The Last Hope

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER XI

  A BEGINNING

  There may be some who refuse to take seriously a person like Albert deChantonnay because, forsooth, he happened to possess a sense of thepicturesque. There are, as a matter of fact, thousands of sensiblepersons in the British Isles who fail completely to understand theaverage Frenchman. To the English comprehension it is, for instance,surprising that in time of stress--when Paris was besieged by a Germanarmy--a hundred _franc-tireur_ corps should spring into existence, whogravely decked themselves in sombreros and red waist-cloths, and calledthemselves the "Companions of Death," or some claptrap title of a similarsound. Nevertheless, these "Companions of Death" fought at Orleans as fewhave fought since man walked this earth, and died as bravely as any in agovernment uniform. Even the stolid German foe forgot, at last, to laughat the sombrero worn in midwinter.

  It is useless to dub a Frenchman unreal and theatrical when he gailycarries his unreality and his perception of the dramatic to the lucarneof the guillotine and meets imperturbably the most real thing on earth,Death.

  Albert de Chantonnay was a good Royalist--a better Royalist, as many werein France at this time, than the King--and, perhaps, he carried hisloyalty 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 wasreinstated, not by his own influence or exertions, but by the alliedsovereigns who had overthrown Napoleon, he began at once to issuedeclarations and decrees as of the nineteenth year of his reign, ignoringthe Revolution and Napoleon. Did this Bourbon really take himselfseriously? Did he really expect the world to overlook Napoleon, or did heknow as all the world knows to-day, that long after the Bourbons havesunk into oblivion the name of Napoleon will continue to be a householdword?

  If a situation is thus envisaged by a King, what may the wise expect froma Royalist?

  In the absence of the Marquis de Gemosac, Albert de Chantonnay wasconsidered to be the leader of the party in that quiet corner ofsouth-western France which lies north of Bordeaux and south of that greatdividing river, the Loire. He was, moreover, looked upon as representingthat younger blood of France, to which must be confided the hopes andendeavours of the men, now passing away one by one, who had fought andsuffered for their kings.

  It was confidently whispered throughout this pastoral country that AugustPersons, living in exile in England and elsewhere, were in familiar andconfidential correspondence with the Marquis de Gemosac, and, in a minordegree, with Albert de Chantonnay. For kings, and especially deposedkings, may not be choosers, but must take the instrument that comes tohand. A constitutional monarch is, by the way, better placed in thisrespect, for it is his people who push the instrument into his grasp, andin the long run the people nearly always read a man aright despite theefforts of a cheap press to lead them astray.

  "If it were not written in the Marquis's own writing I could not havebelieved it," said Albert de Chantonnay, speaking aloud his own thoughts.He turned the letter this way and that, examining first the back of itand then the front.

  "It has not been through the post." he said to the Abbe, who stoodrespectfully watching his face, which, indeed, inspired littleconfidence, for the chin receded in the wrong way--not like the chin of ashark, which indicates, not foolishness, but greed of gain--and the eyeswere large and pale like those of a sheep.

  "Oh, Heaven forbid!" cried the Abbe. "Such a letter as that! Where shouldwe all be if it were read by the government? And all know that letterspassing through the post to the address of such as Monsieur Albert areread in passing--by the Prince President himself, as likely as not."

  Albert gave a short, derisive laugh, and shrugged his shoulders, whichmade his admiring mother throw back her head with a gesture, inviting theAbbe 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 areassembled. In the mean time--"

  He did not finish the sentence in words, but by gesture conveyed that themissive, now folded and placed in his breast-pocket, was only to beobtained bespattered with his life's blood. And the Abbe wiped his clammybrow with some satisfaction that it should be thus removed from his owntimorous custody.

  Albert de Chantonnay was looking expectantly at the door, for he hadheard footsteps, and now he bowed gravely to a very old gentleman, anotary of the town, who entered the room with a deep obeisance to theComtesse. Close on the notary's heels came others. Some were in ridingcostume, and came from a distance.

  One sprightly lady wore evening dress, only partially concealed by acloak. She hurried in with a nod for Albert de Chantonnay, and a kiss forthe Comtesse. Her presence had the immediate effect of imparting an airof practical common-sense energy to the assembly, which it had hithertolacked. There was nothing of the old _regime_ in this lady, who seemed toover-ride etiquette, and cheerfully ignore the dramatic side of theproceedings.

  "Is it not wonderful?" she whispered aloud, after the manner of anymodern lady at one of those public meetings in which they take so large apart 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 anEnglish tongue. "I have had a long letter from Dormer telling me allabout it. Oh--" And she broke off, silenced by the dark frown of Albertde Chantonnay, to which her attention had been forcibly directed by hismother. "I have been dining with Madame de Rathe," she went on,irrepressibly, changing the subject in obedience to Albert deChantonnay's frown. "The Vicomtesse bids me make her excuses. She fearedan indigestion, so will be absent to-night."

  "Ah!" returned the Comtesse de Chantonnay. "It is not that. I happen toknow that the Vicomtesse de Rathe has the digestion of a schoolboy. It isbecause 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 poordigestion."

