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THE last of the four French heroines whose histories are here to be related, differed in her early surroundings and circumstances from the three preceding ones. She was neither the daughter of a powerful noble like the Marquise de Montagu, nor did she belong to the finance or the bourgeoisie like Mme. Le Brun and Mme. Tallien. Her father was noble but poor, her childhood was spent, not in a great capital but in the country, and as she was born nearly ten years before the first and six-and-twenty years before the last of the other three, she saw much more than they did of the old France before it was swept away by the Revolution.

FÉlicitÉ StÉphanie Ducrest de Saint-Aubin was born January 25, 1746, at ChampcÉry, a small estate in Burgundy which belonged to her father, but which two years afterwards he sold, and bought the estate and marquisat [111] of Saint-Aubin on the Loire.

The chÂteau, built close to the river, was large, picturesque, and dilapidated, with immense court-yards and crumbling towers; on the opposite bank was the Abbaye de Sept-Fonts, where FÉlicitÉ and her brother were often taken for a treat, crossing the Loire in a boat and dining in the guest-room of the abbey.

These children, of whom she was the elder by a year, were the only ones who survived of the four born to their parents, and were devotedly fond of each other; the remembrance of their happy childhood together in the rambling old chÂteau and the great garden with its terrace over the Loire always remained vividly impressed upon the mind of FÉlicitÉ.

They were in the habit of spending part of every summer at Étioles, with M. le Normand, fermier gÉnÉral des postes, husband of Mme. de Pompadour, then the mistress of Louis XV. After one of these visits, when FÉlicitÉ was about six years old, it having been decided to obtain for her and for one of her little cousins admission into the order of chanoinesses of the Noble Chapter of Alix; the two children with their mothers travelled in an immense travelling-carriage called a berline, to Lyon, where they were detained for a fortnight, during which the Comtes de Lyon examined the genealogical proofs of their noble descent. Finding them correct and sufficient for their admission into the order, they proceeded to Alix, at some distance from Lyon; where, with the huge abbey and church in the centre were, grouped, in the form of a semi-circle, the tiny houses, each with its little garden, which were the dwellings of the chanoinesses.

On the day of the ceremony the children, dressed in white, were brought into the church, where the grand prior, after making them say the creed and answer certain questions, cut off a lock of their hair, tied a piece of black and white material on their heads, put a black silk girdle round their waists, and hung round their necks the red cordon and enamelled cross of the order. After a short exhortation, followed by high mass, the children were embraced by the chanoinesses, and the day ended with suitable festivities.

The chanoinesses all bore the title of Countess; that chosen for FÉlicitÉ was Comtesse de Lancy, her father being Seigneur of Bourbon-Lancy.

The chanoinesses were free to take vows or not, either at the prescribed age or later. If they did not, they had only the honour of the title of Countess and the decorations of the order. If they did, they got one of the dwellings and a good pension, but they could not marry, and must spend two out of every three years there; with the other year they could do as they liked. They might also adopt as a niece a young chanoinesse on condition she always stayed with them and took the vows when she was the proper age. Her adopted aunt might leave her all her jewels, furniture, &c., as well as her little house and pension. One of them wished to adopt FÉlicitÉ, but her mother would not consent. They stayed there six weeks and then went home, FÉlicitÉ in despair at leaving the nuns, who petted and loaded her with bonbons, but much consoled by being called “Madame.”

They then returned to Lyon, where they parted company; FÉlicitÉ’s aunt and cousin returning to Paris, while she and her mother went back to Burgundy.

After a time a governess was engaged for her, a certain Mlle. de Mars, a young girl of sixteen, whose chief instruction was in music, in which she excelled, but beyond the catechism and a few elementary subjects, knew little or nothing. She was a gentle, devout, sweet-tempered girl, and FÉlicitÉ soon became passionately attached to her, and as her mother, occupied with her own pursuits and paying and receiving visits, troubled herself very little about the studies of her daughter, the child was left almost entirely to Mlle. Mars and the maids, who, however, were trustworthy women and did her no harm, beyond filling her head with stories of ghosts with which the old chÂteau might well have been supposed to be haunted. M. de Saint-Aubin kept a pack of hounds, hunted or fished all day, and played the violin in the evening. He had been in the army, but had resigned his commission early in consequence of some foolish scrape.

FÉlicitÉ’s mother was the daughter of a most odious woman.

She had first married M. de MÉziÈres, a man of talent and learning, who possessed an estate in Burgundy, and was early left a widow.

After a very few months she married the Marquis de la Haie, who had been the page and then the lover of the infamous Duchesse de Berri, eldest daughter of the Regent d’OrlÉans.

The Marquis was celebrated for his good looks, and was very rich; but her marriage with him was disastrous for the son and daughter of her first husband, to whom she took a violent and unnatural dislike. She sent her son to America to get rid of him when he was thirteen, and when he arrived there he escaped to Canada, took refuge with the Indians, and made them understand that he had been abandoned by his mother and wanted to live with them, to which they consented on condition of his being tattooed all over.

The courage, strength, and vigour of the boy delighted the Indians, whose language he soon learned and in whose sports and warlike feats he excelled. But, unlike most Europeans who have identified themselves with savages, he did not forget his own language or the education he had received. Every day he traced upon pieces of bark verses or prose in French and Latin, or geometrical problems; and so great was the consideration he obtained among the Indians that when he was twenty he was made chief of the tribe, then at war with the Spaniards. Much astonished at the way in which the savages were commanded by their young leader, the Spaniards were still more surprised when, on discussing terms of peace, he conversed with them entirely in Latin. Struck with admiration after hearing his history, they invited him to enter the Spanish service, which, when he had arranged a satisfactory treaty for his Indian friends, he did; made a rich marriage, and being one of those men who are born to lead, rose as rapidly to power among the Spaniards as among the Indians, and at the end of ten or twelve years was governor of Louisiana. There he lived in prosperity and happiness on his estates in a splendid house in which he formed a magnificent library; and did not visit France until the death of his cruel mother, after which he spent some time in Paris to the great satisfaction of his sister and niece. The latter, who was then at the Palais Royal, describes him as a grave, rather reserved man, of vast information and capacity. His conversation was intensely interesting owing to the extent of his reading in French, Spanish, and Latin, and the extraordinary experiences of his life. He used to dine with her nearly every day, and through his silk stockings she could see the tattooed serpents of his Indian tribe. He was an excellent man, for whom she had the greatest respect and affection.

Mme. de la Haie treated her daughter as badly as her son. She placed her at six years old in a convent, seldom went to see her, when she did showed her no sign of affection, and at fourteen insisted upon her taking the veil. But the irrevocable vows were not to be pronounced for another year, by which time the young girl declared that they might carry her to the church but that before the altar she would say no instead of yes. The Abbess declared that so great a scandal could not be permitted, the enraged mother had to give way, and the young girl joyfully resumed the secular clothes now much too small for her.

But she was left to live in the convent without ever leaving it, and her lot would have been deplorable indeed but for the affection and sympathy she met with from every one, above all, from the good abbess, Mme. de Rossgnol, who had taken care of her education, and with whom she dined and spent the whole day.

Thus time passed on till she was six-and-twenty, when she formed an intimate friendship with the Marquise de Fontenille, a widow who had come to live in the convent. M. Ducrest, then de ChampcÉry, a good-looking man of thirty-seven, who had lately left the army, was a relation of Mme. de Fontenille, and often came to the parloir to see her. He also saw Mlle. de MÉziÈres, with whom he fell in love, and whom he proposed to marry. He had a few hundreds a year, the small castle of ChampcÉry, and a little property besides; while Mlle. de MÉziÈres had less than two thousand pounds, her mother having seized all the rest of the fortune of her father. But such was her unnatural spite against her daughter that she refused her consent for three months, and although she was at last obliged to give it, she would give neither dot, trousseau, nor presents, all of which were provided by the good Abbess.

She came to the wedding with the son and daughter of her second marriage; the latter was afterwards the celebrated Mme. de Montesson. But she managed permanently to cheat her elder daughter out of nearly the whole of the property of her father, and always behaved to her and to her children with the most heartless cruelty.

The mania for education which characterised FÉlicitÉ through life began at an early age. While still a child she had a fancy to give instruction to the little boys who came to cut reeds growing by the pond or moat at the foot of the terrace of the chÂteau.

As the window of her room looked upon the terrace, and was only five feet from the ground, she let herself down by a cord, taking care to choose the days when there was a post, Mlle. de Mars was busy writing to her friends, and her mother out of the way. Leaning upon the low wall of the terrace she instructed the little boys who stood below in what she happened to know herself, i.e., the catechism, the beginning of the principles of music, and certain tragedies which she and they declaimed, and as these instructions were mingled with cakes, fruit, and toys which she threw over the wall to them, they were very well attended, until Mlle. de Mars one day surprised them, and laughed so heartily at the verses recited in patois by the little boys that the class came to an end.

From her earliest childhood FÉlicitÉ had shown a remarkable talent for music and acting, of which her mother was so proud that she did her best to spoil the child by bringing her forward on every occasion to display her talents. She learned to sing, to play the harp, to recite verses; she was dressed up as an Amour or a Hebe, she acted Iphigenia and Hector and Zaire, and the constant flattery and notice she received evidently and naturally turned her head and laid the foundation of that vanity and self-satisfaction which appears so conspicuously in the records of her life.

When she was about twelve years old she left Burgundy with her mother and Mlle. de Mars. They travelled partly by boat on the Loire, partly with their own carriage and horses, to Paris, where they established themselves, and where FÉlicitÉ pursued her musical studies with increased ardour. She must have been a precocious young person, for when she was eleven years old the son of the neighbouring doctor fell in love with her, managed to give her a note, which she showed to Mlle. Mars, and meeting with indignant discouragement, he ran away for three years, after which he came home and married somebody else.

M. de Saint-Aubin, meanwhile, whose affairs, which grew worse and worse, were probably not improved by his mismanagement nor by the residence of his wife and daughter in Paris, stayed in Burgundy, coming every now and then to see them. Mlle. de Mars had left them, to the great grief of FÉlicitÉ, who was now fourteen, and whom the Baron de Zurlauben, Colonel of the Swiss Guards, was most anxious to marry; but, as he was eighty years old, she declined his offer, and also another of a young widower who was only six-and-twenty, extremely handsome and agreeable, and had a large fortune.

By this time, however, she had made up her mind to marry an homme de qualitÉ, who belonged to the court. What she then wished was to marry a certain M. de la PopeliniÈre, whom she thought combined the advantages she desired, though he was nothing more illustrious than a fermier gÉnÉral, besides being an old man. However, her admiration was not sufficiently returned for him to be of the same opinion.

Since the departure of Mlle. de Mars the vanity and thirst for admiration fostered by her mother’s foolish education had greatly increased, but between Mme. de Saint-Aubin and her daughter, though there was affection, there was neither ease nor confidence; the young girl was afraid of her mother, but adored her father. The society into which she was thrown formed her character at an early age, and the artificial, partly affected, partly priggish tone which is apparent in all her voluminous writings detracted from the charm of her undoubtedly brilliant talents.

She already played the harp so remarkably as to excite general admiration, and amongst those who were anxious to be introduced to and to hear her was the philosopher d’Alembert.

FÉlicitÉ was very much flattered when she heard this, and very much disgusted when she saw him, for he was ugly, common-looking, had a shrill voice, and told stories that displeased her.

D’Alembert was one of the most constant and intimate habituÉs of the salon of Mme. Geoffrin, then the stronghold of the philosophers and encyclopÆdists, as that of the Duchesse de Luxembourg was of the aristocratic beau monde.

There was also the salon of Mme. du Deffand, who, while more decidedly irreligious and atheistical than Mme. Geoffrin, was her superior in talent, birth, and education, and always spoke of her with the utmost disdain, as a bourgeoise without manners or instruction, who did not know how to write, pronounce, or spell correctly, and saw no reason why people should not talk of des z’haricots.

D’Alembert, one of the leading encyclopÆdists, like most of them, intensely vain, and about whose origin nothing was known, claimed to be the illegitimate son of the Marquise de Tencin, of scandalous reputation. Mme. de CrÉquy, in her “Souvenirs,” scorns the idea, saying also that much of the evil spoken of Mme. de Tencin was untrue; but it is certain that many dark and mysterious rumours clung to the hÔtel Tencin, the garden of which extended over what is now the rue de la Paix. Originally intended for the cloister, Mlle. de Tencin refused to take the vows at Grenoble, and was a conspicuous figure in the wild orgies of the Regency. An intimate friend of the notorious John Law, then controller-general of finance, she succeeded, partly by his influence, in getting her brother made Cardinal and Archbishop of Embrun, and during his lifetime did the honours of his hÔtel, where, during the days of his power, John Law was a leading spirit. Fortunes were lost and won there in a night, but darker secrets than those of the gambling table were whispered concerning the hÔtel Tencin, its inhabitants and guests. More than ordinary scandals, even in the days of the Regent OrlÉans and his shameless daughters, were circulated, and even the murder of one of her lovers was so far believed that Mme. de Tencin was arrested, though shortly afterwards acquitted.

After her brother’s death she lost much of her prestige, and held her salon in the rue St. HonorÉ, most of her habituÉs, after her death, transferring themselves to the house of Mme. Geoffrin.

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THE Marquis de la Haie, uncle of FÉlicitÉ by the second marriage of her grandmother, strongly disapproved of the way in which his mother treated his half-sister and her children. He vainly tried to influence her to behave better to them, and showed them much kindness and affection himself. Unfortunately he was killed at the battle of Minden. A strange fatality was connected with him, the consequences of which can scarcely be appreciated or comprehended. He was one of the gentilhommes de la manche [112] to the Duc de Bourgogne, eldest son of the Dauphin, and elder brother of Louis XVI., who was extremely fond of him. One day he was playing with the boy, and in trying to lift him on to a wooden horse he let him fall. Terrified at the accident, and seeing that the Prince had not struck his head, had no wound nor fracture nor any apparent injury, he begged him not to tell any one what had happened. The Duc de Bourgogne promised and kept his word, but from that day his health began to fail. None of the doctors could find out what was the matter with him, but, in fact, he was suffering from internal abscesses, which ultimately caused his death. Not till after La Haie had fallen at Minden did he confess, “It is he who was the cause of my illness, but I promised him not to tell.”

This young Prince possessed talent and spirit. Had not his life been sacrificed, the weak, unfortunate Louis XVI. would never have been King, and who can tell how vast might have been the difference in the course of events?

Mme. de Saint-Aubin had found an old friend from her convent, Mme. de Cirrac, who introduced her to her sister, the Duchesse d’UzÈs, and others, to whose houses they were constantly invited to supper, but the young girl, with more perception than her mother, began to perceive, in spite of all the admiration lavished upon her, that it was her singing and playing the harp that procured her all these invitations, and that she could not afford to dress like those with whom she now associated, and this spoilt her pleasure in going out. While her mother was in this way striving to lead a life they could not afford, her father, whose affairs grew more and more unprosperous, went to St. Domingo on business.

He did no good, and on his way home was taken prisoner by the English and carried to England. There, amongst other French prisoners, he met the young Comte de Genlis, an officer in the navy who had distinguished himself at Pondicherry, been desperately wounded, and gained the cross of St. Louis. They became great friends, and M. de Genlis expressing great admiration for a miniature of FÉlicitÉ which her father constantly wore, M. de Saint-Aubin poured into his ears the manifold perfections of his daughter, and read to him the letters he frequently received from her. When M. de Genlis soon afterwards was set free, he used all the means in his power to obtain the release of his friend, and, in the meanwhile, called upon Mme. de Saint-Aubin at Paris, bringing letters from M. de Saint-Aubin, who three weeks afterwards was set at liberty, and returned to France; but his affairs were in such a state that he was induced to give a bill which, when it fell due, he could not meet. Six hundred francs was all that was required to execute the payment, and Mme. de Saint-Aubin wrote to her half-sister, who had married a rich old man, M. de Montesson, asking her to give or lend her money. She refused to do so, and M. de Saint-Aubin was arrested and imprisoned. His wife and daughter spent every day with him for a fortnight, at the end of which, the money being paid, he was released. But his health seemed to decline, and soon afterwards he was seized with a fever which ended fatally, to the inexpressible grief of FÉlicitÉ, who always laid his death at the door of Mme. de Montesson, whether with justice or not it is impossible to say, though, at any rate, her refusal to help the sister who had been so shamefully treated, and who was in distress, sounds exceedingly discreditable.

FÉlicitÉ and her mother took refuge in an apartment lent them by a friend in a Carmelite convent in the rue Cassette, where they received the visits of different friends in the parloir. Amongst the most assiduous was the Baron d’Andlau, a friend of the late M. de Saint-Aubin, a man of sixty, very rich and of a distinguished family. He wished to marry FÉlicitÉ, who refused him, but so great were the advantages of such an alliance that her mother desired her to reconsider the matter. As she still declined, he turned his attentions to her mother, and married her at the end of a year and a half.

Meanwhile they stayed on at the convent, where Mme. de Saint-Aubin embroidered and wrote romances, one of which she sent to Voltaire, who wrote her several flattering letters; FÉlicitÉ played the harp to amuse the nuns and to assist in the services of the chapel, made friendships in the convent, and adored the good sisters, who passed their time in devotion and charity, and amongst whom reigned the most angelic harmony and peace.

When they were obliged to give up their rooms in this convent, they moved to that of St. Joseph, in which Mme. de Saint-Aubin hired an apartment.

Mme. du Deffand then occupied one in another part of the building, but at that time they had no acquaintance with her. The philosophers and the atheistic set had never at any time in her life the least attraction for FÉlicitÉ, who held their irreligious opinions in abhorrence.

Very near this convent lived the sister of her father, the Marquise de Sercey, and her family, with whom she spent much of her time.

The young Marquis, her cousin, was starting for St. Domingo, and the day before his departure a fÊte de famille took place, exceedingly characteristic of the France of the eighteenth century.

FÉlicitÉ composed some verses all about flowers and friendship, which were pronounced to be “very touching,” and which she sang dressed up as a shepherdess, having first presented him with a bouquet. She next appeared in a Spanish costume singing a romance composed by her mother, and finally she played the harp, which seems to come in like a chorus throughout all her eventful life.

Meanwhile, she and M. de Genlis had fallen in love with each other, and resolved to marry. As he had neither father nor mother, there was nobody whose consent he was absolutely bound to ask; but a powerful relation, M. de Puisieux, who was the head of his family, had already, with his consent, begun to negotiate his marriage with a rich young girl. Instead of telling M. de Puisieux the state of the case while there was still time to retire without difficulty, M. de Genlis said nothing, but proposed that they should at once marry secretly, to which neither FÉlicitÉ nor her relations seem to have made any objection. She had no money, and had refused all the marriages proposed to her; here was a man she did like, and who was in all respects unexceptionable, only that he was not well off. But his connections were so brilliant and influential that they could soon put that right, and it was agreed that the marriage should take place from the house of the Marquise de Sercey.

