CHARLES X. DETHRONED.
1830
Progress of the insurrection.--Night of tumult.--The "Marseillaise
Hymn."--Consternation of the court.--The royal family.--The Duchess
de Berri.--Embarrassment of the officers.--Resignation of Count de
Raoul.--The troops desert.--Tactics of General Marmont.--The struggle
continued.--Interview between General Marmont and M. Arago.--Firmness
of Marmont.--Success of the insurgents.--Capture of artillery.--Retreat
of the Royalists.--General Marmont and the king.--Consternation at
St. Cloud.--Recall of the ordinances.--Scenes of confusion.--Retreat
to Versailles.--To Rambouillet.--Abdication.--M. Barrot and the
king.--Departure for Cherbourg.--St. Maintenon.--Mournful
journey.--Parting with the Guard.--Louis seeks an asylum.--Journey
to Cherbourg.--Arrival at Cherbourg.--Embarkation.--A sad farewell.
Night came, the night of the 28th of July, 1830. The royal troops,
having really accomplished nothing of any moment in their conflict
with the insurgent people, were ordered to avail themselves of the
darkness to retreat from all the positions they had gained. Thus,
before midnight the troops, virtually defeated, sought refuge in
concentrating themselves in their fortified camp at the Carrousel. It
was with no little difficulty that some of them fought their way back
to regain the quarters which they had left.
Two parties must ever co-operate in such scenes as we are now
describing. There must be not only bold men, with arms in their
hands, to achieve, but there must be sagacious men in council to plan
and direct. During the day a sort of provisional government was
established by the insurgents, which continued in session until
midnight. The voices of the street cannon had summoned Lafayette to
Paris, and he consecrated his world-wide renown to the cause of
popular rights, for which he had fought in America, and to which he
had been ever true in Europe. M. Lafitte, the wealthiest banker in
Paris, consecrated his fortune to the cause. M. Thiers, never prone
to follow any lead but that of his own vigorous mind, though he had
united with other journalists in recommending resistance, now
objected to any resort to violence, and demanded that the resistance
should be legal only. Being outvoted by his more practical
compeers--Lafayette, Lafitte, and Mauguin--he retired in displeasure,
and, abandoning the conflict, took refuge in the country at some
distance from Paris. To his remonstrances Lafayette replied in
language which one would deem convincing to every mind:
"Legal means have been cut short by the ordinances in the _Moniteur_,
and the discharges of artillery you hear in the streets. Victory can
alone now decide the question."
There was but little sleep for any one in Paris that night. A
population of a million and a half of people, crowded in narrow
streets, was in a state of the wildest excitement. The air was filled
with rumors of the approaching forces of the monarchy. The tramp of
armed men, the rumbling of the ponderous enginery of war, the clamor
of workmen throwing up barricades, the shouts of the mob, and often,
rising above all, the soul-stirring strains of the "Marseillaise
Hymn," pealed forth from thousands of impassioned lips, together with
the darkness of the night, the flash of torches, the blaze of
bonfires, presented a spectacle sublime beyond comprehension. The
"Marseillaise Hymn" is unquestionably the most powerful composition
in the world, both in its words and its music, to rouse the populace
to a frenzy of enthusiasm. We give below a vigorous translation of
the first verse:
Ye sons of France, awake to glory!
Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears and hear their cries!
Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
While peace and liberty lie bleeding?
(_Chorus._) To arms! to arms, ye brave!
Th' avenging sword unsheath!
March on! march on! all hearts resolved
On liberty or death!
But no translation can equal the force of the original.
The king and his courtiers at St. Cloud were struck with
consternation as they received the tidings of the general and
successful revolt. The booming of the cannon in the streets of Paris
could be distinctly heard. With his spy-glass, from the heights
behind the chateau, the king could see the tri-color, the
representative of deadly hostility to his dynasty, unfurled from the
Hotel de Ville and from the towers of Notre Dame, and then from more
than twenty other prominent points in the city. At four o'clock in
the afternoon a dispatch from General Marmont informed the king of
the desperate state of affairs. The Royal Guard, composed largely of
Swiss mercenaries, had been faithful to discipline. But the troops of
the line, all Frenchmen, had in many instances refused to fire upon
the insurgents.
