THE COMTE DE CHAMBORD AND HIS PARTY
I had had the honour to be introduced to the Comte de Chambord in
Vienna, long before the fall of the Empire had once more put him forward
as a Pretender to the throne of France; I had even once or twice been
invited to Frohsdorf. These visits always left me a sadder if not a
wiser man. They were more like a pilgrimage to an historical monument,
than a visit to a living man. Everything seemed dead in that small,
unpretentious house, for it could hardly be called a castle, in which
the last direct descendant of Louis XIV. was ending his uneventful
existence. The walls themselves told you of something that was past and
gone, and the inhabitants of this living grave flitted like ghosts of
the great traditions that were embodied in them. Everything was
dignified, solemn, and hushed. The rooms were small, but full of great
things and mementoes, from the large equestrian portrait of Henri IV.,
to the stately picture of Louis XVI., and the smiling one of unfortunate
Marie Antoinette. Lackeys in the blue livery of the House of France, met
you at the door, and ushered you into an unpretentious study, where,
sitting at a table littered with books and papers, the Comte de Chambord
was awaiting his visitors.
He was a most charming man, with grand manners, and much stateliness,
but one on whom the many deceptions of his life had left their impress,
and aged before his time. He always questioned all those whom he was
about France, Paris, and everything that was going on there, taking the
liveliest interest in his country, but not understanding it at all, and
not realising that the France of after the Revolution was no longer the
France which the old Bourbon monarch had ruled. He had strong
principles, earnest convictions, was in the full sense of the term a
“chevalier sans peur et sans reproche,” but he harboured no illusions as
to his possibilities of playing any part in the political life of his
country. Had he had any children it is probable that he would have tried
to reconcile the traditions of his family with the requirements of
modern France, but in presence of the fact that with him the elder
branch of the House of Bourbon was coming to an end, he must have had
the feeling, though he never owned to it in public, that there was no
necessity for him to abdicate any part of the inheritance of his
ancestors, in order to benefit the Orleans dynasty who had sent his
great-uncle to the scaffold, and had tried to dishonour his own mother.
He was too much of a gentleman not to have received with politeness the
overtures of his cousins when they made up their minds to come and pay
their respects to him at Frohsdorf; but he could not, and would not,
affect in regard to them a cordiality which he did not really feel.
The Comte de Chambord was essentially _un homme d’autrefois_; he never
shirked what he considered to be his duty, but who would never give
himself the appearance of liking what he did not, or of respecting what
did not deserve respect. He had grand manners that savoured of hauteur,
and left one in no doubt as to what he thought or believed. Life had
been one long disappointment to him, which he had accepted with a true
Christian spirit, devoid of the slightest shade of rebellion, and he had
picked up his burden, and carried it nobly to the end. He died wrapped
in the folds of the old flag which he had refused to renounce, even
when a crown would have rewarded him for its abandonment.
At Frohsdorf he led the existence of a country gentleman; there was no
semblance of a Pretender about him. As he once said to a visitor who
very tactlessly had remarked upon it: “I am not a Pretender, and do not
need give myself the appearance of one. I am a principal for those who
see in me their King.”
And yet there was much that was kingly in that quiet Austrian domain, to
which the Duchesse d’Angoulême had retired towards the end of her
earthly career, and which she had bequeathed to her nephew. The big
drawing-room where one assembled in the evenings after dinner had a
vague appearance of a palace, though the master of it did his best to
put his visitors at their ease; but the Comtesse de Chambord sitting in
her big arm-chair by a round table, upon which her needlework was laid,
or bending over the stitches of her tapestry, looked every inch a
sovereign, in spite of the knitted scarf which she often tied round her
head, or the extreme simplicity of her black silk dress, made quite high
to the throat and finished by a plain white linen collar. The atmosphere
of the room, too, was laden with a hush and solemnity that at once made
one feel and understand that one was not in the dwelling of a common
mortal. These evenings were anything but amusing, though the Comte did
his best to keep the ball of conversation rolling; but somehow it was
impossible to give it a frivolous turn, or to drive away an impression
that everyone in the room was waiting for something. What, of course,
was not known; but one was waiting, waiting like the son of the murdered
Duc de Berry had been waiting ever since his birth, for the call of his
country, which never came, or at least not in the way in which he would
have cared to respond to it.
