A FRIEND OF
MARIE-ANTOINETTE
(LADY ATKYNS)

Madame Charlotte Atkyns.

(After a miniature in the possession of Count Lair.)

[Frontispiece.

A FRIEND OF
MARIE-ANTOINETTE
(LADY ATKYNS)

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH
OF
FRÉDÉRIC BARBEY

WITH A PREFACE
BY
VICTORIEN SARDOU
OF THE FRENCH ACADEMY

LONDON
CHAPMAN & HALL, Ltd.
1906

PREFACE

When I brought out at the Vaudeville in 1896 my play, entitled Paméla, Marchande de Frivolités, in which I had grouped together dramatically, with what verisimilitude I could, all the various Royalist attempts at rescuing the son of Louis XVI., the Dauphin, from the prison of the Temple, there were certain scholars who found fault with me for representing an Englishwoman, Lady Atkyns, as the protagonist, or at least the prime mover in the matter of his escape. Some of them went so far as to accuse me of having invented this character for the purpose of my piece.

Lady Atkyns, certainly, has left but few traces of her existence; she was a Drury Lane actress, pretty, witty, impressionable, and good—it seems there were many such among the English actresses of the time. Married (we shall see presently how it came about) to a peer, who gave her wealth at least, if not happiness, and who does not appear to have counted for much in her life, Lady Atkyns became a passionate admirer of Marie-Antoinette; she was presented to the Queen at Versailles, and when the latter was taken to the Temple, the responsive Englishwoman made every effort to find her way into the prison. She succeeded by the use of guineas, which, in spite of the hatred professed for Pitt and Coburg, were more to the taste of certain patriots than the paper-money of the Republic.

Lady Atkyns suggested that the Queen should escape dressed in her costume, but the Royal prisoner would not forsake her children. There is a tradition that in refusing the offer of her enthusiastic friend, Marie-Antoinette besought her good offices for the young Dauphin, while putting her on her guard against the intrigues of the Comte de Provence and the Comte d’Artois. However, most of these facts were still in doubt, resting only on somewhat vague statements, elliptical allusions, and intangible bits of gossip, picked up here and there, when, one day, my friend Lenôtre, who is great at ferreting out old papers, came to me, all excitement, with a document which he had come upon the evening before in a portfolio among the Archives of the Police.

It was a letter, dated May, 1821, and addressed to the Minister by the director of the penitential establishment of Gaillon. This official was disturbed over the proceedings of a certain “Madame Hakins or Aquins.” Since the false Dauphin, Mathurin Bruneau, sentenced by the Court of Rouen to five years’ imprisonment, had become an inmate of that institution, this foreigner had installed herself at Gaillon, and had been seeking to get into communication with the prisoner. She seemed even to be bent upon supplying him with the means of making his escape.

I drew from this the obvious conclusion that if in 1821, Lady Atkyns could bring herself to believe in the possibility of Mathurin Bruneau being the son of Louis XVI., it must be because she had good reasons for being convinced that the Dauphin had escaped from the Temple. And this conviction of hers became of considerable importance because of the rôle she herself had played (however little one knew of it) in the story of the Royal captivity.

It was quite clear that after her promise to the Queen, the faithful Englishwoman, who, as we have seen, was not afraid to compromise herself, and who was generous with her money, must have kept in touch at least with all the facts relating to the Dauphin’s imprisonment, learning all that was to be learnt about the Temple, questioning everybody who could have had any contact with the young captive—warders, messengers, doctors, and servants. If after such investigations, and in spite of the official records and of the announcement of his death on June 9, 1798, she could still believe twenty-six years later that the prince might be alive, it can only be because she was satisfied that the dead youth was not the Dauphin.

Had she herself got the Dauphin out of prison? Or had she merely had a hand in the rescue? By what process of reasoning had she been able to persuade herself that an adventurer such as this Bruneau, whose imposture was manifest, could be the Dauphin? Why, if she believed that the Prince had been carried away from the Temple, had she kept silence so long? If this was not her belief, why did she interest herself in one of those who had failed most pitifully in the impersonation of the prince? Lenôtre and I could find no answer to all these questions. To throw light upon them, it would have been necessary to undertake minute researches into the whole life of Lady Atkyns, following her about from place to place, learning where she lived during the Revolution, ascertaining the dates of all her sojourns in Paris, studying all the facts of her existence after 1795, together with the place and date of her death, the names of her heirs, the fate of her correspondence and other papers—a very laborious piece of work, still further complicated by the certainty that it would be necessary to start out upon one’s investigations in England. We did not abandon all idea of the task, however; but time lacked—time always lacks!—and we talked of it as a task that must wait for a year of leisure, knowing only too well that the year of leisure would never come.

Chance, upon which we should always count, settled the matter for us. Chance brought about a meeting between Lenôtre and a young writer, just out of the École des Chartes, M. Frédéric Barbey, very well informed, both through his earlier studies and through family connections, concerning what it is customary to designate “la Question Louis XVII.” M. Barbey had the necessary leisure, and he was ready to undertake any kind of journey that might be entailed; he revelled in the idea of the difficulties to be coped with in what would be to him an absorbing task. Lenôtre introduced him to me, and I felt certain from the first that the matter was in good hands. M. Barbey, in truth, is endowed with all the very rare qualities essential to this kind of research—a boundless patience, the flair of a collector, the aplomb of an interviewer, complete freedom from prejudice, and the indomitable industry and ardent zeal of an apostle.

M. Barbey set out for England at once, and came back a fortnight later, already possessed of a mass of valuable information regarding the early life of our English Royalist, including this specific item: Lady Atkyns died in Paris, in the Rue de Lille, in 1836. An application to the greffe de paix of the arrondissement resulted in M. Barbey’s obtaining the name of the notary who had the drawing up of the deeds of succession. At the offices of the present courteous possessor of the documents, after any amount of formalities and delays and difficulties, over which his untiring pertinacity enabled him to triumph, he was at last placed in possession of an immense pile of dusty papers, which had not been touched for nearly seventy years: the entire correspondence addressed to Lady Atkyns from 1792 down to the time of her death.

That was a red-letter day! From the very first letters that were looked at, it seemed that henceforth all doubts would be at an end: the Royal youth had assuredly been carried away from the Temple! Between the lines, beneath all the studiously vague and discreet wording of the correspondence, we were able to follow, in one letter after another, all the plotting and planning of the escape, the anxieties of the conspirators, the precautions they had to take, the disappointments, the treacheries, the hopes.... At last, we were on the threshold of the actual day of the escape! Another week would find us face to face with the Dauphin! Three days more...! To-morrow...! Alas! our disappointment was great—almost as great as that of Lady Atkyns’s fellow-workers. The boy never came into their hands. Did he escape? Everything points to his having done so, but everything points also to his having been spirited away out of their hands just as he was being embarked for England, where Lady Atkyns awaited feverishly the coming of the child she called her King—her King to whose cause she made her vows, but on whose face she was destined probably never to set eyes, and whose fate was for ever to remain to her unknown.

Such is the story we are told in this book of Frédéric Barbey’s—a painful, saddening, exasperating story, extracted (is it necessary to add?) from documents of incontestable authenticity, now made use of for the first time.

But can it be said to satisfy fully our curiosity? Is it the last word on this baffling “Question Louis XVII.,” the bibliography of which runs already to several hundreds of volumes? Of course not! The record of Lady Atkyns’s attempts at rescuing the Prince is a singularly important contribution to the study of the problem, but does not solve it. What became of the boy after he was released? Was this boy that they released the real Prince, or is there question of a substitute already at this stage? Did Marie-Antoinette’s devoted adherent succeed merely in being the dupe of the people in her pay? At the period of her very first efforts, may not the Dauphin have been already far from the Temple—hidden away somewhere, perhaps gone obscurely to his death, in the house of some disreputable person to whom his identity was unknown? For must we not place some reliance upon the assertions of the wife of Simon the shoemaker, who declared she had carried off the Prince at a date seven months earlier than the first steps taken by Lady Atkyns? It is all a still insoluble problem, the most complex, the most difficult problem that the perspicacity of historians has ever been called upon to solve.

The most important result of this new study is that it relegates to the field of fiction the books of Beauchesne, Chantelauze, La Sicotière, and Eckart among others; that it disproves absolutely the assertions of the official history of these events—the assertion that there is no room for doubt that the Dauphin never left his cell, that he lived and suffered and died there. Henceforward, it is an established fact, absolutely irrefutable, that during nearly five months, from November, 1794, to March, 1795, the child in the jailer’s hands was not the son of Louis XVI., but a substitute, and mute. How did this deception end? Was the issue what was expected? The matter is not cleared up; but that this substitution of the Prince was effected is now beyond dispute, and this revelation, instead of throwing light upon the impenetrable obscurity of the drama, renders it still more dense. This mute boy substituted for the boy in prison, who was himself possibly but a substitute; these sly and foolish guardians who succeed to each other, muddling their own brains and mystifying each other; these doctors who are called to the bedside of the dying Prince, and who, like Pelletan, long afterwards invent stories about his death-bed sufferings—though at the actual time of his death they were either so careless or so cunning as to draw up an unmeaning procès-verbal, as to the bearing of which commentators for more than a century have been unable to agree;—all these official statements which establish nothing; the interment recorded in three separate ways by the three functionaries who were witnesses; the obvious, manifest, admitted doubt, which survived in the minds of Louis XVIII. and the Duchesse d’Angoulême; the manœuvres of the Restoration Government, which could so easily have elucidated the question, and which, by maladresse or by guilefulness, made it impenetrable, by removing the most important documents from the national archives; finally, the foolish performances of the fifteen or so lying adventurers who attempted to pass themselves off as so many dauphins escaped from the Temple, and each of whom had his devoted adherents, absolutely convinced of his being the real prince, and whose absurd effusions, when not venal, combine to produce the effect of an inextricable maze; these were the factors of the “Question Louis XVII.” The worst of it all is that one must overlook no detail: it is only by disproving and eliminating that we can succeed in bringing out isolated facts—solid, indisputable facts that shall serve as stepping-stones to future revelations.

It is necessary to study, scrutinize, and reflect. One opinion alone is to be condemned as indubitably wrong: that of the historians who see nothing in all this worthy of investigation and of discussion, to whom the story of the Dauphin is all quite clear and intelligible, and who go floundering about over the whole ground with the calm serenity of the blind, assured of the freedom of their road from obstruction, and that they cannot see the obstacles in their way. Frédéric Barbey’s work unveils too many incontestable facts of history for it to be possible henceforth for any one to see in this marvellous enigma nothing but fantasies and inventions.

VICTORIEN SARDOU.

INTRODUCTION

To tell once again the oft-told story of Queen Marie-Antoinette; to go over anew all the familiar episodes of her sojourn at the Tuileries, her captivity in the Temple, her appearance before the Revolutionary tribunal, and her death; to append some hitherto undiscovered detail to the endless piles of writings inspired by these events, and in our turn sit in judgment alike upon her conduct and the conduct of her enemies, and, as a natural sequence, upon the Revolution, its work and its issues: to do any or all of these things has not been our intention.

This book has a less ambitious aim—that of restoring the picture of a woman, a foreigner, who was brought by chance one day to Versailles on the eve of the catastrophe, whom the Queen honoured with her friendship, and who knew no rest until she had expended all her energy and all her wealth in efforts to procure the liberty not only of Marie-Antoinette herself, but of those belonging to her. How Lady Atkyns set out upon her project, whom she got to help her, what grounds for hope she had, and what hindrances and disappointments she experienced, the degrees of success and of failure that attended all her attempts—these are the matters we have sought to deal with.

In the maze of her plots and plans, necessarily mixed up with the enterprises of the émigrés and of the agents of the counter-revolution—up above the network of all these machinations within France and without—one luminous point shines forth always as the goal of every project: the tower of the Temple. All around the venerable building strain and struggle the would-be rescuers of its prisoners. Its name, now famous, instils into the Royalist world something of the terror that went forth of old from the Bastille. What went on exactly inside the dungeon from 1792 to 1795? The question, so often canvassed by contemporaries, is still where it was, crying out for an answer. However hackneyed may seem the matter of the Dauphin’s imprisonment, we have not felt warranted in deliberately avoiding it. Had we been so minded when embarking upon this study (the voluminous bibliography of the subject is calculated to discourage the historian!), we should in any case have been forced into its investigation by a heap of hitherto unpublished documents which we unearthed.

This leads us to the enumeration of the sources whence we have drawn the materials for our work.

All that has been hitherto known of Lady Atkyns amounts to very little. M. de la Sicotière, coming upon her name in the course of his study of the life of Louis de Frotté, refers to her merely in a brief note, necessarily incomplete.[1] Four years later, M. V. Delaporte, on the occasion of the centenary of Marie Antoinette, published in his Études a correspondence in which the name of the Queen’s English friend repeatedly appeared. These papers caught our attention. Under the friendly guidance of M. Delaporte we sought to recover the papers which Lady Atkyns left behind her on her death. In the course of systematic researches, into the nature of which we need not enter here, we were enabled by an unlooked-for piece of good luck to lay hands upon the entire collection of Lady Atkyns’s correspondence, covering her whole life. This correspondence, docketed and arranged by the notary entrusted with the regulating of the affairs of the deceased, was found lying in the archives of the notary’s study, where, by the permission of the present owner of the documents, I was able to consult them.

The letters are all originals. Some of them, of which copies had been made by some one unidentified, had been destined probably for use in supporting claims put forward by Lady Atkyns. Many letters, unfortunately, are missing, having been confided by the too trustful lady to members of the Royal Household or to Louis XVIII. himself.

