However, in the midst of this concert of praise, one discordant note was heard. A certain lawyer from Nivelle, called Masson, published a libel on the occasion. “Amongst several other things I have forgotten,” writes the Prince, “he said that at my entry as governor of Hainault I looked like an old Sultan, surrounded by women, to whom I devoted the whole of my attention, and that I had been stupid enough to accept in good faith acclamations of ‘Long live the Patriot Prince.’ This last statement is true. It was in a church, where I was either taking or administering the oath. I accepted this cry with the rest, without suspecting that its utterer had any malicious intention. As for the Sultan, he does me too much honour; it is true that, during my tedious progress, some very pretty girls threw bouquets into my carriage, and the crowd obliging them to stop near the door, I thanked them very much, and told them they were charming. The only reproach which might be considered not quite unfounded was that concerning my entry. The war had just ended, as well as the rebellion in the Netherlands, both of which had cost me a great deal of money. I might have made debts and covered my followers with gold lace; but I thought, on the contrary, the people would be grateful to me for not making too great a display. As I had two Turks, four Hussars, several bearded Russians, a Tartar with two dromedaries, and a Turkish band, he might very well compare me to Tamerlane or the Emperor of China, though I do not remember exactly which of the two I was supposed to resemble.”
The Princes were very heartily received by the inhabitants of the good town of Mons, where they were much beloved; on the following day they started with their family for Bel Œil.
As soon as he was settled the first thing the Prince did was to erect a monument in honour of his beloved son Charles, to perpetuate the memory of his brilliant conduct at Sabacz and at Ismaïl. He designed it himself, chose the site, and laid it out so as to imitate a spot in the Empress’s gardens at Czarskoë-Celo. “By following the left bank of the river,” he says, “you come upon an obelisk dedicated by Friendship to Valour. It is not my fault if Charles is the hero of it; it is not my fault if Charles distinguished himself in the war; it is not my fault if I am the father of such a perfect being. The father disappears, the man remains, and the hero is celebrated; I must not be accused of partiality, but I may be accused of pride.”
This obelisk, in marble, is forty-five feet high. On one side is inscribed, in gold letters, the following: “To my dear Charles, for Sabacz and Ismaïl;” on the second, “Nec te juvenis memoranda silebo;” and on the third, “His glory is my pride, his friendship my happiness.”
The de Lignes spent the summer at Bel Œil, happy to be quiet and united once more in the country they loved so well; but to an attentive observer the tranquillity which reigned in Flanders was not to be of long duration; threatening symptoms might be discerned on every side. The frightful progress of the French revolution, and the presence of the émigrés in the Netherlands, caused anxiety in many minds.
Savoy, Switzerland, the Black Forest, Liege, Treves, Luxemburg, and the Netherlands were the first asylums of the persecuted; it was only later on, when they had lost all hope of a speedy return, that they went to Vienna, London, Poland, and Russia. The Archduchess Marie Christine, regent in the Netherlands, was the sister of the Queen of France; it was natural she should protect the émigrés; but Leopold was not favourably disposed towards them, and in the very beginning of his reign he requested the Archduchess Christine and the Electors of Mayence, Cologne, and Treves to do all in their power to prevent the refugees and the Princes from doing anything rash. “Do not allow yourselves to be led into anything,” he wrote; “do nothing the French or the Princes ask you to do; meet them with civilities and dinners, but give them neither troops, money, nor help of any sort.” He entirely separated the cause of the King from that of the émigrés.
The Prince de Ligne was extremely ill-disposed towards the Emperor Leopold; he reproached him with having sucked the milk of Italian dissimulation, and he would not have anything to do with his pretended political calculations. He adored the Queen, and his heart leaped with indignation at the thought of the dangers which daily threatened her more and more.
He had vainly solicited a command in the Austrian army. Leopold had carefully avoided granting his request, for he feared the imprudences his vivacity, his opinions, and his chivalrous devotion might lead him to commit.
We must admit that the Prince de Ligne was no passionate admirer of liberty; he very soon foresaw the tendencies of the revolution, and in 1790 wrote to the Comte de Ségur concerning the National Assembly: “Greece had her philosophers, but they were only seven; you have twelve hundred of them at eighteen francs a day, having no mission but what they arrogate to themselves, no knowledge of foreign countries, no general plan of operations, and not even the sea, which is a sort of protection to the makers of empty phrases, and to the laws of the country it surrounds.”
The Prince never missed an opportunity of showing his sympathy for the royal family. One day he was present at a representation of Richard Cœur de Lion at the small theatre at Tournai. The public was chiefly composed of French émigrés, who were full of hope and illusion, impatiently awaiting the time when they should return to their country. The Prince could not hear without emotion the air of: O Richard! Ô mon roi! l’univers t’abandonne.[105] Tears came into his eyes, and the audience, perceiving his emotion, frantically applauded. “At that part,” says the Prince, “where the promise is made to avenge the poor captive king, I advanced, applauding as though I too wished to contribute my efforts. I was in earnest at the time, and it seemed likely that my services would be accepted. Suddenly the French ladies, both young and old, in the excitement rushed out of their boxes, and the whole of the pit, mostly consisting of young French officers, jumped on the stage, crying out: ‘Long live the King! Long live the Prince de Ligne;’ and they only stopped clapping their hands to wipe their eyes over-flowing with tears.”