VI
The Bourbons—Mdlle. Félicie de Fauveau and her vow—Marie Antoinette at the Petit Trianon—A buried treasure—Madame du Barry and her bankers—Her lost jewels—A possibility of existence at some bank—Her destroyers—Zamor and the Englishman Grieve—Mrs. Atkyns and the Dauphin—Her gallant effort to save the Queen—Naundorff—An American Dauphin—Eleazar Williams—Mystery surrounding the death of Louis XVII.
A CURIOUS VOW
It is curious how, in spite of their manifold follies and shortcomings—which were sometimes almost criminal—the Bourbons managed to inspire certain of their adherents with an almost fanatical devotion. Many and many a brave man sacrificed life and property for the ancient Royal line of France. Of this stamp were the gallant Vicomte de Frotté, shot by Napoleon in 1811, and the Marquise de la Rouérie, the organiser and leader of the Chouan revolt. It is, indeed, almost impossible to conceive the intense loyalty displayed by those Frenchmen and Frenchwomen who cherished the traditions of the old régime.
In 1842 I knew at Florence a lady—Mademoiselle Félicie de Fauveau, a sculptress of some note—who belonged to a noble French family. At that time somewhat advanced in years, she had been much with the Duchesse de Berri, and still remained a devoted supporter of the ancient monarchy. To such an extent indeed was this the case that, inspired by a feeling of the most ardent loyalty, Mademoiselle de Fauveau had made a vow never to let her hair grow till the Comte de Chambord should as Henry V. ascend the throne of France, and this resolution she carried out with an utter disregard of the graces. The Comte de Chambord never reigned, and therefore to the end of her life she kept her head closely cropped. I very well remember seeing him at Vicenza in the same year as I met Mademoiselle de Fauveau. He was not at all a remarkable-looking man, and walked with a slight limp, the consequence of an accident which had occurred to him as a young man, when his horse had fallen upon him. As a matter of fact the fracture which he had sustained would have left no traces had the doctors in attendance shown any great surgical capacity. This, however, they did not do, allowing their patient to travel in a carriage over bad roads before the fracture had been thoroughly reduced. Dr. Récamier, it may be added, had especially warned them against allowing such a thing, but no notice was taken of his letter.
The Comte de Chambord was far more high-minded than most of his line, and it was always said that had he chosen to abandon some of his convictions he would certainly have been King of France. His attitude, however, was always straightforward, and for this reason it is in all probability that he lies, the last of the Bourbons, uncrowned in his tomb at Frohsdorf.
I still possess a sketch of Mademoiselle de Fauveau standing with her hand on a favourite dog, which was drawn by my dear governess, Miss Redgrave, from a full-length statuette which the sculptress herself had modelled. The dress, oddly enough, is almost exactly similar to a tailor-made costume of to-day; but in 1842 it was considered a very great eccentricity, and used, I recollect, to excite almost as much astonishment as the lady’s cropped head. Nevertheless, Mademoiselle de Fauveau was a very dignified figure, her face, curiously enough, bearing a considerable resemblance both in feature and expression to the martyred Queen whose memory she adored.
Though it is now a hundred and fourteen years since Marie Antoinette mounted the scaffold and became the victim of a crime which, according even to Napoleon, was far worse than regicide, the very mention of her name evokes as great a feeling of sympathetic compassion as it did at the time of her brutal execution. No one who has studied the story of the terrible persecution and mental torture to which she was subjected can fail to be moved by the sufferings of this royal martyr, whose dignified bearing in some measure actually impressed the howling mob which shouted for her blood. The progress of the unfortunate Queen to the place of execution was an awful one, for the squalid cart in which she was placed was escorted by a band of furies, whose raucous howls and ignoble jests disgusted even the rough soldiery who guarded the august prisoner’s road to death. As the tumbril, it is said, passed the church of Saint Roch a band of wretches seated on the steps actually clapped their hands as if at a circus; the only open expression of sympathy, indeed, came fitly enough from a little child, which, as the rueful procession wended its way past the Oratoire, rose to its feet and kissed its little hands to the poor Queen, a last message of love, as it were, from the true heart of France.