To know what value to attach to these letters, it was necessary to know something about the writers. Apart from General Louis de Frotté, who has been made the subject of a detailed biography, the characters mixed up with Lady Atkyns’s adventures appear for the first time upon the stage of history.

The Archives Nationales, and those of the Ministry for War and the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, enable us to recall these forgotten worthies with sufficient accuracy. We have made use in the same way of the Municipal Archives of Dunkerque in our account of the flight of the Chevalier de Conterne and his companion out of the kingdom; of the Archives of Lille; and of the Archives of the Grand Duchy of Baden, preserved at Carlsbad.

This bald enumeration suffices to indicate the spirit in which our task has been conceived and carried out. In a question such as this, obscured and confused by any number of dubious second-hand and third-hand testimonies and untrustworthy narratives, it was necessary to get hold of absolutely irrefutable documents. Letters from contemporaries seemed to us to fulfil better than anything else the conditions thus imposed. They have made it possible for us to supplement in large measure the information acquired from the Archives of the State: many of these letters are derived from private family archives which have most generously been placed at our disposal.

Thanks to these friendly helpers, we have succeeded in completing a task undertaken in a spirit of filial affection. We cannot forget her who guided and took part in our researches and helped with her sympathy and encouragement. To her it is that we must make our first acknowledgment of indebtedness, and then to the historian to whom this book is inscribed, and whose valued and assiduous help we have never lacked.

We have to express our gratitude also to all those who have helped us with their advice and good offices: the Duc de La Tremoïlle, Member of the Institute; the Marquis de Frotté; Comte Lair; General de Butler; our lamented confrère, M. Parfouru, archivist of the Department of Ille-et-Vilaine; and to M. Coyecque; M. Lucien Lazard, assistant archivist of the Department of the Seine; M. Schmidt, keeper of the Archives Nationales; M. Desplanque, municipal librarian at Lille; M. Georges Tassez, keeper of the Lille Archives; M. Edmond Biré; M. le Dr. Obser, the learned editor of the political correspondence of Karl Friedrichs von Baden; M. Léonce Pingaud; M. Barthélemy Pocquat; our colleague and friend, M. E. L. Bruel; and to Mr. Freeman O’Donoghue, of the Print Room of the British Museum.

Paris,
March 22, 1905.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The particulars given by O. Alger in Englishmen in the French Revolution, London, 1889, pp. 125-126, reproducing and condensing information already available, including that which we owe to the Comtesse MacNamara, are not of any interest.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A FRIEND OF
MARIE-ANTOINETTE
(LADY ATKYNS)

CHAPTER I
THE CHEVALIER DE FROTTÉ

At dawn, on April 7, 1790, a singular disturbance was going on in the streets of Lille. In the northern districts, not far from the citadel, troops of soldiers stood all along the avenues, filled the squares, ransacked the courtyards of the houses. Shots went off every instant, and the extraordinary thing was that this fusillade from the soldiers was directed against other soldiers. In the midst of the smoke, the deafening noise, and the cries of the awakened townsfolk, were to be seen the blue uniforms, with sky-blue facings, of the Regiment of the Crown, one of the four quartered in the garrison.[2]

Every horseman who appeared was greeted with successive volleys; evidently the combat was to the death between the light cavalry of Normandy, who charged upon the pavements or fought on foot with their muskets, and the grenadiers of the Crown and of the Royal-Vaisseaux.

Moreover, there was no order in this street-fight. The officers on both sides were absent, and if by any chance some had been present, the excitement and anger visible upon the assailants’ faces were a proof that their intervention would have been useless.

Riot, in fact, was reigning in the city of Lille, the capital of the province; and this time law and order were being upset by those whose duty it was to make them respected. But the town, with its 80,000 inhabitants, had for months been going, nervously and anxiously, through a succession of anything but encouraging episodes. The convocation of the States General, the formation of the Garde Nationale, the creation of the Municipality, and, two months earlier (in February), the administrative upset which thrilled the province—all this, added to the distress of the kingdom, to the general misery, to the exaggerated price of food, and to the ruin of commerce, had brought about several outbreaks in this manufacturing town, naturally dependent upon its trade for its well-being. And, at the very moment that there came from Paris the most alarming news—that is, on April 29, 1789 (coinciding almost day for day with the sacking of the Reveillon factory) pillage had its first innings at Lille also; the bakeries were invaded; and three months later four houses were attacked by the mob and burnt down.

Of the troops which then composed the garrison of Lille, one part had taken up their quarters in the town; these were the regiments of the Crown and of the Royal-Vaisseaux. The other, consisting of the light cavalry of Normandy and the infantry of Colonel-General, the leading French regiment, were lodged at the citadel, that imposing fortress which is Vauban’s masterpiece. Certain signs of insubordination had crept into the two former regiments; the revolutionary spirit was working actively in the men, and was favoured by the permanent contact with the inhabitants in which these two regiments lived. More remote from this influence, away off in the citadel, the “Colonel-Generals” cherished sentiments of whole-hearted devotion to the King; moreover, they had over them a body of officers whose unadulterated royalism was to display itself in the events which we shall now endeavour to set forth. As matters were, the least thing would let loose these warring elements in the garrison upon one another. And what finally did it? A mere nothing, a scuffle that broke out on the evening of April 8, between the chasseurs and the grenadiers—some say a duel. At any rate, two soldiers were killed on the spot.... Instantly cavalry and infantry take sides for their respective comrades. During the night a general attack is talked of, on both sides. The officers get wind of it; but, unluckily, two of the colonels are on leave. The Marquis de Livarot, commandant of the province, tries to restore peace by holding a meeting of delegates from each corps; he believes he has succeeded, but scarcely has he left them when the fusillade breaks out again in every direction.

The “Colonel-Generals” had remained neutral until then; discipline, so carefully maintained by the commanding officers, had prevailed with the men. But when, in the evening, they saw the chasseurs of Normandy falling back on the citadel for refuge, these their comrades of the infantry opened the gates to them, brought them in and joined cause with them, refusing any longer to listen to their officers, who still strove for peace. They carried things, indeed, even further than that. M. de Livarot and M. de Montrosier—that last lieutenant of the King—on coming out of the gate which led into the square, saw that they were surrounded by a group of mutineers, whose attitude was menacing. Despite the efforts of the few officers who were present, these two were dragged into a casemate, where their situation was simply that of prisoners.

During this time the most sinister rumours were circulating in the town, kept alive by the infantry of the Crown and the Royal-Vaisseaux regiments. People expected nothing less than to see the cannons of the citadel open their throats and vomit down grape-shot on the populace. Shortly, on the walls of the houses and in the cafés, the uneasy citizens might read a strange proclamation, at the authorship of which all the world could guess. It opened with this apostrophe:—

“Let us beware, Citizens,

LET US BEWARE,

and thrice: Let us beware. We are deceived, we are betrayed, we are sold!... But we are not yet ruined; we have our weapons! The infernal Fitz-James[3] is gone with all his crew ... they have contented themselves with keeping back a useless lot.

“Livaro, the infamous Livaro, is said to be in our citadel; Montrosier, the atrocious author of all our ills, sleeps peacefully.

“The soldiers, whom they have tried to corrupt, offer these men to us.... What are we waiting for? Why do we not show all France that we are Citizens, that we are Patriots? Is it for the orders of our Commandant that we look? But has not the aristocrat of Orgères already shown us how unworthy he is of the place which we have blindly entrusted to him?... He commands us only that he may lead us into the abyss. Seconded by his sycophant, Carette, and by the traitors whom our cowardice leaves in command over us; leagued with the heads of all the aristocratic intrigues, he now seeks to alienate from us our brave comrades of the Crown, and of Royal-des-Vaisseaux. Shall we let them go? No; ... but we will march with them.... We will go and seize Livarot, Montrosier, and deliver them up, bound hand and foot, to the utmost severity of the august National Assembly!

“Why are not our conscript Fathers convoked? Is the General Council of the Commune a mere phantom? Is the blood of our citizens less precious than vile pecuniary interests? Would not our secret enemies flinch before the enlightenment and the patriotism of our Notables? Ah! Citizens! Let us beware, and once more let us beware!”

At an extraordinary meeting at the Maison de Ville, the Municipality had convoked the General Council; and, in the interval they received a deputation from the troops of the citadel, assuring the inhabitants of Lille of their good intentions: “The regiments of the Colonel-General, and of the Chasseurs de Normandie” (said the envoys) “protest to the townsfolk that it has never entered into their heads to cause the least alarm to the citizens, of whom until now they have known nothing that was not admirable;” and they also announced that two delegates had been sent to Paris, on a mission to the National Assembly and to the King.

The whole night went by, and no solution had been found. Towards four o’clock the two regiments which had stayed in town were about to leave it on the persuasion of the town councillors; but the City Guard would not let them go, and thus, on the morning of April 10, the same difficulties had to be faced anew. But this situation could not continue. Messengers are despatched to Paris, and with them are sent denunciators of the “infamous” Livarot, whose conduct is considered suspicious; and for eight days he is kept under surveillance at the citadel, in defiance of the Royal authority with which he is invested.

Meanwhile, the officer delegated by the “Colonel-Generals” was making his way to Paris. Despite the importance of the mission, it was a young lieutenant who had been chosen for it; but the coolness he had shown all through the episode, and his determined and energetic attitude, had designated him at once as the man to be selected. Louis de Frotté was born at Alençon on August 5, 1766.[4] Of noble lineage (his family had been established in Normandy since the fifteenth century), he had inherited the sentiments of duty and fidelity to his King and of devotion to that King’s cause. Left motherless at the age of six,[5] educated first at Caen, then at Versailles, in the school of Gorsas,[6] he had entered as supernumerary sub-lieutenant, in 1781, the regiment of “Colonel-General,” then garrisoned at Lille. The young officer attracted every one by his generous, liberal, and affectionate character, and by his strong sense of comradeship. It was in the regiment that he contracted those solid friendships which were afterwards so beneficial to him, such, for instance, as that of the Prince de la Tremoïlle, and of a Norman gentleman named Vallière.

A short stay at Besançon had broken up the long months in garrison at Lille; then he had returned to that town, where the disturbances of which we are speaking had come to diversify the somewhat monotonous way of existence which is inseparable from garrison life.

Filled with hope for the result of his mission, Frotté rode swiftly to Paris. The prospect of seeing the King, of narrating to him, as well as to the War Minister, Le Tour du Pin, the recent occurrences at Lille, of assuring him of the fidelity of the regiment, of obtaining some tolerably satisfactory solution of the critical situation—all this was spurring on our cavalier. And the thought of soon getting back to Lille, his mission crowned with success, of reappearing before certain eyes to which he was not insensible—everything combined to make him forget the length of the journey.

His stay at Paris was a short one. The future chief of the chouans of Normandy realized one of his greatest wishes in being admitted to an audience with the King; but the position of the Royal Family in the midst of the prevailing effervescence of feeling, and the atmosphere of hostility which surrounded them, filled his heart with foreboding thoughts. Burning with devotion, powerless to make valid offers to the King, Frotté—who had suggested the bringing together at Lille of a nucleus of reliable troops, absolutely to be trusted—regained the garrison at the end of a few days, for it had been made clear to him that Louis XVI. did not wish to share in his youthful ardour and its projects. He had, however, succeeded thoroughly in the official part of his task. When confronted with a deputation from the hostile regiments of the Crown and of the Royal-Vaisseaux, who came in their turn to plead their cause, the representative of the Colonel-Generals had been able to cope with them in defence of his own interests; he came back, bringing with him an order for the alteration of the whole garrison. The Colonel-Generals were transferred to Dunkirk, the three others were sent out of the province. As to the unfortunate Marquis de Livarot, who was still a prisoner at the citadel, a mandate from the Minister summoned him to Paris, there to answer for his conduct. Needless to say, he cleared himself of every accusation, and was entirely rehabilitated.

Frotté did not spend in idleness the few days which preceded the departure of his regiment. Besides the ordinary arrangements—the giving up of his place of abode, the packing of his affairs, the paying of his debts; besides the friends to whom he had to bid farewell; in short, besides the thousand ties that are contracted during a stay of nine years in a town which is not among the smallest in the kingdom, there was, in the Rue Princesse, at a few minutes’ walk from the citadel, a one-storeyed house of unimposing exterior, whose door had often opened to receive the young officer. The prospect of not returning there for a long time filled his heart with distress and regret. For some months this house had been inhabited by a foreigner, an English lady, who had come to Lille with a reputation for grace and beauty which had proved to be not unmerited. At that time there was already in Lille quite a colony of English people, who were attracted there either by the proximity of their own country and the closeness of Paris, or by the commercial prosperity of the place and its numerous industries. In the census returns of the town at the beginning of the Revolution, and also in the taxation assessments, we have come across many names of evident British origin. But the remarkable thing about the new-comers at the Rue Princesse, was that they had not arrived from England, but from Versailles. They were very soon received by the best society of Lille, and questions began to circulate about them, every one trying to penetrate a certain mystery which hung about their past life.

Let us, in our turn, attempt to lift the veil, and to find out something about the English lady who is to be the heroine of this work.

Charlotte Walpole, who was born probably about 1758,[7] bore a name that in the United Kingdom is illustrious among the illustrious. Was she a direct descendant of Sir Robert Walpole, Earl of Oxford, the celebrated statesman who administered English politics for some years under George I.? It is difficult to ascertain.

