IN THE BEGINNING OF AUGUST 1785 the Queen was busier than usual, though not because the political situation was peculiarly ominous and because the rising in the Netherlands was putting the Franco-Austrian alliance to a very severe test. To Marie Antoinette her Rococo theatre at the Little Trianon was of much greater importance than the wider stage on which the affairs of the world were being played. What she was so eager about just now was a new first night. Beaumarchais’s Le Barbier de Séville was to be produced in the palace theatre, with a distinguished cast. The Count of Artois in his own exalted person was to appear as Figaro, Vaudreuil was to play the Count, and the Queen was to represent the merry girl Rosine.
The famous comedy penned by Monsieur de Beaumarchais? Surely not the work of the man known to the police as Monsieur Caron, who ten years earlier had written that infamous pamphlet entitled Avis important à la branche espagnole sur les droits à la couronne de France—Important notice to the Spanish branch on the rights to the crown of France—in which the impotence of Louis XVI had been proclaimed to the world; the man who had at that time been vainly hunted by the authorities, and who had had the impudence to send his pamphlet to the enraged Maria Theresa? Surely not the man who had called the Empress Mother a “friponne”—rascal; Louis XVI, a fool and a “mauvais sujet”—bad subject? Surely not the man who, when in Vienna, had been arrested by imperial command as a blackmailer, and who, when prisoned in Saint-Lazare, had been punished, as was customary in those days, by a caning on admission? Yes, it was the very same! When her pleasures were in question, Marie Antoinette had a short memory, and Kaunitz did not exaggerate in saying that her follies were “continually increasing and being embellished”.
What made her indiscretion all the more flagrant was that, besides having grossly offended her mother, this industrious and talented adventurer and writer of comedies had monstrously defied the royal authority. A hundred and fifty years after the event, none can fail to remember the ignominious defeat of a King by an imaginative writer, and yet the Queen would seem to have completely forgotten it within four years. In 1781, the censorship, having keen nostrils, had become aware that Beaumarchais’s latest comedy Le Mariage de Figaro smelt of gunpowder. There was enough explosive in it to blow the old regime to smithereens, and the ministerial council unanimously forbade its production. Beaumarchais, however, extremely sensitive to anything which might touch his fame or restrict his income, found a hundred ways of bringing up the question of his play over and over again. At length he managed to arrange that it should be read aloud to Louis himself, who would give a final decision. Dullard though he might be, the worthy King was not stupid enough to overlook the spirit of revolt that breathes through this magnificent comedy. “The man makes fun of everything in the state which ought to be respected,” he angrily exclaimed. “Do you mean to say that it must not be staged?” asked the Queen, greatly disappointed, for to her an interesting first night was of much greater importance than the welfare of the state. “Certainly,” rejoined Louis XVI. “You can be sure of that.”
One might have supposed that this would be an end of the matter. The Most Christian King, the absolute ruler of France, had forbidden the production of Le Mariage de Figaro, and there was nothing more to say. An end as far as Louis was concerned, but not by any means an end for Beaumarchais. He had no thought of striking his flag, being well aware that it was only upon coins that the royal head counted for anything, only as the subscription to official documents that the royal signature had weight, whereas the real ruler of the country was the Queen, and the Queen, in turn, was ruled by the Polignacs. He would, therefore, appeal to this supreme authority!
The prohibition of the stage performance had made the comedy fashionable, and the author gave readings of it in one drawing room after another. With the mysterious impulse towards self-destruction which was characteristic of the degenerate society of those days, the nobility became enthusiastic about the drama, first of all because it made fun of their own order, and secondly because Louis XVI had considered it unbecoming. Vaudreuil, Madame de Polignac’s lover, was impudent enough to have the play performed in his private theatre. But this was not enough. The King must be publicly put in the wrong and Beaumarchais must publicly be put in the right. It was necessary to stage Le Mariage de Figaro in the royal theatre, in the theatre of the King who had prohibited it, and because the King had prohibited it. Secretly (one may presume with the knowledge of the Queen, to whom Madame de Polignac’s smile was more important than her husband’s prestige) the actors and actresses were charged to study their parts; tickets had been issued; the carriages were already driving to the theatre—when, at the last moment, Louis decided to assert his authority. He had forbidden the performance, and now his dignity as a monarch was being publicly challenged. An hour before the curtain ought to have been rung up, he stopped the whole affair by a ‘lettre de cachet’. The lights were extinguished, and the members of the distinguished audience had no resource but to drive home again.
