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Title: An Adventure
Author: Morison, Elizabeth, Lamont, Frances
Language: English
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                              AN ADVENTURE

                       MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
                      ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON


                    BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.


It is a great venture to speak openly of a personal experience, and we
only do so for the following reasons. First, we prefer that our story,
which is known in part to some, should be wholly known as told by
ourselves. Secondly, we have collected so much evidence on the subject,
that it is possible now to consider it as a whole. Thirdly, conditions
are changing at Versailles, and in a short time facts which were
unknown, and circumstances which were unusual, may soon become
commonplaces, and will lose their force as evidence that some curious
psychological conditions must have been present, either in ourselves, or
in the place.

It is not our business to explain or to understand—nor do we pretend to
understand—what happened to put us into communication with so many true
facts, which, nine years ago, no one could have told us of in their
entirety. But, in order that others may be able to judge fairly of all
the circumstances, we have tried to record exactly what happened as
simply and fully as possible.

                                                      ELIZABETH MORISON.
                                                      FRANCES LAMONT.

                            PUBLISHERS’ NOTE

The ladies whose Adventure is described in these pages have for various
reasons preferred not to disclose their real names, but the signatures
appended to the Preface are the only fictitious words in the book. The
Publishers guarantee that the Authors have put down what happened to
them as faithfully and accurately as was in their power.


             CHAPTER                                   PAGE
                  I. THREE VISITS TO THE PETIT TRIANON    1

                 II. RESULTS OF RESEARCH                 41

                III. ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS               100

                 IV. A RÊVERIE                          121

                               CHAPTER I
                      VISITS TO THE PETIT TRIANON

     Miss Morison’s Account of the First Visit to the Petit Trianon

                              AUGUST, 1901

After some days of sight-seeing in Paris, to which we were almost
strangers, on an August afternoon, 1901, Miss Lamont and I went to
Versailles. We had very hazy ideas as to where it was or what there was
to be seen. Both of us thought it might prove to be a dull expedition.
We went by train, and walked through the rooms and galleries of the
Palace with interest, though we constantly regretted our inability
through ignorance to feel properly the charm of the place. My knowledge
of French history was limited to the very little I had learnt in the
schoolroom, historical novels, and the first volume of Justin M’Carthy’s
_French Revolution_. Over thirty years before my brother had written a
prize poem on _Marie Antoinette_, for whom at the time I had felt much
enthusiasm. But the German occupation was chiefly in our minds, and Miss
Lamont and I thought and spoke of it several times.

We sat down in the Salle des Glaces, where a very sweet air was blowing
in at the open windows over the flower-beds below, and finding that
there was time to spare, I suggested our going to the Petit Trianon. My
sole knowledge of it was from a magazine article read as a girl, from
which I received a general impression that it was a farmhouse where the
Queen had amused herself.

Looking in Baedeker’s map we saw the sort of direction and that there
were two Trianons, and set off. By not asking the way we went an
unnecessarily long way round,—by the great flights of steps from the
fountains and down the central avenue as far as the head of the long
pond. The weather had been very hot all the week, but on this day the
sky was a little overcast and the sun shaded. There was a lively wind
blowing, the woods were looking their best, and we both felt
particularly vigorous. It was a most enjoyable walk.

After reaching the beginning of the long water we struck away to the
right down a woodland glade until we came obliquely to the other water
close to the building, which we rightly concluded to be the Grand
Trianon. We passed it on our left hand, and came up a broad green drive
perfectly deserted. If we had followed it we should have come
immediately to the Petit Trianon, but not knowing its position, we
crossed the drive and went up a lane in front of us. I was surprised
that Miss Lamont did not ask the way from a woman who was shaking a
white cloth out of the window of a building at the corner of the lane,
but followed, supposing that she knew where she was going to. Talking
about England and mutual acquaintances there, we went up the lane, and
then made a sharp turn to the right past some buildings. We looked in at
an open doorway and saw the end of a carved staircase, but as no one was
about we did not like to go in. There were three paths in front of us,
and as we saw two men a little ahead on the centre one, we followed it,
and asked them the way. Afterwards we spoke of them as gardeners,
because we remembered a wheelbarrow of some kind close by and the look
of a pointed spade, but they were really very dignified officials,
dressed in long greyish-green coats with small three-cornered hats. They
directed us straight on.

We walked briskly forward, talking as before, but from the moment we
left the lane an extraordinary depression had come over me, which, in
spite of every effort to shake off, steadily deepened. There seemed to
be absolutely no reason for it; I was not at all tired, and was becoming
more interested in my surroundings. I was anxious that my companion
should not discover the sudden gloom upon my spirits, which became quite
overpowering on reaching the point where the path ended, being crossed
by another, right and left.

In front of us was a wood, within which, and overshadowed by trees, was
a light garden kiosk, circular, and like a small bandstand, by which a
man was sitting. There was no green sward, but the ground was covered
with rough grass and dead leaves as in a wood. The place was so shut in
that we could not see beyond it. Everything suddenly looked unnatural,
therefore unpleasant; even the trees behind the building seemed to have
become flat and lifeless, _like a wood worked in tapestry_. There were
no effects of light and shade, and no wind stirred the trees. It was all
intensely still.

The man sitting close to the kiosk (who had on a cloak and a large shady
hat) turned his head and looked at us. That was the culmination of my
peculiar sensations, and I felt a moment of genuine alarm. The man’s
face was most repulsive,—its expression odious. His complexion was very
dark and rough. I said to Miss Lamont, “Which is our way?” but thought
“nothing will induce me to go to the left.” It was a great relief at
that moment to hear someone running up to us in breathless haste.
Connecting the sound with the gardeners, I turned and ascertained that
there was no one on the paths, either to the side or behind; but at
almost the same moment I suddenly perceived another man quite close to
us, behind and rather to the left hand, who had, apparently, just come
either over or through the rock (or whatever it was) that shut out the
view at the junction of the paths. The suddenness of his appearance was
something of a shock.

The second man was distinctly a gentleman; he was tall, with large dark
eyes, and had crisp, curling black hair under the same large sombrero
hat. He was handsome, and the effect of the hair was to make him look
like an old picture. His face was glowing red as through great
exertion,—as though he had come a long way. At first I thought he was
sunburnt, but a second look satisfied me that the colour was from heat,
not sunburning. He had on a dark cloak wrapped across him like a scarf,
one end flying out in his prodigious hurry. He looked greatly excited as
he called out to us, “Mesdames, Mesdames,” or (“Madame” pronounced more
as the other), “il ne faut (pronounced _fout_) pas passer par là.” He
then waved his arm, and said with great animation, “par ici ... cherchez
la maison.”[1]

I was so surprised at his eagerness that I looked up at him again, and
to this he responded with a little backward movement and a most peculiar
smile. Though I could not follow all he said, it was clear that he was
determined that we should go to the right and not to the left. As this
fell in with my own wish, I went instantly towards a little bridge on
the right, and turning my head to join Miss Lamont in thanking him,
found, to my surprise, that he was not there, but the running began
again and from the sound it was close beside us.

Silently we passed over the small rustic bridge which crossed a tiny
ravine. So close to us when on the bridge that we could have touched it
with our right hands, a thread-like cascade fell from a height down a
green pretty bank, where ferns grew between stones. Where the little
trickle of water went to I did not see, but it gave me the impression
that we were near other water, though I saw none.

Beyond the little bridge our pathway led under trees; it skirted a
narrow meadow of long grass, bounded on the further side by trees, and
very much overshadowed by trees growing in it. This gave the whole place
a sombre look suggestive of dampness, and shut out the view of the house
until we were close to it. The house was a square, solidly-built small
country house;—quite different from what I expected. The long windows
looking north into the English garden (where we were) were shuttered.
There was a terrace round the north and west sides of the house, and on
the rough grass which grew quite up to the terrace and with her back to
it, a lady was sitting, holding out a paper as though to look at it at
arm’s length. I supposed her to be sketching, and to have brought her
own camp-stool. It seemed as though she must be making a study of trees,
for they grew close in front of her, and there seemed to be nothing else
to sketch. She saw us, and when we passed close by on her left hand, she
turned and looked full at us. It was not a young face, and (though
rather pretty) it did not attract me. She had on a shady white hat
perched on a good deal of fair hair that fluffed round her forehead. Her
light summer dress was arranged on her shoulders in handkerchief
fashion, and there was a little line of either green or gold near the
edge of the handkerchief, which showed me that it was _over_, not tucked
into, her bodice, which was cut low. Her dress was long-waisted, with a
good deal of fullness in the skirt, which seemed to be short. I thought
she was a tourist, but that her dress was old-fashioned and rather
unusual (though people were wearing fichu bodices that summer). I looked
straight at her; but some indescribable feeling made me turn away
annoyed at her being there.

We went up the steps on to the terrace, my impression being that they
led up direct from the English garden; but I was beginning to feel as
though we were walking in a dream,—the stillness and oppressiveness were
so unnatural. Again I saw the lady, this time from behind, and noticed
that her fichu was pale green. It was rather a relief to me that Miss
Lamont did not propose to ask her whether we could enter the house from
that side.

We crossed the terrace to the south-west corner and looked over into the
cour d’honneur; and then turned back, and seeing that one of the long
windows overlooking the French garden was unshuttered, we were going
towards it when we were interrupted. The terrace was prolonged at right
angles in front of what seemed to be a second house. The door of it
suddenly opened, and a young man stepped out on to the terrace, banging
the door behind him. He had the jaunty manner of a footman, but no
livery, and called to us, saying that the way into the house was by the
cour d’honneur, and offered to show us the way round. He looked
inquisitively amused as he walked by us down the French garden till we
came to an entrance into the front drive. We came out sufficiently near
the first lane we had been in to make me wonder why the garden officials
had not directed us back instead of telling us to go forward.

When we were in the front entrance hall we were kept waiting for the
arrival of a merry French wedding party. They walked arm in arm in a
long procession round the rooms, and we were at the back,—too far off
from the guide to hear much of his story. We were very much interested,
and felt quite lively again. Coming out of the cour d’honneur we took a
little carriage which was standing there, and drove back to the Hotel
des Réservoirs in Versailles, where we had tea[2]; but we were neither
of us inclined to talk, and did not mention any of the events of the
afternoon. After tea we walked back to the station, looking on the way
for the Tennis Court.

On the way back to Paris the setting sun at last burst out from under
the clouds, bathing the distant Versailles woods in glowing
light,—Valerien standing out in front a mass of deep purple. Again and
again the thought returned,—Was Marie Antoinette really much at Trianon,
and did she see it for the last time long before the fatal drive to
Paris accompanied by the mob?

For a whole week we never alluded to that afternoon, nor did I think
about it until I began writing a descriptive letter of our expeditions
of the week before. As the scenes came back one by one, the same
sensation of dreamy unnatural oppression came over me so strongly that I
stopped writing, and said to Miss Lamont, “Do you think that the Petit
Trianon is haunted?” Her answer was prompt, “Yes, I do.” I asked her
where she felt it, and she said, “In the garden where we met the two
men, but not only there.” She then described her feeling of depression
and anxiety which began at the same point as it did with me, and how she
tried not to let me know it. Talking it over we fully realised, for the
first time, the theatrical appearance of the man who spoke to us, the
inappropriateness of the wrapped cloak on a warm summer afternoon, the
unaccountableness of his coming and going, the excited running which
seemed to begin and end close to us, and yet always out of sight, and
the extreme earnestness with which he desired us to go one way and not
another. I said that the thought had crossed my mind that the two men
were going to fight a duel, and that they were waiting until we were
gone. Miss Lamont owned to having disliked the thought of passing the
man of the kiosk.

We did not speak again of the incident during my stay in Paris, though
we visited the Conciergerie prisons, and the tombs of Louis XVI. and
Marie Antoinette at Saint Denis, where all was clear and fresh and

Three months later Miss Lamont came to stay with me, and on Sunday,
November 10th, 1901, we returned to the subject, and I said, “If we had
known that a lady was sitting so near us sketching it would have made
all the difference, for we should have asked the way.” She replied that
she had seen no lady. I reminded her of the person sitting under the
terrace; but Miss Lamont declared that there was no one there. I
exclaimed that it was impossible that she should not have seen the
individual; for we were walking side by side and went straight up to
her, passed her and looked down upon her from the terrace. It was
inconceivable to us both that she should not have seen the lady, but the
fact was clear that Miss Lamont had not done so, though we had both been
rather on the lookout for someone who would reassure us as to whether we
were trespassing or not.

Finding that we had a new element of mystery, and doubting how far we
had seen any of the same things, we resolved to write down independent
accounts of our expedition to Trianon, read up its history, and make
every enquiry about the place. Miss Lamont returned to her school the
same evening, and two days later I received from her a very interesting
letter, giving the result of her first enquiries.

                                                                   E. M.

  _November, 1901._

 Miss Lamont’s Account of her First Visit to the Petit Trianon in 1901

                              AUGUST, 1901

In the summer of 1900 I stayed in Paris for the first time, and in the
course of that summer took a flat and furnished it, intending to place a
French lady there in charge of my elder schoolgirls. Paris was quite new
to me, and beyond seeing the picture galleries and one or two churches I
made no expeditions except to shops, for the Exhibition of 1900 was
going on, and all my free time was spent in seeing it with my French
friends. The next summer, however, 1901, when, after several months at
my school in England, I came back to Paris, it was to take the first
opportunity possible of having a visitor to stay there: and I asked Miss
Morison to come with me.

Miss Morison suggested our seeing the historic part of Paris in
something like chronological order, and I looked forward to seeing it
practically for the first time with her. We decided to go to Versailles
one day, though rather reluctantly, as we felt it was diverging from our
plan to go there too soon. I did not know what to expect, as my
ignorance of the place and its significance was extreme. So we looked up
general directions in Baedeker, and trusted to finding our way at the

After spending some time in the Palace, we went down by the terrace and
struck to the right to find the Petit Trianon. We walked for some
distance down a wooded alley, and then came upon the buildings of the
Grand Trianon, before which we did not delay. We went on in the
direction of the Petit Trianon, but just before reaching what we knew
afterwards to be the main entrance I saw a gate leading to a path cut
deep below the level of the ground above, and as the way was open and
had the look of an entrance that was used, I said: “Shall we try this
path? it must lead to the house,” and we followed it. To our right we
saw some farm-buildings looking empty and deserted; implements (among
others a plough) were lying about; we looked in, but saw no one. The
impression was saddening, but it was not until we reached the crest of
the rising ground where there was a garden that I began to feel as if we
had lost our way, and as if something were wrong. There were two men
there in official dress (greenish in colour), with something in their
hands; it might have been a staff. A wheelbarrow and some other
gardening tools were near them. They told us, in answer to my enquiry,
to go straight on. I remember repeating my question, because they
answered in a seemingly casual and mechanical way, but only got the same
answer in the same manner. As we were standing there I saw to the right
of us a detached solidly-built cottage, with stone steps at the door. A
woman and a girl were standing at the doorway, and I particularly
noticed their unusual dress; both wore white kerchiefs tucked into the
bodice, and the girl’s dress, though she looked 13 or 14 only, was down
to her ankles. The woman was passing a jug to the girl, who wore a close
white cap.[3]

Following the directions of the two men we walked on: but the path
pointed out to us seemed to lead away from where we imagined the Petit
Trianon to be; and there was a feeling of depression and loneliness
about the place. I began to feel as if I were walking in my sleep; the
heavy dreaminess was oppressive. At last we came upon a path crossing
ours, and saw in front of us a building consisting of some columns
roofed in, and set back in the trees. Seated on the steps was a man with
a heavy black cloak round his shoulders, and wearing a slouch hat. At
that moment the eerie feeling which had begun in the garden culminated
in a definite impression of something uncanny and fear-inspiring. The
man slowly turned his face, which was marked by smallpox: his complexion
was very dark. The expression was very evil and yet unseeing, and though
I did not feel that he was looking particularly at us, I felt a
repugnance to going past him. But I did not wish to show the feeling,
which I thought was meaningless, and we talked about the best way to
turn, and decided to go to the right.

Suddenly we heard a man running behind us: he shouted, “Mesdames,
mesdames,” and when I turned he said in an accent that seemed to me
unusual that our way lay in another direction. “Il ne faut (pronounced
_fout_) pas passer par là.” He then made a gesture, adding “par ici ...
cherchez la maison.” Though we were surprised to be addressed, we were
glad of the direction, and I thanked him. The man ran off with a curious
smile on his face: the running ceased as abruptly as it had begun, not
far from where we stood. I remember that the man was young-looking, with
a florid complexion and rather long dark hair. I do not remember the
dress, except that the material was dark and heavy, and that the man
wore buckled shoes.

We walked on, crossing a small bridge that went across a green bank,
high on our right hand and shelving down below as to a very small
overshadowed pool of water glimmering some way off. A tiny stream
descended from above us, so small as to seem to lose itself before
reaching the little pool. We then followed a narrow path till almost
immediately we came upon the English garden front of the Petit Trianon.
The place was deserted; but as we approached the terrace I remember
drawing my skirt away with a feeling as though someone were near and I
had to make room, and then wondering why I did it. While we were on the
terrace a boy came out of the door of a second building which opened on
it, and I still have the sound in my ears of his slamming it behind him.
He directed us to go round to the other entrance, and seeing us
hesitate, with the peculiar smile of suppressed mockery, offered to show
us the way. We passed through the French garden, part of which was
walled in by trees. The feeling of dreariness was very strong there, and
continued till we actually reached the front entrance to the Petit
Trianon and looked round the room in the wake of a French wedding party.
Afterwards we drove back to the Rue des Réservoirs.

The impression returned to me at intervals during the week that
followed, but I did not speak of it until Miss Morison asked me if I
thought the Petit Trianon was haunted, and I said Yes. Then, too, the
inconsistency of the dress and behaviour of the man with an August
afternoon at Versailles struck me. We had only this one conversation
about the two men. Nothing else passed between us in Paris.

It was not till three months later, when I was staying with her, that
Miss Morison casually mentioned the lady, and almost refused to believe
that I had not seen her. How that happened was quite inexplicable to me,
for I believed myself to be looking about on all sides, and it was not
so much that I did not remember her as that I could have said no one was
there. But as she said it I remembered my impression at the moment of
there being more people than I could see, though I did not tell her

The same evening, November 10th, 1901, I returned to my school near
London. Curiously enough, the next morning I had to give one of a set of
lessons on the French Revolution for the Higher Certificate, and it
struck me for the first time with great interest that the 10th of August
had a special significance in French history, and that we had been at
Trianon on the anniversary of the day.

