THE HISTORICAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE NECKLACE TRIAL lies in this, that it threw the searchlight of publicity upon the Queen’s person and upon the windows of the palace of Versailles—and in troublous times, extreme visibility is always dangerous. Dissatisfaction, so long as it remains vague and general, is a passive quality. If it is to become actively combatant, if it is to manifest itself, it must be able to concentrate itself upon a human figure, which may be the banner-bearer of an ideal, or may be a target for stored hatred—as was, symbolically, the scapegoat of the Bible. That mysterious entity ‘the people’ can only think anthropomorphically, in terms of this or that individual. Abstract concepts lie, in truth, beyond the range of its understanding, so that it cannot vent its energies in punishment of a fault unless it perceives a guilty person. For a long time ere this the French people had been dimly aware of injustice, impinging upon it from some unknown source. For a long time it had subserviently bowed its head and hoped for better times. When each new Louis mounted the throne, it had enthusiastically shouted and waved flags, submissively paying the dues and performing the corvées demanded by the feudal seigneurs and imposed by the Church. But the more patient it was, the harder grew the pressure, and the more greedily did taxation suck its blood. In the wealthy land of France, barns and garners were empty; the tenant-farmers were impoverished; bread was scarce upon the most fertile land and under the finest skies in Europe. Someone, surely, must be to blame? If, for most, there was too little bread, this must be because the minority gluttonously consumed too much. If the many found their duties too heavy to perform, this must be because the few had arrogated to themselves too many rights. By degrees the country became filled with that dull disquiet which is always the antecedent of clear thinking and directed search. The bourgeoisie, its eyes opened by such writers as Voltaire and Jean Jacques Rousseau, began to judge matters for itself, to blame, to read, to write, to win self-knowledge. There were flashes preluding the great storm; homesteads were plundered, and even the lords in their châteaux were menaced.
These preliminary flashes had been slight, few and far between, but now came two vivid outbursts of lightning—the diamond-necklace trial was one; Calonne’s revelation concerning the deficit was the other. The controller-general of the finances, hampered in his attempts at reform and perhaps influenced also by a secret enmity to the court, was the first man in this position to publish a clear budgetary statement. Thereby it was made generally known what had hitherto been carefully hushed up, namely that during the twelve years of Louis XVI’s reign the sum of twelve hundred and fifty millions of livres had been borrowed. The announcement was fulminating in its effect. Such vast loans seemed incredible. Who had spent this money, and for what? The trial before the Parliament of Paris gave the answer. Poor devils who worked ten hours or more a day to earn a few sous learnt that in certain circles jewels worth a million and a half or more were lightly given as tokens of affection, and that palaces were bought for ten or for twenty millions while the populace was half-starved. But since everyone knew that the King, a kindly simpleton, modest in his tastes, reasonable in his desires, could have had no part in this preposterous expenditure, all the animus resulting from the disclosures was, naturally enough, directed against the dazzling, the spendthrift, the light-minded Queen. There was the explanation! Everyone knew, now, why the state debts had been piled up to so monstrous a figure, why paper money was continually depreciating in value, why bread became dearer and dearer and the burden of taxation heavier. It was because this harlot who was their Queen had had the walls of one of her rooms at the Trianon studded with brilliants, because she had secretly sent her brother Joseph in Austria a hundred gold millions to help him carry on his war, and because she had lavished pensions and sinecures upon her bedfellows male and female. The general misfortune had found a cause for itself, bankruptcy grew aware of its origin, and the Queen acquired a new name. Through the length and breadth of the land she was spoken of as “Madame Déficit”. It was as if she had been branded between the shoulders with this stigma.
The thundercloud had burst. A hailstorm of pamphlets and polemics, a drenching rain of defamatory writings, proposals and petitions was discharged. Never before had there been such an outburst of sermonizing in France, now that the people had begun to awaken. The volunteers who had returned from the American War of Independence, finding their way back to their native villages, told even the stupidest of their compatriots about a democratic country in which there was neither court nor king nor nobility, but only citizens, equal in station and endowed with like freedoms. Had not Rousseau’s Le contrat social declared in plain terms, had not the books of Voltaire and Diderot shown in a more subtle and refined way, that a monarchical system was not the sole divinely willed method of government, nor yet the best of all possible methods? The days of dumb and passive and submissive veneration were over. Once the King’s divine right had been openly questioned, the nobles, the bourgeoisie and the lower classes acquired a new confidence. What had been whispered in the freemasons’ lodges and muttered in the local parliaments became loudly vocal, and at length developed into a thunderous roar. The electrical tensions of the time were being discharged. A note of alarm was sounded by Mercy in his reports to Vienna.
