The Girls' Book of Famous Queens

The king refused to sign the contract.

The chancellor was thunderstruck. A mere boy to resist the will of the empress; it was preposterous!

He flattered, he entreated, he implored; but all in vain.

Gustavus was immovable; and enraged at the attempt to deceive him, he flung the papers away.

“No,” he cried furiously, “I will not have it! I will not sign!” and he shut himself up in his own apartment.

Here was an unexpected contretemps. Who would dare to relate this pleasing news to the empress-queen, surrounded by her expectant court?

For some time no one could be prevailed upon to do it, but finally her favorite, Zuboff, approached Catherine and whispered to her. The blood rushed to her face and, attempting to rise, she staggered. But she controlled herself with a mighty effort, and dismissing her court under the pretence that the king of Sweden was suddenly indisposed, retired to her cabinet.

The poor Princess Alexandrina was conducted to her apartment, where she fainted away. In her tender heart, a sad and crushing sorrow mingled with mortification and wounded pride; but Catherine the imperial, Catherine the imperious, – what were her sensations?

“Braved on her throne, insulted in her court, overreached in her policy, she could only sustain herself by the hope of vengeance. Pride and state etiquette forbade any expression of temper, but the effect on her frame was perhaps more than fatal. The king of Sweden took his departure a few days afterward, and Catherine, who from that instant meditated his destruction, was preparing all the resources of her great empire for war, – war on every side, – when the death stroke came, and she fell, like a sorceress, suffocated among her own poisons.”

Upon the 9th of November, 1796, she was found by her attendants stretched upon the floor of her apartment, struck by apoplexy. All attempts to reanimate her were in vain; and on the following day, without having had one moment granted her to think, to prepare, or to repent, this terrible and depraved old woman was hurried out of the world, with all her sins upon her head.

Such was the end of her whom the Prince de Ligne had pompously styled “Catherine la Grande.”

Though her political crimes and private sins were such as to consign her to universal execration, she seems to have possessed all the graces of an accomplished Frenchwoman.

In her personal deportment, and in the circle of her court, she was kind, easy, and good-humored. Her serenity of temper and composure of manner were remarkable; and the contrast between the simplicity of her deportment in private and the grandeur of her situation rendered her exceedingly fascinating.

She possessed so many accomplishments, was so elegant and dignified, and performed with such majesty and decorum all the external functions of royalty, that none approached her without respect and admiration; but her selfishness and her depravity spoiled all, and made her what we have seen her.

Among all the famous queens of history, there is not one, save Catherine de’ Medici, whose career is so utterly devoid of noble acts, so entirely dictated by “selfishness, lust, and sordid greed,” as that of Catherine II., removed by the grace of God on the 10th of November, 1796, from being longer empress of all the Russias, and from the world which she had done so much to pollute.

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

A.D. 1755-1793

“It is our royal state that yields
This bitterness of woe.” – Wordsworth.

IN the grand salon of Trianon stood King Louis XV., and near him, on a gold and crimson sofa, sat the Marchioness of Pompadour. In his hand the king held a letter which vividly depicted – far too vividly for royal ears – the desolation of the kingdom and the ruinous state of the finances; and his Majesty frowned gloomily as he gazed upon it, for it was not the habit of King Louis the Well-Beloved to concern himself with the interests or the wishes of his subjects, or with what took place within his wide domain of France. Turning suddenly to Madame de Pompadour, the king read aloud the missive: “Sire, – Your finances are in the greatest disorder, and the great majority of states have perished through this cause; your ministers are without capacity. Open war is waged against religion. Lose no time in restoring order to the state of the finances. Embarrassments necessitate fresh taxes, which grind the people and induce toward revolt. A time will come, sire, when the people will be enlightened, and that time is probably near at hand”; then, turning upon his heel, he added angrily, “I wish to hear no more about it. Things will last as they are as long as I shall.” And Madame la Marquise de Pompadour, rising from her gold and crimson sofa, cried gayly, “Right, mon roi! Things will last as long as we shall, and après nous le deluge!” Madame la Marquise de Pompadour spoke truly, and when at last the storm burst in all its fury, and the Duc de Liancourt announced to Louis XVI. that the Bastile had fallen, and upon its smouldering ruins a people bid defiance to their king, his Majesty, astonished and alarmed, exclaimed, “It is a revolt, then!”