The youngest of three daughters,[8] Charlotte probably passed all her youth in the county of Norfolk, the cradle of her family, under that gloomy sky, in that ever-moist climate, in the midst of those emerald green pastures which make that part of England one of the great agricultural districts. The tranquil, melancholy charm of the scenery there, the immense flocks of sheep and goats browsing in the pastures, the wide horizon, unlimited except by the heavy clouds which hang eternally over the land—all this fastened upon the imagination of the girl, naturally of a very enthusiastic temperament, and developed in her that indefinable charm which struck all who knew her. Her large eyes, enhanced by very marked eyebrows, had an infinitely sweet expression. The only existing portrait of her depicts her with her hair dressed in the fashion of the time—her dark curls lightly tied with a slender ribbon, and falling back, carelessly, on her forehead. She had a most original mind, a face which changed and lit up with every passing mood, and an expression all her own, which made her, as it were, a unique personality. All this is enough explanation of why, at nineteen, Charlotte Walpole went to London, with the idea of making use of her talents on the stage.

The capital of England could then boast of only three theatres, of which the most frequented, Drury Lane, which ranked as Theatre Royal, is still in existence, and preserves intact its ancient reputation. It was there that, on October 2, 1777, at the opening of the theatrical season, Miss Walpole made her first appearance in a piece called Love in a Village,[9] a comedy probably in the same genre as those of O’Keefe, and then very much to the public taste, which was growing weary of the brutal and licentious farces of the preceding centuries. Five days later Miss Walpole reappeared in The Quaker, and the week after she was seen in the role of “Jessica” in The Merchant of Venice, one of Shakespeare’s masterpieces. After having played, in the spring of 1778, in The Waterman, her success seemed assured; on May 2, Love in a Village was given again for her benefit, and she then filled to perfection the part of “Rosetta”; the season terminated ten days later with a representation of The Beggars’ Opera, by John Gay. There can be no doubt that the young actress had found her vocation, and that, moreover, with the consent of her family. But, as a matter of fact, there did not then prevail in England the sort of disfavour that so often attaches to a theatrical career in a certain set of society. Miss Walpole’s experience is a proof of this. During the summer, which she most probably spent in the country, she sought to cultivate her talents, and so well did she succeed that in the season, which reopened on September 15, 1778, she was seen again in London, eager to gather fresh laurels. This time she appeared in costume, in a sort of operetta entitled The Camp, which had a tremendous success all that winter. The piece, an imitation of Sheridan by Tickell, represented the arsenal and the camp at Coxheath, and Miss Walpole, as “Nancy,” took the part of a young soldier, and filled it most admirably, a contemporary author informs us.[10] We have found an engraving which represents her in this costume, doubtless a souvenir of the plaudits which she then received. In the month of April, 1779, she appears again in other pieces by Farquhar. After this, the bills for us have nothing to say; Miss Walpole’s name is not to be found in them.

W H Bunbury Delinᵗ. Watson & Dickinson Excudᵗ.

Charlotte Walpole, in “The Camp.”

(After an engraving in the British Museum.)

[To face page 12.

To what must one attribute this sudden silence, this disappearance from the stage, just when so fair a future seemed opening before the actress? To a determination brought about by her very success itself and by the charm she exercised. Several times during the winter a young man had been seen at Drury Lane, who occupied a front stall and watched very keenly the acting of the graceful young recruit of Coxheath; so that there was no very great astonishment expressed when, on June 18, 1779, The Gentleman’s Magazine, in its society column, announced the marriage of Sir Edward Atkyns with Miss Charlotte Walpole, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.[11] “The pretty Miss Atkyns”—that was henceforth to be her appellation in London, and all over Norfolk!

If the Walpoles could boast of an illustrious descent, the Atkyns’ in this respect were in no wise inferior to them. In this family, where the Christian names are handed down from generation to generation, that of Edward is, as it were, immutable! Illustrious personages are by no means wanting. An Atkyns had been Chancellor of the Exchequer in the seventeenth century; his son had built a splendid manor-house, Ketteringham, in the same county of Norfolk; at his death he left it to his grand-nephew, who, in his turn, bequeathed it to the fortunate husband of Miss Walpole.

The young couple took up their abode in this antique mansion of Ketteringham Hall, the name of which will often recur in this narrative. They appear to have lived peacefully there for some years, coming only for a few weeks in mid-winter to London. “Happy is the nation that has no history,” says the proverb; and it is equally true that happy folk have none. So we will certainly not, in the absence of any material, create one for these young people.

Nevertheless, it is well to mention the account given of them by a friend of our heroine, the Countess MacNamara, who seems to have been very well acquainted with the different particulars of her life. She tells us that the young couple, who, if we are to believe her, had not many friends in England, decided to go to the Continent, and live at Versailles.[12] (The explanation does not seem a very plausible one.) There the charm of the young wife, her pretty voice, the receptions which she soon began to give, and to which, thanks to her husband’s wealth, she was able to lend so much brilliancy, opened to her quickly the doors of all the society connected with the Court. In the Queen’s set, the beautiful Duchess de Polignac, in particular, took a great fancy to this graceful foreigner; and was desirous, in her turn, to make her known to her august friend. Thus it came about that Lady Atkyns was introduced into the circle of Marie-Antoinette’s intimates. Even more completely than the others, the new-comer fell under the Queen’s spell. A current of ardent sympathy established itself between the two women. They were united by a deep and intimate mutual comprehension and sympathy. For any one who knew Lady Atkyns, it was certain that these first impressions would not fade, but that they would prove to be, on the contrary, the first-fruits of an unalterable friendship. These are the only materials one has for the details of that sojourn at Versailles. When exactly did the Atkynses resolve upon this move? Their only child, a son, must have been born before it took place. What were their plans in coming to the Court? All these are insoluble problems.

They were probably at Versailles when the first revolutionary troubles broke out. They were present, perhaps, at the opening of the States General, that great national function; and they were among those who shuddered at the taking of the Bastille. When the October days brought back the Royal family in a mournful procession to Paris, the young couple were already gone—already too far away to enter into the anxieties and sufferings of those whom they loved.

A brief mention, a few words found after patient research, in dusty registers, tell us enough to make us certain of their fate. This is one of the joys of the explorer in this sort—to find buried under the waste of years of accumulated official papers, a feeble light, a tiny, isolated indication, which opens, none the less, an infinite horizon before him.

In the autumn of the year 1789, an Englishwoman, named by the officials charged with the collection of a special poll-tax, Milady Charlotte, arrived at Lille with one servant.[13]

In December, she installed herself in the parish of St. André, in a house in the Rue Princesse, then numbered 337, which belonged to a gentleman named De Drurez. Of her husband there is no mention, nor is her surname given. Probably she had stayed some time at an inn, before settling down in Rue Princesse; but what is to be concluded from so vague an appellation as “Milady Charlotte”? Why did she conceal half her name? Nevertheless, at Lille there is some information to be had about her. We know that she was pensioned upon the Royal Treasury, since she is described as a French pensioner.

In the following year she increases her establishment, keeping one more servant; her poll-tax, which had been 14 louis, now rises to 16. We may add here that, in order to satisfy our curiosity, we have examined—but in vain—the lists of the pensioners from the Royal Treasury at that period; there is no mention anywhere either of Milady Charlotte or of Lady Atkyns—not even in those which relate to the Queen’s household.[14]

By what right did she enjoy this pension? By the same, probably, as so many of those favoured folk whose names fill the famous red-books—the books whose publication was to let loose the fury of the half of France upon the Court and the nobility, because they showed so plainly what treasures had been swallowed up in that abyss.

As we have said, the documents say nothing of the presence of Edward Atkyns at Lille—nothing, that is, with one exception, which, delicate as it is, cannot be passed over in silence. Had disunion already crept into the household? Had the pretty girl from Drury Lane found out too late that he to whom she had given her heart and her life was no longer entirely worthy of her gifts? Perhaps. At any rate, on March 20, 1791, the curate of the parish of St. Catherine at Lille baptized a male child, son “of Geneviève Leglen, native of Lille,” whose father declared himself to be Edward Atkyns.[15] Henceforth this last individual disappears completely from the scene in which we are interested; we shall merely learn that in 1794 Charlotte Atkyns was left a widow.

This somewhat lengthy digression was necessary in order to portray the lady whom Frotté was to designate as “That heroic and perfect being,” and who was to take such a hold upon his life. How did they become acquainted? Probably very quickly, in one of the numerous drawing-rooms where Lille society congregated, at balls, at the theatre, in the concert-hall. The white tunic, with red facings, of the “Colonel-Generals” was eagerly welcomed everywhere. As one of his friends wrote to Frotté: “All the decent people in the town will be delighted to see the uniform, if you wear it there!” And one can imagine the long talks that the young officer had with his fair friend in that winter of ’89—talks that circled always around one precious topic. Already full of Royalist feeling, Frotté grew enthusiastic for the Queen’s cause, as he listened to the stories about Versailles, to the reminiscences of her kindness, her charm, her affectionate ways—of the thousand characteristics, so faithfully recounted by the friend who had come under her influence.[16]

One can divine all the advice, all the prudent counsels which were impressed upon our young lieutenant on his departure for Paris. Everything combined to make him eager to offer his services to the King and his belongings. We have seen that his efforts were unsuccessful; but the journey had not been entirely fruitless, since it had enabled him to bring back to his friend some news of the woman she so loved.

At the end of April the good folk of Lille were to bid farewell to the regiments which had caused them so much anxiety. While the Colonel-Generals were leaving the town by the Dunkirk Gate, the townspeople were watching the long columns of the Normandy chasseurs, the grenadiers of the Crown, and the Royal-Vaisseaux disappearing in different directions. What had been a partial failure in Lille was to break out again three months later, in another part of the kingdom, for the affray there was but the prelude to the revolt of the troops of Chateauvieux, at Nancy, and to many other risings. The army, in fact, was every day becoming more and more infected by the spirit of revolution, which crept in somehow, despite all discipline and all respect for the commanding officers. And the army was no untilled field; it was well prepared for the seed of the Revolution, which lost no time in taking root there.

This explains the discouragement which nearly all the officers felt. They were gentlemen of unflinching Royalist sympathies, but they perceived the fruitlessness of their efforts to re-establish discipline and to preserve their authority. Frotté was especially a prey to this feeling. We shall see that during his time at Dunkirk he found it impossible to conquer the hopeless lassitude that was growing on him. And yet Dunkirk is not far from Lille, and he knows that he has left behind him there a friend who will console and guide him. But his restless, questioning turn of mind makes it difficult for him to reconcile himself to accomplished facts. He can feel no sympathy for this Revolution, which now strides over France as with seven-leagued boots; he has, indeed, an instinctive repulsion for it. Frotté is an indefatigable scribbler, and in the long idle hours of his soldier-life he confides to paper all his fears and discouragements, while keeping up, at the same time, a regular correspondence, especially with his friends Vallière and Lamberville. It is a curious fact, already commented on by his biographer, M. de la Sicotière, that this intrepid and active officer, this flower of partisans, who spent three-fourths of his time in warfare, was yet the most prolific of writers and editors.

At Dunkirk he encountered among the officers of the regiment Viennois, which shared with his own the garrison of the place, a very favourable disposition towards his plans. His Royalist zeal, fostered by his friendships, was to find an outlet. Already the National Assembly, eager to secure the army on its side, had issued a decree obliging the officers to take the oath not only to the King, but to the nation, and to whatever Constitution might be given to France. Nothing would induce our young gentleman to take such an oath as that. He never hesitated for a moment, and he succeeded in influencing several of his brother officers to think as he did. It was thus that he announced his decision to his father:—

“You already know, my dear father, that an oath is now exacted from us officers which disgusts every honourable and decent feeling that I have. I could not take it. I know you too well, father, not to be certain that you would have advised me to do just what I have done. And of course I did not depend only on my own poor judgment; I consulted most of my brother officers, and amongst those whom I esteem and love, I have not found one who thinks differently from myself. Our dear chief, too, M. de Théon, has been just the good fellow we always thought him.”[17]

His friend Vallière, on hearing of his conduct and his intentions, wrote to him in enthusiastic admiration.

“I am truly delighted to hear” (he wrote some days before his arrival at Dunkirk) “that the regiment Viennois is almost of the same way of thinking as our own, so that we are sure to get on well with them. Then there are still some decent Frenchmen, and some subjects who are faithful to their one and lawful master! Alas! there are not many of them, and one can only groan when one thinks how many old and hitherto courageous legions ... have stained irretrievably their ancient glory by this betrayal of their sovereign. Well, my dear fellow, we must hope that you will have some peace now to make up for all that you have been going through. Unfortunately, the immediate future does not seem likely to make us forget the past, or to promise us much happiness. If the scoundrels who are persecuting us, and ruining all the best things in Europe, take it into their heads to disband the Army (as one hears that they may), be sure to come here for refuge. Everything is still quiet here.... If their fury still pursues us, we will leave a country that has become hateful to us, and go to some foreign shore, where there will perhaps be found some kind folk to pity us and give us a home in their midst.”[18]

The first hint at emigration! Frotté was already thinking of it; often he had envisaged the idea, but, before giving up all hope, he wanted to make one last effort.