THE PETIT TRIANON
When one thinks of the respectful affection, amounting almost to adoration, which Marie Antoinette inspired in men like Fersen, the Chevalier de Rougeville, and others, it would seem that there hung about her graceful personality an atmosphere of mesmeric fascination, something of which still seems to linger in certain places closely connected with her romantic memory. Notably is this the case at the Petit Trianon, where she must always remain almost a living figure to the visitor of any imagination. Strolling through the beautiful grounds on a fine spring day, the graceful trees bathed in a golden light, one well imagines the beautiful Queen surrounded by her children and friends wending her way to her hameau, the toy village in which she took so much interest and delight.
To this lovely retreat, when the leaves were beginning to fall and the lilies of France to fade came the news of the arrival at Versailles of the crowd of Parisian rabble, who on the 5th of October 1789 invaded that stately palace. The same day Marie Antoinette decided to join the King, and flying to his side, abandoned for ever her beautiful Trianon, the enchanting spot in which some of the happiest days of her life had been passed, and which she was never to see again.
From that moment nothing but sorrow and misfortune were to be her lot. Versailles was in a turmoil, and on her arrival there she soon found that her life itself was in danger. Oh the following day (6th October), she spent some terrible hours at the windows of the room known as the bedroom of Louis XV., to which she had been forced to fly from her own private apartments, whilst the crowd without the palace savagely called for her blood. Only did its fury abate when both she and the King, appearing on the balcony of an adjoining apartment, promised to set out forthwith for Paris and to take up their residence at the Tuileries.
A mysterious legend has always declared that before taking their departure the Royal couple caused a considerable sum of money, together with many valuables, to be secretly buried in the park adjoining the palace, but though careful search has often been made nothing has hitherto come to light. At the present time, however (April 1907), there is a rumour that, owing to the discovery of an old manuscript indicating the place of concealment, the authorities in charge of the palace of Versailles are on the point of discovering the exact locality of this long-hidden treasure. It is much to be hoped that such a report should prove true, for in all probability, in addition to the financial and artistic value of such a discovery, some documents of the highest historical interest are almost certain once more to be brought to the light of day.
MADAME DU BARRY
There must, undoubtedly, be much treasure and many jewels buried during the great Revolution still lying hidden under the soil of France, for before going into exile numbers of emigrés buried their most valuable possessions in the earth, with the intention of recovering them on that return which in many cases was never to take place. A great portion of the splendid jewellery of Madame du Barry has never been satisfactorily accounted for, though it has often been declared that it still remains intact and untouched in an unopened case lying in the strong-room of Coutts’ Bank. Be this as it may, I believe that it is an absolute fact that, this famous firm of bankers are still the guardians of a large number of cases deposited there by French emigrés, who having returned to France in order to forward the Royalist cause, met their death without having left any instructions as to the disposal of their property lodged in England. The rule, I believe, in such cases is for the bank to allow the boxes literally to moulder to pieces, carefully wrapping up in paper any objects which may fall out, and replacing them in a heap on the top of what is left. It seems a pity that no Act of Parliament should ever have been passed to deal with such cases, for there are probably many priceless works of art slowly drifting to utter decay in these old brass-bound chests fast mouldering into dust.
Though, as has been said, a legend declares that some of the jewels of Madame du Barry still lie in the strong-room of Coutts’ Bank, it is difficult to see how such can be the case unless she deposited her valuables with more than one London banker; for it is absolutely certain that the firm with whom she usually banked when in England was that of Messrs. Hammersley and Morland of Pall Mall, in whose keeping, according to her own estimate, she at one time had over 300,000 livres’ worth of diamonds. The firm in question has long ceased to exist, and I do not know who took over their business. At the end of 1794, after the death of Madame du Barry, diamonds left by her in England were sold by order of the Court of Chancery, and realised 13,300 guineas.