That evening when I was preparing to write down my experiences, a French
friend whose home was in Paris came into my room, and I asked her, just
on the chance, if she knew any story about the haunting of the Petit
Trianon. (I had not mentioned our story to her before, nor indeed to
anyone.) She said directly that she remembered hearing from friends at
Versailles that on a certain day in August Marie Antoinette is regularly
seen sitting outside the garden front at the Petit Trianon, with a light
flapping hat and a pink dress. More than this, that the place,
especially the farm, the garden, and the path by the water, are peopled
with those who used to be with her there; in fact that all the
occupations and amusements reproduce themselves there for a day and a
night. I then told her our story, and when I quoted the words that the
man spoke to us, and imitated as well as I could his accent, she
immediately said that it was the Austrian pronunciation of French. I had
privately thought that he spoke old[4] French. Immediately afterwards I
wrote and told this to Miss Morison.

                                                                   F. L.

  _November, 1901._

On receiving Miss Lamont’s letter I turned to my diary to see on what
Saturday in August it was that we had visited Versailles, and looked up
the history to find out to what event she alluded. On August 10th, 1792,
the Tuileries was sacked. The royal family escaped in the early morning
to the Hall of the Assembly, where they were penned up for many hours
hearing themselves deposed, and within sound of the massacre of their
servants and of the Swiss guards at the Tuileries. From the Hall the
King and Queen were taken to the Temple.

We wondered whether we had inadvertently entered within an act of the
Queen’s memory when alive, and whether this explained our curious
sensation of being completely shut in and oppressed. What more likely,
we thought, than that during those hours in the Hall of the Assembly, or
in the Conciergerie, she had gone back in such vivid memory to other
Augusts spent at Trianon that some impress of it was imparted to the
place? Some pictures which were shown to me proved that the outdoor
dress of the gentlemen at Court had been a large hat and cloak, and that
the ladies wore long-waisted bodices, with full gathered short skirts,
fichus, and hats.

I told the story to my brother, and we heartily agreed that, as a rule,
such stories made no impression at all upon us, because we always
believed that, if only the persons involved would take the trouble to
investigate them thoroughly and honestly for themselves, they could be
quite naturally explained. We agreed that such a story as ours had very
little value without more proof of reality than it had, but that as
there were one or two interesting points in it, it would be best to sift
the matter quietly, lest others should make more of them than they
deserved. He suggested lightly and in fun that perhaps we had seen the
Queen as she thought of herself, and that it would be interesting to
know whether the dress described was the one she had on at the time of
her rêverie, or whether it was one she recollected having worn at an
earlier date. My brother also enquired whether we were quite sure that
the last man we had seen (who came out of the side building), as well as
the wedding party, were all real persons. I assured him with great
amusement that we had not the smallest doubt as to the reality of them

As Miss Lamont was going to Paris for the Christmas holidays, I wrote
and asked her to take any opportunity she might have to see the place
again, and to make a plan of the paths and the buildings; for the guide
books spoke of the Temple de l’Amour and the Belvédère, and I thought
one of them might prove to be our kiosk.

                                                                   E. M.

     Miss Lamont’s Account of her Second Visit to the Petit Trianon

                             JANUARY, 1902

On January 2nd, 1902, I went for the second time to Versailles. It was a
cold and wet day, but I was anxious not to be deterred by that, as it
was likely to be my only possible day that winter. This time I drove
straight to the Petit Trianon, passing the Grand Trianon. Here I could
see the path up which we had walked in August. I went, however, to the
regular entrance, thinking I would go at once to the Temple de l’Amour,
even if I had time to go no further. To the right of the cour d’honneur
was a door in the wall; it led to the Hameau de la Reine and to the
gardens. I took this path and came to the Temple de l’Amour, which was
_not_ the building we had passed in the summer. There was, so far, none
of the eerie feeling we had experienced in August. But, on crossing a
bridge to go to the Hameau, the old feeling returned in full force; it
was as if I had crossed a line and was suddenly in a circle of
influence. To the left I saw a tract of park-like ground, the trees bare
and very scanty. I noticed a cart being filled with sticks by two
labourers, and thought I could go to them for directions if I lost my
way. The men wore tunics and capes with pointed hoods of bright colours,
a sort of terra-cotta red and deep blue.[5] I turned aside for an
instant—not more—to look at the Hameau, and when I looked back men and
cart were completely out of sight, and this surprised me, as I could see
a long way in every direction. And though I had seen the men in the act
of loading the cart with sticks, I could not see any trace of them on
the ground either at the time or afterwards. I did not, however, dwell
upon any part of the incident, but went on to the Hameau. The houses
were all built near a sheet of water, and the old oppressive feeling of
the last year was noticeable, especially under the balcony of the Maison
de la Reine, and near a window in what I afterwards found to be the
Laiterie. I really felt a great reluctance to go near the window or look
in, and when I did so I found it shuttered inside.

Coming away from the Hameau I at last reached a building, which I knew
from my plan to be the smaller Orangerie; then, meaning to go to the
Belvédère, I turned back by mistake into the park and found myself in a
wood, so thick that though I had turned towards the Hameau I could not
see it. Before I entered I looked across an open space towards a belt of
trees to the left of the Hameau some way off, and noticed a man, cloaked
like those we had seen before, slip swiftly through the line of trees.
The smoothness of his movement attracted my attention.

I was puzzling my way among the maze of paths in the wood when I heard a
rustling behind me which made me wonder why people in silk dresses came
out on such a wet day; and I said to myself, “just like French people.”
I turned sharply round to see who they were, but saw no one, and then,
all in a moment, I had the same feeling as by the terrace in the summer,
only in a much greater degree; it was as though I were closed in by a
group of people who already filled the path, coming from behind and
passing me. At one moment there seemed really no room for me. I heard
some women’s voices talking French, and caught the words “Monsieur et
Madame” said close to my ear. The crowd got scarce and drifted away, and
then faint music as of a band, not far off, was audible. It was playing
very light music with a good deal of repetition in it. Both voices and
music were diminished in tone, as in a phonograph, unnaturally. The
pitch of the band was lower than usual. The sounds were intermittent,
and once more I felt the swish of a dress close by me.

I looked at the map which I had with me, but whenever I settled which
path to take I felt impelled to go by another. After turning backwards
and forwards many times I at last found myself back at the Orangerie,
and was overtaken by a gardener.[6] I asked him where I should find the
Queen’s grotto, that had been mentioned in De Nolhac’s book which I had
procured while in Paris. He told me to follow the path I was on, and, in
answer to a question, said that I must pass the Belvédère, adding that
it was quite impossible to find one’s way about the park unless one had
been brought up in the place, and so used to it that “personne ne
pourrait vous tromper.” The expression specially impressed me because of
the experience I had just had in the wood. He pointed out the way and
left me. The path led past the Belvédère, which I took for granted was
the building we had seen in August, for coming upon it from behind, all
the water was hidden from me. I made my way from there to the French
garden without noticing the paths I took.

On my return to Versailles I made careful enquiries as to whether the
band had been playing there that day, but was told that though it was
the usual day of the week, it had not played because it had played the
day before, being New Year’s Day.

I told my French friends of my walk, and they said that there was a
tradition of Marie Antoinette having been seen making butter within the
Laiterie, and for that reason it was shuttered. A second tradition they
mentioned interested me very much. It was that on October 5th,
1789—which was the last day on which Marie Antoinette went to
Trianon—she was sitting there in her grotto, and saw a page running
towards her, bringing the letter from the minister at the palace to say
that the mob from Paris would be at the gates in an hour’s time. The
story went on that she impulsively proposed walking straight back to the
palace by the short cut through the trees. He would not allow it: but
begged her to go to the “maison” to wait whilst he fetched the carriage
by which she was generally conveyed back through the park, and that he
ran off to order it.

                                                                   F. L.

  _January, 1902._


During the next two years very little occurred to throw light on the
story. The person living in Versailles to whom we had been directed as
having related the tradition of the Queen’s being at Trianon on October
5th, 1789, was unable to remember anything at all about it. The
photographs of the Belvédère made it clear that it was not identical
with the kiosk. On the many occasions on which Miss Lamont went to the
Trianon she could never again find the places,—not even the wood in
which she had been. She assured me that the place was entirely
different; the distances were much less than we had imagined; and the
ground was so bare that the house and the Hameau were in full view of
one another; and that there was nothing unnatural about the trees.

Miss Lamont brought back from Paris _La Reine Marie Antoinette_, by M.
de Nolhac, and _Le Petit Trianon_, by Desjardins. We noted that M. de
Nolhac related the traditional story of the Queen’s visit, and that the
Comte de Vaudreuil, who betrayed the Queen by inviting her to the fatal
acting of the “Barbier de Séville” in her own theatre at Trianon, was a
Creole and marked by smallpox (pages 61, 212). Turning over the pages of
Desjardins I found Wertmüller’s portrait of the Queen, and exclaimed
that it was the first of all the pictures I had seen which at all
brought back the face of the lady. Some weeks later I found this
passage: “Ce tableau fut assez mal accueilli des critiques contemporains
qui le trouvèrent froid, sans majesté, sans grace. Pour la posterité, au
contraire, il a le plus grand mérite; celui de la ressemblance. Au dire
de Madame Campan, il n’existe de bon portrait de la reine que cette
toile de Wertmüller et celle que Madame Lebrun peignit en 1787” (page

In January, 1904, Miss Lamont went to the Comédie Française to see the
“Barbier de Séville,” and noticed that the Alguazils standing round were
dressed exactly like our garden officials, but had red stockings added.
This was interesting, as the Comédie Française is the descendant of the
Royal Private Theatre, and the old royal liveries worn by the
subordinate actors (who were, in earlier times, the royal servants) are
carefully reproduced at it. Also, she reported, that Almaviva was
dressed in a dark cloak and a large Spanish hat, which was said to be
the outdoor dress of French gentlemen of the period.

                                                                   E. M.

On Monday, July 4th, 1904, Miss Lamont and I went to the Trianon, this
being my second visit. We were accompanied by Mademoiselle ——, who had
not heard our story. On the Saturday of the same week (July 9th) we went
again unaccompanied.

Both days were brilliant and hot. On both occasions the dust, glare,
trams, and comers and goers, were entirely different from the quietness
and solitude of our visit in 1901. We went up the lane as at the first
time and turned to the right on reaching the building, which we had now
learnt to call the _logement des corps de gardes_. From this point
everything was changed. The old wall facing us had gates, but they were
closed, and the one through which we had seen the drive passing through
a grove of trees seemed to have been closed for a very long time. We
came directly to the gardener’s house, which was quite different in
appearance from the cottage described by Miss Lamont in 1901, in front
of which she saw the woman and the girl. Beyond the gardener’s house was
a parterre with flower-beds, and a smooth lawn of many years’ careful
tendance. It did not seem to be the place where we had met the garden

We spent a long time looking for the old paths. Not only was there no
trace of them, but the distances were contracted, and all was on a
smaller scale than I recollected. The kiosk was gone; so was the ravine
and the little cascade which had fallen from a height above our heads,
and the little bridge over the ravine was, of course, gone too. The
large bridge with the _rocher_ over it, crossing one side of the lake at
the foot of the Belvédère, had no resemblance to it. The trees were
quite natural, and seemed to have been a good deal cleared out, making
that part of the garden much less wooded and picturesque.

The English garden in front of the house was not shaded by many trees;
and we could see the house and the hameau from almost every point.
Instead of a much shaded rough meadow continuing up to the wall of the
terrace, there is now a broad gravel sweep beneath it, and the trees on
the grass are gone. Exactly where the lady was sitting we found a large
spreading bush of, apparently, many years’ growth. We did not recognise
the present staircase, which leads up to the north-west end of the
terrace, nor the extension of wall round which one has now to go in
order to reach the staircase. We thought that we went up to the terrace
from some point nearer to the house from the English garden. The present
exit from the French garden to the avenue was not so near the house as
we expected, nor was it so broad as we remembered it.

To add to the impossibility of recalling our first visit, in every
corner we came across groups of noisy merry people walking or sitting in
the shade. Garden seats placed everywhere, and stalls for fruit and
lemonade took away from any idea of desolation. The common-place,
unhistorical atmosphere was totally inconsistent with the air of silent
mystery by which we had been so much oppressed. Though for several years
Miss Lamont had assured me of the change, I had not expected such
complete disillusionment.

One thing struck me greatly—people went wherever they liked, and no one
would think of interfering to show the way, or to prevent anyone from
going in any direction. We searched the place at our pleasure.

We went to the Hameau, following the path taken by Miss Lamont on
January 2, 1902. We tried to find the thick wood in which she had lost
her way, but there was nothing like it, and such paths as there are now
are perfectly visible from one another, even in summer. We asked a
gardener sweeping one of the paths whether that part of the grounds had
ever been a thick wood. He said he believed that it had been, but could
give us no date beyond the fact that it was before his time—more than
twenty years ago.

On our return to Versailles, we went into a bookseller’s shop and asked
if he had any maps or views of the Petit Trianon as it had been in old
days. He showed us a picture (which he would not part with) of the Jeu
de Bague. We saw at once that the central building had some likeness to
the kiosk, but the surrounding part was not like, and its position was
unsuitable for our purpose. We enquired about the green uniforms of the
garden officials, and he emphatically denied their existence. He said
that “green was one of the colours of the royal liveries,” and when we
answered that three years before persons in long green coats had
directed us in the grounds, he spoke of it as “impossible, unless (he
added) they were masqueraders.” One of the _gardiens_ of the Palace also
told us that “green was a royal livery and that now only the President
had the right to use it on certain occasions.”

We asked how long the gardens had been thrown open to the public and
people allowed to wander everywhere, and were told that “it had been so
for _years_,” and this evidently implied a great many years.

The result of this visit was to make us take a graver view of the two
first visits, and we resolved to look into the matter as carefully as we
could, and to be entirely silent about the change of scenery until we
had explained it somewhat to ourselves. After some years, and in spite
of various false leads, we have been able to put together some very
interesting facts. The details of the search are recorded in a book
which, to us, goes by the name of the Green Book. It contains the
original papers written in 1901, the history of the gradual accumulation
of information, correspondence with one another and also with others on
the subject, the accounts written by one or two friends who have helped
us at different times, also pictures, maps, and lists of books
consulted, and the account of curious incidents which took place during
the search.

                                                                   E. M.
                                                                   F. L.

                               CHAPTER II

                               The Plough

The first incident in our expedition to Trianon in 1901 was that, after
passing the _logement des corps de gardes_, a small hand plough was seen
by Miss Lamont lying on the ground not far from some wide open gates in
an old wall opposite to us, through which we could see the stems of a
grove of trees, and a drive leading through it.

In 1905 Miss Lamont was told by a gardener that no plough was kept at
Trianon; there was no need of one, as the government only required the
lawns, walks, water, trees, and flowers, to be kept up.

In 1908 another gardener told us both that ploughs have entirely altered
in character since the Revolution, and it was not likely that the old
type would be seen anywhere in France now.

It would seem that no plough was used ordinarily at Trianon even in old
days, for amongst a list of tools bought for the gardeners from
1780–1789, there is no mention of a plough.[7]

We learned, in 1905, from Desjardins’ book, that throughout the reign of
Louis XVI. an old plough used in his predecessor’s reign had been
preserved at the Petit Trianon and sold with the king’s other properties
during the Revolution.[8]

A picture of this identical plough, procured in 1907, showed that it had
handles like the one seen in 1901, but the cutting part was hidden in
the ground and could not be compared.[9]

In the old map of 1783 there is ploughed land where later the Hameau was
built and the sheet of water placed: but there is none in the later
maps, nor any now to be seen in the grounds.


                               The Guards

The second event was our meeting with two dignified, thoughtful-looking
officials, dressed in long green coats and three-cornered hats, holding
something in their hands which Miss Lamont wrote of in 1901 as possibly
being staves. In response to our enquiry for the Petit Trianon they
coldly directed us forward.

There are no officials so dressed at Trianon now. At present they wear
black, with tricolour rosettes in their hats; in summer they have white

In 1904 we were told by fully-informed persons at Versailles that it was
“impossible” that we should have seen such uniforms, “unless they were
worn by masqueraders,” for green was a royal livery, and no one wore it
now at Trianon.

Supposing them to have been masqueraders, the dress may have been that
of _gardes de la porte_. The ceremonial overdress of the _gardes de la
porte_, as was that of part of the _gardes du corps_ (_gardes de la
Manche_), was green, with gold and silver embroidery and red stockings:
they carried halberds.[10] But the officers had galon instead of
embroidery, and no red stockings: they carried an ebony cane with an
ivory ball.[11]

The livery of the Comte d’Artois, who was _colonel-général_ of the
_gardes Suisses_ was green; and those of the _gardes du corps_ and
_Suisses_ who were in his service had green uniforms.[12]

There is evidence of a much quieter dress without even _galon_, called
the “petite livrée,” which was probably green, as it was worn by the
_Suisses_, _piqueurs_, _gardes de la porte_, and the _garçons
jardiniers_.[13] The traditional dress of those royal servants who
filled the minor parts in the Royal Theatre at Versailles is still to be
seen at the acting of the _Barbier de Séville_ in the Comédie Française,
which is the descendant of the Royal Theatre. This dress (except for the
added red stockings) is the same as the one we saw in 1901.

In 1908 we learned that the _porte du jardinier_ at the Petit Trianon
was always guarded ‘dans le temps,’ and that on October 5th, 1789, the
guards were two of the three Bersy brothers who, with Bréval, were
generally on duty whenever the Queen was in residence at Trianon. From
their writing and spelling they were evidently well educated.[14] In
1910 we found that they had the title of _garçons jardiniers de la
Chambre_, and they are said to have been stationed in “_la pepinière
proche la maison_.” The most ancient pepinière was close to the
gardener’s house.

                        Cottage, Woman, and Girl

Whilst speaking to the two men, Miss Lamont observed on her right hand a
solidly-built cottage with stone steps, on which a woman in
old-fashioned dress was standing, handing something to a girl of about
13 or 14, who wore a white cap and skirts nearly reaching to her ankles.

