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MARIE ANTOINETTE AND HER SON
by Louise Muhlbach
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
A HAPPY QUEEN.
It was the 13th of August, 1785. The queen, Marie Antoinette, had at
last yielded to the requests and protestations of her dear subjects.
She had left her fair Versailles and loved Trianon for one day, and
had gone to Paris, in order to exhibit herself and the young prince
whom she had borne to the king and the country on the 25th of March,
and to receive in the cathedral of Notre Dame the blessing of the
clergy and the good wishes of the Parisians.
She had had an enthusiastic reception, this beautiful and much loved
queen, Marie Antoinette. She had driven into Paris in an open
carriage, in company with her three children, and every one who
recognized her had greeted her with a cheerful huzzah, and followed
her on the long road to Notre Dame, at whose door the prominent
clergy awaited her, the cardinal, Prince Louis de Rohan, at their
head, to introduce her to the house of the King of all kings.
Marie Antoinette was alone; only the governess of the children, the
Duchess de Polignac, sat opposite her, upon the back seat of the
carriage, and by her side the Norman nurse, in her charming
variegated district costume, cradling in her arms Louis Charles, the
young Duke of Normandy. By her side, in the front part of the
carriage, sat her other two children--Therese, the princess royal,
the first-born daughter, and the dauphin Louis, the presumptive heir
of the much loved King Louis the Sixteenth. The good king had not
accompanied his spouse on this journey to Paris, which she undertook
in order to show to her dear, yet curious Parisians that she was
completely recovered, and that her children, the children of France,
were blossoming for the future like fair buds of hope and peace.
"Go, my dear Antoinette," the king had said to his queen, in his
pleasant way and with his good natured smile--" go to Paris in order
to prepare a pleasure for my good people. Show them our children,
and receive from them their thanks for the happiness which you have
given to me and to them. I will not go with you, for I wish that you
should be the sole recipient of the enthusiasm of the people and
their joyful acclamations. I will not share your triumph, but I
shall experience it in double measure if you enjoy it alone. Go,
therefore, my beloved Antoinette, and rejoice in this happy hour."
Marie Antoinette did go, and she did rejoice in the happiness of the
hour. "While riding through Paris, hundreds recognized her, hundreds
hailed her with loud acclamations. As she left the cathedral of
Notre Dame, in order to ascend into the carriage again with her
children and their governess, one would be tempted to think that the
whole square in front of the church had been changed into a dark,
tumultuous sea, which dashed its raging black waves into all the
streets debouching on the square, and was filling all Paris with its
roar, its swell, its thunder roll. Yes, all Paris was there, in
order to look upon Marie Antoinette, who, at this hour, was not the
queen, but the fair woman; the happy mother who, with the pride of
the mother of the Gracchi, desired no other protection and no other
companionship than that of her two sons; who, her hand resting upon
the shoulder of her daughter, needed no other maid of honor to
appear before the people in all the splendor and all the dignity of
the Queen of France and the true mother.
Yes, all Paris was there in order to greet the queen, the woman, and
the mother, and out of thousands upon thousands of throats there
sounded forth the loud ringing shout, "Long live the queen! Long
live Marie Antoinette! Long live the fair mother and the fair
children of France!"
Marie Antoinette felt herself deeply moved by these shouts. The
sight of the faces animated with joy, of the flashing eyes, and the
intoxicated peals of laughter, kindled her heart, drove the blood to
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