SOME CAUSES OF THE REVOLUTION OF 1848.
After the signing of the treaty of 1841, which restored the _entente
cordiale_ between France and England, and satisfied the other European
Powers, Louis Philippe and his family were probably in the plenitude
of their prosperity. The Duke of Orleans had been happily married;
and although his wife was a Protestant,--which was not wholly
satisfactory to Queen Marie Amélie,--the character of the Duchesse
Hélène was so lovely that she won all hearts, both in her husband's
family and among the people.
On the occasion of the _fêtes_ given in Paris at the nuptials of
the Duke of Orleans, in 1837, the sad presage of misfortune that
had accompanied the marriage festivities of Marie Antoinette was
repeated. One of the spectacles given to the Parisians was a sham
attack on a sham citadel of Antwerp in the Champ de Mars. The crowd
was immense, but all went well so long as the spectacle lasted.
When the crowd began to move away, a panic took place. The old and
the feeble were thrown down and trampled on. Twenty-four persons
were killed, the _fêtes_ were broken up, and all hearts were saddened
both by the disaster and the omen.
One part of the festivities on that occasion consisted in the opening
of the galleries of historical paintings at Versailles,--a magnificent
gift made by the Citizen King to his people.
I have spoken already of the storming of Constantine. No French
success since the wars of the Great Napoleon had been so brilliant;
yet the Chamber of Deputies, in a fit of parsimony, reduced from
two thousand to eleven hundred dollars the pension proposed by
the ministers to be settled on the widow of General Damremont,
the commander-in-chief, who had been killed by a round shot while
giving orders to scale the walls. At the same time they voted two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the year's subsidy to the
theatres of Paris for the amusement of themselves and their
constituents.
Algeria proved a valuable school for soldiers; there Lamoricière,
Changarnier, Cavaignac, Saint-Arnaud, Pélissier, and Bugeaud had
their military education. Louis Philippe's three sons were also
with the troops, sharing all the duties, dangers, and hardships
of the campaign.
By the end of 1847 Abdul Kader had retired to a stronghold in the
mountains, where, seeing that his cause was lost, he tendered his
submission to the Duc d'Aumale, then governor of Algeria. The offer
was accepted. Abdul Kader surrendered on an understanding that he
should be conducted to some Mohammedan place of refuge,--Alexandria
or St. Jean d'Acre. But this stipulation was disregarded by the
French Government, whose breach of faith has always been considered
a stain on the honor of Louis Philippe and his ministers. The Duc
d'Aumale vehemently remonstrated, believing his own word pledged
to the Arab chieftain. Abdul Kader, his wives, children, servants,
and principal officers were taken to France, and for five years
lived at Amboise, where some of the subordinate attendants, overcome
by homesickness, committed suicide. In 1852 Louis Napoleon, who
possibly had a fellow-feeling for captives, restored Abdul Kader to
liberty, who thereupon took up his residence at Damascus. There he
subsequently protected a large number of Christians from massacre,
sheltering them in his house, and giving them food and clothing. He
afterwards removed to the island of Ceylon, where, as everywhere
else, he won "golden opinions" by his generous behavior.
Meantime, while France was in some respects in the full tide of
prosperity, great discontent was growing up among the working-classes,
reinforced by the worthless class, always ready for disturbances. In
May, 1839, Barbès led an _émeute_ in Paris which might have proved
formidable. His attempt opened with a deliberate murder, and there
was considerable fighting in the streets for about twenty-four
hours. Barbès was condemned to death. The king was desirous to
spare him, and yielded readily to the prayers of his sister, for
whom an opportunity of interceding for him was obtained by the
good offices of Lamartine.
The _émeute_ of Barbès was regarded with disfavor by more experienced
conspirators, but secret societies had introduced organization
among the workmen. Moreover, they were led by the _bourgeoisie_
with a cry for parliamentary reform, which at that period was the
supposed panacea for every kind of evil.
The king was not popular. He was not the ideal Frenchman. He was
a Frenchman of the _épicier_, or small grocer, type. As a _bon
père de famille_ he was anxious to settle his sons well in life.
They were admirable young men, they deserved good wives, and as
far as grace, beauty, and amiability went, they all obtained them;
but up to 1846 not one of them had made a brilliant marriage. This
good fortune Louis Philippe hoped was reserved for his two younger
sons,--D'Aumale and Montpensier.