Once more, surely, the matter must be settled. No, for it seemed amusing to the Queen’s clique to give plain demonstration of a power which excelled that of a crowned weakling. The Count of Artois and Marie Antoinette brought pressure to bear, and the King, weak of will as ever, gave way to his wife’s demand. All he insisted on was that, to save his face, modifications should be made in the most challenging passages—which everyone already knew by heart! Le Mariage de Figaro was announced for production on 27th April 1784. Beaumarchais had triumphed over Louis XVI. To the malcontents among the nobility the evening was made sensational by the fact that the King had wanted to forbid the production and had expressed a hope that the piece would be a failure. The crush was so great that the doors were broken down and the iron railings bent. The French aristocrats applauded vigorously and listened with rapture to the comedy which, in the moral sphere, rang their own deathknell—not having the ghost of a notion that this was the first public manifestation of revolt, was the herald of the storms of the Revolution.
Any stir of decent feeling, of tact, of understanding, would assuredly, in such circumstances, have induced Marie Antoinette to refrain from participation in the staging of a play by Monsieur de Beaumarchais. Assuredly it was unfitting that a pamphleteer who had besmirched her honour and had made the King ludicrous in the eyes of all Paris should be able to boast of having had one of his characters impersonated by the daughter of Maria Theresa, by the wife of Louis XVI, two monarchs who had placed him under lock and key as a rogue? But since his victory over the King, Beaumarchais had become the rage in Paris—and, for the Queen, fashion was the supreme law. What did honour and respectability matter? After all, this was only play-acting! Besides, what a bewitching part was that of the roguish maiden! How did the text run?: “Imagine the prettiest little woman in the world, gentle, tender, lively, fresh, appetizing, nimble of foot, slender-waisted, with rounded arms, dewy mouth, and such hands, such feet, such teeth, such eyes!” What woman at court had such white hands, such soft and well-rounded arms, as the Queen of France and Navarre? Who else was so fitted to play this delightful role? Away, then, with hesitation. Summon Dazincourt from the Comédie Française to train these distinguished amateurs in the niceties of plastique. The Queen would order a lovely dress from Mademoiselle Bertin. They would all have a really amusing time once more, and be able to rid their minds of the perpetual quarrels at the court, to cease thinking about the ill nature of affectionate relatives and the tiresome futilities and inconveniences of political life. Day after day, therefore, Marie Antoinette was busied over the forthcoming production of Le Barbier de Séville in her graceful little white-and-gold theatre, all unaware that the curtain was about to rise upon another comedy in which, unwittingly, she had been chosen to play the chief part.
The rehearsals of Le Barbier de Séville were drawing to a close. Marie Antoinette still had her misgivings. Would she really look young enough and pretty enough as Rosine? Would not her friends in the stalls, spoilt darlings, exacting, declare that she was not sufficiently light in her movements, not enough at her ease? Would they not regard her performance as amateurish? What a lot of trouble a Queen had to bear! Why was Madame Campan, with whom she was to go through her part once more, so late? Ah, here she was at last, at last—but what was the matter with her? She seemed in a great state of excitement.
At length Madame Campan recovered her composure, to some extent, and was able to explain stammeringly that, the day before, Boehmer, the court jeweller, had come to her much perturbed, asking her to procure for him without delay an audience of the Queen. The Saxon Jew’s story had been rambling and foolish. A few months ago, he said, the Queen had secretly purchased from him the famous and costly diamond necklace, and had arranged to pay for it by instalments. But the first instalment was long overdue, and not a ducat had yet been paid. His creditors were pressing him, and he needed money forthwith.
