There is no darker page in the history of France than that whereon is
inscribed the record of the Revolution; and in its darkness there is
nothing blacker than the narration of the horrible treatment of the
young dauphin by the revolutionists. The misfortunes of his father
King Louis XVI., and of Marie-Antoinette, are sufficiently well known
throughout Europe to render the repetition of them tedious; but the
evil fate of the son has been less voluminously recorded by
historians, and it is, therefore, necessary to repeat the story at
some length to render the following narratives of claims to royalty
thoroughly intelligible.
Louis-Charles was the second son of Louis XVI. and his consort
Marie-Antoinette, and was born at the Chateau of Versailles, on the
27th of March, at five minutes before seven in the evening. An hour
and a half later he was baptised with much ceremony by the Cardinal de
Rohan and the Vicar of Versailles, and received the title of Duke of
Normandy. Then the king, followed by all the court, went to the chapel
of the chateau, where _Te Deum_ was sung in honour of the event, and
subsequently the infant prince was consecrated a knight of the order
of the Holy Ghost. Fireworks were displayed on the Place d'Armes at
Versailles; and when the news reached Paris it is said "joy spread
itself from one end of the great city to the other; the cannon of the
Bastille responded to the cannon of the Invalides; and everywhere
spontaneous illuminations, the ringing of bells, and the acclamations
of the people, manifested the love of France for a king who, in the
flower of his youth, found his happiness in the happiness of the
people." Such was the introduction into the world of the young prince.
Fate seemed to have the brightest gifts in store for him. On the 4th
of June 1789, the dauphin, his elder brother, died at Meudon, and the
young Louis-Charles succeeded to his honours. At this time he was
rather more than four years old, and is described as having a graceful
and well-knit frame, his forehead broad and open, his eyebrows arched;
his large blue eyes fringed with long chestnut lashes of angelic
beauty; his complexion dazzlingly fair and blooming; his hair, of a
dark chestnut, curled naturally, and fell in thick ringlets on his
shoulders; and he had the vermilion mouth of his mother, and like her
a small dimple on the chin. In disposition he was exceedingly amiable,
and was a great favourite both with his father and mother, who
affectionately styled him their "little Norman."
His happiness was destined to be very short-lived, for the murmurs of
the Revolution could already be heard. On the 20th of July, 1791, King
Louis XVI., his family and court, fled from the disloyal French
capital in the night, their intention being to travel in disguise to
Montmèdy, and there to join the Marquis de Bouillé, who was at the
head of a large army. When they awoke the little dauphin, and began
to dress him as a girl, his sister asked him what he thought of the
proceeding. His answer was, "I think we are going to play a comedy;"
but never had comedy more tragic ending. The royal party were
discovered at Varennes, and brought back to the Tuileries amid the
hootings and jeers of the mob. "The journey," says Lamartine, "was a
Calvary of sixty leagues, every step of which was a torture." On the
way the little girl whispered to her brother, "Charles, this is not a
comedy." "I have found that out long since," said the boy. But he was
brave, tender to his mother, and gravely courteous to the commissioner
of the Assembly who had been deputed to bring them back. "Sir," he
said, from his mother's knee, "you ask if I am not very sorry to
return to Paris. I am glad to be anywhere, so that it is with mamma
and papa, and my aunt and sister, and Madame de Tourzel, my
governess."
There soon came the wild scene in the Tuileries, and the sad
appearance of the dethroned king in the Assembly, with its still more
lamentable ending. Louis XVI. was carried to the prison of the Temple.
This building had originally been a fortress of the Knights Templars.
In 1792, the year in which it received the captive monarch, it
consisted of a large square tower, flanked at its angles by four round
towers, and having on the north side another separate tower of less
dimensions than the first, surmounted by turrets, and generally called
the little tower. It was in this little tower that the royal family of
France were located by the commune of Paris. Here the king spent his
time in the education of his son, while the best historian of the boy
says he devoted himself to comforting his parents: "Here he was happy
to live, and he was only turned to grief by the tears which sometimes
stole down his mother's cheeks. He never spoke of his games and walks
of former days; he never uttered the name of Versailles or the
Tuileries; he seemed to regret nothing."
On the morning of the 21st January, 1793, Louis XVI. was carried to
the scaffold, and suffered death. On the previous day, at a final
interview which was allowed, he had taken the dauphin, "his dear
little Norman," on his knee, and had said to him, "My son, you have
heard what I have just said"--he had been causing them all to promise
never to think of avenging his death--"but, as oaths are something
more sacred still than words, swear, with your hands held up to
Heaven, that you will obey your father's dying injunction;" and, adds
his sister, who tells the story, "My brother, bursting into tears,
obeyed; and this most affecting goodness doubled our own grief." And
thus father and son parted, but not for long.
On the 1st of July the Committee of Public Safety passed a decree,
"That the son of Capet be separated from his mother, and committed to
the charge of a tutor, to be chosen by the Council General of the
Commune." The Convention sanctioned it, and it was carried into effect
two days later. About ten o'clock at night, when the young dauphin was
sleeping soundly in his bed, and the ex-queen and her sister were busy
mending clothes, while the princess read to them, six municipal guards
marched into the room and tore the child from his agonized mother.
