Famous Assassinations of History from Philip of Macedon, 336 B. C., to Alexander of Servia, A. D. 1903

by Francis Johnson

The Duc d’Angoulême, and

The Duc de Berry.

The Comte d’Artois, the presumptive heir to the throne, was born in 1757, and was consequently fifty-seven years old on his return to Paris. He was ultra-Royalistic in his political views and was considered the head of the extremists. His eldest son, the Duc d’Angoulême, was born in 1775, and had retired from France with his father at the commencement of the Revolution. He was a man of very mediocre ability, but of exemplary character. In 1799 he was married to his cousin Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte, daughter of Louis the Sixteenth, who had passed her unhappy childhood in prison, which she had left only in 1795. She was worshipped by the entire royal family as an angel of kindness and mercy. They had no children.

The younger son, the Duc de Berry, was born in 1778, and had passed his youth and early manhood in exile. He had a more manly character than his brother, and the French nobility of the old régime looked upon him as the hope of the Bourbon dynasty. Far from being a genius, the Duc de Berry was a man of good intelligence, brave, dashing, and the very type of a French officer, prior to the Revolution. He had many of the generous traits, but also some of the vices of that elegant and high-spirited class of young men. While living in exile, in England, he formed a liaison with a young Englishwoman, who bore him two daughters, to whom he was greatly attached and whom he took to Paris and placed in a young ladies’ academy. In 1816 the King married him to a Neapolitan princess, Caroline, daughter of the Crown Prince of that kingdom, a handsome, high-spirited, healthy young woman, who gave promise of giving the dynasty direct heirs. The newly married couple lived very happily together, and enjoyed life in the French capital to its fullest extent. They were really the official representatives of royalty and its splendors,—neither the King nor the Duc d’Angoulême caring much for the entertainments, balls, and receptions of court life. The prominence thus given to the Duc de Berry, and the expectation that through him the elder line of the Bourbons would be continued explain fully why he was singled out as the victim of assassination. He was not only identified with the extreme Royalists, so odious to the people, but, with him out of the way, it was only a question of time when the elder branch of the dynasty would die out entirely, no more issue being expected from the Duc d’Angoulême, who had been married already twenty years without having children. Such were at least the considerations of the young man who undertook the perilous task of killing the Duc de Berry, and who fully accomplished his purpose.

This young man was Jean Pierre Louvel, a resident of Versailles, an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, whom he considered the living embodiment of the greatness and honor of France. Napoleon’s dethronement he wanted to revenge on the Bourbons, in whose interest it had taken place, and who, in his opinion, were utterly unworthy to rule over the French nation. Louvel was a saddler, thirty-two years of age, debilitated in appearance, and considered a political fanatic by all who knew him. He had no family or relations except one sister, considerably older than himself, who had brought him up, and with whom he lived. He hated the Bourbons so intensely that in 1814, when the royal family landed at Calais on their return from exile, he intended to make an attempt on the life of Louis the Eighteenth; but the great enthusiasm of the people discouraged him. During all these years his wrath against the Bourbons had steadily grown, and he had never for a moment abandoned his plan of killing the whole family,—first the Duc de Berry, then the Duc d’Angoulême, then the Comte d’Artois, and finally the King. He considered De Berry the most important and the most dangerous man of the whole family because in him were centred the hopes of continuing the dynasty.

He had been very persistent; he had found employment in the royal stables at Versailles, and whenever the Duc de Berry was out hunting, he tried to find an opportunity to get near him; he frequently went to Paris and studied the advertisements of new plays or operas, expecting that the Duke would attend a first performance. Twenty times he had been close to him on such occasions, but had always been prevented by the number of friends or attendants surrounding him from getting near enough to stab him, and stab him so well that he could not escape; for everything depended on making a success of the attempt.

After long and patient waiting he found his opportunity. It was during the last days of the carnival preceding the season of Lent, in February, 1820. The grand masquerade ball at the opera was to take place on the thirteenth, and it was a matter of absolute certainty that both the Duc and the Duchesse de Berry, who were very fond of dancing, would attend it. When Louvel got up and dressed, he had a joyful presentiment that that day would bring him the realization of his long-cherished plan. He had in his possession two daggers of very superior quality, both sharp as razors and strong enough to penetrate flesh and sinew to the handle. He had studied the human anatomy well enough to know exactly where to strike his victim. He chose the smaller dagger of the two because he could more easily conceal it; took his supper with good appetite and without betraying unusual agitation; and then he started on his mission of death. He was promptly at his post at eight o’clock when the carriage of the Duc de Berry drove up to the private entrance reserved for the members of the royal family. The Duke was not expected so early in the evening, and consequently there were not so many attendants gathered near the entrance. The Duke jumped out of the carriage, and held out his arm to help the Duchess to alight. This was the proper moment for Louvel, if he wanted to commit the crime. He was on the point of rushing toward the Duke, when the smiling and lovely face of the Duchess appeared in the light of the lantern, and this sight paralyzed the arm of the murderer. He hesitated at the thought that his crime would plunge these two happy persons into nameless misery, and before he had recovered his equanimity, the Duke and his wife had disappeared behind the entrance door of the theatre.