The Duke of Orleans was the most popular of the king's sons. Handsome,
elegant, accomplished, and always careful in his toilet, he was a
thorough Frenchman,--the approved type of an aristocrat with liberal
sympathies and ideas. He was born at Palermo in 1810, and did not
come to France till he was four years old. He had an excellent
tutor, who prepared him for his _collège_. There he took his place
entirely on a par with other boys, and gained several prizes. All
Louis Philippe's sons were sent to public schools.
The duke afterwards prepared for and entered the Polytechnic, which
is said to demand more hard study than any other school in the world.
He made his first campaign in Africa in 1835, and afterwards served
with distinction in the early part of that one which resulted in
the retreat from Constantine; but before Constantine was reached,
a severe illness invalided him. He was a liberal in politics, the
sincere friend of the working-classes, and was on intimate terms
with men of letters, even with Victor Hugo, in spite of his advanced
opinions. He was a patron of art and artists. Some beautiful
table-pieces that he had ordered, by Barye, are now in the gallery
of Mr. W. S. Walters, of Baltimore, they not having been completed
when he died. His wife charmed every one by her good sense, grace,
and goodness. They had had four years of happy married life, and
had two little sons, when, in July, 1842, the duchess went for
her health to the baths of Plombières, in the mountains of the
Vosges. Her husband escorted her thither, and then returned to
Paris, on his way to attend some military manoeuvres near Boulogne.
As he was driving out to Neuilly to make his _adieux_ to his family,
the horses of his carriage were startled by an organ-grinder on the
Avenue de Neuilly. The duke, who was alone, tried apparently to
jump out of the carriage. Had he remained seated, all would have
been well. He fell on his head on the _pavé_ of the broad avenue,
breaking the vertebral column.
He was carried into a small grocer's shop by the way-side, where
afterwards a little chapel was erected by his family. Messengers
were sent to the Château de Neuilly, and his father, mother, and
sisters, without bonnets or hats, came rushing to the spot. He
lived, unconscious, for four hours. A messenger was despatched
at once to bring his wife from Plombières. She had just finished
dressing for dinner, in full toilet, when the news reached her.
Without changing her dress, she started instantly for Paris, but
when she reached it, her husband was in his coffin.
When his will was opened, it was found to contain an earnest exhortation
to his son that, whether he proved "one of those tools that Heaven
fits for work, but does not use," or ascended the French throne,
he "should always hold in his heart, above all things, love to
France, and fidelity to the principles of the French Revolution."
Here is the poor Queen Amélie's account of the death of her son,
written to a dear friend four days after:--
"My Chartres,[1] my beloved son, he whose birth made all my happiness,
whose infancy and growing years were all my occupation, whose youth
was my pride and consolation, and who would, as I hoped, be the
prop of my old age, no longer lives. He has been taken from us in
the midst of completed happiness, and of the happiest prospects of
the future, whilst each day he gained in virtue, in understanding,
in wisdom, following the footsteps of his noble and excellent father.
He was more than a son to me,--he was my best friend. And God has
taken him from me!... On the 2d of July he and Hélène left for
Plombières, where the latter was to take the baths. He was, after
establishing her there, to come back and spend a few days at the
camp of St.-Omer, there to take command of an army corps, which
was intended to execute great military manoeuvres on the Marne,
and which had been the object of his thoughts and employments for
a year past. Accordingly, on the 9th he returned from Plombières,
and came to dine with us at Neuilly, full of the subject of the
elections, and talking of them with that warmth of heart and intellect
which was apparent in all he did. Next day--my _fête_ day--he came,
contrary to his usual custom, with an enormous bouquet, telling
me it was given in the name of the whole family. He heard mass,
and breakfasted with us. He was so cheerful. He sat beside me at
dinner. He got up, drank my health with much vivacity, and made
the band play a particular tune,--in my honor, as he said. Who
would have thought that this was the last time this dear child
was to show me so much affection! On the 11th he again returned
to dinner with us, much occupied all the time with the camp and
the elections....
[Footnote 1: It was his first title before his father came to the
throne. His mother always continued to use it.]