It was celebrated in the parish church at midnight, and the day was publicly announced, and the young Countess and her harp consigned to the care of her husband.

The announcement caused a tremendous uproar in his family, and the only relations who would have anything to do with them were the Count and Countess de Balincourt, who called at once and took a fancy to the young wife, who was only seventeen, clever, accomplished, attractive, and pretty. Mme. de Montesson also, pleased with the marriage of her niece, paid them an early visit, liked M. de Genlis, and invited them to her house.

But the other relations of M. de Genlis would neither return his calls, answer his letters, nor receive him, with the exception of his elder brother, the Marquis de Genlis, who invited them to go down to Genlis, which they did a few days after their wedding.

The young Comte de Genlis had left the navy, by the advice of M. de Puisieux, who had got him made a Colonel of the Grenadiers de France. [113] He had only a small estate worth about four hundred a year and the prospect of a share in the succession to the property of his grandmother, the Marquise de DromÉnil, who was eighty-seven and lived at Reims.

M. de Puisieux was furious at being not only deceived and treated without consideration, but actually made a fool of, and that he was by no means a person to be trifled with the elder brother of the Comte de Genlis had found to his cost.

No lad ever started in life with more brilliant prospects than the Marquis. At fifteen he already possessed the large estate of Genlis, free from debt or mortgage, that of Sillery was settled upon him, and he was already a colonel, owing to the influence of M. de Puisieux, his guardian, and a great favourite of Louis XV.

“Conduct yourself properly,” said he; “you will make a great marriage. Being colonel at your age, you have a splendid military career before you, and as I look upon you as my son I will get the King to make Sillery into a duchy on the occasion of your marriage.”

All this was a certainty supposing he had possessed the most moderate talents, and behaved with common decency. But at seventeen he was already notorious, even at the court of Louis XV., for his vicious life; an incorrigible gambler, and over head and ears in debt. His guardian reproached him, and his debts were paid, but the same thing kept happening until, when he was twenty years old, he lost in one night five hundred thousand francs, his debts besides amounting to another hundred thousand.

Having lost patience, and seeing nothing but ruin before him, M. de Puisieux appealed to the King, got a lettre de cachet, and shut up his hopeful ward at the ChÂteau de Saumur, where he remained for five years, while half of what he owed was being paid off. At the end of this time he was ordered to Genlis, where an allowance of fifteen thousand francs was made to him while the remainder of his debts were gradually paid, after which he was allowed to spend three months of the year at Paris, but M. de Puisieux refused to remove the “interdict” until he had made a good marriage. That the lettres de cachet had their abuses is incontestable, but they had their advantages too.

FÉlicitÉ found the Marquis very pleasant, frivolous, amusing, light-hearted, and of unalterable good temper.

Some weeks after their marriage the Comte de Genlis had to rejoin his regiment, which was at Nancy, and as it was then not the custom for officers’ wives to accompany them, and he thought FÉlicitÉ too young to be left by herself at a court such as that of Louis XV., he decided to take an apartment for her at Origny, in a convent where he had relations, as people often did in such cases.

FÉlicitÉ cried bitterly when her husband left her, but she soon dried her tears, and made herself happy in her new home. She had charming rooms in the interior of the conventual buildings, which were immense; she had her maid with her, and her manservant was lodged with those of the Abbess in the exterior part of the abbey. She dined with the Abbess, and her dÉjeuner was brought to her own apartment, which consisted, of course, of several rooms.

The abbey was very beautiful, and there were more than a hundred nuns besides the lay sisters and the pensionnaires (children and young girls being educated there).

The Abbess was always of a noble family, the one at that time being Mme. de Sabran, and although no proofs were exacted, the nuns nearly all belonged to families of good blood.

Each nun had a comfortable cell, and a pretty little garden of her own in the enclosure of the vast garden of the abbey. One nun, who was considered especially fortunate, had in her garden a rock from which came a spring of delicious water.

The Abbess might receive in her apartment and at dinner whatever guests she chose, men or women, but no men might go to the cloisters or any other part of the abbey. She had a carriage, horses, and servants of her own, and might go out when and where she pleased, taking with her any nuns she chose. She often drove to see different farms, &c., belonging to the abbey, and to visit sick people.

The state and power of some of these abbesses, and the comfortable, cheerful security of their lives at that time made the position much sought after. It was a splendid provision for the daughters of great houses, and a happy life enough if they did not wish to marry. The following anecdote is given by Mme. de CrÉquy, and, although it happened rather earlier in the eighteenth century, perhaps forty or fifty years before the time now in question, it is so characteristic of the state of things that still prevailed that it may not be out of place to give it.

The Abbesse de Montivilliers was one of the greatest abbesses in France, and was at the time this happened Mme. du Froulay, whose niece, Mme. de CrÉquy, then a pensionnaire in the abbey, relates the story.

“The huissiers and valets de porte, who lived outside the enclosure, had permitted a poor beggar to take shelter every night under a lofty arch leading into the first court of the abbey. He was an unfortunate man, who had neither arms nor legs, and a poor woman, young and, they said, almost pretty, used to come and fetch him each morning with a sort of wheelbarrow, and establish him on the high road to beg. They had bread, soup, and cider given them at the abbey, but very often did not finish them.

“Two murders had been committed upon that same high road; the tribunal of the Abbess had discovered nothing, and terror spread through the country-side.... The peasants declared they were committed by evil spirits.

“One autumn night, after ten o’clock, the beggar had not come in. They supposed the woman who took care of him had neglected to fetch him, and charitably waited till half-past. The sister cellarer sent for the keys, to take them, as usual, to the prioress, who would put them under her pillow. She was a demoiselle de Toustain, who, par parenthÈse, had had the golden ball of her prioress’s staff engraved with the motto of her family, ‘Tous-teints-de-sang’ (‘All stained with blood’), which my aunt had thought out of place on an emblem of religious and pastoral office. She had remarked to the Prioress, ‘My dear daughter, a war-cry is always improper for a bride of Jesus Christ....’

“Instead of the keys of the abbey strange news was brought to Mme. de Toustain. A rich and vigorous farmer had just been attacked on the high road. He had stunned with his club one of his assailants whom the soldiers of the marÉchaussÉe had brought with his accomplice to the archway. They asked for the prison to be opened to put them in, and for the farmer to be allowed to pass the night in the precincts, that he might not fall into the hands of the other robbers. The Prioress having replied that it was too late, they woke the Abbess, who ordered all the doors to be opened that the brigadier required, but the old Prioress was so obstinate about the rules that the Abbess had to get up herself and demand the keys, which otherwise she would not give up.

“As an Abbess of Montivilliers is not rigorously cloistered, my aunt, who was perfectly charitable and courageous, thought herself obliged to go out to the first court, and did so, at any rate with a cortÈge suitable to her dignity.

“She was preceded by a cross-bearer between two acolytes bearing tall candles, and followed by a dozen assistants, with veils down and crossed hands; all the lay sisters of the abbey were ranged round their ladies in large grey capes, carrying lighted torches in those beautiful gothic lanterns, with the arms of the royal abbeys emblazoned in stained glass, which are used in processions at night round the cloisters. Never in modern romances have I seen anything so romantic and picturesque as that nocturnal scene.

“Mme. de Montivilliers ordered the gates of the prison to be thrown open, which no one but herself would have dared to do against the orders of the Prioress. She gave shelter and a cordial to the brave farmer, and ordered her surgeon to examine the wounded robber, who was a young man dressed in woman’s clothes, and it was then learned from the farmer that the other criminal was that infernal beggar who had been sheltered beneath the porch of the abbey, before which he now lay on a litter waiting to be put in the dungeon. He had the torso of a giant, but no legs or arms, only a kind of stump of one arm. His head was enormous....

“When everything was disposed for the general safety Mme. de Montivilliers raised her veil, and every one knelt to receive her benediction.”

The robbers, who were both executed, were father and son. Their plan was for the cripple to beg for money to be dropped into his hat, then with his stump he pulled down a heavy weight hung in the tree above him which stunned the victim, who was then finished by the other. The farmer had been too quick for them. In the hollow or small cellar under the arch where he slept were found gold, ornaments, hair cut off the nuns, which was always sold for the profit of the Order of the Saint-Rosaire, daggers, and knives. How he got them all was never discovered.

The young Comtesse de Genlis was very happy at Origny, and amused herself like a child amongst the nuns. She ran about the corridors at night dressed like the devil, with horns; she put rouge and patches on the nuns while they were asleep, and they got up and went down to the services in the church in the night without seeing themselves thus decorated; she gave suppers and dances amongst the nuns and pupils to which no men were, of course, admitted; she played many tricks, and wrote constantly to her husband and mother, the latter of whom came to spend six weeks with her. When her husband came back they went to Genlis, where her brother, who had just gone into the Engineers, paid them a long visit, to her great joy.

Then they went to Paris, where her first child, a daughter, was born.

---

AFTER her confinement the MarÉchale d’EtrÉe came to see FÉlicitÉ, brought her a present of beautiful Indian stuffs, and said that her parents, M. and Mme. de Puisieux, would have the pleasure of receiving her when she was recovered. Also that Mme. de Puisieux would present her at Versailles.

To this she looked forward with some trepidation, being dreadfully afraid of Mme. de Puisieux, who at first did not like her, and was extremely stiff. She drove down to Versailles in her carriage alone with her, Mme. de Puisieux saying very little, but criticising the way she did her hair. They slept at Versailles, in the splendid apartment of the MarÉchal d’EtrÉe, who was very kind and pleasant to FÉlicitÉ, and with whom she felt more at home. The next day she was obliged to spend such an enormous time at her toilette that by the time they started she was nearly tired out. Her hair was dressed three times over; everything was the object of some tiresome fuss, to which policy obliged her to submit in silence.

At last, however, it was finished, and she stood in the presence of Louis XV. He was no longer young, but she thought him handsome and imposing. He had intensely blue eyes, a short but not brusque manner of speaking, and something royal and majestic about his whole bearing which distinguished him from other men. He talked a great deal to Mme. de Puisieux, and made complimentary remarks about FÉlicitÉ, after which they were presented to the Queen, who was lying in a reclining chair, already suffering from the languor of the fatal illness caused by the recent death of her son, the Dauphin. Then came the presentation to Mesdames, and to the “Children of France,” and in the evening they went to the “jeu de Mesdames.”

After this FÉlicitÉ and her husband returned to Genlis, where they spent the summer with the Marquis and the wife he had recently married.

They passed their time in all the amusements of the vie de chÂteau in those days.

The brothers went out shooting; there were visits, dances, village fÊtes; they dressed up, wrote verses, acted plays, and went to see the “RosiÈre,” an institution which, in this century, would be an impossibility, and which even then many people were beginning to find silly and useless, as may be shown by the remarks of a M. de Matigny, a magistrate and bailli, who was staying in the house for some theatricals, and whom they tried to persuade to stop another day.

“I can’t,” he said. “I am obliged to go to another village.”

“What for?”

“Oh! for that nonsense they do every year.”

“What nonsense?”

“I have to go there as a judge to hear all the rubbish and gossip you can imagine for forty-eight hours.”

“What about?”

“A most stupid thing, as I will tell you. It is not to adjudge a house, or a field, or an inheritance, but a rose!”

“How? A rose? You are to give a rose?”

“Eh! Mon Dieu! Yes, it is I who have to decide this important affair. It is an old custom established there in barbarous times. It is astonishing that, in a century so enlightened as ours, they should not have done away with a folly that gives me a journey of ten or twelve leagues every summer, through abominable cross-lanes, for I have to make two journeys for that absurdity.”

“A rose does not seem to me particularly barbarous. But who do you give it to?”

“To the peasant girl declared to be the most virtuous and obedient to her parents.”

“And they assemble to give her a rose in public?”

“Yes. A fine reward for a poor creature who perhaps has not bread to eat, isn’t it? I shall have to go to-morrow to hear the evidence ... and again in a month for what they call the coronation. It might amuse you to see it once.... But the strangest thing is the importance these good people attach to the ceremony, and the exultation of the relations of the ‘rosiÈre.’ One would think they had gained a valuable prize. It may amuse one for the moment, but when one has to see it every year, it is a ridiculous thing for a reasonable man.”

FÉlicitÉ soon managed to make friends with all her husband’s relations. M. and Mme. de Puisieux not only got over their prejudice against her, but were devoted to her. She spent months together with them at Sillery, and was a great deal with them at Paris, where her great delight was to know every one who could remember the court of Louis XIV., for which she had the most ardent admiration.

There were, of course, still those to be met with whose appearance, manners, and ways recalled that stately, magnificent court, which long afterwards was the beau ideal Napoleon vainly tried to realise. Amongst others was the Duc de Richelieu, one of the most brilliant, the most polished, the most dissipated, and the most heartless figures of the courts of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. His son, the Duc de Fronsac, was, though not equally attractive, quite as vicious as his father, and they entertained for each other a hatred they generally veiled, at any rate in public, under the most polished sarcasm.

On one occasion the Duc de Richelieu so far departed from his usual habit as to recommend to the Duc de Fronsac a lad who bore a strong resemblance to himself, begging him to give him a post in his household and look after him. Fronsac, struck with jealousy of this protÉgÉ of his father’s, did all he could to corrupt and ruin him, taught him to be a gambler and reprobate, and finally led him into collision with himself in some love intrigue, challenged him to a duel, and killed him.

Shortly afterwards, passing his father in the great gallery at Versailles, the Duc de Richelieu said to him—

“Monsieur, you have killed your brother.”

“I knew it,” replied Fronsac, and passed on.

Within the first few years of her marriage, FÉlicitÉ had three children—two girls and a boy.

The Comte de Genlis passed part of his time with her and the rest with his regiment, during which FÉlicitÉ lived at Paris or stayed with his relations, chiefly the de Puisieux, leading a life of gaiety mingled with study and music, and going constantly into society, which has, perhaps, never been equalled in fascination and charm.

Her aunt, Mme. de Montesson, had, since her marriage, been on very friendly and intimate terms with her, although the two had never any real affection for each other, and now, M. de Montesson having died, his widow was aiming at nothing less than becoming the Duchess of OrlÉans, and found her niece a most useful and sympathetic confidant. For it had suited Mme. de Montesson to have a niece so well placed in society and so much sought after as the young Comtesse de Genlis. FÉlicitÉ, on her part, was by no means blind to the advantage of having her aunt married to the first prince of the blood, and did everything in her power to forward her plans. The Duke had long been an admirer of Mme. de Montesson, who encouraged his devotion, was continually in his society, but had no intention whatever that their love-making should end in any way but one. It was an ambition that seemed barred with almost insuperable difficulties, and yet it succeeded, though not to the full extent she desired.

The excellent M. de Puisieux died, and FÉlicitÉ found her life still more taken up by his widow, with whom she now passed much of her time. Just then took place the marriage of the Duc de Berri, now Dauphin, with the Archduchess Marie Antoinette. Mme. de Puisieux would not go herself, but sent FÉlicitÉ to see the fireworks in the place Louis XV.

As M. de Genlis was with his regiment, she went with a friend, the Marquise de Brugnon, who was also young and pretty, MM. de Bouzolle and de Nedonchel. A room had been lent them on the ground floor of a new house from which to see the fÊte, and, fearing there would be a great crowd, they arrived directly after dinner. There was some delay before the fireworks began, and FÉlicitÉ, who was, with all her talents, very often extremely silly and affected, declared that she had waited so long she did not care to see the fireworks, and persisted in keeping her eyes shut until they were over.

The two gentlemen then went to look for the carriage, which had not come. They were away a long time. A fearful noise seemed to be going on in the place Louis XV., and when, after midnight, they did return, they assured the anxious, rather frightened young women that they could not find either carriage or servants, that the crowd was fearful, and there would be no chance of getting away for at least two hours, so they had brought them some cakes and a chicken for supper. They did not tell them of the fire, the horrible confusion, and the people being crushed to death in the place. But presently groans and cries were heard just under their window, and, looking out, they saw two old ladies in full evening dress, with paniers—the Marquise d’Albert and the Comtesse de Renti, who, while trying to get to their carriage, had got separated from their servants and carried along by the crowd. As it was impossible to get them to the door, they leaned out of the window and drew them up with great difficulty. Mme. d’Albert was covered with blood, as some one in the crowd had snatched out one of her diamond ear-rings.

Their carriage never came, so Mme. de Genlis had to take them home in hers, which appeared about two o’clock, and it was half-past three when she arrived at the hÔtel de Puisieux, where everybody was up and in a fever of anxiety, thinking she was killed, for they knew what she did not, that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of persons had perished.

Mme. de Puisieux was in tears on the staircase, and saw her come in with transports of joy. She had, for the first time since her widowhood, gone to supper with Mme. d’Egmont, daughter of the Duc de Richelieu, close to whose hÔtel there was a corps de garde, to which numbers of bodies had been brought. The next day was one of desolation, especially among the artisans and the people of the lower classes, most of whom had lost some relative or friend. Mme. de Genlis’s maid had to go to the Morgue to identify the body of her sister; the maÎtre d’hÔtel lost a cousin. The place Louis XV., fated to be the scene of the murder of Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette, and so many innocent victims, had been a scene of death and horror at the celebration of their wedding fÊtes. No wonder people said it was an unlucky beginning, especially those who were only too glad to find evils attending the Austrian marriage. [114]

The enthusiasm of FÉlicitÉ for the court of Louis XIV. found worthier objects of admiration than the Duc de Richelieu, in the excellent MarÉchal de Balincourt, and his friends, the MarÉchal de Biron and the Marquis de Carrillac. This last was ninety-one years old, Biron was eighty-six or seven, and Balincourt not more than seventy. He used to speak with envy of Biron, saying: “He was thirty years old at the death of the late king.” When hearing them talk together she felt herself transported into the days of that magnificent reign.

They had all of them the stately courtesy, the chivalrous gallantry, and the delicate sense of honour which made them so bright a contrast to the vice and depravity around them.

Just after the last recorded incidents FÉlicitÉ experienced a great sorrow in the loss of her friend, the Comtesse de Custine, an angelic woman, who, in spite of her beauty and youth (she was only twenty-four), lived as far as she could apart from the world, fearing the corruption and vice around her, and devoting herself to her religious and domestic duties. Her husband, who adored her, was necessarily absent with his regiment for long periods. Her brother-in-law, the Vicomte de Custine, of a character as bad as that of his brother was admirable, professed openly the most violent passion for Mme. de Genlis, who did not care at all for him, gave him no encouragement, but was rather flattered by the excess of his devotion and despair.

When the Comtesse de Custine died, after a short illness, her husband was away with his regiment, and did not arrive in time to see her alive. During the first days of his despair, while looking over her papers, he came upon a packet of letters which proved beyond all doubt the infamous treachery of the Vicomte, who had made his pretended love for Mme. de Genlis a shield to hide his real passion for his brother’s wife, which had been the horror and torment of her life, and which she had dreaded to reveal to her husband, whose temper was violent when aroused.