The proximity of Lille enabled him to keep up unbroken relations, during the summer and winter of 1790, with the officers of the garrison he had just left. A plot had even been roughly sketched out with Lady Atkyns’ assistance; but a thousand obstacles retarded from day to day any attempt at carrying it out, and once more our poor young soldier was totally discouraged. Despairing of success, disgusted with everything, he began to meditate escape from an existence which yielded him nothing but vexations, and, little by little, he ceased to brood seriously over the thought of suicide. He spoke of it openly and at length to his friend Lamberville, in a strange composition which he called My profession of faith, and which has been almost miraculously preserved for us.[19] This confession is dated February 20, 1791. We should have given it in its entirety if it were not so long.[20] After a quasi-philosophical preamble—Frotté was addicted to that kind of thing—he described to his friend the miserable state of mind that he was in, with all his troubles and his griefs. In his opinion, a man who had fallen to such depths of ill-fortune could do but one thing, and that was, to give back to God the life which he had received from Him.

“My ideas about suicide are not” (he added) “the outcome of reading nor of example; they are the result of much reflection. I have long since familiarized myself with the idea of death; it no longer seems to me a sad thing, but rather a certain refuge from the troubles of life.... When I consider my own situation, and that of my country; when I think of what I have been, what I am, and what I may become, I can find no reason for valuing my own life. Moreover, I live in an age of crime, and it is my native land that is most subjected to its sway.”

And Frotté went on to describe his past life to his friend, telling him of the way he had behaved hitherto, of the principles that had guided him, the hopes he had cherished in the brighter opening days of life; then the disappointments and the discomfitures that had overwhelmed him. The events he had lived through filled his mind with bitterness.

“I was born to be a good son and a good friend, a tender lover, a good soldier, a loyal subject—in a word, a decent fellow. But it breaks my heart to see how my compatriots have altered from kindly human beings to crazy ruffians, and have so accustomed themselves to slaughter, incendiarism, murder, and robbery, that they can never again be what they used to be. They have trampled every virtue under foot; they torture the hearts that still love them.... And my own profession, soldiering, is dishonoured; there is no glory about it now; my country is in a state of anarchy which appals me.”

Very evident in these pages, written in a delicate cramped handwriting, is the continual bent towards self-analysis, towards minute details of feeling, towards a lofty and remote attitude, so markedly characteristic of Frotté’s prose.

Many pages of the thick, ribbed paper, fastened together with a sky-blue ribbon, are filled with the same kind of reflections; then he suddenly breaks off altogether. Had he carried out his intention? Was that why he ceased to write? Not at all; for two months later, on April 10, there is a further confession, and the young soldier-philosopher begins by admitting that he has changed his mind; he defends himself on that point, and says that reflection has made him resolve to give up such gloomy views for himself. First of all, the fear of causing irreparable grief to his father had made him pause (and yet their relations do not seem to have been so affectionate as of yore);[21] and then the desire to settle certain debts, considerable enough, that he would leave behind him.

“In fact,” (he says) “since fresh troubles are overwhelming me, I have decided not to choose this moment for suicide. I want to be quite calm, on the day that I set out on the Great Journey.... The month of August saw my birth; it shall see my death.... But I don’t want to play for effect. I try my best to seem just the same and to let no one guess what I am thinking of.... Then there’s another reason for my going on with life. Since I was born a nobleman of France, I want to do my duty as one.... My sword may still be of some use to my King and to my friends; and since I must die, I want my death to benefit my family and my country.... I shall fasten up this confession, until the moment comes for me to die. If I have the good luck to fight, and die in the cause of honour, this, my dear Lamberville, will console you a little, for it will prove to you that death was a comfort to me. If disorder and dissolution are still reigning in France when August comes, if there has been no attempt to restore order—then I shall lose all hope, and all the reasons that I give you here will acquire full force. I shall not be able to hesitate. I shall then take up my pen again to add my last wishes, and my last farewell to my tenderest and dearest friend.”

In spite of the melancholy tone of these pages, their author had finally taken the advice which came to him from all directions, from people who loved him and were in his confidence, and who deeply grieved to hear of such a state of mind. There was none more loyal than that young Vallière of whom we have already spoken. At that time he was on leave in the Caux district. Frotté and he were very intimate, and Vallière knew every step that was made towards the carrying out of the plot which had been arranged simultaneously at Lille and at Dunkirk.

“I am very sorry,” he wrote to his friend on November 13, 1790, “that the things you had to tell me could only be entrusted to me verbally. However, in the absence of further knowledge, there was nothing for me to do but simply come here,[22] where in any case I had business, and where I am now waiting quietly for the carrying out of the promises you made me, being, as you know, fully prepared. But, my dear fellow, I see with amazement that nothing as yet is happening to verify your forecast. Can you possibly have been prematurely sanguine, or has the plan miscarried? Perhaps it is merely a question of delay—Well! That is all right, and I hope that’s what it is.”[23]

Two months later, Vallière, who had doubtless gone to Paris to make inquiries, gave the following account of his journey:—

“I came back on the 3rd instant; and I shall have no difficulty in telling you of all my doings in Paris, for I did nothing in the least out-of-the-way. I lived there like a good quiet citizen, who confines himself to groaning (since he can do nothing better) over all the afflicting things he sees. I went from time to time to see our ‘August Ones,’ and they always put me in a furious temper.”

Our “August Ones,” as Vallière mockingly called them, were the members of the Constituent Assembly, and they were busied with the elaboration of that gigantic piece of work, the Constitution, which was to substitute the new order for the old traditions of France. Little by little the edifice was growing, built upon the ruins of the past. The sight of it filled with vexation and fury those who, like Frotté, deplored the fallen Royalty, the lost privileges, the dispossessed nobility, of the old order. For the rest, our chevalier, during his stay at Dunkirk, had frequent news about his fair friend at Lille. One day it would be a brother officer who would write, “I played cards yesterday with your fair lady, who looked as pretty as an angel, if angels ever are so pretty as were told they are. She is going to have her portrait painted in oils by my favourite artist. I dare say she’ll manage somehow to get a copy done in miniature for her Chevalier!”[24]

Or another time he would be told to come to a concert at which a place had been taken for him.... In a word, the time went on; and, kicking against the pricks, our young soldier awaited the moment when he might bring his plans to realization.

From month to month the spirit of insubordination which had crept into the regiment with the events at Lille was gaining ground, and showing itself more and more overtly. The Garde Nationale recently formed at Dunkirk showed signs of it. At the head of this was an enterprising officer, of the “new order,” named Emmery, who sought persistently to win the troops of the garrison over to his own way of thinking. But he found his match in the colonel of the regiment, the Chevalier de Théon, a staunch Royalist, who had no intention of pandering with the enemy. In a small place like Dunkirk, shut up between its ramparts—the barracks were in the middle of the town—it was physically impossible to prevent the soldiers from coming in contact with the townsfolk. M. de Théon and his officers (the majority of whom were on his side) had seen that very clearly; and suddenly, in the month of June, they resolved to try a bold stroke. Dunkirk was only five leagues from the Austrian frontier, which was some hours’ distance from Brussels, where already the forces of resistance of the anti-revolutionary party were concentrating. They resolved on winning Belgium to their cause, on gaining over the troops, and on offering their services to the Prince’s Army, which was forming beyond the frontier.

Before executing this scheme, Louis de Frotté is secretly sent to Brussels. He there sees the Marquis de la Queville, formerly a member of the Constitutional Assembly, and deputy of Riom, who has become agent for the Princes; but little attention is paid to Frotté’s proposals, and no promises of any kind are made. Frotté returns somewhat discouraged to Dunkirk.

Suddenly, like a clap of thunder, resounds the news which is to throw the kingdom into confusion for three days. During the night of June 20-21 the Royal Family have escaped from the Tuileries, despite Lafayette’s guards, and the berlin which holds them is driving rapidly towards the frontier. Directly the exploit is known messengers set off in all directions, despatched by the National Assembly; they take chiefly the northerly roads, where everything points to the probable finding of the fugitives. The authorities at Dunkirk, in their turn, receive despatches from Paris, and take extra precautions.

This was quite enough to let loose the thunderstorm that was gathering in the garrison.

On June 23, at 11 a.m., the grenadiers of the Colonel-General, who had been skilfully worked upon by some of the agitators, signed the following protestation, and refused to follow their officers. They actually succeeded in raising the whole garrison.

“When the Commonwealth is in danger” (so one may read in their manifest), “when the enemies of our blessed revolution raise an audacious resistance, when a cherished King abandons his people and flies to his enemies’ side—the duty of all true Frenchmen is to unite, to join forces! There should be but one cry—Liberty! Resolute to conquer, we should confront our enemies with a body of men who are ready to dare all at the lightest sign, and to wash off with the blood of traitors the insult done to a free people!”[25]

Then came the announcement of a federative compact, to which were summoned the representatives of the municipality, the National Guards, and the Club of the Friends of the Constitution.

And here arises a question. Were Frotté and his friends aware of the King’s intentions? It is difficult to be sure; but, hasty as their decision apparently was, it had really been fixed for some time, as is clearly shown by the following lines written by Frotté to his father at that very time:

“It was arranged this morning that I am to go to Furnes with several of my comrades, on Saturday; and there, dear father, I shall await your wise decision as to whether I shall return home to you or go to join the Prince de Condé.”

Furnes is a small village about fifteen kilometres from Dunkirk. It was then on Austrian territory, and had been chosen as the rendezvous for the fugitive officers.

On Friday, June 24, in the afternoon, each of these “gentlemen” received a secret message from Colonel de Théon, giving them his instructions.

“Set out for Furnes” (he told them) “immediately on reading this; make no preparations; just take whatever money you may have, and do not worry about your other possessions; they will be seen to later. I invoke the aid of Heaven upon our enterprise—may we all meet that same night at Furnes.

“Your friend for life,
“Théon.”

At the same time, he made to his soldiers a last supreme appeal, conjuring them to respond to it, and to come back to the path of duty.

“Soldiers, your King was put in irons and the news of his capture is false. Surely it is impossible that the leading regiment should fail to join him, to form his bodyguard, and to shield him from the knives of the assassins who have, of course, been sent after him. We, who bear the ensign of the General of Infantry, shall find all good Frenchmen and true patriots ... rallying round our colours. Believe me, when that happens, the Royalist party, which is very numerous, will declare itself, and when it sees that it can do so without endangering its sovereign’s life, will flaunt the white cockade. Let us, too, wear this as our symbol of France—not the colours of a regicide and factious prince, the scandal of his country and the author of all the evils which are now rending it. Your officers, your real friends, await you at Furnes, where the august brother of your Queen has given orders (as on all the frontiers) that the faithful servants of the unhappy Louis XVI. are to be received, when they arrive there on his service....

“Come there, then—meet there, renew your early oath of fidelity to the most upright of kings. But as for such as you as are infected with the maxims of the Club, such of you as think you are patriots, because you have neither faith, nor law, nor honour—such as these had better stay in their dens. Only those are adjured to come whose hearts still tell them they are Frenchmen. Long live the King!”[26]

But it was too late. The hour for such an appeal had gone by.

Towards five o’clock on the evening of the same day, just as the roll-call was ending in the barracks, the officers of the Colonel-Generals (and several brother-soldiers from the Viennois regiment) left the town in groups of three. They took with them the white cornette of the infantry, and the flags of their regiments, which they had torn from the handles. They had not been able to make up their minds to leave their colours behind. When they had passed the ramparts some of them went to the right over the downs which run along the coast, and which the fugitives intended to use as their path to the frontier; the others struck into the open country, and crossed the canal; as soon as they were out of sight, however, they rejoined the first lot. At eight o’clock that evening the boatmen on the Furnes ferry took over two more, and these were MM. d’Averton and De La Motte.

Now, at that hour, the Royal berlin and its freight had just left la Ferti-sous-Jouarre, on the high-road to Châlons, and was proceeding slowly through the dust, followed and accompanied by a noisy, drunken crowd, towards Meaux. It was caught at Varennes; and the fugitives, foiled in their attempt, went back to Paris, from that day forth to be their prison.

The news of their capture, so unluckily contradicted by de Théon in his manifesto, might possibly have altered the plans of the officers from Dunkirk. But we hardly think so. Their arrangements had long since been made, and the Varennes episode gave them, suddenly, an opportunity to carry them out. But imagine their discomfiture when they heard of the dramatic ending of the attempt.

It was again Frotté who had been sent to Brussels, to carry to his King the standard of the regiment.

He arrived there at night, met the Marquis de la Queville, and learnt the truth from him. Instead of the King, it was the King’s brother, the Comte de Provence, whom Frotté found there; for Monsieur, more fortunate than the others, had reached the frontier without any trouble.

Thus the affair had partly failed. There was nothing for the fugitive officers to do but go and join the ever-increasing tribe of émigrés who lined the frontier. They withdrew to Ath, in Hainault, the rendezvous of many exiles.[27]

What happened at Dunkirk when their absence was discovered? On the 25th, at 5 a.m., a “good patriot,” M. François, awoke the commandant of the Garde Nationale, M. Emmery, and presented to him the manifesto of the “Sieur de Théon.” The alarm spread instantly through the town; it was with indignation that people heard the news of the desertion of the officers, who had even been so infamous as to carry off the regimental colours. The soldiers chose new officers, and held a meeting on the parade-ground. M. Emmery came to them, and tried to pacify them by offering them one of the colours of the Garde Nationale, to replace those which had been filched from them. He was enthusiastically received. Hopes rose high once more. Grenadiers and gardes nationaux met in warmest comradeship; and the tricolour was sent for, and presented to the regiment, which was drawn up in battle-array. Vengeance was vowed against traitors and enemies of the Republic. “From that moment there reigned boundless confidence, perfect joy, and assured tranquillity.”

