MARIE ANTOINETTE’S ARRIVAL IN FRANCE

At the moment when Maria Theresa pressed Marie Antoinette to her heart for the last time, she gave her a precious paper containing the wisest counsels. This masterpiece of maternal solicitude, written by the Empress’s own hand, was entitled: _A Rule to be read Every Month_. It began thus: “This 21st of April, the day of departure.—On awaking, you will kneel down and say your morning prayers as soon as you arise, and also a short spiritual reading, even if it were only for half a quarter of an hour, before occupying yourself with anything else and without having spoken to any person. All depends on the good beginning of the day and the intention with which one commences it, which can render even indifferent actions good and meritorious.” Maria Theresa then went on into all the details of a pious life. “I do not know,” she said, “whether it is the custom in France to ring the _Angélus_; but collect your thoughts at that hour, if not in public, at least inwardly.... If your confessor approves, you will approach the Sacraments every six weeks, also on the great feasts, and especially those of the Blessed Virgin; on those days, or the vigil of them, do not forget the special devotion of your family toward the Blessed Virgin, whose particular protection it has experienced on all occasions. Read no book, however unimportant, without having first asked the approval of your confessor. This is a point especially necessary in France, where books full of entertainment and erudition are constantly appearing, but among them are some which, under this veil of respectability, are pernicious to religion and morality. I conjure you then, my daughter, not to read any book, not even a brochure, without the advice of your confessor; I require of you, my dear daughter, this most real mark of your affection and obedience to the counsels of a good mother who has no end in view but your salvation and your happiness.”

The monthly regulation terminated with these simple and affecting words: “Never forget the anniversary of your late father’s death, nor mine at the same time; meanwhile, you can take that of my birthday to pray for me.”

The young betrothed was on her way to France. The heavens were illuminated by the joyous sunshine of spring. “All nature was smiling at this new Iphigenia who was advancing with the same confidence to marriage and the sword. God of mercy! Why didst Thou not arrest that royal progress, those triumphs of grandeur, youth, and beauty! Why didst Thou not withdraw this august child from the fatal destiny that awaited her! Ah! how sweet her death would have been in comparison to that reserved for her at the hands of execrable tormentors! Austria would have received the mortal remains of the daughter of the Hapsburghs with pious emotion. The prayers of a Christian mother would have borne her virginal soul to the eternal dwellings, and France, cast down by a blow so unexpected, would also have lamented this young Princess, too quickly ravished from its hopes.”[42]

Marie Antoinette reached Schutteren, the last German town before Kehl and the Rhine bridge, May 6, 1770. She saw France for the first time. She heard the sound of the Rhine waters, those poetic, majestic waters, so often, alas, troubled and tinged with blood, those waters which now wash two German shores, but which then flowed beside a French one. On the large island of the Rhine a pavilion had been erected, which was called the pavilion of the Exchange. It comprised a large hall with a room on either side; one of these was intended for the lords and ladies of the court of Vienna who had been charged to accompany the Princess to the threshold of her new country; the other for her French suite, her lady of honor, the Countess de Noailles, her lady of the bedchamber, the Duchess de Cossé, her four ladies of the palace, the Count de Saulx-Tavannes, her chevalier of honor, the Count de Tessé, her first equerry, the Bishop of Chartres, her first chaplain, her officers, equerries, and body-guards. Here took place the symbolical ceremony of the delivery. The pavilion was hung with tapestries. The choice of these was unfortunate. “It was nothing less,” said Goethe, who was then a student of the University of Strasburg, “than the history of Jason, Medea, and Creusa. On the left side of the throne one saw the unfortunate affianced a prey to the torments of the most cruel death. On the right, the furious Jason was deploring the loss of his children, lying dead at his feet, while the Fury who had slain them was taking her flight through the air on her chariot drawn by dragons.” On beholding these preparations, the future author of _Faust_ exclaimed: “What! Is it possible that at the first step a young princess takes in her new kingdom, such an example of the most horrible marriage possible could be placed so inconsiderately before her eyes? Was there no one among the architects and decorators of France able to comprehend that a picture is a representation, that it moves the senses and the soul, that it excites presentiments?” The weather was stormy and dark as Marie Antoinette entered the pavilion of the Exchange. A heavy cloud which veiled the horizon on the Strasburg side was slowly moving toward the great island of the Rhine. The three commissioners appointed by the King were waiting in the central hall. Toward noon the door of the Austrian salon was opened, and the Dauphiness appeared. She walked to the platform in the middle of the room, and there listened to the reading of the full powers and the acts of delivery. When this formality was ended, the members of the Austrian suite passed for the last time in front of the former Archduchess, kissed her hand, and then returned to the Austrian salon, the door of which was closed again. The Dauphiness changed her entire apparel. “When her dress had been completely renewed, even to her chemise and stockings, so that she should retain nothing from a foreign court (an etiquette always observed in this circumstance), the doors were reopened, the young Princess came forward, looking about for the Countess de Noailles, and then threw herself into her arms, asking her, with tears in her eyes and a candor that came from her heart, to direct and counsel her, and to be in all things her guide and support. It was impossible to refrain from admiring her aërial deportment; a single smile was enough to attract one, and in this enchanting being in whom the splendor of French gaiety shone forth, an indescribable but august serenity, perhaps, also, the somewhat proud attitude of her head and shoulders, betrayed the daughter of the Cæsars.”[43] The ceremony of the _exchange_ was terminated. On reaching the French side of the Rhine, the Dauphiness got into the King’s carriage, and started for Strasburg. Then the storm broke which had been threatening for some hours. The pavilion of the Exchange was submerged under a driving rain. The shouting of the crowd mingled with the claps of thunder.

