APPENDIX
We print here a certain number of letters and documents found for the most part among the unpublished papers of Lady Atkyns, not used in the body of this book, yet too interesting to be entirely omitted. The letters of the Princess de Tarente, in particular, seem to deserve inclusion in their entirety.
Letter from Jean-Gabriel Peltier to Lady Atkyns.
“London, January 1, 1803.
“I have the honour of sending you, Madame, a letter which I received yesterday from my friend.[77] The ferment Paris is now in makes me fear that he may have been obliged to leave the night of December 27-28, and it must have been very stormy.
“I have at last managed to get at Mr. Burke in the House of Commons. He has promised me an interview at as early a date as possible. I introduced M. Goguelat to him, and he seemed very glad to make his acquaintance. He had been driving the evening before with M. de Choiseul, Mr. Pitt, Lord Grenville, and Lord Loughborough, at Lord Hawkesbury’s. We had time only for a word.
“I cannot close my letter, January 1, without sending you à la Française, my good wishes for the New Year. I know well what the object is that you yourself would wish most to see achieved.”
Letter from Louis de Frotté to Lady Atkyns.
“London, December 10, 1794.
“Lovers and Ministers who don’t realize their opportunities often regret them afterwards when they are gone, never to be found again. This is what I fear is happening to us ... for your Government is allowing precious days to pass by without profiting by them, and by its dilatoriness may perhaps lose all the advantages that are calculated to put an end to our troubles. Could you believe, dear friend of mine, that it is proposed to put off the expedition for some weeks!... However, I feel less disquieted over it all when I reflect that we must have a great many supporters, and very powerful ones, among those who are playing the rôle of the enemy, for all these troubles in the interior not to have produced more effect in the Assembly. Indeed, if some advantage is not derived from this, those at fault in the matter should be placed in a lunatic asylum. For myself, without knowing Puisage, I should certainly give my vote for his being made Constable if he succeeds in spite of all that can be said, because it will be to him that the King will be under the greatest obligations. And if any one were to ask me the name of the woman whom the King has most reason to love, I should tell him to become my rival, and should declare that, King though he was, he could never repay the heart that has suffered so much for him.
“I have seen M. W[indham], and after giving me a number of evasive replies, at last, on my insisting that I wanted to be off, he answered rather warmly: ‘Oh, I can send you off at once if you like; but what do you propose to do? I have nothing definite to put in your hands. I have others to carry my packets, and I have no one except yourself to carry out the mission I have in my mind for you. Do have a little patience, and if you follow my advice you will be all right. Be sure that I have my eye on you all the time.’ So you see I am still in this state of suspense. If only you had been able to remain I should not have found the time so long. Unable to get away to serve my King, I should have consoled myself as much as possible in the presence of Madame....”
Letter from Reinhard, Representative of the Directoire in the Hanseatic Towns, to the Foreign Minister, Delacroix.[78]
Very private.
Extract to be made for the
Directoire and Police;
name of Colleville to be
kept secret.
(14th Prairial)
Citizen Giraudet
To be sent at once to
the Minister of Police.
Altona. This 1st Prairial, Year IV. of
the French Republic,
one and undivisible.
(May 20th, 1796).
“Citizen Minister,
“I hasten to reply to your despatch, dated the 20th floréal, which accords remarkably with one I sent you from here on the 21st. It even seems that we have had the same sources of inspiration, and I shall not be surprised to find that the same Baron d’Auerweck, whom I denounced to you, had been in his turn the denouncer of Le Cormier. From the impressions I have been given of his character and principles, it is quite possible. However that may be, I have lost no time in having an interview with Colleville, who had already told me of the arrival of the Bishop of Arras, and who then further informed me (before he knew what my business with him was) that this person had written to him yesterday that his arrival was postponed, and that perhaps it would not take place at all, on account of the prolonged stay of the King of Verona with Condé’s army. The King (Colleville assured me) would not leave this army, as it had been averred that he would.
“I began by telling Colleville that I had had a favourable reply from you about his affairs. He assured me of his gratitude, and at once spoke to me of his favourite idea of obtaining permission to serve you elsewhere than at Hamburg—a very natural desire, whether one explains it by his conviction that he would play a more active part somewhere else, or by his possible apprehension that his relations with us may be in the end discovered.
