Confessions of Marie Antoinette (13 page)

Nearly thirty million livres were paid to the king’s brothers, the wily, gargantuan Monsieur and the queen’s whoring lover the comte d’Artois, to subsidize their lavish households. And an astounding 227,983,716 livres was spent by the crown on buildings, gardens, jewelry, pensions to the royal favorites, and lavish entertainments—although (to be fair to the sovereigns, thought Louison, when she’d read the broadsheets) half of that sum had
financed the royal army and navy, which had been at war for a number of years. Yet twelve million had been spent personally by the monarchs, most of it to purchase the Austrian bitch’s diamonds, it was said. How does a rumbling belly dismiss that with a shrug or a flick of the wrist?

During her long walk to the Champ de Mars from her home in the
quartier
Saint-Germain, Louison encounters hundreds of citizens with the same destination. They share umbrellas to shelter from the downpour. Louison congratulates herself for planning ahead and bringing her own. One or two people in front of her begin to sing the
Ça Ira
, the Revolution’s new anthem, lustily and full throated, and within moments as though they had all caught the same fever, the tune is taken up by everyone. The sculptress already knows the melody, a popular
contredanse
tune, the
Carillon National
, having kicked up her heels to it many times. But it has been given a lyric by Ladré, a street singer who sells his ballads in the shadow of the cathedral of Notre-Dame.

As they sing, their feet beat time to the melody and their stroll becomes more of a march.

Ah! Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine

The people on this day repeat and repeat

The one who is elevated shall be brought down

The one who is brought down shall be elevated
.

Ah! Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira;

Let us rejoice, good times will come!

The French people used to have nothing to say

The aristocrats say Mea culpa!

The clergy regrets its wealth

The Nation will have justice

Thanks to the prudent Lafayette
.

Ah! Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!

There are many verses to the
Ça Ira
. The marchers sing them out of order. As soon as someone remembers a stanza, he or she begins and the others follow. By the time they reach the Champ de Mars, the citizens, though soaked to the bone, have convinced themselves that all will indeed be fine and they are prepared to celebrate their first year of triumph over their aristocratic oppressors.

The sodden field has been transformed into an arena of concentric terraces, stretching from the blindingly white stones of the triumphal arch three vaults wide built especially for the Fête de la Fédération to the École Militaire at the far end of the grounds. In the center is a podium atop a dais upon a platform, each level reached from a set of stairs.

After all that fearsome propaganda, Louison is much relieved to discover that there is not a hint of violence in the atmosphere. Instead, the air is filled with music. Military bands strike up martial tunes with fife and drum. Singers serenade the vast crowd with popular melodies, and a new song written expressly for the fête,
Le Chant du 14 juillet
. Eighty-three enormous banners striped with the red, blue, and white of the Revolution are unfurled about the field, denoting the place where each group of the nation’s provincial Federates, comprising 14,000 individual
fédérés
, will convene. Outside the arena, blue-striped tents capped with red pennants convey the atmosphere of a country fair.

Although her feet ache, Louison does not wish to take a seat just yet. Marcel helped build the triumphal arch, so for that reason alone it merits a closer look. She walks through each of the three barrel vaults, playfully making her voice echo off the coffered walls. She admires the allegorical friezes, wishing that someone had offered her the commission.
The king of a free people is the only powerful king
, she reads. On every side of the arch is a quotation.
We fear you no longer, petty tyrants, you who oppressed us under a hundred different names
. A third quote exhorts,
You cherish this liberty, you possess it now; show yourselves worthy to preserve it
. And on the fourth side of the arch,
The rights of man have been disregarded for centuries; they have been re-established for all humanity
. Her eye is drawn from the etched letters to another tricolored flag, this one representing the infant nation whose freedom French soldiers gave their blood to defend and whose victory over a tyrannical king planted the seeds of liberty here at home. A delegation from the United States of America has come all the way from the other side of the Atlantic Sea just to partake in the events of the Fête de la Fédération as a way of expressing their appreciation.