The fearful and unexpected crisis roused the king to action. It is
said he displayed more of coolness and energy than any of his
ministers. Orders were sent to General Marmont to concentrate his
forces as speedily as possible at the Tuileries. Agents were
dispatched to all the divisions of the Royal Guard garrisoned in the
towns in the vicinity of Paris to break camp immediately, and move
with the utmost haste to the capital. The king's eldest son, the
Duke d'Angouleme, of whom we have previously spoken as having married
his cousin, the unhappy but heroic and very noble daughter of Louis
XVI., was with his father at St. Cloud. The duchess was absent. The
widow also of the king's second son, the Duke de Berri, was at St.
Cloud with her two children, a daughter ten years old, and the little
boy, the Duke of Bordeaux (Count de Chambord), nine years of age.
These constituted the royal family.
"While Charles X. thought only of inspiring all around him with his
own fatal security, a bold scheme was concocting, almost before his
eyes, in the apartments of Madame de Gentaul. Convinced of the old
monarch's impotence to defend his dynasty, General Vincent had
resolved to save royalty without the king's co-operation, unknown to
the king, and, if necessary, despite the king. He went to Madame de
Gentaul and set forth to her that, in the existing state of things,
the fate of the monarchy depended upon a heroic resolve, and he
therefore proposed to her to take the Duchess de Berri and her son,
the Duke of Bordeaux, to Paris. He suggested that they should take
Neuilly in their way, get hold of the Duke of Orleans, and oblige
him by main force to take part in the hazard of the enterprise. They
should then enter Paris by the faubourgs, and the Duchess de Berri,
exhibiting the royal child to the people, should confide him to the
generosity of the combatants. Madame de Gentaul approved of this
scheme. In spite of its adventurous character, or rather for that
very reason, it won upon the excitable imagination of the Duchess de
Berri, and every thing was arranged for carrying it into execution.
But the infidelity of a confederate put Charles X. in possession of
the plot, and it broke down."[V]
[Footnote V: Les Dix Ans de Louis Philippe, par Louis Blanc.]
The Duke d'Angouleme, called the Dauphin, was a very respectable man,
without any distinguishing character. His wife, disciplined in the
school not merely of sorrow, but of such woes as few mortals have
ever been called to endure, had developed a character of truly heroic
mould. The Duchess de Berri was young, beautiful, and fascinating.
Her courage, enthusiasm, and love of adventure, as subsequently
displayed in the eyes of all Europe, were perhaps never surpassed.
Every generous heart will cherish emotions of regret in view of that
frailty which has consigned her name to reproach. The two children of
the Duchess de Berri were too young to comprehend the nature of the
events which were transpiring. Even while the bloody strife was in
progress, and the din of the conflict reached their ears, these two
innocent children were amusing themselves in a game in which
Mademoiselle led the rebels, and the Duke of Bordeaux at the head of
his Royal Guard repulsed them.
The cabinet ministers, under the protection of the troops, were in
permanent session at the Tuileries. Prince Polignac, a thoroughly
impractical man, who was at the head of the Government, seems not at
all to have comprehended the true state of affairs. When General
Marmont sent him word, on the evening of the 28th, that the troops of
the line were fraternizing with the people, he is reported to have
replied, with extraordinary coolness and simplicity, "Well, if the
troops have gone over to the insurgents, we must fire upon the
troops."
Many of these officers found themselves in a very painful situation,
embarrassed by the apparently conflicting claims of duty--fidelity to
their sovereign on the one hand, and fidelity to the rights of the
people on the other. Some, like General Marmont, remained faithful to
their colors, some silently abandoned their posts, but refused to
enter the ranks of the people to fight against their former comrades;
some openly passed over to the people and aided them in the struggle,
thus with certainty forfeiting their own lives should the royal
troops conquer. The following letter from Count de Raoul to Prince de
Polignac, resigning his commission, will give the reader some idea of
the embarrassments with which these honorable men were agitated:
"MONSEIGNEUR,--After a day of massacres and disasters,
entered on in defiance of all laws, divine and human, and in
which I have taken part only from respect to human
considerations, for which I reproach myself, my conscience
imperiously forbids me to serve a moment longer. I have
given, in the course of my life, proofs sufficiently
numerous of my devotion to the king, to warrant me, without
exposing my intentions to unjust suspicions, to draw a
distinction between what emanates from him and the
atrocities which are committed in his name. I have the honor
to request, monseigneur, that you will lay before the king
my resignation of my commission as captain of his guard."
