Eugénie’s Flight to England
The Empress mean while was still at the Tuileries. One of the palace
prefects had returned from the Assembly with news of what had passed,
but she refused to desert her post even though the mob was already at
the gates of the palace and a dull roar penetrated the deserted halls.
Eugénie’s question as to whether it would be possible to defend the
Tuileries without bloodshed was answered in the negative by the governor
of the palace, General Mellinet, and she still refused to have a drop of
blood shed in her behalf. Nearer and nearer sounded the uproar, and the
trampling of feet was now distinctly audible. Shouts were heard: “She
will escape!” “Long live the Republic!” “Down with the Spaniard!”
“Forward! Into the palace—forward!”
Prince Metternich and the Italian ambassador, Count Nigra, who had
hastened to the side of the Empress, urged her to flee, as every moment
that passed made escape more difficult. But to run away from danger was
foreign to Eugénie’s nature, and she could not bring herself to believe
it necessary, in spite of the raging mob without trampling on one
another, swaying now forward, now back, striving with shrieks and blows
to make room and force open the gates of the palace, all animated by a
single impulse—hatred for the imperial house. At length sounds of tumult
were heard on the great staircase, and the Empress’s attendants implored
her to leave the palace and not expose their lives to danger.
“Is there no other way?” she asked in despair. “Is there nothing we can
do to defend ourselves? At least, you can say I have done my duty to the
last.”
Deeply moved, they kissed her hand without replying; but the Prince
urged them to hurry, as there was no time to lose. A dark cloak was
thrown around the Empress, and, accompanied by her reader, Madame
Lebreton, with the two ambassadors, Minister Chevreau, and a few members
of her court, she consented at last to go. Escape was impossible through
the palace courtyard; for the Place du Carrousel, from which it was
separated only by a slender railing, was packed with people. Some other
way must be found; but before leaving her rooms Eugénie went to the
window and stood looking down for a moment on the seething mass below.
“Alas!” she cried, “what folly to spend their strength in this way, when
the enemy is at the gates!” Then, as she turned to go, she added with
emotion:
“Unhappy palace! fate seems to have ordained that all crowned heads
shall leave you in this way.”
By this time her escort was reduced to the two ambassadors and Madame
Lebreton. The others had already fled to seek their own safety. She took
Count Nigra’s arm, and Madame Lebreton followed with Prince Metternich.
Through the Flora Pavilion of the Tuileries they hurried to the Louvre,
the galleries of which they must traverse at full length to reach an
exit on the side toward St. Germain. But here, too, the street was
crowded with people shouting, “Long live the Republic!” “Down with the
Emperor!”
The little party halted before the door, but behind them also sounded
the roar of the mob. To turn back would be inevitably to fall into their
hands. The risk must be taken; there was nothing to do but go on. Even
at this critical point the Empress’s courage did not forsake her;
indeed, she had never given clearer proof of it than now.
“You are holding my arm,” she said to Nigra; “do you feel it tremble?”
“Not in the least, Madame,” replied the Count.
The gentlemen opened the doors. The ladies passed out, and Eugénie found
herself face to face with the populace who were inflamed with hatred
against her. She was within a hair’s-breadth of sharing the fate of
Marie Antoinette, or perhaps being torn to pieces by the rabble. The
excitement was so great, there is no knowing what terrible scene might
have been enacted had she been recognized.
Luckily a closed carriage happened to be standing near by, and with
great presence of mind she rushed toward it. A street urchin spied her
and shouted, “Look, look! the Empress!” but no one heeded the words.
Nigra stopped and spoke to the boy to divert his attention while Eugénie
threw herself into the carriage, followed by Madame Lebreton. Prince
Metternich shouted an imaginary address to the driver, and off they
went, safe at least for the time being. But their troubles were not yet
ended. In her haste, Eugénie had forgotten her purse; and when her
companion drew hers from her pocket she found to her horror that it
contained only three francs in all, scarcely enough to pay for the
carriage. To avoid a discussion with the driver, they determined to
continue on foot, but whither, they had not yet considered. At the
Boulevard Haussmann, therefore, they alighted, and while Madame Lebreton
paid the coachman, Eugénie stepped into the shadow of a doorway.
It is said that the Empress knocked in vain at many doors before she
succeeded in finding a temporary asylum in her own capital; but at
length the happy thought occurred to her of applying to Dr. Evans, a
well-known American dentist whom she had known for years and often
received at the Tuileries. Arrived at his office, she had to wait with
other patients in the anteroom till her turn came; but at last Madame
Lebreton was able to gain admittance to the dentist and told him that
the Empress was without, hoping to find a refuge under his roof until
she could make her escape from Paris.
Evans’s astonishment was beyond words. Unaware as yet of the sudden
change in affairs, he could not believe it possible that the Empress
should have cause to fear for her safety. Nevertheless he begged the
ladies to wait while he went out into the street to convince himself of
the true condition of things. In a short time he returned, convinced
that they had not left the Tuileries a moment too soon; and without a
thought of his own danger or the possible detriment to his business, he
promised to aid them to the full extent of his power. His wife was away
at the time, and as luck would have it, he was expecting the arrival
that day of two patients who were unknown to his servants. He now
introduced the Empress and Madame Lebreton as these persons. His own
bedchamber was prepared for Eugénie and an improvised couch placed in it
for her companion.
While the Empress was thus being harbored in the house of the chivalrous
American, and full of anxiety as to what the morrow would bring forth,
all Paris was mad with joy. Men, women, and children marched up and down
the streets all night, singing and shouting, oblivious of the disaster
of Sedan and the country’s danger, and rejoicing that the Empire was no
more.