By the time Louison decides to find a place to sit in the stands, it is raining so hard that the benches are dotted with thousands of colorful, opened umbrellas, like a field of huge silk flowers.

She is eager to see the monarchs, but perhaps they have no intention of appearing so early in the morning. In the meantime the crowd is entertained by folk dancers from Provence, oblivious to the weather. But within minutes they are joined by hundreds of citizens who descend from the stands onto the field and soon the entire arena is filled with whirling dancers, laughing, clapping, and holding hands. Louison hastens to join them. As she passes a German visitor on her way down the steps of the terrace she overhears the man remark, “Look at these French devils who dance
in Strömen regnen
—while it is raining cats and dogs!”

The sculptress can’t resist a retort. “Who cares for bad weather when the sun is shining in our hearts?” she shouts as she scampers down the stairs to join the dancers.

Mock battles erupt spontaneously between the various Federates, turning the Champ de Mars into a muddy tourney. Lorrainers unsheathe their rapiers and challenge the Bretons. The Flemings face off against the Provençaux. Their
petites batailles
end in fraternal
embraces and the dances recommence, despite the rain which offers no surcease.

The merriment is interrupted by a thundering rumble of drumbeats and a fanfare of trumpets. All eyes are drawn to the pavilion at the end of the arena dominated by the École Militaire. Louison feels her breath catch in her throat. Everyone who is anyone is about to emerge from behind those blue and gold striped hangings.

One has to participate, but oh, how I dread it
, I wrote to the comte de Mercy, confiding my trepidation about this entire Fête de la Fédération. My mouth may smile before the hundreds of thousands of our “good people,” as my husband still insists upon calling these rebellious “citizens,” but my eyes are wary of them. They are not here in the pouring rain to celebrate
us
, but to congratulate Lafayette, and even themselves, on triumphing over everything we represent. As we rode to the Champ de Mars this morning, we passed a number of tents constructed especially for this event—and they call me wasteful!—their red pennants flapping like so many rude tongues. The area resembles a general’s encampment. Even on this day of purported celebration I feel like a prisoner.

A pavilion has been erected for the notables at one end of the arena, opulently hung with fabric of royal blue and gold. I enter the private box tucked behind it, grasping my children’s hands. Madame Royale and the dauphin don’t seem to know what to make of this occasion. My son is too little to understand what it is all about. I have told him it is a big costume party. “Is that why I’m dressed like a soldier, Maman?” he asked. He is wearing the red, white, and blue uniform of the Garde Nationale.

“You must be in costume, too, like the other ladies, Maman,” he observes of my simple white gown and tricolored sash. Feathers,
instead of jewels, adorn my hair. “But why isn’t Papa wearing one?” Ironically, for a man who has always been more at ease dressed like a commoner, today the king is garbed in pale blue satin, his coat and breeches encrusted with embroidery and gemstones. He wears no cockade on his plumed hat.

Beyond the private box, inside the pavilion two thrones, upholstered in azure velvet embroidered with golden fleur-de-lis, are placed three feet apart. When Louis and I enter, followed by our children and Madame Élisabeth, I assume the second throne is for me and begin to walk toward it. But no—the other chair is reserved for the
général
, Lafayette, the people’s saint. Arrayed on either side of the pavilion are the government ministers and the members of the National Assembly.

“No umbrellas!” the people cry, angry that their view of us is thwarted. They have waited for several hours in the rain and if
they
can be soaked to the bone, their garments destroyed, so can we. We must satisfy their desire for a spectacle.

My gaze is directed toward the center of the arena, where an altar rises into the air, approached by four sets of staircases. At its pinnacle stands the statue of a woman representing Liberty. She holds aloft a banner bearing a single word: Constitution. At the base of the altar, enormous urns burn incense that settles like fragrant clouds of myrrh in the moist air.