“I thought it better not to tell the man all I knew. I told him that before leaving Hamburg he would have to throw some light upon the things that were going on in that town; and I said enough to him to explain what I meant and to put him on his mettle. He replied that he knew nothing whatever of the meeting I had mentioned; that he was sure that if there was a question of it, Le Cormier, whom he saw every day, would have told him; and that the latter had been thinking for some days past of going into the country with M. de Bloom (who was formerly Danish Minister in Paris), but that it seemed that he would not now go. He added that he knew enough of the emigrants at Hamburg to be certain that, with the exception of Le Cormier, there was not an enterprising man in the ‘Ancien Régime’ section; that if such a plan had existed, he thought it was more than likely that the King of Verona’s change of position would have caused another to be substituted for it; and that, in any case, he would investigate and explain, and might depend on his giving me all the information he could get. He further said that the Prince of Carawey, whom he knew privately, was expected at Hamburg from Lucerne within the fortnight, and if there was anything to be learnt from him, he (Colleville) would make it his business to learn it. I asked him what Lord Mc. Cartally had come here for. He did not know. I hope that I shall have found out whether he has left or not before the courier goes.
“In fact, Citizen Minister, Colleville’s absolute ignorance of the meeting you speak of leads me to have some doubt of its reality. But I shall not leave it at that. I have already taken measures to get hold of my man, and also to have the plotters whom you indicate to me well watched from other quarters. I am aware that with men of Colleville’s stamp there is always the evil, if not of being spied on in our turn—which is easily avoided with a little prudence—at any rate of being given information with a double purpose. It was as such that I regarded what he told me of a general plan of the émigrés, which was to operate in the very heart of the Republic, and to re-establish the Monarchy by the organs of the Law itself. He thought himself sure of a man in the Legislative body (he told me his name was Madier). He knew all the details of the system they were to follow, and the details of the prosecution of the 2nd of September were actually to enter into it. As to the 2nd of September, I answered, every Frenchman regards it with horror, and the scoundrel ought to be punished. The Government will certainly take care that an act of justice does not become an anti-revolutionary instrument.
“Le Cormier has a brother-in-law called Buter (sic), who goes and comes from Paris to Boulogne, Calais, and Dunkirk, carrying despatches and money from England. Dr. Theil, who is settled in London, continues to serve as go-between for the Princes’ correspondence. At Hamburg a man named Thouvent does the business.
“The prime mover in the new Royalist manœuvres, and the designer of the plan they are conducting in the interests of the Republic, is (so Colleville says) the Duc de le Vanguyon. Maduron, that brother of de la Garre, whom I once denounced to you, said that he had been arrested once or twice at Paris, and taken before the police, but that he had got out of it by means of his Swiss passport. It is certain that the émigrés, when they talk of a journey to France, do not anticipate any more dangers than if they were going from Hamburg to Altona. An Abbé de Saint-Far, residing at Hamburg, has, it is said, a quantity of arms in his house. I told you some time ago that he had contracted for some millions of guns. I suppose it was at that time for England. My next despatch, Citizen Minister, shall contain more positive information on the matter you desire me to investigate. If the meeting is actually to take place, I think I shall certainly be able to solve the problem you suggest to me.
“Greetings and respects,
“Reinhard.”
Letter of the Princess de Tarente to Lady Atkyns.
“St. Petersburg, August 14-25, 1797.
“To-day, dearest Charlotte, is, by the old style, the birthday of the King of France, and also that of one of his most devoted, though least useful subjects—myself. This month is one of sad memories. It was in this month that her birthday also fell; that she left the Tuileries and entered the Temple prison; indeed, August is filled with dates unforgettable at all times to the faithful, remembered the more poignantly when the day itself recalls them. I had your letter yesterday: it gave me pleasure, dear Charlotte. When I read it I was nearly asleep, for it was three in the morning, and I had come back from a stupid ball that I had been obliged to go to.
“You are always talking to me about a diary, my dear, but I have not the courage to tell you the wretched history of my life. I am just a machine wound up. I go on for ever, but without pleasure or interest in what I do. I live on in anguish, and my letters would be very doleful if they were a faithful portrait of myself; but we are so far apart, my dear, you and I, and letters pass through so very many hands, that we must only guess at one another’s meaning—we cannot speak out. You know my heart—it will always be the same, and despite appearances, my feelings have not altered, I swear to you. But one has to be careful, when one can’t speak face to face. It is a sacrifice; but who has not sacrifices to make? How many I’ve made in the last two months! I’ve left everything to come to a country where I know nobody. Here I am friendless among strangers; naturally I am criticised, and severely. All the kindness of LL.MM.II. has aroused great expectations in society; I feel that, and, shy as I always am, I get shyer and shyer. But indeed I ought to be grateful, for I am received and treated with consideration by many people here; they take a pleasure in showing their admiration for my conduct. My conduct! Ah! when fate brought one into contact with Her, was it possible to help adoring her? What merit was there in being faithful to Her, when one could not possibly have been anything else?
