewels, and fêtes? Such was not the program of the king's young sister. Her conscience took upon itself the duty of exercising the same control and watchfulness over her conduct that her governesses had just laid down. "My education is not finished," she said; "I shall continue it under the same rules; I shall keep my masters, and the same hours will be given to religion, the study of languages, belles-lettres, instructive conversations, and to my walks and rides on horseback." And she kept to all that she thus planned.

Her appearance at this time has been described and painted, although she herself had a great repugnance to sitting for her picture. Her figure was not tall, neither had her bearing that majesty which was so much admired in the queen; her nose had the shape which is characteristic of the Bourbon face; but her forehead with its pure lines giving to her countenance its marked character of nobleness and candour, her dark blue eyes with their penetrating sweetness, her mouth with its smile that showed her pretty teeth, and the expression of intelligence and goodness that pervaded her whole person formed a charming and sympathetic presence.

It was at this time that she began to reflect on public affairs, and her first strong interest was in America. In spite of many difficulties, Louis XVI. had succeeded in making certain useful reforms in the interior of the kingdom. He abolished the corvée, substituting for it taxes in money; [Page 17]  he created in Paris the Mont-de-Piété (pawn or loan shops) and the Caisse d'Escompte; he also calmed the public fear of bankruptcy by securing the payment of the Funds (rentes) on the Hôtel-de-Ville. The first political event of his reign was the war of independence in America. By an act recently put forth, the English Parliament declared it "had the right to force the colonies to obey all its laws and in all cases." It was this act, the execution of which destroyed the very shadow of freedom, which produced the American Revolution.

The representatives of the future United States assembled and by a solemn act declared the inhabitants of the colonies free and independent and released from all relations with England. This Congress called religion to the support of the dawning liberty, and placed America beneath the immediate protection of Providence. That august dedication was made with great ceremony: a crown, consecrated to God, was placed upon the Bible; and that crown was then divided into thirteen parts for the deputies of the thirteen provinces, and medals were struck to commemorate this event. All the women of the country, at their head the wife of Washington, made themselves remarkable for their patriotic zeal; acts of an ancient chivalry and heroism signalized this memorable war, the reading of which wrung tears of admiration and enthusiasm from Madame Élisabeth.

We cannot enter into the details of the great events that follow. Our troops were fortunate in this war as auxiliaries; America threw off the British yoke and secured her independence, but our navy and that of Spain, our ally, suffered cruelly. This war, although it was, like all war, contrary to the feelings of humanity in Madame Élisabeth, nevertheless flattered her national pride, and made the sacrifices which ended in her brother's glory and that of the nation less painful to bear. But what she especially noted with warm satis- [Page 18]  faction throughout the struggle was the generous spirit that ruled it and sometimes lessened its evils. Thus she read with pleasure in a report, addressed November 26, 1781, to the minister of the navy, by the Marquis de Bouillé, then governor of Martinique, that the French troops under his orders had, on seizing the island of Saint-Eustache, shown a spirit of justice and loyalty equal to their patience and courage.

"I found in the government house," writes M. de Bouillé, "the sum of a million sterling which was in sequestration, awaiting a decision of the court of London. It belonged to the Dutch; and I made it over to them after obtaining authentic proofs of their ownership."

And again, in another report to the minister of the navy, Captain de la Pérouse, commanding a squadron of the king, writing on board the "Sceptre" in the Hudson straits, September 6, 1782, says:–

"I took care, when burning the fort at York, to leave a rather considerable storehouse at a distance from the fire, in which I deposited provisions, powder, shot, guns, and a certain quantity of European merchandise, such as was suitable to exchange with savages, in order that the English, who I know have taken refuge in the woods, may find, on their return to their old quarters, enough for their subsistence until the English authorities have been informed of their situation. I feel certain that the king will approve my conduct in this respect, and that in thus providing for those unfortunates I have only forestalled the benevolent intentions of His Majesty." Such facts as these were collected and told by Madame Élisabeth with delight.