“What intensifies the evil to an enormous degree is that people’s minds are growing more and more excited. One may say that, by slow degrees, the agitation has extended to all classes of society, and that it is this ferment which has encouraged Parliament to persist in its opposition. You would hardly credit the audacity with which, not merely in the privacy of their homes, but in the public streets, people express opinions concerning the King, the princes and the ministers of state. All their actions are criticised. The wasting of money by the court is depicted in the darkest colours, and everyone insists upon the need for summoning the States-General, as if the country were without a government. No repressive measures could put a stop to this licence of speech. So universal has become the fever, that even if offenders were to be imprisoned by thousands no headway would be made against the malady, for the only result would be to inflame the anger of the people to the utmost, and a revolt would inevitably ensue.”
The widespread discontent had no further need of mask or of caution, but found frank expression, so that even the outward forms of reverence were disregarded. When the Queen appeared in her box at the theatre for the first time after the close of the diamond-necklace trial, she was greeted with such loud hisses that thenceforwards she thought it best to keep away. Madame Vigée le Brun had intended to exhibit her portrait of Marie Antoinette in the Salon but it seemed almost certain that this picture of ‘Madame Déficit’ would be made the occasion for violent antagonistic demonstrations, so the speaking likeness was withheld from the public gaze. In the boudoirs, in the Gallery of Mirrors at Versailles, wherever she went, Marie Antoinette could not but be aware of the detestation with which she was regarded, for it was now shown to her openly and face to face. As a final and still more insulting demonstration came a report from the lieutenant of police in which that official, of course wording his advice as civilly as possible, explained in somewhat involved terminology that it would be better if at this juncture Her Majesty would keep away from Paris, since the authorities felt that, in the event of a visit, they might find it impossible to prevent undesirable incidents. The pent-up excitement of the whole country was being spurted as from a fire hose against one individual, and the Queen, whipped at length into wakefulness by the scourgings of this universal hatred, shaken out of her customary indifference, exclaimed in despair to those few who still remained faithful to her: “What do they want of me? … What harm have I done them?”
This violent thunderclap was requisite to startle Marie Antoinette out of her arrogant indifference, out of her hitherto invariable mood of ‘laisser-aller’—live and let live. Being thus awakened, she began to realise where she had gone astray, and, her nervous energy being directed into new channels, she made a hasty endeavour to atone for the worst of her errors. Instantly she cut down her expenditure. Mademoiselle Bertin was dismissed. Economies amounting to more than one million livres a year were effected in the wardrobe, the housekeeping expenses and the stables. The gaming tables disappeared from her drawing room. A stop was put to some additions and embellishments that were going on in the palace of Saint-Cloud; some of the other palaces were sold as speedily as possible; a number of sinecures were cancelled; and, above all, order was taken in respect of the public money wasted upon her favourites at Trianon. For the first time Marie Antoinette’s ears were open. She had begun to ignore the old power, the fashion set by society, and was trying to guide her actions in accordance with the new power, that of public opinion. Her first attempt in this direction brought her a good deal of disagreeable enlightenment as to the real feelings of many whom she had regarded as her friends, of many upon whom (to the detriment of her own reputation) she had for years upon years been showering benefits—since these blood-suckers showed little sympathy for reforms that were effected at the cost of their own appetites. “It is intolerable,” declared one of these toadies, “to live in a country where one cannot be sure of possessing tomorrow what one owned yesterday!” But Marie Antoinette showed herself firm of purpose. Now that her eyes had been opened, she could see much better. Conspicuously she withdrew from the disastrous company of the Polignacs, to resume close ties with her former counsellors, Mercy and Vermond (who had long ere this been dismissed). It seemed as if, by the belated recognition, the daughter wanted to do justice to her dead mother’s old-time exhortations.
“Too late!” was, however, the answer to all her endeavours. The puny efforts at reform remained unnoticed amid the general tumult; the hurried retrenchments were no more than drops in the ocean. The court, greatly alarmed, had to recognise that such casual measures as this would no longer be of any avail, and that a new labour of Hercules would be requisite to balance the finances. One minister after another was summoned to try his hand at the job, but none of them could suggest anything more than temporary palliatives, of the kind with which (since history repeats itself) post-war finance has made so many of the countries of Europe too painfully familiar—gigantic loans, which ostensibly paid off the previous ones; reckless and excessive taxation; the withdrawal of gold from circulation and a frantic use of the printing presses to create what for a time would masquerade as money; in a word, preposterous inflation. Since, however, the roots of the malady lay deeper than in any mere defect of circulation; since the trouble was due to an unwholesome distribution of substance because all wealth was accumulated within the hands of a few dozen feudal families; and since the finance doctors did not dare (as yet) to take the requisite surgical measures—the enfeeblement of the state treasury assumed the proportions of an incurably chronic disorder. With his usual sagacity, Mercy was able to put his finger upon the centre of the evil.