“I am sorry, dear Charlotte, for all the worries that the storm caused you on shore; to tell the truth, I felt best at sea. Do believe that I am not a coward, and that I was scarcely frightened at all. The weather was rough only twice, when we were entering the Cattegat, before the Sound; I think it must have been a tribute to the shock caused by the encounter of the two seas. Then on Friday, or rather Thursday the 27th, when we were arriving at Cronstadt, the weather was very bad, and I must confess that that evening and night I did feel uneasy. It wasn’t cowardice. The captain himself was anxious, and, indeed, the heavy rain and the darkness of the night, besides the number of small rocks that stick out of the water here, and could not be seen at all on account of the darkness, made our situation pretty serious, I assure you. Thank Heaven, though, I got on very well. When the captain came to say we were at anchor, I felt a wonderful gladness, and yet, all of a sudden, I began to cry, for I could not help saying to myself: ‘Yes, I’m here! And what have I come for? Where shall I find any friends?’
“Well, Heaven has not forsaken me. If it had not found friends for me, at any rate it has found benefactors, and I am as comfortable as I could possibly have expected to be. At Court, while I stayed there, every one, beginning at the very top, was eager to show me respect and interest; and, here in the town, many people help to make my life happy and tranquil. There are little groups in which I am certain I shall enjoy myself when I am more at my ease. I am received most cordially and flatteringly; it seems a kindly, quiet sort of set; every one is eager to be nice to me, and there are not too many people. Ease, without which there is no such thing as society, is the dominant note in this set. But, Charlotte dear, don’t imagine that I’m already devoted to these folk. I shall never care deeply for any one again, nor make any other close friendship. It was She who drew us together, Charlotte; my love for you shall be my last and dearest devotion, I promise you. Good-bye, my dear; I think of you a thousand times a day; I am happy now, for I am doing something for you, and to prove my love for you is one of the ways to make me happy. If you see H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, lay my respectful homage at his feet, and tell him that my prayers follow him always. Yesterday I bought a carriage which is really quite new, and yet it only cost me 115 louis; I drove to my ball in it last night (about 13 miles from here) over a pavement that no one could imagine if they had not driven over it! My dear, in one minute I spent as much money as I did in the whole of the last year I lived in England. I use only four horses, and that shows how moderate I am, for a lady in my position ought not to have less than six. They threaten me with having to order the ‘St. Catherine’ liveries, which would cost 1200 roubles, that is, 150 louis. Compare this picture, dear Charlotte, with that of two months ago, when, with my linen frock tucked up under my arm, I was going about alone in the streets, knocking at Charlotte’s door—and now, driving about in my own carriage, drawn by four horses, with two lackeys behind, dressed out, feathers in my hair—in short, a lady of fashion! Doesn’t it seem like a dream, Charlotte? I assure you it does to me; and I assure you also, my dear, that the idea of coming seemed impossible—this world is not like the one we lived in then. The sacrifice was necessary; it had to be made; that was inevitable for both of us. I believed, at any rate, that I had to make it; and every minute I congratulate myself on having done so. Adieu! I hope you will have noticed the date of one of my letters; I am the more particular about this, since receiving yours of yesterday. Send my letters under cover to M. Withworth, your Minister here; and don’t let them be quite so thick, so as not to tax your Government too severely.
“P.S.—A thousand loving remembrances to your mother and your son. What a mania for marriage you’ve got, all of a sudden, and where are all your husbands? You hid them very well from me, for a whole year. I never beheld one of them; and you have two, my dear! I had a good laugh, I can tell you! What are their names? And when is either of the two marriages to come off?”
St. Petersburg, October 15, 1797.