What was Madame Campan talking about? What diamonds? What necklace? What money? What instalments? At first it was all incomprehensible to Marie Antoinette. Of course she knew about the diamond necklace which the two jewellers, Boehmer and Bassenge, had made. Once, twice, three times they had offered it to her, for 1,600,000 livres. Of course she would have liked to buy it, but she could not get any money out of the ministers of state. They were always talking about the deficit. The jewellers must be a pair of swindlers. What impudence to declare that they had sold it to her secretly, and that she had agreed to pay for it by instalments—that she was in their debt! There must be some preposterous misunderstanding. Yes, she did remember, thinking things over, that quite recently, perhaps a week ago, she had had a strange letter from Boehmer and Bassenge in which they had thanked her for something, and had referred to a costly trinket. Where was the letter? Oh, yes, she had burnt it. Always a scatter-brain, she seldom read a letter to the end, and this one, subservient and incomprehensible, had been promptly destroyed. What did the men really want of her? She made her secretary write a note to Boehmer. After all, there could be no such flaming hurry, and tomorrow would be inconvenient. 9th August would do well enough, for meanwhile she wanted her wits about her for the rehearsals of Le Barbier de Séville.
When Boehmer kept his appointment on 9th August, he was pale with emotion. The story he had to tell was so utterly perplexing, so past all understanding, that to begin with the Queen thought the man must have gone mad. He spoke of a Countess of Valois, “an intimate friend of Your Majesty”.—“What on earth do you mean?” asked Marie Antoinette. “A friend of mine? I have never had such a lady among my intimates!”—Anyhow, Boehmer went on, this Countess Valois had inspected the necklace and had declared that the Queen wished to buy it secretly.—“Then His Eminence the Cardinal de Rohan …”—“That fellow?” interjected Marie Antoinette. “A man I detest and to whom I have never spoken a word!”—“… took possession of the necklace, stating that he had been commissioned to do so by Your Majesty.”
Crazy as the tale seemed, there must have been some truth at the bottom of it, for poor Boehmer’s face was beaded with sweat as he spoke, and he was trembling all over. The Queen was furious that an unauthorised use should have been made of her name, and she commanded the jeweller to write a full account of the whole affair. By the twelfth of August this strange document, which is still to be seen in the archives, was in her hands. When she read it, she thought she must be dreaming. Her wrath became intensified as she passed from one line to the next, for so gross a fraud seemed unprecedented. An example must be made of the rogues. For the moment, however, she said nothing of the affair to the ministers of state, and even kept it from her most intimate friends, but on 14th August, she told the King about the mysterious business, and made him pledge himself to defend her honour.
In due time Marie Antoinette was to realise that she would have done better to have this obscure intrigue thoroughly investigated forthwith. But careful thought, caution and foresight were foreign to her headstrong and impetuous nature; furthermore, her good sense was least to be trusted when her pride was touched.
Outraged as she was, in the document Boehmer had brought her the Queen’s attention was throughout concentrated upon one name, that of Louis Cardinal de Rohan whom for years she had loathed with all the uncontrol of her impulsive character, and whom she believed capable of any atrocity. Not that this worldly-minded nobleman in holy orders had ever, so far as she knew, done anything to harm her. As already described, on her coming to France he had welcomed her at the great doors of Strasbourg cathedral in a most flattering address. He had baptised her children, and had done his utmost to win her friendship. Fundamentally there was no opposition between their respective temperaments. On the contrary, Cardinal de Rohan was the masculine counterpart of Marie Antoinette, as light-minded as she, as superficial and as lavish in expenditure, and as indifferent towards his spiritual duties as she was towards her royal obligations. He was a mundane priest, just as she was a mundane sovereign; he was bishop, as she was queen, of the Rococo. He would have been a most suitable member of the little circle at Trianon, this man with his polished manners, his pose of witty boredom, his fondness for doing things on the grand scale. One might have expected that they would be on excellent terms—the elegant, handsome, frivolous, mellow-tongued cardinal, and the pleasure-seeking, gay, pretty Queen with her light-heartedness and her taste for high play. Nothing but chance that had sown enmity between them. Yet how often do we find that those who are most alike become the most irreconcilable of foes.
