Inheriting the cool head, calm judgment, and commonsense of her father

and grandfather, she did not believe in these extravagant dreams of

universal happiness and prosperity. On the contrary, her mind was

filled with gloomy forebodings, and during a severe illness that she

had, she called her daughters round her bed and spoke to them of

her fears for the future with a sadness and earnestness only too

prophetic, and with which Pauline was more strongly impressed than her

sisters.

Adrienne especially believed implicitly in her husband, who was now

the supreme fashion amongst the Liberals, _fêted_, flattered by high

and low, and just at this time the idol of the people; a popularity

which soon gave place to hatred, and which did no good while it lasted.

For La Fayette was neither a genius, nor a great man, nor a born

leader; the gift of influencing other people was not his; he had no

lasting power over the minds of others, and as to the mob, he led them

as long as he went where they wanted to go. When he did not agree with

all their excesses they followed him no longer.

A man full of good qualities, brave, disinterested, honourable, a

good husband, father, and friend, full of enthusiastic plans and

aspirations for the regeneration of society and the improvement of

everybody, La Fayette was a failure. He did more harm than good, for,

like many other would-be popular leaders, he had gifts and capacity

enough to excite and arouse the passions of the populace, but not to

guide or control them.

He was, in fact, a visionary, credulous enthusiast, with an

overweening vanity and belief in his own importance; obstinate and

self-confident to a degree that prevented his ever seeing the fallacy

of his views. His own conceit, and the flattery and adulation of his

family and friends, made him think that he, and no other, was the man

to save and direct France. His very virtues and attractions were

mischievous in converting others to his unpractical and dangerous

views.

His Utopian government and state of society would have been all

very well if they had been attainable, but he had no knowledge or

comprehension of the instruments and materials of which they were to

be composed, no insight into character, no correctness of judgment, no

decision or promptitude in emergencies, and what he did or helped to

do was that most dangerous of proceedings, to set in motion a force he

could not control.

In spite of all their engagements, Pauline and her sisters found time

for an immense amount of charitable work of all sorts. They all took

an active part in one way or another, and Pauline even managed to make

use of the evenings she spent in society, for she collected money at

the houses to which she went to help the poor during the hard winters.

During that of 1788 she got a thousand _écus_ in this way. M. de

Beaune used to give her a _louis_ every time he won at cards, which

was, or he good-naturedly pretended to be, very often.

She and Mme. de la Fayette used also to visit the prisons, which in

those days required no little courage, owing to the squalor, cruelty,

and misery with which they were thus brought into contact.

Pauline also had something like what would now be called by us a

district at Montmartre, not far from the _rue Chantereine_, where she

lived; but she had poor pensioners all over Paris to whom she gave

food, firing, clothes, doctors, everything they wanted, and whom she

visited constantly. Old and young, good and bad, beggars, prisoners,

every sort of distress found a helper in her.

But neither her children nor her charitable and religious duties,

absorbing as they were to her, could exclude her from intense

excitement and interest in the political events going on around her.

The questions discussed were so vital, and the changes so sweeping,

that every phase of life was affected by them.

The provincial assemblies were sitting all over France in 1787-8 in

preparation for the States-General which were soon to be summoned

with such fatal results. The Duc d’Ayen was president of the assembly

of Limousin, M. de Beaune of that of Auvergne; nearly all the men of

her family sat in one or the other, and were eager for the reforms

which, if they could have been properly carried out and had satisfied

the nation, would have indeed been the beginning of a new era of

prosperity and happiness.

The abolition of _lettres de cachet_, liberty of the press, the strict

administration of justice, the equalisation of taxation, the abolition

of the oppressive privileges of the nobles; all these and others of

the kind were hailed with acclamations by the generous, enthusiastic

young nobles who imagined that they could regenerate and elevate to

their lofty ideals the fierce, ignorant, unruly populace who were

thirsting, not for reform and good government, but for plunder and

bloodshed.

Never in the world’s history was a stranger mingling of generosity

and folly, unpractical learning and brutal ignorance, misguided

talents and well-meaning stupidity, saintly goodness and diabolical

wickedness, heroic deeds and horrible crimes, than in the years

ushered in with such triumph and joy by the credulous persons so

truly described in later years by Napoleon: “Political economists

are nothing but visionaries who dream of plans of finance when they

are not fit to be schoolmasters in the smallest village.... Your

speculators trace their Utopian schemes upon paper, fools read

and believe them, every one babbles about universal happiness,

and presently the people have not bread to eat. Then comes a

revolution.... Necker was the cause of the saturnalia that devastated

France. It was he who overturned the monarchy, and brought Louis XVI.

to the scaffold.... Robespierre himself, Danton, and Marat have done

less mischief to France than M. Necker. It was he who brought about

the Revolution.”

The party who, like the more sensible and moderate reformers, wished

only for the abolition of abuses, and for such considerable reforms

in the government and laws as should give freedom and gradual

prosperity to the whole nation, without destroying or plundering one

class for the benefit of another, vainly imagined that they would

establish a constitution like that which in England had been the

growth of centuries, in a few days or weeks, amongst a people totally

different in every characteristic, quite unaccustomed to freedom,

self-government, or calm deliberation, and exasperated by generations

of tyranny.

What they wanted was a free and just government under a constitutional

king, but they failed to realise that their party was far too small

and too weak to have any chance of carrying out their plans, and that

behind them was the savage, ignorant, bloodthirsty multitude with

nothing but contempt and derision for their well-intentioned projects

of reform and law and just government, pressing onwards to the reign

of anarchy and devastation which they themselves were doing everything

to help them to attain.

The States-General were to open on May 5th, and the day before M. de

Beaune and M. de Montagu went to Versailles to be present, Pauline

remaining in Paris to nurse a sick servant.

Those who had dreaded the summoning of the States-General at a time

when the public were in so inflamed and critical a state, were soon

confirmed in their opinions by the disputes between the three orders,

and the general ferment. Disloyal demonstrations were made, the King

sent for more troops and dismissed Necker, who, like La Fayette, was

unable to quell the storm he had raised; everything was becoming more

and more alarming. Just before the fall of the Bastille, Pauline, who

was not well at the time, was sent to Bagnères again, where, after

stopping at Toulouse to see her little orphan niece Jenny de Thésan,

she arrived so dangerously ill that she thought she was going to die,

and wrote a touching letter to her sister Rosalie, desiring that her

children might be brought up by Mme. de Noailles, but commending them

to the care of all her sisters.

Her illness was of course aggravated by the accounts from Paris, and

she heard with dismay that La Fayette had been made commander of the

_garde-nationale_, which she dreaded to see him leading against the

King. He had then reached the height of his power.[77]

The Revolution had begun indeed, and was advancing at a fearful rate.

The King and Queen, seeing the danger they were all in, at this time

thought of escaping from Versailles. The Queen told Mme. de Tourzel to

make preparations quietly to start. Had they done so it might probably

have saved them all, but the King changed his mind and they stayed.[78]

The _Chasseurs de Lorraine_ and _regiment de Flandre_ having been

sent to Versailles on account of the crimes and murders daily

committed there, the _gardes-du-corps_ gave them a splendid banquet

in the _Salle de Comédie_, to which all the troops, including the

_gardes-nationales_, were invited.

The King, Queen, and Dauphin appeared, and there was an outburst of

loyalty in which the _gardes-nationales_ joined. The band struck up

_Richard o mon roi_; the ladies of the Court who had come into the

boxes tore up their handkerchiefs into white cockades, the young

officers climbed up into the boxes to get them; the evening finished

with a ball, and in a frenzy of loyalty.

Again the King let slip a golden opportunity, for he could have left

that night in perfect safety with a strong escort, and placed himself

and the royal family in safety, if only he had taken advantage of the

favourable disposition of the troops, but the chance was lost, the

demonstration infuriated and alarmed the Revolutionists, who succeeded

in corrupting part of the _regiment de Flandre_, made La Fayette head

of the National Guards, and carried the King and royal family to Paris.

Even then they had a third chance of escape, for when the announcement

of what was intended arrived, the King was out hunting, the horses

were just being put into the carriage of the Dauphin who was going out

for a drive, and if the Queen, her children, and Madame Elisabeth had

got into the carriage and joined him, they could have fled together.

But the idea did not occur to them; they waited till the King

returned, and were taken prisoners to Paris next day, escorted by La

Fayette, who, though able to protect them from personal violence, was

powerless to prevent the horrors and crimes committed by his atrocious

followers.

The King would not even try to defend himself or those belonging to

him. Narbonne Fritzlard begged him to let him have troops and guns

with which he would soon scatter the brigands, who could only pass

by Meudon and the bridges of Sèvres and St. Cloud. “Then, from the

heights I will cannonade them and pursue them with cavalry, not one

shall reach Paris again,” said the gallant soldier, who even then

would have saved the miserable King in spite of himself.[79]

But Louis refused, and when the ruffians surrounded the _château_,

forbade them to be fired on, which order, when they heard, they began

to massacre the _gardes-du-corps_, who were not allowed to defend

themselves!

In reading the history of these events one cannot help feeling that

all one’s sympathy is for Marie Antoinette and her children, but that

a King whose conduct was so despicable, who shrank from shedding the

blood of infamous traitors and murderers, while he allowed them to

massacre his faithful soldiers and friends, was not worth dying for.

When it was too late he ordered a carriage and tried to leave, but

was stopped by the _gardes-nationales_ and servants. La Fayette on

his white horse rode with the cavalcade, full of uneasiness, for he

saw that he could not control the followers with whom he had imagined

himself to be all-powerful, their crimes and cruelties were abhorrent

to him, and the fearful position of the King and royal family alarmed

and distressed him.

The royalists were just now all the more bitter against La Fayette,

as he was supposed to have been partly the cause of the death of M.

de Favras, who was engaged in a plot for the liberation of the King,

which was unfortunately discovered. The King and Queen tried in vain

to save him; he was condemned and put to death.

Mme. de Tourzel asserts that La Fayette helped to irritate the mob

against him, and that he was afraid of de Favras’ intrigues against

himself, as he was accused of plotting to murder Necker, Bailly, and

La Fayette.

Pauline recovered from her illness and returned to Paris during the

terrible days of October. Everything was changed, the streets were

unsafe to walk in, murders were frequent, bands of ruffians went about

threatening and insulting every one whom they suspected or disliked.

She fetched her two children back to the _rue Chantereine_, and

resumed her charitable expeditions, though it was dangerous to walk

about.

Society was split into opposing parties, infuriated against each

other, quarrels and reproaches took the place of the friendly

conversations and diversions of former days. It was not to be wondered

at, and her own family once so united was now divided and estranged.