For some time FÉlicitÉ had been wishing to obtain a place at court, and it had been suggested that she should be placed in the household of the comtesse de Provence, whose marriage with the second fils de France was about to take place.

But her aunt, Mme. de Montesson, was most anxious that she should enter the service of the Duc de Chartres, who was the eldest son of the Duc d’OrlÉans, and very much opposed to Mme. de Montesson’s designs upon him.

It appeared after a time that the post in the household of the Comtesse de Provence was not attainable, and in the first disappointment of this refusal, Mme. de Montesson told her niece that she had only to ask and she would receive an appointment at the Palais Royal.

Mme. de Custine, whom she consulted, was absolutely opposed to it, and after urging the strongest reasons against it, added that it was evidently her duty to stay and take care of Mme. de Puisieux as long as she lived.

However, she allowed herself to be persuaded: she went with her aunt constantly to Raincy, the country place just bought by the Duc d’OrlÉans; she was attracted by the gentle, charming Duchesse de Chartres, she listened to the representations of the advantages she might secure for her children, and at length she laid the case before Mme. de Puisieux, who, unselfishly putting away the consideration of her own grief at their separation, and thinking only of the advantages to FÉlicitÉ and her family, advised her to accept the position offered her.

FÉlicitÉ seems, however, to have always considered that she made a mistake, or, indeed, as she says, committed a fault, one of the greatest in her life, by doing so; if so, it does not appear to be a surprising one, as the plan certainly would have offered strong attractions and inducements even to a woman less vain and ambitious than she was, but it is certain that it caused many calamities and exercised an evil influence for which no advantages could compensate. She left the hÔtel de Puisieux before Madame was up in the morning, as she dreaded the parting, and as her apartment in the Palais Royal was not ready she was lodged in one that had belonged to the Regent, with a door into the rue de Richelieu. She nearly had an accident before she got out of the carriage, and felt low-spirited and unhappy, wishing herself back in her own room at the hÔtel de Puisieux as she looked round the luxurious boudoir lined with mirrors, which she did not like at all, and which seemed associated with the orgies of the Regency, of which it had been the scene.

She felt that she had exchanged security, the protection of a beautiful and well-ordered home, and the society of those she loved and respected, for dependence and danger.

---

THE society of the Palais Royal was at that time the most brilliant and witty in Paris, and she soon became quite at home there. The Comtesse de Blot, lady of honour to the Duchesse de Chartres, was pleasant enough when she was not trying to pose as a learned woman, at which times her long dissertations were tiresome and absurd; she was also ambitious, and what was worse, avaricious.

Mme. de Clermont had been married at fifteen to the Comte de Choisi, who was much older than herself, and of whom she was dreadfully afraid; but he was killed at the battle of Minden, and she had just married the Comte de Clermont, who was deeply in love with her. She was young, pretty, very capricious, and a friend of Mme. de Montesson, and with all her faults never dull or tiresome, but full of merry talk and amusing stories; the Comtesse de Polignac and the Marquise de Barbantour were also among the ladies of the household with whom FÉlicitÉ was now associated; two much older ones were the Comtesses de Rochambault and de Montauban.

The Duchesse de Chartres, nÉe Mlle. de PenthiÈvre, was an angel of goodness and kindness. She had conceived so violent a passion for the Duc de Chartres, when she had met him for the first time, that she declared she would either marry him or take the veil. It was a most unfortunate choice to have been made, especially by so saintly a personage, for the court and society of Louis XV. did not include a more corrupt and contemptible character than the notorious Philippe-ÉgalitÉ.

The attraction he felt for Mme. de Genlis, which had such a powerful influence upon her life and so disastrous an effect upon her reputation, had not begun when she first took up her abode at the Palais Royal.

It was said by his illegitimate brothers, MM. de Saint-Far and Saint-Albin, to have begun on a certain evening when a quadrille arranged by Mme. de Genlis, in which each couple represented proverbs, went to the Opera ball, as the custom of those days permitted, and was suddenly disarranged by an enormous cat, which, mewing and clawing, rolled itself suddenly into the midst of the dancers. The cat proved to be a little Savoyard boy, dressed up in fur, dreadfully frightened at the abuse and kicks he received.

This elegant trick was traced to the Duc de Chartres and his friends; and the good temper and general demeanour of Mme. de Genlis on this provoking occasion struck the Duke with admiration and compunction. Philippe-ÉgalitÉ, contemptible as his disposition undoubtedly was, had also been very badly brought up, and when he was fifteen his father had given him a mistress who was afterwards notorious as Mlle. DuthÉ; he was always surrounded with a group of the fastest young men at court, the Chevalier de Coigny, MM. de Fitz-James, de Conflans, &c.

“The social existence of Mme. de Genlis,” writes Mme. d’AbrantÈs, [115] “is always a problem difficult to resolve; it is composed of a mass of contradictions, one more extraordinary than the other. Of a noble family, whose name and alliances gave her the right to be chanoinesse of the Chapter of Alix, she was called until her marriage Comtesse de Lancy. She married M. de Genlis, a man of high rank, nearly related to most of the great families in the kingdom, and yet Mme. de Genlis had never in society the attitude of a grande dame.... The important part this woman played in the destinies of France is of such a nature that one must notice it, more especially as she denies a mass of facts, the most notorious of the time in which her name is mixed up, ... pretending never to have spoken to men of whom she must not only have been an acquaintance but a friend. Long before the first outbursts of the Revolution, Mme. de Genlis helped to prepare the influence which afterwards burst like an accursed bomb, covering with its splinters even the woman who had prepared the wick and perhaps lighted the match.

“It was an eccentric existence that she led in her youth, it must be confessed. That wandering, restless life had a character all the more strange because at that time it was so unusual; going perpetually from one chÂteau to another, roaming about the country disguised as a peasant, playing tricks on everybody, eating raw fish, playing the harp like Apollo, dancing, acting, fencing....”

And now she was dame pour accompagner to the Duchesse de Chartres, and her influence was soon felt in the society of the Palais Royal.

On the nights when there was an opera, the Palais Royal was open to any one who had been presented there. The first invitation to supper meant a standing one for those days, therefore the Palais Royal was then crowded with guests; and on other evenings the petits soupers, generally consisting of eighteen or twenty guests, were composed of those of the intimate society of the Duke and Duchess, who also had a general invitation.

The Duchesse de Chartres continued for a long time very fond of Mme. de Genlis, who was exceedingly attractive, not only because of her beauty, talents, and accomplishments, but because she was so interesting and amusing that it was impossible to be dull in her company. And though she had many faults she had also many excellent qualities. She was very affectionate and kind to those for whom she really cared, she was charitable, good tempered, and courageous; her reputation so far was good, and her respect for religion made her shun the atheistical philosophic set whose opinions on those points she detested. One friend she had among them, the Comte de Schomberg, was an exception to this rule. He was a friend of Voltaire, and a pronounced atheist, but it was an understood thing that no religious subject should be discussed between them, and no word of impiety spoken in her presence. The events of the Revolution converted M. de Schomberg, and he died some years after it an ardent Christian.

Many of these disbelievers in Christianity were terribly afraid of ghosts. “Je n’y crois pas, mais je les redoute,” as somebody once remarked.

She made one or two journeys to Holland and Belgium when she wished for a change, but in 1775 a terrible grief overtook her, in the death of her son, now five years old. The children were living near, and her mother was then with them when she herself caught measles, and as often happens when they are taken later in life than is usual, she was extremely ill, and it was impossible to tell her that her children had the same complaint.

M. de Genlis, who had also a post at the Palais Royal, was nursing her, and her mother came every day to see her.

The child died at five o’clock one morning. “At the same hour,” she writes, “of the same day, I was alone with my nurse, and, raising my eyes to the canopy of my bed, I distinctly saw my son in the form of an angel ... holding out his arms to me. This vision, without exciting any suspicions, caused me great surprise. I rubbed my eyes several times, but always saw the same figure. My mother and M. de Genlis came at about eleven; they were overcome with grief, but I was not surprised, for I knew I was ill enough to make them very anxious. I could not help looking always at the canopy of my bed with a sort of shudder, and my mother, knowing that I was afraid of spiders, asked if I saw one ... at last I said I would not tell them what I saw lest they should think my brain was deranged, but they pressed me until I told them.”

They concealed the calamity for five weeks, and then brought her a miniature of the child as an angel.

FÉlicitÉ recovered, and went to Spa, and to travel in Belgium. After her return, as she was walking one day in the Palais Royal gardens, she met a young girl with a woman of seven or eight and thirty, who stopped and gazed at her with an earnest look. Suddenly she exclaimed—

“It is Mlle. Mars!” Embracing each other with joy, they arranged to meet the following day, and Mlle. Mars presented herself accordingly at the Palais Royal, where they spent the morning talking of old times and of present circumstances. Mlle. Mars was not very happy where she now lived, and FÉlicitÉ succeeded in placing her as governess to the children of the Princess Louise de CondÉ, meanwhile seeing her every day. She married soon afterwards.

About this time she arranged for her brother an excellent marriage which turned out very happily. She had the young people to live with her at first, and M. de Genlis was extremely kind to them; but at the end of some months Mme. de Montesson, in whom she had contrived to arouse an interest in them, took them to live permanently with her.

As Saint-Aubin had long been sold, her brother now called himself M. Ducrest.

In her “Memoirs,” Mme. de Genlis says that the years she spent at the Palais Royal were the most brilliant and the most unhappy of her life.

The brilliant social success, and the life, a perpetual scene of pleasure, excitement and intense interest, were chequered with all sorts of annoyances. The envy she excited by her social triumphs, the favour of the Duchess, and later, of the Duc de Chartres, displayed itself as usual in slanders, misrepresentations, and different spiteful actions; while the hostility she aroused caused her more astonishment than would have been expected in a woman possessing so much knowledge of the world, and more unhappiness than one might suspect in one so entirely self-satisfied.

And although she was undoubtedly maligned, like many persons who gave less opportunity for gossip; still it was the consequence of her own act in placing herself in such a position, and identifying herself with such a crew. Her futile attempts to whitewash Philippe-ÉgalitÉ can deceive nobody: he was too well-known. When she lays all his faults to his being badly brought up and surrounded with bad companions, one recollects the numbers of men and of women too, who, brought up and living under the same conditions, suffered and died with a heroism and loyalty that redeemed the faults and follies of their past.

And as to Mme. de Genlis, it appears more than probable that if she had followed the advice of Mme. de Custine, as she promised to do, and remained at the hÔtel de Puisieux she would still have been a great literary and social success and also a better and happier woman.

Mme. de Montesson had so far succeeded in her plan that she had, in 1773, been privately married to the Duke of OrlÉans. The marriage was celebrated at midnight in the presence of a small number of persons of high position. But the marriage, though known and recognised in society, was only a morganatic one. Louis XV. would never hear of her taking the rank and title of Duchess of OrlÉans, or any precedence that would have been the consequence. This was of course a continual grievance to her, but she was obliged to resign herself and make the best of the position, at any rate far more exalted than any to which she had the least pretension to aspire. She had an unbounded influence over the Duc d’OrlÉans, in whose household and amongst whose friends she was always treated as a princess, and with whom she led a life of unbounded luxury and magnificence. Like Mme. de Maintenon after her morganatic marriage with Louis XIV. she renounced the title of Marquise and was known as Mme. de Montesson, possibly thinking like the hero of the well-known incident: “Princesse je ne puis pas, Marquise je ne veux pas, Madame je suis.” [116]

The year after the marriage Louis XV. died, but Louis XVI. would not depart from the attitude his grandfather had assumed, with regard to the morganatic marriage of the Duc d’OrlÉans.

The journeys of the court to the different country palaces, Versailles, CompiÈgne, Fontainebleau, Marly, &c., were affairs of enormous expense, and ceremony so preposterous, that, for instance, there was one sort of court dress for Versailles, and another, equally magnificent and uncomfortable, for Marly. On the 1st of January Louis XV. always arranged with care and consideration the journeys for the year to the different palaces, of which there were a great number. Mme. Campan [117] in her “MÉmoires,” says that Marly, even more than Versailles, transported one vividly to the reign of Louis XIV.; its palaces and gardens were like a magnificent scene in an opera; fountains, pavilions, statues, marble basins, ponds and canals, thickets of shrubs, groups of tall trees, trellised walks and arbours, amongst which the ladies and gentlemen of the royal households and court walked about in full dress; plumes, paniers, jewels, and trains making any enjoyment of the country out of the question, but impressing with awe and admiration the crowds who were admitted to the gardens, and to the suppers and gambling at night. Every trace of this palace and gardens disappeared in the Revolution.

During the latter part of the reign of Louis XV. the rule of perpetual court dress at Marly was given up, and when Louis XVI. came to the throne he tried, but without success, to discourage the gambling, which he hated; but what Marie Antoinette disliked was the stiffness, fatigue, and restraint of these journeys, and she insisted that at Trianon, which the King had given her, she should be free from the intolerable gÊne of the etiquette which the last two reigns had so increased as to be an intolerable burden, in former centuries unknown at the court of France.

The party in opposition to the Queen, absolutely unscrupulous and vindictive, hesitated at no calumny or exaggeration that might do her injury; and everything seemed to create fresh enemies for her.

When she received the ladies of the Court on her accession, Mme. de Clermont-Tonnerre, a thoughtless girl of sixteen, sat on the carpet all the time, hidden by the ladies of the household who stood before her, making grimaces behind her fan, whispering nonsense, pulling the dresses of her companions and making them all, even the Queen herself, unable to restrain their laughter; so that great offence was given and the blame of course laid on the Queen. The King was very angry, sent for Mme. de Clermont-Tonnerre and reprimanded her; whereupon she turned all her spite against the Queen, and all the Clermonts went into opposition.

When first he succeeded to the throne and the question arose who was to be prime minister, Madame Victoire wrote to Louis XVI., recommending M. de Machault, then exiled from Paris.

The King accordingly wrote a letter summoning him; but meanwhile Madame AdÉlaÏde, supported by her two youngest sisters, Mesdames Sophie and Louise, and having persuaded the Queen to join them, appealed to him in favour of M. de Maurepas, a man as stupid, prejudiced, and incapable as could be found.

However, the King soon began to yield.

“But my letter has gone,” he said; “what shall I do?”

“I hope not,” said the Queen, “we shall see.” And she rang the bell. “Campan, the King has an order to give you.”

“Go,” said Louis XVI. in a tone of vexation, “and tell the page of the grande Écurie to bring me back the letter I gave him.” “But Madame,” turning to the Queen, “I warn you that if he is gone it is all the better for M. de Machault. I cannot recall my confidence when he holds the proof in his hand.” [118]

Campan ran; the page was already in the saddle, but was altering a stirrup, which changed the destiny of France. The letter was brought back.

When Maurepas received this summons he jumped and capered with joy; danced round the room with his wife and told his cat it should have the entrÉe at Versailles. Thus he prepared to govern the kingdom of France.

---

ONE of the Royal palaces was La Muette, and it was on one of the journeys there that the Queen took it into her head to see the sun rise. It appeared a harmless fancy enough, and she suggested it to the King.

“Indeed,” he said, “you have a strange fancy. Night is made to sleep in; however, if it amuses you I have no objection so long as you do not expect me to be of the party.”

Mme. de Noailles, to whom it was also necessary to speak of the proposed plan, was much perturbed.

“Really,” she said, “this question seems to me very difficult to solve. A Queen go to see the sun rise! I do not know whether in the days of Louis XIV. it would not have been thought——”

“Eh! Madame,” cried the Queen impatiently, “spare us ceremonial in the face of nature.”

“However, it is impossible to dispense with an escort of equerries, pages, valets de pieds to carry torches, piqueurs, gardes du corps, and a detachment of the maison rouge.”

“Comtesse de Noailles, you forget the grand-aumÔnier, to bless the rising sun after having exorcised the spirits of darkness.”

The Comtesse de Noailles frowned.

“Ah! Madame l’Etiquette,” cried Marie Antoinette, laughing, “God made patience the virtue of kings.”

Directly the Duc de Chartres heard of the project he came to ask to be of the party, and as he was not as yet the open enemy of the royal family, his request was granted.

On the night fixed upon the party, consisting of the Queen, the Comtes and Comtesses de Provence and d’Artois and some ladies and gentlemen of their households, started at three in the morning for Meudon, where a banquet was prepared, after which they went out on the terraces to see the sun rise. It was a lovely night, lamps were scattered about the gardens, guards were posted everywhere, the Queen’s ladies followed her closely. There was a splendid sun rise and all passed off well; but a few days afterwards came out an infamous libel called “l’Aurore,” containing accusations and statements so atrocious that the King, taking it to the Queen, said—

“Madame, do you know what it costs to wish for once in one’s life to see the sun rise? Read that and tell me what you think of the poetry of our friends.”

The Queen read it, burst into tears, and demanded justice and vengeance, which the King, throwing down and trampling on the infamous paper, promised; but said it was difficult to find the persons guilty of writing and selling it—it seemed to have been printed in Holland and the authorship was guessed to be one of the Radical set: Voltaire, Brissot, or perhaps the Duc de Chartres.

Marie Antoinette spoke to the latter about it, and of course he indignantly denied all complicity, but confessed that the libel had been sent him in an envelope, adding that he had thrown it into the fire, and if any of his people had been more imprudent he would dismiss them at once.

For the first circulation had been traced to some of his household. He sent away two men in his service, but it was well known that he paid them their wages all the time and soon took them back again.

It was asserted by one person that she had seen the MS. of the “Aurore” on the table of Mme. de Genlis, but it is not likely that she would have been guilty of mixing herself in such an infamy; it was one of the slanders, probably, of which she complained, but was the result of associating intimately with such a man as the Duc de Chartres.

The Count and Countess de Genlis accompanied the Duke and Duchess de Chartres to Bordeaux, where he embarked, after a naval review; and the Duchess proceeded on a tour in Italy. To FÉlicitÉ this was a time of enchantment. The journeys at that time were adventurous, and the Cornice road was then an affair of difficulty if not danger. They went by sea to Nice, spent a week in that delicious climate, and determined to make what she called “the perilous journey” from Nice to Genoa. They went on mules over the pass by Turbia, and found the Cornice as she says truly a corniche—so narrow that in some places they could hardly pass singly, and often they had to get down and walk. They slept at Ospedaletto, the Duchess, FÉlicitÉ, and the Countess de Rully in one room; the Duchess on a bed made of the rugs of the mules, the others, on cloaks spread upon a great heap of corn. After six days of perils and fatigues, and what they called horrible precipices, they got to Genoa.

They went to Rome, Venice, Naples, and all the little Italian Courts, at which they were received with great honour.