“I am alone to-day, my Charlotte; a year ago this very day I was with you; I had the relief of speech, but I could not feel more deeply than I do now the terrible anniversary which this shameful day marks for us. At this hour we were on the Richmond Road. Yes, Charlotte dear, I am thinking sadly of her, whom I loved more than all the world besides, to whom I would have sacrificed anything. That thought is my one solace now; that thought stays with me still, the thought of Her, of Her alone.... It is eleven o’clock now. Where was She then? I evoke it all—the whole scene, afresh; I have read again the lamentable story of her final sufferings, and my heart is oppressed—I feel almost crazy—I know not what I want to say! I assure you, Charlotte, that it makes me happier to tell you all this; particularly to-day, when I’m so miserable, my friendship with you is a consolation—ah! you see I cannot write coherently. I feel so ill I wish I could talk to somebody, and tell them about myself; but how can I? There is no one at all to listen to me. For who can understand all that we feel about her? No one, no one. It’s better to say nothing, and I have said nothing; I haven’t spoken of the anniversary, not even to M. de C. If I wasn’t feeling so serious, I’d tell you that he bores me to death. He’s the most exacting creature in the world, and I am only sorry that I brought him with me. He has done not a bit of good here, and he is going back to you. Don’t tell him that I’ve spoken of him like this; he would be horrified. Now enough of him!
“For a whole week I’ve been thinking sadly of to-morrow. The little circle of people I know best were to play a little comedy for the King of Poland. I thought that the 16th was the day they had fixed on. The idea came into my head at a party—a supper-party, on Thursday evening, at the Prince Kowakin’s. I never like to speak of my feelings and my memories; one must suffer in silence. I was quite determined not to go, Charlotte; you won’t, I hope, imagine that I debated that for a moment; but I was worried, for I didn’t quite know how I was going to get out of it without saying why. A lady, who is always very very kind to me, saw by my face that I was unhappy about something. ‘What is it, chou?’ she said to me. ‘You’re sad.’ I said, ‘Oh no! it’s nothing.’ ‘But I see you; I see there’s something wrong.’ And at last I had to tell her.... The little entertainment came off yesterday. It was charming, but it made me so sad that I could not hide my sadness. All things of that kind have a most curious effect upon me quite different from what they have of other people. Still, I must admit (the Comedy was well acted, by people whom I see a great deal of), I was interested—very much insulted; and yet, when it was over, there was nothing but melancholy in my heart. I came home to bed, and to thoughts of Her and you; and this morning, I had an immense letter from you which I’ll answer to-morrow. I have read it; and I was very near being late for a long long mass—it took two hours. This evening, I had intended to spend here, all by myself. I refused a supper invitation from a kind young woman of whom M. de Cl. will tell you; and I meant to return here. Another lady (the one I mentioned first) sent her husband to tell me that she was ill, and that she would be alone and would I not come? So when I had been to a tea-party that I was engaged for, I did go there, but indeed I was very sad, and more silent than usual. (How people can treat me as they do in this country, I don’t know—they are certainly most kind). I was determined, at any rate, to leave the party before ten o’clock. They tried to prevent me, but I insisted. At ten o’clock I put on my gloves, but they said: ‘You shan’t go!’ and at last the mistress of the house, thinking of what I had confided to her a couple of days before, said to me: ‘What day is to-day?’... Seeing that she had guessed, I said, turning away with my poor heart swelling: ‘Don’t speak to me of the day!’... I came back here alone to weep for my Queen, and to implore God to make me worthy to be with her again, and that soon—if he will indeed permit me to see her again, where she surely is. I have much to atone for—I feel it, know it; but I do in truth even now atone for much. I swear to you, Charlotte, I have never dared to put into words with you what you speak of to me to-day,—and with an ‘again’ underlined. Do you think that I wished it to be so—tell me, do you? No, no; Charlotte could never think that! If I did ever tell you, Charlotte, all that I could tell you, it’s because I love you with all my heart, and because I’m sad, and haunted by memories.... To-morrow, I shall be alone all day; I won’t see my brother-in-law, or any one else. My door will be fast shut, and I shall return to you, and tell you all I am feeling.”
St. Petersburg, October 16, 1797.