In the year 1781 the king bought the property of the Princess de Guéménée, at Montreuil, which the wreck of her husband's fortunes did not allow her to retain. He asked [Page 19]  the queen, to whom he had confided his project, to invite Élisabeth to go to Montreuil when they next drove out together, and take her (with a purpose) into the house of her former governess, of which he knew his sister was very fond. Delighted with the surprise she was to give to the young girl, Marie-Antoinette gave the invitation: "If you like," she said, "we will stop on our way at Montreuil, where you were so fond of going when a child." Élisabeth replied that it would be a great pleasure. On arriving, they found everything arranged to receive them, and as soon as they had entered the salon the queen said: "Sister, you are in your own house. This is to be your Trianon. The king, who gives himself the pleasure of giving it to you, gives me the pleasure of telling you."

The brotherly inspiration of Louis XVI. was not at fault. This gift became to Madame Élisabeth a source of infinite enjoyment; for from this moment she was able to associate her dearest friends familiarly with her daily existence, and escape from the pomps of Court whenever her duty did not require her presence there. Madame Élisabeth was born for private intimacy; lively, confiding, and expansive in her familiar circle of a few friends, she was timid, reserved, and even embarrassed, not only in the queen's salons, but in her own, surrounded by all her ladies. It was therefore to her a source of the keenest enjoyment, or rather of happiness, to have this private home of her own with its rural delights.

The park and mansion, of which she now took possession, was near the barrier at the entrance to Versailles on the road to Paris. The park itself was of twelve acres, charmingly diversified with greensward and trees, and with shrubbery paths among the copses in all directions. A large section of the property Madame Élisabeth presently devoted to a cow- [Page 20]  pasture, dairy, vegetable and fruit gardens, and a poultry-yard. In the middle of a lawn, shaded with trees and shrubs and brightened with beds of flowers, stood the house, the peristyle of which was supported by four marble columns. The first act of the young proprietor was to give a small house on the estate to Mme. de Mackau, whose permanent home it became.

The king decided that until Madame Élisabeth had reached her twenty-fifth year (she was now eighteen) she should not sleep at Montreuil; but as soon as she was put in possession of her dear domain she passed the entire day there, and was only at Versailles in the evening and at night, or for occasions of ceremony. She heard mass in the morning in the Chapel of the Château, and immediately after it went with certain of her friends in a carriage, or on horseback, an exercise of which she was very fond, or sometimes on foot to Montreuil. The life she led there was uniform, like that of a family in some country château a hundred leagues from Paris. Hours for study, work, and rambles, either alone or with friends, occupied her time; the dinner-hour brought them all together around the same table.

Little by little her occupations increased. She laid out her farm, her dairy, her kitchen-gardens and poultry-yard, and became herself the farmer of the place; she loved all rural interests. She had an overseer, to whom she gave full authority under herself; and this man and those under him fulfilled her orders with such care and assiduity that no disputes and no complaints ever troubled that happy solitude.

But Madame Élisabeth was not satisfied with her own enjoyment of the place. Soon she became the friend and providence of the neighbouring village and its environs. She knew all the inhabitants personally; their interests became hers; young girls were dowered and married, the old

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Madame Élisabeth at Montreuil   ^Richard

[Page 21]  and the worthy were cared for, the sick were nursed and doctored. The milk of her dairy went to the children, the vegetables and fruits to the sick; often she could be seen attending to the distribution herself. All this was not done without personal sacrifice. Her means were comparatively small; she had only the pension which she received as sister of the king, but she eked it out by economy,–economy on herself, be it said. "Yes, that is very pretty," she replied, when urged to buy a jewel which she fancied, "but with that money I could set up two little homes." Various other anecdotes of this kind have come down to us, but Madame Élisabeth herself frowned on any notice being taken of such deeds. On one occasion, when the Bishop of Alais made her a fulsome speech of admiration, she said, blushing, that he judged her far too favourably. "Madame," he replied, "I am not even on the level of my subject." "You are right," she said, with a certain little sarcasm that was all her own; "you are very much above it."

One pleasure which she derived from her new way of living was that of seeing her brothers with greater freedom. Monsieur would often drive out to Montreuil and spend hours with her. "My brother, the Comte de Provence," she said one day, "is the most enlightened of advisers. His judgment on men and things is seldom mistaken, and his vast memory supplies him with an inexhaustible source of interesting anecdotes." The society of the Comte d'Artois gave her interests of another kind. More sensible than he, she often permitted herself to lecture him. Gay and heedless, he laughed at her advice, but as he advanced in life he began to love her with a tenderness mingled with veneration, a feeling which increased as misfortunes closed down upon them. After he had left France, those about him could guess when he received a letter from her; emotion showed [Page 22]  on his features and his hands trembled as he opened it. Reciprocal affection between a brother and sister was never keener, truer, or more expansive.