M. de Beaune not only refused to receive or speak to the Vicomte de

Noailles and La Fayette, but would scarcely allow Pauline to see her

sisters, at any rate in his _hôtel_. When they were announced anywhere

he took up his hat and left the house, and the banging of doors in

the distance proclaimed his displeasure. It was worse when she was

alone with her husband and his father in the evenings. Ever since the

fall of the Bastille M. de Beaune had been anxious to emigrate with

his family, and Pauline, who shared his opinions, had the same wish.

But her husband disapproved of it, and the endless discussions and

altercations, in which M. de Beaune was irritated and violent, and his

son quiet and respectful though resolute, made her very unhappy.

Not that M. de Montagu shared the opinions of his brothers-in-law,

he saw to what they had led. But he thought as many others did and

still do, that emigration was a mistake, at any rate for the present,

that precipitation in the matter would irritate moderate men and

many who were still undecided, and drive them into the ranks of the

Revolutionists, especially if they saw the _emigrés_ preparing to

return with a foreign army to fight against their countrymen. What he

hoped for was a _rapprochement_ between the royalists and the moderate

constitutional party, who, if united, might still save both the

monarchy and the reforms. M. de Beaune laughed at the idea, and events

prove him to be right; finally, as he could not convince his son, he

set off alone.

Pauline remained at Paris with her husband, and in February they lost

their younger child, Clotilde. The morning after she died, Pauline,

who had been up with her all night, was told that Rosalie, who was

living at the _hôtel de Noailles_, had just given birth to her first

child.

She dressed, and doing all she could to remove the traces of tears,

she prepared, in spite of her husband’s remonstrances, to go to her

sister, sat with her, talked with apparent cheerfulness, but exhausted

by the effort, fell fainting to the ground, when she left her room.

FOOTNOTES:

[77] “Mémoires de Marquise de Montagu.”

[78] “Mémoires de Mme. de Tourzel.”

[79] “Mémoires de Mme. de Tourzel.”

CHAPTER VI

The Château de Plauzat—Varennes—Increasing danger—Decided to

emigrate—Triumphal progress of La Fayette—The farewell of the

Duchesse d’Ayen—Paris—Rosalie—A last mass—Escape to England.

Pauline was so ill after this that her husband took her and their

remaining child to Aix-les-Bains, and then to their _château_ of

Plauzat in Auvergne, a curious, picturesque building, part of which

dated from the twelfth or thirteenth century, which dominated the

little town of the same name, and was surrounded by the most beautiful

country.

Hearing that the peasants, still attached to them, and untouched by

revolutionary ideas, were about to receive them in the old way, with

cross and banner and the ringing of the bells, they thought it better

to arrive in the middle of the night, but the first thing in the

morning the _château_ was surrounded by the people, who were eager to

see them.

In this remote and delightful home they decided to stay for the

present, and Pauline as usual spent much of her time looking after and

helping the peasants, who followed her with their blessings as she

went about.

They also made expeditions to several other castles in the

neighbourhood, which belonged to the family, amongst others that of

Beaune and the ancient castle of Montagu.

Plauzat was a stately and comfortable, besides being a picturesque

abode, with its immense hall hung with crimson damask and family

portraits, out of which opened Pauline’s great bedroom, the walls

of which were covered with blue and white tapestry worked by M. de

Montagu’s grandmother, Laure de Fitzjames, grand-daughter of James II.

of England.

The months they spent there were the last of the old life. The vintage

went on merrily, the peasants danced before the _château_, little

Noémi played with the children, M. de Montagu rode about his farms,

meeting and consulting with other owners of neighbouring _châteaux_,

and the news from Paris grew worse and worse. The Duc d’Ayen was safe,

he had been denounced but had escaped to Switzerland, and was living

at Lausanne, where Pauline had been to see him from Aix.

The Comtes de Provence and d’Artois and their wives had got safely

over the frontier to Brussels, but the news of the flight and

capture of the King, Queen and royal family, came upon them like a

thunderbolt. Again it was probable that the fiasco was caused by Louis

XVI. Not only had he deferred the flight till it was nearly impossible

to accomplish it, but he persisted in their all going together,

instead of allowing the party to be divided; if he had consented to

which, some of them at least might have been saved. It does not seem

really at all impossible that the Dauphin might have been smuggled

out of the kingdom, but their being so many diminished fearfully their

chance of escape. Then he kept the carriage waiting for an hour or

more when every moment was precious. The whole thing was mismanaged.

The time necessary for the journey had been miscalculated. Goguelat

went round a longer way with his hussars; they ought to have been at

a certain place to meet the royal family, who, when they arrived at

the place appointed, found no one. After the arrest at Varennes a

message might have been sent to M. Bouillé, who was waiting further

on, and would have arrived in time to deliver them. Such, at any rate,

was the opinion of persons who had every opportunity of judging of

this calamitous failure.[80] Madame Elizabeth, who might have been in

security with her sister at the court of Turin, where their aunts had

safely arrived, had stayed to share the captivity and death of the

King and Queen.

Nothing could be worse or more threatening. Revolutionary orators came

down to Plauzat and soon the whole aspect of the place was changed.

Peasants who before wanted to harness themselves to draw their

carriage, now passed with their hats on singing _Ça ira_. _Châteaux_

began to be burnt in the neighbourhood, revolutionary clubs were

formed, municipalities and _gardes-nationales_ were organised, and

although the greater number of their people would not join in them;

cries of “_À la lanterne_” were heard among the hedges and vine-yards

as they walked out, from those concealed, but as yet fearing to show

themselves.

This perilous state of affairs added to a letter Pauline received from

her cousin, the Comtesse d’Escars, who had arrived at Aix-la-Chapelle,

had seen M. de Beaune there, and heard him speak with bitterness and

grief of his son’s obstinacy, which he declared was breaking his

heart, at length induced him to yield to his father’s commands and

his wife’s entreaties. He consented to emigrate, but stipulated that

they should go to England, not to Coblentz, and went to Paris to see

what arrangements he could make for that purpose. While he was away La

Fayette and his wife passed through the country, receiving an ovation

at every village through which they passed. The King had accepted the

constitution, and La Fayette had resigned the command of the National

Guard and was retiring with his family to his estates at Chavaniac,

declaring and thinking that the Revolution was at an end.

How it was possible, amidst the horrors and excesses going on

throughout the land, to have such a delusion was incredible to

Pauline; but the credulous infatuation of her husband was shared by

Adrienne, who was delighted to get away from public life into the

country, and proposed that they should stop with her sister on the way.

But Pauline knew well enough that the Vicomte de Beaune would never

tolerate the presence of La Fayette in his house, nor forgive her if

she received them there. Having explained this to her sister, she met

her secretly at a little roadside inn where she knew they would stop

to change horses.

She found La Fayette as usual very affectionate to her, very much

opposed to their emigrating, quite confident in the virtues of the

mob, who were burning, robbing, and murdering all over the country,

and whose idol he still was.

The interview was short and sad; the sisters promised to write

frequently, and parted with many tears. Adrienne proceeding on her

triumphal progress to establish herself with her husband and children

at Chavaniac, Pauline to wait in loneliness and terror at Plauzat for

the return of her husband, making preparations to escape with him and

their child at the earliest opportunity. But one unspeakable happiness

and comfort was given to Pauline before she went forth into exile. The

Duchesse d’Ayen came to stay with her for a fortnight on her way to

see Adrienne at Chavaniac.

It was a time never to be forgotten by Pauline; through all the

troubled, stormy years of her after life, the peaceful, holy

recollections of that solemn intercourse remained deeply impressed

upon her.

On those wild autumn days she would sit in the great tapestried room

working while her mother read and discoursed to her of the great

truths of religion, the power and mercy of God, and the faith and

courage which alone could support them amidst the trials and perils

gathering around them; of the sufferings and victories of the saints

and martyrs; of the swiftly passing trials and shadows of this world,

the glory and immortality of the life beyond. And Pauline hung upon

her mother’s words, for she knew that they might be the last she

would ever hear from that beloved voice, and her courage failed when

she tried to tell her of her approaching exile. Mme. d’Ayen would

every now and then address her counsels and instructions to the

little grand-daughter who adored her; and the mother and daughter

would unite their prayers amidst the rushing of the tempests or the

clamours of the Jacobin club set up close to the _château_. All around

was changed and terrible; they thought anxiously of those absent, and

looked sadly at the church where they no longer went, as the _curé_

was _assermenté_; and as the time drew near for her mother’s departure

Pauline continually resolved to tell her of her own, but she could

never bring herself to do so.

At last the day arrived; the Duchess was to start at ten o’clock.

Pauline persuaded her to stay till twelve and breakfast with her. She

forced herself to be calm, but all the morning her eyes followed her

mother about as she came and went and helped her pack, listening to

every sound of her voice, gazing as if to impress her face upon her

memory, for she had been seized with a presentiment that she should

see her no more. She pretended to eat, but could touch nothing, and

then, thankful that her mother did not know of the long separation

before them, went down to the carriage with her arm in hers. She held

up her child for a last kiss, and then stood watching the carriage as

it bore her mother out of her sight for ever in this world.

Then she fled to her own room and gave way to her grief, and to

the forebodings which filled her mind, and still hung over her like

a cloud, during the preparations and journey to Paris, where M. de

Montagu soon wrote for his wife and child to join him without delay.

On arriving at Paris she found to her great sorrow that her eldest

sister was away. Rosalie de Grammont was there but was ill and

suffering, expecting her confinement. Pauline wanted to stay with her

till it was over, but Rosalie said that emigration was becoming more

difficult and dangerous every day, that those who were going had no

time to lose, and that she would not hear of Pauline’s running any

additional risk by delaying her journey for a single day.

It was fixed, therefore, for the 8th of December; Rosalie helped her

sister with all the necessary purchases and packing, so that the

servants might not discover where she was going, and, on the morning

of the day before their parting, the two sisters went at the break

of day through the falling snow to receive the Communion at a secret

Oratory, going a long way round for fear their footprints in the snow

should betray them. The day was spent in finishing their preparations,

and after her child was in bed Pauline wrote her farewell to her

mother and eldest sister. The night was far advanced when the letters

were finished, and her eyes still bore traces of tears when, before

morning dawned, she rose and prepared to start.

Rosalie arrived, her _pelisse_ all covered with snow; the wind raged

and it was bitterly cold. Pauline gave her sister the letters for the

Duchesse d’Ayen and Vicomtesse de Noailles, neither of whom she was

ever to see again, awoke her child who was astonished to be taken up

and dressed by candle-light, and gave her to M. de Montagu, who took

her to the carriage, and then came back and, saying “Everything is

ready,” pressed the hand of his sister-in-law without any further

leave taking than if they were going into the country, as the servants

were standing about.