“The date, my dear Charlotte, will be enough to tell you what I am mournfully thinking of. I began my day by going to church to hear a mass for Her; and to listen there to those dear sacred names of Hers. The mass was said by two Trappists, and I was very sorry that I had not asked the Abbé to say it.... What odd incidents there are in the history of our revolution! I await the portrait with a respectful interest, and I thank you in advance for all the pleasure it will give me. Ah, my dear Charlotte, what a sad day! My heart aches so deeply and feels so heavy that it’s as if I were carrying a load, and if I don’t think clearly, I am soon enough reminded of everything by the pain of it. I can’t speak of anything but Her. To-day is mail-day; so I must defer until next time my answer to your last letter, for I must go and talk about her to some other friends, who loved her too. I have the dress, and it’s charming. That’s all I can say about it, Adieu. I love you for Her and for yourself, with all my heart.”
St. Petersburg, October 16, 1797.
“When I stopped writing to you last night, I went to bed and to rest my poor head. I read for half an hour that lovely romance of Paul and Virginia. My candle went out. Just like that, four years ago, some hours earlier—one of the world’s choicest treasures went out to.... I gave myself up to sad thoughts; I imagined to myself all that she, so lowly tormented, must have suffered then. But somehow I fell asleep, and I slept on until the fatal hour when She must have realized how few more hours were left to her on that earth where she was so worshipped. All my thoughts were fixed on her, I lay awake for several hours in great agitation; then I went to sleep again, and at eight o’clock I was awakened so as to go to hear the mass where her loved name should fall once more upon my ears. I set off, accompanied by a French nobleman, whom I love and esteem, because he regrets his Sovereigns as I do. His kind heart comforted mine; the time I spent with him instilled solace into my soul, and I was not so unhappy when I came back from mass. I constantly read over with him all that I have written, especially all that I remember her having said in and before the days of her long martyrdom. He will put it all in order, and make these fragments as interesting as they ought to be. I was interrupted in this occupation by a man who belongs to this place, and whom I met in France, when LL.MM.II. came there to see the objects of my love and sorrow. This man—whom I like better than any other I have met here—has given me a thousand proofs of his interest in me, which I prize as coming from a heart like his. He knew the anniversary, and spoke to me reverently of it; he is the only person I have seen to-day. But my dear Charlotte, I must shut out all extraneous thoughts and think only that She exists no more, and that her end was hastened by the villany and foul revenge of human beings, formerly her subjects, formerly her worshippers, beings with hearts—no! they had no hearts, since they shed ... since they put an end to that existence ... when her rank, her character, her face....
“Last year I was with you all through this day; we wept together for the Queen of Love; to-day, alone with my sad heart, I can only write to you. Distance separates our bodies; but our souls and our thoughts and our feelings are the same, and I know that Charlotte and Louise are together to-day.”
After dinner.
“I dined alone. I ate little, Charlotte. Last year, I dined at your bedside, and I remember that when our dinner had been served, you told me an anecdote about the little Prince which made me cry. This year I did not cry at dinner; but I felt even sadder than I had felt then. The solitude and isolation, and the want of intimate friends, made me doubly sad. But I must not let myself think of myself. A voice ordered me to do as I did and I was bound to follow it—’twas the voice of Right and Well-doing.”
Before going to bed.
“I want to talk to you one moment longer about this sad day, now that it is wrapped in night’s shadows. The crime is committed, and I bury it in the bottom of my heart; the memory of it lives there for ever; but I will speak no more of it, Charlotte. All to-day I was Her’s alone; I forgot every one else, and I lived only for my old friends, just as if I were not in Russia at all. M. de Crussol came while I was at supper, and at half-past eleven he told me, without my in the least wanting to know, where he had supped....”
Morning of the 17th.
“Many things have happened to distract me since I came here, my Charlotte, as you may see from the fact of my having written to you on the tenth, 7th August, without noticing the date. I should never forgive myself for it, if I had really forgotten, if those events had not been as present to my poor heart as they always are, and always will be, I should be angry with myself; and I should tell you the truth quite frankly, even if I were to lose by doing so what I should not wish to have on false pretences—but that fault (if it was one) was not through want of heart. No! I can answer for my heart; it is good and true. Since you wished it, I wish I had written to you on St. Louis’ day; but I would swear that I never did write to you unless it was mail-day; and that that was the first time I wrote to you several days running. The sad circumstance was certainly enough for one to do something out of the way. Don’t scold me, if you can help it. You’re really too fond of scolding. To-day it’s about a watch; the next, about yourself! My dear, you are very good at curing one of little fancies; you’ve quite cured me of mine for my little watch, and I no longer think at all of the pleasure it used to give me; but only of what it gives you, since it comes from me. You must admit that that’s a very nice way of speaking about a sacrifice, for I won’t conceal from you that it was one for me. And as to your watch, Charlotte, I think the watchmaker must have sold it—I’ve been vainly asking for it, for the last six weeks. When you write several sheets do number them....”