A great deal has been said concerning the attempt at a monarchical
restoration that had taken place during the presidency of Marshal
MacMahon, and the circumstances which had accompanied it have not been
commented upon in a manner favourable to the Comte de Chambord. I was in
Versailles at the time it occurred, and from what came to my knowledge I
do not think that the real reasons which influenced Henri V., as his
adherents called him, have ever been known in their entirety. One has
spoken of the flag and of the reluctance of the Pretender to accept the
tricolour, but what has never been revealed to this day is that a
compromise had been suggested by a clever French politician who had been
consulted. Gifted with a singular gift of observation, this politician
was very well _au courant_ of the feelings of the different parties
which were represented in the National Assembly, and consequently he was
in a position to give sound advice to those who had recourse to his
experience.
His compromise was that the national flag should remain the tricolour,
whilst the King would keep for his own personal emblem the white cravat
of his ancestors, that alone would be borne before him on all State
ceremonies which were not purely military ones. Strange to say, the
Comte de Chambord had at first appeared willing to consent,
understanding well, in spite of the prejudices of his earlier education,
that he would be obliged to make some concessions to the times before he
could hope to be accepted by France as its legitimate King. But, before
giving his final adherence to this compromise, he wished to know the
opinion of his cousin, the Comte de Paris, and to learn from him whether
or not he would, when in due course he succeeded him, ratify this
arrangement, and maintain its clauses. The Comte de Paris refused to
assume the responsibility of saying yes, and replied evasively that his
uncle the Duc d’Aumale ought to be consulted. The latter, however,
declared that he could not advise his nephew, but that it would be
difficult in his opinion for an Orleans prince to forget that the fate
of his dynasty was bound up with that of the tricolour banner, and that
to renounce it even in part, was to renounce the glorious principles of
the Monarchy of July. This answer, when it became known to the Comte de
Chambord, did away with his last hesitation. Urged by the strong
dynastic feelings that swayed him, he might have made up his mind to
sacrifice some part of his principles to the welfare of his race; but
only if this sacrifice would have been of some use to it. Seeing that it
would only be interpreted as a desire on his part to put on his head a
crown he did not care for, and which in his inmost heart he did not
think he had either the strength or the ability to carry or to defend,
he gave up every idea of winning it by means of a compromise where, in
the best of cases, some of his own personal dignity would have
foundered; and after a short stay in France, he returned to his beloved
Frohsdorf, to die there a few years later, the last of the Burgraves of
his generation.
I had occasion to see him during the short stay which he made at
Versailles under an incognito which was only discovered by a very few.
We took a walk together in the park, and along the alleys of that garden
of Trianon, where the young and frivolous Queen, so brutally murdered by
the bloody Revolution which she had neither foreseen nor understood, had
walked together with the lovely Lamballe and her train of gay courtiers.
Everything looked sad, and deserted, and abandoned; it all spoke of a
dead past, and of a departed glory. Suddenly the Comte de Chambord
stopped in his walk, and turning to me said those memorable words which
I have never forgotten: “What a pity that this place was not entirely
destroyed in 1793!”
I looked at him with surprise.
“You are astonished to hear me say such a thing,” he continued, “but let
me explain to you my thoughts, and you will understand me better.
Royalty, like so many other things, is a prejudice, at least for the
masses who have neither traditions nor principles. It represents, or at
least ought to represent to them, something that is strong, powerful,
entirely above them, beyond them; something sacred, that no power save
that of God may touch or may destroy. Once this feeling concerning it is
gone, half its prestige is gone too. The mob only respects what it can
neither harm nor kill. If it once sees that royalty, like everything
else, can be touched with a sacrilegious hand, that it is at the mercy
of the first boy or man in the street, then the mob not only loses every
fear, but also its veneration. It rejoices to see that it has got over
the feeling of awe which formerly inspired it with regard to that
superior thing which ruled it; it delights in pulling it down, and in
treasuring the remembrance of the day on which it smashed it to the
ground. Now nothing reminds one more of deeds done, whether good or bad,
than the spots where such deeds were committed.
