Knowing that Orleans was a danger, having some notion of the nightly gatherings in the Palais Royale, Louis for once was stem and banished Orleans to his estates at Villers-Cotteret.

Now there was a division between the King and the Parlement; and all the Parlements of the country stood firmly behind the Parlement of Paris.

"Brienne must go," was the cry not only in the capital but throughout the country. There was rioting in several towns; people were demanding the recall of Necker and he could only come back if Brienne was dismissed.

The cry went up; "The country needs the States General!"

Madame Louise, the youngest of the aunts, died at that time. I think of her now as one of the lucky ones who did not live too long, as most of us did.

She had died in her convent, sure of her place in Heaven, for as she pa.s.sed away she cried in her delirium as though to her coachman: "To Paradise, quick. Full speed ahead."

I think she must have been the happiest of the aunts, removed from the stresses which had become so much a part of our lives.

I was spending more and more time at the Trianon, walking in the gardens, talking to my peasants at the Hameau. I felt so strongly the need to escape. I kept the children with me - my two healthy ones and my Dauphin, who was growing visibly thinner every day.

Rose Bertin came with new patterns. She had an exquisite silk - and also the most delightful satin I had ever seen.

"Everything is changed now," I told her. "I have many dresses in my wardrobe. They must suffice."

She looked at me incredulously and then smiled her roguish familiar smile. "Wait until Your Majesty sees the new blue velvet."

"I have no wish to see it," I replied. "I shall not be sending for you so often now."

She laughed and called to one of her women to unroll the velvet, but I turned away and walked to the window.

She was angry; I saw that as she left the apartment; her cheeks were pink and her eyes were half-closed. I wondered why I had ever liked the woman; and I was to wonder still more when I understood that she, growing more and more angry when she realized I really meant that I should not send for her, discussed my follies and extravagances with her customers and even went into the marketplaces to do so.

I really had no desire for new dresses. I had changed. I must set a good example. I must cut down my expenses. I told the Duc de Polignac that I should have to relieve him of his post of Master of my Horse. It was in any case almost a sinecure and one which cost me fifty thousand livres a year. I had created it for the sake of Gabrielle. I also relieved her lover, the Comte de Vaudreuil, of his post of Grand Falconer.

"This will make us bankrupt!" cried the infuriated Comte.

"Better you than France," I replied with some sharpness. I was beginning to see how foolish I had been in bestowing such gifts on these people; I was realizing how they had battened on my careless generosity, which was, in fact, no generosity at all, for I was giving away something which did not belong to me.

I felt these people were already turning from me - not Gabrielle, who had never asked for anything for herself, only favors for her family because they pressed her to; not the Princesse de Lamballe, who was a disinterested friend; and my dear sister-in-law Elisabeth, who cared deeply for my children and so had made an even deeper bond between us. These were my true friends. But perhaps even at this stage the others had already begun to desert.

But there was one friend who had returned to France and of whom I was very much aware. This was Comte Axel de Fersen. He appeared at gatherings and I never had more than a discreet word or so with him. But I was conscious of a great serenity because he was there. I felt that he was awaiting that moment when I should give the sign and then he would be at my side.

The Dauphin was growing weaker. I was constantly in his apartments, watching over him. My anxiety for him could make me forget for a time these state affairs. Here was tragedy and one which was more real to me, more heartrending than the difficulties of France.

I was writing to Joseph about him: "I am worried about the health of my eldest boy. His growth is somewhat awry, for he has one leg shorter than the other and his spine is a little twisted and unduly prominent. For some time now he has been inclined to attacks of fever and he is thin and frail."

I wanted to be with him the whole of the time, nursing him myself. But that was not possible. The Opera House had requested that the King and I attend a gala performance and Louis said that he thought it would be expected that we should show ourselves.

I dreaded it. I told him so. They wished to see him; they loved him, but they hated me. They were fed on the cruelest lies about me. I hated the thought of going to the Opera House, which in itself would be a reminder of those days when I had danced so madly at the opera b.a.l.l.s.

"It is our duty to go," said Louis somberly.

I went as I often did to the nurseries to show the children my gown; little Louis-Charles shrieked with delight and stroked the soft silk of my skirt.

"Beautiful, beautiful Maman," he said. And he insisted on showing me Moufflet's latest tricks. Moufflet was the cleverest dog in the world and he wished he were his. My poor little Dauphin was lying in his bed, his misshapen body hidden; I wanted to weep as I bent over and kissed him. He put his arms about my neck and clung to me; he loved me when there was no one there to poison him against me.

I left for the opera with the memory of my nurseries staying with me. It was a brilliant occasion and I was delighted that the King was so loudly cheered. There were no cheers for me, though, and I heard the shout of "Madame Deficit!" and "Where is the diamond necklace?"