A SCOUNDREL ENGLISHMAN
As is well known, this poor woman was literally hounded to death by an Englishman, George Grieve by name; he was a native of Alnwick, in Northumberland, where he early in life distinguished himself by his Radical proclivities. Having squandered the patrimony bequeathed to him by his father, an attorney of some local standing, he went to America in 1780, where, it is said, he met Washington, Franklin, and other lights of the young American Republic. In 1783 he came to Paris, in which city he appears to have posed, perhaps with authority, as an American representative in the revolutionary demonstrations which were already beginning to agitate the French. Later on, grandiloquently styling himself, “Factieux et anarchiste de premier ordre et désorganisateur du despotisme dans les deux hémisphères depuis vingt ans”—a title, by the way, which might be recommended to the consideration of some of our modern socialists—Grieve took advantage of Madame du Barry’s absence in London in 1792 (to which city she had gone to look after her stolen diamonds) to take up his residence at Louveciennes, where she possessed a splendid residence, and where she was adored by the peasantry, to whom she ever dispensed a truly regal charity. By bribery and persuasion this apostle of progress gained over two of her servants, and then, managing to obtain an order for seals to be placed on her papers and valuables, installed himself in her house whilst procuring its mistress’s arrest on her return to France. The villagers, however, mindful of the goodness of their Lady Bountiful, petitioned for and obtained her release. Grieve, no doubt desiring that his own very doubtful dealings with the contents of her château should not be exposed, again managed to get her arrested, but, as on the previous occasion, a petition of the inhabitants of Louveciennes once more set her free. In November 1793, the wretch, who was quite determined not to be balked of his prey, finally ran his unfortunate quarry to ground, and was successful in getting the favourite of Louis XV. tried and led to the guillotine. Her persecutor, unlike many of his fellow-benefactors of humanity, contrived to survive the Terror, and died peacefully in Brussels in 1809, having in the interval once more made a journey to America, where he published a translation of Chastellux’s travels.
It is curious to learn that Grieve, who was evidently full of Anglo-Saxon hypocrisy, had the effrontery to make a personal appeal to the Convention, in which he demanded the head of the Du Barry “in the name of good morals.” The real truth of course being, as has been said, that this scoundrel (who had obtained permission to make an inventory of her valuables, which he drew up absolutely alone, entrance to her residence at Louveciennes being closed to all but him) had made away with much of her money and jewellery, and was in consequence determined to have their unfortunate owner sent to another world in order that his own defalcations might evade detection. In all probability he buried a certain amount of treasure in the grounds of Madame du Barry’s house; at all events local rumour has always declared that gold and jewels lie hidden in the earth there. Many searches have been made, but no valuables discovered. A skull, however,—in all probability that of the Due de Cossé-Brissac, the Royal favourite’s last lover,—was dug up near the house. Brissac having been hacked to pieces at Versailles, some youths got hold of the head, and in high glee carried it on a dung-fork to Louveciennes, where they hurled it through the open windows of the Du Barry’s salon.
ZAMOR
A principal agent of Grieve in his campaign against Madame du Barry was her black page, Zamor, who appears in many a picture, fantastically dressed, standing by the side of the beautiful mistress of Louis XV. The old King himself took the greatest interest in Zamor, and bored as he usually was with everything, would yet sometimes deign to smile at the pleasantries of the spoilt little negro, who was allowed to take pretty well any liberties he pleased. Zamor had been originally brought from Bengal as a child by an English sea-captain, and, having been made chief page to the favourite (who acquired him as a pleasing contrast to her white dog and her monkeys), received an excellent education after being baptized with the greatest pomp. Nevertheless, in spite of the favours with which his mistress had loaded him, Zamor turned against her at the time when one word from him could have saved her head. An ardent student of Rousseau and an enthusiastic democrat, this little negro attained a certain position in revolutionary circles, being given an official position in the district of Versailles. He was called as an important witness at the trial of his benefactress, and manifesting the greatest bitterness against her, coldly and brutally gave such testimony as directly contributed to her condemnation.
His ingratitude, however, did him no good, for, falling into disgrace with the revolutionary authorities, he soon sank into the most dire poverty, the property which he had amassed being got out of him by a designing milliner. In old age he supported life by giving elementary lessons to the children in the quarter of Paris which he inhabited, where the little wizened old man was well known as “the negro who had betrayed la du Barry.”
Silent and taciturn, he retained the cult of the revolutionary doctrine to the end of his life, which seems to have occurred somewhere about 1820, his little room being decorated to the last with the portraits of Marat and Robespierre, whilst the works of Rousseau, his favourite author, occupied a prominent place upon his modest bookshelf.
Zamor was a traitor, it is true, but there is no doubt he was sincere in his devotion to the revolutionary ideal, whereas the arch-scoundrel Grieve was nothing but an egotistical hypocrite—a callous, canting rogue.