“The French people, when looking at Versailles, and walking freely
through the rooms where Kings formerly reigned, can always think, speak
and remember, with something of that low pride which a boxer feels when
he has knocked his adversary to the ground, of the time when they
destroyed the power which had ruled them, and feasted in the halls of
their former masters. That remembrance is most unwholesome, and can only
foster rebellious feelings in the breasts of those who treasure it. Had
Versailles been destroyed the Revolution of course would not have been
forgotten, but the nation would not always have had before its eyes the
sight of the monument of the fallen grandeur of its Kings. Facts are
forgotten or lose their importance far quicker than one thinks; but
places, and spots, keep their eloquence, and unfortunately keep it for
ever.”
He stopped, and looked back towards the walls of the massive old pile,
whose many windows were blazing in the setting sun. And once more he
sighed: “Yes, I do regret that this place has not been burned down and
destroyed; it would not have witnessed then the triumph of the
victorious Prussian eagle, and after that, what real French King would
care to live in it, even if a King ever reigns again in France!”
He sighed yet again, and we slowly retraced our steps towards the town.
As we passed the Castle gates, he stopped again: “Sic transit gloria
mundi,” he quoted; “my glory, like that of my ancestors, has passed
away; perhaps it is for the best after all, since I was not destined to
see my race continue!”
Much has been related concerning the interview which the Comte de
Chambord had with Marshal MacMahon, when he asked him whether or not he
would feel inclined to favour a monarchical restoration. It has been
said that the old soldier, who without scruple had accepted the
succession of Napoleon III., to whom he owed his title and his dignity,
found that his conscience would not allow him to “betray,” as he
expressed himself, the Republican government, at the head of which he
had been called by a parliamentary majority who had done so only in the
hope that he would help it to reinstate its former Kings.
There is some truth in this reproach, because certainly MacMahon had not
shown himself before, and did not show himself in the future, so very
chary of offending public opinion as represented by the Legislative
Assembly which was supposed to be the voice of the country. But in the
_non possumus_ which he opposed to the restoration of the Comte de
Chambord,
[Illustration:
_Photo: Pierre Petit, Paris._
ADOLPHE THIERS]
[Illustration:
_Photo: Walery, Paris._
MARSHAL MACMAHON]
[Illustration:
_Photo: Pierre Petit, Paris._
COMTE DE CHAMBORD]
[Illustration:
_Photo: Carjal, Paris._
LEON GAMBETTA]
there was something else than the desire to remain himself at the head
of the State. There was a tacit pledge which he had given to the Orleans
dynasty to support its pretensions, and also the feeling that he did not
enjoy sufficient popularity among the army to enforce a change of
government, and to bring back a dynasty which had been driven out of the
country by its own faults. MacMahon was not clever, not far-seeing, but
he knew very well what the troops thought of him, and also that at that
moment the disaster of Sedan was not sufficiently forgotten for him to
risk being punished for it under another pretext, which his lending his
hand to an attempt at a monarchical restoration would have furnished.
The Comte de Chambord returned to Frohsdorf a sadder though not a wiser
man. He was not fortunate in his advisers; the leaders of the Legitimist
party did not understand either the feelings of France nor the strength
which they undoubtedly wielded at that particular moment. Instead of
doing their best to effect a reconciliation between the different
opinions that divided the country, they tried, on the contrary, to
exasperate them, and prevented their own triumph by the insolence with
which they proclaimed everywhere that its hour had struck. France, at
that time, was like a man recovering from a severe illness, whose whole
body is sore, and who wants to be handled with the greatest gentleness.
The Legitimists ignored this condition, and loudly boasted that the time
had come when all past grievances would be avenged, and when they should
be allowed to rule according to their own prejudices, bringing back to
power with them all the old traditions against which the saner elements
in the land had risen in revolt eighty-five years before. They wanted to
make a clean slate, and wash out the remembrance of everything that had
taken place since Louis XVI. had been murdered on the scaffold. The
feeling might have been a natural one; the utterance of it was stupid in
the extreme.