Mme. de Grammont wished him “_bon voyage_,” and then drew her sister

back to the fire for a few last words.

“Are you sure you have forgotten nothing? Have you got your diamonds?”

“No; what is the good? I shall not wear them. We are not going to a

_fête_.”

“My poor dear, that’s all the more reason,” said Rosalie. “Of course

you must take them.”

Pauline understood, fetched her jewel-case, hid it under her cloak,

and sending away her two maids, threw herself into her sister’s arms.

Rosalie clung to her in a passion of tears and sobs, they exchanged a

lock of their hair, and Pauline, tearing herself away, hurried to the

carriage in which her husband and child were waiting.

They reached Calais on the evening of the day following, and the same

night embarked for England.

FOOTNOTE:

[80] It appears that the catastrophe was chiefly caused by Goguelat

first miscalculating the time required for the journey, then not

keeping the appointment with his escort; and some said at Varennes he

ought to have charged through the small number of people and pushed on

to join Bouillé.

CHAPTER VII

M. de Montagu returns to Paris—M. de Beaune—Richmond—Death of

Noémi—Aix-la-Chapelle—Escape of the Duc d’Ayen and Vicomte de

Noailles—La Fayette arrested in Austria—The Hague—Crossing the

Meuse—Margate—Richmond—Hardships of poverty—Brussels—Letter from

Mme. de Tessé—Joins her in Switzerland—Murder of M. and Mme. de

Mouchy—Goes to meet the Duc d’Ayen—He tells her of the murder

of her grandmother, Mme. de Noailles, her mother, the Duchesse

d’Ayen, and her eldest sister, the Vicomtesse de Noailles—Mme. de

la Fayette still in prison.

Directly M. and Mme. de Montagu got to London they heard of the death

of Pauline’s aunt, the Duchesse de Lesparre, another grief for her;

but really at that time for any one to die peacefully among their own

people was a subject of thankfulness to them all.

Pauline, who was very delicate, never took proper care of herself,

and was always having dreadful trials, began by being very ill.

When she was better they established themselves in a pretty cottage

by the Thames at Richmond. But in a short time her husband, who

hated emigrating, heard that the property of emigrants was being

sequestrated, and in spite of his wife’s remonstrances, insisted on

returning to France, hoping to save his fortune; and begging his wife

to be prepared to rejoin him there if he should send for her when she

had regained her strength.

No sooner had he gone than his father arrived unexpectedly from the

Rhine, where he had commanded the Auvergne contingent in the army of

Condé, composed almost entirely of gentlemen of that province.

His first question was for his son, and Pauline really dared not

tell him where he was, but when he asked whether he would be long

absent, replied “No.” She felt very guilty and unhappy because she

was deceiving him; but fortunately he only stayed in London a short

time during which he was out day and night; and suddenly he went away

on business to another part of England. Meanwhile Pauline thought she

would start for France, leaving a letter to M. de Beaune to confess

the whole matter.

But just as she was getting ready for the journey her little daughter

was taken ill. She recognised with despair the fatal symptoms of her

other children. She could not speak English or the doctor French,

but Mme. de la Luzerne and her daughter, _emigrées_ and friends of

the Duchesse d’Ayen, hastened from London, took up their abode at

Richmond, stayed with her until after the death of the child, and then

took her to London and looked after her with the greatest kindness

and affection until M. de Montagu arrived, too late to see his child,

distracted with grief and anxiety for his wife, and sickened and

horrified with the Revolution and all the cruelties and horrors he had

seen.

He now proposed to enter his father’s regiment, and Pauline said she

would go with them. As they were in great want of money she sold her

diamonds, worth more than 40,000 francs, for 22,000, and they went

first to Aix-la-Chapelle, where she remained while her husband and his

father proceeded to the camp at Coblentz.

Aix-la-Chapelle was crowded with _emigrés_, among whom she found many

friends and relations. They met chiefly in the _salon_ of her cousin,

the Comtesse d’Escars; every one had relations with the army of Condé,

in prison, in deadly peril, or even already murdered. The society was

chiefly composed of old men, priests and women, whose lives were a

perpetual struggle with poverty hitherto unknown to them.

In the ill-furnished, dilapidated _hôtel salon_ of Mme. d’Escars

Pauline came in the evenings, after a day spent in the poor lodging

upon the scanty food she could get, passing her time in reading, in

devotion, and in doing what she could to help others.

There she heard continually of the terrible scenes going on in Paris,

and incidentally got news of one or other of her family, and now and

then she received a letter from one of them with details which filled

her with grief and terror.

Her great uncle, the old Maréchal de Mouchy, had never left the King

on the terrible day of the 20th of June, but had stood by him making

a rampart of his own body to protect him from the hordes of ruffians

who were invading the palace; her father, on hearing of these events,

had left his refuge in Switzerland and hurried back to the King; so

did her cousin, the Prince de Poix. Both of them had sympathised with

the earlier Liberal ideas at first; but now, horrified at the fearful

development of their principles, they bitterly regretted their folly

and came to place their lives at the service of their King.

The Duc d’Ayen spent the terrible night of August 9th in the

Tuileries, and both of them followed the King to the Assembly. Even

M. de Grammont, who had been strongly infected with the ideas of the

time, and even belonged to the National Guard, ran great risk of his

life by his support of the King on that day.

As to La Fayette, he had rushed to Paris, violently reproached the

Assembly for the attack on the Tuileries, demanded the punishment of

the Jacobins, and offered to the King the services which were of no

value, and which, as long as they had been of any use, had been at the

disposal of his enemies.

Again one remembers the words of Napoleon to the grandson of Necker,

who said that his grandfather defended the King—

“Defended the King! A fine defence, truly! You might as well say that

if I give a man poison, and then, when he is in the agonies of death,

present him with an antidote, I wish to save him. For that is the way

your grandfather defended Louis XVI.”

The same remarks apply equally to La Fayette, whom, by the bye,

Napoleon could not bear, and would have nothing to do with.

Pauline received a letter from Rosalie, written on the night of August

10th. They had left the _hôtel de Noailles_, which was too dangerous,

and were living in concealment. “My father,” wrote Rosalie, “only

left the King at the threshold of the Assembly, and has returned to

us safe and sound ... but I had no news of M. de Grammont till nine

o’clock in the evening.... I got a note from my husband telling me he

was safe (he had hidden in a chimney). Half an hour later he arrived

himself.... I hasten to write to you at the close of this terrible

day....”

The Duc d’Ayen succeeded in getting away to Switzerland, and the

Prince de Poix, who was arrested and being conducted to the Abbaye,

contrived to escape on the way, remained hidden in Paris for six

months, and then passed over undiscovered to England, where Pauline

met him afterwards.

Pauline, who firmly believed in the ultimate success of the royalist

army, and whose heart and soul were with the gallant soldiers of Condé

and the heroic peasants of La Vendée, waited at Aix-la-Chapelle,

studying English and German and corresponding with her mother and

sisters under cover of an old servant.

It was a thousand pities that they did not emigrate like the rest, but

as they were not actually proscribed, they did not like to leave the

old Duke and Duchess de Noailles, who were feeble and dependent on

their care.

La Fayette, accused and proscribed by his late admirers, had found

himself so unwilling to trust to their tender mercies that he fled

to Liége. But having made himself equally obnoxious to both sides,

he had no sooner escaped from the hands of his friends than he fell

into those of his enemies, and was arrested by an Austrian patrol and

detained, arbitrarily say his friends—but why arbitrarily?—was taken

to Wesel, and had now to undergo a mild form of the suffering he had

caused to so many others.

The Vicomte de Noailles was also proscribed, and fled to England,

whence he kept writing to his wife to join him; but she would not

leave her mother and grandmother.

Amongst the _emigrés_ themselves there were disputes. Those who had

emigrated at first looked down upon the later ones, considering

that they had done so, not out of principle, but to save their own

lives. They, on the other hand, maintained that if there had been no

emigration at all things would never have got to such a pitch. M. de

Montagu openly wished he had stayed and been with the royal family

during the attack on the Tuileries.

M. de Montagu was now with the troops of the Duc de Bourbon, and

hearing he was to pass through Liége, Pauline went there to see him,

and waited at an inn to which she knew he would go. Though he was

overjoyed at this unexpected meeting, he had to leave the same day,

as an engagement was imminent, and he remarked that those who were

accused of being the last to join the army must not be last on the

battlefield.

Sadly she returned to Aix-la-Chapelle, where the news which she had

heard at Liége of the September massacres had already arrived, and

where, besides their own horror and grief, the _emigrés_ had to listen

to the disgust and contempt everywhere expressed by those of other

nations for a country in which such atrocities could be perpetuated

without the slightest resistance.

At the end of September she heard that Adrienne had been thrown into

prison. She trembled for her fate and for that of her mother, Louise,

and Rosalie. The campaign ended disastrously for the Royalists, and

for days she did not know the fate of her husband and father-in-law.

However, M. de Beaune arrived, and a few days later M. de Montagu.

They decided to stay at Aix for the present, and had just taken and

furnished a small apartment when they heard the French army, under

Dumouriez, was advancing upon Aix.

There was no time to lose; the furniture, &c., was sold at a loss,

they packed up in haste, found a carriage with great difficulty, and

on a cold, bright day in December they set off, they knew not whither.

The French army had overrun Belgium, everyone was flying towards

Holland; the road was encumbered with vehicles of all kinds. Old

post-chaises, great family coaches, open carts, were filled with

fugitives; many went down the Rhine in boats.

At Cologne Pauline met her cousin, the Comtesse de Brissac, still

in mourning for their relation the Duc de Brissac, late Governor of

Paris, and Colonel of the _Cent-Suisses_, murdered in the streets of

Versailles.

They went down the left bank of the Rhine, passing the fortress of

Wesel, where La Fayette was imprisoned. With tearful eyes Pauline

gazed from the window of the carriage, but dared not ask to stop. M.

de Beaune made no remark and pretended not to notice her agitation;

but he made no objection to the window being wide open in the bitter

cold, as he would usually have done.

They were kept a fortnight at the Hague by the storms and shipwrecks

going on, but early in January they decided to embark for England. The

cold was fearful, and, wrapped in fur cloaks, fur boots and caps, they

set off to drive seven or eight leagues perched on the top of open

baggage waggons, seated upon the boxes, so unsafe that the Baron de

Breteuil, who was with them, fell off and put his wrist out.

The Meuse was frozen and must be crossed on foot. Pauline, who was

again _enceinte_, managed, leaning upon her husband’s arm, slipping

and stumbling, to get as far as the island in the middle. M. de

Montagu insisted on her being carried the rest of the way by a sailor.