They conveyed him to that part of the Tower which had formerly been
occupied by his father, where the "tutor" of the commune was in
waiting to receive him. This was no other than a fellow called Simon,
a shoemaker, who had never lost an opportunity of publicly insulting
the king, and who, through the influence of Marat and Robespierre, had
been appointed the instructor of his son at a salary of 500 francs a
month, on condition that he was never to leave his prisoner or quit
the Tower, on any pretence whatever.
On the first night, Simon found his new pupil disposed to be
unmanageable. The dauphin sat silently on the floor in a corner, and
not all his new master's threats could induce him to answer the
questions which were put to him. Madame Simon, although a terrible
virago, was likewise unsuccessful; and for two days the prince mourned
for his mother, and refused to taste food, only demanding to see the
law which separated him from her and kept them in prison. At the end
of the second day he found that he could not persist in exercising his
own will, and went to bed. In the morning his new master cried in his
elation, "Ha, ha! little Capet, I shall have to teach you to sing the
'Carmagole,' and to cry '_Vive la République!_' Ah! you are dumb, are
you?" and so from hour to hour he sneered at the miserable child.
On one occasion, in the early days of his rule, Simon made his pupil
the present of a Jew's harp, at the same time saying, "Your she-wolf
of a mother plays on the piano, and you must learn to accompany her on
the Jew's harp!" The dauphin steadily refused to touch the instrument;
whereupon the new tutor, in a passion, flew upon him and beat him
severely. Still he was not cowed, although the blows were the first
which he had ever received, but bravely answered, "You may punish me
if I don't obey you; but you ought not to beat me--you are stronger
than I." "I am here to command you, animal! my duty is just what I
please to do; and '_vive la Liberté, l'Egalité_.'" By-and-by personal
suffering and violence had become only too common occurrences of his
daily life.
About a week after the dauphin was transferred from the little tower,
a rumour spread through Paris that the son of Louis XVI. had been
carried off from the Temple Tower, and crowds of the sovereign people
flocked to the spot to satisfy themselves of its truth. The guard, who
had not seen the boy since he had been taken from his mother's care,
replied that he was no longer in the Tower; "_and from that time the
popular falsehood gained ground and strength continually_." In order
to quiet the public apprehension, a deputation from the Committee of
Public Safety visited Simon, and ordered him to bring down "the
tyrant's son," so that the incoming guard might see him for
themselves. They then proceeded to cross-question Simon as to the
manner in which he discharged his duties. When that worthy had
satisfied them as to his past treatment, he demanded decisive
instructions for his future guidance.
"Citizens, what do you decide about the wolf-cub? He has been taught
to be insolent, but I shall know how to tame him. So much the worse if
he sinks under it! I don't answer for that. After all, what do you
want done with him? Do you want him transported?"
"No."
"Killed?"
"No."
"Poisoned?"
"No."
"But what then?"
"We want to get rid of him!"
The guard saw him and questioned him, and some of them even
sympathized with him and tried to comfort him; but Simon came and
dragged him away with a rough "Come, come, Capet, or I'll show the
citizens how I _work_ you when you deserve it!"
When the commissaries returned to the Convention they were able to
announce that the report which had stirred up the populace was false,
and that they had seen Capet's son. From this time forward Simon
redoubled his harshness; beat the boy daily; removed his books and
converted them into pipe-lights; cut off his hair, and made him wear
the red Jacobin cap; dressed him in a scarlet livery, and compelled
him to clean his own and his wife's shoes, and to give them the most
abject obedience. At last the boy's spirit was thoroughly broken, and
Simon not only did as he had said, and forced his victim to sing the
"Carmagnole," and shout "_Vive la République!_" but made him drunk
upon bad wine, and when his mind was confused forced him to sing lewd
and regicide songs, and even to subscribe his name to foul slanders
against his mother.
It might be supposed that the Convention was thoroughly satisfied with
its worthy subordinate who had done his peculiar work so effectively,
but he was considered too costly, and was ousted from his post. It was
resolved that the expenses of the children of Louis Capet should be
reduced to what was necessary for the food and maintenance of two
persons, and four members of the Council-General of the Commune agreed
to superintend the prisoners of the Temple. A new arrangement was
made, and a novel system of torture was inaugurated by Hébert and
Chaumette, two of the most infamous wretches whom the Revolution
raised into temporary notoriety. The wretched boy was confined in a
back-room which had no window or connection with the outside except
through another apartment. His historian describes it vividly--"The
door of communication between the ante-room and this room was cut down
so as to leave it breast high, fastened with nails and screws, and
grated from top to bottom with bars of iron. Half way up was placed a
shelf on which the bars opened, forming a sort of wicket, closed by
other moveable bars, and fastened by an enormous padlock. By this
wicket his coarse food was passed in to little Capet, and it was on
this ledge that he had to put whatever he wanted to send away.