“Nay, sire,” replied Liancourt, “it is a revolution!”

A revolution! Aye, a revolution truly. And King Louis leaves his splendid, proud Versailles, and Queen Marie Antoinette bids sad adieu to Trianon. The royal diadem of France, torn from a kingly brow, is trampled in the dust, and the blood-red emblem of the Jacobins appears upon the gilded portals of the Tuileries Palace. Anarchy! confusion! chaos! Government, Philosophy, Religion, – all are hurled headlong in the dark abyss, and fury reigns supreme. But amid this overthrow of men and things, a daring soul arises who grasps the helm of state, and stands erect beneath the weight; who chains revolution in France, and unchains it in the rest of Europe; and who, having added to his name the brilliant synonymes of Rivoli, Jena, and Marengo, picks up the royal crown, and, burnishing it into imperial splendor, places it triumphantly upon his head, to found for a time a kind of Roman Empire, – himself the Cæsar of the nineteenth century.

All the palace, all Vienna, was full of excitement. The loyal affection and sentimental lamentation of the inhabitants gave vent to themselves in cries of grief. For the fair young daughter of their empress, in whose coming exaltation they took the utmost pride, who was to do them such honor and service at the court of France, she whose bright face ever beamed with smiles, was, on this 21st of April, 1770, departing on her long journey, and, as many without much prophetic insight might have perceived, her difficult career. When the great coach rolled from the palace courtyard, the girl-bride covered her face with her hands, which yet could not conceal the tears that streamed through her slender fingers. Again and again she turned for a farewell look at the mother, the home, and the early friends, which she was never to see again. The carriage rolled away, and Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josèphe de Lorraine turned her back forever on the Prater and the Danube, Schönbrunn and the moated Laxenburg.

Spring-time in sunny France; the birds are singing merrily, the trees are putting forth their leaves, and all nature wears a look of happiness and joy. The Château de Compiègne is filled with guests, – a brilliant assemblage of the haute noblesse composing the court of Louis XV. Upon the terrace stands the king, and with him his three grandsons, – the Dauphin (Louis XVI.), Monsieur le Comte de Provence (Louis XVIII.), and the Comte d’ Artois (Charles X.), – and an eager, anxious crowd surrounds them. All gaze in one direction, for Louis, the Dauphin, awaits his bride, – she who is to be the future queen of France. But little like a bridegroom looks the timid, fat Louis, upon this bright spring morning. He wears an air of resigned indifference, contrasting strongly with the eagerness of his Majesty, King Louis XV., who, notwithstanding his sixty years, makes a far more gallant knight than he. There is a cloud of dust upon the horizon; the avant-couriers arrive; the king and the Dauphin mount their horses, and with a numerous retinue ride forth to meet and welcome the approaching bride. And now the old state travelling carriage is in sight. Putting spurs to his horse, the king leads the way, and, hat in hand, rides up to the side of the cumbrous vehicle. The door flies open, and before him in all the freshness of her fifteen summers is Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josèphe de Lorraine, Archduchess of Austria. The introductions follow, and the young bride and her bashful fiancée are conducted back to Versailles, where, on the 16th of May, 1770, the nuptial benediction is pronounced by the Archbishop of Paris, in the chapel of the palace.

Then followed the fêtes, and notwithstanding the exchequer was in the usual chronic state of exhaustion, twenty millions of francs – a mighty sum for that period – was spent upon them.

“Fêtes magnifiques” they were termed, from their surpassing in splendor anything witnessed in France since the days of Louis le Grand. For weeks the public rejoicings continued.