M. de Beaune was helped by his only servant, Garden, a tiresome German

boy of fifteen. They got to Helvoetsluys after dark, crossed next

day, and after about a week found a cottage at Margate with a garden

going down to the sea, which they took, and with which they were

delighted. It stood between the sea and the country, and near them

lived the family of M. Le Rebours, President of the Parliament of

Paris, faithful Royalists who were happy enough _all_ to have escaped,

father, mother, grand-parents, six children, and three old servants.

He himself had just then gone to Paris to try to save some of his

fortune. They had turned a room into a private chapel where mass was

said by an old Abbé; all attended daily, and, needless to say, the

prayer for the King was made with special fervour.

The day the fatal news of his death arrived, the Abbé stopped short

and, instead of the usual prayer, began the _De Profundis_ with a

trembling voice. All joined with tears, but when, at the end of

it, the old priest was going on to the other prayers, one of the

congregation said aloud—

“We have not come to that, Monsieur l’Abbé. The prayer for the King!”

And the loyal subjects joined in supplication for the captive,

desolate child who was now Louis XVII.

They were not long left in peace. War was declared with France, and

all refugees were ordered to retire inland for greater security.

The two families therefore moved to Richmond, where they found

themselves surrounded by old friends.

M. de Beaune was cheerful enough when the day was fine, as he spent

his time in visiting them; but when it rained he stayed at home

fretting, grumbling, and adding unintentionally to the troubles of

those he loved. He took to reading romances aloud to Pauline, who

could not bear them, partly, perhaps, from over-strictness, but

probably more because in those days, before Sir Walter Scott had

elevated and changed the tone of fiction, novels were really as a rule

coarse, immoral, and, with few exceptions, tabooed by persons of very

correct notions. However, she knew M. de Beaune must be amused, so she

made no objection.

But her household difficulties were serious. Any persons who have

passed their youth in ease and comfort, and then find themselves

obliged to arrange their lives upon a totally different scale, will

understand this. The petty economies which their soul abhors, the

absurd mistakes they continually make, often with disastrous results,

the perplexity caused by few and incompetent servants, and the doubt

as to whether, after all, their expenses will not exceed their

resources, hang like millstones round their inexperienced necks in any

case.

But the condition of Pauline, brought up in all the luxury and

magnificence of the _hôtel de Noailles_, and suddenly cast adrift

in a country the language and habits of which were unknown to her,

with very little money and no means of getting more when that was

gone, was terrifying indeed. She did not know where anything should

be bought, nor what it should cost; money seemed to her to melt in

her hands. She consulted her husband, but he could not help her. If

she tried to make her own dresses, she only spoilt the material, as

one can well imagine. Their three servants, the German boy, a Dutch

woman, and after a little while an English nurse, could not understand

each other, but managed to quarrel perpetually and keep up the most

dreadful chatter. Her child, this time a son, was born on March 30th,

Easter Day. She had looked forward to celebrating that festival at

the new church then to be opened, at which many of the young people

were to receive their first Communion. Pauline, like all the rest of

the French community, had been intensely interested and occupied in

the preparations. Flowers were begged from sympathising friends to

decorate the altar, white veils and dresses were made for the young

girls by their friends, all, even those whose faith had been tainted

and whose lives had been irreligious, joining in this touching and

solemn festival, which recalled to them their own land, the memories

of their childhood, and the recollection of those they had lost.

The first register in the little chapel was of the baptism of

Alexandre de Montagu, whose godparents were the Duke de la

Rochefoucauld-Dondeauville and Mme. Alexandrine de la Luzerne.

At the beginning of August, Pauline, after making up the accounts,

told her father-in-law that she had enough money left only to carry on

the household for three months longer, but that if they returned to

Brussels it would last twice as long, for they could live there much

better at half the cost.

So it is in the present day and so it was a hundred years ago; and

the little party set off again on their wanderings. They landed in

Belgium just as the Prince of Orange had been beaten near Ypres, the

Dutch army was retreating in disorder, the shops were shut, every

one was flying, it was impossible to get a carriage, and it was not

for many hours that they could get away from Bruges upon a sort of

_char-à-banc_ with a company of actors, with whom they at last entered

Brussels.

Pauline took refuge with Mme. Le Rebours who was just establishing

herself there with her family. She found letters from her mother and

sister, a month old, telling her of the death of her great aunt, the

Comtesse de la Mark, and her grandfather, the Duc de Noailles. Here

she also heard of the murder of the Queen, and all these hardships and

shocks made her very ill.

[Illustration:

_Paul Delaroche_

MARIE ANTOINETTE]

When she was better she and M. de Montagu took a small furnished

apartment and dined at Mme. Le Rebours’, paying pension of 100 francs

a month for themselves, the child and nurse. M. de Beaune went to

live at a pension set up by the Comtesse de Villeroy, where for a

very moderate price he had good food, a good room, and the society of

a _salon_ in Paris. He grumbled no more, and they were all much more

comfortable than in England.

Brussels was crowded with refugees, many of them almost destitute,

who sold everything they had, gave lessons in languages, history,

mathematics, writing, even riding, but there was so much competition

that they got very little.

Still they waited and hoped, as week after week went by. Early in

the spring affairs had looked more promising. The coalition against

France had formed again under the influence of England. La Vendée and

Bretagne had risen, supported by insurrections all over the South of

France. Lyon, Toulon, Bordeaux, even Marseilles, and many districts

in the southern provinces were furnishing men and arms to join in the

struggle. But gradually the armies of the Republic gained upon them,

the south was a scene of blood and massacre, and the last hopes of

the Royalists were quenched with the defeat of the heroic Vendéens at

Savenay (December 23, 1793).

Pauline was almost in despair. Her child died, as all the others had

done; letters from home had stopped, she did not know what had become

of her mother, sisters, and grandmother; they were in the middle of

winter and had only enough money for another month; more and more

_emigrés_ were crowding into Brussels, flying from the Terror, which

had begun.

But one day she received a letter from her aunt, Mme. de Tessé,

inviting her to come and live with her at Lowernberg in the canton of

Fribourg.

Mme. de Tessé had managed to preserve part of her fortune and was

comparatively well off. She had more than once suggested that her

niece should come to her, but Pauline would not leave her husband

and father-in-law as long as she was necessary to them. Now, she saw

that it would, as they were in such difficulty, be better to do so.

Mme. de Tessé, suspecting that her niece was much worse off than she

would tell her, sent her a gold snuff-box that had belonged to Mme. de

Maintenon, which she sold for a hundred pounds. M. de Montagu decided

to ask for hospitality with his maternal grandfather, the Marquis de

la Salle who was living at Constance, and M. de Beaune said he would

find himself an abode also on the shores of that lake.

The Marquis de la Salle was more than eighty years old, and had

been Lieutenant-General and Governor of Alsace; he was now looked

upon with the utmost deference by all the _emigrés_ around. His

whole family were with him, except one son, who was with the army of

Condé; wife, children, single and married, and grandchildren. They

received M. de Montagu with great kindness and affection and wanted

also to keep Pauline; but as, though not beggared, they were poor and

obliged to economise and work to gain sufficient money for so large

a household, she would only stay there a fortnight; then, taking a

sorrowful leave of her husband, she went on to her aunt, Mme. de Tessé.

Now Mme. de Tessé was an extremely clever, sensible person, who knew

very well how to manage her affairs; and, unlike many of her relations

and friends, she did not leave her arrangements and preparations until

her life was in imminent danger, and then at a moment’s notice fly

from the country, abandoning all her property, with no provision for

the future, taking nothing but her clothes and jewels.

Having decided that she would have to leave France, she took care to

provide herself with securities sufficient to ensure her a fortune

large enough to live upon herself, and to help others wherever she

went.

She had bought a farm near Morat, which she managed herself, which

paid very well, gave her the occupation she required, and supported

several helpless people. Her husband, M. de Tessé, _grand d’Espagne

de première classe_, _chevalier des orders_, _lieutenant-général

des armées du Roi_, _premier écuyer de la Reine_, &c., a quiet man,

remarkably silent in society; M. de Mun, an old friend, whose wit and

conversation she found necessary for her amusement, and his son, had

composed the family before the arrival of her niece; there were also

three old exiled priests whom she supported by the produce of her

kitchen garden.

Pauline and her aunt were extremely fond of each other, though their

ideas did not agree at all. Mme. de Tessé adored La Fayette, and the

deplorable result of his theories from which they were all suffering

so severely did not prevent her admiring them.

Pauline went to confession to one of the old priests, and tried in

every way to help her aunt, with more good will than knowledge, for

when diligently watering the vegetables and flowers she watered the

nettles besides, to the great amusement of Mme. de Tessé.

Three weeks after her arrival a letter from London brought the news

that the Maréchal de Mouchy and his wife, uncle and aunt of Mme. de

Tessé, great-uncle and great-aunt of Pauline, had been guillotined

on the 27th of June. For the crime of giving help to some poor

priests they were arrested and sent to La Force, whence they were

transferred to the Luxembourg where they were the object of universal

reverence and sympathy. When, after a time, they were summoned to

the Conciergerie, which was the _vestibule_ of the tribunal, and was

looked upon as the gate of death, the Maréchal begged that no noise

might be made as he did not wish Mme. la Maréchal to know of his

going, for she had been ill.

“She must come too,” was the answer, “she is on the list; I will go

and tell her to come down.”

“No,” said the Maréchal, “if she must go I will tell her myself.”

He went to her room and said as he entered—

“Madame, you must come, it is the will of God, let us bow to His

commands. You are a Christian, I am going with you, I shall not leave

you.”

The news spread through the prison and caused general grief. Some of

the prisoners got out of the way because they could not bear to see

them pass, but most stood in a double row through which they walked.

Amidst the murmurs of respect and sorrow a voice cried out—

“_Courage, Monsieur le Maréchal!_”

“_A quinze ans_,” said the old soldier, firmly, “_j’ai monté à

l’assaut pour mon roi; à prés de quatre-vingts ans je monterai à

l’échafaud pour mon Dieu_.”

The news fell like a thunderbolt upon the little household. To Pauline

it seemed as if this blow were a forecast of another still more

terrible. It was long since she had heard anything of her mother,

grandmother, and sisters, and she lived in a state of feverish

suspense almost impossible to bear.

It was on the 27th of July, 1794, that she started on a journey

to see her father, who was living in the Canton de Vaud, near the

French frontier. For two nights she had not slept from the terrible

presentiments which overwhelmed her. Young de Mun went with her, and

having slept at Moudon, they set off again at daybreak for Lausanne.

