[Illustration: _Happy days in the garden_]
_Life Stories for Young People_
THE
LITTLE DAUPHIN
_Translated from the German of
Franz Hoffmann_
BY
GEORGE P. UPTON
_Translator of “Memories,” author of “Upton Handbooks on Music,” editor
“Autobiography of Theodore Thomas,” etc., etc._
WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration: A. C. McCLURG & CO.]
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1905
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1905
Published September 16, 1905
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
Translator’s Preface
The story of Louis Charles, second son of Louis XVI and Marie
Antoinette, is one of the most pathetic in the history of royalty, and
has an added interest because of the attempts of many romancers and some
historical writers to raise doubts as to his fate. The brief space of
the little Dauphin’s life is measured by the awful period of the French
Revolution and Reign of Terror. Franz Hoffmann, the writer of the
original (which was published under the title of “Ein Königssohn,” or,
“A King’s Son”), follows the ordinarily accepted version that the
Dauphin was separated from the King and Queen and confined in the
Temple, and that after their execution he was deliberately and cruelly
allowed to waste away in body and become the victim of hopeless disease,
remaining thus until death ended his sufferings and the inhuman
barbarity of his keepers. In the course of his narrative the author
touches upon the most striking events of the Revolution, that “dreadful
remedy for a dreadful disease,” as it has been called, and brings out in
strong relief the character of the well-meaning but weak King and
imperious Queen, as well as that of the brutal cobbler Simon, the
Dauphin’s keeper; but the principal interest centres in the pathetic
figure of the little prince. The historic doubts raised as to the
Dauphin’s fate also lend interest to the tale. One of these has to do
with the identity of Naundorff, who passed himself off as the Duke of
Normandy, the Dauphin’s title, and the other with the Rev. Eleazar
Williams of Green Bay, Wisconsin, missionary among the Indians. The
claims put forth by friends of Williams attracted widespread attention
and provoked much discussion in this country and France, half a century
ago, because of the extraordinary coincidences attaching to the alleged
identity. It is the generally accepted verdict of history, however, that
the Dauphin was the victim of the Revolution and died in the Temple in
1795, and as such he appears in these pages. The details of his fate can
never be stated with accuracy, so involved and uncertain is the tragic
mystery, but Hoffmann’s narrative is undoubtedly correct in its general
outlines. There are almost as many different versions as there are
histories of that thrilling period.
G. P. U.
Chicago, 1905
Contents
I Sunny Days 11
II The Night of Varennes 30
III In the Temple 65
IV Separation from his Mother 79
V The Cobbler Simon 93
VI The End of Sorrows 126
Appendix 149
List of Illustrations
Happy days in the garden _Frontispiece_
_Facing page_
The King’s last farewell 76
The Cobbler and his little victim 120
The Dauphin and the sparrows 138
The Little Dauphin
Chapter I
Sunny Days
Within the grounds of the Tuileries,—that splendid palace of the King of
France,—at the end of a terrace overlooking the water, there was, in
1790, a small garden surrounded by a neat trellis and adjoining a
pavilion occupied by the Abbé Daveaux, tutor of the Dauphin, or Crown
Prince, Louis Charles.[1]
On a certain bright July morning in that year a handsome, graceful boy
about five years old entered this garden. He was richly and carefully
dressed, and was accompanied by a small detachment of soldiers in the
uniform of the National Guard, who followed him on foot to the gate in
the trellis and stationed themselves there as sentinels. The boy bowed
courteously to them and said, smiling: “I am sorry, gentlemen, my garden
is so small I cannot have the pleasure of receiving you in it, but I
will do the best I can,” and quickly gathering a handful of flowers, he
proceeded to distribute them among his escort with such winning
sweetness that the bearded soldiers could scarcely restrain their
emotion.
After busying himself for some time in this way, the boy took from a
corner one of the small but handsomely finished garden tools that had
evidently been specially adapted to his use, and went industriously to
work removing the weeds which had sprung up among the flowers, and
spading the soil of a small bed to prepare it for setting out some young
plants which he had brought with him in a pretty little basket. He
worked with such energy and absorption that beads of perspiration stood
on his forehead, and he did not observe that his tutor, the Abbé
Daveaux, had entered the little garden and was watching his labors with
loving interest.