On the 30th of May, they were to close with the fête of the Ville de Paris, and in the evening a display of illuminations and fireworks on the Place Louis XV. (now the Place de la Concorde) which were to surpass all that had preceded them. Thousands of people filled the square and all the approaching avenues. Most unfortunately, through some mismanagement, the scaffolding supporting the fireworks took fire and burned rapidly. No means were at hand for extinguishing the flames, and the terror-stricken multitude rushed in all directions. Crushing upon each other, hundreds were suffocated by the pressure. Those that fell were trampled to death. Groans and screams, and frantic cries for help that none could render, filled the air. Nothing, in fact, could be done until the fire had burnt itself out, and the extent of the calamity was ascertained. The Dauphin and Dauphiness, distressed at so sad a disaster, gave their entire year’s allowance towards mitigating the misery that had fallen upon many poor people; and the “fêtes magnifiques,” with all their splendor and rejoicing, ending thus in “lamentation, mourning, and woe,” seem to have been, as it were, a foreshadowing of the career of her for whom they had been given, – the unfortunate Marie Antoinette.

“It is the 10th of May, 1774, – a lovely evening following a bright spring day. The sun has sunk below the horizon; the brilliant hues of the western sky have faded into the dark shades of the advancing night, and the Château of Versailles, in its sombre grandeur, looms larger in the increasing gloom. On the terrace are saunterers in earnest conversation; carriages and horses and a throng of attendants in the marble court. A group of impatient pages, écuyers booted and spurred, an escort of the household troops, eager for an order to mount, – all are watching, with anxious eyes, the flickering glare of a candle that faintly illumines the window of a chamber in the château.”

In that chamber lies Louis, once the “well-beloved,” in the last stages of confluent small-pox. As the clock of Versailles tolls the hour of twelve, at midnight, the flame is extinguished; the king is dead! Louis XV. has breathed his last! Instantly all is movement and animation in the courtyard, while through the gilded galleries of Versailles resounds the cry, destined to be heard never again within its walls, “The king is dead! Long live the king!” as, with a noise like thunder, the courtiers rush from the antechamber of the dead monarch to the apartments of the Dauphin, to hail him king of France. This extraordinary tumult, in the silence of midnight, conveyed to Louis and Marie Antoinette the first intelligence that the crown of France had fallen upon their brows; and, overcome by the violence of their emotions, they fell upon their knees exclaiming, “O God! guide us, protect us; we are too young to govern!”

Preparations had been made for an immediate flight; for all alike were anxious to escape the infectious air of the petits appartements and grande galerie, whose deadly atmosphere claimed yet a hecatomb of victims. Three hours after the king’s death Versailles was a desert; for the young king and the queen, with the whole court in retinue, had set out in their carriages for Choisy. A few under-servants and priests of the “inferior clergy” remained to pray beside the body, which was ultimately placed in a coffin filled with lime, thrust into a hunting-carriage, and, followed by a few attendants, with no signs of mourning, the cortège set out, “au grand trot” for St. Denis.

There were none to mourn the departed monarch; and in an hour Louis the Well-Beloved was forgotten, or remembered but to be despised. But a single Fontenoy veteran, inspired by the memories of other days, rushed forward and presented arms as the scanty funeral cortège of the once vaunted hero of a brilliant fight passed through the gates of Versailles, in the dead of night, on the 13th of May, 1774. “What matters it,” murmured the old soldier, regretfully; “he was at Fontenoy!”

“It was a momentous crisis in the history of the nation when Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette ascended the throne of France. The time had arrived when the abuses of the Old Régime could no longer be tolerated, and sweeping reforms were demanded. The nation, hitherto politically a nullity, had awakened to a sense of its rights; while absolute sovereignty, with its arbitrary dictum, ‘L’état c’est moi,’ and its right divine to govern wrong, had lost its prestige, and had apparently no prospect of regaining it.”

The people, indeed, regarded the young monarch as the “hope of the nation,” and named him “Louis le Desire,” – a testimony to the ardor with which they had looked forward to his accession. And it is probable that, had a more able pilot – “a king more a king” than that feeblest of monarchs, Louis XVI. – been called to the helm at that period, “the vessel of state might have been safely guided through the shoals and quicksands surrounding her, and escaped the eddies of that devastating whirlpool in which she was eventually engulfed.” Indeed, if sincerely wishing to see his people prosperous and happy could have made them so, France would have had no more beneficent ruler than Louis XVI. But his good wishes and intentions were rendered of no avail by his utter want of energy and ability to carry them out. Infirm of purpose at the first, he remained so to the end. The decree, “Let there be light,” unfortunately, never went forth to quicken his mental faculties. The queen, on the other hand, possessed all the courage and resolution of her imperial mother, Maria Theresa; and, had she been able to control affairs, the revolution would have been crushed in its infancy with an iron hand. Again, had the king been able to hold to his milder measures, to maintain on the following day that which he had declared the day before, it is possible that France might have passed quietly from an absolute to a constitutional monarchy. But the self-will and determination of the one, and the weakness and instability of the other, rendered a union of ideas impossible and the revolution inevitable.