But this was not all. It had to be ascertained whether the runaways had left anything behind them. The Justice of the Peace for the Quartier-du-Midi, Pierre Taverne, betook himself to the officers’ quarters in the barracks. On the first storey, under the landing, there was a door which led into the room that was known to have been Frotté’s. That door was sealed, as were those of all his brother-officers’ rooms. Five days later the seals were broken. The inspection brought nothing noteworthy to light. In Frotté’s room they found two helmets, a cross-belt, and a gorget. The others were still less exciting; a cap and two portmanteaus, “containing a little music,” were found in M. Derampan’s quarters; a cap and a double-barrelled gun in M. Metayer’s; a trunk in M. de Dreuille’s; a cap and a cross-belt in M. Demingin’s, and so on. The Royal tent contained a cabriolet belonging to M. de Théon; the stables, “near the fuel-stores,” yielded another old cabriolet, the property of M. de Frotté. Everything was confiscated, and taken to the Municipality.

The only thing which interested the authorities was a trunk full of papers, which had been seized in Frotté’s quarters. It was examined, but no proofs were found of the suspected conspiracy. It was then tied up, sealed, and sent to the Research Committee of the National Assembly, with a curt account of the occurrence. On the evening of June 28 this was read to the Deputies of the Assembly, some of whom were very angry on hearing the defiant appeal of de Théon to his soldiers.[28]

Was Lady Atkyns at Lille to hear the issue of the adventure? She had more probably left France by that time, terrified by all that was going on around her, and the more so that she was alone, for her friends on every side had left her.

While her lover was languishing among the émigrés (made miserable by their inaction and selfishness) she regained her old home at Ketteringham, uneasy in her mind, but not despairing. She saw plainly what her own path was to be; for her love for the Queen and the Queen’s people was henceforth to rule her life, and carry her on from one devoted action to another.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Victor Derode, Histoire de Lille et de la Flandre Wallonne, 1848, in 8vo, vol. iii. p. 26. For the account of these military disturbances at Lille, we have also made use of a MS. narrative by the Chevalier de Frotté, Archives Nationales D. XXIX., 36; and of a statement addressed to the King by the Marquis de Livarot, regarding his conduct, a printed copy of which is at the Bibliothèque Nationale, L.K. 4008.

[3] These words are underlined in the text.

[4] L. de la Sicotière, Louis de Frotté et les Insurrections Normandes, 1793-1832, Paris, 1889, two volumes in 8vo.

[5] His father married again, a Dumont de Lamberville, whose brother was one of the best friends of Louis de Frotté.

[6] The future journalist, founder of the Courrier de Versailles.

[7] This approximate date is furnished us by the death certificate of Lady Atkyns; but these certificates are known to have been for the most part very inaccurately made out, especially with regard to the date of birth, when they had reference to a foreigner dying at Paris.

[8] Will of Robert Walpole of March 14, 1803, by which he bequeathed all his worldly goods to his wife, Blancy Walpole, and to his three daughters, Mary, Frances, and Charlotte. Inventory after death of the effects of Lady Atkyns.—Unpublished Papers of Lady Atkyns.

[9] Genest: History of the Stage.

[10] Genest: History of the Stage. “This musical entertainment was written for the sake of exhibiting a representation of the camp at Coxheath.... Miss Walpole, as a young recruit, went through her exercises adroitly.”

[11] The Gentleman’s Magazine and Historical Chronicle, by Sylvanus Urban, Gent., London, vol. xlix., for the year 1779, p. 326.

[12] Diaries of a Lady of Quality, from 1797 to 1814, edited, with notes, by A. Hayward, Esq. London: Longman, Green & Co., 1864, pp. 216-219.

[13] “Milady Charlotte, English, pensioner of France, twelve livres; for one servant in 1789, two livres; twelve livres, two servants for 1790, four livres.”—Register of the Poll-tax of the Seven Parishes, 1790. Parish of St. André, Rue Princesse, No. 337, p. 46. Municipal Archives of Lille.

[14] “To-day, October 28, 1790, in the Assembly of the General Council of the town of Lille ... having heard the solicitor for the Commune, the Council proceeded to the continuation of the work of sur-taxation, and of taxation for the patriotic contribution.... After which, it proceeded to the taxation of those able to contribute, having an income of more than 400 livres, as follows:—Parish of St. André ... Rue Princesse, Milady Charlotte, because of her pension from the Royal Treasury ... 300 livres....”—Register No. 1 of the Deliberations of the Corporation of Lille. Archives of Lille.

[15] “On the 20th March, 1791, I the undersigned, Curate of this Parish, baptized Antoine-Quentin Atkyns, born yesterday at 8 o’clock a.m., the illegitimate son of Edward, native of England, and of Geneviève Leglen, native of Lille; attested by M. Warocquier, junior, registered accoucheur; verified by Derousseaux, clerk. God parents: Antoine-Quentin Derobois, and Therése Cordier, the undersigned,

Signed: “Derobois. Cordier,
“F. Dutheil, Curate.”

Civil Registers. Parish of St. Catherine. Baptisms. Archives of Lille.

[16] “After having loved and served the unhappy Marie-Antoinette with a love that was almost idolatry.”—Mémoires manuscrits de Frotté; La Sicotière, Louis de Frotté, etc., vol. i. p. 49. “O exquisite woman, let our Revolution end as it may, and even if you should have no part in it, you will still and for ever be to me the tender and devoted friend of Antoinette ... and she to whom I hope some day to owe all my happiness.”—Letter from de Frotté to Lady Atkyns, November, 1794. V. Delaporte, Centenaire de la mort de Marie-Antoinette. Études religieuses, October, 1893, p. 265.

[17] National Archives, D. XXIX. 36.

[18] Unpublished letter to Frotté, May 7, 1790. National Archives, D. XXIX. 36.

[19] In the course of a search made at Dunkirk, in Frotté’s dwelling-place (in circumstances of which we shall speak directly), the greater part of the articles seized were sent to the Committee of Research of the National Assembly, and it was in the Archives of this Committee that we discovered them. National Archives, D. XXIX. 36.

[20] The entire text will be found, published by M. A. Savine, in the Nouvelle Revue Retrospective, 1900, vol. xiii. pp. 217-233.

[21] “You will have got a letter from me, explaining my apparent neglect; I wrote it the day before I went to Vaux, as well as I remember. Your father, who may have told you in a moment of irritation that you were a burden to him (it was only a letter after all), charged me then to send you his love. My sister has often spoken of you with the most sincere and tender affection. You would be most unkind if you did not write to her; she would have every reason to be angry with you; you would pain her, and that would pain your father.... Dear fellow, don’t, don’t despair; you make me very uneasy by the way you write.”—Letter from Lamberville to Frotté. April 5, 1791. National Archives, D. XXIX. 36.

[22] To Fours, in the Eure district, whence the letter comes.

[23] Letter from Vallière to Frotté, November 13, 1790. National Archives, D. XXIX. 36.

[24] Letter dated “Lille, December 14” (1790). The address runs: “To M. le Vicomte de Frotté, officer in the Regiment Colonel-General of infantry at Dunkirk.” National Archives, D. XXIX. 36.

[25] Municipal Archives of Dunkirk, p. 60.

[26] Municipal Archives of Dunkirk, p. 60.

[27] It was from that place that they addressed, on July 3, 1791, a petition for the restoration of their effects left in the garrison, and also asked for the liberation of their regimental chaplain, whom the Corporation had had arrested, on the charge of having aided the plot.—Archives of Dunkirk, p. 60.

[28] Moniteur, June 30, 1791.

CHAPTER II
LONDON

While the Court and the Army of the émigrés were being organized at Coblentz and Worms, under the direction of Monsieur, Comte de Provence, of the Comte d’Artois, and of the Prince de Condé, and while rivalry and jealousies and a thousand other causes of dissension were already cropping up in that environment (so often and always so unfavourably depicted), other troops of similar fugitives were leaving the eastern coast and, embarking from the Channel port, or stopping first on the islands of Jersey and Guernsey, were gradually arriving on English soil, there to find an assured refuge. In the last months of 1791, and in the beginning of 1792, they came thither in thousands. Bretons, Normans, nobles, ecclesiastics, journalists, young officers, fleeing persecution, pillage, arbitrary arrests, came hastening to enjoy the hospitality of Great Britain.

London was soon full of refugees; but the majority of these unfortunate folk, despite their illustrious names, were in a state almost of destitution.

The more prosperous ones, those who had been able to rescue something from the shipwreck, succeeded in finding homes in the suburbs—modest boarding-houses, or little cottages—where they installed their families. But these were the exceptions; and in every street French gentlefolk were to be met with who had no property but what they carried on their backs. Many of them knew no English; and still overwhelmed by the dangers they had passed through, and thus suddenly plunged into strange surroundings, without resources, without even a handicraft, went wandering despairingly about the city, in search of bread.

They were not allowed to starve. Most admirably did English charity accept this influx of new inhabitants.

The last years of the reign of Louis XVI., together with the War of Independence in the United States, had markedly chilled the relations between France and her neighbours across the Channel. Revolutionary ideas from the frontiers had at first met with some sympathy amongst this favoured people, who had been in the enjoyment of true liberty for a century. But when English folk came to know of the excess which these ideas had resulted in, of the anarchy which had been let loose in all directions, of the violence which was the order of the day—their distrust, indignation, and horror effaced that earlier sympathy.

King George III., supported by his Minister, Pitt, felt from that time an aversion which grew to implacable hatred for anything even remotely connected with the French Revolution.[29]

On the other hand, he (and, indeed, almost the whole of the aristocracy) welcomed the refugees, and encouraged their sojourn in the kingdom—glad, no doubt, of the opportunity for displaying his opinion of the new ideas, by helping on the exodus of a part of the inhabitants of France, an exodus which would contribute to the weakening of that country.

Whatever the reason may have been, there is abundant evidence of the inexhaustible charity that the new-comers met with in English society. Benevolent committees were formed, presided over by dukes and duchesses, marquises and marchionesses.[30] When the first necessities of the poor creatures had been provided for by the establishment of cheap restaurants, hotels, and bazaars, their friends sought out occupations for them, so that they might be in a position to earn their own livelihood. The clergy were the first to profit by this solicitude. The decree of August 26, 1792, ordaining the deportation of non-juring priests, had driven them in a body from the continent. It was well for those who were thus driven out, for of their comrades who remained the most part were in the end persecuted and entrapped. The greater number chose England for their place of refuge. They came thither in crowds—so much so that, at the Terror, there were as many as 8000.[31] Many were Bretons. One of them, Carron, came to London preceded by a reputation for holiness. He had founded at Rennes a cotton-cloth factory which gave employment to more than 2000 poor people. The famous Decree of August 26 affected him, and thus forced him to abandon his enterprise. He went to Jersey, and recommenced his work there; but left the island at the end of some time, and came to settle in England. There he set up an alms-house for his destitute coreligionists, and acted the part of a sort of Providence to them. Nor was he the only one they had.

Jean-François de la Marche, Bishop of Saint-Pol-de-Léon, had, ever since the early months of 1791, incurred the wrath and fury of the Attorney-General of the department of Finisterre. This prelate, who was profoundly loved in his diocese, refused to give up his bishopric, which had recently been suppressed by the National Assembly. He was accused of fomenting agitation in the department, and of inciting the curés to resistance. He was violently denounced at the National Assembly, and treated as a disturber of the public peace. Summoned to Paris to exculpate himself, together with his colleagues, the Bishops of Tréguier and Morbihan, he took no notice of the order, and to escape arrest, which threatened him, and for which he was being pursued by the Cavalry Police, he had but one resource—to get right away from Brittany. He came to London in the first batch of émigrés. From the outset he had but one idea: to look after his companions in misfortune, to help them in their need, to find employment for them. To this end he served as intermediary between the Government and the priests, pleading the cause of these latter, and keeping registers of the names and qualifications of all with whom he became concerned.

In spite of so many reasons for melancholy, one thing that struck the English people was the extraordinary gaiety of nature displayed by most of the émigrés so soon as they found themselves in security. These good folk, many of whom landed half-starved, exhausted and ragged, were somehow not entirely disheartened, and, indeed, on commencing life afresh, displayed an extraordinary spirit and cheerfulness. Very quickly, even in the alien country, they formed into circles of friends who saw each other every day,[32] eager to exchange impressions, reminiscences, and hopes, to get news from the Homeland and from those members of their families who had not been able to leave it; they felt keenly the need of a common existence, in which they could cheer and encourage one another. And what a kindly grace they showed, what a brave spirit, amid all the little disagreeables of a way of life so different from that of the good old days! At the dinners which they gave one another, each would bring his own dish. “’Twas made,” says the Count d’Haussonville, “into a little attention to the visitors of the house for a man to take a taper from his pocket, and put it, lighted, on the chimney-piece!” In the daytime the men-folk gave lessons or worked as secretaries (or bookbinders, like the Count de Caumont, for instance). The women did needlework, which the English ladies, their patronesses, busied themselves in selling at bazaars.[33]

But side by side with the gentlemen who took their exile so patiently and philosophically, there was a whole group of émigrés who longed to play a less passive part. These were the men and women who had fled from France and brought their illusions with them—those inconceivable illusions which mistook so entirely the true character, importance, and extent of the Revolution, and could still, therefore, cherish the hope of some kind of revenge. Totally misunderstanding the feelings of the English Government, unable to comprehend the line taken by Pitt and his Cabinet, and blinded by their stubborn hatred, these men and women actually imagined that, to their importunate appeals, Great Britain could respond by furnishing them with arms, soldiers, and money to equip a fleet, form an army, and go back to France as the avengers of the “hideous Revolution.” They assailed the Minister with offers, counsels, and schemes—for the most part quite impracticable; were refused, but still cherished their delusion. Some of them were honest, but many were of that class of adventurer with which the Emigration was swarming, and which was the thorn in the side of all the anti-revolutionary agencies. The well-warned Government could give them but one reception. Pitt had not the least idea of listening to the proposals of these gentry and personally intervening in favour of the Royalists of France.[34]

England at that time was deeply concerned with Indian affairs; and, in spite of the lively sympathy inspired by the grievous situation of the Royal Family at the Tuileries, she could not dream of departing, at any rate just then, from an attitude of benevolent neutrality.