It was, in truth, Maria Theresa who had driven a wedge between Rohan and Marie Antoinette; the Queen’s detestation of the Cardinal was inherited from the mother, or was at any rate taken over from the mother, was a suggested dislike. Louis de Rohan had been ambassador in Vienna before he became cardinal in Strasbourg, and in the former position he had aroused the fierce anger of Maria Theresa. Expecting to welcome a diplomatist, she had found a presumptuous chatterbox. The Empress could easily have forgiven him for being of second-rate intelligence, and could perhaps have turned this weakness to good account, seeing that an able ruler may derive many advantages from having a foreign power represented by a simpleton. She might even have pardoned him for his love of display, although it revolted her when this self-conceited servant of Jesus made his appearance in Vienna with two sumptuous chariots each of which had cost forty thousand ducats; with a princely stud of horses; with gentlemen of the bedchamber; with runners and lectors; with stewards and major-domos; with a multitude of lackeys dressed in green silk liveries and wearing plumes; with a suite which put that of the imperial court into the shade.
These things she might have forgiven, but there was one point upon which Maria Theresa was inexorable. Where religion and morality were concerned, her strictness knew no bounds. She was a bigot in these respects, and it was intolerable to her that ‘a man of God’ should lay aside his sacred habiliments in order to wear a brown shooting jacket, and, surrounded by fawning ladies, to bring down 130 head of game in a single day. What made matters worse, to her way of thinking, was that this priestly diplomat’s loose, spendthrift and frivolous behaviour, instead of arousing general indignation, secured widespread approval in Vienna, in her Vienna of the Jesuits and the Committees of Morality. The Austrian nobility, which was weary of the thrift and strictness of the court at Schönbrunn, drew a breath of relief when invited to participate in such refreshing and distinguished luxury and display; they were delighted to associate with this gentlemanly windbag. Above all, the ladies of the Austrian capital, who had been bored to death by the severities of the strait-laced puritanical widow, flocked to Rohan’s lively supper parties. Supremely annoyed, Maria Theresa wrote to Mercy: “Our women, young and old, pretty or ugly, have all alike been charmed by him. They idolize him, and for his part he seems to be well pleased here, for he declares that he would like to stay even after the death of his uncle the Bishop of Strasbourg.”
Worse than all, the mortified Empress had to put up with it when her confidant Kaunitz spoke of Rohan as his dear friend, and when her son Joseph, who was always amused when he could say ‘yes’ to his mother’s ‘no’, struck up an intimacy with Rohan. She could only look on with a wry face while this popinjay was making his notions of the way to enjoy life current in her family, in the court, in the whole city of Vienna. But Maria Theresa could not bear that her strictly religious capital should become a frivolous Versailles, a light-minded Trianon; she could not endure that the nobles at the Habsburg court should give themselves up to adultery and fornication; this plague should not be allowed to become endemic in Vienna, and so Rohan must be recalled. Letter after letter went to Marie Antoinette, designed to ensure that this “contemptible creature”, this “vilain évêque”, this “man with a hopelessly corrupt mind”, this “volume farci de bien de mauvais propos”, this “mauvais sujet”, this “vrai panier percé”, should be recalled. The wrath of the Empress found vent in terms of abuse worthy of an infuriated fishwife. She raged and stormed, wrote at last almost beseechingly in her despair, demanding to be “freed” from the emissary of Antichrist. In fact, very soon after Marie Antoinette became Queen, she obediently saw to it that Louis Rohan was dismissed from his ambassadorship at Vienna.