Little was known by the nation at large of the mental qualities of the young king. He was now in his twentieth year; and it had been noised among the people that he had inherited all the virtues of his father, “Le Grand Dauphin” to which were added the frugal tastes, the genial temper, and the air of bonhomie to which the gallant Henry IV. owed so much of his popularity.

“No wonder, then, that the accession of Louis XVI. was hailed throughout France with general delight, or that the enthusiastic people – their many expected reforms already conceded in imagination – should have written in conspicuous characters, ‘RESURREXIT,’ beneath the statue of the gallant Henry, whose jovial humor and pliant conscience enabled him to gratify his Catholic subjects with his presence at a Te Deum.”

When the king made his public entry into the capital, the joyous demonstrations of the Parisians affected him deeply. “What have I done,” he exclaimed, “that they should love me so much?” Ah, Louis! you have as yet done nothing; but much, very much, is expected from you!

But Louis XVI. possessed no energy; and the torpid action of his mind was but too plainly evinced by the sluggish inactivity of his heavy frame, as, stolid in his immense corpulence, he sat lolling in his chariot.

Perhaps, in their eagerness for reforms, the Parisians displayed unreasonable impatience. But when, a few weeks later, the young monarch again passed through Paris, he remarked – though unfortunately the lesson was lost on him – that the acclamations of the people were far less frequent and fervid than on the former occasion. And his eyes were filled with tears when he perceived that the conspicuously displayed “RESURREXIT” was transferred from the statue of the gallant Henry to that of the slothful Louis XV. Still, with all his vices, Louis the Well-Beloved, on those rare occasions when he appeared in public, had always commanded the respectful homage of his subjects, simply by the dignity of his bearing. By the same means he imposed silence on his courtiers, when, in license of speech, they infringed the limits within which it was sometimes his bon plaisir to restrain them. Occasionally, too, when the parliament opposed his edicts, or the dissentient opinion of a minister roused him from his habitual indolence, he could at once assume the arbitrary tone, the “je le veux” of the absolute monarch, and carry out his purposes with all the hauteur of his royal ancestor, the Grand Monarque. “And it is probable that his handsome person and majestic air – for, whatever may have been his shortcomings in other and more essential qualities, in appearance he was every inch a king – may have gone far in preventing the utter extinction of the enthusiastic affection which on several occasions during his reign the people so singularly, yet so generally, expressed towards the royal débauché. A lingering spark of that once ardent feeling must have smouldered on in their hearts to the end; for, grievously oppressed though they were, and vicious as they knew him to be, they still toiled on under their burdens, not exactly uncomplainingly, yet in a spirit of toleration towards him; while the yearned-for relief was, as if by the tacit consent of his subjects, to be claimed only from his successor.” Truly, indications were not wanting of the approaching storm. But “Après nous le deluge!” cried Madame de Pompadour, gayly; and the king and the court echoed the cry. Madame la Marquise was right. The deluge came; and the royal authority which Richelieu, Mazarin, and Louis XIV. had raised to such gigantic heights, and which Louis XV. had so shamefully abused, was hurled prostrate in the dust.

Bright shines the sun on this 10th day of June, 1775; and, heavy in its massive architecture, the grand old cathedral of Rheims looms up against the clear blue sky. The interior is hung with crimson cloth of gold. On the right of the altar, arrayed in their red and violet robes, point lace, gold crosses, chains, and mitres, sit the great grandees of the church. On the left, in their mantles of state, stand the temporal peers of the realm, and a brilliant crowd of gold-embroidered naval and military uniforms surrounds them; while above, in the lofty galleries of the nave, in the midst of pearls and diamonds, gold, and precious stones, and lofty, waving plumes, is Marie Antoinette, proud and radiant, surrounded by the ladies of her retinue.