In her manor-house of Ketteringham, where she spent the winter of 1791-92, Lady Atkyns was not forgetful of her French friends. The Gazette brought her week by week news of the events in Paris, of the troubles in the provinces, of the deliberations of the National Assembly. But what she looked for first of all was intelligence about the inhabitants of the Tuileries, whose agitated and anguished lives she anxiously followed. Separation redoubled her sympathetic adoration of the lady whom she had seen and worshipped at Versailles. Thus we can imagine what her grief must have been on hearing the details of that 20th of June—the invaded palace, the interminable line of the people defiling before the King, the attitude of Marie-Antoinette, protecting her son against the ferocious curiosity of the petitioners, and surrounded only by a few faithful allies who made a rampart for her with their bodies. Lady Atkyns’ heart had failed her as she read of all this. The day of the Tenth of August, the massacre of the Swiss Guards, the flight of the King and Queen, their transfer to the Temple Prison, and incarceration there—these things redoubled her anguish. She went frequently to London for information, and returned, sad and anxious, to her dear Norfolk home, made miserable by her impotence to do anything that might save the Queen.

With her great love for the Royalist cause, she naturally associated herself warmly with the benevolent efforts of English society to help the émigrés. She knew many of the names, and when she heard talk of D’Harcourts, Beauvaus, Veracs, Fitz-Jameses, Mortemarts, all the life at Versailles must have come back to her—the Queen’s “set,” the receptions, the festivities.

It was during one of her visits to London that she made the acquaintance of a man whom she had long wished to know, and whose articles she always eagerly read—I allude to Jean-Gabriel Peltier, the editor of the Acts of the Apostles, that extravagantly Royalist sheet which had such an immense vogue in a certain circle since the days of ’89. Peltier was born near Angers;[35] his real name was Dudoyer—of a business family. After an adventurous youth, and a sojourn at Saint-Domingo (where, it seems, he did not lead a blameless life), he came to Paris at the beginning of the Revolution. According to a police report of doubtful authenticity, he flung himself heart and soul into the revolutionary cause, speechifying side by side with Camille Desmoulins at the Palais-Royal, flaunting one of the first rebel flags, and marching to the Taking of the Bastille. Then, all of a sudden, he turns his coat, becomes a blazing Royalist, and founds a newspaper with the curious title of The Acts of the Apostles. For the space of two years he then attacks violently, recklessly, everything and everybody so mistaken as not to agree with his own ideas. The style of the paper is sarcastic, and frequently licentious. The author has been found fault with for his insults and his invectives; his sheet has been styled “infamous;” but when we remember the prevailing tone of the Press at that time, and the condition of the public mind, is it not only fair to grant some indulgence to the quartette—Peltier, Rivarol, Champcnetz, and Sulau—who took in hand so ardently and enthusiastically the interests of the King?

On August 10, when he had dismissed the other editors of the Acts of the Apostles, and stopped the publication of the paper, Peltier, feeling no longer safe in Paris, took the step of emigrating. He came to London with the idea of founding a new periodical, which was to be called The Political Correspondence of the True Friends of the King.

PELTIER.

Jean-Gabriel Peltier, 1765-1825.

(After an engraving in the British Museum.)

[To face page 44.

Tall and thin, with powdered hair, and a lofty bald forehead, always inveighing fervently against something or other (so Chateaubriand depicts him), Peltier answered in some degree to the traditional type of journalist in those days, when “journalist” meant at once gazetteer, lampoonist, and pamphleteer. Judging by his writings alone, one can understand the small confidence that his English acquaintances placed in him; but under his somewhat eccentric mode of expression Peltier concealed a very real and deep devotion to the King’s cause.

His acquaintance with Lady Atkyns dates from November, 1792. This lady spent a great part of her long leisurely days in the country in reading. She was told of the recent publications by Peltier; she had known only of some of these, and instantly off she writes to the journalist, asking him for the first numbers of the book which he is bringing out. Needless to say, her desire is at once gratified.[36] She devours the writings of the author of The Acts of the Apostles; she joins in his anger, shares his admirations, and a regular correspondence begins between these two persons, drawn together as they were by a common sympathy for the Royal Family of France.

When they have exchanged reminiscences of past days, they come to consider the present. Lady Atkyns has been fretting for weeks over her inaction. A thousand thoughts disturb her, all converging towards the same idea: can she do anything to save the King and the Queen? Does she not possess a considerable fortune, and who is to prevent her from arranging to devote a part of it to the realization of her dream? And in truth this woman, who was a foreigner, who was bound by no real tie of any kind to the inmates of the Tuileries, was actually to attempt, through the strength alone of her love and her heroic devotion, what no one had yet succeeded in. A superhuman energy sustained her; one thought only was henceforth to rule her life, and not once did she falter, nor doubt, nor lose the ardour of her feeling.

To whom better could she address herself than to him who seemed to understand her so well? Peltier was told of her intentions. Their letters grew more frequent, their project begins to take shape.

“In truth, madame” (Peltier writes), “the more I read you, the more your zeal astonishes and moves me. You are more intrepid and more ardent than any Frenchman, even among those who are most attached to their King. But have you reflected upon the dozen doors, the dozen wickets and tickets that must be arranged for, before you can get into Court? I know that to tell you of difficulties is but to inflame your desire to overcome them; moreover, I do not doubt that your new scheme has taken all these difficulties into account.”

When this plan had been modified and approved by Peltier, it stood thus: First of all, to find two safe correspondents in Paris, to whom letters and a statement of the scheme could be sent. And these two men were there, ready to hand—both whole-heartedly Royalists, both tried men. They were MM. Goguelat and Gougenot. The first, who was M. de Bouillé’s aide-de-camp, had taken an active part in the Varennes affair, but he had not shown the greatest discretion, for all he had succeeded in doing was to get wounded. The second, who was the King’s steward, had been in the secret of the flight. The plotters also meant to get into relations with the two physicians of Louis XVI., MM. Lemonnier and Vicq d’Azyr, who would give most valuable aid in the passing of notes into the Temple Prison, for and to the prisoners. But the great difficulty would be the King. How was he to be brought to their way of thinking? Would he consent to listen to the proposals they were to transmit to him? “That” (declares Peltier) “is what no one can be sure of, considering the state of prostration that he must be in after such terrible and incessant misfortunes.”

Nor was this all. They had to find an intelligent and nimble agent, who could cross from England to France once, twice, many times if necessary; who could have interviews with the persons indicated, and, above all, who could manage to procure detailed plans of the Temple Prison. An ordinary courier would not do. Well, it just happened that Peltier had relations with a foreign nobleman, Hungarian by birth, whom he had come to know by chance, and who even helped him with his publications. He had, in fact, made this gentleman his collaborator. His name was d’Auerweck, and as he happened to be in France at that very moment, he could easily betake himself to Paris, and, in Peltier’s opinion, would fill most admirably the delicate post with which he was to be entrusted.

Finally, throughout the plot, they were to make use in correspondence of a “sympathetic” ink, “which could only be read when held near the fire.”

Here is the cost of the first preparations:—

That is a sum of about 650 francs. Needless to say, the journalist émigré, like most of his compatriots, was entirely unable to give the smallest contribution to the expenses of the enterprise; but Lady Atkyns was there, ready for any sacrifice; they were to apply to her for everything necessary.

In conclusion, Peltier pointed out again the difficulties of a general escape.

“Above all, madame, do not forget that I foresee a great difficulty in bringing out the three principal members of the family. They may possibly think themselves safer in the Temple than on the high-road. The personal risk which you are running makes me shudder. Your courage is worthy of the admiration of all Europe, and if any harm comes to you, as the result of so heroic an enterprise, I shall be among those who will deplore it most.”

Three days later another letter came to Ketteringham, telling of the good progress of the attempt. Peltier was going to despatch his servant to Amiens, whither the Baron d’Auerweck had gone, and the latter would in this way receive his instructions.

But there was no time to lose. The storm was muttering in Paris. Pressed by the “Forward” groups, frightened by the redoubled insurrections, the Convention had been compelled to proceed to the trial of the King. “Circumstances are becoming so urgent,” wrote Peltier, “that we have not a moment to lose; they talk of trying the King so as to calm down the insurrections that are breaking out everywhere.”

And, indeed, it was necessary to make haste. After the discovery of the papers in the famous “Iron Press” in the Tuileries, the Convention had agreed that the King should appear before them. On December 10 Robert Lindet made his report, and the next day Barbaroux presented “the deed enunciating the crimes of Louis Capet.” On the same day the King appeared before the bar of the Convention, there to answer the thirty-one questions which were put to him.

Like lightning, this terrifying news crossed the Channel, and reached London in a few hours. Peltier’s rooms filled with horrified people, “who met there all day long to weep and despair.”

“I cannot conceal from you, madame,” wrote Peltier that evening to his friend, “that the danger to the Royal Family is very great at this moment. Truly I cannot hope that they will still be alive at the end of the fortnight. It is heartrending. You will have seen the English papers. You will have read Robespierre’s abominable speech, and how it was applauded by the Tribunes; and, above all, you will have seen about these new documents, which have been twisted into a crime of the unhappy King’s because people will not see that all the steps he took to regain his authority were taken for the good of his people, and that his sole object was to save them by force if necessary from the evils which are destroying them, now that they no longer have a King.”

But even yet all was not lost. If they arrived too late to save the King, there was still the Dauphin, “to whom every one should look.” In a few days the Baron d’Auerweck would be in Paris, and they would know exactly how much they might still hope for.

“A Transylvanian nobleman,” was the description Peltier had given when writing about this new collaborator.[37] The epithet, although most attractive—suggestive as it was of that land of great forests all wildness and mystery—was not perfectly exact. The family of Auerweck, though perhaps of Hungarian origin, had established itself at Vienna, where the father of our Baron died as a captain in the Austrian service. His wife—whose maiden-name had been Scheltheim—had borne him four children, two boys and two girls. The two latter were married and settled in Austria. The elder son, who was born at Vienna about 1766, was named Louis (Aloys) Gonzago; he added to his family name that of an estate, Steilenfels, and the title of Baron—so that the whole thing, when given out with the proper magniloquence, was quite effective.

“By the particular favour of Marie-Thérèse,” Louis d’Auerweck entered very young the Military Academy of Neustadt, near Vienna. On leaving it, he spent four years in a Hungarian regiment, the “Renfosary;” but garrison-life bored him, and, independent and ambitious, he longed to shake off the yoke of militarism which hampered him in his schemes.

Unfortunately, we have only his own record of his younger days,[38] and it is matter for regret that no more trustworthy information is to be had. For very curious and interesting is the life of this adventurer, who was undeniably intelligent and clever, but who was also an intriguer and a braggart; who knew French well, and therefore posed as a finished diplomatist, with pretentions to philosophy and literature; who, in a word, was filled with a sense of his own importance, and fatally addicted to “playing to the gallery.” Some quotations from his writings will give a better idea of him than any description.

Hardly has he left Austria—his reason for doing so we shall learn from himself—than he sets off on a sort of educational tour, beginning at Constantinople and going on to the Mediterranean. He visits, one after the other, Greece, Malta, Sicily, Spain, the South of France; he even goes so far as Chambéry and Lyons. An opportunity turns up, and off he sets for Paris.

“The innovations made by Joseph II., such as the introduction of the Register and military conscription, caused him to be employed as an engineer, and as a member of the administrative body formed to carry out these different schemes. His independent character instantly displayed itself in a sphere where it was no longer repressed by that duty of blind obedience which is the very being of the Army. He could now venture to have an opinion and to express it, he could criticise the root-idea on the form of an enterprise by displaying its difficulties or foretelling its non-success (forecasts, moreover, which time has proved to be sound); he could speak of the violation of national justice, of a legitimate resistance to arbitrary power. His experiences under fire, his activity, and his oratorical talent gave him a position among the malcontents which he had not sought in any way. In consequence, he ventured on something more than mere speaking and writing. His travels, his qualities, his independent and decided character have won for him friendships and acquaintanceships which have given him the advantage of never finding himself out of place in any important centre of affairs. To this he owes that knowledge of the hereditary prejudices and the sudden caprices of Cabinets, which when joined to an equal knowledge of the character of their chiefs, ministers, constitutes diplomacy. To assiduous study he attributes that understanding of the true interests of Governments, and of their respective powers, which constitutes international politics.”

Such was the personage to whom Lady Atkyns and Peltier entrusted their enterprise. If they looked after him carefully, granted him only a limited discretion, and took the fullest advantage of his intelligence and his talents, they would probably make something of the Hungarian nobleman. This was not the Baron’s first visit to Paris; he knew the capital well. He had come there at the beginning of the Revolution, in 1789, and, if we are to believe his own account, “he saw the results of all these horrors, but was merely laughed at. If all mankind could have been armed against the Revolution, he would have armed them!” Moreover, he had kept up many connections in Paris. By his own account, the Austrian Minister, Thugut, whom he had formerly met at Naples, had taken him into his confidence. In short, his friends in London could not have made a better choice, as he wrote from Amiens to Peltier on the receipt of his proposal.