In the confusion of those hours it appears that this letter did not
reach its destination. M. Polignac writes: "I never received this
letter, I would have sent it back to its author. In the moment of
danger no one's resignation is accepted."
The dismal night of the 28th passed quickly away, as both parties
summoned their mightiest energies for the death-struggle on the
morrow. The truce of a few hours, which darkness and exhaustion
compelled, was favorable to the people. I think it was Madame de
Stael who made the shrewd remark that "there is nothing so successful
as success." The real victory which the people had achieved not only
inspired the combatants with new courage, but induced thousands, who
had hesitated, to swell their ranks, and the troops of the line very
generally deserted the defense of the Government and passed over to
the people.
Early in the morning of the 29th the heroic little band of the Guard
stationed at the Tuileries--heroic in their devotion to discipline,
though unconsciously maintaining a bad cause--received a
reinforcement of fifteen hundred infantry and six hundred cavalry.
This, however, did but little more than make up for the losses in
killed and wounded of the preceding day, and as most of the troops of
the line had now gone over to the people, the cause of the Government
seemed hopeless. As General Marmont counted up his resources, he
found that he had but five thousand effective men and eight guns to
defend his position at the Tuileries. A hundred thousand combatants,
most of them well armed and disciplined, and renowned for bravery,
surrounded him. Military men who may be familiar with the localities,
either by observation or from maps, may be interested in seeing how
General Marmont disposed of his force to meet the emergency.
A Swiss battalion occupied the Carrousel. Two more Swiss battalions
were stationed in the Louvre, a fortress which could not easily be
stormed. Two battalions were placed in the Rue de Rivoli, to guard
the northern entrance to the Carrousel. Three battalions of the Guard
and a regiment of cavalry occupied the garden of the Tuileries and
the spacious Place de la Concorde, outside of the iron railing. Two
battalions of the line, who had not yet abandoned their colors, were
stationed in the Rue Castiglione, which abuts upon the garden near
its central northern entrance.
By this arrangement General Marmont, if sorely pressed, could rapidly
concentrate his whole force, either in the Carrousel or in the garden
of the Tuileries, where he could easily for some time hold an army at
bay. Should retreat be found necessary, there was open before him the
broad avenue of the Champs Elysees. The ground which the royal troops
occupied was all that remained under the control of the Government.
The whole of the remainder of Paris was in possession of the
insurgents.
It was well known that General Marmont could feel but little sympathy
in the cause which, in obedience to his oath, he felt compelled to
defend. The insurgents were now pressing the troops on every side. An
incessant fire of musketry, accompanied by loud shouts, indicated the
renewed severity with which the battle was beginning to rage. The
Provisional Government, anxious to arrest, if possible, the carnage
inevitable upon the continuance of the struggle, dispatched M. Arago,
the celebrated philosopher, who was an intimate friend of General
Marmont, to confer with him upon the subject. The philosopher was
introduced to the warrior, seated upon his horse in the middle of the
Carrousel, surrounded by his staff of officers. The following is, in
substance, the conversation which is represented as having taken
place between them. M. Arago first urged General Marmont to imitate
the troops of the line, and, with his Guard, espouse the cause of the
people, which was the cause of liberty and justice. The general
firmly and somewhat passionately replied,
"No! propose nothing to me which will dishonor me."