FÉlicitÉ flirted and amused herself as usual, and at the court of Modena, the Comte de Lascaris took a violent fancy to her. He was surintendant of the palace, and arranged the distribution of the different apartments, and FÉlicitÉ found her room was at a great distance from that of the Comte de Genlis, and lined with mirrors.

After supper one evening she had retired to her room and was sitting up late, writing; when one of the mirrors moved, and from a door behind it entered M. de Lascaris, and threw himself at her feet. She sprang up with a cry, the table fell upon him, the lamp went out, her maid rushed in—alarmed by her mistress calling loudly for her—in her nightdress candle in hand, while M. de Lascaris disappeared through the door he had came in by, with a cut on his cheek from the table, which excited the curiosity and laughter of the court. To FÉlicitÉ Italy was one long enchantment, and with reluctance she came back to France.

For some years Mme. de Genlis had been dame pour accompagner la Duchesse de Chartres, though it was suggested that it was more the Duke than the Duchess whom she accompanied; but she now exchanged this designation for that of “governess to the Princesses of OrlÉans.” The Duchess, who had always longed for a daughter, was delighted with these two and Mme. de Genlis, who wished to have charge of them from the first.

As, during the first years of their lives, even FÉlicitÉ herself could not begin to instruct them, she paid a daily visit of an hour to them, and occupied herself in writing a book on education for their use and that of her own children. She also wrote “AdÈle et ThÉodore,” and numbers of other books, novels, essays, plays, treatises on education, &c., which had great success.

When the twin daughters of the Duc de Chartres were five years old, one of them caught the measles, got a chill and died, to the great grief of the Duchess and the remaining twin, Madame AdÉlaÏde d’OrlÉans. One day the Duc de Chartres came to consult FÉlicitÉ, as he was in the habit of doing on all occasions; and on this one he confided to her that he could not find a tutor he liked for his boys, that they were learning to speak like shop boys, and that he wished she would undertake their education as well as that of their sister; to which she agreed. It was arranged that the Duke should buy a country house at Belle Chasse, where they should spend eight months of the year; the Duchesse agreed to the plan, all was settled, and Mme. de Genlis embarked on the career of education, which had always been a passion with her, and which she could now pursue with every advantage.

The three young OrlÉans princes were, the Duc de Valois, afterwards Louis Philippe, the Duc de Montpensier, and the Comte de Beaujolais. The eldest was eight years old.

Besides, she educated her own two daughters, her nephew, CÉsar Ducrest, whose mother died and whose father (her brother) was given a post at the Palais Royal, a young cousin, Henriette de Sercey, and later on one or two other children she adopted. But what caused considerable speculation and scandal was the sudden appearance of a little girl, who was sent, she said, from England, to speak English with the other children amongst whom she was educated. On perfectly equal terms with the Princes and Princesses of OrlÉans, petted and made much of by every one, she was, and still is supposed by many, perhaps by most people, to have been really the daughter of Mme. de Genlis and the Duc de Chartres. At any rate, no English relations were ever forthcoming, and it was never clearly established where she came from, except that she was announced to have been sent over from England at the request of the Duc de Chartres. She was remarkably beautiful and talented, and Mme. de Genlis brought her forward, and did everything to make her as affected and vain as she had been made herself.

The life at Belle Chasse was, as she says, delicious. She had supreme authority, she was dispensed from the trouble of paying visits to any one but Mme. de Puisieux; she had her mother and children to live with her; her husband and brother had posts in the household of the Duc de Chartres.

She could receive her friends as she pleased; her literary reputation stood very high; the Duchesse de Chartres was still infatuated about her; while the Duke——

Mme. de Genlis made a great display of disinterestedness, she refused the 20,000 francs a year offered her by the Duke as governess to his children, declaring that she would educate them for nothing; she refused also the diamonds sent by the Duke and Duchess as a wedding present to her daughter, neither of which refusals there was the slightest occasion to make, but theatrical, unnecessary things were always what she preferred to do. And at the same time she and her family were becoming very rich. Of course her books, bought by all her friends at court, in society, and everywhere, brought her a good deal, but she always had money for everything she wanted. She was promised for her eldest daughter on her marriage, her own former place at the Palais Royal, and a regiment for her son-in-law, her relations were placed and provided for, and she, of course, lived in state and luxury with the OrlÉans children, amongst whom her own were educated.

Her eldest girl, Caroline, was of a charming disposition, and remarkably beautiful. She inherited her own musical talents and was extremely clever and accomplished. When she was fourteen she was married to a Belgian, the Marquis de Lawoestine; and the wedding was celebrated with great state at the Palais Royal, the MarÉchal Prince de Soubise acting as father to the bridegroom. She gave the young girl a magnificent trousseau, diamonds, plate, porcelaines, &c., and after the ceremony her daughter was left under her care for two years more.

In many ways it is probable that no one was more capable of giving a first-rate education than Mme. de Genlis, who had herself so much knowledge and experience, such superior talents and genuine love of art, books and study. She was also careful and strict in the religious education of her pupils, and perfectly free from any of the atheistic opinions of the day.

But her practice cannot be said to have been altogether in accordance with all the professions and talk about virtue and duty, which she made such a parade.

She was so talked about with the Duc de Chartres that the Queen would not receive her at her balls, [119] for Marie Antoinette was trying to bring some reform into the licence prevalent at court, where there was no end to the scandalous incidents that kept happening.

One or two of the gentlemen-in-waiting were found stealing the valuable porcelaines de SÈvres in the ante-rooms, to the great anger of the King.

A gentleman of the court came home late one night, and could not get into his wife’s room, because the maid, who slept in an ante-room, could or would not be awakened. As he was going very early in the morning to hunt, he changed his clothes in a hurry without going to bed, and on arriving at the place of meeting was greeted by his friends with a shout of laughter, and inquiries if he wished to exchange his hunting dress for the costume of the Queen’s pages; as he had put on in haste and half-darkness the haut-de-chausse of one of them, which certainly had no business to be in his room.

Like many other persons, Mme. de Genlis, though she chose to act in a way that she must have known to be suspicious, even if there had been no real harm in it, made a great outcry when the remarks were made, and conclusions drawn that might have naturally been expected.

She posed as a victim, talked of jealousy, slander, ingratitude, &c., and went on with her intimacy with the Duc de Chartres, who was at that time engaged in the most abominable intrigues and secret attacks upon the Royal Family, especially the Queen; and whether rightly or wrongly, Mme. de Genlis was supposed to be mixed up with them.

There had been no disunion or quarrel between her and the Comte de Genlis; they had always been attached to one another, and no break occurred between them; she continued to be devotedly loved by Mme. de Puisieux, whose death she now had to lament.

But all kinds of stories were in circulation about her, which, of course, she indignantly denied. One of them concerned the marriage she now made for her second daughter with M. de Valence, a man of high rank, large fortune, and remarkably bad character, who, moreover, had been for years, and continued to be, the lover of her aunt, Mme. de Montesson. It was positively declared that the Duke of OrlÉans, going unexpectedly into the room, found Valence on his knees before Mme. de Montesson, who with instant presence of mind, exclaimed—

“See this absurd Valence, on his knees to me, asking for the hand of my niece.”

“And why not grant it?”

“Can I grant it without consulting you?”

“Well! we will promise it him; yes, we will promise him.”

And the marriage was decided.

Mme. de Genlis in her “Memoirs” denies this story, but goes on to say with that half candour, which is perhaps the most deceptive, that she cannot but confess that her ambition overruled her in this matter; that she thought what was said about Mme. de Montesson and M. de Valence might not be true, or if it were, this marriage would put an end to the liaison; and what seems contradictory, that she believed the reason her aunt was so eager for the marriage was, that she thought it would be a means of attaching to her for ever the man she loved. But that her daughter had great confidence in her, and would be guided by her in the way she should behave.

Now Mme. de Genlis had without the least doubt many good and distinguished qualities, and as we all know, human nature is fallible and inconsistent; but it would surely have been better that a woman, who could coolly and deliberately arrange such a marriage for her young daughter, simply and solely from reasons of worldly ambition, should not talk so much about disinterested virtue, contempt of riches, and purity of motives.

It is probable that she deceived herself more than she did other people, and her life in fact, between the Duke and Duchess and their children, could not have been anything but a constant course of deception.

Mme. de Genlis, however she might blind herself, must have known quite well the real character of Philippe-ÉgalitÉ, and if she had all the desire she professed for the virtue and welfare of her pupils, she can hardly have thought that the example of one of the most dissipated scoundrels in France, whose health, as she owns, was early impaired by his vices, would be desirable for them to follow.

But yet she took every opportunity of impressing his virtues upon them, telling them what an excellent father they had, and insidiously winning their affection away from their mother, under the form and pretence of the deepest respect and submission.

The marriages of her daughters which had so delighted her ambition, had not brought her all the happiness she expected.

Mme. de Lawoestine, the elder one, whom she describes as an angelic creature in whom no fault could be seen, died at one and twenty in her confinement. It was a terrible shock to her, and, it appears, also to the husband, although the contents of certain tablets of his wife’s, which he found and gave to Mme. de Genlis some days after her death, would seem to imply that he would not be inconsolable.

One cannot help seeing in the sentiments expressed and the manner of expressing them, the artificial, affected tone which with Mme. de Genlis had become her second nature, and which she had evidently inculcated into her daughter.

The tablets had two columns, over one of which was written, “Calculations of the infidelities of my husband during the five years of our marriage.” They were written down year by year, and when all added up, came to twenty-one.

Over the other column was written, “Let us see mine,” and these were represented by a column of noughts. At the bottom was written, “Total: Satisfaction!!”

“And she really loved her husband!” exclaimed Mme. de Genlis in a fervour of admiration.

Countless were the inconsistencies of the faddists of the party to which she belonged, and in the crotchets of which she had educated her daughter, but what duty or reason or “satisfaction” could there be in such a calculation as this?

And what could be more contradictory to the jargon about Nature, whose guidance, impulses, feelings, &c., were to be so implicitly obeyed, than the spectacle of a woman in the height of her youth and beauty, loving her husband, and yet amusing herself by writing in her pocket-book in this cold-blooded manner, a long list of his infidelities and ending by expressing her satisfaction?

As to the other daughter, Mme. de Valence, her marriage had turned out just as might have been foretold by any one of common sense. M. de Valence did not change his conduct in the least, he was still one of the most dissipated men in Paris though he never stooped to the dishonour of Philippe-ÉgalitÉ. He remained always the favourite of Mme. de Montesson, who at her death left her whole fortune to him.

Mme. de Valence seems to have accepted the situation, but by no means with the Griselda-like “satisfaction” of her sister. Very soon her reputation much resembled that of her husband, and many were the anecdotes told to illustrate the manners and customs of their mÉnage.

Calling one day upon Mme. de Montesson, Mme. de Valence was told by a new servant who did not know her, that Mme. de Montesson could not be seen; she never received any one when M. de Valence was there.

“I am sorry for that,” she observed, as she gave her cards to the man, “especially as M. de Valence is my husband.”

De Valence was very handsome and a brave soldier; he emigrated but refused to fight against France; returned, obtained the favour of Napoleon, and retained that of Mme. de Montesson, who more than once paid his debts. He was supposed to be the son of a mistress whom his father adored, and to have been substituted for a dead child born to his father’s wife, who always suspected the truth, never would acknowledge him as her son, nor leave him more money than she could help doing as she had no other children.

Speaking of PulchÉrie in her journal, Mme. de Genlis, it may be remarked, does not venture to lavish upon her the unstinted praises which she pours upon her sister; but remarks that when she left her care and entered society on her marriage, she had the most excellent ideas and sentiments, the purest mind, and the highest principles possible.

It does not seem to occur to her that it was she herself who caused the destruction of all this purity and principle by giving her child to a man of notoriously bad character; but without taking any blame to herself she goes on to say that PulchÉrie was, and always would be in her eyes, gentle, sweet-tempered, kind-hearted, and easy to live with—which she probably was.

---

THE Duke of OrlÉans died 1785, and Mme. de Montesson, having been forbidden by Louis XVI. to put her household into mourning or assume the position of a Duchess Dowager of OrlÉans, retired for a few weeks into a convent and then returned to her usual life, having inherited a great fortune from the late Duke.

Philippe-ÉgalitÉ was now Duc d’OrlÉans, and his eldest son Duc de Chartres. That young prince was about seventeen, and like all the OrlÉans family, except the Duchess and the Comte de Beaujolais, was thoroughly indoctrinated with the detestable spirit that prevailed at the Palais Royal.

The MarÉchale d’EtrÉe, daughter of M. de Puisieux, died, and left all her large fortune, not to the spendthrift Marquis de Genlis, but to the Count, who, finding himself now very rich, wished to retire from the Palais Royal and live on his estates, and tried to induce his wife to accompany him. He said with truth that her proper and natural place was with him, and he tried by all means in his power to persuade her to do what one would suppose a person constantly talking of duty, virtue, self-sacrifice, and the happiness of retirement, would not have hesitated about.

That she persistently refused proves how much all these professions were worth, and this time she does in her memoirs blame herself for her conduct; in fact, she declares that she felt ever afterwards a remorse that never left her, and that would be eternal; as she considered herself the cause of the death of her husband. If she had gone with him as he entreated her to do and as she acknowledged that she ought to have done, she could have induced him to leave France with her, he had sufficient money to enable them to live comfortably abroad, and his life would have been saved.

However, she refused to leave Belle Chasse, influenced by affection for her pupils, jealous of any one who might succeed her with them, fear of losing the prestige of having educated them, as she says; and, of course, of being separated from the Duc d’OrlÉans, which she does not say. At any rate she took her own way, and after a journey to England where she was extremely well received, she resumed her usual occupations. The Revolution was drawing nearer and nearer, though people did not realise its approach. A few more far-seeing persons foretold troubles and dangers in the future, but nobody except the well-known Cazotte, had any notion of the fearful tempest about to break over the unhappy kingdom of France.

Meanwhile, many who would have shrunk from the crimes and horrors for which in their folly they were preparing the way as fast as possible, went on playing with fire, by encouraging the disloyalty that was in the air, sympathising with the outrageous demands put forward by the Radical leaders, circulating libels and inventing lying stories against the Queen and royal family, joining noisily in the abuse of everything that had hitherto been held sacred or respectable, and doing everything in their power to inflame the evil passions and excite the cupidity and violence of the mob.

One cannot help feeling intense satisfaction in reflecting that most of those who did all this mischief, at any rate, suffered for it, when the danger, ruin, and death they had prepared for others came upon themselves. One of the most abominable of the revolutionists, who had fallen under the displeasure of his friends and been condemned by them to be guillotined with his young son, begged to be allowed to embrace him on the scaffold; but the boy sullenly refused, saying, “No; it is you who have brought me to this.”

Among the Palais Royal set, it was the fashion to find fault with everything done by the royalists, to go as seldom as possible to Versailles and to pretend to find it a great bore when it was necessary to do so.

If a play was popular at Versailles it was sure to be hissed at Paris; a disgraced minister was the idol of the mob; the only liveries not insulted were those of OrlÉans.

For the Duc d’OrlÉans was aiming at the crown, and it is impossible to believe Mme. de Genlis was not aware of it. He suggested to the Queen that Madame Royale should be married to his eldest son, which proposal Marie Antoinette decidedly refused, remarking afterwards that to marry her daughter to the Duc de Chartres would be to sign the death warrant of her son. [120]

Mme. de Genlis states that one evening while the States-General were sitting, the Duc d’OrlÉans, who was in her salon, declared that they would be of no use and do nothing; not even suppress the lettres de cachet. Mme. de Genlis and the Duc de Lauzun were of a different opinion, and they bet each other fifty louis on the subject. The bet was put into writing and Mme. de Genlis showed it to more than fifty people of her acquaintance, all of whom declared a Revolution to be impossible. The AbbÉ Cesutti, one of the free-thinking school, was editor of a paper called La feuille villageoise, intended for the people. He asked Mme. de Genlis to write for it, and she sent some papers called “The Letters of Marie-Anne,” in which she introduced doctrines and principles of religion. Soon after the AbbÉ came and asked her in future only to speak of morality and never to mention religion. Knowing what that meant she declined to write any more for that paper.

However, she was so far identified with the Revolutionary party as not only to rejoice at the infamous attack of the mob upon the Bastille, but to consent to her pupils’ request to take them to Paris to see the mob finishing the destruction of that beautiful and historic monument.

In the “Souvenirs,” written in after years, when her ideas and principles had been totally changed by her experience of the Revolution, the beginning of which had so delighted her, she was evidently ashamed of the line she had taken, and anxious to explain it away as far as possible.

“I was of no party,” she writes, “but that of religion. I desired the reform of certain abuses, and I saw with joy the demolition of the Bastille, the abolition of lettres de cachet, and droits de chasse. That was all I wanted, my politics did not go farther than that. At the same time no one saw with more grief and horror than I, the excesses committed from the first moments of the taking of the Bastille.... The desire to let my pupils see everything led me on this occasion into imprudence, and caused me to spend some hours in Paris to see from the Jardin de Beaumarchais the people of Paris demolishing the Bastille. I also had a curiosity to see the Cordeliers Club.... I went there and I saw the orators, cobblers, and porters with their wives and mistresses, mounting the tribune and shouting against nobles, priests, and rich people.... I remarked a fishwoman....” This pretty spectacle to which she was said to have taken her pupils, was, of course, approved of by the Duke of OrlÉans, who made the Duc de Chartres a member of the Jacobin Club, “by the wish of the Duc d’OrlÉans, assuredly not by mine; but, however, it must be remembered that that society was not then what it afterward became, although its sentiments were already very exaggerated. However, it was a pretext employed to estrange the Duchess of OrlÉans from me.”

And small wonder! Was the Duchess of OrlÉans—a woman of saintly character and the great grand-daughter [121] of Louis XIV.—to tolerate the governess of her children being seen in a den of blasphemy and low, unspeakable vice and degradation like the Cordeliers Club, or their being themselves shown with rejoicing a scene of horror and murder, and join in the triumph of ruffians who were attacking their religion, and the King and Queen, who were also their own cousins? Was it possible that anybody in their senses would tolerate such a governess? Added to which the Duchess was now aware of the terms on which Mme. de Genlis and the Duke stood to each other. It could no longer be said of her—

“The Duchess sees nothing, or will not see anything, but even shows a strange predilection for Mme. de Genlis, which made Mme. de Barbantane say that it is a love [122] which would make one believe in witchcraft.”

The Duc de PenthiÈvre, who knew his son-in-law and distrusted Mme. de Genlis, foresaw what would happen and opposed her entrance into the Palais Royal; but the influence of Mme. de Montesson had prevailed, and she was soon not only all-powerful herself, but had placed the different members of her family in lucrative posts there. And, though they did not follow their party to the extreme excesses to which they were already tending, they were, so far, all tarred with the same brush.