"On the 12th he arrived about four o'clock in his country suit. We
conversed together about the health of Hélène, which was a subject
of anxiety, about Clémentine's marriage, which he earnestly desired;
about the elections and many other subjects, the discussion of
which he always ended with the refrain: 'In short, dear Majesty,
we finish as usual by agreeing in all important particulars.' And
it was very true.
"After dinner we took a turn in the park, he and Victoire, Clémentine,
D'Aumale, and I. Never had he been so gay, so brilliant, so
affectionate. He spoke to me of his arrangements for the troops,
of the time when the king was to go with us to Ste.-Menehoulde, of
the time that he would spend there, and of his own daily occupations.
He looked forward to giving his father a representation of the
battle of Valmy. I gave him my arm, saying: 'Come, dear prop of
my old age!' And the next day he was to be alive no longer!
"We returned to the drawing-room a little late. A great many people
had arrived. He remained with us talking until ten o'clock, when
on going away he came to bid me good-night. I gave him my hand,
and said: 'You will come and see us tomorrow before going away?'
He replied: 'Perhaps so.'
"On the next day, July 13, about eleven o'clock, we were about
to get into the carriage to go to the Tuileries. As I followed
the king to the red drawing-room, I saw Troussart, the commissary
of police, with a terrified countenance whispering something to
General Gourgaud, who made a gesture of horror, and went to speak
in a low voice to the king. The king cried out: 'Oh, my God!'
Then I cried: 'Something has happened to one of my children! Let
nothing be kept from me!' The king replied: 'Yes, my dear; Chartres
has had a fall on his way here, and has been carried into a house
at Sablonville.' Hearing this, I began to run like a madwoman,
in spite of the cries of the king and the remonstrances of M. de
Chabannes, who followed me. But my strength was not equal to my
impulses, and on getting as far as the farm, I was exhausted. Happily
the king came up in the carriage with my sister, and I got in with
them. Our carriage stopped. We got out in haste, and went into the
_cabaret_, where in a small room, stretched upon a mattress on
the floor, we found Chartres, who was at that moment being bled....
The death-rattle had begun. 'What is that?' said the king to me. I
replied: '_Mon ami_, this is death. For pity's sake let some one
fetch a priest, that my poor child may not die like a dog!' and
I went for a moment into a little side room, where I fell on my
knees and implored God from my inmost soul, if He needed a victim,
to take me and spare so dear a child....
"Dr. Pasquier arrived soon after. I said to him: 'Sir, you are
a man of honor; if you think the danger imminent, I beseech you
tell me so, that my child may receive extreme unction.' He hung
his head, and said: 'Madame, it is true.'
"The _curé_ of Neuilly came and administered the sacrament while
we were all on our knees around the pallet, weeping and praying.
I unloosed from my neck a small cross containing a fragment of the
True Cross, and I put it into the hand of my poor child, that God
the Saviour might have pity on him in his passage into eternity.
Dr. Pasquier got up and whispered to the king. Then that venerable
and unhappy father, his face bathed in tears, knelt by the side
of his eldest son, and tenderly embracing him, cried; 'Oh that
it were I instead of thee!' I also drew near and kissed him three
times,--once for myself, once for Hélène, and once for his children.
I laid upon his lips the little cross, the symbol of our redemption,
and then placed it on his heart and left it there. The whole family
kissed him by turns, and then each returned to his place.... His
breathing now became irregular. Twice it stopped, and then went
on. I asked that the priest might come back and say the prayers
for the dying. He had scarcely knelt down and made the sign of
the cross, when my dear child drew a last deep breath, and his
beautiful, good, generous, and noble soul left his body.... The
priest at my request said a _De profundis_. The king wanted to
lead me away, but I begged him to allow me to embrace for the last
time my beloved son, the object of my deepest tenderness. I took
his dear head in my hands; I kissed his cold and discolored lips;
I placed the little cross again upon them, and then carried it
away, bidding a last farewell to him whom I loved so well,--perhaps
too well!
"The king led me into the next room. I fell on his neck. We were
unhappy together. Our irreparable loss was common to us both, and
I suffered as much for him as for myself. There was a crowd in that
little room. I wept and talked wildly, and I was beside myself.
I recognized no one but the unhappy Marshal Gérard, the extent of
whose misfortune I then understood.[1] After a few minutes they
said that all was ready. The body had been placed on a stretcher
covered with a white cloth. It was borne by four men of the house,
attended by two gendarmes. They went out through the stable-yard;
there was an immense crowd outside.... We all followed on foot
the inanimate body of this dear son, who a few hours before had
passed over the same road full of life, strength, and happiness....
