There may be some who refuse to take seriously a person like Albert
de Chantonnay because, forsooth, he happened to possess a sense of
the picturesque. There are, as a matter of fact, thousands of sensible
persons in the British Isles who fail completely to understand the
average Frenchman. To the English comprehension it is, for instance,
surprising that in time of stress--when Paris was besieged by a German
army--a hundred franc-tireur corps should spring into existence, who
gravely decked themselves in sombreros and red waist-cloths, and called
themselves the “Companions of Death,” or some claptrap title of a
similar sound. Nevertheless, these “Companions of Death” fought at
Orleans as few have fought since man walked this earth, and died as
bravely as any in a government uniform. Even the stolid German foe
forgot, at last, to laugh at the sombrero worn in midwinter.
It is useless to dub a Frenchman unreal and theatrical when he gaily
carries his unreality and his perception of the dramatic to the lucarne
of the guillotine and meets imperturbably the most real thing on earth,
Death.
Albert de Chantonnay was a good Royalist--a better Royalist, as many
were in France at this time, than the King--and, perhaps, he carried his
loyalty to the point that is reached by the best form of flattery.
Let it be remembered that when, on the 3rd of May, 1814, Louis XVIII.
was reinstated, not by his own influence or exertions, but by the
allied sovereigns who had overthrown Napoleon, he began at once to
issue declarations and decrees as of the nineteenth year of his reign,
ignoring the Revolution and Napoleon. Did this Bourbon really take
himself seriously? Did he really expect the world to overlook Napoleon,
or did he know as all the world knows to-day, that long after the
Bourbons have sunk into oblivion the name of Napoleon will continue to
be a household word?
If a situation is thus envisaged by a King, what may the wise expect
from a Royalist?
In the absence of the Marquis de Gemosac, Albert de Chantonnay was
considered to be the leader of the party in that quiet corner of
south-western France which lies north of Bordeaux and south of that
great dividing river, the Loire. He was, moreover, looked upon as
representing that younger blood of France, to which must be confided the
hopes and endeavours of the men, now passing away one by one, who had
fought and suffered for their kings.
It was confidently whispered throughout this pastoral country that
August Persons, living in exile in England and elsewhere, were in
familiar and confidential correspondence with the Marquis de Gemosac,
and, in a minor degree, with Albert de Chantonnay. For kings, and
especially deposed kings, may not be choosers, but must take the
instrument that comes to hand. A constitutional monarch is, by the
way, better placed in this respect, for it is his people who push the
instrument into his grasp, and in the long run the people nearly always
read a man aright despite the efforts of a cheap press to lead them
astray.
“If it were not written in the Marquis's own writing I could not
have believed it,” said Albert de Chantonnay, speaking aloud his own
thoughts. He turned the letter this way and that, examining first the
back of it and then the front.
“It has not been through the post,” he said to the Abbe, who stood
respectfully watching his face, which, indeed, inspired little
confidence, for the chin receded in the wrong way--not like the chin of
a shark, which indicates, not foolishness, but greed of gain--and the
eyes were large and pale like those of a sheep.
“Oh, Heaven forbid!” cried the Abbe. “Such a letter as that! Where
should we all be if it were read by the government? And all know that
letters passing through the post to the address of such as Monsieur
Albert are read in passing--by the Prince President himself, as likely
as not.”
Albert gave a short, derisive laugh, and shrugged his shoulders, which
made his admiring mother throw back her head with a gesture, inviting
the Abbe to contemplate, with satisfaction, the mother of so brave a
man.
“Voila,” she said, “but tell us, my son, what is in the letter?”
“Not yet,” was the reply. “It is to be read to all when they are
assembled. In the mean time--”
He did not finish the sentence in words, but by gesture conveyed that
the missive, now folded and placed in his breast-pocket, was only to
be obtained bespattered with his life's blood. And the Abbe wiped his
clammy brow with some satisfaction that it should be thus removed from
his own timorous custody.
Albert de Chantonnay was looking expectantly at the door, for he had
heard footsteps, and now he bowed gravely to a very old gentleman, a
notary of the town, who entered the room with a deep obeisance to the
Comtesse. Close on the notary's heels came others. Some were in riding
costume, and came from a distance.
One sprightly lady wore evening dress, only partially concealed by a
cloak. She hurried in with a nod for Albert de Chantonnay, and a kiss
for the Comtesse. Her presence had the immediate effect of imparting
an air of practical common-sense energy to the assembly, which it had
hitherto lacked. There was nothing of the old regime in this lady, who
seemed to over-ride etiquette, and cheerfully ignore the dramatic side
of the proceedings.
“Is it not wonderful?” she whispered aloud, after the manner of any
modern lady at one of those public meetings in which they take so
large a part with so small a result in these later days. “Is it not
wonderful?” And her French, though pure enough, was full and round--the
French of an English tongue. “I have had a long letter from Dormer
telling me all about it. Oh--” And she broke off, silenced by the dark
frown of Albert de Chantonnay, to which her attention had been forcibly
directed by his mother. “I have been dining with Madame de Rathe,” she
went on, irrepressibly, changing the subject in obedience to Albert de
Chantonnay's frown. “The Vicomtesse bids me make her excuses. She feared
an indigestion, so will be absent to-night.”
“Ah!” returned the Comtesse de Chantonnay. “It is not that. I happen to
know that the Vicomtesse de Rathe has the digestion of a schoolboy. It
is because she has no confidence in Albert. But we shall see--we shall
see. It is not for the nobility of Louis Philippe to--to have a poor
digestion.”
And the Comtesse de Chantonnay made a gesture and a meaning grimace
which would have been alarming enough had her hand and face been less
dimpled with good nature.