In 1904, Miss Lamont saw a picture resembling this cottage in its
general appearance in the Album de Trianon at the Bibliothèque
nationale. In 1908, she and a friend discovered such a cottage (more
than one) within the gates which were not far from the place where she
had seen the plough. These cottages were not in the right position for
our experience in 1901, but the type was the same.

In 1907 we discovered from the map of 1783 that there was a building,
not now in existence, placed against the wall (outside) of the
gardener’s yard between the _ruelle_ and the _porte du jardinier_; if
our original route lay through this yard to the English garden, this
building would be exactly in the right place for Miss Lamont’s cottage.

In September, 1910, we saw from marks on this wall that a building might
have stood here; for the cornice of the wall is broken into, and there
seems to be a perpendicular line from it to the ground visible through
the plaster. A photograph shows this.

If the girl seen should be the “Marion” of Madame Julie Lavergne’s story
(first read in 1906), she would have been 14 years old in 1789, and her
mother was then alive. Her father’s house would have been near the
reservoir and not within the locked gates of any enclosure, for she let
herself out at night by an open window.[15] All this would suit the
position of the building in the map.

                               The Kiosk

On our entrance into the English garden in 1901, we found our path
crossed by another, beyond which, in front of us but rather to the left
hand, stood a small circular building having pillars and a low
surrounding wall. It was on rough uneven ground, and was overshadowed by

Repeated searches during seven years by ourselves and others have failed
to discover this building.

In September, 1908, Miss Lamont found in the archives a paper (without
signature or date) giving the estimate for a “ruine” having seven Ionic
columns, walls, and a dome roof. (A “ruine” seems only to mean a copy of
an older building.) If the walls of this building were low it would
correspond in appearance with our recollection of the kiosk. This
“ruine” is said to have formed a “naissance de la rivière,” suggesting
its position above the small lake which fed the principal river.[16] A
piece of old water pipe is still to be seen on the north-western side of
the small lake.

If this “ruine” and two others of those alluded to in the archives were
one and the same, there is additional reason for placing the columned
building in this part of the garden. I. In 1788 it is stated that rocks
were placed at intervals on a path leading from “la ruine” to the
“2^{ième} source du ravin” beyond the wooden bridge.[17] Desjardins
considers one of the “sources” to have been close to the theatre which
was at our right hand; this might have been the second spring.[18] II.
Mique states that in 1780 he placed a small architectural “ruine” above
the grotto. A note in the archives, dated 1777, speaks of the “porte
d’entrée au bout du grotte.”[19] If, as we believe, we had just passed
out of the gardener’s yard by this “porte d’entrée” we should have been
close to the earliest placed grotto.

In 1909 two old maps were procured from Paris; in one, dated 1840(?),
there is something which may indicate a small round building placed on
the _rocher_ behind the Belvédère. The other map was reproduced from an
old one of 1705, but added to until a railway appears in it. In this map
below the name “pavillon de musique” (the Belvédère) is the name “Le
Kiosque.” It does not seem likely that a second name for the Belvédère
should be given, and it may therefore refer to something else which does
not appear in this map. Therefore the mere chance name which from the
first moment we gave to our building was justified by there having been
something called by that name exactly in that part of the garden.

In 1910 we looked out this name in the best etymological French
dictionary and found that it was admitted to the French Academy in 1762,
as “pavillon ouvert de tous côtés”: and defined by Thévenot
(contemporary) as “kioch ou divan qui est maintenu de huit grosses

                          The Man by the Kiosk

On our first visit a dark-complexioned man, marked by smallpox, was
sitting close to the kiosk; he wore a large dark cloak and a slouch hat.

Though we were assured in 1908 by a very good authority, that no
gentleman now living at Versailles would wear a large cloak either in
winter or summer, there might be nothing surprising in what we saw if
the kiosk could be found. But considering that it is gone, it is
historically interesting that we discovered in 1904 that there is one
man in the story of Trianon who exactly suits the description.

Most of the intimate accounts of the period say that the Comte de
Vaudreuil was a Creole and marked by smallpox.[20] He was at one time
one of the Queen’s innermost circle of friends, but acted an enemy’s
part in persuading her to gain the King’s permission for the acting of
the politically dangerous play of _Le Mariage de Figaro_. The King had
long refused to allow it, saying that it would cause the Bastille to be
taken. The earlier version of the same play, _Le Barbier de
Séville_,[21] was last acted at Trianon (August 19th, 1785), just at the
beginning of the diamond necklace episode, when Vaudreuil took the part
of Almaviva and was dressed for it in a large dark cloak and Spanish

In 1908 we found out from Madame Éloffe’s Journal (the Queen’s modiste)
that in 1789 the broad-brimmed hat had entirely displaced the
three-cornered hat, and was generally fashionable; also that swords were
no longer generally worn.[22]

Vaudreuil left the court of France amongst the first party of émigrés
after the taking of the Bastille, July, 1789.

                            The Running Man

Though we were surprised when the second man, also dressed in a large
cloak and hat, ran up to us and with extreme earnestness directed us to
go to the right rather than to the left, yet we merely thought his
manner very French; and as he said in the course of a rather long
unintelligible sentence “cherchez la maison,” we imagined that he
understood that we were looking for the house, and followed his
direction. We noticed that he stood in front of a rock and seemed to
come “either over, round, or through it.”


The following year (1902), we learned that there was a tradition that on
October 5th, 1789, a messenger was sent to Trianon to warn the Queen of
the approach of the mob from Paris: that she wished to walk back to the
Palace by the most direct route, but the messenger begged her to wait at
the house whilst he fetched the carriage, as it was safer to drive back
as usual by the broad roads of the park.

A local tradition affirming this has been embodied by Madame Julie
Lavergne in a volume entitled (unfortunately for historical purposes)
_Légendes de Trianon_. This particular scene in the story, called “La
Dernière Rose,” interested us greatly, for it seemed to come from an
eye-witness and recalled many of the points of our vision. The Queen, it
is said, had been walking with and talking to Marion (the daughter of an
under-gardener) before going to her favourite grotto. After remaining
there some time, and on growing alarmed at her own sad thoughts, the
Queen called to Marion and was surprised to see, instead of the girl, a
“garçon de la Chambre” suddenly appear, trembling in all his limbs.
After reading the letter brought to her from the Minister at the Palace,
the Queen desired him to order the carriage and to let Madame de Tourzel
know. The messenger bowed (as our man had done), and once out of sight,
ran off at full speed. The Queen followed him to the house.[23]

Enquiries through the publisher, in 1907, as to Madame Lavergne’s
sources of information, elicited the fact that her informant as to every
detail of that scene had been Marion herself. This Marion, the
_Légendes_ tell us, afterwards married M. Charpentier, an
under-gardener, known in 1789 by the name of “Jean de l’Eau,” on account
of his bringing water daily from Ville d’Avray for the Queen’s table. He
afterwards became _jardinier en chef_, being appointed in 1805 by
Napoleon in succession to Antoine Richard.[24]

The name “Charpantier” appears in 1786 amongst the “ouvriers
terrassiers,” who clear up sticks and leaves, plant flowers, and

In 1783, “Mariamne” received wages for picking up leaves in the Trianon
grounds;[26] this is quite possible, as children are said to have been
used for that work, and the absence of surname suggests that she was the
daughter of one of the gardeners.

The marriage certificate of Alexandre Charpentier, in 1823, gives his
father’s name as Louis Toussaint Charpentier, and his mother’s name as
Marie Anne Lemaignan. The marriage certificate of these persons (from
which we should have learnt their age) is said to have been

In the wages book the names of two “Lemonguin” (elder and younger)
appear; also “Magny,” but not, so far as has been discovered,
Lemaignan.[28] If this Marie Anne Charpentier was 21 years old at her
son’s birth (November, 1796), she would have been eight years old in
1783, and 14 in 1789. This would suit the “Mariamne” of the Archives,
Madame Lavergne’s story, and the girl seen by Miss Lamont.

Two more points show the faithfulness of “Marion’s” account of that
scene. Madame Lavergne (quoting her) says that “pale rays of autumn
sunshine lighted up the faded flowers.” It must, therefore, have been
fairly fine; and in the wages book it appears that on October 5th, 1789,
all the gardeners were at work _in the grounds_, and it is stated that
on wet days they worked under cover, sometimes clearing out the passages
of the house.[29] Secondly, she says that the Queen sat at the entrance
of her grotto, where fallen leaves choked the course of the “ruisseau.”
From entries of payment it appears that the streams were cleared of dead
leaves on October 1st, 2nd, and 3rd, 1789, but not on the 4th or 5th, or
ever again.[30] It is exactly a point which Marion would have noticed.

Madame Lavergne lived at Versailles from 1838 till her marriage in 1844,
at which time Marion would have been 69; and as we believe that
Alexandre Charpentier was head gardener at the Petit Trianon for over
fifty years, his mother would have been easily accessible to Madame
Lavergne during her repeated visits to Trianon, even after her marriage.
Her father, M. Georges Ozanneaux, was a personal friend of Louis
Philippe, and was constantly about in the royal palaces.[31]

It is necessary to speak of the grotto; for Madame Campan says that the
Queen “était assise dans sa grotte ... lorsqu’elle reçut un mot
d’écrit ... qui la suppliait de rentrer à Versailles.”[32] Madame
Lavergne says “Marion se dirigea vers le parterre des rosiers, et la
Reine alla s’asseoir à l’entrée de sa grotte favorite, auprès de la
petite source. Les feuilles jaunies tombées des arbres couvraient la
terre et obstruaient le cours du ruisseau.... Le murmure de la petite
cascade qui arrose l’intérieur de la grotte, retentissait seul dans le
bosquet.... Effrayée d’être seule, elle appela Marion; mais, au lieu de
la jeune fille, un garçon de la Chambre ... parut, une lettre à la
main.”[33] The Queen cannot, therefore, have been many steps away from
the grotto, at one end or the other, when the messenger came to her.

In 1908 we asked to be shown this grotto, and we were taken to one on
the further side of the Belvédère, near the hill called l’Escargot,
which was formed in 1781. We felt sure that this could not have been
either of the two grottos spoken of in the archives.

In 1777 the end of one grotto is mentioned as being near the _porte
d’entrée_, “à la cloison de la porte d’entrée du jardin au bout du
grotte trois pottereaux et deux traverses.”[34]

In 1777 there was a “projet d’un pont et chutte en rocher, avec
parapet.” This was probably a bridge (the Vergelay bridge?) over the
principal river where it issued from the larger lake. The river was made
at this time.[35]

In June, 1780, a new “petite rivière” was planned to receive the water
drained from the “ravin de la grotte,” and to conduct it into the larger
lake. For this purpose a new grotto was made of a “forme ovale, ornée en
glaçon,” through which the “petite rivière” was to run. A “ravin du
petit pont” was also planned.[36]

In August, 1780, masses of rock were procured, and the “petite rivière”
was begun, and also a hill was thrown up “pour couvrir la grotte.”[37]

In September, 1780, “Bourdin a passé la journée ... à poser le deuxième
pont venant du coté de la grotte.”[38] This second bridge was probably
the present Rocher bridge, being the second placed over the lakes.
Neither of these two bridges would be the “pont de bois,”[39] and “la
conduitte en bois,”[40] two descriptions of, and identical with, the one
alluded to in the words “ravin du petit pont,” which was said to have
been erected on high ground “au dessus du Rocher du Ravin.”[41]

In December, 1780, the work was finished: “Conduitte de l’exécution de
la grotte, petite rivière, et chutte d’eau retombante dans le grand lac,
autre petits ravins dans la montagne près du grand lac à la fin de la
petite rivière de la grotte.”[42]

In 1781 a “montagne” was made “en face du jardin français—en face de la

In March and April, 1781, a hill called “l’Escargot” was piled
up[44]—beyond the Belvédère—and, presumably, a third and very small
grotto was made. The creation of the Escargot hill would have made the
“ravin” on the north side of the Belvédère, which is still visible, and
leads to the greater lake.

There are several reasons why we think that the Queen’s grotto (the
second made) was on the theatre side of the Belvédère.

1. D’Hezecques’ description of it in 1789 shows that, though a
“ruisseau” passed through it, persons could go freely out at both
ends;[45] whereas when water was passing down through the upper entrance
of the “escargot” grotto, no one could have used it at the same time:
there is only room for the water.

2. He speaks of the “prairie” being visible from “une crevasse, qui
s’ouvrait à la tête du lit”; this would have been possible from a grotto
on the theatre side, but not on the other, as the “escargot” hill would
have been in the way.


3. D’Hezecques describes a staircase which “conduisait au sommet de la
roche,” enabling persons to leave hurriedly. There is something like an
ancient rock staircase attached to the back of the large rock, giving
the name to the Rocher bridge.

4. He says that the grotto was very dark on first entering, and
L’Espinasse’s picture of the Belvédère in 1783 shows the opening to a
cavern on its southern side close to the Rocher bridge,[46] which could
be truly described as “venant du coté de la grotte.” Could the rock out
of which the cavernous mouth was cut have been lifted over the long
bridge at some later time? for in L’Espinasse’s picture there is no such
rock over the bridge as there is now, and the cavern has disappeared.

5. The map of 1783 represents (according to Desjardins) “le projet de
Mique complètement exécuté.” In it the figure (5) (indicating the
grotto) occurs both at the “escargot” and also on the theatre side of
the Belvédère.

In September, 1910, Miss Lamont was asked whether she had seen a map of
the place recently placed in the front hall of the Petit Trianon, and
she said No. On going there she found the map, which had not been there
at any of her former visits, and saw that the grottos were put, as far
as she could judge, just where we had long ago, through elaborate
personal research, decided must be their real position. She could only
make this out by standing on the table amongst the books and
photographs, the map being hung too high to be easily seen.

Several further points of interest have emerged in connection with the
running man.

1. In April, 1908, we learned that our being directed at all in the
grounds was unusual, for since September, 1870, they have been thrown
open until dark. The difficulty now experienced is to find a guide.

2. He spoke of the “maison.” In 1907 we found out that the Queen was in
the habit of calling the Petit Trianon “ma maison de Trianon,” to
distinguish it from the Palace and the Chateau.[47] Louis XVI. had
presented it to Marie Antoinette on his accession.

3. The Queen is reported by Marion to have addressed the messenger as
“Breton.”[48] This was not an uncommon name about the court and old
Versailles. The court almanack for 1783 shows that then the Queen had a
Page “de l’Écurie,” called “De Bretagne.” (The Pages de la Chambre
sometimes became “de l’Écurie” before receiving a commission or some
other office.[49]) He is not mentioned in the almanack of 1789, but (as
we know from other instances) it does not follow necessarily that he had
no office in the household. Madame Éloffe (the Queen’s modiste) mentions
a Mademoiselle Breton amongst the Queen’s women, who does not appear in
the almanack.[50]

If “De Bretagne” was 16 years old in 1783, he would have been 22 in
1789,—just in the fresh young vigour suitable to our running man.

The name “Breton” may have referred to his nationality only, for in
November, 1907, we discovered that the accent in which the man spoke to
us resembled the Breton accent, in which the consonants are strengthened
and the diphthongs broadened.

In the autumn of 1909 we read the Baron de Frénilly’s _Souvenirs_, in
which it is stated that wigs were universally worn by gentlemen in
French society up till 1787. After that date powdered hair became the
general usage; the first person (M. de Valence) who ventured to appear
with unpowdered hair did so, apparently, in 1788, after which it became
a mark of extreme fashion.[51]

The same was the case with buckled shoes. Gold, silver, stones, and
rosettes had been required for a gentleman’s dress ornaments; but after
the commercial treaty with England in 1786, steel was used for
everything. Buckled shoes are expressly mentioned as being very
fashionable in 1789, and there was, at that time, a rage for steel

                       Bridge over Little Cascade

Following the man’s direction, we turned to the right and walked over a
small rustic bridge which crossed a tiny waterfall coming from above us,
on our right hand, and flowing in front of a little rocky cliff with
ferns growing in the crevices. The water seemed to have formed a steep
narrow little ravine, which shelved away below us to a little glimmering

Neither bridge, nor cascade, nor ravine can be found, or anything
suggesting them. In 1905 the person in charge at the house assured Miss
Lamont that there never had been more than one cascade, meaning the rush
of water under the Rocher bridge. The Rocher bridge is certainly not the
one we crossed, which was high above the level of the lakes.

In 1907 we bought _Souvenirs d’un Page_ by the Comte D’Hezecques. He
says: “En face du chateau, une pelouse ... se terminait par une roche
ombragée de pins, de thuyas, de mélèzes, et _surmontée d’un pont
rustique_, comme on en rencontre dans les montagnes de la Suisse et les
précipices du Valais. Cette perspective agreste et sauvage rendait plus
douce celle ... de la troisième façade du chateau.”[53]

He also speaks of water passing through the moss-lined grotto, which,
according to our idea, must have been below us, but close by on our
right hand.[54] Madame Lavergne writes of the “petite cascade” and of
the sound of it in the grotto.[55]

In April, 1908, extracts from Mique’s accounts and plans for the Trianon
grounds were procured from the archives, giving the history of the
grottos. “Juin 4, 1780, fait un model en terre _du ravin du petit
pont_.”[56] “1788, Pièce au dessus du _Rocher du Ravin_ et ... passage
des voitures sur _le pont de bois_ ... Pièce à droite _en face du Rocher
du Ravin_.”[57] “Au long du chemin de l’emplacement de la Ruine _sur la
conduitte en bois à la deuxième source du Ravin_.”[58] The first source
was probably close to the “Ruine” (our kiosk?). The second “source”
might coincide with Desjardins’ “source,” which he places a few steps
from the _poulaillers_,[59] and was probably meant to feed the “petite
rivière,” which passed through the Queen’s grotto, carrying off the
water from the stagnant pool between the grottos to the larger lake.[60]
That would exactly agree with the position of our little cascade, small
bridge, and glimmering pool.

In April, 1908, an old MS. map was found amongst such archive papers as
relate to the grottos, showing a small bridge in the right position
relatively to the lakes, the Rocher bridge, and the place where we
believe the Queen’s grotto to have been.

                             Isolated Rock

In 1908 we found a mass of rocks standing in the dry bed of the small
lake. On one rock covered with ivy were two full-grown pine trees. It
seems unlikely that the trees should have originally been in the small
circular basin of water.