Thus we carried him, and laid him down in our dear little chapel,
where four days before he had heard mass with the whole family."
[Footnote 1: Marshal Gérard was then mourning for his son.]
The death of the Duke of Orleans was the severest blow that could
have fallen on Louis Philippe, not only as a father, but as head
of a dynasty. The duke left two infant sons,--the Comte de Paris
and the Duc de Chartres. The former is now both the Orleanist and
Legitimist pretender, to the French throne.
In the early part of 1845 Louis Philippe, who had already visited
Windsor and been cordially received there, was visited in return at
his Château d'Eu by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, accompanied
by Lord Aberdeen, then English Minister for Foreign Affairs. The
king's reception of the young queen was most paternal. He kissed
her like a father, and did everything in his power to make her
visit pleasant. Among the subjects discussed during the visit was
the question of "the Spanish marriages."
The unfortunate Queen of Spain, Isabella II., was just sixteen years
old; her sister, the Infanta Luisa, was a year younger. Isabella
was the daughter of a vicious race, and with such a mother as she
had in Queen Christina, she had grown up to early womanhood utterly
ignorant and untrained. One of her ministers said of her that "no
one could be astonished that she had vices, but the wonder was
that she had by nature so many good qualities." Jolly, kindly,
generous, a rebel against etiquette, and an habitual breaker of
promises, she was long popular in Spain, in spite of a career of
dissoluteness only equalled by that of Catherine of Russia.
In 1846, however, she had not shown this tendency, and in the hands
of a good husband might have made as good a wife and as respectable
a woman as her sister Luisa has since proved.
There were many candidates for the honor of Queen Isabella's hand.
Louis Philippe sent his sons D'Aumale and Montpensier to Madrid to
try their fortunes; but England objected strongly to an alliance
which might make Spain practically a part of France. The candidature
of the French princes was therefore withdrawn.
A prince of the Catholic branch of the Coburgs was then
proposed,--Prince Ferdinand, who made subsequently an excellent
king-consort in Portugal; but to him France objected, as too nearly
allied to the English Crown. Finally the suitors were reduced to
three,--the queen's cousin Enrique (Henry), a rough sailor of rather
radical opinions and turbulent ways; the Comte de Trepani, a Neapolitan
prince, a man of small understanding; and another cousin, Don Francisco
d'Assis, a creature weak alike in mind and body, whom it was an
outrage to think of as fit mate for a young queen. England was
willing to consent to the queen's marrying anyone of these princes,
and also that the Duc de Montpensier should marry the Infanta Luisa,
provided that the queen was first married and had had a child. All
this was fully agreed upon in the conference at Eu. But Christina,
the queen-mother, who had been plundering the Spanish treasury till
she had accumulated an enormous fortune, offered, if Louis Philippe
would use his influence to prevent any inquiry into the state of
her affairs, to further his views as to the Duc de Montpensier.
It seems more like a scene in the Middle Ages than an actual transaction
in our own century, that at midnight, in a Spanish palace, a dissolute
Italian dowager and a French ambassador should have been engaged
in coercing a sovereign of sixteen into a detested marriage. As
morning dawned, the sobbing girl had given her consent to marry
Don Francisco, and the ambassador of Louis Philippe, pale from
the excitement of his vigil, left the palace to send word of his
disgraceful victory to his master. The Duc de Montpensier, who was
in waiting on the frontier, soon arrived in Madrid, and Isabella
and Luisa were married on the same day; while M. Guizot, who was
head of the French Government, and Louis Philippe excused their
breach of faith to the queen of England by saying that Queen Isabella
_was_ married before her sister, though on the same morning.
Isabella at once banished her unwelcome husband to a country seat,
and flung herself headlong into disgraceful excesses.
Queen Victoria was greatly hurt by the treachery displayed by Louis
Philippe and his minister, and doubtless, as a woman she was deeply
sorry for the young queen. Louis Philippe not only lost credit,
popularity, and the support he derived from the personal friendship
of the Queen and the Prince Consort of England, but he obtained no
chance of the throne of Spain for his son by his wicked devices;
for Queen Isabella, far from being childless, had three daughters
and a son. The latter, subsequently Alfonso XII., married, in spite
of much opposition, his lovely cousin Mercedes, daughter of the
Duke and Duchess of Montpensier. She died a few months after her
marriage, so that no son or grandson of Louis Philippe will be
permitted by Providence to mount the Spanish throne.
