LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

TO FACE PAGE
Madame Charlotte Atkyns[Frontispiece]
(After a miniature in the possession of Count Lair.)
Charlotte Walpole, in “The Camp”[12]
(After an engraving in the British Museum.)
Jean-Gabriel Peltier, 1765-1825 [44]
(After an engraving in the British Museum.)
Marie-Pierre-Louis, Count de Frotté, 1766-1800 [140]
(After a portrait belonging to the Marquis de Frotté.)

A FRIEND OF
MARIE-ANTOINETTE
(LADY ATKYNS)

CHAPTER I
THE CHEVALIER DE FROTTÉ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let us beware, Citizens,

LET US BEWARE,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

W H Bunbury Delinᵗ. Watson & Dickinson Excudᵗ.

Charlotte Walpole, in “The Camp.”

(After an engraving in the British Museum.)

[To face page 12.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your friend for life,
“Théon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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