As they approached the end of their journey they were suddenly aware

of a _char-à-banc_ coming towards them in a cloud of dust, driven

by a man with a green umbrella, who stopped, got down and came up to

them. It was the Duc d’Ayen, now Duc de Noailles, but so changed that

his daughter scarcely recognised him. At once he asked if she had

heard the news, and on seeing her agitation, said hastily with forced

calmness that he knew nothing, and told M. de Mun to turn back towards

Moudon.

In an agony of terror Pauline sprang out of the carriage and implored

him to tell her the worst, for she could bear it.

The Duke put her back in the carriage and sat holding her in his arms;

of what passed during their drive she never had a clear recollection,

except that in a voice almost inaudible she ventured to ask if Rosalie

was still alive, to which her father replied upon his word of honour

that he had heard nothing of her. More, she dared not say, frightful

visions rose before her eyes, she fancied herself seated upon the

tumbril bound with other victims, and the thought was almost a relief

to her.

At last they arrived at Moudon, her father led her into a room in the

inn, closed the door and began by telling her as gently as possible

that he had just lost his mother, the Maréchale de Noailles. He

stopped, seeing the deadly paleness of his daughter, who knew by his

face that he had not told all.

“And I, father?” she cried, clasping her hands together. He told her

that he was not without fear for the fate of the Duchess and even for

that of the Vicomtesse de Noailles.

Then she knew that the worst had happened, and with a terrible cry she

threw herself into her father’s arms, and with tears and sobs wished

she had been in the place of her sister.

The Duke took her back to Lowernberg, where M. de Mun, who had

preceded them, had already taken the fatal news to Mme. de Tessé. She

received her brother and niece with transports of grief and affection,

and did everything she could to comfort them. The list of victims in

the paper from Paris contained the names of the Maréchal de Noailles,

the Duchesse d’Ayen and the Vicomtesse de Noailles, but it was some

time before they could get any details.

After the death of the old Maréchal de Noailles in August, 1793,

the Duchesse d’Ayen and her eldest daughter moved to Paris with the

Maréchale, who was old and feeble and whose reason, always very

eccentric, as will be remembered, was becoming still more impaired.

Had it not been for her and their devoted kindness to her, the lives

of both the Duchess and her daughter might have been saved. Everything

was prepared for the flight of the Vicomtesse to England, where her

husband was waiting for her, intending to embark for America. The

Duchess would probably have succeeded in making her escape also, but

she would not leave her old mother-in-law, and Louise would not leave

her.

Rashly they went to Paris in September, 1793, and were soon detained

as “suspected” in their own house, where Father Carrichon, a priest,

who in disguise carried on the work of his sacred calling, succeeded

in visiting them frequently; and from the news he brought them they

were before long convinced that their lives would be sacrificed,

and prepared with courage and resignation to meet their death.

As they were talking one day on the subject to Father Carrichon, the

Duchess asked him if he would promise to be with them at the foot of

the scaffold. He did so, adding that he would wear a dark blue coat

and a red carmagnole.

In April, 1794, they were sent to the Luxembourg where they found the

de Mouchy, who had been there five months, and who were lodged in a

room over the one in which the Maréchale de Mouchy was born. They had

also been married at that palace. The three de Noailles were put in

the room above them.

[Illustration:

_E. H. Bearne_

PALAIS DU LUXEMBOURG]

There was a great difference amongst the prisons of Paris, and

the Luxembourg was perhaps the best, most comfortable, and most

aristocratic of all, though the _Convent des Oiseaux_, _the

Anglaises_, and _Port Libre_, were also very superior to others.

Amongst many other acquaintances they found the excellent Duchesse

d’Orléans, already widow of the infamous Égalité, who was very ill and

had a wretched bed. Mme. d’Ayen gave her her own which was better and

nursed her, while Louise took care of her grandmother night and day,

made the beds, and washed the plates and cups.

Twice a week at a certain hour she went on pretence of taking the air

to a place from whence she could see her three children, whom their

tutor, devoted to her and her family, brought into the garden below.

Now and then she received and sent notes to and from him, by one of

which they learnt that Adrienne was in the prison called Plessis, one

of the worst.

“God gives me strength,” she wrote to him, “and He will support me;

I have perfect confidence in Him. Adieu; the feeling for all I owe

you will follow me to heaven; do not doubt it. Without you what would

become of my children? Adieu, Alexis, Alfred, Euphémie. Let God be in

your hearts all the days of your lives. Cling to Him without wavering;

pray for your father: do all for his true happiness. Remember your

mother, and that her only wish has been to keep you for eternity. I

hope to find you again with God, and I give you all my last blessing.”

With calmness they received the order to go to the Conciergerie, which

was, they knew, their death sentence. When they were sent for, the

Duchess, who was reading the “Imitation of Christ,” hastily wrote on

a scrap of paper, “My children, courage and prayer,” put it in the

place where she left off, and gave the book to the Duchesse d’Orléans

to give to her daughters if her life were spared. As she said their

names, for once her calmness gave way. The book was wet with her

tears, which left their mark upon it always.

The Conciergerie was crowded, but one of the prisoners, Mme. Laret,

gave up her bed to the old Maréchale; Mme. d’Ayen laid herself upon a

pallet on the floor, and the Vicomtesse, saying, “What is the use of

resting on the eve of eternity?” sat all night reading, by the light

of a candle, a New Testament she had borrowed, and saying prayers.

Perfectly calm and undisturbed, she helped her mother dress, remarking—

“Courage, mamma; we have only an hour more.”

Father Carrichon, warned by M. Grelet the tutor, was ready. As he

walked by the car of the victims they recognised him with joy, and a

fearful storm that was going on helped to disguise his gestures and

proceedings, and when an opportunity offered he turned to them, raised

his hand, and pronounced the words of absolution amidst thunder and

lightning which scattered the crowd, but did not prevent their hearing

him distinctly nor drown their thanks to him and message of farewell

to those they loved. “God in His mercy calls us. We shall not forget

them; may we meet in heaven!”

CHAPTER VIII

Illness—Leaves Switzerland with Mme. de Tessé—They settle near

Altona—Hears of Rosalie’s safety—Life on the farm—Release of

Adrienne—Her visit—Farm of Ploen—Peaceful life there—Rosalie

and Adrienne—Birth of Pauline’s son—He and her other children

live—Release of La Fayette—Their visit to Ploen—Meeting of

Adrienne, Pauline, and Rosalie at the Hague.

This fearful shock brought on so violent an attack of illness that

Pauline’s friends feared for her reason. Her aunt nursed her with the

deepest affection, her husband arrived to comfort her with his love

and sympathy, and the anxiety about Rosalie gave her a new object

of interest. The Duke went to see the Princesse de Broglie, who had

just come to the neighbourhood from France; she knew nothing; but

a smuggler was found who knew all the paths of the Jura, and who

was willing to go to Franche Comté, promising not to return without

knowing the fate of Mme. de Grammont.

The government of Fribourg had begun to annoy Mme. de Tessé about

her niece, objecting to her receiving her, and Pauline thought it

best to go for a time to Constance. While she was there the smuggler

returned, having discovered Mme. de Grammont, who was safe in Franche

Comté, and had with her the children of the Vicomtesse de Noailles

and their faithful tutor. She had written to her father and sister on

handkerchiefs sewn inside the smuggler’s waistcoat, and was thankful

to find they were alive; but she could not, as they begged her to

do, get out of France just then, as her husband was not sufficiently

recovered from an illness to undertake a journey.

Mme. de Tessé, alarmed by the conduct of the government of Fribourg,

sold her property there, and resolved to go far north, as the French

armies seemed to be spreading all over central and southern Europe.

The little party left Lowemberg at five o’clock one morning before

there was much light, except the reflections from the snow upon the

mountains; spent a few days at Berne, and went on to Schaffhausen,

where M. de Montagu met them, and took his wife to Constance to say

goodbye to the La Salle. She stayed four days, and then rejoined her

aunt, and went on to Ulm and Nuremberg, where her husband had to leave

her, and return to Constance. The rest proceeded to Erfurt, spent a

month there among many old friends who had taken refuge in that quiet,

ancient town. Finally they crossed the Elbe and arrived at Altona,

where in Danish territory they hoped to be able to live in peace and

security.

They found a farm, settled themselves in it, and after a time M. de

Montagu was added to the household, for he came to see his wife, and

their joy at meeting so touched Mme. de Tessé, that she said he had

better stay altogether.

For with care and good management she contrived to live simply, but

quite comfortably. Not that farming or life in the depth of the

country were at all her fancy; no, what she liked was a town and

a _salon_ frequented by clever, amusing people of the world whose

conversation she could enjoy. But she knew well enough that if she

settled in a town and had a _salon_, before very long she would

be nearly ruined, whereas at her farm she found no difficulty in

supporting herself and those dependent upon her, and helping many

others besides.

As to Pauline, she spent her whole time in working for and visiting

those unfortunate _emigrés_ within reach who were in poverty and

distress.

Not far from them she found Mme. Le Rebours, whose husband had

persisted in going to France, and had been guillotined. She and her

family, amongst whom was the brave, devout spirit, were overjoyed to

meet her again.

She was happier now than she had been for a long time; she heard every

now and then from her father and Rosalie, her husband was with her,

and her love for the aunt, who was their good angel, ever increased.

But still the terrible death of her mother, sister, and grandmother

cast its shadow over her life, added to which was her uncertainty

about Adrienne.

Whatever may be said for or against emigration, one thing is

apparent—those who emigrated early saved not only their lives, but,

if they were commonly prudent, part of their property also. Those

who emigrated late saved their lives, but lost all their property;

while those who remained, or returned, were most likely to lose their

liberty, if not their lives.

If the King had taken the opportunity on the night of the banquet at

Versailles, gained the coast, and escaped to England, he would have

saved himself and his family from misery and destruction, as his

brothers did.

In Pauline’s family those who, like herself and those about her, got

out of the country, were safe from everything but the poverty caused

partly by their own improvidence. But of those who remained there

was scarcely one who escaped death or the horrors of a revolutionary

prison. Only M. and Mme. de Grammont had managed to keep quiet in a

distant part of the country, and, of course, at the peril of their

lives.

At last a letter came to say that Adrienne was free. She had been the

last to be released from Plessis after the death of Robespierre had,

to a great extent, stopped the slaughter and opened the prisons. Her

captivity had lasted from October, 1793, till February, 1795; and

now, very soon after her letter, Adrienne arrived with her two young

daughters at Altona.

The two sisters had not met since the interview at the inn during the

triumphal progress of the La Fayette. It was a mercy that Pauline had

not believed in their Utopia nor taken their advice. Even now Adrienne

was only exchanging one prison for another, for she was shortly going

to Austria to obtain leave to share that of La Fayette.