“I start for Paris at full speed at five o’clock to-morrow morning. I need not tell you that from this moment I shall devote myself to the business of which you have spoken to me, nor need I add that this devotion is entirely disinterested. If I had not already proved those two things to you, I should not be the man you require. But, just because I feel that I have the head and the heart necessary for your enterprise, I tell you frankly that it can only be carried out at great expense. The business of getting information—which is only a preparatory measure—is made difficult, if not impossible, unless a considerable sum of money can be spent.... I believe myself authorized to speak to you in this way, because I have the advantage—rare enough amongst men—of being above suspicion with regard to my own interests.”[39]

On Wednesday, December 19, d’Auerweck entered Paris, and put up at a hotel in the Rue Coq-Héron, where he gave his name as Scheltheim. He instantly set to work to get the letters he had brought with him delivered at their addresses, and to make certain of the co-operation which was essential to him. But there was a disappointment in store; Goguelat, upon whom so much depended, was away from Paris, and, as it happened, in London. It was necessary to act without him, and this was no easy matter. The excitement caused by the trial of the King enforced upon the plotters a redoubled caution. D’Auerweck got uneasy when he found no letters coming from Peltier in answer to his own. He went more frequently to Versailles, and to Saint-Germain, and kept on begging for funds. On December 25, the day before M. de Sèze was to present the King’s defence to the Convention, d’Auerweck wrote to Peltier—

“The persons (you know whom I mean) do not care to arrive here before Thursday, which is very natural, for there is all sorts of talk as to what may happen to-morrow.... You promised me to write by each post; but there can be no doubt that you forgot me on Tuesday, the 18th, for otherwise I must have had your letters by this time. One thing I cannot tell you too often: it is that I consider it essential to take to you in person any documents that I may be able to procure.”[40]

The documents in question were those which Peltier had alluded to, some days before, in a letter to Lady Atkyns: “I heard to-day that there was some one in Paris who had all the plans that you want in the greatest detail;”[41] and at the end of the month he returned to the subject—

“I am expecting, too, a most exact plan of the Temple Prison, taken in November; and not only of the Temple, but also of the caves that lie under the tower—caves that are not generally known of, and which were used from time immemorial for the burial of the ancient Templars. I know a place where the wall is only eighteen inches thick, and debouches on the next street.”

It becomes evident that Peltier and Lady Atkyns, almost abandoning any hope of saving the King, whose situation appeared to them to be desperate, now brought all their efforts to bear upon the other prisoners of the Temple.

“If His Majesty persists in his reluctance to be rescued from prison, at least we may still save his poor son from the assassins’ knives. A well-informed man told me, the day before yesterday, when we were talking of this deplorable business, that people were to be found in Paris ready, for a little money, to carry off the Dauphin. They would bring him out of the Temple in a basket, or else disguised in some way.... I believe that to save the son is to save the father also. For, after all, this poor child cannot be made the pretext for any sort of trial, and as the Crown belongs to him by law on his father’s death, I believe that they would keep the latter alive, if it were only to checkmate those who would rally round the Dauphin. But, in the interval, things may have time to alter, and circumstances may at last bring about a happy change in this disastrous state of things.”

The month of December went by in this painful state of suspense. What anxiety must have fretted the heart of the poor lady, as she daily followed in the Gazette the course of the Royal Trial! On New Year’s Day she had some further words of encouragement from her friend in London. All was not lost; Louis XVI. could still reckon, even in the heart of Paris, upon many brave fellows who would not desert him; and besides, what about the fatal consequences that would follow on the crime of regicide? The Members of Convention would never dare—never....

Fifteen days later comes another missive; and this time but little hope is left. The “Little Baron”—this was what they called d’Auerweck—was not being idle. Peltier had made an opportunity for him of seeing De Sèze, the King’s counsel.

“This latter ought to know for certain whether the King does or does not intend to await his sentence or to expose himself to the hazards of another flight; but there seems to be very little chance of his consenting to it. Whatever happens” (added Peltier), “your desires and your efforts, madam, will not be wasted, either for yourself or for history. I possess, in your correspondence, a monument of courage and devotion which will endure longer than London Bridge.... A trusty messenger who starts to-morrow for Paris affords me a means of opening my mind to De Sèze for the third time.”

But it was too late. On January 15 the nominal appeal upon the thirty-three questions presented to the Members of Convention had been commenced; two days later the capital sentence was voted by a majority of fifty-three.

On January 21, at the hour when the guillotine had just done its work, the following laconic note reached Ketteringham to say that all was over:—

“My honoured friend, all we can do now is to weep. The crime is consummated. Judgment of death was pronounced on Thursday evening. D’Orleans voted for it, and he is to be made Protector. We have nothing now to look forward to but revenge; and our revenge shall be terrible.”

Think of the look that must have fallen upon that date, “January 21!” The postmark of the letter still shows it quite clearly, on the yellowed sheet.

Could they possibly have succeeded if the King had listened favourably to their proposal? It is difficult to say. But it is certainly a fact, that during the last six months of 1792 there had been on the water, near Dieppe, a cruising vessel which kept up a constant communication with the English coast. The truth was that, finding the Rouen route too frequented, Peltier had judged the Dieppe one to be infinitely preferable. It was that way that the fish merchants came to Paris. If they had succeeded in getting the King outside the Temple gates it is probable that his escape would have been consummated. But the prison was heavily guarded at that time, and during the trial these precautions were redoubled.

At any rate, there is no doubt that Louis knew of the attempts to save him from death. Some time after the event of January 21, Clery, speaking of the King to the Municipal, Goret, remarked—

“Alas! my dear good master could have been saved if he had chosen. The windows in that place are only fifteen or sixteen feet above the ground. Everything had been arranged for a rescue, while he was still there, but he refused, because they could not save his family with him.”

There can be no doubt that these words refer to the attempt of Lady Atkyns and Peltier.[42] The assent of the King had alone been wanting to its execution.

It is well known what a terrible and overwhelming effect was produced in the European Courts by the news of the King’s execution. In London it was received with consternation. Not merely the émigrés (who had added to their numbers there since the beginning of the Revolution) were thunderstruck by the blow, but the Court of King George was stupefied at the audacity of the National Assembly. The Court went instantly into mourning, and the King ordered the French Ambassador, Chauvelin, to leave London on the spot. Some days later war was officially declared against France.[43]

The King’s death caused the beginning of that struggle which was to last so many years and be so implacably, ferociously waged on both sides.

Any one but Lady Atkyns would have lost heart, but that heroic woman did not allow herself to be cast down for an instant. Amid the general mourning, she still cherished her hopes; moreover, those who had been helping her had not abandoned her. The “Little Baron” was still in Paris, awaiting orders, but the gravity of the situation had obliged him to leave the Hotel Coq-Héron, where his life was no longer in safety. Well, they had failed with the King; now they must tempt fortune, and save the Queen and her children. The lady at Ketteringham was quite sure of that.

“Nothing is yet decided about the Queen’s fate” (Peltier had written to her at the end of January), “but it has been proposed at the Commune of Paris to transfer her either to the prison of La Force or of La Conciergerie.”

Then Lady Atkyns had an idea. Why should she not go in person to Paris and try her chance? Probably the surveillance which had been so rigorously kept over the King would be far less severe for the Queen. And one might profit by the relative tranquillity, and manage to get into the Temple, and then—who could tell what one might not devise in the way of carrying the Queen off, or of substituting some one else for her? She never thought of all the dangers around her, and of the enormously increased difficulties in the path for a foreign lady who knew only a little French. Peltier, to whom she confided her plan, tried to dissuade her.

“You will hardly have arrived before innumerable embarrassments will crop up; if you leave your hotel three times in the day, or if you see the same person thrice, you will become a suspect.”

But his friend’s persistence ended by half convincing him, and he admitted that the moment was relatively favourable, and that it was well to take advantage of it, if she wished to attempt anything.

Unluckily, things were moving terribly fast in Paris. There came the days of May 31 and June 2, the efforts of the sections against the Commune, civil war let loose. In the midst of this storm, Lady Atkyns feared that the whole affair might come to nought; her arrangements, moreover, were not completed. Money, which can do so much, decide so much, and which had already proved so powerful—money, perhaps, was not sufficiently forthcoming. Suddenly there is a rumour that a conspiracy to favour the Queen’s escape has been discovered. Two members of the Commune, Lepitre and Toulan, who had been won over to the cause by a Royalist, the Chevalier de Jarjays, had almost succeeded in carrying out their scheme, when the irresolution of one of them had ruined everything; nevertheless, they were denounced.[44] Public attention, which had been averted for a moment, now was fixed again upon the Temple Prison.

And the days go by, and Lady Atkyns sees no chance of starting on her enterprise.

We come here to an episode in her life which seems to be enveloped in mystery. One fact is proved, namely, that Lady Atkyns succeeded in reaching Marie Antoinette, disguised, and at the price of a large sum of money. But when did this take place? Was the Queen still at the Temple, or was it after she had been taken to the Conciergerie? The most reliable witnesses we have—and they are two of Lady Atkyns’ confidants—seem to contradict one another.[45] A careful weighing of testimony and an attentive study of the letters which Lady Atkyns received at this time lead us to conclude, with much probability, that the attempt was made after the Queen had been transferred to the Conciergerie; that is to say, after August 2, 1793.[46]

Some days before this Peltier had again brought her to give up her resolve, assuring her that she was vainly exposing herself to risk—

“If you wish to be useful to that family, you can only be so by directing operations from here (instead of going there to get guillotined), and by making those sacrifices which you have already resolved to make.”

It was of no use. The brave lady listened only to her heart’s promptings, and set out for Paris. If we are to believe her friend, the Countess MacNamara[47]—and her testimony is valuable—she succeeded in winning over a municipal official, who consented to open the doors of the Conciergerie for her, on the condition that no word should be exchanged between her and the Royal prisoner. Moreover, the foreign lady must wear the uniform of a National Guard. It was Drury Lane over again! She promised everything, and was to content herself with offering a bouquet to the Queen; but under the stress of the intense emotion she experienced on meeting once more the eyes of the lady whom she had not seen since the days at Versailles, she let fall a note which she held, and which was to have been put into the Queen’s hand with the bouquet. The Municipal officer was about to take possession of it, but, more prompt than he, Lady Atkyns rushed forward, picked it up, and swallowed it. She was turned out brutally. Such was the result of the interview. But the English lady did not stop there. By more and more promises and proceedings, by literally strewing her path with gold, she bought over fresh allies, and this time she obtained the privilege of spending an hour alone with the Queen—at what a price may be imagined! It is said that she had to pay a thousand louis for that single hour. Her plan was this: to change clothes with the Queen, who would then leave the Conciergerie instead of her. But she met with an obstinate refusal. Marie-Antoinette would not, under any pretext, sacrifice the life of another, and to abandon her imprisoned children was equally impossible to her. But what emotion she must have felt at the sight of such a love, so simple, so whole-hearted, and so pure! She could but thank her friend with tearful eyes and commend her son, the Dauphin, to that friends tender solicitude. She also gave her some letters for her friends in England.[48]

On leaving the Conciergerie, one thought filled the mind of Lady Atkyns: she would do for the son what she had not been able to do for the mother—she would drag the little Dauphin out of the Temple Prison.

Did she return to England immediately afterwards? Probably. For one thing, she had not lost all hope, and, like the rest of her friends, she did not as yet fear instant danger for the Queen’s life. This is proved by a note from Peltier, written in the course of the month of September, which reveals the existence of a fresh plan.

“They must set out on Thursday morning at latest; if they delayed any longer, the approach of the Austrian troops, and the movements which have taken place at Paris, might, we fear, determine the members of the Convention to fly and take with them the two hostages whom we want to save. One day’s, two days’ delay may make all the difference. If they are to start on Thursday morning, and go to Brighton and charter a neutral vessel, they have only Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday to spend, day and night, in getting everything ready. First of all, we must get some louis d’or, and sew them in their belts. Then we must get some paper-money, if it’s only for the journey along the coast to Paris, so that they may not be suspected.... We must have time to prepare passports that will do for the three persons who are to go. These passports must be made to look like the letters that Mr. Dundas is sending for the Jacobins who are being deported from France. They are thus less likely to be suspected.... The Temple affair is all arranged; but, as to the Conciergerie one, nothing is known as yet; the last letters from the Paris agents are dated July 26th. We are sure that the persons interested have taken measures, but we do not know what they are. It would not be a bad plan to have some money in reserve for this purpose. It would be dreadful to think we had missed our chance for the sake of two or three hundred louis, which would make 1500 guineas. Therefore each man ought to carry on his person about 450 louis, or 200 double-louis, because about 50 louis would be spent in paper-money.

“There will also be a line of communication between France and England, by means of M——, who resides near Dieppe, on the coast, and who up to now has received and passed on constant communications. We shall have to know of all the movements either of the armies, or of the fleets, so as to direct our operations accordingly.... Circumstances have made it very dangerous to employ foreigners, since the Decree of August 5 has banished them from France. But what difference is there between doing a thing one’s self and causing it to be done? The glory which one shares with others is glory none the less so long as the great purpose is attained.... How can I be sure if this plan does succeed, it will not be displeasing to the lady who would have liked to carry off her friends with her own hands, and then to lead them in triumph, etc., etc.?... But as we are concerned, not with an opera, but an operation, the best proof of affection will be to sacrifice that glory and that joy. And, besides, that lady will not then be running the risks which formerly made existence hateful to me. If my friends perish in this affair, I shall at least not have to listen to a son’s and a mother’s reproaches for the loss of their Charlotte....”[49]

It is clear from these lines that the communications established with the Temple and outside it were still kept in working order against a favourable opportunity. The agents in question were probably those who have been already mentioned, two of whom were the bodyguards of the Queen. But Lady Atkyns’ money had also had its effect, even among those “Incorruptibles” which the Revolution created in such numbers; and the events which we shall now read of can only be explained by the co-operation, not only of one or two isolated persons, but of a quantity of willing helpers, cleverly won over, and belonging to a circle in which it could scarcely have been hoped that they were to be found.