“St. Petersburg, November 6 (1797).
“Mr. Keith has arrived, my dear Charlotte, and the morning of the very day of his arrival (Friday) he sent me your letters; and this evening he sent the case, which I think charming, especially the top. I assure you that it gave me intense pleasure; but what sacrifice have you made me—where did you get all that hair? It can’t be of recent cutting; there are so few white hairs that I should scarcely recognize them for those dear tresses. In London you showed me only a tiny bit. Where did you get these? I thank you most gratefully for such a sacrifice; I confess that it would have been beyond me, and so I feel all the more grateful. I’m so afraid of breaking either of the glasses; the case is so high. I must have seen her like that, but I do not remember it; the earliest memory I have of her is seeing her twenty-one years ago at some races; and I remember her dress better than her charming face. The copy is very well done, and I have had the pleasure of examining it twice. It was given to me by artificial light, and next day it seemed quite different, the daylight improved it ever so much; I thank you a thousand times. It is the most delightful gift I could have had. The cameo is very pretty. I imagine it would fain be your portrait, and is really the portrait of Thor’s daughter; she is rather elongated, poor little lady, but apparently the qualities of her heart atone for the defects of her face. My dear, you’re mad with your ‘fashions’! Let me tell you that, except when I go to Court, I’m just as I was in London, almost always in black-and-white linen gown. All the women, you know, dress themselves up, if you please, nearly every day. I never cared about that kind of thing—indeed, I detested it; and having to dress myself up four times a week makes me incredibly lazy on the days that, with joy untold, I can rest from all that bother. My friends are always laughing at me for my dowdiness—so you see what I’ve come to. As to having to wear warm clothing in Russia, as you think one has, you are quite mistaken. Once inside the street door, the houses are so warm that a very thin dress is by far the best to wear. So muslin is better than warm materials. One has to wear fur-cloaks, and well padded ones too, when one is going out, even from one house to another. That is necessary here; but indoors one would be suffocated in padded clothes. I used to think the same as you. I had a dress made in London, and I’ve only worn it once or twice, and then I thought I would die of heat; so you see it will hang in my wardrobe for a long time.
“Yes, I like caricatures; why not? I don’t see anything wrong about them. And I don’t care whether they’re of Bonaparte, or any other of those gentlemen. To tell you the truth, I wish they would do something worse to them than only make fun of them; but now, with the way Lord Nelson of the Nile has disposed of Bonaparte, one certainly can have a good laugh at him. He doesn’t carry the austerity of his principles as far as you do, my dear Charlotte.
“I shall have the inscription of the Queen’s portrait changed; her name is wrong. It ought to be ‘M. A. de Lorraine, Archduchess of Austria.’ The portrait is charming, but all the same it is not the Queen we knew; and I loved her so much better than when that portrait was done. Adorable lady! She was always beautiful and sweet. My dear, I’m ashamed to say I’ve forgotten to tell you that the portrait, though it didn’t come on our day of mourning, did arrive on November 2, her natal day. I thought of Her all day long; and when Mr. Keith came, it quite distracted me, for everything that reminds me of England puts me in such a state of mind. I talked to him about the case; and he tells me that he had given it to the captain and begged him to put it in his pocket, and that he was to see him again in the afternoon. Imagine my uneasiness and impatience! I made a lackey wait at my house all day, and about eight o’clock the precious case was brought to me. I thank you for it with all my heart. I wish I could send you something as precious, but I haven’t an idea what to send. For the rest, I haven’t got anything, not even the black glass for my friend. My dear Charlotte, you will never cure yourself of giving little coups de patte; you know that I never guess anything; but still...! That black glass must be for some one who draws, and since I take the trouble of doing your commissions, it must be for some one I like. Adieu, my dear! Forgive this small reflection. But though you’re so used to liberty, you don’t allow me many liberties, I think. Well, it’s better to give them back than to have them stolen—and so I do, you see! A thousand kisses!”
Letter from Count Henri de Frotté to Lady Atkyns.
“Tuesday, January 1, 1805.