D’Hezecques says that thuya and pine trees were planted high up over the
grotto to give it the appearance of a Swiss mountain.[61] The grotto was
destroyed about 1792, and it is possible that some of the rocks covering
it were displaced and allowed to slip into the lake below, and that the
present pine trees may have been seedlings at the time, for we are told
that the life of a pine tree is from 100 to 200 years old.

In 1908 we noticed that at one side of this ivy-covered rock were
peculiar projections; one of these was broken off short, but the other
was intact. We thought they might once have formed supports for a small

Rocks are said to have been placed in 1788 at the “montagne des Pins à
gauche et en montant au Rocher.” “Montagne des Pins à droite en montant
au Rocher.”[62]

In January, 1791, trees were torn up from the montagnes.

In February, March, April, 1792, every few days occurs the entry:
“Journée à arracher les Thuja sur les montagnes.”[63]

According to the old picture by L’Espinasse (1783), there was nothing
over the low long bridge between the two lakes, but there was by the
side of it, just where the grotto would have ended, a cavern in a
rock.[64] This is no longer there; but possibly the face of rock with
the cavern-like opening may have been lifted over the bridge, and
account for the very peculiar rock which is at present above the bridge,
causing it to be called the Rocher bridge. A rough rock staircase which
has no meaning is attached to this rock behind. D’Hezecques speaks of a
staircase as having been within the grotto leading up to its entrance on
the high ground on the montagnes—has it been moved to the lower end of
the grotto?

There is now no isolated rock standing up as we saw it behind the
running man;—only mounds covered with shrubs and trees. But in the
archives there is a note saying that in 1788 rocks were placed in
various parts, and one is especially mentioned, “pièce donnant au bord
du lac de l’ancien côté des rochers ... _au long du chemin de
l’emplacement de la Ruine sur la conduitte en bois à la deuxième source
du Ravin_.”[65] This would have been the path we were on in 1901.


It is easy to suppose that between the years 1901–4 trees were cleared
away from the rough ground on the north side of the house, which in 1901
had given it the look of an orchard. So much was this the case that the
lady sitting under the north terrace was thought to be making a study of
tree stems; for she was looking into trees, and she held a large paper
in her hand, and, as we passed, held it out at arm’s length.

At present there are trees on each side of the pelouse, and one growing
near the site of the old Jeu de Bague, but none growing in front of the
house, and it all looks drier, brighter, and less confined than in 1901.

We have found two interesting mentions of this _pelouse_.

Before the new theatre was built in 1779, the old _comédie_ stood on it
for three years. When the _comédie_ was moved it gave place to a
“pelouse parsemée d’arbres.”[66]

                                The Lady

Nothing unusual marked the lady sitting on a low seat on the grass
immediately under the north terrace. I remember recognising that her
light-coloured skirt, white fichu, and straw hat were in the present
fashion, but they struck me as rather dowdy in the general effect. She
was so near us that I looked full at her, and she bent slightly forward
to do the same.

I never doubted that we had both seen her, and three months after was
astonished to hear that Miss Lamont had not done so. That sounds simple
to others, to ourselves it is inexplicable. Miss Lamont had seen the
plough, the cottage, the woman, and the girl, which I had not; but she
is generally more observant than I, and there were other things to look
at. At this moment there was nothing to see on the right, and merely a
shady, damp-looking meadow on the left, and the lady was sitting in
front of the house we had come to see, and were both eagerly studying.
The lady was visible some way off; we walked side by side straight up to
her, leaving her slightly on the left hand as we passed up the steps to
the terrace, from whence I saw her again from behind, and noticed that
her fichu had become a pale green.

The fact that she had not been seen at a moment when we were both a
little exercised by our meeting with the men,—one looking so unpleasant,
and the other so unaccountably and infectiously excited,—made a deep

The legend that we heard the following winter of the Queen having been
occasionally seen sitting in front of the house in the English garden,
is of course incapable of proof; but three things were to us full of

I. In 1902 I saw Wertmüller’s picture of the Queen, which alone of all
the many portraits shown me in any way brought back the face I had seen;
for the face was more square and the nose shorter. A few weeks later we
read that Madame Campan considered it almost the only picture of her
that was really like, though other people thought that it did not do her

II. In April, 1908, we learned that there was only one time during the
Queen’s tenure of the Petit Trianon when she could have seen strangers
in her gardens, from which, in earlier days, the Court was entirely
excluded, and to which even the King only came by invitation. For four
months, after May, 1789, when the Court was carried off to Paris, the
public streamed in as it liked. So many came to see the place that had
been too much talked about, that the King and Queen had gone that summer
to Marly for a little rest and quiet. That was the time when
D’Hezecques, with one of the deputies, walked round and saw the grotto
and the little bridge. At the time the Trianon officials must have
learnt to treat strangers with cold politeness, but probably resenting
the necessity. This exactly accounts for the manner of the guards at the
_porte du jardinier_; they made no difficulty, and told us that we
should find the house by going that way, but in quite an unusual manner
for Frenchmen. It was mechanical and disengaged.

III. In the summer of 1908 we read the Journal of Madame Éloffe (the
Queen’s modiste). She says that during the year 1789 the Queen was
extremely economical, and had very few dresses made. Madame Éloffe
repaired several light, washing, short skirts, and made, in July and
September, two green silk bodices, besides many large white fichus. This
agrees exactly with the dress seen in 1901. The skirt was not of a fresh
white, but was light coloured,—slightly yellowish. The white fichu in
front seemed to have an edge of green or gold, just as it would have
appeared if the white muslin, or gauze, was over green. The colour would
have shown more clearly at the back, but in front, where the white folds
accumulated, the green would have been less prominent. The straight edge
in front and the frill behind had often puzzled me, but in Madame
Éloffe’s illustrations of the fashions at that time there are instances
of the same thing. There is in the book a coloured picture of the green
silk bodice, with all the measurements to enable her to fit the Queen

                              Jeu de Bague

As we approached the terrace at the north-west corner of the house, we
had some barrier on our right hand entirely blocking the view, so that
we could see nothing but the meadow on our left hand, and the house with
its terrace in front.

At present the pathway which curves towards the house, and is very
likely the old one, has a large bare space on the right hand with one
beautiful old tree growing on the edge of it; and from some way off one
can easily see across it to the chapel beyond the French garden. A long
piece of wall extends westward from the terrace, round which one has to
go into the French garden in order to find the staircase; whilst the
whole length of wall, including part of the north terrace, is hidden by
a large old spreading bush, completely covering the place where the lady

Originally, we could not see the steps whilst on the path, but after we
had passed the barrier on our right hand we found them at once without
going round any wall.

The map of 1783 shows us that the Jeu de Bague (put up in 1776) once
stood on what is now bare space. It was a circular building surrounded
by a wooden gallery, masked by trees. This would have completely shut
out the view, and the path was probably curved on its account.

In 1907, we learnt that the Queen had a passage made under the terrace
from the house to the Jeu de Bague; and in 1908 we discovered the old
walled-up doorway leading into the English garden behind the bush. The
ground seems to have been a good deal raised since it was used. Four
feet to the right of this door, just at the point where the top of the
present staircase is reached, is a change of masonry, the rest of the
wall being plastered over.

In 1910 we found that this extension of the wall was composed of rubble.
Perhaps it had been added to the stone terrace in the time of Louis
Philippe. If the present staircase is old, we could have reached it
easily from the English garden in the absence of the wall, but if it is
not old, and it is not indicated in Mique’s map, there may have been
something quite different—even steps turned northward towards the
English garden.

In 1910 we also learned that the bush had been planted when the Duchesse
d’Orleans occupied the house.


                             The Chapel Man

Whilst we were standing at the south-west end of the terrace above the
French garden, the door of a building at right angles to the house
suddenly opened, and a young man came out and slammed the door behind
him. He came to us very quickly along a level. His manner was jaunty and
imperious, and he told us that the only way to the house was by the
_cour d’honneur_. It was difficult to hear what he said. We thought at
once that we were trespassing and looked for some way down from the
terrace, upon which he constituted himself our guide, and with an
inquisitive, amused expression, went with us a little way down the
French garden, and showed us out into the avenue by a broad road.

There is much to say about this incident.

I. The man evidently did not mean us to stand on the terrace so near to
the house, and forced us to move away. He was the second person that
afternoon who had excitedly insisted on our going one way rather than
another; but now we know that since 1870 the gardens and terraces have
been made public until dark, and people walk about freely. No one has
ever stopped us since, nor can we hear of anyone else who has been
guided as we were.

II. In 1905 we found that the building out of which the man came was the
old chapel, which is in a ruinous condition.

In 1906, Miss Lamont had leave to go into the chapel, which she had to
enter from the avenue, there being no entrance from the garden. When
inside she saw that the door out of which he had come was one leading
into the royal gallery. The gallery now stands isolated high up on the
north wall of the chapel. Formerly, from inside, it was reached by a
door on a landing at the top of a staircase. This staircase is
completely broken down, and the floor of the landing is gone, so that
there is now no access to the gallery. The terrace door of the gallery
is bolted, barred, and cobwebbed over from age and disuse. The guide
said that the door had not been opened in the memory of any man there:
not since it was used by the Court.

In April, 1907, Miss Lamont went again to the chapel, this time with two
companions. Their guide then told them that the doors had not been
opened to his knowledge for fifteen years, and the great door not since
it was used by the court of Louis XVI. “Moi, je suis ici depuis quinze
ans, et je sais que les portes ont été condamnées bien avant cela.” He
added that having the sole charge of the keys, no one could have opened
the doors without his knowledge, and smiled at the idea as he looked at
the blocked-up old doors.

[Illustration: 1783]

[Illustration: 1904]

In August, 1907, two other friends went to the chapel and entirely
confirmed all that had been said about its ruined condition and the
impossibility of the great door having been opened in 1901. Their guide
told them that the big door had been Marie Antoinette’s private
entrance. The gallery was still standing and had two chairs on it of
gilt and old red velvet; but when they asked whether it was possible to
enter it, the guide laughed and pointed to the staircase. There was no
other entrance, he said, and the stairs had been in that condition for
the last ten years. They thought from the look of the stairs that they
had probably been so for much longer.

In September, 1910, a fifth friend went to the chapel and bore witness
to the impossibility of the doors having been used in 1901, and was told
that the staircase had finally broken down fifteen years before.

III. From Desjardins’ book we learned that the Queen’s concierge had
been Bonnefoy du Plan. He had rooms between the chapel and the _cour
d’honneur_ and kept his stores in a loft over the chapel, reached by the
now broken-down old staircase. The window of this attic still looks over
the French garden, and from it, in old days, he would have seen anyone
approaching the house from that side. The name of the _suisse_ (the
porter) in charge of the _porte du perron de la chapelle_ in 1789 was
Lagrange. His rooms were immediately behind the chapel, looking into the
avenue.[68] He could easily have been sent through the chapel to
interview strangers on the terrace.

IV. We did not lose sight of the man when he came to us. As it is now he
must have gone quite out of sight, down one flight of steps outside the
chapel door, and (after passing under a high wall) have reached the
terrace (where we were standing) by a second set of steps. The present
wall of the chapel courtyard is so high as to hide half the door, and a
large chestnut tree in the courtyard hides it from the part of the
terrace on which we were,—even in winter.

In April, 1907, we discovered that a continuous ground-floor passage
from the kitchens once passed the chapel door to the house. This set us
wondering as to whether there had ever been a pathway above it. The same
year we were told that the chapel courtyard round which the passage had
gone had been enlarged.

In August, 1907, two friends reported to us and photographed a mark on
the outside of the courtyard wall, showing where it might at some time
have been raised.

In March, 1908, another mark on the chapel was discovered, revealing
that there had once been an inner wall to the courtyard, which might
have been removed when the courtyard was enlarged. We also found out
that the levels were so different that the passage would have been
partly underground on the side of the French garden, but in the rez de
chaussée in the courtyard and where it flanked the cour d’honneur. We
noticed from the photographs that the bastion at the south-west corner
of the house in the cour d’honneur looked older than the top part of the
wall adjoining it above the chapel courtyard.

In September, 1910, permission was given to enter this courtyard; when
within, it was definitely explained that above the kitchen passage there
had been a covered way, by which the Queen could enter the chapel from
the house in wet weather. The top of this covered way had been “de plain
pied,” joining the bit of terrace outside the chapel door to the terrace
by the house. This would have been the level way along which our man
came to us.

The marks of the passage and covered way (forming the intervening piece
of terrace) were perfectly clear both on the inside of the present wall
and on the ground in the courtyard. The present balustrade adjoining the
bastion was probably placed when the old covered way was destroyed and
the outside wall was raised. It was also noticed that the round windows
in the bastion lighted the lower kitchen passage; but that those facing
the French garden, being on a higher level, lighted the covered way.

The guide stated that the tree in the centre of the chapel courtyard had
certainly been planted after the days of the monarchy.

V. The road from the garden to the avenue (through which the man ushered
us) was not far from the chapel, and was broad enough to admit a coach.
The present one is narrower and further to the west.

In 1907, we read a note by M. de Nolhac in _Les Consignes de Marie
Antoinette_ in which he says that the old _porte de la ménagerie_ which
must have led from the avenue to the French garden is now lost, but that
it must have been “tout auprès des bâtiments de la Conciergerie et des
cuisines.”[69] We thought that perhaps it was the one we went by, and on
looking at Mique’s map of 1783 found a broad road dividing the kitchen
court into two parts. At present solid continuous buildings on the two
sides of the kitchen court show no sign of an entrance, though in two
places the roofs have a difference of level.

In April, 1909, a Frenchman, who sold prints and seemed to be a
specialist in maps, said that Mique’s map was the only authoritative

In September, 1910, we learned from the first authority that Mique’s map
was “exact”: that the road found in it had certainly existed, and its
position relatively to the pond in the French garden was explained. A
search for some sign of it was at once made, and successfully. On the
garden side, not at all far from the chapel, the jamb of an old opening
still projects from the building, covered with ivy; and the stones on
the ground are laid, for a space of about twelve paces, the other way
from the stones on either side, evidently to make a carriage road. A
large rectangular stone was lying on the ground which might either have
been a step, or part of the second jamb. On the avenue side marks of an
opening of some sort can be traced through the plaster with which Louis
Philippe finished the buildings after restoring and also altering them.
The opening would have included two present windows not far from the
_porte de la bouche_, as the signs of it are visible on both sides of
the opening, and the space between is from twelve to twenty paces.

Within the kitchen court the buildings have been so altered and
plastered over that no traces of change could be found.

All the points corresponded with the recollection of the roadway through
which we had passed in 1901.

                   Two Labourers with Cart and Horse

On her second visit, January 2nd, 1902, Miss Lamont saw, in the field
near the Hameau, two labourers, in brown tunics and bright-coloured
short capes, loading a cart with sticks. The capes hardly came below
their shoulders and had hoods: one was bright blue and the other red.

In May, 1904, a search was made in the archives with the result that it
was clear that carts and horses for the purpose of tidying the grounds
were hired by the day in old times, and not kept in the farm for
constant use. In January, 1789, two men, instead of the usual one (“plus
un homme”), were hired “pour ramasser les loques des chenilles et les

In 1906 we discovered that the tunic and short cape were worn by the
bourgeoisie in the fourteenth century.

In April, 1908, we had proof that the artisans were wearing them in the
eighteenth century, and that some of the working men at Trianon in 1776
had “hardes de couleur.”[71]

The entry in the wages book showed that up to 1783, from time to time
“une voiture à cheval, et un conducteur,” were hired for picking up
branches and sticks in the parks: but on _October 4th, 1789_, a cart
with two horses (almost certainly requiring two men) was hired _for
three days_ for the purpose.[72]

In August, 1908, a former gardener, who had been at Trianon long enough
to remember both the Charpentiers, father and son, laughed at the idea
of such a dress being worn now at Trianon, as it belonged to the “ancien
régime.” He assured us that carts of the present day in France had
scarcely altered at all in type, and that the two now in use at Trianon
(which we found in a shed at the _ferme_) were of the old pattern.

                                The Wood

Miss Lamont then went from the Hameau towards the small Orangerie.
Whilst on the ascending path she saw, on looking back, a man passing in
front of, or in, a distant plantation on his way to the Hameau. He was
dressed in the cloak and hat we had seen the previous summer.

She then descended to the low ground in front of the Belvédère and
crossed one of the bridges over the principal river (not the Rocher
bridge, but possibly the Vergelay bridge). After going forward a little
she turned, meaning to go back to the Hameau, and recrossed either the
same bridge, or the next one which is very near the Vergelay. She
immediately found herself in a wood of very tall trees, with such high,
thick undergrowth that (even though it was winter) she could not see
through it. Well-kept paths opened at intervals right and left at
different angles, and they gave the impression of being so arranged as
to lead round and round. She had the feeling of being in the midst of
crowds passing and repassing her, and heard voices and sounds of
dresses. On looking back she found the view as completely blocked as it
was in front and to the sides. After vainly pursuing the confusing paths
for some time, she found herself close to the hill leading to the

In 1904 and in 1908 we tried to find this wood, without results. There
are open plantations, but they have no undergrowths concealing paths
from one another, even in summer. Several people have gone independently
to look for the wood, but have not found it.

In 1905 Miss Lamont was told by the chief authority that in this
direction trees had been thinned and not replaced.

The entries in the archives indicate that there must have been woods
near by in which paths were cut for the Queen; it is also likely that
the older woods, such as _Les Onze Arpents_, are not referred to; for
when these plantations were made thousands of lower shrubs were bought
to be placed under the trees, which were paid for by the King.[73] In
the gardeners’ wages book, the gathering up and occasional burnings of
undergrowths in a wood (apparently in this part of the garden) are
alluded to.[74]

In Mique’s map (1783) the wood with its diverging paths can be plainly
seen. It is approached by the two bridges over the river, and stretches
towards the hill on which the Orangerie stands.

                               The Music

Whilst in the wood Miss Lamont heard sounds of a band of violins
drifting past her from the direction of the house. The sounds were very
soft and intermittent, and were lower in pitch than bands of to-day. She
could afterwards write down from memory about twelve bars, but without
all the inner harmonies.

She ascertained immediately afterwards that no band had been playing out
of doors that afternoon at Versailles. It was a cold, wet winter’s

In March, 1907, the twelve bars were shown to a musical expert, who said
(without having heard the story) that the bars could hardly belong to
one another, but that the idiom dated from about 1780. He found a
grammatical mistake in one bar. After hearing the story, he said that
bands in the eighteenth century were lower in pitch than they are now.
He suggested the name of Sacchini.