Long and touching were the conversations and confidences of the

sisters when they were alone together.

Overcome with emotion at first they looked at each other in silence;

then, in a voice broken with sobs, Pauline asked, “Did you see them?”

“I had not that happiness,” replied Adrienne.

But she knew all the details of their fate; she had seen M. Grelet

and Father Carrichon, who had gone to the scaffold first with their

great uncle and aunt, de Mouchy, then with her grandmother, mother,

and sister. In the prison of Plessis she had found her cousin, the

Duchesse de Duras, daughter of the de Mouchy, and they had consoled

each other under the awful calamity that each had undergone. Only a

few days more and the Noailles would have been, like their uncle, the

Marquis de Noailles, youngest brother of the Duc d’Ayen, saved by the

death of Robespierre. The Duchesse de Duras was at once liberated with

the rest; but the spite and hatred of Legendre, governor of Plessis,

against the very name of La Fayette, caused Adrienne to be detained

until the exertions of Mme. de Duras procured her freedom.

She sent her boy to America under the name of Motier, to be brought

up under the care of Washington, and then went to Auvergne to see

her old aunt, fetch her daughters, and settle her affairs; she had

borrowed some money from the Minister of the United States and some

diamonds from Rosalie, and had bought back her husband’s _château_ of

Chavaniac with the help of the aunt who had brought him up, and who

remained there.

She met her daughters in a mountain village near Clermont, and the

deep, fervent joy of their restoration to each other out of the shadow

of death was increased by finding that the priest had just ventured

to reopen the village church, where on the next day, Sunday, they

again attended mass in that secluded place, and where Virginie, the

younger girl, made her first Communion. And she had seen Rosalie, for

Mme. de Grammont heard of her sister’s release, and resolved to join

her. Having very little money, and travelling by public conveyances

being still unsafe, taking her diamonds she rode a mule with her three

children in paniers, and her husband walking by her side. Thus they

journeyed by steep mountain paths, or country lanes, but always by the

most secluded ways possible. When they reached Paris, Adrienne was

gone, but they resumed their primitive travelling, followed her to

Auvergne, and came up with her at the little town of Brionde.

Adrienne had brought Pauline a copy of their mother’s will, and, not

being an _emigrée_, had taken possession of the castle and estate of

Lagrange, left to herself. She only spent a short time at Altona, and

started for Austria.

Her farm near the Baltic did not altogether satisfy Mme. de Tessé,

and before long they again moved, to be in the neighbourhood of a

residence she had heard of, and hoped to get after a time.

It was by the lake of Ploen, and they were obliged to pass the winter

at the little town of that name, for it was October when the cavalcade

arrived—M. and Mme. de Tessé, the Montagu, the de Mun, and the

priests, to whom another had been added.

There Pauline had a son, and to her great joy he and the children

she afterwards had lived to grow up. The farm Mme. de Tessé wished

for was called Wittmold, and lay at the other side of the lake upon

a plain covered with pasture and ponds, as far as the eye could

reach. The house stood on a promontory jutting out into the lake,

and was surrounded by fields, apple trees, and pine woods. They

crossed the lake in boats, and established themselves there. They

could live almost entirely upon the produce of the place, for there

was plenty of game, plenty of fish in the lake: the dairy farm paid

extremely well, the pasture produced rich, delicious milk; they had

a hundred and twenty cows, and made enormous quantities of butter,

which they sold at Hamburg. It was pleasant enough in the summer,

but in winter the lake was frozen, the roads covered with snow, and

the cold wind from the Baltic raved round the house. However, they

were thankful for the shelter of a home that most of their friends

would have envied, and they lived peacefully there for four years,

during which Pauline organised and carried on a great work of charity

which, with the assistance of one or two influential friends, soon

spread all over Europe. It was a kind of society with branches in

different countries, to collect subscriptions for the relief of the

French exiles, and it involved an enormous amount of letter-writing,

for, if the subscriptions poured into Wittmold, so did letters of

entreaty, appealing for help. But Pauline was indefatigable not only

in allotting the different sums of money, but in finding employment,

placing young girls as governesses, selling drawings and needlework,

&c.

M. de Beaune paid them one or two visits, and in October, 1797, La

Fayette, his wife, and daughters, were released from captivity, and

arrived at Wittmold with his two faithful _aides-de-camp_. The brother

of one, the Comte de Latour-Maubourg, soon after married Anastasie,

his eldest daughter.

Pauline heard the trumpet of the postilion in the little town, and

hurried across the lake to meet them. They all crossed in a procession

of little boats to the other shore, where Mme. de Tessé was waiting

for them.

La Fayette was still an exile. Too _Jacobin_ for Austria, too royalist

for France, he took a place near Wittmold. The wedding of his eldest

daughter took place the following May, and a few days afterwards a

daughter was born to Pauline and christened Stéphanie.

Mme. de Tessé, who knew nothing about a sick room, was very anxious

and busy, and insisted on helping to nurse Pauline. In spite of her

free-thinking professions, she would be observed to make the sign of

the cross behind the curtain of the bed. She made various mistakes,

and in her haste poured a bottle of eau de Cologne instead of water

over the head of the new-born infant.

Georges de la Fayette, now nineteen, came over from America, and

arrived at Wittmold, to the delight of the little colony, after his

long separation from his family, and his return was the great event of

the winter and the delight of his mother.

But the sufferings of the last seven years had terribly injured

Adrienne’s health, and it was not till she had a little recovered that

La Fayette moved, with all his family, to Viane, a small Dutch town

near Utrecht, where they settled for a time to watch the course of

events.

It was necessary to settle the succession to the estates of the

Duchesse d’Ayen, and it was impossible to arrange this without the

meeting of the family. The Vicomte de Noailles was in America, the

Marquis de Thésan in Germany, Mme. de Montagu was on the list of

_emigrées_, and could not enter France. Her part of the inheritance

had been confiscated, but M. Bertémy, the old family lawyer, had

bought and transferred it to the rest of the family, to be given her

in better times.

It was decided that the three sisters should meet at Viane, where

Pauline and her husband went, with post-horses provided by Mme. de

Tessé. It was eight years since Pauline and Rosalie had met, and

Pauline said it was a foretaste of Heaven.

They all boarded at the La Fayette, but as they were very poor there

was very little to eat. They would dine upon _œufs à la neige_, and

spend the evening without a fire, wrapped in fur cloaks to keep out

the cold of the early spring. M. de Montagu always had declared he had

only had one good dinner in Holland, and that was one night when he

dined with General Van Ryssel.

Mme. d’Ayen had left property in the department of Seine-et-Marne to

the children of the Vicomtesse de Noailles, the estate and castle of

Lagrange to Mme. La Fayette, an estate between Lagrange and Fontenay

to the daughter of Mme. de Thésan, the old castle and lands of

Fontenay to Mme. de Montagu, and an estate called Tingri to Mme. de

Grammont.

But as long as Pauline remained on the list of _emigrées_ the affairs

could not be wound up.

Before parting, after a month spent together, the three sisters

composed a beautiful litany to be said by them in remembrance of their

mother, sister, and grandmother. It opened with that sublime passage

of scripture beginning with the words, “The souls of the righteous are

in the hands of God; there shall no torment touch them.”

Reluctantly they separated in May, Pauline returning to Wittmold

with more luggage than she brought from there, namely, a large box

of clothes from America, a present from George de la Fayette to the

_emigrés_ at Wittmold, and a trunk full of clothes belonging to M. de

Beaune, which Mme. de la Fayette had found and brought from Auvergne,

and which, though they were somewhat old-fashioned, he was delighted

to get.

CHAPTER IX

Return to France—The inheritance of the Duchesse d’Ayen—Loss of

the Noailles property—Inherits the Castle of Fontenay—Death of

Mme. de la Fayette—Prosperous life at Fontenay—Conclusion.

The time had now come when the friendly farm at Wittmold, which had

sheltered them in adversity, must be given up. The _emigrés_ were

returning; Mme. de la Fayette and Mme. de Grammont urged their sister

to do the same, and Mme. de Tessé was longing to see Paris again.

Mme. de Montagu started first with her husband, leaving her boy

with her aunt and her girl with a friend. As they were still on the

proscribed list they travelled under the names of M. et Mme. Mongros.

They took up their quarters in Paris at a small house kept by an old

servant of M. de Thésan, where they found their cousin, the Duchesse

de Duras and the Doudeauville, living under their own names, in little

rooms very clean, but so scantily furnished that if any visitors

arrived they had to borrow chairs from each other.

To walk about Paris was at first most painful to Mme. de Montagu. The

sound of carts in the streets made her shudder, the churches were

mostly in ruins or closed. The few that were open were served by

_prêtres assermentés_.

Her nephews, Alexis and Alfred de Noailles came to see her, and

she went down to Lagrange where the La Fayettes were restoring the

_château_, planting and repairing. She soon got her name taken off the

proscribed list, then those of her husband, her aunt, her father, her

father-in-law, and various other friends, who soon arrived in Paris.

Mme. de Tessé took a house near which Pauline and her husband found

an apartment, and their first endeavour was to regain possession of

the _hôtel de Noailles_, which had not been sold but was occupied by

the Consul Le Brun, who had just left the Tuileries, now inhabited by

Napoleon. They did not succeed, however, in getting it back until the

Restoration. One day, having to go to the Temple to see one of the

young le Rebours, who had come back without permission, was imprisoned

there, and whose release she soon procured, Pauline passed through

the now deserted corridors and rooms which had been the prison of

the royal family. Looking about for any trace of them she found in a

cupboard an old blue salad-bowl which had belonged to them, and which

she carried away as a precious relic.

The Duc de Noailles, her father, finding he could not recover his

_hôtel_, returned philosophically to Switzerland, and bought a house

on the Lake of Geneva. He had married the Countess Golowskin, which

at first was a grief to his daughters, but after a time they were

reconciled to the idea, and got on very well together.

Pauline had another daughter in May, 1801, and after her recovery

and a few weeks with Mme. de Grammont and at the baths at Louèche,

she went to the district of Vélay with her husband to see if any of

the property of his father could be recovered. Their fortunes were,

of course, to some extent restored by Pauline’s inheritance from

her mother, and the fine old _château_ of Fontenay[81] made them a

charming home for the rest of their lives.

They stopped at Puy, where they found awaiting them at the inn a

certain old Dr. Sauzey, who had been born on an estate of M. de

Beaune, and cherished a deep attachment for the Montagu family. He

still practised in the neighbourhood where he attended the poor for

nothing, knew every man, woman, and child for miles round, was beloved

by them all, and very influential among them. He knew all the peasants

and country people who had bought land belonging to the Montagu

family, and had so lectured and persuaded them that numbers now came

forward and offered to sell it back at a very moderate price. The good

old doctor even advanced the money to pay them at once, and having

settled their affairs in Vélay they passed on to Auvergne.