There were now assembled about a dozen persons, and the Abbe was kept in
countenance by two others of his cloth. There were several ladies; one
of whom was young and plain and seemed to watch Albert de Chantonnay
with a timid awe. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, seated next to the Comtesse
de Chantonnay, was the only lady who made any attempt at gay apparel,
and thus stood rather conspicuous among her companions clad in sober and
somewhat rusty black. All over the west of France such meetings of
the penniless Royalists were being held at this time, not, it has been
averred, without the knowledge of the Prince President, who has been
credited with the courage to treat the matter with contempt. About no
monarch, living or dead, however, have so many lies been written, by
friend or foe, with good or ill intent, as about him, who subsequently
carried out the astounding feat of climbing to the throne of France as
Napoleon III. And it seems certain that he has been given credit for
knowing much of which he must have been ignorant to an extent hardly
credible, even now, in face of subsequent events.
The Comtesse de Chantonnay was still tossing her head, at intervals, at
the recollection of the Vicomtesse de Rathe's indigestion. This was
only typical of the feelings that divided every camp in France at this
time--at any time, indeed, since the days of Charlemagne--for the French
must always quarrel among themselves until they are actually on the
brink of national catastrophe. And even when they are fallen into that
pit they will quarrel at the bottom, and bespatter each other with the
mud that is there.
“Are we all here?” asked Albert de Chantonnay, standing in an effective
attitude at the end of the table, with his hand on the back of his
chair. He counted the number of his fellow-conspirators, and then sat
down, drawing forward a candelabra.
“You have been summoned in haste,” he said, “by the request of the
Marquis de Gemosac to listen to the perusal of a letter of importance.
It may be of the utmost importance--to us--to France--to all the world.”
He drew the letter from his pocket and opened it amid a breathless
silence. His listeners noted the care with which he attended to gesture
and demeanour, and accounted it to him for righteousness; for they were
French. An English audience would have thought him insincere, and they
would have been wrong.
“The letter is dated from a place called Farlingford, in England. I have
never heard of it. It is nowhere near to Twickenham or Claremont, nor is
it in Buckinghamshire. The rest of England--no one knows.” Albert paused
and held up one hand for silence.
“At last,” he read--“at last, my friends, after a lifetime of fruitless
search, it seems that I have found--through the good offices of
Dormer Colville--not the man we have sought, but his son. We have long
suspected that Louis XVII. must be dead. Madame herself, in her exile at
Frohsdorff, has admitted to her intimates that she no longer hoped. But
here in the full vigour of youth--a sailor, strong and healthy, living
a simple life on shore as at sea--I have found a man whose face, whose
form, and manner would clearly show to the most incredulous that he
could be no other than the son of Louis XVII. A hundred tricks of manner
and gesture he has inherited from the father he scarce remembers, from
the grandfather who perished on the guillotine many years before he
himself was born. No small proof of the man's sincerity is the fact that
only now, after long persuasion, has he consented to place himself in
our hands. I thought of hurrying at once to Frohsdorff to present to the
aged Duchess a youth whom she cannot fail to recognize as her nephew.
But better counsels have prevailed. Dormer Colville, to whom we owe
so much, has placed us in his farther debt for a piece of sage advice.
'Wait,' he advises, 'until the young man has learned what is expected
of him, until he has made the personal acquaintance of his supporters.
Reserve until the end the presentation to the Duchesse d'Angouleme,
which must only be made when all the Royalists in France are ready to
act with a unanimity which will be absolute, and an energy which must
prove irresistible.'
“There are more material proofs than a face so strongly resembling that
of Louis XVI. and Monsieur d'Artois, in their early manhood, as to
take the breath away; than a vivacity inherited from his grandmother,
together with an independence of spirit and impatience of restraint;
than the slight graceful form, blue eyes, and fair skin of the little
prisoner of the Temple. There are dates which go to prove that this
boy's father was rescued from a sinking fishing-boat, near Dieppe, a few
days after the little Dauphin was known to have escaped from the Temple,
and to have been hurried to the north coast disguised as a girl. There
is evidence, which Monsieur Colville is now patiently gathering from
these slow-speaking people, that the woman who was rescued with this
child was not his mother. And there are a hundred details known to the
villagers here which go to prove what we have always suspected to be the
case, namely, that Louis XVII. was rescued from the Temple by the daring
and ingenuity of a devoted few who so jealously guarded their secret
that they frustrated their own object; for they one and all must have
perished on the guillotine, or at the hands of some other assassin,
without divulging their knowledge, and in the confusion and horror of
those days the little Dauphin was lost to sight.
“There is a trinket--a locket--containing a miniature, which I am
assured is a portrait of Marie Antoinette. This locket is in the
possession of Dormer Colville, who suggests that we should refrain
from using violence to open it until this can be done in France in the
presence of suitable witnesses. A fall or some mishap has so crushed the
locket that it can only be opened by a jeweller provided with suitable
instruments. It has remained closed for nearly a quarter of a century,
but a reliable witness in whose possession it has been since he, who was
undoubtedly Louis XVII., died in his arms, remembers the portrait, and
has no doubt of its authenticity. I have told you enough to make it
clear to you that my search is at last ended. What we require now is
money to enable us to bring this King of France to his own; to bring
him, in the first place, to my humble chateau of Gemosac, where he can
lie hidden until all arrangements are made. I leave it to you, my dear
Albert, to collect this preliminary sum.”
De Chantonnay folded the letter and looked at the faces surrounding the
dimly lighted table.
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who must have known the contents of the
letter, and, therefore, came provided, leaned across the table with a
discreet clink of jewellery and laid before Albert de Chantonnay a note
for a thousand francs.
“I am only an Englishwoman,” she said, simply, “but I can help.”