The next day, May 8, Marie Antoinette repaired to the Strasburg cathedral. A young prelate, Prince Louis de Rohan, stood in front of the door, in a chasuble of cloth of gold, the cross in his hand, the mitre on his head. “Madame,” said he, “the two nations reunited in this temple are eager to render eternal thanksgivings to the God of empires, who, by august and longed-for ties, is about to set the seal to their common felicity, and to cement an alliance the aim of which has been to protect religion and bring about the reign of peace. You see the joy of Alsace breaking forth; France awaits you to crown its wishes. In the movements of joy about to manifest themselves, recognize, Madame, the same sentiment which caused tears to flow in Vienna, and which leaves the keenest and most profound regrets in the hearts of those from whom you are separated. Thus it is that the Archduchess Antoinette is already known even where she has not yet been seen; often this is merely the advantage of birth; for you, Madame, it is the right of your virtues and your graces; it is, above all, the reputation of those natural and beneficent qualities which the cares of an ever-memorable mother have perfected in you. Among us you will be the living image of this cherished Empress, who has long been the admiration of Europe, as she will be that of posterity. It is the soul of Maria Theresa which is about to unite itself to the soul of the Bourbons. A new age of gold should spring from so beautiful a union, and our nephews, under the happy empire of Antoinette and Louis Augustus, will see that welfare perpetuated which we are enjoying under the reign of Louis the Well-Beloved.” The man who employed this language was the future Cardinal de Rohan, the sorry hero of the affair of the necklace.

Paris, Versailles, all France, was in commotion. Nothing was talked of but the arrival of the Dauphiness. Upholsterers, sent from city to city, prepared apartments for her. Sixty perfectly new travelling-carriages awaited her at Strasburg. At Paris, people were going to the court dressmakers to admire the robes intended for the forthcoming festivities. A piece of fireworks was talked of, the bouquet of which, composed of thirty thousand rockets, was said to have cost four thousand louis (nearly fifty thousand francs of the present money).

The Dauphiness continued her route. Along her way the towns were joyful and the country places in festal array. The ground was covered with flowers. Young girls, gowned in white, offered bouquets to Marie Antoinette. The bells were ringing merrily. From every side resounded cries of “Long live the Dauphiness! Long live the Dauphin!” The road was obstructed by the crowd of spectators; the curtains of the Princess’s carriage were drawn up, and everybody could contemplate at leisure her beauty, her enchanting smile, her sweet expression. Some young peasants said to each other “How pretty our Dauphiness is!” A lady who was in the carriage called her attention to this flattering speech. “Madame,” replied the Dauphiness, “the French look at me with indulgent eyes.”

To all this succeeded the official harangues, a series of dithyrambs in honor of the young Princess. One orator wished to speak to her in German. “Monsieur,” said she, “after to-day I understand no language but French.” At Nancy she piously visited the tombs of her ancestors, the Princes of Lorraine. At Rheims, thinking of the future ceremony of the coronation, she said: “This is a city which I hope not to see again for a long time.” Some leagues from Compiègne she met the Duke de Choiseul, whom she received as a friend of her family. This was the 14th of May, 1770. Several minutes later, the King and the Dauphin, followed by a numerous escort, made their appearance at the cross-roads of the Pont-du-Berne, in the forest of Compiègne. Marie Antoinette at once alighted, and threw herself on the grass, at the feet of Louis XV., who hastened to raise and embrace her.

The Dauphin, more abashed than she was, scarcely dared to look at her, and, according to the official expression, “saluted her on the cheek.”

The next day they left Compiègne for Versailles. When passing through Saint Denis, Marie Antoinette expressed a wish to see her aunt, Madame Louise, the Carmelite novice. She entered the convent, with the King, at six o’clock in the evening, May 15th. A letter of the Carmelite, which is among the manuscripts of the National Library, says, concerning this visit: “The King asked to have the nuns brought in that I might show them Madame the Dauphiness. She is, my reverend mother, a perfect princess as far as her face, her figure, and her manners are concerned, and, which is infinitely more precious, they say she is eminently pious. Her physiognomy has an air of blended grandeur, modesty, and sweetness. The King, Mesdames, and above all Monseigneur the Dauphin, appear enchanted with her. They vie with each other in saying: ‘She is incomparable.’”

There were immense crowds all along their route. The air resounded with enthusiastic acclamations. Marie Antoinette had the tact to attribute the honor of this to Louis XV. “The French,” said she, “never see enough of their King; they could not treat me more kindly than by proving that they know how to love him whom I am already accustomed to regard as a second father.” Marie Antoinette slept at the château of La Muette the night of May 15th, and it was there that the King presented her, among other jewels, with the famous pearl necklace, threaded on a single string, which was brought to France by Anne of Austria, and destined by her for the queens and dauphinesses. The next day, Marie Antoinette arrived at Versailles; she did not behold unmoved that celebrated palace which then played so great a part in France and Europe, and of which she had heard so much. She passed through the castle gate at ten in the morning, and entered the marble court, where she was received by the King and the Dauphin.