M. Arago then urged him to abandon a bad cause, to surrender his
command, retire to St. Cloud, and return his sword to the king, and
no longer to fight in defense of despotic measures, and against the
people, who were struggling only for their rights. The general
replied:
"You know very well whether or not I approve of those fatal and
odious ordinances. But I am a soldier. I am in the post which has
been intrusted to me. To abandon that post under the fire of
sedition, to desert my troops, to be unfaithful to my king, would be
desertion, flight, ignominy. My fate is frightful. But it is the
decree of destiny, and I must go through with it."[W]
[Footnote W: "The Duc de Raguse found himself invested with a real
military dictatorship. His situation was a cruel one. If he took part
with the insurgents, he betrayed a king who relied upon him. If he
put so many mothers in mourning, without even believing in the
justice of his cause, he committed an atrocity. If he stood aloof, he
was dishonored. Of these three lines of conduct he adopted that which
was most fatal to the people."--LOUIS BLANC].
While they were conversing, the battle was still raging at the
outposts with the clamor of shouts, musketry, and booming cannon. An
officer came, covered with dust, and bleeding from his wounds, to
urge that reinforcements should be dispatched to one of the outposts
which was hotly assailed. "I have none to send," said the general, in
tones of sadness and despair. "They must defend themselves."
These two illustrious men, in heart both in sympathy, but by the
force of circumstances placed in opposite parties, arrayed in deadly
strife, after a long and melancholy interview separated, with the
kindest feelings, each to act his part, and each alike convinced that
the Bourbon monarchy was inevitably and rapidly approaching its end.
The Provisional Government, so hastily and imperfectly organized, had
also sent a deputation to the ministers assembled in the Tuileries.
But Polignac and his associates refused them admission. The decisive
decree was then passed by the Provisional Government that the king
and his ministers were public enemies, and orders were issued to
press the royal troops on every side with the utmost vigor.
The Hotel de Ville became the head-quarters of the insurgents, and
the Provisional Government transferred itself there. The military
government of Paris was given to Lafayette. The royal troops were
speedily driven in to the vicinity of the Louvre, and the situation
of the ministers in the Tuileries became alarming. They decided that
it was necessary for them to retire to St. Cloud. Before setting out
they sent for General Marmont, that they might ascertain his means of
defense.
"You may tell the king," said General Marmont, "that, come what may,
and though the entire population of Paris should rise up against me,
I can hold this position for fifteen days without further
reinforcements. This position is impregnable."
As this statement was repeated to the king he was much cheered by it.
The monarchy was much stronger in the provinces than in Paris. The
populace of the capital could do but little outside of its walls. A
few days would give an opportunity to assemble numerous regiments of
the Guard from the various positions they occupied in the vicinity of
the metropolis. But affairs were rapidly assuming a more fatal aspect
in Paris than General Marmont had deemed possible. The whole of the
city, except the ground held by the royal troops around the
Tuileries, was in the hands of the insurgents. An impetuous band of
students from the Polytechnic School rushed upon and took every piece
of artillery in the Rue St. Honore.
The regiment placed in the Rue Castiglione, to guard the great
entrance into the garden of the Tuileries from the boulevards,
through the Rue de la Paix, opened its ranks, and the triumphant
populace, with shouts which rang through Paris, entered the
iron-railed inclosure. These disasters caused the withdrawal of a
portion of the troops who had for some time been defending the Louvre
from the colonnade opposite the Church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois,
where the insurgents were posted in great strength. Thus encouraged,
the insurgents rushed vehemently across the street, and took the
Louvre by storm. Flooding the palace like an ocean tide, they opened
a deadly fire from the inner windows upon the Swiss in the Carrousel.
These brave men, thus assailed where successful resistance was
hopeless, were thrown into a panic. With bullets whistling around
them, deafened by the roar of the battle and the shouts of infuriated
men, and seeing their comrades dropping every moment upon the
pavement dead or wounded, they fled in wild disorder through the arch
of the Tuileries into the garden, into which, from the side gate, as
we have mentioned, the insurgents were pouring.