Madame Élisabeth's relation to Louis XVI. was of still another character. They both seemed aware that she was, and would be, necessary to him. She liked to visit her aunt Louise, the Carmelite nun at Saint-Denis. The king became uneasy at the frequency of these visits. "I am very willing," he said to her one day, "that you should go and see your aunt, but only on condition that you will not imitate her. Élisabeth, I need you." Her heart had told her that already, and the time was swiftly approaching when she obeyed the inward call and gave up her life to him.

Thus flowed the days of the happy young princess until the terrible winter of 1788-89, when the sufferings of the poor exhausted her means and made her run in debt to advance to the starved and frozen people what she called "their revenue." Her letters show that already she foresaw, and rightly, the public troubles that were soon to appear. She knew the character of the king; she believed that his impolitic action on the 8th of May, 1788, could end only in the recall of the parliament, of M. Necker, and the convocation of the States-General. In a letter of hers dated June 9, 1788, she says: "The king returns upon his steps, as did our grandfather. He is always afraid of being mistaken; his first impulse passed, he is tormented by a fear of doing injustice. . . . It seems to me," she continues, "that it is in government as it is in education: one should not say I will, unless one is sure of being right; then, once said, nothing should be given up of what has been ordained." Madame Élisabeth would fain have had the king take that principle as his rule of conduct, and she foresaw the evils that his kindness and his weakness would produce. "I [Page 23]  see a thousand things," she says, "which he does not even suspect, because his soul is so good that intrigue is foreign to it." The note of foreboding, not, perhaps, fully comprehended by her own mind, is in much that she says and writes at this period. Instinctively she turns to the support of her life–to the spirit of faith–and we find her inmost thoughts in a prayer to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, written at this time and given to Mme. de Raigecourt, the manuscript of which, in her own handwriting, is preserved in the Bibliothèque Nationale:–

"Adorable heart of Jesus, sanctuary of the love that led God to make himself man, to sacrifice his life for our salvation, and to make of his body the food of our souls: in gratitude for that infinite charity I give you my heart, and with it all that I possess in this world, all that I am, all that I shall do, all that I shall suffer. But, my God, may this heart, I implore you, be no longer unworthy of you; make it like unto yourself; surround it with your thorns and close its entrance to all ill-regulated affections; set there your cross, make it feel its worth, make it willing to love it. Kindle it with your divine flame. May it burn for your glory; may it be all yours, when you have done what you will with it. You are its consolation in its troubles, the remedy of its ills, its strength and refuge in temptation, its hope during life, its haven in death. I ask you, O heart so loving, the same favour for my companions. So be it."

"Aspiration.

"O divine heart of Jesus! I love you, I adore you, I invoke you, with my companions, for all the days of my life, but especially for the hour of my death.

O vere adorator et unice amator Dei, miserere nobis. Amen." [Page 24] 

It was on the 5th of October, 1789, the day when the Parisian mob of men and women marched to Versailles and compelled the king to take the fatal step of going to Paris, that Madame Élisabeth was suddenly, without warning, hurried from her dear Montreuil, never to enter it again. From the terrace of her garden she saw the first coming of the populace, and, mounting her horse, she rode to the palace. The king was out hunting, but messengers had gone for him, and when he returned she urged him to stand firm against this vanguard of anarchy, saying that a vigorous and immediate repression would avert great future evils, and advising with true instinct that if the royal family left Versailles at all, it should be for a town at a distance from Paris, where loyal men could rally to the king and enable him to break through the tyranny that the factions were beginning to exercise.

For a moment he seemed to listen to her and to the counsels of M. de Saint-Priest, minister of the interior, whose opinions agreed entirely with hers. But his firmness gave way before the views of M. Necker, and he consented to negotiate, as power to power, with the rioters. Prompted by its leaders, the mob demanded that the king should instantly fix his residence in Paris, and M. de la Fayette sent message after message urging him to comply. Madame Élisabeth expressed her contrary opinion: "It is not to Paris, Sire, that you should go. You have still devoted battalions and faithful guards to protect you. I implore you, my brother, not to go to Paris."