For on this 10th day of June, “good Louis XVI.,” as the country people say, is to be crowned. Maria Theresa was anxious that Marie Antoinette should be crowned with the king; but she evinced not the slightest inclination, and, indeed, it was only at Vienna that such an event seems to have been expected or desired. But among the glittering throng which fills the cathedral, one sees not the king. He waits in the sacristy, whither two of the dignitaries of the church proceed to lead him to the front of the altar. The door forthwith flies open, and Louis XVI. appears in all the insignia of royalty. The mantle of state is placed upon his shoulders, and anointing him with the seven unctions of the sacre, the archbishop cries aloud, “Vivat rex in aeternum!” The grand old organ peals forth as he approaches the altar, and the fresh young voices of the choristers swell through the aisles and naves as they sing the choral service. How startling is the effect when, during a sotto voce passage of the service, the archbishop places the crown upon the king’s head, and he, suddenly raising his hand, thrusts it aside, exclaiming, “Elle me gêne!” Poor Louis! Truly he was destined to find it gênant in every sense. Henry III. had said, “Elle me pique!” All knew what had been his end. “The queen, who had been a deeply interested spectator of the scene, exhibited so much agitation at the moment of the king’s exclamation, that she was near fainting, and was conducted from the cathedral.” The ceremony is concluded; and the clanging of bells, the roaring of cannon, the lively chirping of thousands of birds, freed from their cages, to symbolize the “vieilles franchises” of France, and the tumultuous shouts of “Vive le roi!” proclaim to the multitude that “Louis le Desire,” is crowned king of France.

Marie Antoinette had been reared in all the freedom of the Austrian court, and it was some time before she could habituate herself to the etiquette-laden atmosphere of Versailles, where every look, every motion, every gesture, were governed alike by the inexorable rules of la grande politesse, laid down with such precision and exactitude by King Louis XIV. From the cradle to the tomb, in sickness and in health, at table, at council, in the chase, in the army, in the midst of their court, and in their private apartments, kings and princes, in France, were governed by ceremonial rules. The pomp and glitter at Versailles dazzled the beholder. There all breathed of greatness, of exaltation, and of unapproachableness; and the people, awestruck at the splendor and gorgeous trappings of royalty, fell prostrate before the throne.

Madame Campan thus describes her feelings upon first entering this charmed spot: —

“The queen, Marie Leckzinska, wife of Louis XV., died just before I was presented at court. The grand apartments hung with black, the great chairs of state raised on several steps and surmounted by a canopy adorned with plumes, the caparisoned horses, the immense retinue in court mourning, the enormous shoulder-knots embroidered with gold and silver spangles which decorated the coats of the pages and footmen, – all this magnificence had such an effect upon my senses, that I could scarcely support myself when introduced to the princesses.

“How well was the potent magic of grandeur and dignity, which ought to surround sovereigns, understood at Versailles!

“Marie Antoinette, dressed in white, with a plain straw hat, and a little switch in her hand, walking on foot, and followed by a single servant, through the walks leading to the Petit Trianon, would never have thus disconcerted me. And I believe this extreme simplicity was the first and only real fault of all those with which she is reproached.”

The illusions of etiquette were necessary to Louis XV. Louis XIV. might have dispensed with them. His throne, resplendent with the triumph of arms, literature, and the fine arts, was glorious enough without them. But he would be more than a great king, this mighty Louis! And so this demi-god, when age and calamity had taught him that he was but human, endeavored to conceal the ravages of time and of disease beneath the vain pomp of ceremony. He, Louis “the Magnificent,” the most accomplished of gentlemen, habitually exacted and received from the noblest of his realm adulations and menial services better becoming the palace of Ispahan than the Château of Versailles.

“All service to the king and queen, and, in a lower degree, to the Dauphin and Dauphiness, was regarded as an honor to the persons serving, – an honor to be keenly contended for by persons of the highest rank, no matter what delay, or inconvenience, or unutterable weariness of spirit was experienced by the individuals thus served.” Her Majesty the queen could not pass from one apartment to the other, without being followed by the lords and ladies of her retinue. The ceremonies of rising and dressing were accompanied by laws and rites as irrevocable as the decrees of the Medes and Persians.