All was lost, and, as it were, in a moment. Such are the vicissitudes
of battle. General Marmont rushed to the rear, the post of danger and
of honor in a retreat. He did every thing which skill and courage
could do to restore order, and succeeded in withdrawing his little
band into the grand avenue of the Champs Elysees, through which they
rapidly marched out of Paris, leaving the metropolis in the hands of
the insurgents. In the midst of the storm of death which swept their
retreating ranks General Marmont was the last to leave the garden of
the Tuileries. One hundred of the Swiss troops, who had been posted
in a house at the junction of the Rue de Richelieu and the Rue St.
Honore, were unfortunately left behind. They perished to a man.
Did these heroic troops do right in thus proving faithful to their
oaths, their colors, and their king? Did these heroic people do right
in thus resisting tyranny and contending for liberty at the price of
their blood? Alas for man! Let us learn a lesson of charity.
General Marmont having collected his bleeding and exhausted band in
the Bois de Boulogne, where pursuit ceased, galloped across the wood
to St. Cloud, in anguish of spirit, to announce to the king his
humiliating defeat.
[Illustration: PALACE OF ST. CLOUD.]
"Sire," said this veteran of a hundred battles, with moistened eyes
and trembling lips, "it is my painful duty to announce to your
majesty that I have not been able to maintain your authority in
Paris. The Swiss, to whom I intrusted the defense of the Louvre,
seized with a sudden panic, have abandoned that important post.
Carried away myself by the torrent of fugitives, I was unable to
rally the troops until they arrived at the arch of the Etoile, and I
have ordered them to continue their retreat to St. Cloud. A ball
directed at me has killed the horse of my aid-de-camp by my side. I
regret that it did not pass through my head. Death would be nothing
to me compared to the sad spectacle which I have witnessed."
The ministers were called in. All were struck with consternation. The
chateau of St. Cloud is but six miles from Paris. Thousands of men,
maddened, savage, ripe for any deeds of outrage, might in an hour
surround the castle and cut of all possibility of retreat. There was
no time for deliberation. As usual on such occasions, confused and
antagonistic views were hurriedly offered. M. de Ranville, who had
the evening before advised measures of compromise, was now for a
continuance of the conflict.
"The throne is overturned, we are told," said he; "the evil is great,
but I believe it is exaggerated; I can not believe that the monarchy
is to fall without a combat. Happen what may, Paris is not France.
If, however, the genius of evil is again to prove triumphant, if the
legitimate throne is again to fall, let it fall with honor; shame
alone has no future." These sentiments were strongly supported by the
Duke d'Angouleme.
The king, however, either from a constitutional want of heroism, or
from a praiseworthy desire to save France from the horrors of a
protracted civil war, refused to appeal any longer to the energies of
the sword. He hoped, however, that by dismissing the obnoxious
ministers, and revoking the ordinances, the people might be appeased.
A decree in accordance with this resolve was immediately prepared and
signed. A new ministry was also announced, consisting of very popular
men.
It is said that the Duke d'Angouleme paced the floor, quivering with
indignation, as this decree was signed, and that the discarded
ministers left the council-chamber "with tears in their eyes and
despair in their hearts." The new ordinances were hastily dispatched
to the Provisional Government at the Hotel de Ville. "It is too
late," was the reply. "The throne of Charles X. has melted away in
blood." Some few of the members, dreading the anarchy which might
follow the demolition of the throne, urged that the envoys might be
received, as it was still possible to come to an accommodation. But
their voices were drowned by cries from all parts of the hall, "It is
too late. We will have no more transactions with the Bourbons."
It would only bewilder the reader to attempt a narrative of the
scenes of desperation, recrimination, confusion, and dismay which
simultaneously ensued. M. de Montmart, whom the king had appointed in
place of Prince Polignac as the new President of the Council, a noble
of vast wealth, and one of the bravest of men, set out in his
shirt-sleeves, disguised as a peasant, hoping to gain access to the
Provisional Government, and, by his personal influence, to save the
monarchy. His mission was in vain. General Marmont, to spare the
useless shedding of blood, entered into a truce--some said a
capitulation--with the revolutionary forces. The Duke d'Angouleme, in
his rage, called the venerable marshal to his face a traitor. In
endeavoring to wrest from him his sword, the duke severely wounded
his own hand. General Marmont was put under arrest; but soon, by the
more considerate king, was released.