In March, 1908, Miss Lamont and a friend were told in Versailles that no
bands had been allowed to play in the park in winter until 1907. They
also ascertained that no music played at Versailles, or in the park,
could have been heard at Trianon.

In the same month they searched through a great deal of unpublished
music in the Conservatoire de Musique at Paris, and discovered that the
twelve bars represented the chief motives of the light opera of the
eighteenth century, excluding Rameau and his school, and that, as far as
they could discover, nothing like them occurred in the opera of 1815
onward. They were found in Sacchini, Philidor, Monsigny, Grétry, and
Pergolesi. Grammatical mistakes were found in Monsigny and Grétry.


      “Dardanus.” General likeness.

          “Œdipe à Colone.” Number 6. Two bars intact in the key
          answering to that heard in 1902, allowing for the rise of a
          semi-tone, which had taken place since the eighteenth century.
          This was proved by later editions of operatic music, in which
          the songs were dropped a semi-tone to retain the original key.

  _Philidor_ in a collection of single airs (Rigaudons, 1767)—the

      “Le Maréchal Ferrand”: repetition of single notes, the first bar
          of the melody, and many other hints of likeness.

  _Duni._ 1765. The same general characteristics, but no exact


      “Le Roi et le Fermier.” Written for performance at the opening of
          the new theatre at the Petit Trianon, August 1, 1780, when the
          Queen first acted herself. Up to 1908 it had not been
          republished. In it the figure of the first of the twelve bars
          was found.

      “Le Déserteur.” No published edition was found after 1830. In one
          published before that date the last three bars of the music
          were found, and the melody of the first bars was assigned to
          the second violins, and very freely, in inversions and
          variations, in other places. The character of the
          accompaniment was reminding.

          Thirds and sixths constantly occur in Monsigny’s music.

  _Grétry._ The same phrases were used and the ascending passage was
          found. Also, hidden consecutive fifths.


      “Largo and Andante in D.” Similar phrases were used.

                           The Tall Gardener

Miss Lamont then went along the upper path, and when between the
Escargot hill and the Belvédère, she met a very tall gardener of
apparently great strength, with long muscular arms. She thought that
with his long hair and grizzled, untidy beard and general appearance, he
had the look of an Englishman rather than a Frenchman.

He was dressed in a rough knitted jersey, and a small dark blue round
cap was set at the back of his head. She enquired where she should find
the Queen’s grotto, and he walked a little way beside her to show her
the way.

Miss Lamont expected to have to turn back to the present grotto, and
when she remarked that they were going past the Belvédère, he replied
firmly that they _must_ go past the Belvédère, and said that it was
necessary to have been born and bred in the place to know the way so
that “personne ne pourrait vous tromper.”

It appears that from 1870 onwards the gardeners at Trianon have been
selected from the technical schools, and that it is now a matter of
competition, no one being appointed simply because he was born and bred
there. We do not know whether this is the case with the under-gardeners;
nor whether the tall gardener was a chief official or not.

In August, 1908, we were told by a former gardener that their dress now
is the same as the traditional dress of the ancien régime, viz., a rough
knitted jersey with a small _casquette_ on the head.

In the old weekly wages book there appears, for several years, the name
“l’Anglais”—probably a nickname.[75] He must not be confused with John
Egleton, who remained at Trianon only a few months, and whose wages were
settled on his departure by a bill which is still in existence, but is
not in the wages book.[76]

We owe our researches as to the position of the Queen’s grotto almost
entirely to the tall gardener’s decided directions and guidance to the
part of the English garden between the Belvédère and the _montagnes_
close to the theatre.

                                                                   E. M.
                                                                   F. L.

  _September, 1910._

                              CHAPTER III

1. One of us has to own to having powers of second sight, etc.,
deliberately undeveloped, and there are psychical gifts in her family.
She comes of a Huguenot stock. The other is one of a large and cheerful
party, being the seventh daughter and of a seventh son; her mother and
grandmother were entirely Scotch, and both possessed powers of
premonition accompanied by vision. Her family has always been sensitive
to ghost stories in general, but mercilessly critical of particular ones
of a certain type.

2. Both of us have inherited a horror of all forms of occultism. We lose
no opportunity of preaching against them as unwholesome and misleading;
because they mostly deal with conditions of physical excitement, and
study of the abnormal and diseased, including problems of disintegrated
personality which present such close analogy to those of insanity. We
have the deepest distrust in, and distaste for, stories of abnormal
appearances and conditions. We find narratives of _revenants_
unconvincing, and studiously avoid (as utterly lowering) all
spiritualistic methods of communication with the dead. We have never had
the curiosity, or the desire, to help in the investigations of psychical

3. We belong to no new schools of thought: we are the daughters of
English clergymen, and heartily hold and teach the faith of our fathers.

4. We are quite certain that neither of us exerted any conscious
influence over the other; for though we saw much in common, yet each had
independent vision. We should think it wrong either to exercise, or to
submit to, influence of that nature. We are independent people and
accustomed to stand on our own feet.

5. Our condition at the time was one of perfect health and enjoyment of
a holiday in the midst of very hard work.

6. We were entirely ignorant of the history and traditions of the place,
and continued our conversation about other things after every
interruption. We did not even know that we were in the grounds of the
Petit Trianon until we saw the house.

7. At the time Miss Lamont thought that there was something unusual
about the place and was puzzled; the same idea returned to her
occasionally during the following week. Miss Morison put her feeling of
oppression down to some physical fatigue in herself, and so said
nothing; for we did not know one another very well at that time, were in
the relation of hostess and guest, and neither of us thought of
enlarging on uncomfortable sensations. After some days, when Miss
Morison was writing an account of the expedition, she thought it over
with care, and realised that her sensations had not been caused by
fatigue, but had produced fatigue. She became convinced that the
oppression had been due to some unusual cause in the place itself, and
instantly turned to Miss Lamont and said so. Miss Lamont agreed. We then
discussed the man by the kiosk and the running man, but said that there
was much besides which had caused dreamy depression. Miss Morison
returned to her letter and wrote down: “We both think that the Petit
Trianon is haunted.”

When we met next (three months later) we talked it over again, and
finding that Miss Lamont had not seen the lady, and that Miss Morison
had not seen the plough, cottage, woman, or girl, we resolved to write
separate accounts of our visit in order to find the discrepancies, but
with no idea of making exhaustive histories. These papers are still in
existence. Miss Lamont, in her story, used the words “uncanny” and
“eerie” to describe her feelings, but they did not mean that she had the
least idea at the time that any of the people encountered were unreal or
ghostly; this was still more true of the scenery.

8. During the next three years, Miss Lamont repeatedly took parties of
girls over the Trianon, and she reported that the place was changed; but
Miss Morison could not believe it, and even made maps to remind her what
their old route had been. After Miss Morison had paid a second visit to
Trianon in July, 1904, and had found out for herself that the place was
entirely changed, it was resolved to undertake a personal research into
the matter, and to say no more until we had discovered for ourselves
whether our vivid recollections of the people and the place tallied with
any ancient reality or not.

Up to that time we had told the story freely, with the result that we
have constantly traced it inaccurately reported in histories, sometimes
purporting to have come from other sources, and even in newspapers and
small periodicals. After research had begun to yield interesting
results, we were obliged to be silent, finding that publicity prevented
our getting at evidence.

We are very busy people, and have refused to let the incident take a
prominent place in our time, interests, or fancy, though from the first
we agreed to lose no given opportunity of elucidation. The evidence has,
therefore, come slowly; but the manner in which it has come has often
been a source of surprise. If a helpful person came in our way, we
showed the whole thing: if we were casually asked if certain reports
were true, we confirmed them (when we could), but said nothing further.
We were anxious to wait until we had exhausted every possible means of
satisfying ourselves as to the exact amount of interest attaching to the
story; and it was several years before we had to believe that we had
seen the place as it had been a hundred years before, and as it had not
been, in several important particulars, since 1835. The research had
been undertaken with the idea of _disproving_ the suggestion that
anything unusual had happened, for we were resolved not to deceive
ourselves or anyone else, if personal industry could prevent it.

9. In the course of the last four or five years, Miss Lamont has
searched for evidence bearing on the story (either by word or picture)
in the Archives nationales, in the library, museum, Mairie, and Archives
departmentales at Versailles: also in the libraries Nationale, Hôtel de
Ville, and in the Musée Carnavalet, and in the Conservatoire de Musique
at Paris. She has poked about in French book and print shops, and must
have seen a large number of the originals of the published plans,
illustrations, and accounts of the place. We believe that there is not
likely to be any striking documentary evidence other than we have dealt

10. The historical interest of the story seems to depend on the truth of
the tradition that the Queen went to Trianon on October 5th, 1789. We
can find no negative evidence of this, but extremely little which is
both affirmative and trustworthy. Madame Campan’s short statement
remains the basis of other people’s longer and more detailed narratives.
General La Fayette’s full account of the day was burned by his wife
during the Terror. Count Fersen’s memoirs were also partly destroyed.
The Abbé Bossuet had Madame de Tourzel’s careful history of that day
burned; but in the published memoirs she says that she was in residence
that day at Versailles, as _Gouvernante des enfants de France_; she does
not mention having gone to Trianon, as implied by Marion’s story, but it
is still possible. Most French historians now adopt Madame Campan’s
statement, but (in the words of one of them) “with some doubts.” It is
worth mentioning that many later historians insert the fact (though it
is not recorded by Madame Campan) that “the Queen was accompanied by a
single valet.” Is this a tradition?

11. We do not believe in anniversaries in the usual sense. We have
tested both our days (August 10th and January 2nd), going, as far as
possible, under the same circumstances, without any result at the Petit
Trianon. Yet it is possible that if we entered into an act of memory, it
may well have been first made on the terrible 10th of August, 1792,
though the memory itself was occupied (in the central place) with the
events of October 5th, 1789. The dress of the messenger was more
suitable for October than August. At the same time Vaudreuil left France
the previous summer and cannot have sat in the Trianon woods after the
taking of the Bastille, July 14th, 1789.

There is an incoherence about both the large and small incidents which
seems to require combination within a single mind, and the only mind to
which they could all have been present would have been that of the
Queen. Our theory of 1901, that we had entered within the working of the
Queen’s memory when she was still alive, is now enlarged. We think that
the two first visits to Trianon (August 10th, 1901, and January 2nd,
1902) were part of one and the same experience; that quite mechanically
we must have seen it as it appeared to her more than a hundred years
ago, and have heard sounds familiar, and even something of words spoken,
to her then.

Having been for two most trying years confined to Paris, and (excepting
for a visit to St. Cloud) through two hot summers, and being in the
midst of the tumultuous horrors of the great tenth of August, she may,
as the day wore on, and she grew more used to her miserable position in
the Hall of the Assembly—where she sat for eighteen hours—have fancied
(in memory) the grounds at Trianon more spacious than they really were;
and have seen the trees, as one sees trees in recollection, like a
picture without life, depth, or movement. In rêverie her mind may have
wandered from the familiar sight of the two Bersys at the gate, to the
little vision of two men gathering up garden rubbish into a cart (which
we know happened on October 5th, 1789, as well as one day during the
last winter she spent at Versailles), and which—without any reason—had
remained in her mind. She may have thought of the place as it was during
that year of the meeting of the States-General when the grounds were,
for the first time, thrown completely open to the public, and intruding
strangers could be seen there. Or she may have gone back to the earlier
years and the pleasant afternoons when the band played on the _pelouse_
in front of the house, and to the excitement of acting in the little
theatre with her special friends, perhaps letting herself realise the
unkindness of the pressure put upon her by Vaudreuil to have the acting
of the _Mariage de Figaro_ authorised.

How naturally the thought of him would have formed one picture in her
mind with the memory of the last scene, when she was hurriedly summoned
from Trianon, never to return! For she may very likely have supposed all
that she was suffering to have been more exclusively the result of her
own former mistakes than could have been just, and have been going over
them in her mind.

On our return to Paris on the day of the original visit to Trianon, when
undoubtedly her image was uppermost in our thoughts, and the
recollection of her terrible end was hardly to be endured, the recurring
consolation to Miss Morison was, “She has forgiven it all now, and knows
the true meaning of the French Revolution on both its good and bad
sides, and also the exact proportion of her own part in it.” But the act
of memory which had so strangely and mechanically clung to the place,
with which we had, perhaps, been associated in the grounds, was
incoherent and pictorial. It was oppressive to us because it represented
a more limited view of those times than after a hundred years we have
learnt to take of them, and was far more limited than any thought the
Queen can have about them now.

12. Our answer to the suggestion that we were in a state of suspended
consciousness is that our conversation and sense of the quiet continuity
of things remained unbroken, and, in spite of oppression, believed
ourselves to be particularly wide awake and on the alert. When we were
first asked whether the man from the side building was real or not, we
laughed at the idea of any unreality; all was so quietly natural that we
are still uncertain whether the tall gardener belonged to another
century or not. It has taken us nine years to work out all the details
which bear witness to the strangeness of what we saw and did, and to
justify us in our present conviction, that from the moment of our
leaving the lane until we emerged into the avenue we were on enchanted

13. The theory of coincidences would have to be considerably strained to
cover more than twenty points quickly succeeding one another.

14. In the municipal records kept in the Library at Versailles there is
a list of fêtes in the grounds. Miss Lamont has examined it carefully.
There had been one for which people had been dressed in Louis XVI.
costume in June, 1901, but there is a note to say that it had been
confined to the Hameau. There was none in August, 1901. We know that
since 1901 there have been fêtes in the grounds with scenes in
character, so that other people may have come across them; an
examination of the records as to dates would probably reveal such

In the same catalogue notices are made of photographs taken of
historical groups at fêtes; there had been some in connection with the
June fête, and “Otto” was mentioned by name. On enquiry Otto wrote that
he had not taken “l’ensemble de la fête, c’était des groupes de jeunes
filles, et des dames séparément.” “Dufayel” took pains to look the
matter up, and Miss Lamont and one of his employées went all through his
lists and books of specimen photographs, and found that he had not taken
any photographs at Trianon between 1900 and 1906. He recommended
enquiries at Pierre Petit’s, as Petit would have Lafayette’s as well as
other photographers’ pictures. No photographs of the scenes we wanted
were to be heard of there, and Pierre Petit wrote afterwards that his
only photographs at Trianon had been taken in 1900 for the Exhibition.

It has been suggested to us that our story can be explained by people
posing for a cinematograph in order to register the scene of the
messenger running to the Queen, whilst something further has been said
of a girl sweeping up leaves as forming part of the group. Naturally,
from the first, we had thought of some such explanation, but had
rejected it as insufficient. We did not see the man running; we only
heard him; then he suddenly appeared, standing close to us, and
addressed us personally, earnestly, and with excitement. As a scene it
would have been nothing; we saw no Queen, and no girl sweeping up
leaves. He remained by us until we turned away from him. The
cinematograph theory does not explain how it was that he came over and
stood with his back against rocks of considerable size piled on one
another, when rocks have not been there for nearly a hundred years,
though we find that they had been placed in that part of the garden in
1788. Nor does it explain how it was that both before and during the
man’s coming we were both gazing at a kiosk which is not now in
existence, though both rocks and kiosk we found out years after to have
made part of the original scenery in 1789. Not a word is hinted about
the little bridge over the ravine, and the little cascade close by, all
being essentials both to our, and, we believe, to the original story. We
suspect the explanation to be simply that we had not talked about them
at first, not knowing their significance till later, and so they have
not got into any widely-spread story. We know from the archives that the
streams were not cleared from leaves after October 4th, 1789, and that
“Mariamne” is only mentioned as having been paid for work in the grounds
in _1783_, as one of several children so occupied.

If masqueraders were posing as guards at the _porte du jardinier_, the
cinematograph idea does not explain the reappearance of the old cottage
close by, in its former position as placed in Mique’s map of 1783. If
the part of the Queen was being acted, what of the orchard of trees we
saw her looking into, not now in existence; also, what is the account of
the barrier at our right hand screening off the present view and exactly
answering to the old enclosure of the Jeu de Bague?

The cinematograph does not explain the man who opened the great door of
the chapel, easily banging it behind him as he came out; for in 1907 the
people living in the place believed that it had not been opened since
the days of Louis XVI., and the keeper of the key knew that even the
door of the landing had not been opened for fifteen years. How was the
wall lowered, which now largely hides the great door from the terrace,
and makes it necessary to go down one flight of steps and up another,
whereas we saw the man coming along a level, in full view, from the
moment of his opening the door until he reached us standing on the
terrace outside the window of the _antichambre_?[77]

A cinematograph would not explain the reappearance of the old wood in
all its denseness; nor the rapid disappearance of the cart and horse in
an open field; nor the music, which, six years later, was found to be a
piecing together of eighteenth century operas.

No amount of masqueraders explains to us the ease with which we
dismissed from sight and hearing the usual August crowds in the middle
of a fine afternoon, and the impossibility of harmonising our
recollections of the scenery with anything but the old maps and records.
Certainly none of the persons we met were being photographed at the
moment, or we must have seen it; and had scenery been erected for the
purpose, we must have observed such large artificial arrangements; there
would probably have been sightseers; and, presumably, the fact of
anything so considerable would have been in the catalogue.

Even should it be proved that a cinematograph had been taken that very
day, it would not be a possible explanation to us. The groups we saw
were small and isolated from one another. There was the deepest silence
everywhere, and no sunshine; whilst the light was the worst possible for
a picture, for the sky was overcast. And though whilst we stood there an
indefinable air of strangeness dropped over everything, including the
tall forest trees, it was not of a kind that could be accounted for by
fictitious scenery. The people moved and spoke as usual, but their words
were extraordinarily difficult to catch.

In September, 1910, the question of such representation was settled by
an enquiry of the authorities. No leave to take cinematographs had been
granted in August, 1901. The fête had been on June 27th, and the
photographs of it had been taken sufficiently near the time to be
published in the July number of _Versailles Illustré_. Not one of the
pictures in this number is in the least like what, we saw either in the
matter of subjects, costumes, or places. The inaccuracy is so great,
that in an article in the same magazine the scene of the messenger
coming to the Queen is transferred from the grotto to the Hameau, though
the sole authority for the tradition places it at the grotto.