In the “Memoirs of Louis XVIII,” he remarks, after the dismissal of Necker: “A report was spread that the Queen and the Comte d’Artois had given orders for a general massacre, to include the Duke of OrlÉans, M. Necker, and most of the members of the National Assembly. Sillery, Latouche, Laclos, Voidel, Ducrest, [123] Camille Desmoulin, and all those who came from the Duc d’OrlÉans, were the first to spread these lies.” [124]

After her proceedings at the Bastille and the Cordeliers, and considering her connection with the revolutionary party, Mme. de Genlis (or Sillery, as she was also called) need not have expressed the surprise and indignation she did at the arrival of a body of police to search her house for arms, reported to be stored there. They were sent by La Fayette, who had done even more mischief than she had; but for some reason they did not like each other. The touchy, conceited Republican poet, Marie Joseph ChÉnier, who ranted against religion, royalty, and everything and everybody superior to himself, began to make love to Mme. de Genlis, and when she objected to his impertinent familiarity, said furiously: “You are right; I am neither a grand seigneur nor a duke!”—which specimen of the manners of her party disgusted her extremely. In her “MÉmoires” she relates of this worthy that he was accused of having participated in the condemnation of his brother AndrÉ, also a poet, executed under the Terror. This was, however, almost certainly untrue, but it was said that he could have saved him if he had made use of the influence he possessed with the Terrorists, but that he either feared or did not care to do so. The celebrated actress, Mlle. Dumesnil, then old and infirm, received one day a visit from him, during which he tormented her to recite something for him. She was ill in bed, but nevertheless he went on begging that she would recite only one line that he might say he had heard her, when, turning towards him with a violent effort she said—

“Approchez-vous, NÉron, et prenez votre place!”

The first personal encounter of Mme. de Genlis with the Revolution was one afternoon in 1790. She had driven with Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans, the Comte de Beaujolais, Henriette de Sercey, and Pamela, to a village about twelve miles from Paris, where, unluckily, a fair was going on and a great many people collected together. They took it into their heads that the party were the Queen, Madame Royale, and the Dauphin trying to escape, and, surrounding them with anger, forced them to get out of the carriage and refused to believe their explanations.

A young lieutenant of the Garde-Nationale hurried up, harangued them, and with difficulty persuaded the savage crowd to allow him to take them into his own house, around which a drunken, furious crowd kept guard while cries of “A la lanterne!” were every now and then heard. They would not believe anything they said; they threatened to hang any one who should go to Paris to make inquiries; they forced their way into the house and garden, but suddenly a friendly voice said in the ear of Mme. de Genlis: “I was a gamekeeper at Sillery; don’t be afraid. I will go to Paris.” At last the crowd of ruffians dispersed, leaving a dozen to guard their prisoners; the mayor of the village gravely demanded that all her papers should be delivered to him, upon which Mme. de Genlis gave him four or five letters, and when she begged him to read them he replied that he could not read, but took them away.

At five o’clock in the morning the gamekeeper came back from Paris with an order of release from the municipality, and at half-past six they arrived at Belle Chasse.

This foretaste of the Revolution Mme. de Genlis did not like at all, and she began to think she would rather not be in France now that the plans and friends so lately her admiration were succeeding so well.

Just then her mother died after a short illness, which was a great shock to her; she had lived with or near her for many years since the death of her second husband, and had been the object of her devoted care.

But now at last an end had come to the Palais Royal life of prosperity and power.

The patience of the Duchess of OrlÉans, which had for many years been so extraordinary, and her blindness, which had been the wonder of everybody, had for more than a year been worn out, and now had come to a decided conclusion.

There is such a thing as being too angelic, and gentle, and unsuspicious. If those who have to live in the world go about acting as if other people were angels instead of men and women, believing all they are told, trusting every one, and knowing as little as they can of what is going on around them, no good ever comes of it.

How the Duchess could ever consent to and approve of her children being entirely given up to the care of a woman whose principles were absolutely opposed to her own, is astonishing indeed; and perhaps it is still more so that for many years she did notice the infatuation of her husband, and the vast influence Mme. de Genlis had over him. But her eyes had at last been opened, Mme. de Genlis declares, by a Mme. de Chastellux, who was her enemy, and was jealous of her. However that might be with regard to the connection between Mme. de Genlis and the Duc d’OrlÉans, no enlightenment was necessary about the Bastille, the Cordeliers Club, and other revolutionary proceedings. That was surely quite enough; besides which the Duchess had long been awakened to the fact that the governess about whom she had been so infatuated had not only carried on an intrigue with and established an all-powerful influence over her husband, but had extended that influence also over her children to such an extent that her daughter at any rate, if not her two elder sons, probably preferred her to their mother.

As to the Comte de Beaujolais, he was fond of her, as all her pupils were, for she was extremely kind to them, but he hated and abhorred the principles which his father and she had succeeded in instilling into his brothers and sister, longed to fight for the King and Queen, and took the first opportunity when he met the Comte de Provence in exile to tell him so and make his submission; he had sent him messages of explanation and loyalty directly he could. For more than a year, then, there had been coldness and estrangement between the Duchess and Mme. de Genlis, who, of course, as usual, posed as an injured saint. What had she done? Why this cruel change in the affection and confidence of years? Had she not sacrificed herself to her pupils? Was she not the last person to alienate their affection from their illustrious and admirable mother? Did not all the virtues of her whole life forbid her being suspected or distrusted in any way?

She wrote pages and pages to the Duchess, who would not answer the letters except by a few short lines, and refused to enter into the matter at all, but declined to receive Mme. de Genlis at the Palais Royal to dine as usual. Here is an example of what the Duchesse d’AbrantÈs and others have said about Mme. de Genlis having nothing of the dignity that she might have been expected to possess. Her behaviour contrasts strongly with that of the Duchesse d’OrlÉans, who, however foolish and credulous she may have been, showed at any rate that she was a Princess of France. It was not for her to discuss or dispute with Mme. de Genlis about her influence with her husband and children; it was for her to give orders and for the governess of her children to obey them. But these late proceedings were different and tangible, and Mme. de Genlis herself owns in her “MÉmoires,” written long after, that the objections of the Duchess, which she then thought so exaggerated and unjust, were right and well-founded. She declares that she had no idea how far the Revolution would go, that she was strongly attached to the Monarchy and to religion, which latter was certainly true, and there is no reason to suppose she contemplated a Republic, while the horrors that took place were odious to her.

But that she should have been and still be accused, especially with regard to the Duke of OrlÉans, she had no right to complain. After all, those who wish to play the world’s game must play by the world’s rules. Certain ways of acting always cause certain conclusions to be drawn, and what else was likely between a man like Philippe-ÉgalitÉ and a fascinating woman he admired, and with whom he was thrown into constant and intimate association, but the liaison every one might expect, and which it is impossible not to believe in.

She declared that she would have resigned before had it not been for the calumnies, injustice, and persecution (!) carried on against the Duc d’OrlÉans; she hoped his return would dispel the clouds; she pictured the grief her pupils would feel, &c., &c.

The Duke was at his wits’ end, there were scenes and interviews and negotiations without end, but he and Mme. de Genlis were forced to give way.

The Duchess threatened a separation, the position was impossible; Mme. de Genlis withdrew, at any rate for a time, intending to go to England. But Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans, who was then thirteen, and devoted to her governess, when she found she was gone, cried and fretted till she became so ill that every one was alarmed; she was sent for to come back again, and did so on condition that they should go to England together as soon as it could be arranged.

She was herself most anxious to get out of France, but in spite of her representations the journey kept being put off on various excuses until the autumn, when one day M. de Valence, who had also a post in the Palais Royal, told her that the Duke was going to England that night, which he did, leaving her a note saying he would be back in a month.

However, he stayed a year, much to the surprise of Mme. de Genlis, in the first place that he should have kept her in ignorance of his plans, and in the second that he should break his promise to her. His flight had also the result of preventing their journey, for it had irritated the mob, who were now, under their brutal and ferocious leaders, the rulers of France, and they watched with suspicion all the rest of the OrlÉans family; it would not have been safe for them to attempt to travel. Such was the freedom already achieved by the efforts of their father and his friends.

It was naturally impossible that Mme. de Genlis should be a conspicuous member of the OrlÉans household and yet not mix herself up with intimacies and friendships amongst the Revolutionists, especially as some of them at that time had not shown themselves in their true colours. She corresponded with BarÈze, who wrote to her about her books, and whose letters were full of the simple life of the peasants and the beauties of nature in the Pyrenees, but who soon developed into one of the monsters of the Terror. She could not be blamed for that, as she did not know his real character; but the same cannot be said with regard to her friendship with PÉtion, whom she received in her salon and for whom she declared that up to the time of the King’s murder she had “a true esteem.” Now PÉtion was a vulgar, brutal ruffian, as any one knows who has read the account of his behaviour during the miserable affair of the return of the royal family from Varennes; and yet after that she accepted his escort to England, and said that she “remained persuaded that he had a most honest, upright soul, and the most virtuous principles.” There are some people who make the very names of virtue and duty obnoxious to one, and of this number was certainly Mme. de Genlis. In spite of her outcries about the injustice and falsehood of the suspicions and odium attached to her concerning her conduct at this time, and causing her afterwards considerable annoyance and difficulties, her friendships with and praises of such characters as Philippe-ÉgalitÉ, PÉtion, and others, added to the way in which she displayed her rejoicing in the earlier excesses of the Revolutionary party, and her constant association with the authors of the disgraceful libels and attacks upon the Queen and royal family, amply justified whatever might be said against her.

There can be no doubt that, as always happens in these cases, a great deal was said that was neither true nor possible. It was inevitable that it should be so; but her way of going on, both politically and in other ways, was decidedly suspicious.

At length the Duke of OrlÉans came back, and in consequence of the persuasions of Mme. de Genlis he arranged that his daughter should be ordered by the doctors to take the waters at Bath, and they set off; Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans, Mme. de Genlis, Pamela, and Henriette de Sercey, with their attendants, furnished with a passport permitting them to stay in England as long as the health of Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans required. They started October 11, 1791, slept at Calais, and remained a few days in London in the house the Duc d’OrlÉans had bought there; they went to Bath, where they stayed for two months.

They next made a tour about England, including Portsmouth, the Isle of Wight, Derbyshire, Cambridge, several visits to different country houses, and to the Ladies of Llangollen.

---

WHILE Mme. de Genlis was safe and enjoying herself in England terrible events were happening in France. The Duke of OrlÉans, already infamous in the eyes of all decent people, was beginning to lose his popularity with the revolutionists. “He [125] could not doubt the discredit into which he had fallen, the flight of his son [126] exposed him to dangerous suspicions; it was decided to get rid of him. He had demanded that his explanations should be admitted, but he was advised to ‘ask rather, in the interest of your own safety, for a decree of banishment for yourself and your family.’

“I have said before, I think, that the Comte de Beaujolais did not share the opinions of his family, and I have pleasure in quoting a paragraph on this subject written by Marie Antoinette in a letter to her sister the Archduchess Christine, governess of the Low Countries.

“‘The young Comte de Beaujolais, in the innocence of his soul, has always remained a Bourbon, and this amiable boy feels a tender sympathy for my misfortunes. The other day he sent me in secret a person named Alexandre, a valet de chambre of good education. This worthy man, whose open expression impressed me in his favour, knelt down when he came near me, wiped away some tears and gave me a letter from the young prince, in which I found the most touching words and the purest sentiments. The good Alexandre begged me to keep this a profound secret, and told me that the Comte de Beaujolais often talked of escaping from his father and dying in arms for the defence of his King.

“‘How I regret that the death of this young prince deprived me of the happiness of opening the gates of France to him and rewarding his noble sentiments.’” [127]

The Duc de Chartres now also looked with disapproval upon his father’s conduct. In his “MÉmoire’s” Louis XVIII. quotes a letter of M. de Boissy, who says that the only republican amongst the sons of ÉgalitÉ was the Duc de Montpensier. [128]

The latter part of the sojourn of Mme. de Genlis in England was overshadowed by anxieties, annoyances, and fears.

Like all other nations, the English were horror-stricken at the crimes and cruelties going on in France, and exasperated against their perpetrators, more especially against the Duke of OrlÉans, who was regarded with universal hatred and contempt.

The general indignation was extended to all who had, or were believed to have, any complicity in the horrors committed, or any connection with the miscreants who were guilty of them; and now Mme. de Genlis began to feel the consequences of the line of conduct she had chosen to adopt.

Anonymous letters filled with abuse and threats poured in upon her; she was told the house would be set on fire in the night, she heard her name cried in the streets, and on sending out for the newspaper being sold, she saw a long story about herself and M. de Calonne, giving the history of an interview they had at Paris the preceding evening! She sent it to Sheridan, who was a friend of hers, begging him to write to the paper saying that she did not know Calonne, and had not been at Paris for many months, which he did.

Of course she thought all these denunciations most unjust and astonishing. Why, she asked, should they call her a “savage fury,” and abuse her in this way?

“I never carried on a single intrigue. I loved the Monarchy, and I spared no efforts to soften and moderate M. le Duc d’OrlÉans,” not realising that the way to escape suspicion was not to try to soften, but to have nothing to do with him; and that if she loved the Monarchy she had shown her affection in a very strange manner. But she was a strange mixture of great talents and many good qualities with frivolity, inconsistency, and shallowness. For example, when she was told that the Monarchy (which she says she loved) had fallen, and the Republic been declared, her first exclamation was—

“Eh! What! Then Athalie will never be played any more; that masterpiece will be lost to the French stage!”

Seeing in the French papers that a party, with sinister intentions, were agitating for the trial of the King and Queen, Mme. de Genlis wrote a letter of six pages to PÉtion remonstrating, advising, and quoting the ancient Romans who did not murder the Tarquins but only banished them. The letter was published, but of course did no good, but drew upon her the hatred of the Terrorists.

The King and Queen were doomed. Even so late as between the 20th of June and the 10th of August, there was a last chance of escape, a plot for their flight, each one separately. They might, or some of them might, have escaped. One cannot help fancying that the children at any rate might have been saved; they could not have been so well known and might so well have been disguised. This was spoilt by the Queen, who refused to be separated from the Dauphin. After that there was no hope.

Just after the September massacres Mme. de Genlis received a letter from the Duc d’OrlÉans desiring her to bring his daughter back to France at once, to which she replied that she should do nothing of the sort, and that it would be absurd to choose such a time for entering France.

She heard there was a plot to carry off Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans, which made her uneasy, and several other things happened which rather alarmed her.

Early in November the Duc d’OrlÉans sent M. Maret with a summons to Mme. de Genlis either to bring Mademoiselle back to France or to give her into his care as her escort. Mme. de Genlis, not liking to desert the young girl, though most unwilling to return to France, agreed to accompany her, and before they left, Sheridan, who had fallen violently in love with Pamela, proposed to her and was accepted. It was settled that they should be married in a fortnight, when Mme. de Genlis expected to be back in England.

It was not a marriage that promised much happiness. Sheridan was forty-six and a confirmed spendthrift. He was a widower, and the extraordinary likeness of Pamela to his first wife had struck him. Not that his first marriage had been altogether successful, for his wife had, after a time, had a liaison with Lord Edward Fitzgerald.

They started at ten in the morning in two carriages, the first with six horses, the second, which contained the servants, with four. They had only two men, one French servant of their own, the other hired for the occasion, as they had sent four back to Paris. Their servant, Darnal, observed after a time that they were not going along the Dover road, by which he had been before, and pointed this out to Mme. de Genlis, who spoke to the postillions. They made some excuse, assuring her that they would get back on to the road, but they did nothing of the kind but went on at a rapid pace, saying they would soon be at a village called Dartford, which for a time reassured Mme. de Genlis. However, they did not arrive at Dartford, and presently two well-dressed men passed on foot and called out in distinct French—

“Mesdames, you are being deceived, they are not taking you to Dover.”

It was difficult to make the postillions stop, but after a time Darnal forced them to do so, assisted by the cries of the terrified travellers who were then passing through a village. The strange servant did nothing. They got out, and on asking how far they were from Dartford they were told twenty-two miles.

Mme. de Genlis hired a man from the village to go with them, and with his help and that of Darnal forced the postillions, who were very insolent, to return to London.

Sheridan took the matter up, the postillions were examined, but all they said was that a strange gentleman had taken them to a public-house and bribed them to take the road they had followed. The hired servant had disappeared. Not wishing to spend the time or money necessary to bring this mysterious affair into a law court, they did nothing more about it, and never understood why it had happened, or what was intended, or anything concerning it.

They stayed a month with Sheridan at Isleworth, and then he saw them off at Dover, and they landed safely in France. Immense crowds assembled to greet Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans, but at Chantilly they were met by a messenger of the Duke, who gave Mme. de Genlis a note saying—

“If you have not crossed yet, stay in England till fresh orders; if my courrier meets you on the road in France wait wherever you are and do not come to Paris. A second courrier will instruct you what to do.”

Paying no attention to this order, Mme. de Genlis continued her journey to Belle Chasse, where she found her husband, the Duke, and five or six others.

An air of gloom was over them all. Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans was crying bitterly. Mme. de Genlis, as she restored her to her father’s care, in the presence of the rest, told him that she resigned her post of governess, and should start for England the next morning.

The Duke with an air of consternation asked her to come into another room alone with him, and there with much embarrassment told her that his daughter, who was now fifteen, was by a new law placed in the list of emigrÉes for not having returned at the time appointed; that it was her fault for not bringing her back when he first sent for her; that he was sure to be able to make it all right by getting her placed in a list of exceptions to be made, but that meantime she must go and wait in some neutral country; that he implored Mme. de Genlis to take her to Tournay; that the decree of exception would certainly be out in a week, and then he would come himself and fetch his daughter, and she (Mme. de Genlis) should be free.

She replied that she would go to Tournay on condition that if the decree was not out in a fortnight, the Duke would send some one else to take her place with his daughter, which he promised to do.

M. de Sillery (Comte de Genlis) proposed that they should go to his box at the theatre to cheer their spirits. Among the audience was Lord Edward Fitzgerald, who, on seeing Pamela, was struck, as Sheridan had been, with her extraordinary likeness to Mrs. Sheridan, and like him, fell in love with her, and got a friend to present him in their box.

The next morning they went to Raincy, where the Duke and M. de Sillery spent the whole of the day with them. The infatuation between the Duke and Mme. de Genlis seems to have been at an end, if we may trust her account of that last day.