Although small, his compartment was yet large enough for a tomb. What
had he to complain of? He had a room to walk in, a bed to lie upon; he
had bread and water, and linen and clothes! But he had neither fire
nor candle. His room was warmed only by a stove-pipe, and lighted only
by the gleam of a lamp suspended opposite the grating." Into this
horrible place he was pushed on the anniversary of his father's death.
The victim did not even see the parsimonious hand which passed his
food to him, nor the careless hand that sometimes left him without a
fire in very cold weather, and sometimes, by plying the stove with too
much fuel, converted his prison into a furnace.
This horrible place he was expected to keep clean, but his strength
was unequal to the task, and he was glad to crawl to his bed when
ordered by his guards, who refused to give him a light. Even there he
was not allowed to rest in peace, and often the commissaries appointed
to relieve those on duty would often noisily arouse him from his
pleasant dreams by rattling at his wicket, crying, "Capet, Capet, are
you asleep? Where are you? Young viper, get up!" And the little
startled form would creep from the bed and crawl to the wicket; while
the faint gentle voice would answer, "I am here, citizens, what do you
want with me?" "To see you," would be the surly reply of the watch for
the night. "All right. Get to bed. In!--Down!" And this performance
would be repeated several times before morning. It would have killed a
strong man in a short time. How long could a child stand it?
Days and weeks and months did pass, and as they passed brought
increasing langour, and weakness, and illness. The want of fresh air,
the abandonment and the solitude, had all had their effect, and the
unfortunate dauphin could scarcely lift the heavy earthenware platter
which contained his food, or the heavier jar in which his water was
brought. He soon left off sweeping his room, and never tried to move
the palliasse off his bed. He could not change his filthy sheets, and
his blanket was worn into tatters. He wore his ragged jacket and
trousers--Simon's legacy--both day and night, and although he felt all
this misery he could not cry. Loathsome creatures crawled in his den
and over his person until even the little scullion who attended him
shuddered with horror as he glanced into the place and muttered,
"Everything is _alive_ in that room." "Yes," says Beauchesne,
"everything was alive except the boy they were killing by inches, and
murdering in detail. This beautiful child, so admired at Versailles
and at the Tuileries, would not recognise himself, his form is
scarcely human--it is something that vegetates--a moving mass of bones
and skin. Never could any state of misery have been conceived more
desolate, more lonely, more threatening than this!... And all that I
here relate is true! These troubles, insults, and torments were heaped
on the head of a child. I show them to you, like indeed to what they
were, but far short of the reality. Cowardly and cruel men, why did
you stop in your frenzy of murder? It would have been better to drink
that last drop of royal blood, than to mingle it with gall and venom
and poison; it would have been better to smother the child, as was
done by the emissaries of Richard III. in the Tower of London, than to
degrade and sully his intellect by that slow method of assassination
which killed the mind before it slew the body. He should have been
struck a year or two before; his little feet should have been aided to
mount the rude steps of the guillotine! Ah, if she could have known
the fate you were reserving for him, the daughter of Maria-Theresa
would have asked to take her child in her arms: she would have shared
her very last victory with him; and the angels would have prepared at
once the crown of the martyred and that of the innocent victim! Alas,
history is fain to regret for Louis XVII. the scaffold of his mother!"
But the end of the torture was very near. Robespierre fell, and Simon,
the Barbarous, accompanied him in the same tumbril to the guillotine,
and shared his fate. Barras, the new dictator, made it almost his
first care to visit the Temple; and, from what his colleagues and
himself saw there, they came to the conclusion that some more
judicious control was needed than that of the rough guards who had
charge of the royal children--that a permanent agent must be appointed
to watch the watchers. Accordingly, without consulting him, they
delegated the citizen Laurent to take charge of the dauphin and his
sister. Laurent was a humane man, and accepted the appointment
willingly. Indeed he dared not have refused it; but, in common with
the rest of the public, he had heard that the boy was miserably ill
and was totally uncared for, and seems to have had a notion that he
could better his condition.
He arrived at the Temple in the evening; but, having no idea of the
real state of the child, he did not visit his little prisoner until
the guard was changed at two o'clock in the morning. When he arrived
at the entrance-door, the foul smell emanating therefrom almost drove
him back. But he was forced to overcome his repugnance; for when the
municipals battered at the little wicket, and shouted for Capet, no
Capet responded. At last, after having been frequently called, a
feeble voice answered "Yes;" but there was no motion on the part of
the speaker. No amount of threatening could induce the occupant of the
bed to leave it, and Laurent was compelled to accept his new charge in
this way, knowing that he was safe somewhere in that dark and
abominable hole. Early next morning he was at the wicket again, and
saw a sight which caused him to send an immediate request to his
superiors to come and visit their captive. Two days later several
members of the Committee of General Safety repaired to the Temple, the
barrier and the wicket were torn down, and "in a dark room, from which
exhaled an odour of corruption and death, on a dirty unmade bed,
barely covered with a filthy cloth and a ragged pair of trousers, a
child of nine years old was lying motionless, his back bent, his face
wan and wasted with misery, and his features exhibiting an expression
of mournful apathy and rigid unintelligence. His head and neck were
fretted by purulent sores, his legs and arms were lengthened
disproportionately, his knees and wrists were covered with blue and
yellow swellings, his feet and hands unlike in appearance to human
flesh, and armed with nails of an immense length; his beautiful fair
hair was stuck to his head by an inveterate scurvy like pitch; and his
body, and the rags which covered him, were alive with vermin."