15. During the last five or six years much research into topographical
and archæological details has been made by the newly-formed “Société des
amis de Versailles,” probably from the same archives examined by Miss
Lamont, so that many points of likeness to what we saw may soon
reappear. Old music with old-fashioned instruments is now frequently
introduced at summer fêtes at Trianon. Even the water arrangements in
our part of the garden seem likely to be altered, and the little cascade
may yet be seen again. At the beginning of 1910 Miss Lamont saw
engineers searching for the first and second _sources_, and in the
following autumn she found iron grids placed on the ground near the
positions we had allotted for them; but nothing had been altered up to
September, 1910. We are most curious to know whether the restorations
will be exactly according to our recollections of the scenery or not.

16. Stories retailing just so much of our own as we had first talked
about are constantly being repeated to us; some with the little
additions we can recognise as our own early surmises; generally with the
omission of points we did not know to be interesting until later; and
often with all the muddles arising from the attempt to shorten a long
story, with a few unauthorised additions and explanations thrown in.
These stories are told to us as being the property of persons we have
never heard of. We have constantly enquired on what authority they rest,
and, if there is any at all, we have not infrequently been able to
discover the track they have followed from us back to us again.

17. We do not think that deception explains it. If we were deceived in
one, two, or three points, could we have been in all? For out of them we
have been able to reconstruct the story of Trianon in many tiny details,
the truth of which we have had to discover for ourselves.

18. We are constantly asked why we, of all people, should have had such
an adventure? We are equally puzzled; and have come to think that it may
not be so unusual as it seems. We can imagine that people, even if they
suspected anything unusual (which they might easily not do), may have
thought it best not to follow it up. The peculiarity in our case may
simply have been that two persons were equally able to consider the
circumstances, and did do so: that we found there was available
evidence, and that we had the opportunity for obtaining it.

19. Certain unusual conditions were present.

(1) Two people in broad daylight, good health, and normal conditions,
were equally able to bear witness to the facts, yet not in the manner of
thought transference between each other, for they did not see alike in
every point.

(2) Some of the facts were so small that no historical knowledge,
however dim, could have suggested them.

(3) They concerned such well known historical personages that much
documentary proof as to the reality of the incidents is accessible; yet,
in some particulars, they are of such a nature as to be incapable of
reproduction by any tricks of scenic effects; and some of the evidence
found in the archives had, to all appearance, not been disturbed since
its collection by the National Assembly until Miss Lamont in 1904 undid
the old fastenings that had stuck together through age and disuse: for
instance—much of the evidence about the gardeners taken from the wages

                                                                   E. M.
                                                                   F. L.

  _September, 1910._

                               CHAPTER IV
                               A RÊVERIE

                       A Possible Historical Clue

To find the causes of the universal movement, which for convenience we
call the French Revolution, one should be a trained historian,
philosopher, and theologian, and be able to pass in review and justly
estimate the aspirations for political consolidation, greater individual
responsibility, and the revolt against Papal tyranny over consciences,
as they had been working in all European countries for many centuries.
To find the causes for the particular form which this universal
development took in France, it would be necessary to weigh the moral,
social, and political (including the fiscal) tendencies of earlier
generations. This would be manifestly impossible in a paper dealing with
the revolution in France as it may have appeared to a single mind, on
one special day, at a time of great mental excitement. There can be no
doubt that Marie Antoinette was the innocent victim of a world-wide
upheaval in the moments when men were first consciously developing it,
and we can well believe that to herself the reasons for such reversals
of older thoughts seemed inscrutable; whilst she would have vainly
sought, in reflecting over her own mistakes, for grounds sufficient to
justify the enormous misfortunes which overwhelmed her personally.

The tenth of August, 1792, was a marked day in the history of the French
Revolution. The tide of French democratic reaction against the
ever-increasing selfishness of privilege, and the inability of the
rulers to sympathise with the growing desire for greater freedom and
less personal government, had been gathering force with constantly
increasing momentum; and on this day Louis XVI. virtually relinquished
all independence as Head of the State by surrendering himself, for the
sake of the safety of his family and to save France from the crime of
massacring its King, into the doubtful care of the Legislative Assembly.

That Assembly grew out of the States-General which had been convened by
the King, May 5th, 1789, at one of the critical moments when the
dissatisfaction of the nation with its financial conditions produced
keen anxiety to the Court; and it had (on another epoch-making day of
that unrestful period) refused, on June 23rd, 1789, to be dissolved by
mandate of the King. From that moment the National Assembly had become
the centre of the reforming party in France. Louis XVI., as King, did
not seem to stand in the way of the wishes of the nation as expressed by
the Assembly. He appeared to be willing to forego more of his
prerogatives than was compatible with the existence of monarchy as
understood in France; but, it was believed, the Queen was of a different
opinion and desirous of upholding the ancient monarchical idea as a
practical force, which at that time, in spite of the King’s amiability
and absence of policy, could not be otherwise than hostile to the still
vague, but unbounded, aspirations of the democratic party. “Madame Veto”
had that influence over the King due to a strong personality and her
position as a much loved wife; upon her, therefore, fell the wrath of
the nation. It was instinctively recognised that as a wife and mother
she had every reason to desire the continuance of things as they were,
and the people quickly interpreted every act of vacillation on the
King’s part to the Queen’s active enmity to the rising forces of

It was on August 10th, 1792, that the Legislative Assembly was made to
realise another function belonging to it beyond that of fighting the
prerogatives of the King and of the aristocracy. In such a restless age,
and in such a country as France, it was impossible to suppose that the
outspoken longings of philosophers, poets, and statesmen for freedom,
should not stir up the hope of freedom from all authority and restraint
whatever in the lowest stratum of society. The lengths to which the mob
in Paris could go had, during the last three years, shown itself on
isolated occasions, but with increasing frequency and savagery. Both mob
and Assembly were animated by the same desire, viz. to make monarchy in
France absolutely helpless to withstand their will. The Assembly was
trying to bring it about with some appearance of constitutional decency,
without apparently perceiving that unless the King was allowed to banish
himself, a discrowned monarch without any _raison d’être_ whatever in
the country inevitably meant his ultimate, and perhaps speedy,
disappearance by death. The mob saw its policy more clearly, and was
ready to get rid of him and the Queen by instant murder.

Thus, on the morning of August 10th, the Legislative Assembly had the
double part to play of continuing its assault on privilege whilst
protecting the royal family from destruction.

When, at some moment between 7 and 9 a.m., Louis XVI. and Marie
Antoinette entered the Manège in which the Council met, there was, at
first, some attempt at restrained courtesy showing itself in the grave
assurance of protection in reply to the King’s request, and also in half
an hour’s doubt as to where he should sit down. But the Assembly was
entirely aware of its victory in this act of unconditional surrender on
the part of the King, and would allow no royal guards of any description
to enter. There was a short alarm lest it should have to defend itself
against the cannon of the insurgents, the sound of firing approaching
nearer to the building than the nerves of some of the deputies could
sustain with calmness.[78] But the mob had not yet realised that it had
the upper hand, and was content to believe that the protected King was
the imprisoned King, and only continued to howl ferocious threats
outside the _grilles_.

If the Assembly did not immediately see its way to the definite
imprisonment of the Sovereign, neither did it choose that the royal
party should sit on its own benches, so it ordained that they should be
placed in the _logographie_—the reporter’s room—a sort of den not far
from the President’s chair, open to the Manège and within sight and
hearing of all that passed, but without dignity or decent comfort.[79]
Here, without apparently any opportunity for resting or meals, the King,
Queen, Princess Elizabeth, Madame Royale, and the Dauphin remained,
until (at least) 10 p.m.[80] A few faithful attendants, such as the
Princesse de Lamballe, Madame de Tourzel, the Prince de Poix, and the
Duc de la Rochefoucauld, were with them, and at first other royalists
were allowed to bring them news and to pass in and out, but this was
stopped in the course of the day.

From Dufour’s account it would seem that no one was busying themselves
to supply their wants until he undertook to do so the next day.[81] A
draught of water brought to them in their cells at night to quench their
raging thirst is all that he speaks of. If the story of the King eagerly
devouring food in public is true (and it is impossible to believe that
the children had nothing), yet it is doubtful whether the Queen, who had
had no rest the night before, had any food during the day.

What a tumult of disgust, fears, indignation, and overwhelming regrets
must have occupied the Queen’s mind! It was difficult enough to maintain
an outwardly calm, queenly demeanour; her thoughts must have been
confused, half formed, reflecting the agitation of despair and anxiety.
She knew only too well that she was looked upon as the political enemy
of the crowd for reasons that were not altogether untrue. She had had a
policy inconsistent with republicanism and, though worsted in it, the
events of the last three years probably justified it in her own mind.

She inherited a belief in a strong rule, beneficent as her own kindly
nature required, but one that could fight its battles and make full use
of such opportunities as hereditary kingship possessed. Again and again
she had felt that the King’s action was worse than nothing. Marie
Antoinette would have sternly punished the crime of killing the King’s
officials;[82] she would have upheld the sovereign office as long as
there were those who prized it. The country could never have reached the
present point of rebellion if the taking of the Bastille, for instance,
had not been condoned and the murders and outrages connected with it had
not been allowed to pass without adequate punishment. Why were the
troops dismissed so soon after, and the nobles allowed to emigrate? It
may have been right for the monarch to urge upon some of them the danger
in which they stood by remaining, but where was their courage and
loyalty in leaving the country?[83]

The sensation of loneliness was terrible. Where were the illustrious
families and statesmen who had not left France, who, had the Queen only
known it, were to go during the next year in one long procession to the
scaffold? They were, she knew, paralysed by the King’s inaction and
weakness. Surely they would have rallied had he called upon them with
decision to defend their rights and had placed himself at their head,
even though many of those princely families who had surrounded her
during the first years of her reign had been alienated and in opposition
to herself before the disaffection became general. Where were the
faithful Swiss guards who only that morning had escorted them in safety
to the Manège, and would have fought bravely and perhaps been the
rallying point for all who were not declared democrats? Alas, alas, the
sounds of screams and fiendish massacre were in her ears at the moment;
cannon, musketry, and cold-blooded carnage were then and there
destroying the last stronghold! The tiny _loge_, only 10 feet square, so
painfully hot and full of comers and goers, seemed to the despairing
Queen empty of all who should have been there to represent the
monarchical principle. The presence of the Prince de Poix and the Duc de
la Rochefoucauld and a few others, who were endangering their lives by
being with them, only emphasised the forlornness of the royal condition.

Looking from her dismal corner in the _loge_ at the King, who sat with
impassive mien facing the assembly, what waves of painful emotion must
have swept across her brain! The King could not see things from her
point of view, but he had loved and spoilt her. He had been faithful to
her, as no French monarch for many generations had been loyal to his
wife. He was devoted to her and to their children; had paid her debts
again and again;[84] had ennobled and enriched her friends; his patience
and magnanimity were saintly; but how often had she raged against his
theory that the King’s duty was to set an example of lofty forbearance
and forgiveness of every injury even when done to him as representing
the law, justice, and power of the whole French peoples. She had
instinctively felt that had she been in the King’s place she would have
found her way through the past crises without either descending from her
throne or doing wrong to the most Christian charity. She knew that she
was kind-hearted, and had always loved to be the benefactress of others:
yes, she too could forgive royally when forgiveness was due from her in
her own person, but not when it required injustice to others.

But Marie Antoinette was too clear-sighted to impute all the blame of
this downfall to the King’s mistakes. No doubt his feeble idea had been
to behave as though the democrats only were the nation, forgetting the
contrary view of those who had either banished themselves or who were
perforce silent unless he could lead the way. To obey every behest of
the Legislative Assembly and of the mob showed a lamentable lack of
wisdom, but even such a poor policy had brought him an undoubted though
fleeting popularity. He had appeared to take the side of the opponents
of monarchy; he had divested himself of prerogatives; had sworn to a
Constitution beyond his power to carry out, and had submitted to the
indignity of placing the red bonnet on his head; but had she not helped
to make all this short-sighted weakness even more unavailing than it
need have been? What was the use of humbling the aristocracy along with
himself, and of acting against his own convictions, if at the same time
he consented to plans for escaping, and was known to be so far
untrustworthy to his own professions that at every crisis he listened to
her incessant urgings to the more spirited policy, by which he could
instantly rally the royal forces?

Bitterly she knew that she had never prevailed to overcome his fatal
belief that the King was never to shed the blood of a Frenchman, even if
he were a disturber of the public peace; but she had ever to bear the
blame of every mistake. She thought of that terrible message sent only
two hours ago at the bidding of the Assembly that their guards were not
to defend themselves, but to disarm.[85] Only this morning there were
600 Swiss and 200 gentlemen, and even companies of the national guard
whom they could trust, but whispered reports had reached even the _loge_
that their noble supporters had died unsoldierly and cold-blooded
deaths. There was no longer any nucleus in the country of loyalty to the
consecrated ruler.

There was nothing now to prevent the passing of the formal decree by
which she heard the King finally deprived of the crown and of every
vestige of authority. Though Louis XVI. appeared unheeding and
expressionless, could _she_ bear this indignity, this wrong to her son?
Could they not escape from this wicked durance? But she had consented to
this surrender to their enemies in the hope of saving her son’s life. It
had been the only chance. As long as they were in some shelter from the
howling savages outside who were screaming for their blood, the life of
her son was secure. She had long accustomed herself to the thought of
being assassinated, but there was no fear of a judicial murder; no
government of France would sink to such a point of wickedness and
unwisdom in the face of a united Europe.[86] They would be condemned to
more years of miserable bondage, but they would be together; friends
would rally; circumstances would clear themselves. The Queen had it in
her still to do and dare everything if there were any hope of
surmounting the present crisis.

If she might only act! But no, the Queen’s heart sank again as the
numbing sense of helplessness came over her, remembering that she would
not be allowed to act. It was always the King who had the last word. She
might plan, but he, with all his love and confidence in her, invariably
thwarted every attempt requiring some spirit of defiance. He had ruined
the Varennes scheme by letting himself be recognised at critical
moments. Why did he review the guards that morning, and make it
unavailing by omitting to speak words of courage and confidence? Why did
he seek the protection of his enemies rather than fire on the mob, which
an hour later fled away at the volleys fired by the Swiss?[87] No, there
was no hope of contending against the difficulties imposed on their
party by the inertia of the King. And now things had gone so far,
perhaps he had no choice but to advise obedience when the Assembly
decreed that the few friends outside their household who had pressed
into the _loge_ should no longer hold communication with them, but
should retire. More than once during those sad hours they had to see
faithful servants bleeding and with torn clothes judged at the bar of
the Assembly for having defended them.[88] The handkerchief that was
handed to the Queen in the place of her own, which was soaked with
tears, in order that she might wipe the drops of sweat off the brow of
the young Dauphin, was tinged with blood.[89]

Exhausted by horror and disappointment, what strength remained to the
Queen must have spent itself in thoughts for her little son, who with
touching obedience was trying to be “bien sage avec ces vilains
hommes.”[90] If she was personally helpless to save his crown, surely
the Kings of Europe would see to it. Again hope revived at the thought
of a successful war already beginning. The false moves of the last years
perhaps only meant at the worst, that though she and the King had to die
at the hands of an enraged but defeated France, the boy would escape.
With victorious armies surrounding Paris, there would be those within
who would then be roused to get the lad into the protection of friends.
Surely God would help him then!

But what if everything should fail? Fatality had overtaken every
reasonable hope since this terrible revolution had begun. There were
forces of mysterious and terrific magnitude, which seemed to her to be
bearing away everything that had been stable hitherto. Her ignorance of
what constituted these forces increased their terror for her. During the
two hours when the deputies separately repeated the words of the oath to
maintain liberty, equality, or die, the Queen in utter weariness tried
to penetrate the mystery of that fatality which seemed to overtake
royalty in France, and herself in particular. Perhaps for a moment she
realised that had she seriously studied history some light might have
come as to the meaning of this crushing movement. The volumes of Hume’s
_History of England_, which in early days had been carelessly listened
to, conveyed little to her inattentive mind.[91] She did not know even
the history of France intelligently enough to be able to guess whether
the enveloping force owed its strength to anything which could have been
foreseen. Was there anyone who could have foreseen this trend of events,
when it was only last year that the Constitution had been applauded to
the skies as the consummation of political wisdom?[92]

Was the penury of the country and the starving condition of the poor at
the bottom of this earthquake? But why visit them upon the Court? People
must know that she and the King were most kindly and anxious and
troubled for all. They had reduced every possible expense in their
household. Had she not nine years ago refused the diamond necklace on
account of its expense? She had not gambled in old days more than
others; neither had she enriched her friends more than sovereigns were
in the habit of doing. The Pompadours and Dubarrys had rolled in wealth.
What was the cost of Trianon compared to the millions of money spent in
building the Palace at Versailles?[93] It was unjust to make her and her
children bear the punishment of the sins of former generations.

Were such writers as Voltaire and Rousseau responsible in any degree for
the gathering forces that were crashing all law and order as they had
been hitherto understood? The Queen knew something of their views, but
their invectives against kings as tyrants seemed unjust and exaggerated,
and had repelled her. To her mind, her mother, husband, and brothers
were not selfish oppressors; they meant to be useful to their subjects,
and would have been unwise to have rejected the wisdom of former times
embodied in traditions and old customs. Moreover, any truths uttered by
Voltaire were vitiated to the Queen by his declared hostility to
religion as she knew it. Such overwhelming forces as were destroying
France could not be the outcome of such feeble views; there must be
stronger reasons than such writings could account for.

But here there was some tangle of ideas which could not be unravelled.
The Queen’s mind was not one to dwell on abstractions; it was wholly
untrained and incapable of thinking out points of philosophical or
religious argument. She could not disentangle the various points of view
which distracted her mind.