“That will do, my Prince,” said the Abbé, finally. “You must not fatigue
yourself too much or you will not be able to give proper attention to
your lessons.”
The boy immediately laid down his tool and with a bright smile greeted
his tutor, who gently brushed the clustering curls from his flushed
face. As he stood there, glowing with health and breathless from the
exercise which had brought a bright color to his cheeks, with the frank,
fearless glance of his great blue eyes shaded by dark lashes, the wide,
fair brow, the fresh red lips, the dimple in his rounded chin, and the
almost angelic expression of innocence on his face—it would have been
hard to find a lovelier child. His figure was slender and delicate, his
motions full of grace and vivacity, while in his manner and bearing
there was something noticeably distinguished, combined with a confiding
trustfulness that won all hearts.
Universally admired for his beauty and beloved for his nobility of mind,
his tender heart, and the sweet friendliness he showed to all with whom
he came in contact, this boy was Louis Charles, Dauphin of France,
destined in the ordinary course of events to be the future ruler of one
of the mightiest kingdoms of the world. Tenderly beloved by his parents,
the unfortunate King Louis the Sixteenth and the imperious Grand Duchess
Marie Antoinette[2]; surrounded by all the pomp and splendor of a
kingdom, and sheltered with loving solicitude from every shadow of evil,
as yet he had known only the sunny days of happy, careless childhood;
but already above him were gathering the dark clouds which were to
eclipse the sunshine of his life evermore and transform the serene
happiness of his parents into bitter trouble and untold misery. Alas!
what a cruel fate had destiny reserved for this beautiful boy whose blue
eyes looked out so bravely and trustfully upon the world! But of all
this he had little foreboding as he gave himself up to the full
enjoyment of his innocent happiness with all the light-hearted
unconsciousness of a child.
“Just see, M. Abbé, how busy I have been this morning!” said the boy,
after he had given the usual morning greetings to his tutor. “I have
taken out all the weeds and planted this bed with fine asters, which
will please my mother very much when they blossom. You know, M. Abbé,
how much she loves flowers!”
“I do, indeed, my Prince,” answered M. Daveaux, “and it is very nice and
thoughtful of you to take her a nosegay every morning; but I cannot
understand why you exert yourself to do all that digging, weeding,
watering, and planting when a gardener would do it for you in a few
moments.”
The little Prince shook his head earnestly. “No, no, M. Abbé,” he
replied after a moment’s reflection; “my father gave me this garden so
that I should have the care of it. And besides,” he added with a
charming smile, “I must make these flowers grow myself, because mamma
would not like them half so well if anyone else had done it.”
“You are right, my Prince,” said the Abbé, surprised and touched by the
boy’s remark, which showed so much affection for his mother. “Go on
planting your flowers, and I hope they may thrive entirely to your
satisfaction.”
“Oh, they are growing finely, M. Daveaux,” answered the Prince, proudly.
“You will see what a large bunch I can pick in just a moment”; and with
a zeal and energy inspired by his love for his mother he examined all
the flowers in his little garden, selected the largest and freshest
blossoms, and bound them into a bouquet which he arranged with much care
and taste.
“Look, M. Abbé,” said he, holding out his nosegay with childish triumph,
“do you not think my mother will be pleased with this? It makes me very
unhappy when the weather is bad and I cannot work in my garden, for how
can I be happy, M. Abbé, when I have not earned mamma’s first kiss with
my bouquet? But now I must go and feed my rabbits, and then hurry to her
with the flowers.”
In a corner of the garden there was a small enclosure walled in with
bricks, where some pretty tame rabbits were kept by the Prince. They
recognized him with evident pleasure, and came quickly at his call as he
bountifully distributed among them fresh cabbage leaves and carrots
provided for the purpose. After this visit to his pets, the Dauphin
turned back toward the palace to make his usual morning call on his
mother, but once more he was detained.