“He seemed,” she says “distrait, gloomy, and preoccupied, with a strange expression which had something sinister in his face; he walked up and down from one room to another, as if he dreaded conversation or questions. The day was fine. I sent Mademoiselle, my niece, and Pamela into the garden; M. de Sillery followed: I found myself alone with M. le Duc d’OrlÉans. Then I said something about his situation, he hastily interrupted me and said brusquely that he had pledged himself to the Jacobins. I replied that after all that had happened it was a crime and a folly; that he would be their victim.... I advised him to emigrate with his family to America. The Duke smiled disdainfully and answered as he had often done before, that I was well worth being consulted and listened to when it was a question of historical or literary matters, but that I knew nothing about politics.... The conversation became heated, then angry, and suddenly he left me. In the evening I had a long interview with M. de Sillery. I entreated him with tears to leave France; it would have been easy for him to get away and to take with him at least a hundred thousand francs. He listened with emotion; told me he abhorred all the excesses of the Revolution, but that I took too gloomy a view of the outlook. Robespierre and his party were too mediocre to keep their ascendancy long; all the talent and capacity was among the moderates, who would soon re-establish order and morality (they were all put to death soon afterwards); and that he considered it criminal for an honest man to leave France at this moment, as he thereby deprived his country of one more voice for reason and humanity. I insisted, but in vain. He spoke of the Duke of OrlÉans, saying that in his opinion he was lost, because he was placing all his hopes in the Jacobins, who delighted in degrading him in order to destroy him more easily....”

“We started the next morning; M. le Duc gave me his arm to the carriage; I was much agitated, Mademoiselle burst into tears, her father was pale and trembling. When I was in the carriage he stood in silence by the door with his eyes fixed upon me; his gloomy, sorrowful look seeming to implore pity.

“‘Adieu, Madame!’ he said; and the changed tone of his voice so increased my agitation that I could not speak. I held out my hand which he took and pressed tightly in his; then, turning hastily to the postillions he signed to them, and we started.”

M. de Sillery, M. Ducrest, and the Duc de Chartres went with them to the frontier of Belgium; and they arrived safely at Tournay, where they were followed by Lord Edward Fitzgerald, who was eager to marry Pamela. And now, as before, he was the successful rival of Sheridan, whom she threw over for his sake. They were married at Tournay and departed to England, where she was received with great kindness by his family.

Weeks passed away and still no one came from the Duc d’OrlÉans; Mme. de Genlis wrote several times, and he always begged her to wait a few days longer.

The Duc de Chartres came and joined them at Tournay, where Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans was taken dangerously ill with a bilious fever. She recovered slowly, but in January, 1793, letters from France brought the news of the execution of Louis XVI., of the infamous part played by Philippe-ÉgalitÉ, and of the imminent danger of M. de Sillery.

The Duc de Chartres was horror-stricken at the crime, at his father’s share in it, and at the hypocritical letter in which he excused his baseness, speaking of his lacerated heart, his sacrifice to liberty, and the welfare of France, &c.

Very different was the letter of M. de Sillery. He, at any rate, if he had been wrong and mistaken, was ready and willing to pay the penalty.

He sent a number of the printed copies of his “opinion on the King’s trial,” desiring that some might be forwarded to England. It was as follows:

“I do not vote for his death; first, because he does not deserve it; secondly, because we have no right to judge him; thirdly, because I look upon his condemnation as the greatest political fault that could be committed.” He ended his letter by saying that he knew quite well that he had signed his own death-warrant, and, beside himself with horror and indignation, he actually went to the Abbaye and gave himself up as a prisoner. It was the act of a madman, for he might very likely have escaped, and his wife consoled herself with the idea that as there was nothing against him he would only suffer a short imprisonment.

Though several members had voted against the murder of the King, he was the only one who had had the courage of his opinions. Condorcet gave as a reason that he disapproved of all capital punishment, the rest made different excuses.

Mme. de Valence, daughter of Mme. de Genlis came to them at Tournay, but very soon had to hurry back to France as the Austrian army was coming up.

Like Mme. Le Brun, Mme. de Genlis had no reason to fear poverty in exile, her writings would always be sufficient to provide for her; but she was just then short of money; and, unfortunately, in her haste, though she had brought with her a good many of her valuable possessions from Belle Chasse, she had left a great deal that she might have taken. Mme. de Valence went to Belle Chasse and saved her piano, some pictures, and various other things which her mother gave to her, the rest were mostly confiscated.

It was very difficult just then to get money from France, and she had even to advance some for Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans. Remembering what had happened to La Fayette, she was very much afraid of falling into the hands of the Austrians; on the other hand she could not go into France without a permission, which she was silly enough to ask for, but luckily for herself, could not get.

The Duc de Chartres wrote to his father saying that he never wished to return to France, and wanted to get leave from the Convention to expatriate himself, but the Duke replied that there was no sense in it, and forbade him to write.

The Duc de Montpensier came to Tournay to see his brother and sister and then left for Nice.

---

OBLIGED to leave Tournay, they took refuge at a small town called Saint Amand, but they soon found themselves forced to fly from that also, and Mme. de Genlis, alarmed at the dangers and privations evidently before them, began to think that Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans would be safer without her, in the care of her brother.

The camp of Dumouriez lay close at hand, and he had been very good to them; but there would probably be fighting very shortly, and it was said that he and many of his officers had been proscribed by the Convention. It would, she thought, be safer for Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans to go and give herself up at Valenciennes, when she would most likely only be exiled, if that; than to be taken with Mme. de Genlis, as they would then be sent prisoners to Valenciennes and to the scaffold. And it was a great chance if they could pass the French posts.

However, the tears of Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans and the entreaties of her brother prevailed; and at the last moment she got into the carriage leaving all her luggage behind except her watch and harp. Mme. de Genlis, however, had got hers so could supply her, for they could not wait to pack.

In the carriage were Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans, Mme. de Genlis, her niece, and M. de Montjoye, a young officer who had escaped from France, and was very sensibly going to live in Switzerland, where he had relations. He spoke German very well, and it was agreed that he should say the others were English ladies he was escorting to Ostende.

They went by lanes and cross-roads which were so bad that the carriage broke down, and they had to wait for an hour and a half in a tavern full of volunteers, who cast sinister glances at them, asked many questions, but finally allowed them to go on. It was very cold, night was approaching, the roads got worse and worse, and at last they had to get out and walk.

After going about three miles they were suddenly arrested by a captain of volunteers whose attention had been attracted by the lantern carried by their guide.

Dissatisfied with their answers, he said he suspected them of being emigrÉs and should take them to Valenciennes. Mme. de Genlis thought they were lost, but with admirable presence of mind, she put her arm within his and walked briskly by his side, chaffing him in an almost unintelligible jargon about his want of politeness, laughing, and appearing quite fearless and indifferent.

Presently he stopped; said it was evident that she was an Englishwoman, that he did not wish to cause them any further inconvenience; they could continue their journey, but he advised them to put out the lantern as it might be dangerous. He showed them a bye way by which they could reach the Austrian outposts without meeting any more French troops.

As she left Belgium, Mme. Genlis who, with her faults had also many good qualities, began, she says, to reflect upon the horror of her position.

“I saw for myself personally a future darker than it proved to be; I felt that party spirit and the misfortune of having been attached to the house of OrlÉans would expose me to all kinds of calumnies and persecutions; I resigned myself in submission to Providence, for I knew that I deserved it, because if I had kept my promise to my friend, Mme. de Custine, if I had done my duty and remained with my second mother, Mme. de Puisieux, instead of entering the Palais Royal, or if, at the death of the MarÉchale d’EtrÉe, I had left Belle Chasse as my husband wished, no emigrÉe could have been more peaceful and happy than I in foreign countries; with the general popularity of my books, my literary reputation, and the social talents I possessed.”

The commandant, Baron Vounianski, received them with great kindness, and suddenly as she raised her veil, exclaimed “Ah, Princess!” At first she feared he recognised Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans, but soon found out that an extraordinary likeness to a Moravian, Princess von Lansberg, made him suppose her to be that person, and no denial on her part altered his conviction. He gave them a supper À la Hongroise enough for twenty people, and while it was going on talked of public affairs with violent expressions of hatred and curses against the Duke of OrlÉans. Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans grew paler and paler, and Mme. de Genlis was in terror lest she should faint or in any way betray herself, but she did not.

The next morning the Baron himself brought up the tray with their breakfast, still declaring Mme. de Genlis was the Princess, and among the escort he gave them to Mons were two young cadets from Moravia, who had been pages to the Princess, by whom they had been specially recommended to the Baron. They both kissed her hand, and recognized her as Princess von Lansberg.

Mons was full of soldiers, they could only get bad rooms in the inn, and in the night Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans, who slept in Mme. de Genlis’s room, did nothing but cough and moan. Going into the adjoining room to tell her niece, Mme. de Genlis found her in the same state; the girls had both got measles.

Here was a terrible position. They had no maid, the manservant was a new one, the servants of the inn could do nothing to help as the inn was crowded; they could not get a doctor till the evening, or a nurse for four days. Mme. de Genlis, however, understood perfectly well how to treat them, and nursed them till they recovered.

One day, as she was going to fetch the medicine from the doctor, who luckily lived close by, she met upon the stairs the Prince de Lambese. Recognising her at once, he looked at her with an indignant, contemptuous expression, passed on without speaking and went to the Governor, Baron von Mack, to denounce her, guessing also that the daughter of Philippe-ÉgalitÉ was with her.

The Prince de Lambese had every reason to abhor Mme. de Genlis. He belonged to the house of Lorraine, was related to Marie Antoinette, and devoted to her. It was he, who, in July, 1789, at the head of the Royal Allemand Regiment, cleared the mob out of the place Louis XV., and galloped with his troops into the Tuileries Gardens. He emigrated and entered the Austrian service.

In Mme. de Genlis he recognised the woman who was supposed to have been concerned in the infamous libels against the Queen; and who, with the wretched ÉgalitÉ and his children, was seen watching from the Palais Royal the procession, which, headed by the disloyal La Fayette, and surrounded by the drunken, howling ruffians, his followers, brought the royal family prisoners to Paris.

Baron von Mack came to see them, told Mme. de Genlis they were recognised, but was very kind, said they might stay as long as they liked, and when the two girls were well enough to move, gave them passports to Switzerland.

This journey they made in safety; though for a few hours they skirted along the French outposts, saw in the distance a village on fire across the Rhine, and heard the continual roar of the guns.

They were thankful indeed to find themselves at Schaffhausen, where they were joined by the Duc de Chartres. It was fortunate for his sister that she did not remain with him; he had been obliged to fly with Dumouriez two days after she left, through firing and dangers of all kinds; and what would have become of a girl of sixteen, in a violent illness, with no one to look after her?

They stayed at Schaffhausen till they were rested, after seven days’ journey, and then proceeded to Zurich, where they thought of establishing themselves. But directly the magistrates heard the now accursed name of OrlÉans, all negotiations were at an end; besides which the place was full of emigrÉs, and they could not go out without being insulted and annoyed.

They, therefore, removed to the little town of Zug, on the lake of that name, professing to be an Irish family and living in the strictest retirement. To any one who has seen the little town of Zug, it must, even now, appear remote and retired, but in those days it had indeed the aspect of a refuge forgotten by the world. Sheltered by the mighty Alps, the little town clusters at the foot of the steep slope covered with grass and trees, along the shores of the blue lake. A hundred years ago it must have been an ideal hiding place.

They took a little house in a meadow looking down on the lake, and not even the authorities of the place knew who they were.

Mme. de Genlis, however, found an opportunity of writing to the Duchess of OrlÉans in France; the Duke was by this time arrested.

Mme. de Genlis declares that at this time the Duchess was still free, and insinuates that she displayed indifference to her daughter in not replying to her letters.

But Louis XVIII. in his Memoirs says:

“A first decree, dated 4 April (1793), ordered the arrest of Madame la Duchesse d’OrlÉans, that woman, so virtuous, so worthy of a better fate; then of Mme. de Montesson, of Mme. de Valence, daughter of Mme. de Genlis, and her children. A special clause added: The citoyens ÉgalitÉ and Sillery cannot leave Paris without permission.” [129]

And M. Turquan, [130] in his life of Mme. de Montesson, says:

“Mme. de Montesson was arrested ... in virtue of a decree of the Convention of 4 April, 1793, ... and on the 17th ... was taken to the prison of La Force, from there she was transferred to the Maison d’arrÊt Dudreneux, opposite her own hÔtel. From the windows of her new prison she had the consolation, if it was one, of contemplating her own garden, into which she could no longer put her foot. She had another, less bitter, her premiÈre femme de chambre would not be separated from her, but followed her to prison, and in spite of many obstacles rendered her many services.... This admirable, devoted woman (Mme. Naudet) had left her children to follow her mistress to prison.”

It is therefore evident that at the time of which Mme. de Genlis is writing, the middle of May, the Duchess of OrlÉans was in prison. Also that the Marquis de Sillery, her husband, had not been detained in the Abbaye, as from his letter she had supposed, but was only under supervision till the 7th of April.

But with regard to dates Mme. de Genlis is exceedingly inaccurate; in fact her statements are sometimes impossible. For instance, she says that they left Mons the 13th of April, arriving at Schaffhausen on the 26th of May, and that their journey took seven days! Also that they arrived at Schaffhausen on the 26th of May, and then that they left that place for Zurich on May 6th ... and went to Zug May 14. At any rate they appear to have been there late in May. The Duchess [131] was then in the prison of the Luxembourg, and the Duke and his two younger sons were imprisoned at Marseilles.

It was no wonder they got neither money nor letters from the OrlÉans family, but Mme. de Genlis began to be uneasy about money matters. She could not get any remittances either; and although her writings would certainly ultimately support her, she could take no steps about them while she was afraid to disclose her name.

The story of her exile is indeed a contrast to that of Mme. Le Brun, who, with none of her advantages of rank and fortune, nothing but her own genius, stainless character, and charming personality, was welcomed, fÊted, and loved in nearly every court in Europe, whose exile was one long triumphant progress, and who found friends and a home wherever she went.

But Mme. de Genlis discovered, when too late, that by her attempts both to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, she had succeeded in making herself detested by both parties; and now she waited in daily perplexity about money matters, and fear of the recognition which was not long in coming.

They only went out to church and to take country walks, but after a time some emigrÉs arrived at Zug, who, though they did not know them personally, had seen the Duc de Chartres at Versailles, recognised him, and spread the news all over the place.

Mme. de Genlis had before pointed out to him this danger, but he was very anxious to be with his sister, the only one of his nearest relations left to him, and she did not like to press the matter. But he soon saw that they must separate. The magistrates at Zug behaved very well, saying that the little family gave no reason for complaint, on the contrary were kind to the poor, harmless and popular.

But in a few days there were articles about them in the German papers; letters from Berne to the authorities of Zug reproached them for receiving the son and daughter of the infamous ÉgalitÉ; the people of Zug disliked the attention so generally drawn upon them, the chief magistrate became uneasy, and as politely as he could asked them to go away.

It was time. The day before they left a stone was thrown in at the window just where Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans had been sitting; if it had struck her it might have killed her. It struck her hat which she had hung on the top of a chair. A shower of stones followed, breaking the windows and arousing the Duc de Chartres and their only manservant, who had gone to bed, and who rushed out into the garden, but only in time to hear the hurrying foot-steps of the escaping rascals.

The next day they left Zug. M. de Chartres went to Coire, in the Engadine, where for fifteen months he gave lessons in mathematics in a college under an assumed name, while Mme. de Genlis and her two charges took refuge in a convent near the little town of Bremgarten, where they were admitted through M. de Montesquieu, another of the radical nobles obliged to flee from the tender mercies of his radical friends, of whom they had heard through M. de Montjoye, now living with his relations in BÂle, when he had paid them a visit.

In the convent they were safe and at peace, except for another illness of Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans, which left her so weak that Mme. de Genlis was afraid to tell her of the execution of her father in the November of 1794. She persuaded her not to read the French papers, telling her they were full of blasphemies and indecencies not fit for her to see. She had already received news of the execution of her husband, M. de Sillery, by which she was prostrated for a time.

Philippe-ÉgalitÉ had wearied Robespierre with his petitions to be released, and that worthy remarked to Fouquier-Tinville—

“It seems that ÉgalitÉ is tired of the fish of Marseilles that Milon appreciated so much. He wants to come to Paris.”

“Why prevent his coming back? his affair will be settled all the sooner,” was the answer. [132]

It was said that a locksmith, who was executed on the same day, would not get into the same cart with him, fearing that he “might be thought the accomplice of such a man.”

Mme. de Genlis put Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans into mourning, telling her that it was for the Queen, which she must of course wear, and it was some time before she discovered the truth.

She had written to ask a refuge of her uncle, the Duke of Modena, who sent her some money, but said political reasons prevented his receiving her in his duchy. The poor child, naturally merry and high-spirited, had grown quiet and sad, though she bore without complaining the hardships of her lot.

At last they heard that the Princesse de Conti was living near Fribourg, and it was arranged that she should take charge of her niece. She wrote an affectionate letter, and sent the Comtesse de Saint-Maurice-de-Pont to Bremgarten to fetch her.

Mme. de Genlis, dreading the parting, shut herself up in her room on the morning of her departure, leaving a message that she had gone out for the day to avoid that grief. She had not told her the night before that the time had come for their separation.

It was a great sorrow to them both, but was inevitable. Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans was rightly placed in the care of her own family, and the wandering, adventurous life led from this time by Mme. de Genlis was not desirable for the young princess.

---

IT will not be possible in a biography so short as this, to give a detailed account of the wandering, adventurous life led by Mme. de Genlis after the severance of her connection with the OrlÉans family.

She had now only her niece, Henriette, with her, and they set out again upon their travels. M. de Valence, after serving the revolutionists, had been proscribed by them, and was living in exile at Utrecht. There, accordingly, they joined him, and set up a joint mÉnage, first there, afterwards at Altona and at Hamburg.

It was whilst Mme. de Genlis was in Altona that she heard of the fall of Robespierre and the deliverance of her daughter. She was then living in a boarding-house, or inn, kept by a certain Mme. Plock, where she spent a good deal of time; and about one o’clock one morning she was sitting up in her room, writing, when she suddenly heard a violent knocking at her door, and the voice of M. de Kercy, a peaceable friendly acquaintance of hers, whose room was close by, called out—

“Open the door! Open the door! I must embrace you.”

Thinking he must have lost his senses she did nothing of the sort, and again he cried out—

“It is you who will embrace me! Open the door! Open the door!”

At length she did so, and M. de Kercy, flinging himself upon her neck, exclaimed—

“The tyrant is no more! Robespierre is dead!”

Mme. de Genlis some time afterwards married her niece, Henriette de Sercey, to a rich merchant in Hamburg, after which she went to Berlin, but where she was denounced to the King, accused, without truth, of receiving the AbbÉ de SieyÈs, then in Berlin, and ordered to leave the Prussian territory.

Then she went back to Hamburg, where she found her niece happy and prosperous, and where Lady Edward Fitzgerald, who was always devoted to her, came to pay her a visit, greatly to her delight.

Next she went to Holstein with M. de Valence who left her in an old castle, with the owners of which she formed an intimate friendship, and after staying there some weeks she took rooms in a farm in the neighbourhood where she lived for a considerable time; she had with her then as companion a young girl called Jenny, to whom she was much attached, and who nursed her devotedly through an illness.