Mentally he was almost an imbecile; and in answer to all the questions
which were put to him, he only said once, "I wish to die." And this
was the son of Louis XVI., and the nearest heir to the throne of
France!
The commissaries having given some trifling directions, went their way
to concoct a report, leaving Laurent with very indefinite
instructions. But all the human feelings of the man were roused. He
sent at once for another bed, and bathed the child's wounds. He got an
old woman to cut his hair, and comb it out, and wash him, and
persuaded one of the municipals, who had been a kind of doctor, to
prescribe for the sores, and managed to persuade his superiors to send
a tailor, who made a suit of good clothes for the dauphin. At first
the boy had some difficulty in understanding the change, but as it
dawned upon him he was very grateful. Nor did Laurent's good work stop
here. Although the Revolution was less bloody than before, it was
still very jealous; and the keeper of the Temple was not permitted to
see his prisoner, except at meal times and rare intervals. Still he
contrived to obtain permission to carry him to the top of the Tower,
on the plea that fresh air was essential to his health, and tended him
so assiduously, that while the prisoner was partially restored, and
could walk about, the strength of his custodier broke down.
Under these circumstances he applied for an assistant, and citizen
Gomin was appointed to the duty. Citizen Gomin, the son of a
well-to-do upholsterer, had no desire to leave his father's shop to
become an under-jailer at the Temple; but his remonstrances were
silenced by the emissaries of the committee, and he was carried off at
once from his bench and his counter in a carriage which was waiting.
He was a kindly fellow, but prudent withal, and was so horrified when
he saw the condition of his charge, that he would have resigned if he
had not been afraid that by so doing he would become a suspect. As it
was he did his best to help Laurent, and by a happy thought, and with
the connivance of a good-hearted municipal, brought into the invalid's
room four little pots of flowers in full bloom. The sight of the
flowers and the undisguised mark of sympathy and affection did what
all previous kindness had failed to do--unlocked the fountains of a
long-sealed heart--and the child burst into tears. From that moment he
recognised Gomin as his friend, but days elapsed before he spoke to
him. When he did, his first remark was--"It was you who gave me some
flowers: I have not forgotten it."
Gomin and Laurent by-and-by came to be great favourites; but the
latter was compelled to resign his post through the urgency of his
private affairs, and he was replaced by a house-painter called Lasné,
who, like Gomin, was forced to abandon his own business at a moment's
notice. He proved equally good-natured with the other two, and like
them succeeded in gaining the friendship of the dauphin. As far as he
could, he lightened his captivity and tended him with the utmost care.
But no amount of kindliness could bring back strength to the wasted
frame, or even restore hope to the careful attendants. They sang to
him, talked with him, and gave him toys; but it was all in vain. In
the month of May, 1705, they became really alarmed, and informed the
government that the little Capet was dangerously ill. No attention
was paid to their report, and they wrote again, expressing a fear that
he would not live. After a delay of three days a physician came. He
considered him as attacked with the same scrofulous disorder of which
his brother had died at Meudon, and proposed his immediate removal to
the country. This idea was, of course, regarded as preposterous. He
was, however, transferred to a more airy room; but the change had no
permanent effect. Lasné and Gomin did all they could for him, carrying
him about in their arms, and nursing him day and night; but he
continued gradually to sink.
On the morning of the 8th of June a bulletin was issued announcing
that the life of the captive was in danger. Poor patient Gomin was by
his bedside, on the watch in more senses than one, and expressed his
profound sorrow to see him suffer so much. "Take comfort," said the
child, "I shall not always suffer so much." Then, says Beauchesne,
"Gomin knelt down that he might be nearer to him. The child took his
hand and pressed it to his lips. The pious heart of Gomin prompted an
ardent prayer--one of those prayers that misery wrings from man and
love sends up to God. The child did not let go the faithful hand that
still remained to him, and raised his eyes to Heaven while Gomin
prayed for him." A few hours later, when Lasné had relieved his
subordinate, and was sitting beside the bed, the prince said that he
heard music, and added, "Do you think my sister could have heard the
music? How much good it would have done her!" Lasné could not speak.
All at once the child's eye brightened, and he exclaimed, "I have
something to tell you!" Lasné took his hand, and bent over the bed to
listen. The little head fell on his bosom; but the last words had been
spoken, and the descendant and heir of sixty-five kings was dead. The
date was the 8th of June, 1795; and the little prisoner, who had
escaped at last, was just ten years, two months, and twelve days old.