The affair of the Spanish marriages, the quarrel it involved with
Queen Victoria, and the loss to Louis Philippe of personal honor,
had a great effect upon him; he became irritable and obstinate,
and at the same time weak of will.
Troubles multiplied around him. Things with which he had nothing
whatever to do increased his unpopularity, and the secret societies
kept discontents alive. Everything that went wrong in France was
charged upon the king and the royal family.
One of the great families in France was that of Choiseul-Praslin.
The head of it in Louis Philippe's time was a duke who had married
Fanny, daughter of Marshal Sébastiani, an old officer of Napoleon
and a great favorite with Louis Philippe. The Duc de Praslin had
given in his adhesion to the Orleans dynasty, while so many old
families stood aloof, and was in consequence made an officer in
the Duchess of Orleans' household. The Duc and Duchesse de Praslin
had ten children. The duchess was a stout, matronly little woman,
rather pretty, with strong affections and a good deal of sentiment.
Several times she had had cause to complain of her husband, and
_did_ complain somewhat vehemently to her own family; but their
matrimonial differences had always been made up by Marshal Sébastiani.
The world considered them a happy married pair.
After seventeen years of married life a governess was engaged for
the nine daughters, a Mademoiselle Henriette de Luzy. She was a
Parisian by birth, but had been educated in England, had English
connections, and spoke English fluently. She was one of those women
who make a favorable impression upon everyone brought into personal
contact with them. Soon the children adored her, and it was not
long before the duke had come under the same spell. The duchess
found herself completely isolated in her own household; husband
and children had alike gone over to this stranger. The duchess
wrote pathetic letters to her husband, pleading her own affection
for him, and her claims as a wife and a mother. These letters no
doubt exasperated the duke, but we read them with deep pity for
her whose heart they lay bare.
It is to be understood that there was apparently no scandal--that
is, scandal in the usual sense--in the relations between the duke
and Mademoiselle de Luzy. She had simply bewitched a weak man who
had grown tired of his wife, and had cast the same spell over his
children; and she had not the superiority of character which would
have led her to throw up a lucrative situation because she was
making a wife and mother (whom doubtless she considered very
unreasonable) extremely unhappy.
At last things came to such a pass that Madame de Praslin appealed
to her father, insisting on a legal separation from her husband.
The marshal intervened, and the affair was compromised. Mademoiselle
de Luzy was to be honorably discharged, and the duchess was to
renounce her project of separation. Mademoiselle de Luzy therefore
gave up her situation, and went to board in a _pension_ in Paris
with her old schoolmistress. Madame de Praslin went to her country
house, the magnificent Château de Vaux, where she herself undertook
the education of her children; but in their estimation she by no
means replaced Mademoiselle de Luzy, whom from time to time they
visited in company with their father.
In the middle of the summer of 1847 it was arranged that the whole
family should go to the seaside, and they came up to Paris to pass
one night in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré at the Hôtel Sébastiani.
Like most French establishments, the Hôtel Sébastiani was divided
between the marshal and his daughter, the old marshal occupying one
floor during the winter, the duke and duchess, with their family,
the one above it, while the servants of both establishments had
their sleeping-rooms under the roof. The house was of gray stone,
standing back in a yard; the French call such a situation _entre
cour et jardin_. The duke had been in Paris several times during the
previous week, and had occupied his own rooms, where the concierge
and his wife--the only servants left in the house--had remarked
that he seemed very busy.
It was afterwards reported in the neighborhood, but I do not think
the circumstance was ever officially brought out, that the police
found subsequently that all the screws but one that held up the
heavy tester over the bed of the duchess, had been removed, and the
holes filled with wax; it is certain that the duke partly unscrewed
the bolt that fastened the door of her dressing-room.
On the evening of the family's arrival in Paris, the father and
children went in a carriage to see Mademoiselle de Luzy. She told
the duke that she could get a good situation, provided the duchess
would give her a certificate of good conduct; and the duke at parting
promised to obtain it for her.
