The Capuchin friars gave her Royal Highness a cordial reception, and within their sacred precincts even allowed her and some of her French attendants to sleep. In return for this knightly rather than saintly courtesy, she instituted an order of chivalry, and, after looking about for a saint by way of godmother to the new institution, she fixed upon St. Caroline. In vain was it suggested to her that there was no such saint in the Calendar. She had a precedent by way of authorisation. Napoleon had compelled St. Roch to make way for St. Napoleon, and why should not Caroline have ‘Saint’ prefixed to it, and shine as the patroness of the new order? She, of course, had her way, created poor young Austin a knight, and solemnly instituted Baron Bergami as grand master. They looked more like strolling players than ever; the Baron none the less so when his royal mistress placed on his breast the insignia of the order of ‘St. Sepulchre’ by the side of the star of the newly-appointed St. Caroline.
With these new dignitaries the party proceeded to view all the spots where there is nothing to be seen, but where much that is false may be heard if the guides be listened to. For miles round there was not a scene that had been the stage of some great event, or was hallowed by the memory of some solemn deed or saintly man, that the Princess did not visit. Having spent upon them all the emotion she had on hand, she trotted off to Jericho, her panting attendants following her; and, having found the place uninhabitable from the fierce heat which prevailed there, the strolling Princess and her fellow-players rushed back to the sea, and, scarcely pausing at Jaffa, embarked hurriedly on board the polacca there awaiting them, and set sail in hopes of speedily encountering refreshing gales and recovering the vigour they had lost.
Their singing ‘Veni Aura’ brought not the gale they invoked. The sun darted his rays down upon them with greater intensity than ever, and accordingly the Princess raised a gay tent upon the deck, beneath its folds sat by day, took all needful refreshment, and slept by night; the Grand Master of the Order of St. Caroline fulfilling during all that time the office of chamberlain.
The weary and feverish hours were further enlivened by a grand festival held on board on St. Bartholomew’s day, in honour of Bartholomew Bergami and the saint of the former name, who was supposed to be the patron and protector of all who bore it. The Princess drank to the Baron, and the latter drank to the Princess, and mirth and good humour, not to say jollity, abounded; and perhaps by the time the incident is as old as the descent of the Nile by Cleopatra is now it may appear as picturesque and poetical as that does. It certainly lacks the picturesque and poetical elements at present.
It is the maxim of sailors that they who whistle for a breath of air will bring a storm. Our travellers only longed for the former, but they were soon enveloped by the latter, through which they contrived to struggle till, on the 20th of September, they made Syracuse, and were inexorably condemned to a quarantine of the legitimate forty days’ duration. At the end of this time an Austrian vessel conveyed them to Rome. After a brief but by no means a dull sojourn in that city, the Princess led the way to her home in the Villa d’Este, on the Lake of Como, where she and the Countess Oldi exhibited the proficiency they had acquired as travellers by cooking their own dinners and performing other little feats of amiable independency.
And now, as if to authorise the simile made with respect to the illustrious party, and their resemblance to a strolling company of players, private theatricals became the most frequent pastime of the lady of the villa and her friends. If she enacted the heroine, the Baron was sure to be the lover. Marie Antoinette, it was said, used to act in plays on the little stage at Trianon. The case was not to be denied; but then the wife of Louis XVI. did not exchange mock heroics with an ex-courier. On the other hand, the dukes and counts she played with were often less respectable than the loosest of menials.
The agents, whose employers were to be found in England, had not been idle during the Princess’s period of travel. They had been helped by none so effectually as by herself. She had courted infamy by her heedless conduct, and, cruelly as she was used, the blame does not rest wholly with her persecutors. Her indiscretions seemed indulged in expressly to give warrant for suspicion that she was more than indiscreet, and therewith even the most innocent incidents were twisted by the ingenuity of spies and their agents into crimes. The Baron d’Ompteda had been the most assiduous and the best paid of the spies who hovered incessantly about her, to misrepresent all he was permitted to see. He was banished from the Austrian territory at the request of the Princess, whose champion, the gallant Lieutenant Hownam, sought in vain to bring him to battle and punish him for his treachery towards a lady. On the other hand, the Austrian authorities commanded Bergami to divest himself of the Cross of Malta, which he was wearing without legal authorisation—a disgrace which his rash and imprudent mistress thought she had effaced by purchasing for the disknighted chevalier an estate, and putting him in full possession of the rights and dignity of lord of the manor.
Early in 1817 the Princess repaired to Carlsruhe, on a visit to the Grand Duke of Baden. She was received courteously, but not warmly enough to induce her to make a long sojourn. This Duke was not anxious to detain a guest so eccentric. Lord Redesdale told Miss Wynn, who set the story down in her ‘Diaries,’ that ‘when the Princess was at Baden, and the Grand Duke made a partie de chasse for her, she appeared on horseback with a half pumpkin on her head. Upon the Grand Duke’s expressing astonishment, and recommending a coiffeur rather less extraordinary, she only replied that the weather was hot, and that nothing kept the head so cool and comfortable as a pumpkin. Her next point was Vienna, from which city she had frightened Lord Stewart, the British ambassador, by an intimation that she was coming to take up her residence with him, and to demand satisfaction for the insults to which she had been subjected by persons who were spies upon her conduct. She experienced nothing but what she might have expected in Vienna—a contemptuous neglect; and soon quitting that city she repaired to Trieste, and tarried long enough there to compel the least scrupulous to think that, if she possessed the most handsome of chamberlains, she was herself the weakest and least wise of ladies. He was now her constant and almost only attendant in public. English families had long ceased to show her any respect. They could not manifest it for a woman who, by courting an evil reputation, evidently did not respect herself. What was her being innocent, if she always so acted as to make herself appear guilty? She might as well have asserted that her openly attending Mass with Bergami was not to be taken as proof of her being a very indifferent Protestant.
She became in every sense of the word a mere wanderer, apparently without object, save flying from the memories which she could not cast off. She was constantly changing her residence—so constantly as to make her career somewhat difficult to follow; but we know that she was residing at Pescaro when she received intelligence which she least expected, and which deeply affected her. During her absence from England her daughter had married Prince Leopold, and the mother had hoped to find friends at least in this pair, if not now, at some future period. But now she had heard that her child and her child’s child were dead. ‘I have not only,’ she wrote to a friend in England, ‘to lament an ever-beloved child, but one most warmly attached friend, and the only one I have had in England; but she is only gone before—I have not lost her, and I now trust we shall soon meet in a much better world than the present one. For ever your truly sincere friend, C. P.’
This calamity, however, had no effect in rendering the writer more circumspect. Her course of life, without being one of the gross guilt it was described, was certainly one not creditable to her. Exaggerated reports, which grew as they were circulated, startled the ears of her friends and gladdened the hearts of her enemies. They were at their very worst when, in 1820, George III. ended his long reign, and Caroline Princess of Wales became Queen-consort of England.