Lasné at once acquainted Gomin and Damont, the commissary on duty,
with the event, and they instantly repaired to the room. The poor
little royal corpse was carried from the apartment where he died into
that where he had suffered so long, the remains were laid out on the
bed, and the doors were thrown open. Gomin then repaired to the
offices of the Committee of Safety, and announced the decease of his
charge. He saw one of the members, who told him that the sitting was
ended, and advised the concealment of the fact till the following
morning. This was done. The same evening supper was prepared at eight
o'clock for "the little Capet," and Gomin pretended to take it to his
room. He left it outside, and entered the chamber of death. Many years
afterwards he described his feelings to M. Beauchesne--"I timidly
raised the covering and gazed upon him. The lines which pain had drawn
on his forehead and on his cheeks had disappeared.... His eyes, which
suffering had half-closed, were open now, and shone as pure as the
blue heaven. His beautiful fair hair, which had not been cut for two
months, fell like a frame round his face, which I had never seen so
calm."
At eight o'clock next morning four members of the committee came to
the Tower to assure themselves that the prince really was dead. They
were satisfied and withdrew. As they went out some of the officers of
the Temple guard asked to see "the little Capet" whom they had known
at the Tuileries, and were admitted. They recognised the body at once,
and twenty of them signed an attestation to that effect. Four surgeons
arrived while the soldiers were in the room, and had to wait until it
could be cleared before they could begin the autopsy which they had
been sent to perform. By this time also everyone outside the Temple
had learned the event, except his sister, who was confined in another
part of the Tower; and the good-hearted Gomin could not muster up
courage to tell her.
On the evening of the 10th of June the coffin which contained the body
was carried out at the great gate, escorted by a small detachment of
troops, and the crowd which had collected was kept back by gens
d'armes. Lasné was among the mourners, and witnessed the interment,
which took place in the cemetery of Sainte-Marguerite. As the
soldier-guarded coffin passed along, the people asked whose body it
contained, and were answered 'little Capet;' and the more popular
title of dauphin spread from lip to lip with expressions of pity and
compassion, and a few children of the common people, in rags, took off
their caps, in token of respect and sympathy, before this coffin that
contained a child who had died poorer than they themselves were to
live.
The procession entered by the old gate of the cemetery, and the
interment took place in the corner on the left, at a distance of eight
or nine feet from the enclosure wall, and at an equal distance from a
small house. The grave was filled up--no mound was raised, but the
ground was carefully levelled, so that no trace of the interment
should remain. All was over.
This is the story of M. Beauchesne, and there seems to be little
reason to doubt its truth in any essential particular. He writes with
much feeling, but he does not permit his sentiments to overcome his
reason, and has verified the truthfulness of his statements before
giving them to the public. His book is the result of twenty years'
labour and research, and he freely reproduces his authorities for the
inspection and judgment of his readers. He was personally acquainted
with Lasné and Gomin, the two last keepers of the Tower, and the
government aided him if it did not patronise him in his work.
Certificates, reports, and proclamations are all proved, and
lithographs of them are given. The book is a monument of patient
research as well as of love, and the mass of readers will find no
difficulty in believing that it embodies the truth, or that Louis
XVII. really died in the Temple on the 8th of June 1795.
* * * * *
But in a land such as France, it is not remarkable that the utmost
should have been made of the mystery which surrounded the fate of the
youthful dauphin, or that pretenders should have endeavoured to
personate the son of Louis XVI. The first of these was a lad called
Jean Marie Hervagault, a young scamp, who was a native of St. Lo, a
little village in the department of La Manche, and who resided there
during his early youth with his father, who was a tailor. This
precocious youth, who was gifted with good looks, and who undoubtedly
bore some resemblance to the deceased prince, ran away from home in
1796, and, by his plausible manners and innocent expression, succeeded
in ingratiating himself with several royalist families of distinction,
who believed his story that he was the son of a proscribed nobleman.
His good luck was so great that he was induced to visit Cherbourg, and
tempt his fortune among the concealed adherents of the monarchy who
were resident there; but he was quickly detected, and was thrown into
prison.
His father, learning his whereabouts, repaired to the jail, and
implored his prodigal son to return to the needle and the shop-board
at St. Lo, but his entreaties were unavailing, and the would-be
aristocrat plainly announced his intention of wearing fine clothes
instead of making them. Accordingly, when he was released, he assumed
feminine attire, had recourse to prominent royalists to supply his
wants, and explained his disguise by mysterious allusions to political
motives, and to his own relationship to the Bourbons. The officers of
the law again laid hands on him, and threw him into prison at Bayeux,
and his father had once more to free him from custody. Still his soul
revolted at honest industry; and, although he condescended to return
to St. Lo, the shears and the goose remained unknown to him, and he
made his stay under the paternal roof as brief as possible.