The king, with most of the royal family and court, retired to the
chateau of Trianon, at Versailles, four or five miles farther back in
the country. The Duke d'Angouleme was left in command of such troops
of the guard and of the line as could be collected, to act as
rear-guard at St. Cloud. But scarcely had Charles X. established
himself at Trianon ere the duke presented himself in the presence of
his father, with the disheartening intelligence that the troops
stationed at the bridge of St. Cloud to prevent the insurgents from
crossing the Seine, had refused to fire upon them. In consequence,
the revolutionary forces had taken possession of the chateau, and
were preparing to march upon Trianon.
The king had gathered around him at Trianon about twelve thousand
troops. Some of them were troops of the line. He knew not what
reliance could be placed in their fidelity. Alarm-couriers were
continually arriving with appalling tidings. Men, women, and
boys, inflamed with passion, and many delirious with brandy--on
foot, and in all sorts of vehicles--a motley throng of countless
thousands--were on the march to attack him. The king had not
forgotten the visit of the mob of Paris to his brother Louis XVI.
and family at Versailles--their captivity--their sufferings in the
dungeon and on the scaffold. Another and an immediate retreat was
decided upon to Rambouillet, a celebrated royal hunting-seat, about
thirty miles from Paris. It was midnight when the king and his
family, in the deepest dejection, under escort of the Royal Guard,
ten thousand strong, reached Rambouillet.
The Duke d'Angouleme still earnestly advocated the most determined
resistance. But the king, an old man who had already numbered his
threescore years and ten, was thoroughly disheartened. After a few
hours of troubled repose he, on the following morning, assembled his
family around him, and communicated his intention of abdicating in
favor of his grandson, the Count de Chambord. His son, the Duke
d'Angouleme, renouncing his rights as heir to the throne, assented to
this arrangement. The king announced this event in a letter to Louis
Philippe, duke of Orleans, appointing the duke lieutenant-general of
France--requesting him to proclaim the accession of the Count de
Chambord, as Henry V., to the throne, and authorizing him to act as
regent during the minority of the king.
The act of abdication--drawn up informally as a letter to the Duke of
Orleans--contained the following expressions:
"I am too deeply distressed by the evils that afflict, or
that may seem to impend over my people, not to have sought a
means to prevent them. I have, therefore, resolved to
abdicate the crown in favor of my grandson. The dauphin (the
Duke d'Angouleme), who participates in my sentiments,
likewise renounces his rights in favor of his nephew. You
will therefore have, in your quality of lieutenant-general
of the kingdom, to cause to be proclaimed the accession of
Henry V. to the crown. You will, furthermore, take all
measures that befit you to regulate the forms of the
Government during the minority of the new king.
"I renew to you, my cousin, the assurance of the sentiments
with which I am your affectionate cousin, CHARLES."
But in the mean time an army of uncounted thousands was hastily
organized in Paris to march upon Rambouillet and drive the king out
of France. This formidable array of determined men was crowded into
carriages, cabriolets, omnibuses, and vehicles of every kind, and
was pushed forward as rapidly as possible. General Pajol commanded
the expedition. General Excelmans was intrusted with the
advance-guard. This motley mass was trundled along, singing the
"Marseillaise" and other revolutionary songs, and presenting far more
the aspect of a mob than that of an army. In the position in which
the king was placed, with troops upon many of whom he could place but
little reliance, they were the more to be dreaded. Three
commissioners were sent in advance of the revolutionary troops to
demand of the king an unqualified resignation of the crown for
himself and his descendants. The king received them with calmness and
dignity.
"What do you wish with me?" he said. "I have arranged every thing
with the Duke of Orleans, my lieutenant-general of the kingdom."
M. Odillon Barrot replied, "If the king would avoid involving the
kingdom in unheard-of calamities and a useless effusion of blood, it
is indispensable that his majesty and his family should instantly
leave France. There are eighty thousand men who have issued from
Paris, ready to fall on the royal forces."