The castles and estates of their family had all passed into the hands

of strangers, the Château de Bouzolz was in ruins, so was Plauzat,

where all the town came out to meet and welcome them with the greatest

affection, and where they succeeded in buying back a good deal of

land, but the _château_ in which they had spent such happy days was

uninhabitable.

They went on to Clermont, the capital of the province, where M. de

Beaune had a house in the town and a _château_ and estate named Le

Croc just outside it. They had passed into the hands of strangers,

but all the furniture and contents of the _château_ had been saved

by the faithful _concièrges_, the Monet, who, with the help of their

relations and friends, had during the night carried it all away,

taking beds to pieces, pulling down curtains and hangings, removing

all the wine from the cellars, and hiding safely away the whole of it,

which they now restored to its owners.

M. de Beaune, who came later on to take a farewell look at the ruined

home of his ancestors, chose part of it to furnish the house he had

bought to make his home at Lyons. He also found an old carriage in

which he departed to that city. The property of the Maréchal de

Noailles, who died in 1793, had all been confiscated and sold, except

some remains which were swallowed up by creditors. All that remained

was the ruined castle of Noailles, which Pauline would never sell,

though after her father had placed it in her hands she was offered two

thousand _écus_ for it. Mme. de Tessé bought a charming house, which

was always filled with her nephews, nieces, and friends, and though

again she had plenty of cows, she no longer had occasion to sell the

milk. As she grew older her ideas became more devout and her faith

stronger, to the great consolation of her nieces, especially of her

favourite Pauline.

The first great sorrow was the death of Mme. de la Fayette on

Christmas Eve, 1808, at the age of forty-eight. Her health had

been completely undermined by the terrible experiences of her

imprisonments; and an illness caused by blood-poisoning during her

captivity with her husband in Austria, where she was not allowed

proper medical attendance, was the climax from which she never really

recovered. She died as she had lived, like a saint, at La Grange,

surrounded by her broken-hearted husband and family, and by her own

request was buried at Picpus, where, chiefly by the exertions of the

three sisters, a church had been built close to the now consecrated

ground where lay buried their mother, sister, grandmother, with many

other victims of the Terror.

The wanderings and perils of Pauline were now at an end. From

henceforth her home was with her husband and four children in the old

_château_ of Fontenay, which they repaired and put in order. It was a

fortress built in the reign of Charles VI., and afterwards inhabited

and decorated by the Duc d’Epernon. The great tower of the castle

still bore his name, and the blue and gold ceiling of his bedroom

still remained. It had an immense park and lakes, and a great avenue

of chestnut-trees led up to the _château_. The Abbé Cartier, _curé_ of

Fontenay, was a man after her own heart. He had known her mother, for

he came very young to the parish, which he loved with all his heart,

and which he had only once left, on the approach of a revolutionary

mob. Leaving the _presbytère_ with all his own things at their mercy,

he hid the cross and all the properties of the church, and as to the

statues of the saints which he could not remove, he painted them all

over, turning them into National Guards with swords by their sides.

He was only persuaded by his people to escape when already the drums

of the approaching ruffians were heard in the village, in which they

quickly appeared, and rushed into the church. But they found it empty,

except for the statues, with which, in their republican garb, they

dared not meddle, so they turned their fury upon the _presbytère_, and

when the good Abbé returned he found the church uninjured, but all

the contents of his house stolen or destroyed. As far as possible, M.

and Mme. de Montagu led the simple patriarchal life they preferred at

Fontenay, where they were adored by the people, to whom they devoted

their time, money, and attention. Under the trees before the castle

stone benches were placed for the peasants who came on Sunday evenings

to sit about and dance, and the young people with whom the old

_château_ was always filled joined eagerly in their festivities.

The harmony and affection that had characterised the daughters of

the Duchess d’Ayen were equally conspicuous among her grandchildren,

and the numerous relations—sons, daughters, nephews, nieces, and

cousins—formed one united family. If there existed differences of

opinion, they did not interfere with the affection between those who

held them.

The daughter of the Vicomtesse de Noailles was married to the Marquis

de Vérac. Of the sons, Alexis, between whom and Pauline there was

an especially deep affection, and whose principles entirely agreed,

refused to accept any employment under the government of Buonaparte.

In consequence of the part he took in favour of the Pope he was

imprisoned, and only released by the influence of his brother Alfred,

an ardent soldier in the Imperial army, who, after distinguishing

himself and winning the favour of the Emperor, was killed in the

Russian campaign.

Though her winters were generally spent in Paris, Pauline only went

out quietly amongst her own friends, not entering at all into the

society of the imperial court, which was altogether objectionable to

her.

The Restoration was received with rapture by her and most of her

family, not even La Fayette himself holding aloof from the welcome to

the King.

Alexis de Noailles, who had left France during the reign of Napoleon,

entered Paris with the Comte d’Artois; the King and the Duchesse

d’Angoulême received with distinguished favour those who had suffered

so much in their cause; the Duc de Noailles came from Switzerland

and took possession of the _hôtel de Noailles_, just vacated by the

Arch-treasurer of the Empire.

But as the size and grandeur of such a residence was no longer

suitable to the altered fortunes of its master, he sold it, and only

occupied the part called the _petit hôtel de Noailles_, where Mme. de

Montagu also had an apartment.

The rest of her life was spent in peace amongst her family, by whom

she was adored, in the practices of charity and devotion, which had

always made her happiness.

Mme. de Tessé died in 1813, only a week after the death of her

husband, without whom she said that she did not think she could live.

Severe as was her loss to Pauline a more terrible calamity happened to

her in 1824, in the death of her only son Attale, who was killed by an

accident when out shooting, leaving a young wife and children to her

care.

Her daughters[82] all married, and in them her sons-in-law, and

grandchildren she found constant interest and happiness: the Duc

d’Ayen also, after the death of his second wife, gave up his Swiss

house and came to end his days with his favourite daughter at Fontenay.

The death of her husband in 1834 was her last great sorrow, she

survived him five years, and died in January, 1839, at the age of

seventy-three, surrounded by those she loved best, who were still left

her.

She neither feared death nor desired it, her life was spent for others

not for herself, she regretted to leave them, but the thought of the

other world, and of those who had gone before her, drew her heart

towards that radiant, immortal future, the thought of which had ever

been her guide and consolation.

Rosalie de Grammont survived her for thirteen years, and died at the

age of eighty-five—the last of the five sisters.

FOOTNOTES:

[81] Fontenay-Trésigny, province de Brie.

[82] Mme. de la Romagère, the Comtesse d’Auberville and the Comtesse

du Parc.

III

MADAME TALLIEN

CHAPTER I

Térèzia Cabarrus—Comes to Paris—Married to the Marquis de

Fontenay—Revolutionary sympathies—Unpopularity of Royal Family—The

wig of M. de Montyon—The Comte d’Artois and his tutor—The Comte de

Provence and Louis XV.

An abyss of separation lies between the two women whose life-histories

have just been related, and the one of whose stormy career a sketch is

now to be given.

In education, principles, conduct, and nationality, they were

absolutely different, but each of them was typical of the time, the

class, and the party to which she belonged.

Térèzia Cabarrus was a Spaniard, though she had also French blood

in her veins. Her father, director of an important bank in Madrid,

distinguished himself in the financial world, and was created Count by

Charles IV.

Térèzia was born at Madrid about the year 1772, and was the only

daughter of Count Cabarrus, whose fortunes had rapidly risen, and who

being a man of sense and cultivation was resolved to give his children

the best possible education.

Térèzia studied Latin with her brothers, spoke Spanish, Italian,

and French, with almost equal fluency, conversed with ease and

vivacity, sang and danced enchantingly. Besides all this she was so

extraordinarily beautiful, that she attracted general attention.

She was still very young when her father sent her to Paris with

her brothers to complete their education, in the charge of an old

abbé, their tutor, but to be also under the care of the Marquis de

Boisgeloup and his wife, old friends of their father, in whose family

they were to live. When they arrived they found that the _Marquis de

Boisgeloup_, _Seigneur de la Manceliève_ and _conseiller du Roi et du

parlement_, had just died.

Mme. de Boisgeloup, however, received the children with the greatest

kindness, her two boys were companions for the young Cabarrus, and as

for Térèzia, she loved and treated her like a daughter. They lived

in the _rue d’Anjou_, and when the following year her father arrived

at Paris and bought a _hôtel_ in the _place des Victoires_ she still

spent less of her time with him than with her.

It was in the days when the Queen was giving _fêtes_ at Trianon,

when the court quarrelled about the music of Gluck and Piccini, and

listened to the marvels related by the Comte de Saint-Germain, when

every one talked about nature, and philosophy, and virtue, and the

rights of man, while swiftly and surely the Revolution was drawing

near.

That the head of an excitable, thoughtless girl not sixteen, should

be turned by the whirl of pleasure and admiration into which she was

launched, cannot be surprising.

Among the numbers of men who made love to her more or less seriously,

two were especially conspicuous, the Prince de Listenay and the

Marquis de Fontenay.

About the former, who was deeply in love with her, and most anxious to

make her his wife, she did not care at all. She found him tiresome,

and even the prospect of being a princess could not induce her to

marry him. Besides, she had taken a fancy to the Marquis de Fontenay,

whom she had first met at the house of Mme. de Boisgeloup, who was

much older than herself, and as deplorable a husband as a foolish

young girl could choose.

He also had been _Conseiller du parlement_, first at Bordeaux, then at

Paris; though by no means a young man, he was exceedingly handsome,

fascinating, and a well-known _viveur_, added to which he was an

inveterate gambler. It was said that when he was not running after

some woman he was always at the card-table; in fact his reputation

was atrocious. But his charming manners and various attractions won

Térèzia’s heart. Mme. de Boisgeloup wrote to Count Cabarrus, who was

then in Madrid, saying that the Marquis de Fontenay wished to marry

his daughter, and did not care whether she had any fortune or not;

the wedding took place, and the young Marquise was installed at his

_château_ of Fontenay near Paris.[83]

At first all went on prosperously. The Marquis de Fontenay did not

belong to the _haute noblesse_, but his position amongst the _noblesse

de robe_ was good, and his fortune was at any rate sufficient to

enable Térèzia to entertain lavishly, and to give _fêtes_ which

caused a sensation even at Paris, while her beauty became every day

more renowned.

Whatever religious teaching she may have received she had thrown off

its influence and principles, and ardently adopted the doctrines of

the Revolution. Freedom, not only from tyranny, but from religion,

law, morality, restraint of any kind, was the new theory adopted by

her and by the party to which she belonged.