THE JERNINGHAM FAMILY
An ancient Norfolk family, which in old days had much to do with France, is that of Jerningham of Costessey Hall. Many of its members indeed, prevented from entering the English army owing to their unswerving adherence to the Roman Catholic faith, crossed the Channel and took service under the banners of the French king, attaining in several cases to high military command. The last of these to do this was General Jerningham, Colonel Commandant of several Irish regiments under Louis XVI., who, returning to England after the Revolution, died at Costessey in 1814. At the present day the best known representatives of this old family are that distinguished man, Sir Hubert Jerningham, and his brother, Mr. Charles Edward Jerningham, a cultured collector and authority upon prints of Old London. A peculiarity of the Jerninghams is that, though they have steadfastly adhered to the Roman Catholic Church, no one of them has ever been a priest, or, on the other hand, become a Protestant; though Mr. Edward Jerningham, the friend of Horace Walpole, well known as a good scholar and elegant poet, did, I believe, more or less abjure his faith and declare himself an Agnostic. Notwithstanding the very strong anti-Catholic feeling which in old days prevailed in Norfolk (the bells of the Norwich churches were rung on the rejection of the Catholic Emancipation Bill in 1825), the Jerninghams did not, like so many of their co-religionists, abstain from social intercourse with their Protestant neighbours, with whom, in spite of their faith, they were always very popular. One of the Dillons, a close connection of the family of which I have been speaking, took a leading part in the many attempts made to rescue the unfortunate Dauphin who, according to the most modern authorities, was actually got out of the Temple, a substituted child being left in his stead. Another Norfolkian also made several strenuous efforts to the same end. This was a lady, Mrs. Atkyns of Ketteringham Hall, near Norwich, who expended practically her entire fortune in efforts to save the unfortunate Prince.
MRS. ATKYNS
An energetic and adventurous woman, the story of her life has been given to the world in a French book published a short time ago. She was, before her marriage, Miss Charlotte Walpole, an actress of Drury Lane Theatre, and I like to believe that she was in some way connected with the Walpole family to which I belong; her father, Robert Walpole, was certainly a Norfolk man, but the exact degree of his relationship to us I have never been able to discover. Certain is it, however, that she used the Walpole crest with the addition of a lion, a circumstance which might possibly point to a descent from Colonel John Walpole, a Royalist who, for his services at Cropredy Bridge, was granted such an addition to his arms. Miss Walpole, who appears to have been exceedingly fascinating, before very long captured the heart of a Norfolk squire, and after their marriage the young people took up their abode at Ketteringham Hall, old Mrs. Walpole, the bride’s mother, being installed in the Park close by in a house which has been long pulled down. Curiously enough, flowers still come up in the spring-time at this spot, which yet retains the name of Madame Walpole’s garden. After a short time passed in Norfolk, Mr. and Mrs. Atkyns went to Versailles, where, introduced into the intimate entourage of Marie Antoinette by the Duchesse de Polignac, the lady conceived a respectful veneration for the unfortunate Queen, which, in after-years, caused her to penetrate, disguised as a member of the National Guard, into the prison of the Conciergerie. By means of a daring stratagem she actually contrived to obtain admission to the cell in which Marie Antoinette lay, her intention being to inform the Queen of a plan of escape. At the moment, however, of handing the royal captive a bouquet of flowers, the missive which was concealed amongst its leaves fell to the ground, when Mrs. Atkyns, seeing that a gaoler was about to read it, snatched the note from his hands and without a moment’s hesitation swallowed it. Later on Mrs. Atkyns was the chief organiser of several attempts to save the Dauphin, and expended some very large sums of money in plots, actually hiring ships to lie off the French coast ready to receive the young Prince should one of the efforts made to rescue him prove successful.
Living to a great age, the poor woman eventually died almost penniless in Paris as late as the year 1836, for Louis XVIII. though admitting, on his restoration, that she had devoted her life and fortune to the service of his line, would never reimburse any serious portion of the sums which the mistress of Ketteringham Hall had, with the greatest difficulty, raised upon her estate. He did once, however, under great pressure, send her some insignificant sum. Ketteringham Hall itself is now the property of Sir Francis and Lady Boileau, who, together with a few others, have, within the last year, erected a memorial tablet to the friend and would-be rescuer of Marie Antoinette. Owing to the comparative state of destitution in which the poor woman died her wish to be buried in Ketteringham church had not been respected. It is therefore pleasant to think that, owing to the kindly initiative of Lady Boileau, a memorial of her now exists close to those of her husband and son—the last members, it may be added, of a distinguished county family.
MRS. ATKYNS
There exists a print of Mrs. Atkyns engraved by Watson and Dickinson after Bunbury. In this she is represented in the character of “Nancy,” who, dressed as a young soldier, has followed her lover to the camp of Coxheath, a part which contemporary critics tell was enacted by the young actress with much dash and charm. In this character, indeed, she won the heart and hand of her Norfolk squire.