As I stepped into the royal box I saw the paper which had been pinned there. It was hastily removed but not before I had caught sight of the words, "Tremble, Tyrants."

I did tremble, throughout the opera, uncontrollably. But Louis sat beside me smiling with that calm smile which, it seemed, nothing could shake.

What joy it was when my son seemed to be recovering his health a little. I forgot all my anxieties in letting myself believe that he was really growing stronger. He was such a clever child and he was always amusing me with his sayings.

"He will be a very wise King," I told his father; and Louis agreed with me.

They had put him into a corselet to try to straighten his spine and he never complained. He was like a little man.

I was anxious that he should learn how to manage his finances. Finances were very much in my mind at that time and I had ordered his governor and governess not to give him more than his allowance. He was very taken with a mechanical doll he had seen and greatly desired it. I planned to give it to him, for he told me he had asked G.o.d to see that he received it.

He told me that one of his attendants had reminded him that it was better to ask G.o.d for wisdom than riches.

"To which, Maman," he told me with a smile, "I replied that while I was about it I saw no reason not to ask for both at once."

What could one do with such a child but marvel at him?

"My darling," I cried, "you must promise me to eat up all the nourishing food you are given. You must grow into a strong man. Your Papa was not strong as a boy, but look at him now."

"I want that," he told me.

"You should say we want, my darling ... as the King does." I was trying to teach him to become a King, for I always remembered his father's saying that he had been taught nothing.

"The King and I say 'we want' together, Maman. But I am right, for the King does not say we for himself."

He looked so grave and wise and I did not know what I wanted to do - weep or laugh.

And as I was beginning to hope, he became ill again. He awoke in the night suffering terrible convulsions. He suffered so, my dearest son; and I could do nothing for him. The doctors were always examining, always suggesting treatment. They tortured him with blisterings and they talked of cauterizing his spine. He bore all this with a sweetness which was amazing. He found it comforting to lie on a billiard table and I had a mattress placed on it for his greater comfort. He read a great deal - history mostly. I was there once when the Princesse de Lamballe asked him if he picked out the exciting parts of the book - it was a history of the reign of Charles VII - and he looked at my dear silly Lamballe almost reprovingly and replied: "I do not know enough about it to choose, Madame; and it is all so interesting."

As he grew weaker he did not want anyone with him but myself. His eyes would brighten as I came in. "Maman," he would say, "you are so beautiful. I feel happier when you are near me. Tell me of the olden days."

He meant by that those days when he was able to run about and play, as his young brother loved to do. And Moufflet would curl up beside him and I would tell him of little incidents from the past such as the occasion at the Trianon theater when he had sat on Papa's knee and watched me on the stage.

"I remember, I remember," he would cry. "And what happened?"

He would nod as I told, knowing it word for word, for indeed I had told him the story many times, of how I had forgotten my words and Monsieur Campan in the prompter's box, his large spectacles on his nose, had sought to find the place. My little son cried out in a dramatic tone which could be heard all over the theater, "Monsieur Campan, take off those big spectacles. Maman cannot hear you."

He laughed and I laughed with him, but as always I was near to tears.

The air of Versailles was perhaps not pure enough for him. La Muette would perhaps be better, suggested one of the doctors.

"It is unprotected from the cold winds," said another.

"Ah, but those winds sweep the air clear."

"Monseigneur's chamber at Versailles is damp," said Sabatier. "The windows look on the Swiss Lake, which is stagnant."

"Nonsense," replied La.s.sone. "The air of Versailles is healthy."

My husband remembered that when he was a child, he had been sent to Meudon, and the air there was said to have made him stronger.

Louis had made the decision. The Dauphin was sent to Meudon.

The members of the States General were to a.s.semble in Versailles. I was afraid of the States General because I was aware of an anxiety among those whom I considered to be my true friends. Axel, on those occasions when we exchanged a word or two, made me aware of his alarm. I knew that he considered the position very grave and that he was afraid for me.

"Louis," I said to my husband, "would it not be better to hold the a.s.sembly some distance from Paris?"

"They must come to Versailles and the capital," my husband replied.

"They will rob you of your power and your dignity," I said. I was certain of it. They were elected from all cla.s.ses of society. Members of the lower cla.s.ses would have a say in the affairs of the Government. It was a state of affairs that neither Louis XIV nor Louis XV would have tolerated. But my husband a.s.sured me that it was necessary.

There were great preparations for the opening ceremony; hopes had risen in the country; it seemed as though everyone was hoping for a miracle from the States General.

When I went to Meudon to see my son, I forgot all my anxieties about the coming ordeal - for I must take my place in the procession - because the Dauphin was clearly rapidly failing.