Before the iron railings that separated the garden from the open street
stood a poor woman, who was gazing at the Prince with longing eyes, but
had not ventured to address him. Perceiving instantly that she seemed to
be in trouble, he approached her and asked kindly: “What is the matter,
my good woman? Can I do anything for you?”
The woman burst into tears. “Oh, my Prince,” she stammered, “I am very
poor and have a sick child at home,—it is a boy, my Prince, and just as
old as you,—and he is waiting anxiously for my return. But I cannot bear
to go back to him with empty hands!”
“Wait a moment,” replied the Prince, after he had convinced himself that
the woman was really poor and needy. “I am going to see my mother, and
will be back directly.”
With hasty steps he ran on, and disappeared in the palace; but in less
than ten minutes he was back again with a beaming face.
“Here, my good woman,” he said in his gentle voice, as he handed her a
bright new gold piece through the railings, “that is from my mother. And
this,” he added, snatching one of the finest roses from his garden,
“this is from me for your sick boy. I hope he will soon be well again”;
and before the astonished woman could utter her thanks the little
Dauphin had vanished again, hardly hearing the loud acclamations of the
crowd which had gathered outside the palings and witnessed his generous
deed.
At no time was the young Prince gayer or more charming than with his
mother, whom he adored above all the world. As she did not wish his mind
overtaxed with learning during his tender years, she taught him herself
the rudiments of his education before giving him into the hands of his
tutor, and nothing could equal the motherly care and solicitude she
bestowed on the task. If the boy became weary, the Queen would seat
herself at the piano or harp and play for him little melodies, full of
expression, which she had either learned or composed herself, observing
with pleasure that his ear was very sensitive to the charm of melody; or
she would sometimes read to him fairy tales, fables, or stories from
history, to which the little Prince listened with the liveliest
interest. Every emotion aroused by these appeals to his imagination
showed itself on his sensitive, animated features. Exclamations of
wonder or excitement occasionally escaped him at the recital of stirring
events or adventures which his mind could readily grasp; but whenever
anything escaped his comprehension or was not clear to him, his brow
clouded, and a stream of questions immediately followed. Nor was he
satisfied until he fully understood. At such times he often astonished
those about him with observations and reflections that awakened the
liveliest hopes for the future of the royal child,—hopes unhappily
doomed to be so soon blasted!
After the little Dauphin had made the poor woman happy with his gift, he
returned for a moment to his mother to thank her again for the gold
piece, and then went to give the King his morning greetings.
“What is this I hear, my dear Charles?” said the King, smiling and
shaking his finger at the Prince. “M. Hue has been telling me strange
things of you.” M. Hue was one of the Prince’s attendants.
“What things, papa?” asked the boy. “I don’t remember doing anything
bad.”
“No? Think well, Charles. Yesterday, while you were reciting your
lesson, you began to whistle. Did you not deserve a rebuke for that?”
The Prince colored. Then he answered quietly: “Yes, papa, I remember. I
repeated my lesson so badly that I whistled to myself.”
“Nevertheless you see it was heard,” replied the King. “You may be
forgiven for that, however, but we have not come to the end yet.
Afterwards you were in such high spirits that you tried to run away and
dash through the rose-bushes in the garden. M. Hue warned you, and said,
‘Monseigneur, a single one of those thorns might wound your face badly,
or even put out your eye!’ And what answer did Monseigneur make?”
Somewhat abashed, the Prince lowered his eyes. “I said: ‘It is the
thorny path that leads to glory!’ And is not that true, papa?”
The King’s face assumed a more serious expression. “Yes, yes, the
principle is right,” he answered, “but you have misapplied it, my child.
There is no glory in risking your eyesight merely to gratify a
mischievous impulse. If it had been a question of killing a dangerous
beast, of rescuing a human being from peril, in short, if you had risked
your life to save another, that might have been called glory; but your
act, Charles, was simply thoughtless and imprudent. Beside, child, you
had better wait and not talk of glory until you are able to read the
history of your ancestors and our French heroes like Guesclin, Bayard,
Turenne, and many others who have defended our crown with their blood.”
This mild but earnest exhortation made a deep impression on the heart of
the young Prince. He seized his father’s hand, kissed it, and said in a
low voice, “Very well, dear papa, after this I will find my glory in
following your counsels and in obeying you.”