“When waste and unthrift deplete the royal treasury, there arises a cry of despair and of terror. Thereupon the finance minister has recourse to disastrous measures, such as, in the last resort, that of debasing the gold currency or the imposition of new taxes. Thus for the moment funds are secured, embarrassment is relieved and, with incredible levity, the authorities leap from gloom to a sense of the utmost security. However, in the last analysis, it is certain that the present government is worse than that of the late King in respect of disorderliness and extortion. Such a condition of affairs cannot possibly continue much longer without a catastrophe resulting.”
The nearer the approach of collapse, the more uneasy became the court. At length those concerned were beginning to grow aware that it would not suffice to change one minister for another, since nothing but a change of the whole system could avail. When bankruptcy was imminent, it was realised at headquarters that the desired saviour need not necessarily be a member of one of the best families, but that, before all, he must be (and this was an entirely new idea in the French monarchy) popular—that he must be a man who would inspire confidence in the unknown and dangerous entity termed ‘the people’.
There was such a man to be had, a man already known at court, for, though he was only of bourgeois origin, his advice had already been sought in case of need. His advice had been sought, though he was not merely a bourgeois, but a foreigner, a Swiss and, still worse, a heretic, a Calvinist. The ministers had not been greatly pleased by having to rub shoulders with the outsider, and they had been quick to rid themselves of him because, in his Compte rendu—account—he had allowed the nation to see too far into their witches’ cauldron. Greatly annoyed by such unceremonious treatment, the peppery man had responded by sending in his resignation upon an offensively small half-sheet of notepaper. Louis XVI had found this disrespect unpardonable and for a long time he had declared, had even sworn, that nothing would ever induce him to recall Necker.
Never again? But as far as Necker was concerned it had become a question of now or never. He was the man of the moment. The Queen had at length realised how essential it was (for her own sake in particular as well as for that of the institution of monarchy in general) to appoint a minister capable of taming the wild beast, public opinion. She had an obstacle within herself to overcome too, for his predecessor as minister for finance, Loménie de Brienne, who had so swiftly become unpopular, had been her selection! Was she to make herself responsible for another appointment, and thus perhaps for another failure? Since her irresolute husband still hung in the wind, she made up her mind, and grasped at the dangerous Necker as a sick man will grasp at a remedial dose of poison. In August 1785 she summoned Necker to her private room and devoted her powers of persuasion to appeasing him. Necker was able to enjoy a double triumph—that of being not merely sent for but urgently implored by a queen, and that of being demanded by the whole nation. “Long live Necker!”—“Long live the King!” Both were shouted that evening in the galleries of Versailles and in the streets of Paris as soon as the appointment of the Swiss financier was announced.
Only the Queen lacked courage to join in the acclamations, for she was overwhelmed with anxiety as to the responsibility she had undertaken when, with inexperienced hands, she had thus grasped the rudder of state. Besides, an inexplicable foreboding filled her with gloom, her instinct being stronger than her reason. She wrote that same day to Mercy: “I tremble at the thought that Necker’s recall has been my work. It seems to be my fate to bring misfortune, and if some devilish machination should make him fail like his predecessors, or if he should do anything to impair the King’s authority, I shall be hated even more than I am hated now.”
“I tremble at the thought.”—“You will pardon me my weakness.”—“It seems to be my fate to bring misfortune.”—“I have such urgent need, at this juncture, of the support of so good and faithful a friend as yourself.”—Such words had never before been used by Marie Antoinette. We hear a new tone, the voice of one who has been shaken to the depths, and we are no longer listening to the light and easy laughter of a spoilt young woman. Marie Antoinette has eaten the bitter fruit of the tree of knowledge, has lost the confident gait of the sleep-walker, for they only are fearless who do not know that danger threatens. She has begun to understand what a price those must pay who occupy exalted positions. She has learnt the burden of responsibility, has begun to feel the weight of the crown which hitherto has pressed as lightly on her brow as a fashionable hat made by Mademoiselle Bertin. Her gait has become hesitating now that she is aware of the volcanic ebullitions that are going on beneath the thin and fragile crust of the earth. She would rather go back than forwards! There has been a complete change in Marie Antoinette’s attitude. She who up till now has always been happiest amid a turmoil seeks tranquillity and retirement. She avoids theatres, shuns masked balls, keeps away from the King’s council chamber and can only breathe easily when she is in her children’s nursery. Into that room, resounding with merry laughter, the plague of hatred and envy cannot find its way. She feels more secure as a mother than as a queen. There is a further mystery which this disillusioned and disappointed woman has too late unveiled; for the first time her feelings have been profoundly stirred to the depths by a man, who is able also to be her spiritual intimate, the friend of her soul. All might still go well with her could she but live quietly within a narrow circle, no longer challenging Fate—that enigmatic adversary whose might and malice she is beginning to understand.
But now, when her heart craves for calm, the barometer of the times points to storm. At the very hour when Marie Antoinette is eager to atone for her faults and to withdraw into the background, a pitiless will, overmastering her own, drives her forwards to become one of the central figures in the most tumultuous scenes of history.