As the long hours went on, her sorrows which admitted of no comfort: the
strange impassiveness of the king: the sight of her weeping companions:
the efforts of the children not to give trouble: and the physical
suffering entailed on all alike, boxed up in this stifling hole on a hot
August afternoon, filled her with maddening oppression. Whilst the cold
and insolent words of the hostile Assembly, the unspeakable insults
incessantly hurled at her by the cruel voices outside, the noise, the
heat, the smells, the want of room, added to the effects of sleepless
nights and absence of nourishment, must have filled her with an
uncontrollable longing to get away. As the afternoon wore on with no
hope of relief, black, helpless despair closed in on the mind of the
tired Queen. She must have felt that, if she was not to go mad, it was
necessary to extricate herself from her present surroundings by at least
a semi-unconsciousness of them. Her brain was on fire. Could she not
force her imagination to take some rest? Even in happy times some
natural impatience in the Queen’s nature made it imperative to her to
run away and be alone sometimes. It was at the Petit Trianon that she
had found relief from tiresome restrictions, importunities of etiquette,
and obsequious crowds. There at least she could have her own way and her
love of simple pleasures and country freedom had been satisfied. If only
she could fly to that beloved spot away from this horrible smell of
blood, what happiness it would be to her jaded spirits! Only to think of
it afforded her a dim pleasure overcoming the inevitable bitterness of
the recollection.

Yes; it was the Petit Trianon which of all places in France she loved
best. The bare memory of its trees and grass and cool shadows brought a
little refreshment. It was there that she had always found a reprieve
from the stately formalities of Versailles and that she had been able to
unqueen herself and be on an equality with her friends. But was there no
pang as she realised with fresh point that the King had just been
deposed, and that she, by the voice of the only authority at present
recognised in the country, was no longer Queen of France? That favourite
pastime of pretending to be no queen in the privacy of Trianon had been
a dangerous game! Marie Antoinette had not attempted to be on an
equality with the old _haute noblesse_ whose absence at this moment was
so deplorable. Such familiarity would have lowered them in their own
eyes; for their rank and consideration rested on their service to the
sovereigns, and only by etiquettes rigorously kept could the princes and
old nobility find their own _raison d’être_. With keen pain the truth
flashed upon her that a thoughtless Queen had done her best to undermine
Cardinal Richelieu’s policy in bringing the great feudal princes to
squabble in small rivalries about positions at Court rather than leave
them to combine into factions and fight each other in wars dangerous to
the State. Etiquettes had been laughed at, and the nobles superseded in
her favour by persons without claim to the titles and fortunes lavished
upon them. But was it possible that such small considerations had really
alienated the most powerful class in France? The Queen had only to
recollect the restrained indignation of the Comtesse de Noailles: those
dismal years when no one attended her balls at Versailles[94]: the
immense offence given to the distinguished families of Soubise, Condé,
Rohan, Guemenée, and all who were connected with them, by her furious
and undignified anger with Cardinal Rohan[95]: besides the murmurs of
all who considered themselves wronged by their exclusion from her
friendship at Trianon to realise bitterly what had alienated the
aristocracy from her, beyond, apparently, hope of recall.

Too worn and sad to pursue such painful thoughts, it was a relief to let
the vision of her favourite home float before her mind’s eye and to
remember the loyalty of her Trianon servants, such as Antoine Richard,
_jardinier en chef_, who had succeeded to the post so long held by his
father Claude Richard.[96] How loyally they had carried out her wishes,
and, under the direction of her architect Mique,[97] had altered their
much loved nursery gardens into a fashionable “jardin anglais”! It had
been delightful planning that garden and altering the arrangements and
decorations of the house and grounds with her own rare good taste, until
scarcely any part was left bringing to mind the sojourn there of Madame
de Pompadour, but the house itself,[98] and the little ménagerie with
its vacherie, bergerie, and poulaillers,[99] or of Madame du Barry, but
the formal French garden,[100] the chapel,[101] with the kitchens

In the stuffy dirty _loge_ the royal family had resigned itself to a
melancholy silence, the Dauphin was sleeping across her knee, and the
Queen surrendered herself to a trance-like condition in which she saw
again with extreme vividness and longing the place of former enjoyment.
She was again free, opening all the gates with her own _passe-partout_,
and wandering into all the corners of the grounds.[102] The beautiful
trees planted by the two Richards in rich variety were, she recollected,
in full summer foliage, and she would fain have felt some breath of the
cool evening air, which she knew well must be blowing at that moment,
though not for her. Or she was again in the mazy wood beyond the
Vergelay bridge following in thought the sound of the light operatic
music, so often played on bright afternoons, which drifted past her as
she made her way along the wood paths. Well-known bars of Monsigny’s
music mingled with reminiscences of Sacchini’s and Grétry’s operas. Was
it not on an August day, twelve years ago, that she first acted herself
in the charming little newly-built theatre?[103] It was in a play of
Sedaine (_Le Roi et le Fermier_) for which Monsigny had written music,
especially for the Trianon; and with pain it was remembered that the
plot of the play was the favourite one at Trianon, viz. the superiority
of the farmer’s condition over that of the King. Vaudreuil had acted the
part of the farmer lover to her Jenny. The Queen’s thoughts flew to
another, and the last, acting,[104] so immediately followed by the
frightful episode of the diamond necklace when outrage first touched her
and personal popularity was finally lost.[105] Under pressure from the
Comte de Vaudreuil she had prevailed with the King, against his better
judgment, to allow the _Mariage de Figaro_ to be acted in Paris.[106] In
the following year, the older version of the same play had been
performed at Trianon;[107] she had acted Rosina, the Comte d’Artois had
taken the part of Figaro, and Vaudreuil that of Almaviva. Four years
later the King’s prophecy had come true, and the destruction of the
Bastille had been the signal for Vaudreuil’s hurried flight from the

Well she remembered that false friend,[109] whom she had willingly
received into her most intimate circle, though latterly he had often
wearied her with his violent temper and importunities for more lucrative

There was one day in that last summer at Trianon, shortly before
Vaudreuil’s final departure in July, which stood out, every detail being
imprinted on her memory. She had wandered up the lane past the _logement
des corps de gardes_, and had noticed on the ground near the lodge gates
the old plough,—a reminiscence of Louis XVI.’s boyhood.[111] Coming
towards the _porte du jardinier_, she had seen Rodolphe and Fidel
Bersy[112] in the long green coats of the _petite livrée_ of the
_gardes_.[113] They were directing some strangers. These guards were
special friends of hers. Had she not paid all expenses out of her own
purse when Rodolphe’s children had been ill with smallpox?[114] Whilst
passing them she had noticed Marie Anne Lemaignan[115] standing near her
mother[116] on the steps of their cottage outside the enclosure.[117]
The Queen calculated that the girl, who had then been fourteen years
old,[118] must now be a young woman of seventeen, and with her promise
of beauty[119] would soon marry: probably, she thought, to young
Charpentier,[120] who was already, she knew, attached to the girl. The
Queen’s intimacy with her servants at Trianon had been a never-failing
happiness, and she thought with infinite tenderness of the troubles
their loyal sympathy for her must be causing them now.

Passing through the gardeners’ enclosure and the _porte d’entrée_ she
had come into the English garden. Advancing a few steps, she had
suddenly caught sight of Vaudreuil sitting by the small circular
“ruine,”[121] dressed, she remembered, in the slouch hat and large cloak
which had become fashionable since he had acted in such as
Almaviva.[122] He turned and looked at her, but did not rise or make the
smallest gesture of recognition. It was by her own orders that at
Trianon her ladies and gentlemen did not rise or put away their
occupations when the Queen entered a room; but she had lately become
sensitive, and on this occasion she had felt his rudeness.[123] After
all, she was the Queen; he was there as her honoured guest, where the
highest in the land desired to be, and ordinary good manners required
him to do more than sit still and look at her without seeming to notice
her. The Queen remembered her sensation of displeasure. And now her
extraordinarily excited memory which was enabling her to see Trianon
again down to the smallest details of the scenery, also revealed to her
her short-sighted folly in undermining the first principles of that
mutual courtesy which constitutes best Court life, at a time when France
was on the verge of an immense political whirlpool.

Yes; it was on that very same spot that the messenger came to her, a few
months later, to announce the crowd of disaffected women from Paris _en
route_ for Versailles. She could never forget that October morning, for
from that time her life had entirely altered in character and the Queen
had endured a weary round of perpetual and open insult. Throughout the
preceding summer the grounds at the Petit Trianon, which had formerly
been so jealously guarded even from the Court, had been thrown open to
the public,[124] and in order to take the chance of walking there in any
privacy the Queen had lately been in the habit of driving over during
the morning. That fifth of October had been fairly fine during the early
hours, and she remembered having seen the gardeners at work in the
different parts of the gardens;[125] and on her way from the Temple de
l’Amour to the Hameau, she had passed the _prairie_, and had seen two
labourers in their picturesque brown tunics and coloured _chaperons
rouges_[126] filling a hired cart with sticks.[127]

Crossing the Vergelay bridge she had approached the cavernous mouth of
her favourite grotto,[128] over which ivy fell in graceful wreaths.[129]
For the first time in her experience she had noticed that the little
stream issuing from the grotto had not been cleared, but was choked with
dead autumn leaves.[130] This unusual and forlorn sight had remained in
her mind. Here she had sat for a time looking at the place now deserted
by all who had formerly been with her there, and, as was inevitable at
that time of political anxiety, became engrossed in mournful
anticipations of further troubles.[131] They had pressed more than she
could bear, and feeling a sudden desire to speak to someone she had
entered the moss-lined grotto.[132] Passing the point on her left hand
where the little cascade entered from above,[133] she climbed the rock
staircase[134] leading to the upper opening[135] near the _porte
d’entrée_. Coming out upon the elevated rocks, she called to Marie Anne
Lemaignan, whose father’s cottage was not far off. Fancying that she
heard the girl running to her, the Queen had turned and was surprised to
see, instead of the girl, a _garçon de la Chambre_, who, in a state of
great agitation, handed her a letter from M. de Saint Priest, a minister
at the Palace.[136] Her memory recalled the look of that man, also in
the fashionable Spanish hat and cloak, flying over one of the upright
rocks placed near the path by her orders.[137] He had been so anxious
that she should wait at the house whilst he fetched the carriage that
she relinquished her first thought of hurrying back by the woods, and
she turned instead to go to the little bridge which crossed the tiny
waterfall. How fond she was of that little rustic bridge, which she had
had placed high up on rocks, hiding the Theatre and surrounded by thujas
and pine trees![138] It had been one of the most charming of her
inventions, and in fancy the Queen again saw every step of the way, and
the trickling stream pouring over the rocks at her right hand, amidst
ferns and moss, on its way into the grotto below the bridge.

Sitting under the north terrace near the door leading from the house to
the Jeu de Bague, she had re-opened and re-read the minister’s letter
whilst waiting for the carriage. Womanlike, the Queen remembered that
the dress she had been wearing that morning was one of the light skirts
repaired during that summer, the green silk bodice made in July, a large
white fichu, and a straw hat.[139]

At that moment two of the many strangers who now came in as they liked
passed her by and even went up on to the terrace behind her by the
staircase at her left hand.[140] The Queen knew that her concierge
(Bonnefoy Du Plan)[141] was informed that she was there, and would
certainly, on seeing them from his attic window over the chapel, send
someone to ask them to go further from the house. It might not have been
wise, but her old servants had done all they dared to protect her
privacy. She had before now, when wandering about alone, heard the
coldness and unconcern with which the Bersy brothers had directed
strangers in the grounds. Just as she had expected, a moment later, the
Queen had heard the slam of the chapel door[142] and had thought that
Lagrange[143] would probably conduct them into the avenue by the passage
of the _porte de la ménagerie_, that being the nearest way out of the

The carriage was ready, and the moment had come for rallying her force
to act the part of a true queen in whatever circumstances were before
her. The vivid dream was over, and in proportion as her retrospect was
concerned with more important matters, the details stood out less
clearly in her mind.

There was no refreshment in going over the events of the rest of that
day; though some of them came back to her in rapid succession. The
hurried return of the King from hunting at Meudon; the councils; the
variations of policy; the presence of a rough and alarming-looking crowd
on the Place d’Armes; the free fights; the deputation of women escorted
by Mounier on the part of the Assembly: then the final ordering of the
carriages too late for escape; the heavy depressing rain from 4 p.m.
onwards which at last helped to clear away the crowd; the arrival at
midnight of Lafayette and his national guard. All had been confusing and
miserable. But agitating as the 5th had been, there was no comparison
between it and the tension of October 6th.

The Queen remembered that she had only gone to bed that morning at 2
a.m. in order that her ladies might have some rest, but for herself
there was none. Both on October 6th, 1789, and now on August 10th, 1792,
outside disturbances had begun at 5 a.m. amidst the glories of a perfect
summer dawn. But on the former occasion it had been first realised in
one of her own suite of rooms. She had heard the sounds of actual
fighting close to her bedroom, and the hasty shout of the guards,
“Sauvez la Reine!” informed her of their deadly peril. The escape to the
King’s room and the gathering of the family together was quickly
effected; but the comfort of the reunion had been followed by terrible
hours when Lafayette had done his utmost to quell the fury of the mob.
There had been amongst it a company of, as it seemed, veritable fiends,
come from no one knew where, whose faces were terrible to look at.[145]
It was they who enacted the horrid scene of beheading the two murdered
guards (Varicourt and Deshuttes) under the royal windows in the Cour de
Marbre; and until they marched off to Paris carrying with them the two
decapitated heads on spikes, it was impossible to come to any terms with
the mob. But after their departure, by Lafayette’s wish (which at that
time amounted to command), first the King and then the Queen had
ventured on to the balcony, and had been greeted with some warmth.

And now, three years later, they had not the protecting influence of
Lafayette to depend on, nor even the doubtful friendship of Mirabeau.
The mob had gained the upper hand, and seemed to be altogether composed
of wild beasts thirsting for blood. Who would save them from the
horrible crowd pressing against the _grille_? It had not been without
relief that Marie Antoinette had just heard the decree passed to keep
them in the building where they were for the night. But what afterwards?
Clearly they were not to go back to the Tuileries. The mention of the
Luxembourg palace was interesting; still more so, the arguments of the
opposition that it contained dangerous subterranean passages and
opportunities for escape. The Queen’s brain was eagerly at work again,
and intensely conscious of the present.

But Madame Royale and the Dauphin had borne all they could, and at 7
p.m. Madame de Tourzel was allowed to see the accommodation being
prepared for the party in the cells of the ancient _couvent des
Feuillants_. It was not till 10 p.m. that they were escorted thither by
representatives of the Assembly; but for the elders it was neither to
rest nor to sleep, for they were still within sound of the fierce mob
outside as well as of the distant hum of the all-powerful Assembly about
to decree their final destiny.

Three more weary days and nights spent in much the same manner were
forced upon the unhappy family before they were conducted to the Temple,
and into what proved to be for the majority of them the valley of the
shadow of death.

                                                                   E. M.

  _November, 1908._


Footnote 1:

  The man said a great deal more which we could not catch.

Footnote 2:

  I remember that on account of the wind I put on my coat.

Footnote 3:

  The woman was standing on the steps, bending slightly forward, holding
  a jug in her hand. The girl was looking up at her from below with her
  hands raised, but nothing in them. She might have been just going to
  take the jug or have just given it up. Her light-brown hair escaped
  from under her cap. I remember that both seemed to pause for an
  instant, as in a _tableau vivant_; but we passed on, and I did not see
  the end.

Footnote 4:

  By old I mean old or unusual forms, perhaps surviving in provincial

Footnote 5:

  One man wore red, the other blue; the colours were not mixed.

Footnote 6:

  I thought this gardener did not look like a Frenchman; he had more the
  air of an Englishman. He had hair on his face, a grizzled beard, was
  large and loosely made. His height was very uncommon, and he seemed to
  be of immense strength. His arms were long and very muscular. I
  noticed that even through the sleeves of his jersey.

Footnote 7:

  _Archives Nationales_ O^I, 1878.

Footnote 8:

  Desjardins, p. 15; Rocheterie’s _Histoire de Marie Antoinette_, pp.
  289, 290, vol. i.

Footnote 9:

  In the Bibliothèque Nationale.

Footnote 10:

  Picture of a Garde de la Porte du Roi Louis XV., dite de la Manche,
  d’après une gravure de Chevilet. R. Jacquemin.

Footnote 11:

  _Souvenirs d’un Page, le comte D’Hezecques_, pp. 130–134. (He says
  that their underdress was blue.)

Footnote 12:

  _Ibid._, p. 137.

Footnote 13:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1883.

Footnote 14:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878 and 1880.

Footnote 15:

  _Légendes de Trianon_, Madame Julie Lavergne, pp. 89, 96.

Footnote 16:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878.

Footnote 17:

  _Ibid._ O^I, 1882.

Footnote 18:

  Desjardins, p. 90.

Footnote 19:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.

Footnote 20:

  _La Reine Marie Antoinette_, De Nolhac, pp. 61, 212.

Footnote 21:

  _Le Barbier de Séville_, by Beaumarchais, was first played in 1775; it
  was rewritten and made politically scandalous as _Le Mariage de
  Figaro_ in 1781. This version was played in Vaudreuil’s private
  theatre at Gennevilliers and at the Odéon, 1783, and for the first
  time in Paris, by permission, April 27th, 1784.

Footnote 22:

  _Modes et Usages_, De Reiset, p. 479, vol. i.

Footnote 23:

  _Légendes de Trianon_, p. 75.

Footnote 24:

  _La Belle Jardinière_, Lavergne, pp. 91, 97.

Footnote 25:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878.

Footnote 26:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1877.

Footnote 27:

  Letter enclosing marriage certificate (copy from the Archives
  Municipales, Versailles).

Footnote 28:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1876, 1877.

Footnote 29:

  _Ib._ O^I, 1879.

Footnote 30:

  _Ib._ O^I, 1879.

Footnote 31:

  _La vie de Madame Lavergne._

Footnote 32:

  Quoted in _Les Palais de Trianon_, M. de Lescure, p. 148.

Footnote 33:

  _Légendes de Trianon_, Madame Julie Lavergne, p. 75.

Footnote 34:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.

Footnote 35:


Footnote 36:


Footnote 37:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.

Footnote 38:


Footnote 39:

  _Ib._ O^I, 1882. (There was also a “pont de bois à la porte verte” on
  the east side of the house, _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1881 and 1882.)

Footnote 40:


Footnote 41:

  _Ib._ (_Souvenirs d’un Page_, D’Hezecques, p. 242).

Footnote 42:

  _Ib._ 1877.

Footnote 43:


Footnote 44:


Footnote 45:

  _Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 244.

Footnote 46:

  Desjardins, picture, p. 196.

Footnote 47:

  Desjardins, pp. 103, 73.

Footnote 48:

  _Légendes de Trianon_, p. 75.

Footnote 49:

  _Souvenirs d’un Page_, pp. 112, 118.