“Nobody does you more justice than I do, madame; nobody reveres you more. The devotion which the French people displayed during the Revolution was no more than their duty. They owed the sacrifice of their lives to the cause of the restoration of the Monarchy, and of order to the country.
“But you, madam, a native of England, you, with your feeling heart, have undertaken for this just cause more than could have been hoped for from a lady, and a lady who was a foreigner, and whom nothing bound in any way to our sovereigns, our country, and our troubles. By risking your life, as you have done several times, you have acquired a right to the respectful gratitude of all honourable Frenchmen.
“My own present troubles may make me more unhappy in certain circumstances, but shall never make me unjust. Appearances may be against me. On your return I shall open my heart to you, and you shall judge. All I can say here is, that I have lost everything. I have a son still, but he is in the enemy’s chains, and that enemy has means of intelligence everywhere, which informs him both of what is and of what is not. I ought to be more circumspect than others; but, all the same, no consideration shall prevent me from keeping my promises. If I meet unjust men as I go along, so much the worse for the master whom they serve, and for the faithful subjects who may have relations with them, particularly in these critical times. What I now have the honour to write to you, will be an enigma to you for the present. I will explain to you when you return, but I think I may presume that your discernment will have given you an indication to the solution. No, madam, it was not because the money was not delivered to me at the time you arranged that I had ceased to ask for it. I remember very well that you were kind enough to say you would lend the 200 francs which I asked you for, if it was possible for you to do so. The impulse which moved me in that matter was natural in an unhappy father, deserted and mourned for by those who ought to have protected him. I added, in speaking to you then, that I had inherited some means from my father, which would put me in a position to be able to pay this debt; but that heritage was in reality such a small affair I dare not run the risk of embarrassing my friends if God were to cut short my career. And that is why I ask you not to do anything further in that affair.
“Accept my deep regrets for having troubled you at a moment which must be so painful to you. I have shared your too-just regrets, and all through my life I shall sympathize with anything that concerns your affections. It is the natural consequence of my respectful and undying attachment for the friend of my unfortunate son.
“My friend assures you of his respect, and of the sympathy he felt in the cruel loss which you have suffered.”
Will of Lady Atkyns.
“January 6, 1835.
“I, Charlotte Atkyns, give to Victoire Ilh, my maid-servant, at present in my service, all effects of furniture, linen, wearing-apparel and silver that I possess; and, generally, all objects which may be found in my room, in my house, or lodging, at the date of my decease, whatever they may be; and also my carriage. I give moreover to the said Victoire Ilh, the sum of £120 sterling, which is due to me to-day from Nathaliel William Peach, of 13, Saville Street, London, and of Ketteringham in the County of Norfolk, or from his heirs, which sum shall be payed on demand to the said Victoire Ilh, after my decease. I further give to Victoire Ilh the sum of £1000 sterling, which shall be paid to her within three months of my death.
“I charge these gifts on the Norfolk property, which is at present in the possession of the said Nathaliel W. Peach as a guarantee for all my debts, I having mortgaged the said property in favour of my sister-in-law, the late Mary Atkyns, for £18,000 sterling, and in addition for an annuity of £500 sterling payable quarterly each year; and as in consequence the freehold belongs to me, I charge it with the payment of my lawful debts, and of my funeral expenses.
“I desire that my body be taken to Ketteringham and interred in the family vault; and that my name and age be inscribed on a plain marble stone, near the monument of my late dear son. I have mentioned in another will the names of some friends from whom I beg acceptance of some souvenirs of my consideration and esteem. I give the box which I have left with Messrs. Barnard and Co., N. Bankers, Cornhill, London, to Mr. Nathaliel W. Peach. It contains some pieces of silver. I left it there, I think, on November 10, 1832. I give the freehold of all my properties in Norfolk to Nathaliel W. Peach for the payment of all charges and debts, present and future. I give £100 sterling to my servant, Jean-Baptiste Erard, native of Switzerland, who has served me faithfully for five years, and whose conduct has always been regular. As to that of Victoire Ilh, ever since she came into my service, it has been beyond all praise. This girl was not born to wait upon others; she belonged to a very respectable family of Munich. I appoint Nathaliel W. Peach my executor. I request that immediately after my death the Counsel for the British Embassy, Mr. Okey (or whoever may be Counsel at the time) be sent for; and I desire him to be good enough to act for Mr. Nathaliel W. Peach here at Paris.
“In the name of God, I sign the present testament.”