Retiring from the stage after the conclusion of the run of The Camp, her next appearance in a soldier’s dress was to be in far different surroundings. Surely when assuming the costume of the National Guard in which she set out to attempt the rescue of the captive queen, her thoughts must have flown back to those careless days in which, miniature firelock in hand, she had gone through the military exercise amidst the plaudits of the audience at “Old Drury.”
An inscription under the print runs:—
My Nancy leaves the rural plain
A camp’s distress to prove,
All other ills she can sustain
But living from her love,
to which I have added on a small plaque attached to the frame:—
Elle poussa le dévouement jusqu’à l’héroisme
et la courage jusqu’à la témérité,
a tribute paid to this brave Englishwoman by that admirable writer, M. de la Sicotière, Sénateur de l’Orne.
Mrs. Atkyns, whilst residing on her estate in Norfolk, would seem to have taken a warm interest in politics, her sympathies being, of course, strongly anti-democratic. The following letter was found by my cousin, Sir Spencer Walpole, amongst the papers of his grandfather, Mr. Perceval, the distinguished statesman who met with such a tragic end:—
Sir—I flatter myself you will do me the honour to excuse my intruding upon you at a time you must consequently be extremely occupied. I most sincerely congratulate you on your becoming one of His Majesty’s ministers. I, with a large majority of England, felicitate myself as a true and faithful subject to my sovereign on seeing a gentleman of your abilities and loyalty in the situation you now fill. May Heaven prosper your efforts to serve your King and country! I take the liberty to suggest an idea, or rather, offer an opinion. I have heard that the present Receiver-General for the county of Norfolk, Sir Roger Kerrison of Norwich, is likely to lose that place; permit me, sir, to hint to you that all the other bankers except Kett or Day are downright revolutionists. From the knowledge I have of the inhabitants of Norwich (my house being situated but five miles from that city), I have taken the liberty to recommend either the House of Kett or that of Day in case there should be a change. Mr. Day is an alderman of the City of Norwich, a man much respected. Kett was a Quaker, but was read out of the meeting for having subscribed to the volunteers. In case of a dissolution of Parliament either of these gentlemen will be useful and active agents. Do not think, sir, that I recommend them from my having any interest in their having such an advantageous place, or from having any particular acquaintance with either; on the contrary, I never spoke to Mr. Kett that I know of, and not twice in my life to Mr. Day, but they are loyal subjects to their King—that is enough for me—Day in particular. Norwich is famous for the number of its democrats. Excuse, sir, my troubling you, but it is for the public good; that, I think, with you will be sufficient apology. The present Receiver-General is not of what we call the Loyal Party. I shall not mention to mortal my having written this. Should there be a dissolution of Parliament, and that you think I can be of any service in this county or the city, having some interest in both, I request you will have the goodness to inform me.—I have, sir, the honour to be, your most obedient, very humble servant,
Charlotte Atkyns.
Ketteringham Hall,
Windham, Norfolk,
5th April 1807.
If, sir, at any time you think I can by any means be of the least use with regard to French affairs, having more knowledge of that country than, perhaps, sir, you are aware of, you may command me. There is a circumstance that most certainly may one day or other prove a severe check to the allied Powers should they attempt to enter France; it is a secret or artful menace that Buonaparte reserves for a last manœuvre. When I come to town, which will be in less than a fortnight, I will, sir, if you please, explain my meaning. I need not request, sir, that any communication I give, or my now having taken the liberty to address you, may remain a profound secret.
The secret menace to which Mrs. Atkyns here alludes would seem to indicate that, in her opinion, Buonaparte was aware that Louis XVII.—the child supposed to have died in the Temple—was still alive, and was reserving this knowledge in order to make use of it should necessity arise.
NAUNDORFF
It was another relative of Sir Spencer’s, the Reverend Mr. Perceval, who took such a great interest in the pretender Naundorff, an individual claiming to be Louis XVII. Mr. Perceval it was who published a book called The Misfortunes of the Dauphin, in which the adventures of the Duc de Normandie, as Naundorff styled himself, are fully described. Much of this narrative, however, is very involved and unsatisfactory, whilst the account of the Dauphin’s escape from the prison of the Temple, concealed in a coffin, carries but little conviction. The organiser of this rescue is stated to have been Josephine Beauharnais, afterwards Empress of the French.
