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