  And the Comtesse de Chantonnay made a gesture and a meaning grimace whichwould have been alarming enough had her hand and face been less dimpledwith good nature.

  There were now assembled about a dozen persons, and the Abbe was kept incountenance by two others of his cloth. There were several ladies; one ofwhom was young and plain and seemed to watch Albert de Chantonnay with atimid awe. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, seated next to the Comtesse deChantonnay, was the only lady who made any attempt at gay apparel, andthus stood rather conspicuous among her companions clad in sober andsomewhat rusty black. All over the west of France such meetings of thepenniless Royalists were being held at this time, not, it has beenaverred, without the knowledge of the Prince President, who has beencredited with the courage to treat the matter with contempt. About nomonarch, living or dead, however, have so many lies been written, byfriend or foe, with good or ill intent, as about him, who subsequentlycarried out the astounding feat of climbing to the throne of France asNapoleon III. And it seems certain that he has been given credit forknowing much of which he must have been ignorant to an extent hardlycredible, 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 wasonly typical of the feelings that divided every camp in France at thistime--at any time, indeed, since the days of Charlemagne--for the Frenchmust always quarrel among themselves until they are actually on the brinkof national catastrophe. And even when they are fallen into that pit theywill quarrel at the bottom, and bespatter each other with the mud that isthere.

  "Are we all here?" asked Albert de Chantonnay, standing in an effectiveattitude 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 theMarquis de Gemosac to listen to the perusal of a letter of importance. Itmay be of the utmost importance--to us--to France--to all the world."

  H
e drew the letter from his pocket and opened it amid a breathlesssilence. His listeners noted the care with which he attended to gestureand demeanour, and accounted it to him for righteousness; for they wereFrench. An English audience would have thought him insincere, and theywould have been wrong.

  "The letter is dated from a place called Farlingford, in England. I havenever heard of it. It is nowhere near to Twickenham or Clarement, nor isit in Buckinghamshire. The rest of England--no one knows." Albert pausedand held up one hand for silence.

  "At last," he read--"at last, my friends, after a lifetime of fruitlesssearch, it seems that I have found--through the good offices of DormerColville--not the man we have sought, but his son. We have long suspectedthat 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 thefull vigour of youth--a sailor, strong and healthy, living a simple lifeon shore as at sea--I have found a man whose face, whose form, and mannerwould clearly show to the most incredulous that he could be no other thanthe son of Louis XVII. A hundred tricks of manner and gesture he hasinherited from the father he scarce remembers, from the grandfather whoperished on the guillotine many years before he himself was born. Nosmall proof of the man's sincerity is the fact that only now, after longpersuasion, has he consented to place himself in our hands. I thought ofhurrying at once to Frohsdorff to present to the aged Duchess a youthwhom she cannot fail to recognize as her nephew. But better counsels haveprevailed. Dormer Colville, to whom we owe so much, has placed us in hisfarther debt for a piece of sage advice. 'Wait,' he advises, 'until theyoung man has learned what is expected of him, until he has made thepersonal acquaintance of his supporters. Reserve until the end thepresentation to the Duchesse d'Angouleme, which must only be made whenall the Royalists in France are ready to act with a unanimity which willbe absolute, and an energy which must prove irresistible.'

  "There are more material proofs than a face so strongly resembling thatof Louis XVI and Monsieur d'Artois, in their early manhood, as to takethe breath away; than a vivacity inherited from his grandmother, togetherwith an independence of spirit and impatience of restraint; than theslight graceful form, blue eyes, and fair skin of the little prisoner ofthe Temple. There are dates which go to prove that this boy's fatherwas rescued from a sinking fishing-boat, near Dieppe, a few days afterthe little Dauphin was known to have escaped from the Temple, and tohave been hurried to the north coast disguised as a girl. There isevidence, which Monsieur Colville is now patiently gathering from theseslow-speaking people, that the woman who was rescued with this child wasnot his mother. And there are a hundred details known to the villagershere 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 andingenuity of a devoted few who so jealously guarded their secret thatthey frustrated their own object; for they one and all must have perishedon the guillotine, or at the hands of some other assassin, withoutdivulging their knowledge, and in the confusion and horror of those daysthe little Dauphin was lost to sight.

  "There is a trinket--a locket--containing a miniature, which I am assuredis a portrait of Marie Antoinette. This locket is in the possession ofDormer Colville, who suggests that we should refrain from using violenceto open it until this can be done in France in the presence of suitablewitnesses. A fall or some mishap has so crushed the locket that it canonly be opened by a jeweller provided with suitable instruments. It hasremained closed for nearly a quarter of a century, but a reliable witnessin whose possession it has been since he, who was undoubtedly Louis XVII,died in his arms, remembers the portrait, and has no doubt of itsauthenticity. I have told you enough to make it clear to you that mysearch is at last ended. What we require now is money to enable us tobring 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 allarrangements are made. I leave it to you, my dear Albert, to collect thispreliminary sum."

  De Chantonnay folded the letter and looked at the faces surrounding thedimly 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 discreetclink of jewellery and laid before Albert de Chantonnay a note for athousand francs.

  "I am only an Englishwoman," she said, simply, "but I can help."