The king took Marshal Maison, another of the commissioners, aside
into the embrasure of a window, and said to him, "Marshal Maison, you
are a soldier and a man of honor. Tell me, on your word of honor, is
the army which has marched out of Paris against me really eighty
thousand strong?"
"Sire," the marshal replied, "I can not give you the number exactly;
but it is very numerous, and may amount to that force."
"Enough," said the king; "I believe you, and I consent to every thing
to spare the blood of my Guard."
Orders were immediately issued for the prompt departure of the court
for Cherbourg, there to embark for some foreign land. In a few hours
the mournful procession was in movement. The long cortege of
carriages was accompanied by several regiments of the Guard. Sad
indeed must have been the emotions of the inmates of those carriages
as they commenced their journey from the splendors of royalty to the
obscurity of exile. Slowly this funereal procession of departed power
was seen winding its way through the distant provinces of the realm,
to find in foreign lands a refuge and a grave.
The first night they stopped at Maintenon, where the illustrious
family of Noailles received the royal fugitives with sympathy and
generous hospitality, in one of the most ancient and splendid
country-seats of the kingdom. Here, the next morning, the king took
leave of the greater part of his Guard. He reserved for his escort
but a few hundred select troops, with six pieces of cannon. General
Marmont, in whom the king reposed implicit trust, was placed in
command of this little band, which was to guard the illustrious
refugees to the coast.
The parting of the King from that large portion of the Guard from
whom he here separated presented a touching spectacle. Loyalty with
these soldiers was a religious principle. In these hours of disaster,
whatever might have been the faults of their fallen sovereign, they
forgot them all. They were drawn up in military array along the noble
avenue of the park. As the royal cortege passed between them they
presented arms, silent in their grief, while many of these hardy
veterans were in tears. The king himself was for the moment quite
unmanned, and, bowing his head, sobbed aloud.
Twelve days were occupied in the slow journey to Cherbourg. It was
deemed necessary to avoid all the large towns, and to take
unfrequented paths, that they might not be arrested in their progress
by any popular uprising. Before reaching Cherbourg the king had the
mortification of hearing that the Orleans throne had been reared upon
the ruins of the Bourbon throne. During the whole of this sad journey
General Marmont, whose life had been so full of adventure and
vicissitude, rode on horseback by the side of the carriage of the
king. Many of the most illustrious noblemen and most distinguished
ladies of France, faithful to their principles and their king in the
hour of misfortune, added by their presence to the mournful pageantry
of the cavalcade. The peasants even were awed by this spectacle of
fallen grandeur. Though they gathered in crowds around the carriages
in the villages through which they passed the night, no word of
insult was offered. In silence they gazed upon the scene, and not
unfrequently tears were seen to moisten eyes quite unused to weep.
[Illustration: CHARLES X. AT VALOGNES.]
When the cavalcade reached Valognes, a few miles from Cherbourg, as
all danger was passed, the king decided to dismiss the remainder
of the Guard. Gathering around him the officers, and six of the
oldest soldiers of each company composing his escort, he received
from them the royal banners of the elder house of Bourbon, which
could no longer be unfurled in France. The Duke and the Duchess
d'Angouleme, and the Duchess de Berri, with her daughter, and her
son, the Duke of Bordeaux, stood by his side. With a trembling voice,
which was finally broken by sobs, the king said:
"I receive these standards, and this child" (pointing to the Duke of
Bordeaux) "will one day restore them to you. The names of each of
you, inscribed on your muster-rolls, and preserved by my grandson,
will remain registered in the archives of the royal family, to attest
forever my misfortunes, and the consolation I have received from your
fidelity."
This was one of time's tragedies--the dethronement of a dynasty.
There are but few who will not, in some degree, appreciate the
sublimity of the scene. All present were in tears, and loud sobs were
heard. The king and his family then laid aside all the insignia of
royalty, and assumed the dress more appropriate to exiles. The king
also wrote to the King of England and to the Emperor of Austria,
announcing his dethronement, and soliciting an asylum in each of
their realms.