But when a Rohan falls, he falls upwards. To compensate him for the loss of his diplomatic mission, he was made a bishop, and shortly afterwards grand almoner, thus becoming the highest ecclesiastical dignitary at the court, the man through whose hands passed the King’s benefactions. His own revenues were enormous, for not only was he bishop of Strasbourg, but also landgrave of Alsace, abbot of the rich abbey of Saint-Vaast, chief superintendent of the royal hospitals, vicar-general of the Sorbonne—and, God alone knows why, member of the Academy! But considerable though his income certainly was, his expenditure was greater still, for Rohan squandered money with both hands. At a cost of millions he rebuilt the episcopal palace in Strasbourg; he gave the most expensive banquets; he lavished money upon his light-of-loves; but the most wasteful of his passions was that for Cagliostro, who cost him more than seven mistresses. Soon it was an open secret that the bishop’s finances were embarrassed, and Christ’s servant was seen more often in the offices of Jewish money-lenders than at church, more often in the company of pretty ladies than in that of learned theologians. The Parliament of Paris had just been conducting an enquiry into the extravagant management of the hospital whereof Rohan was chief superintendent. Need we be surprised, then, that from the first the Queen should have been convinced that this Brother Lightfoot had organised the swindle of the necklace in order to raise funds for himself?
“The Cardinal has made use of my name like a vile and clumsy coiner. The probability is that, when he acted as he did under pressure of an immediate need for money, he believed he would be able to pay the jeweller at the appointed time without anything having been discovered,” wrote Marie Antoinette to Joseph II. We can understand the bitterness which made her regard Rohan as unpardonable. During the last fifteen years, since first meeting him in front of Strasbourg cathedral, Marie Antoinette, strictly obeying her mother’s commands, had not addressed him a single word, but had flouted him in the face of the whole court. It seemed to her, therefore, a base act of revenge that he should have dragged her name into a conspiracy of cheats, and of all the attacks on her honour which had been made by the French nobility, she regarded this as the craftiest and the most audacious. Passionately, with tears in her eyes, she implored the King to make a public example and mete out the severest punishment to this deceiver, who was really, though she did not know it, not deceiver but deceived.
The King, being completely subservient to his wife, did not trouble to take thought when she asked him to do something for her, she who herself never weighed the consequences of her actions or her wishes. Without scrutinizing the details of the charge, without asking for documents, without questioning either Boehmer or the Cardinal, he unreflectingly made himself the tool of a giddy-pated woman’s wrath. On 15th August he astonished the ministerial council by announcing his intention to have the Cardinal arrested immediately. The Cardinal? The Cardinal de Rohan? The statesmen looked at one another in amazement and alarm. At length one of them ventured to ask whether it was not rather too strenuous a measure, whether it might not produce an unfortunate effect, to lay by the heels so exalted a personage, a high dignitary of the Church—to lock him up as if he were a common malefactor. But public disgrace was what Marie Antoinette demanded as chastisement. It was at length to be made plain to all that the Queen’s good name was not to be trifled with. Most unwillingly, much disquieted, with anxious forebodings, the ministers at length gave way. A few hours later came an unexpected climax. Since the Feast of the Assumption was also the Queen’s name day, a court was held at Versailles to offer her congratulations. The Oeil de Boeuf and the galleries were thronged with courtiers and other persons of importance. Among them, as chief performer, was the unsuspecting Rohan, for it was his business to fulfil his pontifical function on this august occasion. There he waited, ready to discharge his office, in the anteroom to the King’s chamber, the place for those who had the privilege of the ‘grande entrée’—grand entry—wearing a white surplice over his scarlet cassock.
But Louis XVI did not appear in state as was expected, accompanied by his wife, that they might go together to mass. Instead there came a lackey to summon Rohan into the private apartments. There stood, biting her lips and with averted gaze, the Queen, who vouchsafed no acknowledgement to the Cardinal’s greeting. No less cold and uncivil was Baron Breteuil, the minister of state, a personal enemy. Before Rohan had had time to consider what could be wanted of him, the King said bluntly: “My dear cousin, I want to know all about the diamond necklace which you bought in the Queen’s name.”