The king, pulled this way and that by conflicting opinions, hesitated too long; the moment of resistance went by; the troops, indignant at a thoughtless neglect of them, lost ardour, and the king, without initiative, without will, deferred to the clamour of the multitude and gave his promise to [Page 25]  depart. As the miserable procession passed Montreuil, Madame Élisabeth bent forward in the carriage to look at the trees of her dear domain. "Are you bowing to Montreuil, sister?" asked the king. "Sire, I am bidding it farewell," she answered gently.

From this time she shared the captivity–for such it was–of her brother and his family. At first a semblance of social life was kept up at the Tuileries. The Princesse de Lamballe tried to gather a society about her, and the queen for a while appeared at her assemblies; but confidence and safety were gone; this last effort of gayety, begun by the princess to brighten the queen's life, ceased, and the royal family took up a system of living which they followed ever after, even in the Temple. During the mornings the queen and Madame Élisabeth superintended the lessons of Madame Royale and the dauphin, and worked at large pieces of tapestry. Their minds were too preoccupied by the events of the day, the perils of the present and the threats of the future, to allow them to read books, as they did later in the awful silence and monotony of the Tower; needlework became their sole distraction. Mlle. Dubuquois, who kept a shop for wools and tapestries, long preserved and exhibited a carpet made by the two princesses for the large room of the queen's apartment on the ground floor of the Tuileries.

During this time Madame Élisabeth continued whenever the opportunity came to her to urge the king to assert himself and firmly maintain his power and the monarchy. When M. de Favras was executed (February 19, 1790) and the king did not, or could not, interfere to save him, she exclaimed in the bitterness of her heart: "They have killed Favras because he tried to save the king, and the days of October 5th and 6th remain unpunished! Oh, if the king would only be king, how all would change!" She saw with [Page 26]  dread the coming crisis which, breaking the lines of government, would render the king's will impotent and repression impossible. This conviction appears in many details of her life. Noticing that one of her ladies looked attentively into the garden of the Tuileries (May, 1791), she asked what attracted her attention. "Madame, I am looking at our good master, who is walking there." "Our master!" she exclaimed. "Ah! to our sorrow, he is that no longer."

The queen shared the anxiety that the king's weakness inspired in Madame Élisabeth, but she had a hope which Madame Élisabeth did not share. She was convinced that the safety of the royal family and the French monarchy would be undertaken by Austria, and that some efficacious succour would come from that direction, without her making any appeal for it. This was attributing to her brother and the cabinet of Vienna a generosity they were far from having, and admitting a hope which her enemies were not slow in turning into a crime.

It should here be remarked that Madame Élisabeth judged the politics of the European cabinets with severity. She was very far from approving the official advice and crafty insinuations which made their way to Queen Marie-Antoinette. Having a profound aversion for all that did not seem to her upright, just, and straightforward, she was convinced that the secret proceedings of the Comte de Mercy–"that fox," as she called him–would prove fatal; but being without power to combat that influence, she could only pity Marie-Antoinette for enduring it, and for lending an ear to counsels which, without serving the family welfare, compromised, in her opinion, the stability of her brother's throne. To be just, we must here remark that Madame Élisabeth had been brought up, like all the princesses of the House of France, to distrust Austria. The same feelings could not be expected [Page 27]  of the daughter of Maria Theresa. Equitable history will recognize that Marie-Antoinette never dreamed of sacrificing France to her native country; but she did hope and believe that the alliance with the House of Austria, of which her marriage had been a pledge, would serve the interests of the two nations, and be a support to the French monarchy now shaken to its foundations.

The day came at last when Louis XVI., goaded by his virtual captivity and exposed to the virulent actions of the clubs as well as to the monstrous insults of the street populace, attempted to recover power. He resolved to leave Paris and raise his standard elsewhere in France, thus following, on the 20th of June, 1791, the advice his sister had given him October 5, 1789.