Thus she wandered from place to place during the rest of her nine years of exile, generally under an assumed name; going now and then to Berlin, after the King’s death, and to Hamburg, which was full of emigrÉs, but where she met M. de Talleyrand and others of her own friends. Shunned and denounced by many, welcomed by others, she made many friends of different grades, from the brother and sister-in-law of the King of Denmark to worthy Mme. Plock, where she lodged in Altona, and the good farmer in Holstein, in whose farmhouse she lived. The storms and troubles of her life did not subdue her spirits; she was always ready for a new friendship, enjoying society, but able to do without it; taking an interest in everything, walking about the country in all weathers, playing the harp, reading, teaching a little boy she had adopted and called Casimir, and writing books by which she easily supported herself and increased her literary reputation.

It was in the year 1801 that she received permission to return to France.

Taking leave of her friends, who implored her not to leave them, she started for Brussels, accompanied by her niece Henriette and Pamela, who went part of the way with her. At Antwerp she met her son-in-law, M. de Lawoestine, who had been to visit her when she was living in Holstein. With her two sons-in-law she was always on the most friendly and affectionate terms.

At Brussels she found her nephew, CÉsar Ducrest, and, after nine years’ separation, was reunited to her daughter, who accompanied her to Paris.

Mme. de Valence, whatever may have been the follies of her youth, was a woman generally beloved for her kind, affectionate, generous disposition, she was devoted to her mother and children, and Mme. de Genlis in her joy at seeing her and France again, to say nothing of the other relations and friends whose affection made so large a part of her happiness, was consoled for the sorrows of her past life.

But her first impressions were very painful, notwithstanding her emotion when first she heard the people around her speaking French, saw the towers of Notre Dame, passed the barriÈre, and found herself again driving through the streets of Paris.

It was all so terribly changed, she could hardly believe that this was indeed the Paris of her youth, the ancient capital of a great monarchy, the centre of magnificence, elegance, and refinement. The churches were mostly closed, if not in ruins; the statues of the saints were replaced by those of infidel philosophers; the names of the streets were changed into others, often commemorating some odious individual or theory or deed of the Revolution; as to the convents the very names of “Jacobin,” “Cordeliers,” and others were associated with horror and bloodshed. The words palais and hÔtel having been forbidden by the Terrorists, maison ci-devant Conti, maison ci-devant Bourbon, &c., were written upon the once splendid dwellings of those who were now murdered, wandering in exile or, like herself, just returning to their ruined homes, with shattered fortunes and sorrowful hearts. Everywhere, on walls and buildings were inscribed the mocking words libertÉ, ÉgalitÉ, fraternitÉ, sometimes with the significant addition, ou la mort.

On the other hand things were much better than when, nine years ago she had driven out of Paris to Raincy on the eve of her long exile. The powerful arm of Napoleon had swept away the most horrible government that has ever existed in civilised times or countries; people now could walk about in safety, and live without fear.

If religious processions, and splendid carriages with six or eight horses preceded by piqueurs, were no longer to be seen in the streets, neither were mobs of drunken, howling, bloodthirsty ruffians, who would have been made short work of by the great First Consul who so firmly held the reins which had dropped from the feeble hands of Louis XVI.

Unscrupulous, heartless, remorseless, yet he was a saint and angel compared to the frantic, raving, blood-stained miscreants whom he had displaced, and whose work he was now occupied in undoing as fast as he could.

It required time and caution, even with him, in the disturbed state of the country; but already some of the churches were beginning to open; Madame Buonaparte held something extremely like a court at the Tuileries, at which any of the returning emigrÉs who would go there were welcomed. And they were now returning in crowds, as fast as they could get themselves rayÉs. [133]

Mlle. Georgette Ducrest, a cousin of Mme. de Genlis, had emigrated with her family, who were protected by Mme. de Montesson and JosÉphine, and now applied for radiation.

M. Ducrest accordingly went with the usual request to FouchÉ, then minister of police, who replied—

“Will you give me your certificate of residence? all the emigrants have them and prove to me every day that they have never left France.”

“I cannot do that, citoyen ministre, I have no papers to show you except an old passport under another name, which I bought for twelve francs at Hamburg. I have been away from France eleven years.”

“What! You have no means of proving to me that you have been unjustly placed on the list?”

“Mordieu! no.”

“Well in that case I will have you rayÉ immediately for I am persuaded you have never left your country. All those who emigrated have given me so many proofs to the contrary that I am sure you are imposing upon me in an opposite sense, and that you never left Paris. You will receive your radiation in two days.”

Even the proscribed arms and liveries were beginning here and there to appear, and the leader in this revival was Mme. de Montesson.

Far from being forced, as formerly, to keep in the background her marriage with the Duke of OrlÉans, it was for that very reason that she was high in the favour of the First Consul and the more en Évidence she made it, the better it was for her.

She did not bear the title, which indeed would not then have been permissible; but the well-known arms and blue liveries of OrlÉans re-appeared on her carriages and in her hÔtel, the royal arms of OrlÉans were embroidered on the fine Saxon linen of her household, the gold plate and delicate SÈvres china denounced by the Terrorists was to be seen at the princely entertainments at her hÔtel in the rue de Provence, where everything was done with the stately magnificence of former days, and whither every one of the old and new society was eager to be presented.

The First Consul had restored her fortune to her, and treated her with more deference than he showed to any other woman; she assumed royal prerogatives, never returning visits or rising to receive them, in fact she was considered and often called in society, the Duchess Dowager of OrlÉans.

Mme. de Genlis went with M. de Valence to see her two days after her return, and was coldly received, but their relations to each other quickly returned to their usual terms.

Mme. de Genlis had taken rooms close to the ChaussÉ d’Antin, and began to look after her affairs, which were in a most dilapidated state. Nearly all the property she left at Belle Chasse had been confiscated, she could not get her jointure paid by the persons who had got hold of it, and though Sillery had been inherited by Mme. de Valence, to whom she had given up all her own share in it, Mme. de Valence had let her spendthrift husband waste the fortune and afterwards sell the estate to a General who married one of his daughters, and who partly pulled down the chÂteau and spoiled the place.

She was therefore very badly off, though her writings were always quite successful enough to provide for her, but she could not be happy without perpetually adopting children: even now she had not only Casimir, who was always like a son to her, but an adopted daughter called StÉphanie Alyon, and another whom she sent back to Germany.

For more than a year she did not dare to pass the Palais Royal or to cross the place Louis XV., too many phantoms seemed to haunt and reproach her for the past.

But time and circumstances were obliterating crimes and injuries by the side of which her faults were as nothing. Though it is satisfactory to think that numbers of the Revolutionists received the punishment due to their deeds, there were others who for some reason or other managed not only to escape but to prosper; and with FouchÉ in a place of power and authority, what, might one ask, had become of all ideas of justice and retribution?

Mme. de Genlis, finding Paris too dear, moved to Versailles where she lived for a time, during which she had the grief of losing her nephew, CÉsar Ducrest, a promising young officer, who was killed by an accident.

She grew tired of Versailles, and returned to Paris, where the First Consul gave her an apartment at the Arsenal and a pension.

A new era of prosperity, though of quite a different kind from the luxury, excitement, and splendour of her earlier life, now began for Mme. de Genlis. She opened a salon which was soon the resort of most of the interesting and influential people of the day. In the society of the Consulate and Empire her early opinions and proceedings were not thought about, and her literary reputation was now great; and besides countless new acquaintances many of her old friends were delighted to welcome her again.

With Talleyrand she had always been on friendly terms.

Napoleon had insisted upon his marrying Mme. Grandt, his mistress, who had always received his guests during the loose society lately prevalent: people said that since he had done so, his salon was not nearly so amusing. She was a pretty but extremely stupid person, always making some mistake. On one occasion the celebrated traveller, M. Denon, was going to dine with them, and Talleyrand told her to be sure to talk to him about his travels, adding—

“You will find his book on the third shelf in the library; look it over.”

Mme. de Talleyrand went to look for the book, but had by this time forgotten the title. Turning over several she came upon “Robinson Crusoe,” thought that must be it, and read it eagerly; in consequence of which, during dinner, she began to ask him about his shipwreck and the desert island, and to inquire after the faithful Friday.

M. Denon, who could not imagine what she meant, looked at her in astonishment, only saying—

“Madame?”—when Talleyrand heard and interposed.

Like all the other emigrÉes Mme. de Genlis was horrified at the strange manners and customs of the new society, largely composed of vulgar, uneducated persons, often enormously rich, exceedingly pretentious, and with no idea how to conduct themselves.

Many of them occupied the old hÔtels of the ruined families of the ancien rÉgime, in which their rough voices, strange language, manners and appearance contrasted as much with those of the former owners, as the new furniture, all gilding, costly stuffs and objects mixed incongruously together, did with the harmonious tapestries, ancient heirlooms, and family portraits which they replaced.

In the streets people recognised their own carriages turned into hackney coaches; the shops were full of their things; books with their arms, china, furniture, portraits of their relations, who had perhaps perished on the scaffold. Walking along the boulevard one day soon after her return to Paris she stopped at a shop, and on leaving her address, the lad who was serving her exclaimed—

“Eh! you are at home then!”

It was the hÔtel de Genlis, which for fifteen years had been the residence of her brother-in-law. She did not recognise it, as all the ground floor was divided and turned into shops!

Another day she received the visit of a woman who got out of a carriage the door of which was opened and shut by a negro dwarf, and who was announced as Mme. de Biras.

Her dress was a caricature of the latest fashion, her manner was impertinently familiar. She first made a silly exclamation at being addressed as “madame” instead of “citoyenne,” then she turned over the books on the table and when at length Mme. de Genlis politely explained that being very busy she could not have the honour of detaining her, the strange visitor explained the object of her visit.

Her husband was a miller, who had, apparently by his manipulation of contracts given him for the army and by various corrupt practices, made an enormous fortune. He and his wife wished to enter society, but not having any idea what to do or how to behave, they wanted Mme. de Genlis to live with them as chaperon and teach them the usages of the world, offering her 12,000 francs salary and assuring her that she would be very happy with them as they had a splendid hÔtel in the rue St. Dominique, and had just bought an estate and chÂteau in Burgundy. She added that M. de Biras knew Mme. de Genlis, as he had lived on her father’s lands. He was their miller! [134]

It was no wonder that Napoleon was anxious to get his court and society civilised, and the person to whom he chiefly turned for help and counsel in this matter was Mme. de Montesson, who knew all about the usages of great society and court etiquette.

Neither Napoleon nor any of his family had at all the manners and customs suitable to the position in which he had placed them, and he was quite aware of the fact. His mother, as he said, could speak neither French nor Italian properly, but only a kind of Corsican patois, which he was ashamed to hear. He did everything he could to win over the emigrÉs and those of the old noblesse who had remained in France; his great wish was to mingle the new noblesse he soon began to create with the faubourg St. Germain, and his great disappointment and anger was excited by the non-success of his attempts. From the time he rose to supreme power he contemplated a court and a noblesse for the country and a crown for himself. And that a court formed out of the materials supplied by his generals and their families would be ridiculous he knew, and meant to avoid.

“Above everything in France ridicule is to be avoided,” he had remarked.

Therefore he encouraged and promoted the marriages of his officers with the penniless daughters of the old families; therefore he sent the only sister who was young enough to the school of Mme. Campan, formerly femme de chambre to Marie Antoinette, and gave that clever, astute woman his support and approbation.

For the same reason he had, at the beginning of his career, married JosÉphine, Vicomtesse de Beauharnais; it was true, as he afterwards declared that he loved her better than he ever loved any woman; but all the same he had decided that his wife must be of good blood, good manners, and good society; and although JosÉphine was by no means a grande dame, she was in a much better position than himself; and her children’s name, her social connections, her well-bred son and daughter, the charming manners and savoir faire of all three were then and for long afterwards both useful and agreeable to him.

Always eager to marry his officers, he was often very peremptory about it.

At the time of the expedition to St. Domingo he desired to send Leclerc, the husband of his second sister, Pauline. Leclerc hesitated, then said he should be glad to go, but he had a tie which bound him to France.

“Paulette?” said Napoleon. “But she will follow you. I approve of her doing so; the air of Paris does not agree with her, it is only fit for coquettes, a character unbecoming her. She must accompany you, that is understood.”

It was not Paulette, explained Leclerc, he would be distressed to leave her, but she would be safe and surrounded by her family. It was his young sister, now at school at Mme. Campan’s, whom he could not leave unprotected, perhaps for ever. “I ask you, General, how can I?”

“Of course,” replied Napoleon, “but you should find a marriage for her at once; to-morrow; and then go.”

“But I have no fortune, and——”

“What of that? Cannot you depend upon me? I desire you to make immediate preparations for your sister’s marriage to-morrow. I cannot say yet to whom, but she shall be married, and well married.”

“But——”

“Have I not spoken plainly? Say no more about it.”

Leclerc withdrew, and a few minutes afterwards Davoust came in to announce his intended marriage.

“With Mlle. Leclerc? I think it a very suitable match.”

“No, General, with Mme. ——”

“With Mlle. Leclerc! I not only find the marriage suitable, I insist on its taking place immediately!”

“I have long loved Mme. ——, she is now free; nothing shall make me give her up.”

“Nothing but my will!” said Napoleon sternly. “You will go at once to Mme. Campan’s school at Saint-Germain; on your arrival you will ask for your intended bride, to whom you will be presented by her brother, General Leclerc, who is now with my wife, and will accompany you.

“Mlle. AimÉe shall come to Paris to-night. Order the wedding presents, which must be most costly, as I am to act as the young lady’s father on the occasion. I shall provide the dot and wedding-dress, and the wedding will take place as soon as the legal formalities can be arranged. You now know my wishes, and have only to obey them.”

He rang the bell, and sent for Leclerc.

“Well! Was I wrong? Here is your sister’s husband. Go together to Saint-Germain, and don’t let me see either of you until everything is arranged. I hate all talk of money affairs.”

Mute with astonishment they obeyed, and went to Saint-Germain, where Davoust was presented to Mlle. Leclerc, whom he did not like at all. The marriage took place a few days afterwards.

It was a change indeed from Louis XVI. Every one trembled before Napoleon except his brother Lucien; and perhaps his mother, who, however, never had the slightest influence over him. He required absolute submission; but if not in opposition to his will, he liked a high spirit and ready answer in a young man, or woman either, and detested weakness, cowardice, and indecision.

When he offered posts in the army to two brothers, who belonged to the old noblesse, and they refused, preferring to accept places at court, he exclaimed angrily—

“I have been deceived! It is impossible that those gentlemen can be descended from the brave C——”

Another time a certain M. de Comminges, who had been with him at the École militaire, in reply to his question—

“What have you been doing during the Revolution? Have you served?”

“No, Sire.”

“Then you followed the Bourbons into exile?”

“Oh! no, Sire! I stayed at home and cultivated my little estate.”

“The more fool you, monsieur! In these times of trouble every one ought to give his personal service one way or the other. What do you want now?”

“Sire, a modest post in the octroi of my little town would——”

“Very well, you shall have it; and stay there! Is it possible that I have been the comrade of such a man?”

For the Revolution, the royalists themselves could scarcely have entertained a deeper hatred and contempt. He would speak with disgust of its early scenes, of the weakness of the authorities, which he despised, and of the mob, which he abominated.

Young and unknown, he had been present with Bourrienne on the 20th June, and seen the raving, frantic mob rushing upon the Tuileries. He followed with Bourrienne in a transport of indignation, and saw with contempt Louis XVI. at the window with a red cap on. He exclaimed—

“How could they let that canaille pass in! They should sweep away four or five hundred with cannon; the rest would run.”

He was then twenty-three.

Mme. de Genlis never went to the Imperial court, but led a quiet literary life; quiet, that is to say, so far as the word can be applied to one whose salon was the resort of such numbers of people.

Most of the Imperial Family used to go to her, but her chief friend among them was Julie, Queen of Spain, wife of Joseph Buonaparte, Napoleon’s eldest brother. She was also very fond of Julie’s sister, DÉsirÉe, wife of Marshal Bernadotte, afterwards Queen of Sweden. For Bernadotte she had the greatest admiration, saying that his appearance and manners were those of the old court.

The Princess de Chimay, once Mme. Tallien, was also received by her with gratitude and friendship; she never forgot that she had saved the life of Mme. de Valence, and in fact put an end to the Terror. [135]

Mme. Le Brun, speaking of Mme. de Genlis, says, “Her slightest conversation had a charm of which it is difficult to give an idea.... When she had discoursed for half an hour everybody, friends and enemies, were enchanted with her brilliant conversation.”

Mme. de Montesson died in February, 1806, leaving the whole of her fortune to M. de Valence, except one or two trifling legacies and 20,000 francs to Mme. de Genlis, and, as her brother was then not well off, Mme. de Genlis added her 20,000 francs to his.

---

ALL the great artists, musicians, actors, and literary people who had returned to Paris after the Terror came to the salon of Mme. de Genlis; and many were the strange and terrible stories they had to tell of their escapes and adventures.

Talma had, in the kindness of his heart, concealed in his house for a long time two proscribed men. One was a democrat and terrorist, who had denounced him and his wife as Girondins. For after the fall of Robespierre the revolutionary government, forced by the people to leave off arresting women and children, let the royalists alone and turned their fury against each other. Besides this democrat who was hidden in the garret, he had a royalist concealed in the cellar. They did not know of each other’s presence, and Talma had them to supper on alternate nights after the house was shut up. At last, as the terrorist seemed quite softened and touched and polite, Talma and his wife thought they would venture to have them together. At first all went well, then after a time they found out who each other were; and on some discussion arising, their fury broke forth—

“Only a royalist would say that!”

“Only a terrorist could speak so!”

“You speak like a villain!”

“You think like a scoundrel!”

“If ever we get the upper hand!”

“If ever we get our revenge!”

They both sprang up, declaring it was better to die than to stay with such a monster, and left the room.

After this Talma kept them separate; they were in the house several weeks unknown to each other until it was safe for them to be let out. [136]

Even among the revolutionists there was sometimes a strange mixture of good and evil. The Auvergnat deputy Soubrany was proscribed by his friends, and met FrÉron in the street, who said—

“What are you doing here? We have just proscribed you!”

“Proscribed me?”

“Yes. Save yourself; come to my house, you can hide safely; they won’t look for you there. Only make haste.”

“I can’t. I must go home.”

“Why? It will be putting your head in the wolf’s mouth.”

“I must go back to my house. An emigrÉ is hidden there. I alone know the secret of his hiding-place; if I do not let him out he will be starved to death.”

He returned in time to save the emigrÉ, but not himself. [137]

Mme. de Genlis was very happy at the Arsenal with Casimir and a little boy named Alfred, whom she had adopted.