“Then we are good friends again,” answered the King; “and now we will
look over your exercises for a few moments, so that M. Hue and M.
Daveaux may be pleased with you.”
The King, as well as the Queen, observed with pride the talents of his
son, and it afforded him much pleasure to be present during the lesson
hours and examine the exercises and copy-books. He frequently instructed
the Prince himself, and by his praise or censure encouraged in the boy a
habit of diligence and attention to what was being impressed upon his
mind. Together with his wife he guided the education of the young
Prince, and even continued the practice in later and less happy days,
when, deprived of his crown, he had to accustom himself to the gloom of
a prison cell.
Soon the Abbé Daveaux appeared, and the usual instruction in religion,
reading, history, and geography began. The Prince was particularly
attentive on this day, for his father’s gentle admonition had sunk deep
into his heart and spurred his zeal to the utmost.
“You have been very bright and industrious to-day, my Prince,” said M.
Daveaux, when study-time was over, “and I am glad, therefore, that I
have a pleasant piece of news for you.”
“What news?” asked the Prince, quickly.
“This,—that a company of small soldiers has been formed in Paris under
the name of ‘Regiment of the Dauphin,’ which wishes to have you for its
Colonel. I am sure you will accept this post of honor with pleasure.”
“Yes, indeed, if papa will allow me!” replied the Prince, with sparkling
eyes.
“Your papa,” answered the King himself, “has not only already given his
consent, but is willing for you to receive the young gentlemen who have
come to pay their respects to their new Colonel.”
“Come already? Where shall I find them?” asked the Prince, eagerly.
“In your garden,” replied the King. “M. Daveaux will be good enough to
accompany you.”
Beaming with joy, the Crown Prince hastened with his tutor to the
garden, where he greeted the little deputation, most of whom were not
more than four or five years older than himself, with graceful courtesy
and announced his readiness to accept the post of Colonel of their
regiment.
“Now it will be adieu to your flowers and the nosegays for your mamma, I
suppose?” said the Abbé.
“Oh, no!” returned the Dauphin, gayly, “reviewing my Grenadiers will not
prevent me from taking care of my flowers. Some of these young soldiers
have little gardens of their own; they will love the Queen, too, like
their Colonel, and in the future, instead of a single one, mamma will
receive a whole regiment of bouquets every day.”
The little soldiers loudly applauded their new commander’s speech, and
the best relations were at once established between them and continued
without a break for several weeks. His small Guards afforded the Prince
the greatest pleasure, until they were dispersed in the stormy times
which soon followed.
By this time the day was considerably advanced, and the Abbé was obliged
to remind his pupil that his mother would be waiting for him and he must
dismiss the envoys of the Regiment of the Dauphin. The Prince gave his
hand courteously to his little comrades and followed his tutor to the
Queen’s apartment. His reception, however, was by no means such as he
expected. His mother greeted him with a very serious face and gave him
only her cheek to kiss instead of the usual embrace. Prince Louis
Charles, who was acutely sensitive, perceived at once that something was
amiss and looked at his mother timidly and somewhat perplexed.
“What fault have I committed now, mamma?” he asked.
“Ah, the young gentleman’s conscience troubles him already,” replied the
Queen. “Perhaps he can tell me about the trick that was played on the
page who attended him yesterday on the terrace. I hope he will not
attempt to deny it!”
The Prince’s delicate face grew crimson, for he remembered very well to
what his mother referred. The day before, while they were walking
together, he had mischievously taken a flute from his companion’s pocket
and hidden it in a fir-tree on the terrace. In a faltering voice he
confessed his guilt.
“Very good,” said the Queen; “your confession mitigates your fault
somewhat, but nevertheless such pranks cannot be passed over without
punishment. It is out of the question, of course, to imprison the newly
appointed Colonel of a regiment, but there is Mouflet! Mouflet was with
you at the time. He was in a way the accomplice of his master, and since
that master may not be punished, Mouflet must suffer for him. Let
Mouflet be called and placed in arrest for two hours!”