Evans, meanwhile, had instantly set to work. Under pretext of a
professional visit, but in reality to prepare for the Empress’s escape,
he drove out that very day to the Neuilly Bridge where he was stopped
and asked to give his name, also his destination and his errand. One of
the guards who happened to know him, however, called to his comrade to
let the American pass.
“I may be frequently obliged to pass the barriers,” remarked the Doctor
coolly; “look well at me, my man, so that you will know me again and
that I may not be detained unnecessarily.”
His plan was already made. On his return he informed the ladies that
they would be able to pass the Neuilly Bridge the next day under his
protection if Her Majesty would consent to play the part of a mad woman.
He would pretend to have a patient with him on her way to an asylum
beyond Neuilly, while Madame Lebreton could pass as her attendant.
Accompanied by a friend and countryman of Dr. Evans, who was taken into
their confidence, they started off the next morning. All went well. The
sentry at once recognized the doctor, while the Empress, leaning back in
the carriage, her face hidden by a thick veil, passed unnoticed. This
danger past, they reached St. Germain in safety, and then Nantes, where
they put up at an inn.
“I have a lady with me whom I am taking to a private asylum,” Evans
explained to the innkeeper, “and I would like a quiet room with shutters
on the windows.”
His request was complied with without question, and here Eugénie and her
companion were able to enjoy a few hours’ rest. Evans’s colleague
returned to Paris with the doctor’s carriage which they had used thus
far, and a coach was hired for them by the landlord to convey the
invalid to the institution where she was to be left in charge. Further
to carry out the plan, it was privately arranged that the Empress should
appear to protest against being taken there, and make such forcible
resistance on the way that they would apparently be forced to take
another road. They had driven for scarcely half an hour, therefore, when
a loud dispute arose between Eugénie and the doctor, which became so
violent that Evans called to the coachman to stop that he might try and
induce the patient to go a short distance on foot.
“I will not—I will not!” stormed the Empress, and her screams frightened
the horses so that the driver declared he would go no further unless the
disturbance was stopped.
“I will never go to that place, I will not!” shrieked Eugénie afresh,
and at last there seemed nothing for it but to turn back and drive to
the nearest post station, whence the coach was sent back. As a further
measure of precaution they changed conveyances at every station, now,
however, taking the road to their real destination—the watering-place of
Deauville, where Mrs. Evans was then staying.
For many weeks, as we have seen, Eugénie had lived in constant agitation
and anxiety—the days full of exhausting labor, the nights without
sleep—and had suffered both mentally and physically in consequence. She
was no longer able to eat, and had lived for the last four or five days
literally on nothing but black coffee and chloral, which she had been in
the habit of taking in large quantities to drown her troubles. She wept
almost incessantly; and even when sleep lent her a few moments’ respite,
she would start up suddenly, begin to talk and laugh excitedly, then as
quickly burst into tears and relapse again into deepest melancholy.
After two seemingly endless days, the fugitives reached Deauville on the
evening of September 6, and Evans took the Empress and her companion at
once to his wife. Mrs. Evans was about the same size as Eugénie, and
gladly packed up a part of her wardrobe with some necessary articles of
toilet for the Empress’s use, while the doctor hastened to discover what
boats were leaving for England. Two vessels were in the harbor, the
larger an American ship, the other a pleasure yacht, the _Gazelle_,
belonging to Lord Burgoyne. Finding the former not sufficiently
seaworthy, Evans applied to Lord Burgoyne, who at first flatly refused
to take the Empress across, partly for political reasons, partly because
a storm was brewing. But Eugénie’s protector insisted so urgently that
he finally yielded on condition that the ladies should not come aboard
till just before the boat sailed, lest the fact that he had passengers
should attract attention. Shortly before midnight Eugénie, accompanied
by Evans and her faithful Lebreton, hurried on board the yacht, which
did not weigh anchor, however, till the next morning.
The dangers by land now lay behind the fugitives, but others still
awaited them by sea. Soon a fearful storm arose, and the little craft
was tossed about at the mercy of the elements. The crew, little
suspecting that an Empress looked to them for rescue, labored on bravely
and calmly, as is the way of sailors, who know at any moment they may be
called into eternity. Still the storm increased in violence, and the
danger grew greater every moment. The ladies were flung about the tiny
cabin like bales of merchandise. By nightfall all hope seemed vanished.
Pale as death, terror stamped on every line of his countenance, Lord
Burgoyne appeared at the door of the cabin, crying that they were lost.
“It is all your fault!” he shouted, glaring wildly at the doctor, then
rushed away as suddenly as he had come. The three passengers looked at
one another in amazement, and seasick, exhausted, and disheartened as
she was, Eugénie could not help laughing at the Englishman’s frenzy of
terror. Still the brave little _Gazelle_ struggled on against wind and
wave until at last the storm began to subside, and about three o’clock
the next morning, after what seemed a miraculous escape, they reached
the harbor of Ryde on the Isle of Wight.
With what feelings must the ex-Empress have once more beheld this coast!
Must she not involuntarily have recalled that first visit with her
mother to England so long ago, in her joyous care-free youth? And again,
when she took that first important step toward recognition by the
European sovereigns, and as the favorite of fortune, gay, courted, and
admired, landed amid the enthusiastic shouts of the people, as the
honored guest of Queen Victoria? To-day she turned to England for
refuge—no longer the beautiful sovereign of a great European power, but
a wretched fugitive, an unhappy woman exhausted with fatigue and faint
for lack of food. Those shores on which she had once been hailed with
triumph now in the gray dawn were sole witnesses of her mute despair.