Though it continued to rain, as I had purchases to make and a letter to put in the post for Paris, I changed my dress and we went out for the purpose, crossing in our wanderings the Piazza, on whose centre stands the old palace, built by Amedée the Eighth in 1416, flanked by its four massive towers, but in my opinion injured by the addition of an ornamented façade of 1720. Its interior was decorated, and its splendid staircase built, by command of Christina, daughter of France and duchess of Savoy. Before her time it was said of this palace that it was a house without a staircase, as now that it is a staircase without a house, the former being far too grand for the apartments to which it leads.
The stables for our horses are less delightful than the inn for ourselves, being dark, ill-kept, and crowded. D—— bribed away a horse of kicking reputation, whose vice Fanny the more excited by running at him open-mouthed, there seeming to be in her small body no room for fear. In his visits to see them fed he nearly stumbled over a poor fellow who lay in one of the stalls. His wife now and then brought him drink; he was very ill of fever his fellow hostlers said unconcernedly, and to lie with clothes on and with damp litter for bed seemed a strange remedy.
Next me at the table d’hôte sat an old man with long white hair, who I found on inquiry to be the Conte F——. We entered into conversation: he was just arrived from Chambéry, and had crossed Mont Cenis in snow and mist, and exclaimed when I told my intention of doing so on horseback to-morrow. The kind old gentleman offered me his carriage, and when I pertinaciously refused, implored me to accept additional cloaks; and was affectionate and anxious as if he had been my father.
We certainly start in the morning: for that snows, having once fallen, will diminish this season, there is little chance. The journey to Susa would be too long a one, and we are told we may be decently lodged at Sant’Ambrogio.
Though it be a long story, yet from the interest it casts on Turin, I will, for your sake, insert here that of the abdication of Victor Amedée the Second; the same king who erected the Superga, and lies buried within its walls. About a month previous to his renunciation of his crown, he espoused secretly the widow of the count of St. Sebastian, the object of his early love, then fifty years of age. Victor declared to his son his intention of abdicating; and as he had proposed to himself for model the Emperor Charles the Fifth, he chose that a like ceremonial should be observed, and his court and ministers were summoned to the castle of Rivoli, which lies on the road to Susa and near Turin: of the cause which assembled them none were informed except the prince of Piedmont and the Marquis del Borgo. In the presence of all, the latter read the act of abdication, the king preserving throughout the proud and solemn demeanour which was natural to him. He led, when it was ended, the countess of St. Sebastian to the princess, become queen. “My daughter,” he said, “I present to you a lady who is about to sacrifice herself for me; I pray you show respect to her and her family.”
Reserving to himself no more than a nobleman’s fortune, with the countess, now marchioness of Spino, he retired to Chambéry. For a time indeed, but of brief duration, the new monarch asked his father’s counsel in all affairs of moment, and sent his ministers to seek it across the mountains; but he grew weary of divided power, as did Victor Amedée of the idleness he had chosen, and the marchioness of Spino urged him to resume the reins he had dropped unadvisedly. He arrived at Rivoli suddenly; but Charles Emmanuel, who had been absent also, informed of his movements, at the same time re-entered the capital, and the old king heard with extreme annoyance the cannon which pealed to welcome him. The two monarchs had an interview, embarrassed on both sides. The father spoke of the air of Savoy as injurious to his health, and the son commanded that the castle of Moncaglieri should be prepared for his reception, whither (also by his command) the court went, apparently to do him homage; but in reality to watch and report his actions. It was noticed that the manners of the marchioness had altered; that when she visited the queen she occupied an arm-chair, similar to hers; and at last, the moment for action come, Victor Amedée demanded of the Marquis del Borgo the act of his abdication, desiring him to make known his intention of wearing again the crown he had laid aside. The minister hesitated to reply; the old king insisted on his obedience within twelve hours, and this, fearing to excite Victor’s fury, he promised and departed. The king remained in agitation of mind, half repenting his confidence in del Borgo; till, when the clocks had tolled midnight, taking a sudden resolution, he mounted his horse and followed but by one servant, sought the citadel and summoned the governor to open the gates to him. He was refused, and returned in disappointment to Moncaglieri. Meanwhile the council assembled on the information of the minister, and the arrest of the father was signed by the son, whose hand, it is said, shook so violently, that the secretary of state was obliged to support it. The marquis of Ormea, preceded by a company of grenadiers, arrived at Moncaglieri, whose walls other troops had already surrounded, conducted thither without knowing whither they were going or wherefore. The king slept profoundly in the chamber with the marchioness, and the noise made as they ascended the grand staircase, seizing on the person of an attendant, who lay in the ante-chamber, and bursting open the doors, did not wake him. The marchioness, startled from her slumbers, sprang from her bed and towards a private door, hoping to escape. She was arrested and placed in a carriage, which, escorted by fifty dragoons, took at a gallop the road to the fortress of Ceva in Piedmont. Not even her cries, as she was forced away, could wake the king, who was of apoplectic habit, and whose sleep was like a lethargy. One seized his sword which lay on the table, and the Comte de la Perouse, drawing his curtains back, at last roused him, and showed the order of which he was “bearer from the king.” “What mean you by the king?” exclaimed Victor; “dare you to recognise another than me, who am your sovereign and your master?”
“You were so, sire,” replied La Perouse, “till yourself commanded that our obedience should be transferred to King Charles; we, therefore, pray you to give us the example of obedience now.”
The old man, furious, refused to rise, and gave a blow to the chevalier of Salace, who approached too near his bed. He was lifted perforce from it, and, partly dressed and enveloped in blankets, carried rather than led to the carriage, which waited in the court. As he crossed the ante-chamber he seemed surprised to see there his grenadiers; and the men and their officers, astonished in turn, murmured, “It is the king; why should he be a prisoner? what has our old master done?”
The Count of La Perouse, fearing mutiny, exclaimed, “In the king’s name and on pain of death, silence!” and hurried the old monarch on.
In the court-yard stood ranged a regiment of dragoons, which had distinguished itself under his own eye, and which he had always favoured. Their presence affected him, and he stepped forward to speak; but a sign was made to the drummers, who covered his voice, and those who stood round forced him to enter the carriage. On leaving Moncaglieri he had made three demands—for his wife, his papers, and his snuff-box; but only the last was granted. The day after his arrival at Rivoli, iron bars and double frames were placed to the windows of his apartments.