Three hundred priests descend upon the field, robed in white albs. Instead of stoles, they wear tricolored scarves. The ecclesiastics fill the steps of the altar and as the bishop is about to say the Mass, the rain ceases and the sun emerges through the gaps between the dark clouds scudding across the sky as if some celestial properties manager is changing the scenery. Nonetheless, the shift in weather sends a shiver up my spine, for the storm is headed across the Seine toward the Tuileries.

The words of the bishop of Autun are accompanied by a military
salute—artillery fire and a burst of martial music. At the elevation of the Host, the drums crescendo, the trumpets blare, and the entire crowd of nearly half a million souls are on their knees.

Once the Mass has been said, in rides the former marquis—now
Citizen
Lafayette—on a white horse with
tricolore
caparisons, including the dancing plumes atop its head. He dismounts and climbs the steps to our pavilion. Louis rises and hands his former
général
a slip of paper on which are written the words of the oath to the Nation. Lafayette returns to the high altar at the center of the field. With great pageantry, he lays his naked sword upon it, mounts the steps to the topmost point, and shoulders the mighty flagpole, brandishing it with a flourish that can be seen throughout the entire arena as a cue that the oath is about to be pronounced.

A religious hush descends. In a strong, clear, almost defiant voice, Lafayette pledges to always be faithful to the Nation, the Law, and the King—in that order. I steal a glance at Louis. How does he feel to be named third?

“At least they still mention me,” he murmurs.

Lafayette is vowing to protect the person and property of every Frenchman, all of whom are united “by the indissoluble ties of fraternity.” When he stops speaking, the crowd thrusts their arms in the air. Those who carry swords brandish them with gusto. Nearly half a million voices cry en masse, “I swear it!”

And then it is the king’s turn.

Louis rises from the throne. Taking a few steps forward he declaims, “I, King of the French, swear to employ the power delegated to me by the constitutional act of the State, in maintaining the Constitution decreed by the National Assembly, and by me accepted.” I watch his face. Such a slight distinction to some—from King of France to King of the French, but the nomenclature is separated by a chasm, this Constitution. Louis is no more pleased than I am to be standing on this dais praying to the nation as if it
were a deity, more powerful than the king who rules by divine right. My husband has been a charitable, just, and tolerant sovereign. A devout Catholic, his policies have nonetheless been favorable to believers of other religions. But the new laws that strip the clergy of their property, turning them into salaried servants of the State, have shocked and appalled him.

I must be the one to remind our subjects of their future. And so I lift the dauphin into my arms and hoist him as high as I can manage. “Don’t be afraid,
mon petit
,” I whisper; and then to put him at ease, I lie, “They are all your friends.” With the greatest humility, I tell the crowd, “My good people, I present to you my son. He joins, as I do, in the same sentiments uttered by his father, and by the great Citoyen Lafayette. I will teach him to uphold those laws of which I trust he may one day be the stay and shield.”

I clutch the dauphin to my chest and hold my breath, and in those moments I can feel his little heart beating against mine. As the people erupt into cheers, my smile finally becomes genuine.
“Vive le roi! Vive la reine! Vive Monseigneur le dauphin!”
The day has become as optimistic as sunshine.

The coda of this grand spectacle is a Te Deum that commences at five in the afternoon. The strains of a full orchestra fill the arena. At night the obelisk on the Champ de Mars is illuminated and people dance about its base as if the stone needle is a gigantic maypole. On either side, acrobats daringly scamper up swaying, reed-thin shafts several stories high. Descending from the summit of these circus poles, strings of lanterns create the impression of a single, enormous lampshade.

Despite the recurring rain, there is a banquet for twenty thousand guests at la Muette, one of the royal châteaux. For a people who have built the foundation of their Revolution on the purported excesses of a tone-deaf monarchy, they show no interest in stinting on their
fête de l’anniversaire
. The Fédération’s festivities are intended
to last for four days with celebrations held throughout Paris. Lanterns are strung from tree to tree in the Champs-Élysées, illuminating the entire boulevard with twinkling fairy lights.