One morning in October, 1797, the honest old tailor awoke to find that
his ambitious son was missing for the third time, and heard no more of
him until he learnt that he was in prison at Châlons. He had contrived
to reach that town in his usual fashion, and when he found himself in
his customary quarters, and his further progress impeded, he informed
some of his fellow-prisoners, in confidence, that he was the dauphin
of the Temple, and the brother of the princess. They, of course,
whispered the wondrous secret to the warders, who in turn conveyed it
to their friends, and the news spread like wildfire. The whole town
"was moved, and the first impulse was to communicate to Madame Royale"
the joyful intelligence that her brother still lived. Crowds flocked
to see the interesting prisoner and to do him homage, and the
turnkeys, anxious to err on the safe side, relaxed their rules, and
permitted him to receive the congratulations of enthusiastic crowds,
who were anxious to kiss his hand and to avow their attachment to
himself and his cause.
The authorities were less easily moved, and sentenced the sham dauphin
to a month's imprisonment as a rogue and vagabond, and, moreover, took
good care that he suffered the penalty. On his release he was loaded
with gifts by his still faithful friends, and went on his way
rejoicing, until at Vere he had the misfortune to be captured by the
police, and was sentenced to two years' imprisonment for swindling.
The royalists of Châlons, however, remained true to him, and when his
captivity was ended he was carried to the house of a Madame Seignes,
where he held a mimic court, and graciously received those who flocked
to do him honour. But the attentions of the police having become
pressing, he was compelled to move secretly from place to place, until
he found a temporary home in the house of a M. de Rambercourt, at
Vetry. Here he first told the full story of his adventures to a
wondering but believing audience. He glibly narrated the events which
took place in the Temple up to the removal of the miscreant Simon from
his post; but this part of the tale possessed little attraction, for
the cruelties of the shoemaker-tutor were well known; but the sequel
was of absorbing interest.
He said that after the fall of Robespierre and his myrmidons, he
received much more lenient treatment, and was permitted to see his
sister daily, to play with her, and to take his meals in her company.
Still his health did not improve, and the compassion of his nurse
having been excited, she informed his friends without of his
condition, and it was resolved to effect his release. An arrangement
was made, and the real dauphin was placed in the midst of a bundle of
foul linen, and was then carried past the unsuspecting guards, while
a child who had been purchased for the occasion from his unnatural
parents was substituted in his place. The laundress' cart containing
the prince was driven to Passy, and there three individuals received
him, and were so certain of his identity that they at once fell on
their knees and did him homage. From their care he was transferred to
Belleville, the head-quarters of the Vendéan army, where with strange
inconsistency he was compelled to observe an incognito! Here he passed
two months disguised as a lady; and, although known to the chiefs,
concealed from the loyal army.
Meantime the poor child who had been foisted upon the republicans was
drugged and died, and Dessault, his medical attendant, died also--the
suspicion being that both were poisoned. This miserable child, who had
thus paid the death penalty for his king was none other, the pretender
said, than the son of a rascally tailor, named Hervagault, who lived
at St. Lo!
He further stated that, while the royalist cause was wavering,
instructions arrived from some mysterious source to send him to
England to secure his safety, and that thither he was despatched. The
Count d'Artois, he admitted, refused to acknowledge him as his nephew;
but simple George III. was more easily imposed upon, and received the
_pseudo_-dauphin with much kindness, and after encouraging him to be
of good cheer, despatched him in an English man-of-war to Ostia. At
Rome he had an interview with the Pope, and presented to him a
confidential letter which had been given to him by the English
monarch. Moreover, the pontiff prophesied the future greatness of his
illustrious visitor; and, in order to confirm his identity, stamped
two stigmata on his limbs with a red-hot iron--one on the right leg,
representing the royal shield of France, with the initial letter of
his name; and the other, on his left arm, with the inscription of
"_Vive le roi_!"
Embarking at Leghorn, he landed in Spain, and without staying to pay
his respects to the king at Madrid hurried on to Portugal, where he
fell in love with the Princess Benedectine. This damsel, who was fair
as a _houri_, had, he declared, returned his affection, and the Queen
of Portugal had favoured his addresses; but as his friends were about
to get up a revolution (that of the 18th Fructidor) on his behalf, he
was compelled to leave his betrothed and hurry back to France. The
pro-royalist movement having failed, he was forced to conceal himself,
and to save himself by a second flight to England. But robbers, as
well as soldiers, barred his way, and, after being stripped by a troop
of bandits, he at last succeeded in reaching Châlons and his most
attentive audience.
As it was known to those present that he had been imprisoned in
Châlons as a rogue, and had condescended subsequently to accept the
hospitality of the tailor of St. Lo, it was necessary to give some
slight explanation of circumstances which were so untoward. But his
ingenuity was not at fault, and the audacity of his story even helped
to satisfy his dupes. He admitted that when he was examined before the
authorities he had acknowledged Hervagault as his father; but he
declared that he had done so simply to escape from the rage of his
enemies, who were anxious to destroy him; and he considered that the
tailor, who had accepted royalist gold in exchange for a son, was both
bound to protect and recognise him.
There was no doubting. Those who listened were convinced. The king had
come to take his own again; and Louis XVII. was the hero of the hour.