In the midst of all this, the Baron d’Auerweck (whom we last saw in Paris), judging, doubtless, that his presence there was unavailing, went back to London. The situation in France was more than critical. The formation of a fresh Committee of Public Safety, the activity of the Revolutionary Tribunals, in a word, the Terror in full blast, rendered any stay in Paris impossible for already suspected foreigners, and our Baron made haste to bring to his friends all the latest information.

Peltier, who was impatiently awaiting him, on communicating his arrival to Lady Atkyns, wrote thus:—

“My heart is too full of it for me to speak to you of anything but the arrival of my friend, the Baron d’Auerweck. He left France two days ago, and is now here, after having run every imaginable risk, and lost everything that could be lost.... We have the Paris news from him up to the 23rd; the Queen was still safe then. The Baron does not think she will be sacrificed. Danton and the Cordeliers are for her, Robespierre and the Jacobins against. Her fate will depend upon which of the two parties triumphs. The Queen is being closely guarded—the King, hardly at all. The Queen maintains a supernatural strength and dignity.”[50]

It was in London itself, at the Royal Hotel, that Lady Atkyns received these lines. She had hastened there so as to be better able to make inquiries.

But the Decree issued by the Convention, on October 3, ordering the indictment of the “Widow Capet,” give a curious contradiction to the assurances given by d’Auerweck. After all, though, who could dare to forecast the future, and the intentions of those who were now in power? The ultra-jacobin politicians knew less than any one else whither Destiny was to lead them. Had there not been some talk, a few weeks earlier, of getting the Queen to enter into the plan of a negotiation with Austria? So it was not surprising that illusions with regard to her reigned in Paris as well as among the émigrés in London.

Eleven days later Marie-Antoinette underwent a preliminary examination at the bar of the Revolutionary Tribunal. The suit was heard quickly, and there were no delays. Of the seven witnesses called, the last, Hébert, dared to bring the most infamous accusations against her, to which the accused replied only by a disdainful silence. Then came the official speeches of Chaveau-Lagarde and of Tronson-Ducoudray—a mere matter of form, for the “Austrian woman” was irrevocably doomed.

On the third day, October 16, at 4.30 a.m., in the smoky hall of the Tribunal, by the vague light of dawn, the jury gave their verdict, “Guilty”; and sentence of death was immediately pronounced. Just on eleven o’clock the cart entered the courtyard of the Conciergerie Prison, the Queen ascended, and, after the oft-described journey, reached the Place de la Revolution. At a quarter past twelve the knife fell upon her neck.

All was over this time—all the wondrous hopes, the last, long-cherished illusions of Lady Atkyns. The poor lady heard of the terrible ending from Peltier. Her friend’s letter was one cry of rage and despair, more piercing even than that of January 21.

“It has killed me. I can see your anguish from here, and it doubles my own. My anger consumes me. I have not even the relief of tears; I cannot shed one. I abjure for ever the name of Frenchman. I wish I could forget their language. I am in despair; I know not what I do, or say, or write. O God! What barbarity, what horror, what evils are with us, and what miseries are still to come! I dare not go to you. Adieu, brave, unhappy lady!”[51]

Many tears must have fallen on that treasured sheet. And still, to this day, traced by Lady Atkyns’ hand, one can read on it these words: “Written after the murder of the Queen of France.”

Were all her efforts, then, irremediably wasted? She refused to believe it. And at that moment two fresh actors appeared on the scene, whose help she could utilize. From the friendship of one, the Chevalier de Frotté (who came to London just then), she could confidently hope for devoted aid. The other, a stranger to her until then, and only recently landed from the Continent, was destined to become one of the principal actors in the game that was now to be played.

FOOTNOTES:

[29] Albert Sorel, L’Europe et la Revolution Française, vol. ii. p. 382.

[30] Forneron, Histoire Générale des Émigrés, Paris, 1884, vol. ii. p. 50.

[31] Abbé de Lubersac, Journal historique et réligieux, de l’émigration et déportation du clergé de France en Angleterre, dedicated to His Majesty the King of England, London, 1802, 8vo, p. 12. (The author styles himself: Vicar-General of Narbonne, Abbé of Noirlac and Royal Prior of St.-Martin de Brivé, French émigré.)

[32] Count d’Haussonville, Souvenirs et Mélanges, Paris, 1878, 8vo.

[33] Gauthier de Brecy, Mémoires véridiques et ingenus de la vie privée, morale et politique d’un homme de bien, written by himself in the eighty-first year of his age, Paris, 1834, 8vo, p. 286.

[34] Sorel, L’Europe et la Révolution Française, vol. iii. pp. 288, 289.

[35] On October 21, 1765, at Gonnord, Maine-et-Loire, Canton of Touarcé, arrondissement of Angers.

[36] Letter from Peltier to Lady Atkyns, dated from London, November 15, 1792.—Unpublished Papers of Lady Atkyns.

[37] “In case of our not being able to find M. Goguelat, I have my eye upon a very useful man whom I have known for many years, and who was, indeed, a collaborator in some of my political works—he is the Baron d’Auerweck, a Transylvanian nobleman, a Royalist like ourselves, of firm character, and very clever.”—Letter from Peltier, Dec. 3, 1792.

[38] In two autobiographical memoirs, one written at Hamburg, June, 1796, and annexed to a despatch from the French Minister there, Reinhard (Archives of the Foreign Office, Hamburg, v. 109, folio 367). The other was written at Paris, July 25, 1807 (National Archives, F. 6445). Both naturally aim at presenting the author in the most favourable light.

[39] Letter from Baron d’Auerweck, December 17, 1792. It is addressed to Peltier under the name of Jonathan Williams.—Unpublished Papers of Lady Atkyns.

[40] Letter from d’Auerweck to Peltier, Paris, Hotel Coq-Héron, No. 16 December 25, 1792.—Unpublished Papers of Lady Atkyns.

[41] Letter from Peltier to Lady Atkyns, London, December 7, 1792.—Ibid.

[42] Narrative of the Municipal, Charles Goret, in G. Lenôtre’s book, La Captivité et la Mort de Marie-Antoinette, Paris, 1902, 8vo, p. 147.

[43] February 1, 1793.

[44] On this plot, see Paul Gaulot, Un Complot sous la Terreur, Paris, 1902, duodecimo.

[45] These are the Chevalier de Frotté and the Countess MacNamara.

[46] In the narrative of the Chevalier de Frotté, who mentions the Temple Prison (published by L. de la Sicotière, Louis de Frotté et les Insurrections Normandes, vol. i. p. 429), we consider that a somewhat natural confusion has arisen. It is, in fact, very difficult to assign any date earlier than August 6 for an attempt at the Temple; for on that date there is a letter from Peltier addressed to Lady Atkyns at Ketteringham, and there can be no doubt that if the lady had already left England, Peltier would have been aware of it. On the other hand, the letter published by V. Delaporte (p. 256), and given as written at the end of July, 1793, must be subsequent to August 2. These phrases: “They will not promise for more than the King and the two female prisoners of the Temple; they will do what is possible for the Queen; but everything is changed, and they cannot answer for anything, and, as to the Queen, they can say nothing as yet, for they have tried the Temple Prison only”—these phrases plainly show that the Queen was no longer at the Temple then. Finally, since in his letter at the beginning of August Peltier once more tried to dissuade Lady Atkyns from coming to Paris, it seems rational to conclude that the lady had not yet carried out her plan.

[47] The testimony of the Countess MacNamara was obtained by Le Normant des Varannes, Histoire de Louis XVII., Orleans, 1890, 8vo, pp. 10-14, and he had it from the Viscount d’Orcet, who had known the Countess. Although we cannot associate ourselves with the writer’s conclusions, we must acknowledge that whenever we have been able to examine comparatively the statements of Viscount d’Orcet relating to Lady Atkyns we have always found them verified by our documents.

[48] It has been sought to establish a connection between this story and the conspiracy of the Municipal, Michouis (the “Affair of the Carnation”), aided by the Chevalier de Pougevide, which failed by the fault of one of the two gendarmes who guarded the Queen. There may be some connection between the principal actors in these simultaneous attempts, but we admit that we have been unable to get any proof of it. It was necessary to take so many precautions, to avoid as far as possible any written allusions, and to veil so impenetrably the machinery of the plots, that it is not surprising that the documents, curt and dry as they are, reveal to us so few details.

[49] Note in Peltier’s handwriting.—Unpublished Papers of Lady Atkyns.

[50] Undated letter from Peltier to Lady Atkyns.—Unpublished Papers of Lady Atkyns.

[51] Unpublished Papers of Lady Atkyns.

CHAPTER III
THE ODYSSEY OF A BRETON MAGISTRATE

On December 8, 1740, in the Rue de Montfort, at Rennes, there were great rejoicings in one of the finest houses of that provincial capital. Monsieur Yves-Gilles Cormier, one of the rich citizens, had become the father of an heir the night before; and this heir was to be named Yves-Jean-François-Marie. The delighted father was getting ready to go to the Church of Saint-Sauveur (about two steps from his abode), there to present his son for the Sacrament of Holy Baptism.

He had invited to this solemnity his relative, Master (Messire) Jean-François Cormier, Prior and Rector of Bazouges-du-Desert,[52] and his neighbour, the Director of the Treasury in the States of Brittany, M. de Saint-Cristan. Madame Françoise Lecomte, wife of the Sieur Imbault, Chief Registrar of the Chamber of La Tournelle, in the Parliament of Brittany, and Dame Marie-Anne Lardoul were also among the guests, who enhanced by their presence the splendour of the ceremony.[53] When the bells rang out the cortège was entering the church porch; shortly afterwards it reissued thence, and went towards the house attached to the Treasury of Brittany, where Mme. Cormier (formerly au Egasse du Boulay) was impatiently awaiting their return.

The Cormiers were a family highly respected at Rennes. By his own labours, Yves Cormier had made a fine fortune, which placed him and his above any kind of need. Four years later a second child, a daughter this time, was born. She was given the names of Françoise-Michelle-Marie.

Yves-François grew up, a worker like his father, a sage follower of parental advice, and both intelligent end gifted. After leaving school he entered the Law Schools at Rennes, and before he was twenty he had got his degree and been entered (on August 18, 1760) as a barrister. Less than a year later the position of Crown Counsel at Rennes falling vacant, the young barrister applied for it, his youth notwithstanding, and obtained it (by Lettres de provision) on August 10, 1761.

This was a rapid advance in his career, and his parents might justly be proud of it; but fortune meant to lavish very special favours on the young magistrate, for on October 27 in the following year, another position falling vacant in the same department—that of Crown Prosecutor—Yves Cormier, exchanging the sitting magistracy for the standing, obtained the place. Crown Prosecutor at twenty-two! This was a good beginning.

For fifteen years he practised at Rennes. That town was going through troublous times. The arrival of the Duc d’Aiguillon as Governor, and his conduct in that position, created an uproar in the ancient city, jealous, as it had always been, of its liberties. The states proclaimed themselves injured in their rights. Led by La Chalotais, they obstinately fought against the claims of the King’s representative, the Duke d’Aiguillon. And there ensued an interminable paper-war—pamphlets, libels, insults—which did not cease even with the imprisonment of La Chalotais and his followers. Ancient quarrels against the Jesuits were mixed up with these complaints of the encroachments of Royal; and the angry Chalotistes ended by accusing them of being the cause of all their misfortunes.

It was naturally impossible for the Crown Prosecutor to escape being mixed up in a business which caused such rivers of ink to flow, and created such an endless succession of lawsuits. A police report accused him “of having ‘done a job’ in the La Chalotais affair.” But he had only played a very passive part in it. His name only figures once[54] in the voluminous dossiers so meticulously rummaged through of late years; and that is in a defamatory pamphlet (which, moreover, was torn and burnt by parliamentary decree), denouncing him as a participator in those Jesuit Assemblies, upon which the full wrath of the Breton parliamentarians descended.[55] The utmost one can say is that Cormier perhaps inclined towards the Duc d’Aiguillon’s party, which, moreover, his position as Crown Prosecutor more or less obliged him to do.

Was it at that time that he began to pay repeated visits to Paris? Very likely. At all events, from 1776 Yves Cormier practised only intermittently. His father was dead. He lived with his mother on the second floor of the Rue de Montfort house. Tired of bachelor life, the young magistrate, who was then entering his thirty-sixth year, resolved to marry. He had met in Paris a young lady from Nantes, who belonged to a family of rich landowners in Saint-Domingo. Her name was Suzanne-Rosalie de Butler; she was a little younger than he, and had rooms in the La Tour du Pin Hotel, Rue Vieille-du-Temple.

On July 10, 1776, in presence of notaries of the Du Châtelet district, M. Cormier and Mademoiselle de Butler signed their marriage contract.[56] By a rather unusual clause, the future husband and wife, “departing in this respect from the custom of Paris,” declared that they didn’t intend to sign the usual communauté de biens, but that each would retain as his and her own property whatever they brought to the marriage.