Casimir was already seventeen, a great comfort, and very popular. He had been on a visit to London, when, as he returned with Prince Esterhazy, who had a boat of his own, he had a message at Dover from Pamela begging him to go to her. Since the arrest and death of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, she had married Mr. Pitcairn, American Consul at Hamburg, but was overwhelmed with debts, and for some reason insisted on coming to Paris. She was hiding from her creditors, and appealed to Casimir, who gave her fifty louis and hid her on board the boat. She had with her her daughter by Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and stayed some time at Paris, in spite of the representations of Mme. de Genlis that she ought to go back to her husband at Hamburg.

For nine years Mme. de Genlis lived at the Arsenal, and then moved to another apartment, but was always surrounded with friends and consideration. Except amongst her immediate relations and adopted children, she was not so deeply loved as Mme. Le Brun, or even the eccentric Mme. de Stael, but her acquaintance and friendship was sought by numbers of persons, French and others, who were attracted by her books, conversation, musical, and other talents.

With the fall of the Empire departed her pension and all assistance from the Government.

She had long renounced and repented of her proceedings of former days, and was now extremely royalist, but the daughter of Marie Antoinette was not likely to receive one who had been, if not implicated, at any rate hand-and-glove with the enemies of her mother.

With the deepest reluctance Louis XVIII. yielded to what he was assured to be an absolute necessity and allowed, as Napoleon had found it necessary to allow, more than one even of the regicides, who had survived and were powerful, to hold office during his reign. Their powerful support was declared to be indispensable to the safety of the monarchy, and the union of parties which he hoped to achieve.

But, except in cases of absolute political necessity and at the entreaty of him, who was now not only her uncle and adopted father, but her king, the Duchesse d’AngoulÊme would receive no one who had in any way injured her mother. She would have nothing to do with Mme. de Stael, and would not even receive Mme. Campan, because she did not believe she had been always thoroughly loyal to her; though in that many people said she was mistaken. Mme. Campan, in her memoirs, professes the greatest affection and respect for her royal mistress, and during the Empire, she always kept in her room a bust of the Queen.

On the other hand, any one who had been faithful and loyal to her parents, now met with their reward.

There was at Versailles a certain LaboullÉ, coiffeur to Louis XV., and to Marie Antoinette when the Dauphine. He invented a perfume which he called eau Antoinette, and which was so much in vogue that he opened a perfume shop at Versailles, which was patronised by Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette when they came to the throne. He married, and the Queen was very kind to his wife, whom she used to employ in her various charities; and was devoted to her.

It is satisfactory to know that the brutal, dastardly conduct of the Versailles populace was at any rate punished, in a way they probably had not thought of. The departure of the King and court ruined the place, before so prosperous. The population shrunk to a third of its former numbers.

The LaboullÉ moved to Paris, and opened a shop at 83, rue de la Roi, afterwards rue Richelieu, which soon became the centre of Royalist plots.

During the captivity of the Queen, Mme. LaboullÉ was always trying to get to her and very often succeeded; when she always took her some of the perfume. These excellent people saved the lives of numbers of royalists, and how they themselves escaped the guillotine, only Providence can tell. When the surviving members of the royal family returned, the Duchesse d’AngoulÊme sent for her, expressed her deep gratitude, and always loved and protected her.

The saintly character of the Duchess, however, made her forgive and even help those who repented and suffered, even though they had been the bitterest enemies of her family. [138]

During her exile in England, she was in the habit of visiting and helping the French who were poor or sick, and one day being in a hospital, and seeing a French soldier evidently very ill, she spoke to him with compassion and offered him money, which he refused, with a strange exclamation, apparently of horror.

“Take it, mon ami,” she said, “I am your country-woman, you need not be ashamed to receive a little help from me.”

“I know you are French, Madame,” he muttered with embarrassment.

“You know me, then?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Well, then, that is all the more reason why you should not refuse what I offer you.”

“On the contrary, Madame——” he stammered.

“Comment! on the contrary? What do you mean? Tell me.”

“I cannot explain,” said the man uneasily.

“I entreat you to tell me; have you anything against me?”

The soldier burst into tears.

“You are suffering,” said the Duchess; “come confide in me, we are both French in a foreign land, and ought to help and comfort each other.” [139]

“Alas! Madame, the sight of you recalls to me a recollection so fearful, that I would give my life to blot it out of my memory. I was one of those who beat the drums in the place de la RÉvolution on the 27th January.”

The Princess turned pale, trembled, and held out the gold, saying—

“In the name of him who is gone, I bring you this help; he loved all Frenchmen.”

And she turned away, leaving the soldier in tears.

When Madame Royale was at last released from prison, she did not know the fate of her brother and her aunt, Madame Elizabeth. On hearing that they were dead, she declared that she did not wish to live herself; but her heart soon turned to her French relations, and her one wish was to get to them.

She was, however, first sent to her mother’s family in Austria, where she was received, of course, with great affection, but kept as much as possible from seeing even the French emigrÉs, of whom there were so many in Austria. The Austrian plan was to marry her to one of the archdukes, her cousins, and then claim for her the succession to Burgundy, Franche ComtÉ, and Bretagne; to all of which she would, in fact, have had a strong claim if France could have been dismembered; as these provinces all went in the female line, and had thus been united to the kingdom of France.

Of course the plan was visionary, and the provinces had been so long incorporated into France, that even if the allies had consented to the dismemberment, the nation would never have submitted to it.

It would have perhaps been no wonder if, after all she had suffered in France, she had identified herself with her mother’s family, and in another home and country forgotten as far as she could the land which must always have such fearful associations for her. But it was not so. Her father had told her that she was to marry no one but her cousin, the Duc d’AngoulÊme, who, failing her brother, would succeed to the crown; and had written to the same effect to his brother the Comte de Provence.

The Princess had therefore, as soon as she could get away from Austria, joined her uncles and aunts and married the Duc d’AngoulÊme, concentrating all her affection upon those remaining members of her family, who received her with the deepest joy and tenderness.

Louis XVIII. says of her—

“Madame Royale united all the virtues of her own sex with the energy of ours. She alone would have been able to reconquer our sceptre if, like her grandmother, Marie ThÉrÈse, she had had the command of an army....”

Of their entry into Paris, he says—

“I was in an open carriage with Madame Royale by my side, [140] MM. de CondÉ were opposite; my brother and the Duc de Berri rode by us ... the Duc d’AngoulÊme was still in the south.... I saw nothing but rejoicing and goodwill on all sides; they cried ‘Vive le Roi!’ as if any other cry were impossible.... The more I entreated Madame Royale to control her emotion, for we were approaching the Tuileries, the more difficult it was for her to restrain it. It took all her courage not to faint or burst into tears in the presence of all these witnesses.... I myself was deeply agitated, the deplorable past rising before me.... I remembered leaving this town twenty-three years ago, about the same time of year at which I now returned, a King.... I felt as if I should have fallen when I saw the Tuileries. I kept my eyes away from Madame Royale for fear of calling forth an alarming scene. I trembled lest her firmness should give way at this critical moment. But arming herself with resignation against all that must overwhelm her, she entered almost smiling the palace of bitter recollections. When she could be alone the long repressed feelings overflowed, and it was with sobs and a deluge of tears that she took possession of the inheritance, which in the natural course of events must be her own.

“How thankful I was to find myself alone in the room occupied first by my brother, then by Buonaparte, to which I came back after so long an absence: absolute solitude was a necessity to my mind. I prayed and groaned without interruption, which relieved me; then I resolved irrevocably to act in such a manner as never to expose France or my family to the Revolution which had just ended.... I lay down in the bed of Buonaparte, it had also been that of the martyr king, and at first I could not sleep ... like Richard III. I saw in a vision those I had lost, and in the distance enveloped in a sanguinary cloud I seemed to see menacing phantoms.” [141]

With the King returned those that were left of the OrlÉans family. The best of the sons of ÉgalitÉ, the Comte de Beaujolais had died in exile, so also had the Duc de Montpensier. The Duchess Dowager, saintly and good as ever, Mademoiselle d’OrlÉans and the Duc de Chartres remained. Both the latter had made their submission and expressed their repentance to the King, who in accepting the excuses of the Duc de Chartres said—

“Monsieur, you have much to do to repair the crimes of your father. I have doubtless forgotten them, but my family, but France, but Europe will find it difficult not to remember them.... In accepting the name of ÉgalitÉ you left the family of Bourbon, nevertheless I consent to recall you into it.... Duc d’OrlÉans, it is finished, from to-day alone we will begin to know each other.”

The Duke wished to make his excuses to Madame Royale, but she said it would be long before she could bear to see him. [142]

Mme. de Genlis was received with affection by her old pupils, and had a pension from them during the rest of her life.

The Duc d’OrlÉans, leaving the room when she came to see them, returned, bringing his young wife, who said graciously, “Madame, I have always longed to know you, for there are two things I love passionately, your pupils and your books.”

Mme. de Genlis, though she did not go much into society, being now exceedingly royalist, was presented at court, and must have recalled those far off days when she drove down to Versailles with Mme. de Puisieux to be presented to the magnificent Louis XV.

A curious story is told, that at the time when Louis XIV. was building the palace of Versailles, his then all-powerful mistress, Mme. de la ValliÈre, said to him that he must, according to the custom, have the horoscope cast of the palace. He laughed at her superstition, but told her he would leave the matter to her. She accordingly consulted an astrologer, who said, “After a hundred years the kings of France will leave Versailles.”

“Will they ever return?” she asked, to which he replied—

“No; the people will not allow it.”

Louis XIV., to whom the idea of the people “allowing” the King to do anything he chose must have appeared ludicrous, replied that their love for their King would, indeed, be excessive if they would not bear him out of their sight, and ended by saying—

“I envy my successors!”

The tone of society was entirely different during the Restoration from that of the Empire. The lavish expenditure in entertainments, dress, and daily life was no longer the fashion. An expensive toilette at any but a very great festivity was no longer correct, and even at court the extravagant splendour of the costumes of the Imperial court was not encouraged. The principal people were no longer those who possessed enormous fortunes which they were eager to spend; the nobles and gentlemen whose names were the most distinguished at the court of Louis XVIII. being most of them nearly if not quite ruined.

Their property had been confiscated, their estates seized, and their hÔtels and chÂteaux either burnt or sold.

In some cases it was possible to recover part, though often only a fragment of their possessions; in other cases not: it depended to a great extent what or who the forfeited estates belonged to. Sometimes, as in the case of the Duchess d’Ayen, people who had not emigrated, were allowed, even if they were murdered, to leave their estates to their families; but the whole state of things seemed an inextricable confusion impossible to explain; especially in a work of this kind.

Many cases there were of romantic devotion and loyalty, by which the property of a family had been partly saved for the owners by their faithful servants. Such was the story of the Marquis de ——, whose castle was burnt, and who with his wife perished in the flames. Their two boys managed to escape, but not together. One took refuge in England; the other in Germany, neither of them knowing of the existence of the other.

When the Revolution was over, they both came back to France and strange to say, met and recognised each other at the ruins of their own chÂteau. While they stood mournfully gazing at them, a regiment of cavalry passed by. The eyes of the commander fell upon them, and suddenly he ordered the regiment to halt, and calling the two young men, said—

“Are you not the MM. ——?”

On hearing that they were, he remarked—

“I am afraid, Messieurs, that you are very badly off.”

They could not deny this; and to their astonishment the officer, hurriedly saying that he was born on their estate, pressed a purse of gold into the hand of one and marched off. The country was still in a state of anarchy and they never could discover who their benefactor was.

They stood in astonishment looking after the soldiers, and then turning, walked sorrowfully back to the ruins, where a decently dressed working man who had been observing them, came up and again asked them the same question.

“Are you not the MM. de ——?”

“Yes, we are,” replied the brothers.

“Well, I am ——. I was head-gardener at the chÂteau in the old time, and now, Messieurs, if you will honour me by coming to my house and accepting some refreshment, I will show you something that will surprise you.”

The young men gladly went in, and after giving them an excellent dÉjeuner, their host lighted a candle, took a spade, and told them to follow him. He led them into the garden, cleared away some earth with his spade, and uncovered a stone. This he lifted up, disclosing an underground passage through which he led the way. It ended in a cavern in which lay the whole of their family plate and valuables which this excellent man had saved and concealed during all these years.

“Here is the family plate which I was able to secure for you,” said he. “I always kept it in hope of your return.”

Overcome with joy and gratitude the eldest brother, to whom according to the custom of their family it all belonged, divided the property, which was immensely valuable, into three portions, giving one to his brother, one to the faithful gardener, and keeping one himself, with the proceeds of which they each bought an estate. The sons of the gardener, who were educated with their own, became, one a successful merchant, the other an officer in the French Navy. [143]

There was, of course, a great mixture of new and old, many quarrels and much ill-feeling: increased by the extreme animosity and pretensions on both sides.

The emigrÉs were not likely to forget the murder of those dear to them, their long years of poverty and exile, and to see with patience their homes and possessions in the hands of strangers.

The newly risen were uneasy and jealous of the emigrÉs, and not unnaturally irritated at the provocation they often gave them and the scorn with which they were not seldom treated.

Louis XVIII. had enough to do to hold the balance between those who wanted everything put back exactly as it was before ‘89, and those who were in continued fear of the revival of the old state of things. However, he managed to do so, and kept his crown, which unfortunately his successor could not.

It is a singular thing that all the three races, CapÉtien, Valois, and Bourbon should have ended with three brothers.

The Marquis de Boissy, a devoted Royalist with a long pedigree, went to one of the court balls in the dress of a Marquis of the court of Louis XV. On one of the princes of the blood observing to him—

“That is a curious dress of yours, Monsieur,” he replied, looking round the ball room:

“It is a dress that belonged to my grandfather, Monseigneur; and I think that if every one here had got on the dress of his grandfather, your Highness would not find mine the most curious in the room.”

Mme. de Genlis had friends amongst old and new, French and foreign. The Vernets, Mme. Le Brun, Mme. Grollier, Gros, Gerard, Isabey, Cherubini, HalÉvy, all the great singers and musicians were among her friends. She lived to see the first years of the brilliant, too short career of Malibran. Pasta, Grassini, Talma, Garat, and numbers of other artistic celebrities mingled with her literary friends. The household of Isabey was like an idyl. He had met his wife in the Luxembourg gardens, a beautiful girl who went there to lead about her blind father. They married and were always happy though for a long time poor. But the fame of Isabey rose; he was professor of painting at the great school of Mme. Campan, where every one under the Empire sent their daughters. He painted JosÉphine and all the people of rank and fashion, and received them all at his parties in his own hÔtel. Mme. Isabey lived to be eighty-eight, always pretty and charming. Her hair was white, she always dressed in white lace and muslin, and had everything white in her salon, even to an ivory spinning wheel.

They went a great deal into society and to the court balls under Napoleon; and Isabey used to design her dresses and make them up on her in this way: when her hair was done and she was all ready except her dress, he would come with a great heap of flowers, ribbons, gauze, crÊpe, &c., and with scissors and pins cut out and fasten on the drapery according to his taste so skilfully that it never came off, and looked lovely. On one occasion when they were not well off he cut out flowers of gold and silver paper and stuck them with gum upon tulle; it was pronounced the prettiest dress in the room.

Before the coronation of Napoleon, the latter said to him, “Make two large water-colour sketches of the procession with correct costumes, every one in their right place. I will send them to study your designs, which will be exhibited in the great gallery of the Tuileries, so that there may be no confusion.”

“Sire, when are these two pictures to be exhibited?”

“The day after to-morrow.”

Isabey bought boxes full of little dolls, masses of materials and pins; dressed them all from the Empress to the last page, and after working two days and nights went to the Tuileries.

“Ah! there you are, Isabey. You have brought me the designs I ordered?”

“A peu prÈs, Sire,” and he pointed to a heap of enormous cases in the courtyard, which in about an hour he had arranged in the gallery in perfect order, much to the delight of the Emperor, who burst into a fit of laughter when he saw them.

After the alarms of the Hundred Days and all the misfortunes involved, it took some time to restore order and security. For a long time the Champs-ElysÉes were not safe to walk in after dark.

One morning the concierge of an isolated house there was asked by a tall, thin man in black, with a strange look whether there was not a pavilion in the garden to let.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it quite out of the way of every one?”

“Very far, sir.”

“So that one would be quite alone? No one could hear anything that went on there?”

The concierge did not half like this, but winter was coming on and a pavilion in the middle of a large garden was difficult to let.

“I will take it for three months, here is the rent in advance and a louis besides. Keep the key. I will come in this evening. If any friends arrive before, take them there and ask them to wait till I come.”

“Monsieur has forgotten to tell me his name.”

“Name! Oh! my name is the devil,” and he hurried away.

After dark a man wrapped in a great cloak, under which he carried some large thing, his hat pulled over his eyes, rang and said “The Devil.”

The pavilion was pointed out, and several others followed, all with cloaks concealing more large objects.

“It cannot be Satan,” said the wife of the concierge, “but it may be conspirators.”

“It is a gang of assassins,” said he, “bringing bodies of victims to bury in the garden.” Just then the man who had hired the pavilion came in; the wife followed him and rushed back pale with terror.

“Go and fetch the police! go quick! They are murdering some one. I heard cries, groans, and chains! Run, if you want to save him from these wretches!”

Hurrying away, the concierge soon re-appeared with the police and two soldiers. They proceeded to the pavilion; the door was locked, and just then a strange cry arrested their attention. They beat at the door ordering it to be opened, which it immediately was by a man, who said—

“What are you doing here? What do you want?”

“What are you about yourself? I am a police officer, and I arrest you in the King’s name as a criminal.”

“You arrest me as a criminal? and for what?” while a burst of laughter was heard inside.

“Come, Monsieur,” said the police official, “I see there is some mistake. What is your name?”

“Meyerbeer, but that does not tell you much.”

“But what is your country and profession?”

“I am German, a composer of music, I see no harm in all that.”

“Nor I either,” said the police officer, laughing; “but why then did you say you were the devil, and what are you and your companions doing?”

They let him in, and he saw musicians with desks and instruments, practising for the infernal scene in “Robert le Diable,” which Meyerbeer was going to bring out, and which sufficiently accounted for the chains, groans, and cries of that celebrated chorus.

Mme. de Genlis lived to see her great-grandchildren, and also to see her pupil, the Duc de OrlÉans, upon the throne. She had never, of course, again the life of riches and splendour which for many years she had enjoyed; but she was philosophical enough not to trouble herself much about that; she had the interest of her literary pursuits, a large circle of acquaintances, the affection of her family and of her adopted children. Alfred turned out extremely well, and Casimir made an excellent marriage, settled at Mantes and devoted himself to good works, so that his adopted mother said his household was saintly. She was always welcome there.

The errors of her youth she abandoned and regretted, and her latter years had by no means the dark and gloomy character that she had pictured to herself, when she left the Palais Royal and fled from France and the Revolution, in whose opening acts she had rejoiced with Philippe-ÉgalitÉ.

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The Gresham Press,
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED,
WOKING AND LONDON.