Royalist vied with royalist in doing him service, and the ladies, who
loved him for his beauty, pitied him for his misfortunes, and admired
him for his devotion to the Princess Benedectine, were the foremost in
endeavouring to restore him to his rights. Like devout Frenchwomen
their first thought was to procure for him the recognition of the
church, and they persuaded the curé of Somepuis to invite their
protégé to dinner. The village priest gladly did so, inasmuch as the
banquet was paid for by other folks than himself; but, being a jovial
ecclesiastic, he failed to perceive the true dignity of this
descendant of St. Louis, and even went so far as to jest with the royal
participant of his hospitality, somewhat rudely remarking that "the
prince had but a poor appetite, considering that he belonged to a
house whose members were celebrated as _bons vivants_!" The dauphin
was insulted, the ladies were vexed, and the curé was so intensely
amused that he burst into an explosive fit of laughter. The dinner
came to an untimely conclusion, and the branded of the Pope retired
wrathfully.
But Fouché heard of these occurrences! The great minister of police
was little likely to allow an adventurer to wander about the provinces
without a passport, declaring himself the son of Louis XVI. By his
instructions the pretender was arrested, but even when in the hands of
the police lost none of his audacity. He assumed the airs of royalty,
and assured his disconsolate friends that the time would speedily come
when his wrongs would be righted, his enemies discomfited, and his
adherents rewarded as they deserved. The martyr was even more greatly
fêted in jail than he had been when at liberty. The prison regulations
were relaxed to the utmost in his favour by dubious officials, who
feared to incur the vengeance of the coming king; banquets were held
in the apartments of the illustrious captive; valuable presents were
laid at his feet; and a petty court was established within the walls
of the prison.
But again the dread Fouché interposed; and although Bonaparte, then
consul, would not allow the sham dauphin to be treated as a political
offender, the chief of police had him put upon trial as a common
impostor. Madame Seignes was at the same time indicted as an
accomplice, she having been the first who publicly acknowledged her
conviction that Hervagault was the dauphin of the Temple. The trial
came on before the Tribunal of Justice on the 17th of February, 1802.
After a patient hearing Hervagault was sentenced to four years'
imprisonment, while his deluded admirer was acquitted.
There was some hope in the bosoms of Hervagault's partizans that the
influence of his supposed sister, the Duchess d'Angoulême, would be
sufficient to free him from the meshes of the law, and she was
communicated with, but utterly repudiated the impostor. Meantime
appeals were lodged against the sentence on both sides--by the
prosecuting counsel, because of the acquittal of Madame Seignes, and
by the friends of the prisoner against his conviction. A new trial was
therefore appointed to take place at Rheims.
In the interval a new and powerful friend arose for the captive in
Charles Lafond de Savines, the ex-bishop of Viviers. This ecclesiastic
had been one of the earliest advocates of the revolution; but, on
discovering its utter godlessness, had withdrawn from it in disgust,
and had retired into private life. In his seclusion the news reached
him that the dauphin was still alive, and was resolved to re-establish
a monarchy similar to that in England, and in which the church,
although formally connected with the state, would be allowed freedom
of thought and freedom of action within its own borders. His zeal was
excited, and he resolved to aid the unfortunate prince in so laudable
an undertaking. He was little disposed to question the identity of the
pretender, for the surgeons who had performed the autopsy at the
Temple Tower had told him that, although they had indeed opened the
body of a child, they had not recognised it, and could not undertake
to say that it was that of the dauphin. To his mind, therefore, there
appeared nothing extraordinary in the story of Hervagault, and he
resolved to aid him to the best of his ability.
Recognising the deficiencies of the presumed heir to the throne of
France, he determined to educate him as befitted his lofty rank, and
declared himself willing, if he could not obtain the liberty of the
prince, to share his captivity, and to teach him, in a dungeon, his
duty towards God and man. He also entered into a lengthy
correspondence with illustrious royalists to secure their co-operation
in his plans, and even projected a matrimonial alliance for his
illustrious protégé. Nor did he offer only one lady to the choice of
his future king. There were three young sisters of considerable beauty
at the time resident in the province of Dauphiné, and he left
Hervagault liberty to select one of the three. He assured his prince
that they were the daughters of a marquis, who was the natural son of
Louis XV., and as the grand-daughters of a king of France were in
every respect worthy of sitting by his side on his future throne. But
the prisoner's deep affection for the Princess Benedictine for a time
threatened to spoil this part of the plan, until, sacrificing his own
feelings, he consented to yield to considerations of state, and placed
himself unreservedly in the hands of his reverend adviser, who at once
set out for Dauphiné, and made formal proposals on behalf of
Hervagault on the 25th of August, 1802, the anniversary of the
festival of St. Louis.
But justice would not wait for Hymen; and while the fortunate young
ladies were still undecided as to which of them should reign as Queen
of France, the trial came on at Rheims. Crowds flocked to the town,
prepared to give their prince an ovation on his acquittal; but the law
was very stern and uncompromising. The conviction of Hervagault was
affirmed; and, moreover, the acquittal of Madame Seignes was quashed,
and she was sentenced to six months' imprisonment as the accomplice of
a man who had been found guilty of using names which did not belong to
him, and of extorting money under false pretences.