Many have wondered at the want of initiative shown by Henri V., as he
was called by his partisans. I, who have known him well, saw nothing
extraordinary in this. As I have already hinted, he was quite willing to
be carried to the throne, but he had no desire to occupy it, and still
less to step upon it bound by promises and pledges, which would have
interfered with his liberty of action, a thing of which he had always
been extremely jealous. He had in him all the authority of the Kings his
forefathers, and would no more have submitted to the advice of his
courtiers than he would have sacrificed his principles to win back his
lost inheritance. He wanted, above all things, to keep his _libre
arbitre_, and this explains the apparent apathy with which he witnessed
the overthrow of what had been the hopes of his followers rather than
his own.
Two years later I called upon the Comte de Chambord at Frohsdorf, during
an absence of the Comtesse, in whose presence it was always more or less
difficult to discuss political questions, and we talked over those days.
Every hope of a monarchical restoration had faded then, and the Republic
was more or less an accomplished fact. He seemed to take it as a natural
consequence of all the mistakes committed by the different governments
that had ruled in France, and if the truth be told, I think he preferred
its having overcome all opposition, to the possibility of its being
superseded either by the Bonaparte, or the Orleans dynasty, which he
recognised, but could not accept as the successor of his own rights. The
grand seigneur that he was could not adjust himself to this hankering
after a “popularité de bas aloi,” as he described it, which had ever
distinguished the younger branch of the house of Bourbon since the days
of Philippe Egalité. He refused to profess the theory that it did not
matter with whom one shook hands, provided one washed one’s own
afterwards. On the contrary, he was of opinion that certain contacts can
never be got rid of, no matter how much soap and water one uses to
efface them. It was partly on account of that feeling that he did not
regret circumstances had interfered with the monarchical restoration,
for which so many people had hoped, and he made me understand what he
thought of it by saying, among other things, that: “A royalty that has
once come down into the street is no longer royalty such as it was
understood in the days of old, when the principle of the ‘droit Divin’
was the foremost among those one had been taught to respect and to
worship. We Bourbons of the old stock cannot bow before the popularity
of the mob, and try to make it accept our own. We can work for the
people, act in unison with the nation in all grave questions where its
welfare is in question; we cannot accept its sovereign right to dictate
to us its laws. I know that my ideas are out of fashion, ‘que je suis
démodé,’ but whom do I hurt by clinging to my old traditions, to the
ancient glories of my house, which have also been those of France, it
must not be forgotten? If I had had children, I might have acted
differently; I might, or I might not; and perhaps God has done well in
refusing them to me, as they would have been the source of much conflict
in my mind. As it is I shall die solitary and alone, and with me shall
die the Bourbons of Louis XIV., those who have learnt nothing, and
forgotten nothing, as our enemies aver.”
He said the last words smilingly and jestingly, and I could not help
smiling, too, though I well knew the latent sadness that was hiding
under his apparent mirth. He was still a handsome man at that time,
though far too stout, and his lameness, although not interfering with
the dignity of his manners, still took away from what otherwise would
have been an imposing figure. But the eyes had a wonderfully kind
expression, the noble, intelligent forehead revealed a grand nature and
a beautiful soul. One could not have passed him in the street without
being struck by his appearance, and without noticing him, so completely
“grand seigneur” was he, even in his most trivial gestures. Everyone who
knew him liked him, respected him, bowed down before the purity of his
life, and the earnest, simple manner in which he performed all his
duties, even the most trifling ones. He was one of those characters one
meets with but seldom, and which reconcile one with humanity.
I never saw him again alive after that conversation, and only looked
upon him once more when he lay on his bier, having hurried to Frohsdorf
to attend his funeral. The face had an expression of great calm, and
bore but few traces of the sufferings he had endured in his last
illness. Bunches of roses were scattered on the linen sheet, that
covered him up to his chin, and over his feet was draped the white flag
that his ancestors had carried to victory; that flag over which he had
watched all his life, and which was to be buried with him in the little
chapel of Goritz near the Adriatic Sea, far away from that France he had
loved so well, from those vaults of St. Denis, whence his race had been
excluded for ever.