The story of the escape from Paris and the stoppage at Varennes is too fully told elsewhere to repeat it here. Madame Élisabeth makes only brief allusion to it in her letters of that date. After their return to Paris M. de la Fayette, appointed by the National Assembly governor of the Tuileries and keeper of the king and royal family, offered to allow Madame Élisabeth to leave the kingdom. This she refused to accept, and that decision sealed her fate. Nevertheless, she shuddered as she contemplated with clear eyes the position of the king and queen, deprived of all military support, reduced to beg their friends to go away from them, isolated henceforth on a throne without power, captives in a palace which was really a prison, and forbidden the last right of misfortune, that of complaint. She saw that in vain the king had sacrificed his prerogatives, given up his rights, abandoned his honours; the factions by this time disputed even his right to think, and measured out to him and his family the very air they breathed. Madame Élisabeth made herself no illusions as to the projects of the anarchists; on [Page 28]  the 20th of June, 1792, the anniversary of the capture at Varennes, they justified her fears.

She relates the events of that day in a letter, omitting, however, certain acts of her own which redound to her glory. As the king left his family to face the mob, she followed him, and darting through the door, which was instantly locked behind her, she placed herself beside him as he stood on a table which the pressure of the mob had forced him to mount with the bonnet rouge upon his head. The populace took her for the queen and threatened her. "Do not undeceive them," she said. There she remained for several hours, exposed to the vilest insults. Once when a bayonet almost touched her breast, she turned it aside with her hand, saying: "Take care, monsieur, you might wound me, and I am sure you would be sorry for that."

A woman of the people, speaking the next day of the failure of the attack, said: "We could do nothing; they had their Sainte Geneviève with them," giving her the name the fish-wives applied to her as the carriage entered Paris on the fatal 5th of October, the last day of the French monarchy.

It was on the day following this 20th of June, that Louis XVI. wrote to his confessor: "Come and see me this evening, I have done with men; I can now concern myself only with heaven."

In spite of the vast emigration of nobles and gentlemen who abandoned their country and their king from the time of the first revolutionary alarms in 1789,–which has been, perhaps, too much condoned by history in view of their great misfortunes,–a few faithful men remained in Paris after June 20th, resolved to save the king and his family if it were still possible. They knew that the attack of June 20th was an organized blow, missed for the moment, but certain to be repeated. As early as the morning of the [Page 29]  7th of August they had precise information as to what was to happen on the 10th, and they formed a definite plan for the rescue of the royal family. Malouet, in his "Memoirs of the Constituent Assembly," of which he was a member, gives a clear account of this.

Even the Constitutional party, alarmed at the rapidity with which the Revolution was rushing towards anarchy, was ready to rally to the king, and would have supported any action that removed him from Paris and placed him with the army; it was even proposed among them to bring a division under General de la Fayette to Compiègne to favour the escape of the royal family. This plan, conceived as early as May, 1792, failed, owing to the king's incurable distrust of the constitutionals and his remembrance that to them he owed the failure at Varennes. Malouet says:–

"M. de la Fayette, who now judged the state of things more soundly than he did at the beginning of the Revolution, was sincere in his desire to devote himself to the king and the Constitution, after having contributed to put them in great peril. He was sure of his army and that of his colleague Luckner, if the king decided to put himself at their head. He came to Paris in May to make the proposal, and as he knew the king had confidence in me he asked me to meet him."

Louis XVI. rejected this proposal, and Malouet adds: "Whatever were the desires, the hopes of the royal family, nothing justifies the imprudence of the king in isolating himself without defence in the midst of his enemies, and in not being willing, or not knowing how, to rally to himself a national party. . . . Can it be believed that the king, whose judgment was accurate, that the queen, who did not lack enlightenment or courage, that Madame Élisabeth, who had much of both, should have willingly reduced themselves [Page 30]  in the midst of the greatest dangers to complete inaction? . . . I do not doubt that the security and hopes of the queen and Madame Élisabeth fastened themselves on help from the foreign Powers, which the king never invited except with much circumspection and always in hopes of averting a national war. These tentatives were as inconsequent as all else that he did. There was nothing precise, nothing complete in his plan; the secret powers given to the Baron de Breteuil were only contingent; more vague than unlimited, they appealed neither to the foreign armies, nor to the great body of émigrés assembled on the frontier; they simply tended to the mediation of the allies of France."