Rohan turned pale. He was not prepared for this.
“Sire,” he said stammeringly, “I was myself deceived, but I have deceived no one.”
“If so, my dear cousin, you have no occasion for anxiety. But I am awaiting your explanation.”
Rohan did not know what to answer. He saw Marie Antoinette’s threatening look, and words failed him. His confusion aroused the King’s compassion, and the kindly Louis tried to make things easier for him.
“Write what you have to say to me about the matter,” said the King, and thereupon he, Marie Antoinette and Breteuil left the room.
When Louis returned, His Eminence had written about fifteen lines, by way of explanation, and these he handed to the King. A woman named Valois had commissioned him to get the necklace for the Queen. He realised now that she had cheated him.
“Where is this woman?” asked Louis.
“Sire, I do not know.”
“Have you the necklace?”
“It is in this woman’s hands.”
Now Louis summoned the Queen, Breteuil and the keeper of the seals, and had the report of the jewellers read over to him. He next asked about the written authorisation, ostensibly signed by the Queen, on which Rohan had acted. The latter, utterly crushed, said:
“Sire, I have the document. Obviously it must have been a forgery.”
“Obviously,” replied the King. Still, although the Cardinal offered to pay for the necklace, he said severely: “Sir, in the circumstances I have no choice but to have the seals placed on your house and to put you under arrest. The Queen’s name is precious to me. Aspersions have been cast upon it, and I must neglect nothing which can put matters right.”
Rohan besought the monarch to spare him this disgrace, especially at such an hour, when he was about to enter the house of God and to say the pontifical mass before the assembled court. The King, pliable and good-natured as usual, was shaken by the manifest despair of the man who was himself a victim. But Marie Antoinette could no longer contain herself. With tears of anger in her eyes she asked Rohan how he could possibly have believed that she, who for eight years had addressed him never a word, would have employed him as a go-between in order to buy the necklace behind her husband’s back. To this reproach the Cardinal could find no answer. He was now unable to understand how he could ever have been fool enough to become involved in the imbroglio. Louis was sorry for him, but said: “I hope you will be able to justify yourself! Meanwhile, however, I shall do my duty as King and husband.”
The interview was over. The nobles were waiting impatiently in the crowded reception room. Mass ought to have begun long since. What in the name of wonder could be the cause of such a delay? There was a feeling of storm in the atmosphere!
Suddenly the folding doors leading into the King’s private apartments were thrown open. The first to appear was the Cardinal de Rohan in his scarlet cassock, pale of countenance and with pinched lips; behind him, Breteuil, the old soldier, red in the face like a weather-beaten peasant, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Having reached the middle of the room, Breteuil shouted an order to the captain of the bodyguard: “Arrest Monsieur le Cardinal!”
Amazement was general. A cardinal to be arrested! A Rohan! And in the King’s anteroom! Was the old swashbuckler Breteuil tipsy? No! Rohan made no move, showed no indignation, but with hanging head surrendered to the guards. Almost shuddering with alarm, the courtiers formed into a double line, and running the gauntlet of inquisitive, shame-provoking, embittered glances, there now strode from room to room and down the stairs the Prince de Rohan, grand almoner of the King, cardinal of the Holy Catholic Church, landgrave of Alsace and Prince of the Empire, member of the Academy, and the holder of countless other dignities, while behind him, as if the Prince had been no more than a galley-slave, stalked the weather-beaten soldier as guardian.