But all the evidence which was led failed to convince his dupes, and
they subscribed liberally to supply him with comforts during his
confinement. The authorities at Paris had ordered him to be kept in
strict seclusion; but his jailers were not proof against the splendid
bribes which were offered to them, and the august captive held daily
court and fared sumptuously, until the government, finding that the
belief in his pretensions was spreading rapidly, ordered his removal
to Soissons, and gave imperative injunctions that he should be kept in
solitary confinement.
The infatuated ex-bishop in the meantime was wandering about the
country, endeavouring by every possible means to procure his release;
and when he heard that the _pseudo_-prince was to be transferred from
one prison to another, spent night after night wandering on the high
road, or sitting at the foot of some village cross, hoping to
intercept the prisoner on his way, and perhaps rescue him from the
gens d'armes who had him in custody. Of course, he did not succeed in
his quixotic undertaking; and when he subsequently demanded admission
to see the prince in Soissons jail, he was himself arrested and
detained until the government had decided whether to treat him as a
conspirator or a lunatic.
At Soissons, as at Vitry, Châlons, and Rheims, crowds flocked to pay
homage to the pretender, until at last Bonaparte, disgusted with the
attention which was given to this impudent impostor, caused him to be
removed to the Bicêtre, then a prison for vagabonds and suspects. The
place was thronged with the offscourings of Paris, and Hervagault
found himself in congenial quarters. Certain enjoyments were permitted
to those of the inmates who could afford to pay for them; and, as the
so-called prince had plenty of money, and spent it liberally, his
claims were as unhesitatingly recognised by his fellow-prisoners as
they had been by the royalists of the provinces. Gradually his
partizans found means to approach his person, and to procure for him
extraordinary indulgences, which were at first denied to him; but when
intelligence of this new demonstration in his favour reached the ears
of the First Consul, he at once gave orders that he should be placed
in solitary confinement, and that the ex-bishop of Viviers, who was at
large under the surveillance of the police, should be arrested and
shut up in Charenton as hopelessly mad. His instructions were fully
carried out, and the unfortunate bishop shortly afterwards ended his
days in the madhouse.
The last commands of Bonaparte had been so precise that no one dared
to disobey them, and the sham dauphin for a time disappeared from
public view. When the period of his imprisonment was at an end, he was
turned out of the Bicêtre, with an order forbidding him to remain more
than one day in Paris--a miserable vagabond dressed in the prison
garb! During his incarceration he had gained the friendship of a Jew
named Emanuel, who had given him a letter to his wife, in which he
entreated her to treat his comrade hospitably for the solitary night
which he was permitted to spend in the capital. When Hervagault
arrived at the Rue des Ecrivains, where the Jewess lodged, she was not
at home; but a pastry-cook and his wife, who had a shop close by,
invited the dejected caller to rest in their parlour until his friend
returned. The couple were simple; Hervagault's plausibility was as
great as ever, and, little by little, he told the story of his
persecution, and passed himself off as a distressed royalist. The
sympathies of the honest pastry-cook were stirred, and he not only
invited the rogue to make his house his home, but clothed him, filled
his purse, and took him to various places of public entertainment.
In return for this generous treatment, Hervagault in confidence
informed his new protector that he was none other than the prisoner of
the Temple; and that, when his throne was set up, the kindness he had
received would be remembered and recompensed a thousandfold. One
favour he did ask--money sufficient to carry him to Normandy. The
needful francs were forthcoming, and the deluded pastry-cook bade his
future sovereign a respectful adieu at the door of the diligence,
never again to behold him, or his money, or his reward.
Hervagault's next appearance was in an entirely new character. He
entered on board a man-of-war at Brest, under the name of
Louis-Charles, and distinguished himself both for good conduct and
courage. But he could not remain content with the praises which he
acquired by his bravery, and once more confided the wonderful story of
his birth and misfortunes to his shipmates, many of whom listened and
believed. But the monotony of life at sea was too great for his
sensitive nerves, and he deserted, and again took to a wandering life,
trying his fortunes, on this occasion, among the royalists of Lower
Brittany. Intelligence of his whereabouts soon reached the government,
and he was arrested and again conveyed to the Bicêtre, with the
intimation that his captivity would only terminate with his life.
By this time it was well known in France that Bonaparte's word, once
passed, would not be broken; and Hervagault, losing all hope,
abandoned himself to drunkenness and the wildest excesses. His
constitution gave way, and in a very short time he lay at the gates of
death. A priest was summoned to administer the last consolations of
religion to the dying pretender, and urged him to think on God and
confess the truth. He gazed steadily into the eyes of the confessor,
and said--"I shall not appear as a vile impostor in the eyes of the
Great Judge of the universe. Before His tribunal I shall stand,
revealed and acknowledged, the son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette
of Austria. A Bourbon, descendant of a line of kings, my portion will
be among the blessed. There I shall meet with my august and
unfortunate family, and with them I shall partake of the common
eternal rest." Two days afterwards he died, as he had lived, with a
lie on his lips.