It would seem, however, that Charles X., who twice before had been
driven into exile, did by no means relinquish the idea of regaining
the crown for his family. In taking leave of Prince Polignac, who
more than any one else was responsible for the obnoxious ordinances,
he said:
"I recollect only your courage. I do not impute to you our
misfortunes. Our cause was that of God, of the throne, and of the
people. Providence often proves its servants by suffering, and
defeats the best designs for reasons superior to what our limited
faculties can discern. But it never deceives upright consciences.
Nothing is yet lost for our house. I go to combat with one hand, and
to negotiate with the other. Retire behind the Loire, where you will
find an asylum from the vengeance of the people in the midst of my
army, which has orders to assemble at Chartres."
"Charles X.," writes Louis Blanc, "was tranquil. The aspect of the
dauphine in tears, of his woe-begone courtiers, and of the two
children of the Duchess de Berri, who, in their ignorance, found
amusement in the novelty of every thing about them--to all this he
was insensible, or at least resigned. But the sight of a bit of
tri-colored ribbon, or a slight neglect of etiquette, was enough to
excite his petulance. It was necessary, in the small town of L'Aigle,
to have a square table made, according to court usage, for the dinner
of a monarch who was losing an empire. Thus he showed, combined in
his person, that excess of grandeur and of littleness which is
acquired from the practice of royalty."
The journey to Cherbourg was sad and solemn. The two princesses, the
Duchess d'Angouleme and the Duchess de Berri, walked when the weather
was fine. Their dress was very much neglected, because their
attendants had not been able to bring away linen or clothes. A grave
and pensive expression sat on the faces of the beholders wherever the
cortege passed. Some officers presented themselves on the road,
bowing in homage to expiring royalty. "Gentlemen," said the king,
"keep those worthy sentiments for that child, who alone can save you
all;" and he pointed to the little flaxen-haired head of the Duke of
Bordeaux, at the window of a carriage following his own.
When the melancholy cortege, consisting of a long train of carriages,
reached the cliffs of Cherbourg, they beheld the ocean spread out in
its apparently illimitable expanse before them. Here they halted. For
a moment dismay filled their hearts; for the advance couriers came
galloping back with the tidings that a numerous band of armed
insurgents, a tumultuous mob, with shoutings like the roarings of the
sea, were advancing to assail the royal party. The king and his son,
the Duke d'Angouleme, hastily stepped from their carriages, and,
mounting horses, reached Cherbourg in safety. The ladies and children
were not molested save from the fright which they experienced.
An immense crowd thronged the streets of Cherbourg, raising
revolutionary cries, while the tri-color flags seemed to float from
every window. The port is separated from the town by a strong,
circular iron railing. The marine gate-way was guarded by some
grenadiers, who closed it as soon as the royal carriages, with the
small accompanying guard, had entered. Within this inclosure no
tri-color flag was seen, no word of reproach was uttered.
Thousands crowded to the railing, eagerly looking through the bars
upon the tragedy which was transpiring. The royal party alighted at a
small bridge, carpeted with blue cloth. The dauphine, who had passed
through so many scenes of woe, nearly fainted as with trembling steps
she entered the ship which was to bear her again to exile, and an
exile from which death alone could release her. The Duchess de Berri
assumed an air of indignation and defiance, characteristic of her
Neapolitan blood. The little Duke of Bordeaux, now called the Count
de Chambord, in behalf of whom Charles X. had abdicated, and who was
consequently now regarded by all the court party as their lawful
sovereign, was carried in the arms of M. de Dumas, who was very
apprehensive lest the bullet of some assassin might pierce him. The
king sufficiently controlled his feelings to appear calm as ever.
The deposed monarch and his despairing household stood upon the deck
of the vessel as it was towed by a steamer out of the harbor. As the
sails were unfurled, and filled with a favoring breeze, they sadly
watched the receding shores of France. There was no parting salute.
It was a funereal scene. Even the most ardent Loyalists could not
raise a cheer. A few hours' sail conveyed the silent, melancholy
court to England, and thence to Scotland, where an asylum was found
in the ancient palace of Holyrood, immortalized as the scene of the
sufferings of Mary Queen of Scots. Thus fell the throne of Charles X.