It is not, in all probability, generally known that there were no less than thirty-six pretended Dauphins, including an American one—Eleazar Williams by name—about whose origin considerable mystery prevails. The story told about him was that he had been brought as a child to America by a French family in 1795, and placed in charge of an Iroquois half-breed, Thomas Williams by name, being as a young man educated by a Mr. Nathaniel Ely, a deacon of the Congregational Church—Eleazar Williams himself afterwards entering the ministry. It was in 1851 that a Mr. Hanson began the investigations which brought Eleazar Williams before the world as the lost Dauphin.
The Duchesse d’Angoulême, sister of the child over whose fate such a mystery prevails, is declared, when on her deathbed, to have sent for General Larochejaquelein, a faithful adherent of the Bourbon cause. “General,” she said, “I have a fact—a very important fact to reveal to you—the testament of a dying woman. My brother is not dead. This is the nightmare of my whole life. Promise me to use all possible means to find him. Travel by land and sea to discover some of the old servants or their descendants; for France can never be happy and tranquil until he is seated on the throne of his fathers.”
Mr. Hanson was much struck with the words which the Duchess was supposed to have uttered, and applied them to Eleazar Williams. In 1853 he published an article embodying his researches and conclusions. It was entitled, “Have we a Bourbon among us?” and appeared in a number of Putnam’s Magazine. But Eleazar Williams himself, who appears to have been a very quiet, dignified, and sincerely religious man, never made any particular effort to establish his claims as Dauphin, or rather as King of France, and passed most of his time in missionary work amongst the Indians. He carried on a large correspondence, however, with those interested in his history, and would sometimes discuss the question of his supposed birth. It was a constant practice of his to declare that there lingered in his memory vague recollections of a childhood passed amidst the greatest magnificence. In the freedom of private conversation he would also speak of a feeling of having passed through terrifying scenes as well as of noble edifices, beautiful gardens, troops on parade, and gorgeously furnished apartments—memories, indeed, such as might have been inspired by the splendid Court of Versailles.
AN AMERICAN DAUPHIN
Eleazar Williams died in 1858, and a grandson of his is, I believe, still living. The whole story of this American Dauphin—though, perhaps, of no serious historical importance—is a curious one, and the book in which it is set forth, The Story of Louis XVII. of France, merits some attention, especially as it deals at length with the pretender to whom allusion has already been made, the celebrated Naundorff, who is, in its pages, ruthlessly denounced as an impostor and cheat. Naundorff’s grandson, it may be of interest to know, is, or was, engaged in commercial pursuits, and is styled Jean III. by the small band of adherents who believe in his claims to the throne of France, whilst the Dauphin, “Prince Henri Charles Louis,” born in 1899, is the offspring of his marriage with the “Princesse Magdelaine,” daughter of a worthy tradesman in the town of Lunel.
THE MYSTERY OF LOUIS XVII
The whole story of the Dauphin seems destined to be wrapped in impenetrable mystery, but, as has been said, it is now believed by those most competent to judge, including M. Sardou (probably the greatest living authority on the French Revolution) that the Dauphin did not, as is generally supposed, die in the prison of the Temple. There is, indeed, good reason to assume that having been got out by some means or other (possibly in a package of dirty linen carried by the wife of Simon, his gaoler), he was conveyed without the walls which encircled his prison. Once liberated, however, his rescuers must have become dispersed, very likely being themselves executed or imprisoned for some reason other than their share in his escape, and the child, already enfeebled by his captivity, alone in the seething whirlpool of revolutionary Paris, entirely devoid of resources of any kind, would under such circumstances have been in a very hopeless position. So in all probability poor little Louis XVII., a forlorn and friendless wanderer, died a miserable death in some obscure part of that vast city over which his ancestors had held such absolute sway. As for the numerous pretenders, some of them, there is no doubt, must have heard the tale of the Dauphin’s rescue from persons who had a hand in it, thus obtaining the material for the more or less plausible stories which made a considerable impression upon certain people who certainly should have known better. The Duchesse d’Angoulême, to the very end of her life, as has been said, was always declared to entertain grave doubts as to her brother having died in the Temple,—a fact which would account for her refusal to accept the heart of the boy buried as the Dauphin by the revolutionary authorities, a gruesome relic which was offered to her by Dr. Pelletan. There exists a story that she left Memoirs with a definite injunction that they were not to be published till one hundred years after her death—1951—and should there be any foundation for such a report it is therefore possible that those who live till that date may see some definite light thrown upon not the least fascinating of historical mysteries.