She was surrounded by those who talked of virtue, but practised vice;

her husband was amongst the most corrupt of that vicious society; they

soon ceased to care for each other; and she was young, beautiful,

worshipped, with the hot Spanish blood in her veins and all the

passion of the south in her nature, what but one result could be

expected?

The King, the royal family, but especially the Queen, were becoming

every day more unpopular, the reforms introduced seemed to do no good,

only to incite the populace to more and more extortionate demands. The

King, having neither courage nor decision, inspired neither confidence

nor respect.

The Comte de Provence, his brother, remarks in his souvenirs: “The

court did not like Louis XVI., he was too uncongenial to its ways, and

he did not know how to separate himself from it, and to draw nearer

to the people, for there are times when a sovereign ought to know how

to choose between one and the other. What calamities my unfortunate

brother would have spared himself and his family, if he had known

how to hold with a firm hand the sceptre Providence had entrusted to

him.”[84]

Nothing but reforms were talked of when Louis XVI. and Marie

Antoinette came to the throne; but of course everything proposed

excited the opposition and ridicule of one party or the other.

The following song, one of the many circulating at the time, is a

specimen of the least objectionable of its kind:

“Or, écoutez, petits et grands,

L’histoire d’un roi de vingt ans,

Qui va nous ramener en France

Les bonnes mœurs et l’abondance.

D’après ce plan que deviendront

Et les catins et les fripons?

S’il veut de l’honneur et des mœurs,

Que deviendront nos grands seigneurs?

S’il aime les honnêtes femmes,

Que deviendront nos belles dames?

S’il bannit les gens déréglés

Que feront nos riches abbés?

S’il dédaigne un frivole encens,

Que deviendront les courtisans?

Que feront les amis du prince

Autrement nommés en province?

Si ses sujets sont ses enfants,

Que deviendront les partisans?

S’il veut qu’un prélat soit chrétien,

Un magistrat homme de bien,

Combien de juges mercénaires,

D’évêques et de grands vicaires,

Vont changer de conduite, _amen_.

_Dominus salvum fac regem._”[85]

The Queen had no idea of economy, and the Comte d’Artois was still

more extravagant and heedless. Many were the absurd stories told of

him, harmless and otherwise. Of the first description is the affair

of the wig of M. de Montyon. Arriving early one morning to speak to

him, and seeing no servants about, he mistook the door and walked

unannounced into a room where he saw a young man in his shirt sleeves,

with his hair all rough and his toilette very incomplete, who,

astonished at the sudden entrance of a magistrate in an enormous wig,

asked him brusquely what he was doing there.

M. de Montyon, taking him for a _valet de pied_, called him an

insolent rascal for daring to speak to him in such a manner; but no

sooner were the words spoken than the young man snatched off his wig,

rubbed it over his face and ran away with shouts of laughter.

M. de Montyon was furious, he flew into a rage, called till he

succeeded in attracting attention, and then, discovering that the

young man he had called an insolent rascal was his royal Highness,

_Monseigneur le Comte d’Artois_, hurried away in dismay.

The King hearing of the affair was much amused, but desired his

brother to make it right with M. de Montyon, which he did to such

good effect, that shortly after he gave him an appointment in his

household. The Prince and the excellent magistrate afterwards met

again in exile.

Another and more reprehensible episode took place when the Comte

d’Artois, then a lad of sixteen, was just going to be married to the

younger sister of the Comtesse de Provence, daughter of the King of

Sardinia.

It was before the death of Louis XV., the court was at Compiègne,

and the young Prince, since his marriage was decided, had been less

strictly looked after by the Comte de Montbel, his _sous gouverneur_,

who would not usually allow him to go alone into the thicker parts of

the forest, not because of wild beasts but of other not less dangerous

encounters which were possible.

For some little time the _Comte d’Artois_ had been regarding the

sister of one of his _valets de pied_ with an admiration which she was

evidently quite ready to return. Finding some difficulty in getting

an interview with her, he applied to her brother who, delighted at

the fancy of the Prince for his sister, and the probable advantages

it might bring, promised his assistance, and arranged that the young

girl, who was extremely pretty, should meet him dressed as a peasant

in the cottage of a forester of Compiègne.

D’Artois accordingly told M. de Montbel that he wished to make an

excursion into the forest, but when the carriage came round which had

been ordered for him, he said he would rather walk, and took care to

go so far out of the way that his tutor was very tired.

The Prince, who was not tired at all, and who had arrived in sight of

the cottage, said he would like some milk and would go and see the

cows milked.

“You stay here and rest, Montbel,” he continued. “I will come back in

a few minutes.”

M. de Montbel had waited for nearly an hour, when suddenly a suspicion

seized him. Springing up suddenly he ran to the cottage, opened the

door of one room, then another, then a third, and stood still with a

cry of consternation.

“Monsieur,” said the Prince, coolly, “was there no one to announce

you?”

Launching into angry threats against the _valet de pied_ and his

sister, and indignant reproaches to his pupil, M. de Montbel conducted

him back to the palace and went straight to the King. But Louis XV.,

with a fellow-feeling for the grandson whom he considered the most

like himself, could not restrain his laughter, ordered fifty _louis_

to be given to the young girl, and dismissed the affair.

The alliances with the House of Savoy were much more popular with the

court than that with the House of Austria and Lorraine,[86] and caused

continual jealousies and disputes. Foreseeing that such would be the

case, Louis XV., before the marriage of the Comte de Provence, thought

it necessary to caution him on the subject. Louis XVIII. gives in his

memoirs[87] the following account of the interview:—

“When my alliance with the Princess of Piedmont was decided, the Duc

de Vauguyon told me that the King desired to speak to me. I trembled a

little at an order which differed entirely from the usual regulations,

for I never saw Louis XV. without d’Artois, and at certain hours. A

private audience of his Majesty without my having asked for it gave me

cause for anxiety....

“Louis XV. stood leaning against a great inlaid bureau near the

window. My grandfather was just then playing with a beautiful sporting

dog of which he was very fond. I approached the King with timidity and

embarrassment, but I soon perceived that he was in a good humour....

“‘Bonjour, Provençal,’[88] he said. ‘You are looking very well, and

that is so much the better, _ma foi_! for it has never been of more

importance to you. You are going to be married.’

“‘Your Majesty’s orders have been communicated to me.’

“‘They may have left out something,’ replied he, laughing. ‘I have no

time to lose, and I tell you that I wish to be a great-grandfather as

soon as possible.’

“‘Sire, I know that it is my duty to obey your Majesty in all things.’

“‘I have no doubt of it; and if circumstances favour you, I hope you

will leave M. le Dauphin far behind.’

“I bowed with a half-smile that seemed to amuse the King. But resuming

his usually grave and majestic air, he added—

“‘I particularly wished to see you, to warn you that you must take

great care that your future wife never forgets what will be due from

her to the Dauphine. Their two houses are divided, but all rivalry

must be forgotten here, which would disturb the tranquillity of

Versailles, and would supremely displease me. I know that you have

sense beyond your age, therefore I flatter myself that you will not

do, nor allow to be done, anything with regard to the Dauphine which

might displease her. Besides, your brother would not suffer it; he

loves his wife, and is determined that she shall be respected as she

deserves. Keep watch, therefore, upon yours; in fact, see that things

go on in such a manner that I am not obliged to interfere.’

“I replied to the King that this would be all the easier to me as

I had no greater wish than to be on good terms with my brother and

sister-in-law; adding: ‘I know the respect which I owe your Majesty,

and that which the heir to the throne has a right to expect from me;

in which I hope never to be accused of having failed.’

“‘Very well,’ replied the King; ‘but what I fear is, that

notwithstanding your good intentions, you will be surrounded

by persons whose influence will mislead you, and owing to evil

counsellors, your own abilities may perhaps even lead you to commit

follies.’

“‘I am certain, sire,’ I answered hastily; ‘that nobody about me will

be able to make me deviate from the line my own reason has already

marked out. But as your Majesty has introduced the subject, may I be

permitted to suggest that my sister-in-law has already near her some

one who is scarcely calculated to maintain a good understanding in the

family; I fear the partiality of the Abbé de Vermont for the House of

Austria.’

“‘Yes, my dear son,’ said the King, making use for the first time of

that paternal expression; ‘I know as well as you do that this abbé is

not well-disposed towards us; but can I take him away from a young

woman whom he has educated,[89] and who requires somebody to confide

in? Besides, she might choose worse; he is a man without personal

ambition, religious and upright, in spite of his leaning to the House

of Austria. It will be the Dauphin’s business to keep him within

proper limits; and now I have warned you about what made me most

uneasy I feel more satisfied, for I desire above all things that the

peace of my family should never be troubled.’”

The interview closed to the mutual satisfaction of the King and his

grandson, neither of them with the slightest idea of any more serious

calamity than the quarrels at court between the Houses of Lorraine

and Savoy being likely to interfere with the secure and magnificent

tranquillity of their lives. But it wanted only eighteen years and a

few months to the fall of the Bastille, and though the small-pox cut

short the life of Louis XV. before the evil days, they were seen by

many of his courtiers as old or older than himself.

But nothing would ever have induced him as long as he lived to allow

the States-General to be summoned. He regarded them with an unchanging

abhorrence which seems prophetic.

One evening, during his _coucher_, the conversation turning upon

difficulties in the financial situation owing to the refusal of the

parliaments of the different provinces to enregister certain taxes, a

man highly placed in the King’s household remarked—

“You will see, sire, that all this will necessitate the assembly of

the States-General”: whereupon Louis XV., abandoning the calm repose

of his usual manner, seized him by the arm, exclaiming vehemently—

“Never repeat those words! I am not bloodthirsty, but if I had a

brother and he were capable of offering such advice I would sacrifice

him in twenty-four hours to the duration of the monarchy and the

tranquillity of the kingdom.”[90]

It was remarked later that under Louis XIV. no one dared think or

speak; under Louis XV. they thought but dared not speak; but under

Louis XVI. every one thought and spoke whatever they chose without

fear or respect.

FOOTNOTES:

[83] Not to be confounded with Fontenay-Trésigny. There are a number

of places named Fontenay.

[84] “Mémoires de Louis XVIII.,” t. i, p. 17.

[85] “Mémoires de Louis XVIII.,” t. i, p.290.

[86] The Emperor, husband of Maria-Theresa, and father of Marie

Antoinette, was François de Lorraine.

[87] T. i, pp. 59-62.

[88] His nick-name for his second grandson.

[89] The Abbé de Vermont was the confessor of Marie Antoinette.

[90] Campan, “Mémoires des Marie Antoinette, &c., &c.,” t. i, p. 392.