Louvel blamed himself for his faintness of heart and wanted to postpone the deed to some later day; but the thought that he would have to go back to Versailles in a few days and that no such opportunity might offer itself for a long time, caused him to change his mind. That very night his plan must be executed, and either the Duke or himself should perish. For several hours he strolled through the streets in the neighborhood of the Opera House, went to the garden of the Palais Royal and back again, always keeping a watchful eye on the carriages that stood waiting for the call of their owners. At twenty minutes past eleven the carriage of the Duc de Berry drove up to the entrance door. Louvel stood near by, almost hidden in the shadow of the wall, and entirely unnoticed by the attendants of the royal equipage. He was not kept waiting for a long time; for a little accident had occurred which induced the Duchess to return much sooner than they had anticipated. Their box at the Opera House was near that of the Duc and Duchesse d’Orléans, who were also at the theatre that evening; the two families were on terms of great intimacy, especially the two duchesses, both being Neapolitan princesses. At one of the intermissions of the performance De Berry and his wife went to the box of the Duc d’Orléans for a friendly chat, but on their return to their own box, a door opposite was quickly opened and struck the Duchess with such violence that she felt very unwell. In her delicate condition (she was enceinte at the time) she thought it would be better for her to return home than to wait for the close of the performance and the masquerade ball. The Duke therefore conducts his wife back to the carriage and lifts her into it; the Comtesse de Bétysi, her lady of honor, takes her seat by her side; the duke shakes hands with both ladies and with a smiling “au revoir, I’ll be home soon,” steps back from the carriage. At this moment Louvel rushes forward, lays his left hand on the duke’s right shoulder and plunges his dagger with so much force into the Duke’s right side that the weapon remains in the wound. The Duke, mortally wounded, sinks to his knees, and utters a slight scream, more of surprise than of pain. As is usually the case in such assaults, the victim had rather felt the shock than the wound, and only when he reached out with his hand to the spot where he had been hurt, he found the handle of the dagger, and comprehended the meaning of the attack. He then cried out: “I am struck to death, I have been assassinated!” and as he pulled the dagger from the wound, a stream of blood gushed forth. The Duke fainted in consequence of the loss of blood, and was carried back into the Opera House, where the Duchess followed him with loud screams. In the first confusion Louvel made his escape, but he was soon overtaken and brought back to the scene of the murder. The excitement and the indignation of the people were so great that he would have been torn to pieces but for the active protection of the police and of the servants of the Duc de Berry who were afraid that by his death his accomplices and accessories to the crime might be shielded.

The most eminent surgeons of Paris were immediately summoned to the assistance of the Prince. But the wound was fatal, and all their efforts were in vain. In the presence of death the Duc de Berry showed a very generous and magnanimous heart. He implored his wife, his brother, and all others surrounding his bed to use their influence with the King to get his murderer pardoned, and expressed his profound sorrow that he had been stabbed by a Frenchman. Up to his last moment the thought that his murderer would be executed in a cruel manner disturbed him, and when toward morning the King came to bid him farewell, he repeated his request that the murderer should be forgiven and not be executed; but without eliciting the promise from his uncle. With this dying request for the life of his murderer on his lips, he expired very early in the morning.

The sensation which the assassination of the Duc de Berry created not only in Paris, but throughout France and Europe, was enormous. All parties equally condemned and lamented the crime. While the ultra-Royalists deplored in the murder the extinction of all their hopes for the establishment of the old Bourbon dynasty on a sure foundation, the liberal parties foresaw that it would put an end to the liberal tendencies of the government of Louis the Eighteenth. The sinister forebodings of the liberals were only too well founded. The Royalists tried at first to create the impression that the murder was but the symptom of a widespread conspiracy organized by the revolutionary elements of the kingdom against the royal family and the entire nobility, and boldly charged the liberal policy of the government as being the cause of it. In a session of the Chambers one of the deputies went even so far as to move the impeachment of M. Decazes, Minister of the Interior, as an accessory to the crime committed by Louvel. While the Chambers refused to act upon this infamous motion, the entire Royalistic press demanded the dismissal of Decazes, and the King reluctantly yielded to the universal demand. “M. Decazes has slipped in the blood shed by Louvel’s dagger,” wrote Chateaubriand in commenting on the dismissal of the liberal minister. And that era of reaction and repression commenced which ten years later ended in the dethronement of the elder branch of the Bourbon dynasty and in the flight and exile of Charles the Tenth. The entire liberal party was punished for the crime of one fanatic.