Meantime the crisis was approaching. The 5th of October and the 20th of June foretold it; on the 10th of August it came. There is comfort in feeling that a few generous hearts remained in Paris watching for a chance to save the royal family even at the last moment. Malouet was one of them, and he thus tells of their final effort, their forlorn hope:–

"M. de Lally [Tollendal]," he says, "came frequently to our meetings at the house of M. de Montmorin with MM. de Malesherbes, Clermont-Tonnerre, Bertrand, la Tour-du-Pin, Sainte-Croix, and Gouverneur Morris, envoy of the United States, for whom the king had a liking, and who gave His Majesty (but as uselessly as the rest of us) the most vigorous advice. It was on the 7th of August that we dined together for the last time. Our conference had for its object to attempt a fresh effort to carry off, by means of the Swiss Guard, the royal family and take them to Pontoise. Being fully warned in detail of all the preparations for the 10th of August, we had been assembled in consultation ever since the morning at M. de Montmorin's. He had written to the king informing him of everything, and saying that [Page 31]  now there could be no holding back; that we should be the next morning before daylight, to the number of seventy, at the royal stables, where the order must be given to have saddle-horses ready for us; that the National Guard of the Tuileries, commanded by Acloque, would aid our expedition; that four companies of the Swiss Guard would start at the same hour from Courbevoie and come to meet the king; that we ourselves should escort him to the Champs-Élysées and put him in a carriage with his family. The bearer of the letter came back without reply. M. de Montmorin went at once to the king. Madame Élisabeth informed him that the insurrection would not take place; that Santerre and Pétion had pledged themselves to that; that they had received seven hundred and fifty thousand francs to prevent it and to bring the Marseillais over to the king's side. The king was none the less anxious and agitated, though fully decided not to leave Paris. . . . He said he preferred to expose himself to all dangers than begin civil war."

This is not the place to relate the public events of those days, so well known, with their causes and actors, to history; suffice it to say that the plan which miscarried June 20th was carried out on the 10th of August, when the king was persuaded, against the will of his wife and sister, to seek refuge in the National Assembly, while the Swiss Guard, believing he was still in the palace, fought to defend him and were butchered to a man. "Nail me to that wall," said Marie-Antoinette, "if I consent to go."

But before this day Madame Élisabeth had abandoned hope; she no longer sought to arm the king with courage; the lines of her face, and the look from her eyes now said, "Resignation," and such was her history from that moment. Her last letter bore date August 8, 1792,–two days before the fatal 10th; in it she spoke of the "death of the execu- [Page 32]  tive power," adding, "I can enter into no details." The last glimpse we have of her as a comparatively free woman on her way through the Tuileries to the National Assembly, is given by M. de La Rochefoucauld, in his unpublished Memoirs:–

"They issued," he says, "by the centre door [of the Tuileries]. M. de Bachmann, major of the Swiss Guard, came first through two ranks of his soldiers. M. de Poix followed him at a little distance, walking immediately before the king. The queen followed the king, leading the dauphin by the hand. Madame Élisabeth gave her arm to Madame the king's daughter; the Princesse de Lamballe and Mme. de Tourzel followed. I was in the garden, near enough to offer my arm to Madame de Lamballe, who was the most dejected and frightened of the party; she took it. The king walked erect; his countenance was composed, but sorrow was painted on his face. The queen was in tears; from time to time she wiped them and strove to take a confident air, which she kept for a while; nevertheless, having had her for a moment on my arm, I felt her tremble. The dauphin did not seem much frightened. Madame Élisabeth was calm, resigned to all; it was religion that inspired her. She said to me, looking at the ferocious populace: 'All those people are misguided; I wish their conversion, but not their punishment.' The little Madame wept softly. Madame de Lamballe said to me, 'We shall never return to the Château.'"

The Tower of the Temple, that historical purgatory of the royalty of France, is now to be the last scene and witness of the virtues of Madame Élisabeth; and it is also to witness a transformation in the character of its chief captive. Louis XVI., no longer feeble and irresolute, blundering and inert, becomes a patient, tranquil man, brave unto death, with charity to all, a true Christian, the innocent expiator of the crimes and faults of other reigns.

[Page 8]

¹ The lover of Mlle. de Lespinasse.–TR.

[Page 9]

¹ She was the daughter of Madame Infanta Duchess of Parma, oldest twin daughter of Louis XV., consequently the first cousin of Madame Élisabeth.–TR.

CHAPTER II.

Letters of Madame Élisabeth to the Marquise de Bombelles, the Marquise de Raigecourt, the Abbé de Lubersac, and others, from 1786 to August 8th, 1792.

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