The petites entrées and the grandes entrées had each their appropriate ceremonies. At the former, none but the physicians, reader, and secretary had the privilege of being present, whether her Majesty breakfasted in bed or out of it. At the grande toilette, the toilet table, which was always the most splendid piece of furniture in the apartment, was brought forward, and the queen surrendered herself to the hands of her hairdresser. Then followed the grande entrée; sofas were ranged in circles for the ladies of the household. The members of the royal family, the princes of the blood, and all the great officers, having the privilege, paid their court. Only grandes dames of the haute noblesse could occupy the tabouret in the royal presence. There were well-defined degrees of royal salutation, – a smile, a nod, a bending of the body, or leaning forward as if to rise, which was the highest form of acknowledgment. If her Majesty wished her gloves, or a glass of water, what she desired was brought by a page upon a gold salver, and the salver was presented in turn with solemn precision, according to the rank of the persons present, by the femme de chambre to the lady-in-waiting; but if the chief dame d’honneur, or a princess of the blood, or any member of the royal family entered at the time, the salver was returned to the femme de chambre, and by her offered again to the dame d’honneur, or to the princess, that she might have the privilege of presentation, till, at last, the article reached its destination.

One winter’s morning, Marie Antoinette, who was partially disrobed, was just about to put on her body linen. The lady-in-waiting held it ready unfolded for her. The dame d’honneur entered. Etiquette demanded that she should present the robe. Hastily slipping off her gloves, she took the garment, but at that moment a rustling was heard at the door. It was opened, and in came Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans. She must now be the bearer of the garment. But the laws of etiquette would not allow the dame d’honneur to hand the linen directly to Madame la Duchesse. It must pass down the various grades of rank to the lowest, and by her be presented to the highest. The linen was consequently passed back again from one to another, till it was finally placed in the hands of the duchess. She was just upon the point of conveying it to its proper destination, when suddenly the door opened, and the Comtesse de Provence entered. Again the linen passed from hand to hand until it reached Madame la Comtesse. She, perceiving the uncomfortable position of the queen, who sat shivering with cold, without stopping to remove her gloves, placed the linen upon her shoulders. Her Majesty, however, was quite unable to restrain her impatience, and exclaimed, “How disagreeable, how tiresome!” Such was the etiquette of the court of Versailles, and its inexorable rules governed alike every action in the lives of the king and queen, while the cavaliers and grandes dames observed with the greatest minuteness every punctilio of la grande politesse et la grande galanterie, that by so doing they might widen the gulf already existing between them and the new ideas of liberté and égalité which were beginning to pervade the realm.

“You love flowers; I give you a bouquet of them by offering you Le Petit Trianon entirely for your own private use. There you may reign sole mistress; for the Trianons, by right, belong to you, having always been the residence of the favorites of the kings of France.” For Louis XVI. this speech was a great effort of gallantry. It delighted Marie Antoinette. Here, then, was that for which she had so often longed; a place to which she could retire from the cares of state, and throw aside the pomps and punctilios of etiquette. She loved not the grand old gardens of Versailles, with their terraces and clipped yews. She would have an English garden of the day, with its thickets, waterfalls, and rustic bridges, such as the Prince de Ligny had made at Bel-œil and the Marquis de Caraman at Roissy. Le grand simple is to take the place of le grand magnifique, and attired in white muslin, with a a plain straw hat, and followed by a single attendant, the queen roams through the gardens and groves of the Petit Trianon. Through the lanes and byways she chases the butterfly, picks flowers free as a peasant girl, and leaning over the fences, chats with the country maids as they milk the cows.

This freedom from restraint was etiquette at the court of Vienna; it was barbarism at the court of Versailles. The courtiers were amazed, the ceremony-stricken dowagers were shocked; and Paris, France, and Europe, were filled with stories of the waywardness and eccentricities of Marie Antoinette. And Mesdames, the king’s aunts, from their retreat at Bellevue, and Madame du Barry, from her domain of Luviciennes, lost no opportunity to gather reports unfavorable to the reputation of the queen, and spread them far and wide.