THE DAUPHINESS AND THE ROYAL FAMILY IN 1770

The painful impression produced by the catastrophe on Place Louis XV. was soon dissipated. It was not long before it ceased to be spoken of except for the sake of praising the good feeling of the youthful pair, who had devoted their entire income for a year to the succor of the families stricken by the disaster. At this time, Marie Antoinette excited an almost frenzied admiration. France was literally raving over this fifteen-year-old Dauphiness, in whose honor the formulas of laudation and enthusiasm were exhausted. People compared her to a consoling angel, a torch of hope, a morning star. There was a veritable lyrism, an interminable series of mythological comparisons, with the Venus de’ Medici, the Atalanta of Marly, Flora, goddess of gardens, Hebe, radiant image of youth, Juno, queen of Olympus. France was on its knees. When this admirable Dauphiness made her ceremonious entry into Paris, her carriage disappeared under a rain of flowers. Prostrated before the altar at Notre Dame, the Princess seemed a celestial being, an ideal representation of goodness and purity, poesy and prayer. When she showed herself on the balcony of the Tuileries, there was an explosion of transport. “_Mon Dieu_, how many people!” she exclaimed. “Madame,” said the Duke de Brissac, “with all due deference to Monseigneur the Dauphin, they are all lovers who are looking at you.”

The Dauphin was good, honest, worthy of respect; his devotion, his charity, the solid qualities of his heart, his love for the people, his humane and Christian sentiments, pointed him out as an object of public esteem; but it must be confessed that his appearance was not attractive. There was something awkward in his gait, something wandering and uncertain in his glance, something abrupt in his manners, something rude in the sound of his voice, something heavy in his whole person. One might have thought he was always afraid of being misled or betrayed. He kept himself on the defensive, embarrassed in spite of the elevation of his rank, doubtful of himself in spite of the eulogies of those who flattered him, and seeming haughty at times through the very excess of his timidity.

His two brothers did not resemble him in the least. The Count de Provence and the Count d’Artois were as self-confident as he was modest and reserved. One, the future Louis XVIII., was a wit, a great admirer of Horace, always ready with happy quotations, adroit, intelligent, clever, remarkable for precocious prudence and a wisely dissimulated ambition. The other, the future Charles X., was a young man, or rather a roguish boy, witty, full of gaiety and high spirits, already showing plainly that he would love women, horses, and pleasures to madness. The two sisters of the three brothers, Madame Clotilde, the future Queen of Sardinia, and Madame Elisabeth, the future martyr, were, at the time of Marie Antoinette’s arrival in France, two amiable and good little girls to whom the Dauphiness became sincerely attached.

She displayed, also, a sincere affection for Louis XV., who, on his side, showed her much attention and sympathy. On seeing this charming Dauphiness, so admired and so admirable, the old King experienced the satisfaction felt by Louis XIV. when the Duchess of Burgundy arrived at Versailles. The seductive daughter of the German Cæsars restored life and movement to those vast apartments of the Queen, which had been deserted since the death of Marie Leczinska. She had the chamber successively occupied by the wife of Louis XIV., the Duchess of Bavaria, the Duchess of Burgundy, and the wife of Louis XV.[45] She rose between nine and ten in the morning, dressed, said her prayers, then breakfasted and went to see her aunts, where she usually found the King. The entries took place shortly before noon. The Dauphiness rouged herself and washed her hands before everybody. At noon, she was present at Mass in the chapel. After Mass, she dined in public, with the Dauphin, in the room known as the Queen’s antechamber.[46] “The ushers,” says Madame Campan, “suffered all decently dressed people to enter; the sight was the delight of persons from the country. At the dinner hour there was nobody to be met on the stairs but honest folks, who, after having seen the Dauphiness take her soup, went to see the princes eat their bouilli, and then ran till they were out of breath to behold Mesdames at their dessert.” Dinner was over at half-past one. The Dauphiness then went to the apartments of the Dauphin, which were just underneath hers, and afterwards returned to her room, where she embroidered, read, wrote, and took lessons in literature and on the harpsichord; a promenade in the park and the environs, one or two visits to Mesdames, play from seven o’clock until nine, then supper, and then to bed at eleven; such was the Princess’s way of life. Her principal society was that of her aunts, Mesdames Adelaide, Victoire, and Sophie, who in 1770 had arrived at the respective ages of thirty-eight, thirty-seven, and thirty-six. All three had remained unmarried. In spite of their exemplary moral conduct, they had their defects. Madame Adelaide liked to meddle in everything. She thought she had influence over her father, and the ministers were obliged to reckon with her. Madame Victoire usually followed the directions of her elder sister, although her own mind was not inactive. As to Madame Sophie, she was upright but indolent. “Never did I see anybody,” says Madame Campan, “who had such a frightened look; she walked with extreme rapidity, and to recognize without looking at the people who made way for her, she had acquired a habit of glancing, sideways, like a hare. This Princess was so exceedingly diffident that one might be with her daily, for years together, without hearing her utter a single word.... There were occasions, however, when she became all at once affable and condescending, and manifested the most communicative good nature; this was when there was a storm; she was afraid of it, and such was her alarm that she then approached the humblest persons and would ask them a thousand obliging questions; a flash of lightning made her squeeze their hands; a peal of thunder would drive her to embrace them.”

The youngest daughter of Louis XV., Madame Louise, was at the Carmelite convent of Saint Denis, and we have seen that the Dauphiness visited her there before going to Versailles. She received the habit, September 10, 1770, and Marie Antoinette was present at the ceremony. The Mass was said by the Papal Nuncio. Madame Louise of France, in religion Sister Thérèse Augustine, received communion. Before taking the frieze habit of Carmel, the Princess put on for the last time a royal vestment, a robe embroidered with silver and besprent with flowers of gold. Resplendent with the lustre of jewels, her head covered with a diadem, and beside her the lords and ladies who once composed her household, she made her appearance through clouds of incense. One might have thought it an apotheosis. A discourse was pronounced by the Bishop of Troyes which was so affecting that, according to the Abbé Proyart, who describes the solemnity, everybody was wiping away tears except the courageous woman who caused them to flow. Then all the pomp disappeared. After having been absent for a moment, the King’s daughter returned, dressed as a Carmelite, and received from the hands of the Dauphiness the mantle and the religious veil.