And Frotté went on to describe his past life to his friend, telling him of the way he had behaved hitherto, of the principles that had guided him, the hopes he had cherished in the brighter opening days of life; then the disappointments and the discomfitures that had overwhelmed him. The events he had lived through filled his mind with bitterness.
“I was born to be a good son and a good friend, a tender lover, a good soldier, a loyal subject—in a word, a decent fellow. But it breaks my heart to see how my compatriots have altered from kindly human beings to crazy ruffians, and have so accustomed themselves to slaughter, incendiarism, murder, and robbery, that they can never again be what they used to be. They have trampled every virtue under foot; they torture the hearts that still love them.... And my own profession, soldiering, is dishonoured; there is no glory about it now; my country is in a state of anarchy which appals me.”
Very evident in these pages, written in a delicate cramped handwriting, is the continual bent towards self-analysis, towards minute details of feeling, towards a lofty and remote attitude, so markedly characteristic of Frotté’s prose.
Many pages of the thick, ribbed paper, fastened together with a sky-blue ribbon, are filled with the same kind of reflections; then he suddenly breaks off altogether. Had he carried out his intention? Was that why he ceased to write? Not at all; for two months later, on April 10, there is a further confession, and the young soldier-philosopher begins by admitting that he has changed his mind; he defends himself on that point, and says that reflection has made him resolve to give up such gloomy views for himself. First of all, the fear of causing irreparable grief to his father had made him pause (and yet their relations do not seem to have been so affectionate as of yore);[21] and then the desire to settle certain debts, considerable enough, that he would leave behind him.
“In fact,” (he says) “since fresh troubles are overwhelming me, I have decided not to choose this moment for suicide. I want to be quite calm, on the day that I set out on the Great Journey.... The month of August saw my birth; it shall see my death.... But I don’t want to play for effect. I try my best to seem just the same and to let no one guess what I am thinking of.... Then there’s another reason for my going on with life. Since I was born a nobleman of France, I want to do my duty as one.... My sword may still be of some use to my King and to my friends; and since I must die, I want my death to benefit my family and my country.... I shall fasten up this confession, until the moment comes for me to die. If I have the good luck to fight, and die in the cause of honour, this, my dear Lamberville, will console you a little, for it will prove to you that death was a comfort to me. If disorder and dissolution are still reigning in France when August comes, if there has been no attempt to restore order—then I shall lose all hope, and all the reasons that I give you here will acquire full force. I shall not be able to hesitate. I shall then take up my pen again to add my last wishes, and my last farewell to my tenderest and dearest friend.”
In spite of the melancholy tone of these pages, their author had finally taken the advice which came to him from all directions, from people who loved him and were in his confidence, and who deeply grieved to hear of such a state of mind. There was none more loyal than that young Vallière of whom we have already spoken. At that time he was on leave in the Caux district. Frotté and he were very intimate, and Vallière knew every step that was made towards the carrying out of the plot which had been arranged simultaneously at Lille and at Dunkirk.
“I am very sorry,” he wrote to his friend on November 13, 1790, “that the things you had to tell me could only be entrusted to me verbally. However, in the absence of further knowledge, there was nothing for me to do but simply come here,[22] where in any case I had business, and where I am now waiting quietly for the carrying out of the promises you made me, being, as you know, fully prepared. But, my dear fellow, I see with amazement that nothing as yet is happening to verify your forecast. Can you possibly have been prematurely sanguine, or has the plan miscarried? Perhaps it is merely a question of delay—Well! That is all right, and I hope that’s what it is.”[23]
Two months later, Vallière, who had doubtless gone to Paris to make inquiries, gave the following account of his journey:—
“I came back on the 3rd instant; and I shall have no difficulty in telling you of all my doings in Paris, for I did nothing in the least out-of-the-way. I lived there like a good quiet citizen, who confines himself to groaning (since he can do nothing better) over all the afflicting things he sees. I went from time to time to see our ‘August Ones,’ and they always put me in a furious temper.”
Our “August Ones,” as Vallière mockingly called them, were the members of the Constituent Assembly, and they were busied with the elaboration of that gigantic piece of work, the Constitution, which was to substitute the new order for the old traditions of France. Little by little the edifice was growing, built upon the ruins of the past. The sight of it filled with vexation and fury those who, like Frotté, deplored the fallen Royalty, the lost privileges, the dispossessed nobility, of the old order. For the rest, our chevalier, during his stay at Dunkirk, had frequent news about his fair friend at Lille. One day it would be a brother officer who would write, “I played cards yesterday with your fair lady, who looked as pretty as an angel, if angels ever are so pretty as were told they are. She is going to have her portrait painted in oils by my favourite artist. I dare say she’ll manage somehow to get a copy done in miniature for her Chevalier!”[24]