‘There is a draught coming from somewhere,’ replied Madame de Campan.
‘Pray shut the windows. I do not like to see the candles going out like this. It frightens me.’
The windows were shut and the room seemed very quiet, and then the third candle went out.
The Queen turned suddenly to the Princesse and caught her in an embrace. ‘My misfortunes make me superstitious,’ she said. ‘I am afraid of something … something near me … something evil. I feel that the candles are warning me to-night. I believe that if the fourth candle goes out it will be an omen of overwhelming evil.’
‘You are distraught,’ said the Princesse. ‘It is the ordeal of to-morrow of which you think. But be assured, dearest, that it will soon be over and …’
The Princesse had stopped. The three women were all looking at the fourth candle which had gone out.
‘Maman,’ said the Dauphin, ‘how beautiful you are!’
She smiled and danced daintily before him in the violet, white and silver gown.
‘Kneel down,’ said the Dauphin, ‘that I may see your feathers.’
So she knelt, and he tried to put up a thin arm to touch them. She caught his arm and kissed it; then she held him pressed against her, that he might not see her tears.
‘Maman,’ he said, ‘I wish I were strong. I wish I could ride in the carriage beside you to-day. You look so pretty … all the people will love you.’
She shook her head and tried to smile.
‘But they will,’ he told her. ‘You are so pretty.’
She began to bargain then. Let him get well and I will not complain whatever they do to me. Let them vilify me; let them hiss me … shout at me … but let my baby be well and strong.
He said: ‘Maman, could I not see the procession?’
‘My darling, you are not strong enough.’
‘It will be wonderful,’ he said. ‘All the horses, and you and Papa in the state carriages; the horses with their plumes … the beautiful coaches and all the postilions in their gay uniforms. Will you ride with Papa?’
‘No, he will ride in the first coach with your uncles; I shall follow him in the second one.’
The boy’s lustreless eyes brightened a little.
‘I remember other ceremonies. The Cardinals in their red robes and Bishops in violet. Papa will be in cloth of gold, will he not? How I should love to see him! But you … you will be more beautiful than anybody. I wish I could be part of the procession.’
‘One day you shall.’
‘One day,’ he repeated. That was how she had consoled him in the past. ‘One day you will be strong enough.’ He always believed it, even as each day he grew weaker.
‘Maman, if I could but watch you … I should be so happy. Could I not … perhaps from the balcony?’
She kissed his forehead. ‘We will arrange something. You shall see us pass by.’
He smiled. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’ll be there, and I’ll ride in your carriage, Maman. I’d rather be in your carriage than anywhere else.’
‘One day,’ she said.
And she gave orders that he should be warmly wrapped up, and that a little bed should be put for him on the veranda over the royal stables. From there he could watch the procession pass by.
The carriages drove out from the château – the King in the first with his brothers; the Queen in the second; and following were the noblemen and women of royal blood.
They came to the church of Notre Dame where a short service was held; and from Notre Dame they walked in procession to the church of Saint Louis, where Mass was to be celebrated.
It was a brilliant sight with the banners flying and the clergy and other dignitaries of Versailles leading the processions. All carried wax candles – the members of the Tiers Etat in tricorn hats, black coats and white muslin cravats; the nobility followed, their garments of cloth of gold, and their plumed hats making a marked contrast with the soberly clad members of the Tiers Etat. Among the noblemen one stood out because of the plainness of his dress. The Duc d’Orléans had allied himself with the common people by refusing to wear the garments of his rank.
When he appeared there were loud cheers: ‘Vive le Duc d’Orléans!’ And that cry was louder and more insistent than that of ‘Vive le Roi!’
The Cardinals in their scarlet robes and the Bishops in their violet cassocks made a splash of colour. They preceded the Host carried under a canopy by four Princes; immediately behind this came Louis, dressed as the noblemen, his candle in his hand.
The Queen looked up, for she could see in the distance the stables and the little bed there; she smiled and she thought she saw a movement as though the little Dauphin had seen her and recognised her.
She was thinking of him, so that she did not realise how deadly was the silence as she passed through the crowd.
Then suddenly a group of women close to her shouted: ‘Vive le Duc d’Orléans!’
She understood their meaning. They were telling her they hated her in her beautiful garments which were such a contrast to those affected by the Duc d’Orléans.
Yet she could hear their shouting now: ‘Vive le Roi!’ It was only the Queen they hated.
She knew that those about her were watching her anxiously.
She held her head a little higher. She looked very majestic in her beautiful gown, the plumes of her headdress swaying gracefully as she walked – haughty and beautiful – the Queen who remembered only her royalty and cared nothing for the insults of the canaille.
Antoinette knelt by the bed of her son.
His fevered hands were in hers; his wish was that she should not leave his side.
‘Maman,’ he said, ‘do not be sad; one day, you know …’
Her lips said: ‘One day’; but she could not stop the tears falling from her eyes.
‘You cry for me, Maman,’ said the Dauphin. ‘Am I so very ill?’
She said: ‘Do not speak, my darling. Save your breath for getting well.’
He nodded. ‘I will get well, Maman.’
She lifted her eyes to the doctors. What could they do but shake their heads? It had been obvious for many months that the Dauphin would not live.
Louis was beside her, his hand on her shoulder.
Poor Louis! Dear Louis! He suffered even as she did.
The little boy was lying back on his pillows; his breathing was stertorous; desperately he was fighting for his life.
But he was going, little Louis Joseph.
Antoinette knelt by his bed and buried her face in her hands, because she could not bear to look at her son in his last moments.
The King brought her other children to her – Madame Royale who was just past her tenth and little Louis Charles who had had his fourth birthday.
‘Comfort your mother,’ said the King.
And Antoinette, opening her eyes, found great balm from those little ones.
Now the conflict had grown more wild. The nobility and the clergy banded together against the Third Estate; and the Third Estate was in conflict with the Estates-General.
The Third Estate began to call itself the National Assembly, with Jean Sylvain Bailly its President; they decided that they would draw up a Constitution which was to make understood by all how much power was in the King’s hands.
Necker urged the King to agree to certain reforms, and drafted a speech for the King to deliver. The King was persuaded to alter this, which infuriated Necker who realised fully how desperate the situation was. Louis wanted to make it clear that he understood he must give up a certain amount of authority, but he was determined to keep the privileged classes in control of the country’s affairs; and he could not agree that the Estates-General should have the power to alter the social life of the country. Privilege must be maintained; that was to be the theme of the King’s speech.