Mouflet was a pretty little dog, dearly loved by the Prince, and on this
affection the Queen relied in her punishment of the Dauphin. Nor was she
mistaken as to its effect.
Confined in a dark little cabinet, deprived alike of his freedom and the
sight of his young master, poor Mouflet began to whine dolefully, to
scratch at the door, and finally to howl with all his might. His
lamentations found an echo in the tender heart of the real culprit and
filled it with pity and remorse. Weeping, he hastened to his mother and
tearfully kissed her hand.
“But, mamma,” said he, “Mouflet is not the one who has done wrong. Why
should the poor dog be punished? Oh, please set him free and put me in
his place!”
Delighted as the Queen was at this proof of the Prince’s sense of
justice, and gladly as she would have pardoned him, she felt that for
the sake of discipline she must not yield to her feelings, and replied
gravely: “Very well, since you feel that you deserve the punishment, I
will not prevent you from enduring it. You may release poor Mouflet and
be locked up in his place for an hour.”
Rejoiced at this decision, the Prince accepted his sentence at once and
even extended it beyond the allotted time. But this was not all. In the
solitude of his prison he began to reflect upon his behavior, and told
himself that even though he had atoned for his fault the wrong had not
yet been righted. He resolved that as soon as he was at liberty he would
go to the garden, get the flute from its hiding-place, and give it back
to his playmate with a request for forgiveness. A loving glance, a
tender caress from his mother, were the rewards of his victory over
himself; and these signs that he was forgiven made the little Prince so
happy and contented that for the rest of the day he was the most polite
and well-behaved of boys and gave not the slightest occasion for a word
or even a look of reproof.
Some days later, on the fourteenth of July, 1790, a great _fête_ was
held on the Champ de Mars[3] in Paris, as in all the other cities of
France, to celebrate the inauguration of the new _régime_. The storm of
the Revolution which had broken out in the previous year seemed to have
passed away with this celebration, and there was a general feeling of
hope and cheerful expectancy even among the opponents of the new order
of things. All the people, without distinction of rank or class, had
contributed to the erection of a huge amphitheatre-like structure built
around the Champ de Mars, and in its construction had treated one
another like members of one great family. Even the heavy gusts of rain
which ushered in the long-talked-of day failed to dampen the ardor of
the deputies and the vast throng of people assembled there. The endless
processions followed each other in perfect order; and at last the sun
burst forth triumphantly from the mists and rain clouds. First,
Lafayette[4] mounted the steps of the high altar erected under the open
sky, where Talleyrand,[5] Bishop of Autun, with sixty priests, read the
Mass and consecrated the banners of the eighty-three districts of
France, and swore, with the colors of Paris in his hand, in the name of
the National Guard and the army of France, to be true to the law and the
King; then the President of the National Assembly, rising from his seat
at the right of the King, took the same oath; and finally the King
himself arose and swore with uplifted arms to use all the power bestowed
on him by the law and the new Constitution for their maintenance. At
this instant, while cannon thundered and trumpets blared, loud shouts
arose. The Queen, who was on a raised dais beside the throne, carried
away by the excitement of the moment, lifted her son, the Dauphin, high
in her arms to show him to the people and also to let him share in the
oaths. The lovely child, smiling and radiant, stretched out his innocent
arms as though to invoke a blessing from Heaven upon France, whereat the
multitude that witnessed the charming sight broke forth into cheers and
deafening huzzas that rent the ragged clouds and penetrated to the
heavens above.
The envoys of the people thronged about the little Dauphin to offer him
their loyalty and homage, which the Prince received with such grace and
childish dignity that the enthusiasm broke out afresh, and thousands of
hearts vowed unswerving allegiance to this child whose innocent breast
seemed to harbor no thoughts but those of peace and good-will to men.
The King and Queen embraced each other, many eyes were filled with
tears, and a general reconciliation seemed to have closed forever the
abyss of the Revolution which had threatened to engulf unhappy France.
These were still sunny days; but, alas! they were the last to shine upon
the well-meaning King and his unfortunate consort. Fate had doomed them
to misfortune, and “misfortune travels swiftly.”