Footnote 50:

  _Modes et Usages_, De Reiset, vol. i. p. 445.

Footnote 51:

  _Souvenirs du Baron de Frénilly_, p. 80.

Footnote 52:

  _Ib._ p. 80.

Footnote 53:

  _Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 242.

Footnote 54:

  _Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 243.

Footnote 55:

  _La Dernière Rose_, p. 75.

Footnote 56:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.

Footnote 57:

  _Ib._ O^I, 1882.

Footnote 58:

  _Ib._ O^I, 1882.

Footnote 59:

  _Le Petit Trianon_, p. 90.

Footnote 60:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1875.

Footnote 61:

  _Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 242.

Footnote 62:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1882.

Footnote 63:

  _Ib._ O^I, 1879.

Footnote 64:

  Desjardins, p. 196.

Footnote 65:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1882.

Footnote 66:

  Desjardins, pp. 107, 120; _Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1875, 1877; Terrade, _Le
  Théâtre de la Reine_, p. 23.

Footnote 67:

  _Modes et Usages_, De Reiset, vol. i. pp. 479, 404, 423, 365, 369.

Footnote 68:

  Desjardins’, _Le Petit Trianon_, pp. 188, 189.

Footnote 69:

  Page 7.

Footnote 70:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1879.

Footnote 71:

  _Ibid._ O^I, 1877.

Footnote 72:

  _Ibid._ O^I, 1879.

Footnote 73:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1876.

Footnote 74:

  _Ibid._ O^1, 1877.

Footnote 75:

  _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1877.

Footnote 76:

  _Ib._ O^I, 1880.

Footnote 77:

  We heard in 1910 that this was the window out of which Marie
  Antoinette used to pass when she went into the garden.

Footnote 78:

  _Marie Antoinette_, Lenotre, p. 3.

Footnote 79:

  _Mémoires de Madame de Tourzel_, p. 216.

Footnote 80:

  Rocheterie says 18 hours; Dufour, 13 hours.

Footnote 81:

  _Marie Antoinette_, Lenotre, p. 13.

Footnote 82:

 De Launay; governor of the Bastille, Flescelles; prévôt  July 14, 1789.
   des marchands,
 Foulon; ministre, Berthier; intendant de l’Ile de         July 4, 1789.

Footnote 83:

  Comte d’Artois, Les Condés, Les Polignacs, Baron de Breteuil, le
  marechal de Broglie, le prince de Lambesc, le comte de Vaudreuil,
  ministres Bareuton, Villedeuil, Vauguyon, l’abbé de Vermond.

Footnote 84:

  In 1783 the Queen’s wardrobe cost 199,000 livres; in 1784 it cost
  217,000 livres; in 1785 it cost 252,000. One dress only worn once cost
  6000 livres, not counting the material. _La Reine Marie Antoinette_,
  De Nolhac, pp. 36, 63.

  In 1777 the Queen’s personal debts amounted to 487,000 livres, which
  the King paid out of his own purse. All this was changed after the
  birth of her first child, and the Queen, from that time, cut down
  every possible expense.

Footnote 85:

  _Mémoires de Madame de Tourzel_, p. 220.

Footnote 86:

  Even in the Conciergerie the Queen seems to have disbelieved in the
  likelihood of a formal condemnation to death. _Marie Antoinette_,
  Lenotre, pp. 247, 270.

Footnote 87:

  _Histoire de Marie Antoinette_, La Rocheterie, p. 435.

Footnote 88:

  Vicomte de Maillé, sent to L’Abbaye prison, murdered in the September
  massacres. M. de la Porte, _intendant de la liste civile_, also
  imprisoned and murdered in September. _Mémoires de M. de Tourzel_, p.

Footnote 89:

  La Rocheterie, p. 438.

Footnote 90:

  La Rocheterie, p. 438.

Footnote 91:

  _La Reine Marie Antoinette_, De Nolhac, p. 184.

Footnote 92:

  _Almanack Historique de la Revolution Française pour l’année_, 1792,
  par M. J. P. Rabaut (contemporain).

Footnote 93:

  The exterior masonry of the Palace cost 1,350,000 livres, apart from
  all the magnificent interiors, the grounds, and the outside buildings.
  La Grande Écurie cost 844,784 livres (_Versailles_, Peraté, p. 14).
  Expenses at Trianon under Louis XV., 340,000 livres; under Louis XVI.,
  1,649,529 livres (Desjardins, pp. 2, 407).

Footnote 94:


Footnote 95:


Footnote 96:

  Claude Richard was appointed _jardinier en chef_ at Trianon in 1750.
  He was the intimate friend of Linnæus, who called him “the cleverest
  gardener in Europe.” He was the son of François Richard who followed
  James II. from Windsor to St. Germains. The son, Antoine Richard,
  became _jardinier-botaniste-adjoint_ at Trianon, 1765, _jardinier en
  chef_, 1784–1805, and died 1807.

Footnote 97:

  Guillotined 1794.

Footnote 98:

  Built 1762.

Footnote 99:

  _Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, p. 27.

Footnote 100:


Footnote 101:

  Built 1773 for Madame du Barry.

Footnote 102:

  “Avoir netoyer le passe-partout que la Reine avait perdue avoir gravée
  de nom de la Reine dessus qui ouvrait les portes du Chateau et jardin
  de Trianon.” Locksmith’s account, 1785 (_Archives Nat._ O^1, 1882).

Footnote 103:

  August 1st, 1780.

Footnote 104:

  August 19th, 1785.

Footnote 105:

  Cardinal Rohan had been arrested four days before, on August 15th,

Footnote 106:

  Beaumarchais’ play of _Le Mariage de Figaro_ had been rewritten with
  political intention from the old play of _Le Barbier de Séville_ in

Footnote 107:

  Twice played at Trianon, September 13th, 1784, and August 19th, 1785.

Footnote 108:

  July 14th, 1789.

Footnote 109:

  _La Reine Marie Antoinette_, De Nolhac, pages 161–212, 223, 224.

Footnote 110:

  _Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, pages 180, 178, 342.

Footnote 111:

  _Histoire de Marie Antoinette_, Rocheterie, pages 289, 290. Vol. i.

Footnote 112:

  The brothers Bersy with Bréval were generally selected for guarding
  the _porte du jardinier_ whenever the Queen was at Trianon, _Arch.
  Nat._ O^I, 1880. They had the title of _garçons jardiniers de la
  Chambre_, O^I, 1878.

Footnote 113:

  Probably green, as it was worn by the Suisses, piqueurs, gardes des
  portes, garçons jardiniers, and such royal servants as filled the
  minor parts at the royal theatre at Versailles, _Arch. Nat._ O^I,
  1883. The traditional dress is still to be seen at the Comédie
  Française, which is the descendant of the old Royal Theatre. The Comte
  d’Artois was captain of the guards (including the gardes des portes)
  in 1789, and his livery was green.

Footnote 114:

  In 1785, _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1883.

Footnote 115:

  The names “Lemonguin” and “Magny” are to be found in the old lists of
  under-gardeners at Trianon, _Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1876, 1877. “Mariamne”
  is mentioned among the children paid for picking up dead leaves in the
  grounds, 1783, _Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1877.

Footnote 116:

  Marion’s mother died shortly before 1793, _Légendes de Trianon_,

Footnote 117:

  In Mique’s map of 1783 there is a building outside the wall between
  the _ruelle_ and the _porte de jardinier_.

Footnote 118:

  If Marianne was 21 at her son’s birth in 1796 she would have been 8 in
  1783, and 14 in 1789.

Footnote 119:

  In 1793 “Marion” (daughter of an under-gardener) was chosen by the
  Versailles Republican Club to personate the local Goddess of Reason.
  Horrified at the prospect, the night before the installation on the
  altar of the Versailles Notre Dame, she so completely disfigured her
  face with scratches from a thorn branch that she never completely lost
  the marks (_Légendes de Trianon_, M^{dme} Julie Lavergne, pp. 91–97).

Footnote 120:

  In 1786 “Charpentier” is mentioned as an _ouvrier terrassier_, having
  to clear up sticks and leaves, plant flowers, and rake (_Arch. Nat._
  O^1, 1878).

  Charpentier seems to have been the “Jean de l’eau,” so called from his
  daily duty of fetching water from Ville d’Avray for the Queen’s table.
  He even tried to get it to her when she was in the Conciergerie,
  August, 1792. He was afterwards wounded at Marengo and became a
  captain, and in 1805 was appointed by Napoleon _jardinier en chef_ at
  the Petit Trianon, and married Marion (_Légendes de Trianon_, p. 97).

  The marriage certificate of Alexandre Charpentier, in 1823 (at that
  time _chef d’atelier aux Pepinières Royales_ de Trianon, and, later,
  for many years _jardinier en chef_ at Trianon), shows that he was the
  son of Louis Toussaint Charpentier, _pensionnaire_, and Marie Anne
  Lemaignan (Mairie de Versailles).

Footnote 121:

  “Dec. 5, 1780. Commencé par ordre de M. Mique le model de la partie de
  la grotte ... du coté des montagnes ... là dessus une petite ruine
  d’architecture, l’avoir penté, planté, et gazonné.”

  “Detail estimatif d’une ruine formant la naissance d’une rivière,
  savoir—Fouille de terre—maçonnerie ... le massif et le rigolle des
  fondations ... pierre dure ... colonnes avec les murs au derrière ...
  7 colonnes ... 7 chapiteaux ... partie de la voute ... le parement des
  murs ... le fossite pour l’architecture ... Recapitulation ... 7
  chapiteaux Ioniques, antique ... 5 membres ... 5 rosaces ... 9358
  livres” (_Arch. Nat._ O^I, 1878).

  The Temple de l’Amour is more than once called a “ruine,” which did
  not seem to mean more than the reproduction of an older building. One
  “ruine” mentioned had six Corinthian pillars, and was near the “onze

Footnote 122:

  “Le chapeau ronds a larges bords, que l’on appelait à la jockey,
  remplaçait déjà le chapeau à trois cornes nommé à l’Androsmane.” On
  avait quitté le rabat, la bourse, les manchettes et l’épée (_Modes et
  Usages_, De Reiset, vol. i. p. 469).

Footnote 123:

  “J’ai beaucoup vu le comte de Vaudreuil à Londres, sans avoir jamais
  découvert la distinction dont ses contemporains lui out fait honneur.
  Il avait été le coryphée de cette école d’exaggération qui régnait
  avant la Revolution, se passionnant pour toutes les petites choses, et
  restant froide devant les grandes ... Il ... gardait ses grands airs
  pour le salon de Madame de Polignac; et son ingratitude pour la Reine,
  dont je l’ai entender parler avec la dernière inconvenance” (_Memoirs
  de la Comtesse de Boigne_, p. 144).

Footnote 124:

  _Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, p. 345.

Footnote 125:

  The wages book shows that all the gardeners were at work out of doors
  on Oct. 5th, 1789, whereas on wet days they worked under cover,
  sometimes clearing out the passages of the house, _Arch. Nat._ O^1,

Footnote 126:

  This was the dress of the bourgeoisie in the 14th century. See
  illustration of 14th century play _Pathelin_. Artisans wore it in the
  17th century. See _Les Foires des Rues de Paris_. Musée Carnavalet. It
  was probably worn by field labourers up to the Revolution.

Footnote 127:

  There is no mention of a cart and horse as part of the regular
  expenses at the Ferme, but from time to time “une voiture à un cheval,
  et un conducteur” were hired for picking up sticks in the Park. Jan.,
  1789, there is an entry for paying “plus un homme” for that purpose;
  and on Oct. 4th, 1789, we read of the hiring of “trois journées de
  voiture et deux chevaux” (almost necessarily requiring two men) (O^1,

Footnote 128:

  See old picture by L’Espinasse, 1783. In Mique’s map (1783) two
  grottos are indicated, one close to the rocher bridge, on the left of
  it coming from the Hameau, and one near the Escargot hill, still to be
  seen to-day.

Footnote 129:

  May 28th, 1781.... Out attachés le lierre de la grotte (O^1, 1875).

Footnote 130:

  The streams were cleared of dead leaves on Oct. 1, 2, 3, but not on
  the 4th or 5th or after that date (O^1, 1877).

Footnote 131:

  _Memoirs of Marie Antoinette_, by Madame Campan, p. 201. _Légendes de
  Trianon_, by Madame Julie Lavergne, p. 75.

Footnote 132:

  In the time of Marie Antoinette there were at least three grottos at
  Trianon, of which only one remains intact, and that possibly the last
  created; it may have been formed along with the Escargot hill, raised
  in 1781 (_Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1877).

  The oldest grotto is mentioned in 1777 as ending at the _porte
  d’entrée_ (O^1, 1875). Issuing from the side of this first grotto was
  a “naissance de rivière,” which fed (perhaps by pipes) the small
  circular lake, whose waters passed under the Rocher bridge, through
  the great lake to the stream which meandered through the grounds. A
  small “ruine” having seven columns, a dome roof, and walls, stood
  above the spring “formant la naissance de la rivière” (O^1, 1878,
  Desjardins, p. 90).

  Such waters as drained naturally through the first grotto seem to have
  collected in a little pool at the lower end. In June, 1780, a new
  “petite rivière,” intended to carry these stagnant waters away direct
  to the great lake, was made; a grotto of “oval form” was dug round it,
  and a montagne raised to cover it in (O^1, 1875). This second grotto
  was probably the one described by D’Hezecques: it must have turned at
  an angle from the first grotto and ended near the Rocher bridge, the
  tiny ruisseau passing through and beyond it into the great lake (O^1,

Footnote 133:

  A small ravine between the first and second grottos may have been
  spanned by the “pont rustique” of D’Hezecques, passing over the
  miniature waterfall issuing from “la 2^{ième} source du Ravin” (nearer
  the Theatre than the first spring) (O^1, 1882). This would have given
  the name “ravin du petit pont” (O^1, 1875). The waterfall probably
  fell into the little pool, whose waters were carried by a “ruisseau”
  through the second (the Queen’s) grotto to the great lake. A rough
  sketch in the _Arch. Nat._ shows a small bridge in this position.

  The cavern-like mouth at the lower end of the Queen’s grotto, close to
  the Rocher bridge, is shown in L’Espinasse’s picture of 1783. It is to
  be observed that in this picture no large rock (such as there is now)
  was over the long bridge which stood upon low rocks between the two
  lakes. The picture suggests that the rock opening of the grotto has
  been lifted away from its original place to its present position over
  the long Rocher bridge.

Footnote 134:

  D’Hezecques describes the grotto as dark on first entering, lined with
  moss, and as having a staircase within it leading to the summit of the
  rocks. This staircase may be identical with the rock staircase now
  attached by modern masonry to the back of the great rock over the
  bridge, without any apparent reason.

Footnote 135:

  A view of the prairie (also a condition of the Queen’s grotto
  described by D’Hezecques) is obtainable from the high ground in this
  part of the English garden.

Footnote 136:

  _Légendes de Trianon_, Madame Julie Lavergne, p. 76.

Footnote 137:

  (Rocks placed) “Pièce donnant au bord du lac de l’ancien jardin cote
  des rochers ... au long du chemin de l’emplacement de la Ruine sur la
  conduitte en bois à la 2^{ième} Source du Ravin” (O^I, 1882).

  In 1788 “Pièce au dessus du Rocher du Ravin et ... passage des voiture
  sur le pont de bois.... Pièce à droite en face du Rocher du Ravin.”

Footnote 138:

  “En face du chateau ... une pelouse ... se terminait par une roche
  ombragée de pins, de thujas, de mélèzes, et surmontait d’un pont
  rustique, comme on en rencontre dans les montagnes de la Suisse et les
  précipices du Valais ...” (_Souvenirs d’un Page_, p. 242).

  (Rocks placed), “1788 ... sur les montagnes des Pins à gauche et en
  montant au Rocher.... Montagne des Pins à droite en montante au
  Rocher” (_Arch. Nat._ O^1, 1882). In 1791, every few days during
  January, February, March of that year, trees were torn up from the
  montagnes. In April, 1792, “Journée à arracher les Thujas sur les
  montagnes” (O^1, 1879).

Footnote 139:

  _Livre-Journal de Madame Éloffe_, pp. 404, 423, 365, 369.

Footnote 140:

  After May, 1789, the grounds were thrown open (Desjardins, p. 345).

Footnote 141:

  _Le Petit Trianon_, Desjardins, pp. 188, 189.

Footnote 142:

  The great door of the chapel, which led into the royal gallery, opened
  upon a terrace then joined to the western terrace of the house.

Footnote 143:

  The name of the Suisse (in 1789) in charge of the _porte du perron de
  la Chapelle_ was Lagrange. His rooms were behind the chapel
  (Desjardins, p. 189).

Footnote 144:

  According to M. de Nolhac (see note to _Consignes de Marie
  Antoinette_, p. 7) the _porte de la ménagerie_ should be placed near
  the buildings of the kitchens and conciergerie. In Mique’s map (1783)
  a broad passage led through these buildings from the French garden to
  the avenue.

Footnote 145:

  “Parmi eux se trouvoient des hommes de figure étrange, ce qui
  sembloient y avoir été appelés; car le peuple de Paris a sa
  physionomie, et ceux qui le connoissent savent bien distinguer les
  étrangers qui s’y confondent. Ces bandes farouches avoient précédé la
  garde nationale, dont il faut bien la distinguer; elles causèrent tout
  le désordre du lendemain.... Au dehors, les brigands s’étoient emparés
  de deux gardes du corps; ils leur coupèrent la tête, malgré les
  efforts de ceux des gardes nationaux qui arrivoient.... Enfin cette
  bande de scélérats reprit la route de Paris, emportant en signe de
  victoire les deux têtes des gardes des corps. Avec eux disparut toute
  l’horreur des scènes sanglantes du matin. Alors le caractère national
  se montra dans toute sa candeur. Les soldats parisiens et les gardes
  du roi s’embrassent.”—_Almanach Historique de la Revolution
  Française_, M. J. P. Rabaut, pp. 151–153.

  This was written in 1791, and Rabaut was guillotined later “comme



                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

 1. P. 131, changed “No double his feeble idea” to “No doubt his feeble
 2. Archives Nationales O^I and Archives Nationales O^1 are used
      interchangeably. Did not alter.
 3. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 4. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 6. Superscripts are denoted by a caret before a single superscript
      character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in
      curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}.

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