Rohan was kept waiting for a time in one of the little guard rooms on the ground floor; awakening from his stupor, the prisoner took advantage of the prevailing consternation to pencil a few lines on a sheet of paper instructing his private chaplain to burn with all possible speed the documents that would be found in a red portfolio. These, as subsequently transpired at the trial, were the forged letters purporting to have been written by the Queen. One of the Cardinal’s mounted couriers galloped off with this message to the Hôtel de Strasbourg and reached his master’s house before the police (who were taking their time) arrived to place the papers under seal, and before the grand almoner of France, who should have said mass before the King and the court, had been conveyed to the Bastille. Meanwhile orders had been issued for the arrest of all who had been confederates in this obscure affair. As for the mass, no mass was said at Versailles that Assumption day. What would have been the use? Who would have been in a sufficiently devotional mood to listen to the holy words? The court, Paris and soon the country at large were stunned by the news as by a bolt from the blue.
Behind the closed door remained the Queen, her nerves still twitching with anger. The scene had excited her terribly, but at length she had been able to deal with one of her calumniators, with one of those who were making crafty attacks upon her honour. Would not all well-disposed persons now hasten to congratulate her upon the arrest of this rascal? Would not the court extol the energy of the King who had for so long been reputed a weakling, of the King who had sent this unworthiest of priests to the Bastille? But, strange as it must have seemed to her, no one came. With embarrassed countenances, even her closest friends, the women who had been her chief associates for so long, kept out of her way. It was very still at Trianon and at Versailles. The nobles did not trouble to conceal their indignation that one of their privileged class should have been treated with so much dishonour, and the Cardinal de Rohan, who would be let off lightly if he would bow to Louis’s personal judgement, having recovered from his first alarm, coolly rejected the royal grace and claimed the right to be judged by the Parliament of Paris. Marie Antoinette, though at the outset in so desperate a hurry, began to become uneasy. She was not pleased with her success. That evening her ladies-in-waiting found her in tears.
Soon, however, her habitual high spirits returned. Foolishly self-deceived, she wrote to her brother Joseph: “For my part, I am delighted that we shall no longer hear anything about this horrid affair.” This was August. The trial before the Parliament of Paris could not possibly take place earlier than December, and perhaps it would not begin until after the New Year. Why should she trouble her pretty head about the matter? If people wanted to gossip or to murmur, let them do so. What matter? Make-up and the new dresses! No need to stop the performance of a delightful comedy because of such a trifle. The rehearsals continued, and the Queen, instead of studying the police reports relating to the great trial (about which there was no immediate urgency, and which might perhaps be yet further postponed), went on studying the part of the lively Rosine in Le Barbier de Séville. It would seem, however, that even in this matter her constitutional indolence must have made her careless, for otherwise she would surely have laid to heart Basile’s remark about calumny—words which seem prophetic of her own fate.
Calumny! You don’t really know what you are disdaining when you disdain it. I have seen persons of the utmost probity laid low by it, or nearly so. Believe me, there is no false report however crude, no abomination, no absurd falsehood, which the idlers in a great city cannot, if they take the trouble, make universally believed—and here we have tittle-tattlers who are past masters in their art … First of all they circulate a faint rumour which skims the surface of the ground like a swallow just before a storm, pianissimo and murmurous, so that it seems to pass without leaving a trace, but really, in its passage, it has implanted its poisonous germs. Some ear has heard it, some mouth repeats it, and, piano, piano, it reaches other ears. The mischief has been done. It sprouts like a mushroom, spreads like a swelling wave, rinforzando as it moves from one to another, until it becomes the very devil; so that, all of a sudden, who can tell how, the calumny has taken shape, is enlarging, is growing steadily, under all men’s eyes. It extends the range of its flight, its great wings making the roar of a whirlwind, of a whirlwind which, amid rolling thunder, sweeps everything into its resistless eddy, until, through Heaven’s will, it becomes a general clamour, a public crescendo, a universal chorus of hatred and contempt. Who can stand up against such a typhoon?
But Marie Antoinette was, as usual, hard of hearing, or slow of understanding. Had it been otherwise, she would surely have realised the bearing of this famous declamation upon her own fortunes. The production of Le Barbier de Séville on 19th August 1785, signalized the last act of the Rococo comedy. Incipit tragoedia.