The whole family went to bed early, that they might be ready to
start for the seaside betimes upon the morrow. The children's rooms
were in a wing of the building, at some distance from the chambers
of their father and mother. The concierge and his wife slept in
their lodge. Towards one o'clock in the morning they were awakened
by screams; but they lay still, imagining that the noise came from
the Champs Elysées. Then they heard the loud ringing of a bell,
and starting from their bed, rushed into the main building. The
noise had proceeded from the duchess's chamber. They knocked at
the door, but there was no answer, only low moans. They consulted
together, and then roused the maid and valet, who were sleeping in
the attic chambers. Again they knocked, and there was no answer.
The valet then went to the duke's room, which looked upon the garden
and communicated with the dressing-room of the duchess by a balcony
and window as well as by the door. The duke opened the door of
his chamber. He was in his dressing-gown. When he heard what was
the matter, he went at once through the window into the duchess's
chamber. There a scene of carnage unparalleled, I think, in the
history of murder met their eyes. The duchess was lying across
her bed, not yet quite dead, but beyond the power of speech. There
were more than forty wounds on her body. She must have struggled
desperately. The walls were bloody, the bell-rope was bloody, and
the floor was bloody. The nightdress of the duchess was saturated
with blood. Her hands were cut almost to pieces, as if she had
grasped the blade of the knife that killed her. The furniture was
overturned in all parts of the room.[1]
[Footnote 1: We were then living near the Hotel Sébastini. The
excitement in the neighborhood the next morning is indescribable.]
At once the valet and the concierge ran for the police, for members
of the family, and for a doctor. The duke retired to his dressing-room.
One of the gentlemen who first arrived was so sickened by the sight
of the bloody room that he begged for a glass of water. The valet
ran for the nearest water at hand, and abruptly entered the duke's
dressing-room. He had a glass with him, and was going to fill it
from a pail standing near, when the duke cried out: "Don't touch it;
it is dirty;" and at once emptied the contents out of the window,
but not before the valet had seen that the water was red with blood.
This roused his suspicions, and when all the servants in the house
were put under arrest, he said quietly to the police: "You had
better search the duke's dressing-room."
When this was done there could be no more doubt. Three fancy daggers
were found, one of which had always hung in the chamber of the
duchess. All of them were stained with blood. The duke had changed
his clothes, and had tried to wash those he took off in the pail
whose bloody water he had thrown away. Subsequently it was conjectured
that his purpose had been to stab his wife in her sleep, and then
by a strong pull to bring down upon her the heavy canopy. The bolt
he had unscrewed permitted him at dead of night quietly to enter
her chamber.
The police were puzzled as to how they ought to treat the murderer.
As he was a peer of France, they could not legally arrest him without
authority from the Chamber of peers, or from the king. The royal
family was at Dreux. The king was appealed to at once, and immediately
gave orders to arrest the duke and to summon the peers for his
trial. But meantime the duke, who had been guarded by the police
in his own chamber, had contrived to take poison. He took such
a quantity of arsenic that his stomach rejected it. He did not
die at once, but lingered several days, and was carried to prison
at the Luxembourg, where the poison killed him by inches. He died
untried, having made no confession.
His son, who was very young at the time of his parents' death,
married an American lady when he grew to manhood. It was a long
courtship, for the young duke's income went largely to keep in
repair his famous Château de Vaux, where Fouquet had entertained
Louis XIV. with regal magnificence. Finally a purchaser was found
for the ancestral seat; and relieved of the obligations it involved,
the duke married, and retired to his estates in Corsica.
As to Mademoiselle de Luzy, she was tried for complicity in the
murder of the duchess, and acquitted. There was no evidence whatever
against her. But popular feeling concerning her as the inciting
cause of the poor duchess's death was so strong that by the advice
of her pastor--the Protestant M. Coquerel--she changed her name and
came to America. She brought letters of introduction to a family
in Boston, who procured her a situation as governess in Connecticut.
There she soon after married a Congregational minister.
It seems hard to imagine how such a tragedy could have borne its
part among the causes of Louis Philippe's downfall; but those who
look into Alison or Lamartine will see it set down as one of the
events which greatly assisted in bringing about the revolution of
February. Mobs, like women, are often swayed by persons rather
than by principles.
It was believed by the populace that court favor had prevented
the duke from going to prison like any common criminal, and that
the same influence had procured him the poison by which he escaped
a public execution.