His face lit up when he saw me. "The best times," he said, "are when you are with me."

I sat by his billiard table holding his hand. What should I wear? he wanted to know.

I told him that my gown was to be of violet, white, and silver.

"That will be beautiful," he said. "If I were strong and well, I should ride in the carriage with you."

"Yes, my darling. So you must get well quickly."

"I could not do it in time, Maman," he said gravely. And then: "Maman, I want to see the procession. Please, please let me see you ride by. I want to see you and dear Papa."

"It would tire you."

"It never tires me to see you. It makes me feel better. Please, Maman."

I knew that I could not deny him this and I told him that it should be arranged.

The bells were ringing and the sun shone brightly. This was the 4th of May in the year 1789 - the year of the a.s.sembling of the States General. The streets of Versailles were colorful with decorations and everywhere the fleur-de-lis was fluttering in the light breeze. I had heard that there was not a single room to be found in Versailles.

There was optimism everywhere. I heard it whispered that the old methods were pa.s.sing now that the people were to have a hand in managing the country's affairs. That was what the States General was all about. The King was a good man. He had invited the States General. Taxes were to be abolished - or equally shared. Bread would be cheap. France was to be a heaven on earth.

I remember that day clearly. I was so unhappy. I hated the warm sunshine, the faces of the people, their cheering voices (none of the cheers were for me). The bands were playing. There were the French and Swiss Guards. Six hundred men in black with white cravats and slouched hats marched in the procession. They were the Tiers etat, deputies of the commoners from all over the country; there were three hundred and seventy-four lawyers among them. Following these men were the Princes and the most notable of these was the Duc d'Orleans, who was already well known to the people as their friend. What a contrast the n.o.bles made with those men in black - in lace and gold and enormous plumes waving in their hats. There were the Cardinals and Bishops in their rochets and violet robes - a magnificent sight No wonder the people had waited for hours to see them pa.s.s. In that procession were men whose names were to haunt me in the years ahead - Mirabeau, Robespierre; and the Cardinal de Rohan was there too.

My carriage was next. I sat very still, looking neither to right nor left. I was aware of the hostile silence. I caught whispers of "The Austrian Woman!" "Madame Deficit." "She is not wearing the necklace today." Then someone shouted "Vive d'Orleans!" I knew what that meant. Long live my enemy. They were shouting for him as I rode by.

I tried not to think of them. I must smile. I must remember that my little son would be watching the procession from the veranda over the stables, where I had ordered he should be taken.

I thought of him instead of these people who showed so clearly that they hated me. I said to myself: "What should I care for them. Only let him grow strong and well and I shall care for nothing else."

I could hear the crowd shouting for my husband as his carriage came along. They did not hate him. I was the foreigner, the author of all their misfortunes. They had chosen me for the scapegoat.

How glad I was to return to my apartments, the ordeal over.

I was sitting at my dressing table, my women about me. I was tired, but I knew I should not sleep when I retired to bed. Madame Campan had placed four wax tapers on my toilette table and I watched her light them.

We talked of the Dauphin and his latest sayings and how he had enjoyed the procession; and suddenly the first of the candles went out of its own accord.

I said: "That is strange. There is no draft." And I signed to Madame to relight it.

This she did and no sooner had she done so than the second candle went out.

There was a shocked silence among the women. I gave a nervous laugh and said: "What candles are these, Madame Campan. Both to go out."

"It is a fault in the wick, Madame," she said. "I doubt not." Yet the manner in which she said it suggested that she did doubt her statement.

A few minutes after she had lighted the second candle, the third went out.

Now I felt my hands trembling.

"There is no draft," I said. "Yet three of these candles have gone out ... one after another."

"Madame," said my good Campan, "it is surely a fault."

"There have been so many misfortunes," I said. "Do you think, Madame Campan, that misfortune makes us superst.i.tious?"

"I believe this could well be so, Madame," she answered.

"If the fourth taper goes out, nothing can prevent my looking upon it as a fatal omen."

She was about to say something rea.s.suring when the fourth taper went out.

I felt my heart heavy. I said: "I will go to bed now. I am very tired."

And I lay in bed, thinking of the hostile faces in the procession, the whispering voices; and of the little face which I had seen from the stable veranda.

And I could not sleep.

We were summoned to Meudon - Louis and I - and we set out with all speed.

I sat by my son's bed; he did not wish me to go. His hot little hand was in mine and he kept whispering, "Maman, my beautiful Maman."

I felt the tears running down my cheeks and I could not stop them.

"You are crying for me, Maman," he said, "because I am dying, but you must not be sad. We all have to die."

I begged him not to speak. He must save his breath.

"Papa will look after you," he said. "He is a good kind man."