ABSTRACT
Louis entered the capital he had left twenty-five years earlier on 3 May 1814. Although few could remember the royal family, the city was nevertheless bathed in white flags and cockades to welcome the man they hoped would be the guarantor of peace and the restorer of liberty. In the carriage at the king’s side sat the morose Duchess of Angoulême, Marie-Thérèse, daughter of Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, who had been imprisoned in the Temple during the Revolution and who had never forgotten or forgiven the people of Paris for the treatment handed out to her family. She did not make a good impression. Even the Countess of Boigne, an ardent royalist, was disappointed in the day’s proceedings.
We went to see the king’s entry from a house in the rue Saint-Denis. There was a large crowd. Most windows were decorated with white garlands, slogans, white lilies and white flags.
The foreigners had the good grace … to consign their troops to the barracks. The town was given over to the National Guard. … Everybody noticed the absence of foreign uniforms. General Sacken, the Russian governor of Paris, was the only person to appear in the town. He was liked well enough, and people felt that he was keeping a look-out for the maintenance of order given to his own troops.
The procession was escorted by the old Imperial Guard. Others will tell of the tactlessness committed against them both before and after this moment; all I will say is that they were imposing but icy. They advanced in great strides, silent and gloomy, full of past memories. They stopped with one look the enthusiasm towards those who were arriving. Cries of ‘Long live the king!’ fell silent when they marched past; now and then cries of ‘Long live the guard, the old guard!’ were heard, but they were no better received and they seemed to greet them with derision. As they marched past, the silence increased; soon only the monotone noise of their quick steps could be heard, pounding on one’s heart. Consternation prevailed and the contagious sadness of these old warriors gave the ceremony the appearance of the emperor’s funeral much more than the accession of the king.
It was time for that to end. The group of princes appeared. Their passage had been badly prepared; nevertheless they were received warmly enough but without the enthusiasm that had accompanied [the entry of] Monsieur [on 12 April].
Were people already worn out? Were they already dissatisfied with the brief administration of the lieutenant general, or was it the guard’s aspect which had brought about this chill? I do not know, but it was noticeable.
Monsieur was on horseback, surrounded by marshals, general officers of the Empire, the King’s Household and the House of the Line. The king was in a carriage, completely open, Madame sitting beside him; in front were Prince Condé and his son, the duke of Bourbon. …
I have to admit that, for me, the morning was distressing from every point of view and the occupants of the carriage had not met the hopes I had placed in them. I was told that Madame, on arriving at Notre Dame, collapsed onto her prayer stool in such a gracious, noble and touching manner, there was both so much resignation and acknowledgement in that action, that tears of tenderness flowed from everyone’s eyes. I was also told that on arriving at the Tuileries, she was as cold, as awkward, as surly as she had been beautiful in church.
At that time, Madame, Duchess of Angoulême, was the only person in the royal family who was remembered in France.
The younger generation knew nothing about our princes. I recall that one of my cousins asked me at that time if the Duke of Angoulême was the son of Louis XVIII and how many children he had. And yet everyone knew that Louis XVI, the queen and Madame Elisabeth had died on the scaffold. For everyone, Madame was the orphan of the Temple and on her head was united all the interest acquired by so many terrible disasters. The blood spilt had baptised her daughter of the country.
So much was owing to her! But any expressions of regret had to be received with benevolence. Madame was not able to make the distinction; she imposed by her haughtiness and only accepted testimonies with curtness. Madame, full of virtue, generosity, a French princess in her heart, had found the way to make herself appear as though she was mean, cruel and hostile towards her country. The French believed themselves disliked by her and in turn finished by disliking her. She did not deserve it and, certainly, one was not disposed to do so. It was the result of a disastrous misunderstanding and of a false pride. With a small dose of feeling added to her noble nature, Madame could have been the idol of the country and the palladium of her race.
Source: Mémoires de la comtesse de Boigne, née Osmond, 2 vols (Paris, 1986), vol. 1, pp. 256–8.https://s3-euw1-ap-pe-df-pch-content-public-p.s3.eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/9781032618814/e9ac31eb-0a68-4fdc-b417-e6e5b1e67c6c/content/fig29_Unfig_001.tif" xmlns:xlink="https://www.w3.org/1999/xlink"/>