Nevertheless, it is well to mention the account given of them by a friend of our heroine, the Countess MacNamara, who seems to have been very well acquainted with the different particulars of her life. She tells us that the young couple, who, if we are to believe her, had not many friends in England, decided to go to the Continent, and live at Versailles.[12] (The explanation does not seem a very plausible one.) There the charm of the young wife, her pretty voice, the receptions which she soon began to give, and to which, thanks to her husband’s wealth, she was able to lend so much brilliancy, opened to her quickly the doors of all the society connected with the Court. In the Queen’s set, the beautiful Duchess de Polignac, in particular, took a great fancy to this graceful foreigner; and was desirous, in her turn, to make her known to her august friend. Thus it came about that Lady Atkyns was introduced into the circle of Marie-Antoinette’s intimates. Even more completely than the others, the new-comer fell under the Queen’s spell. A current of ardent sympathy established itself between the two women. They were united by a deep and intimate mutual comprehension and sympathy. For any one who knew Lady Atkyns, it was certain that these first impressions would not fade, but that they would prove to be, on the contrary, the first-fruits of an unalterable friendship. These are the only materials one has for the details of that sojourn at Versailles. When exactly did the Atkynses resolve upon this move? Their only child, a son, must have been born before it took place. What were their plans in coming to the Court? All these are insoluble problems.
They were probably at Versailles when the first revolutionary troubles broke out. They were present, perhaps, at the opening of the States General, that great national function; and they were among those who shuddered at the taking of the Bastille. When the October days brought back the Royal family in a mournful procession to Paris, the young couple were already gone—already too far away to enter into the anxieties and sufferings of those whom they loved.
A brief mention, a few words found after patient research, in dusty registers, tell us enough to make us certain of their fate. This is one of the joys of the explorer in this sort—to find buried under the waste of years of accumulated official papers, a feeble light, a tiny, isolated indication, which opens, none the less, an infinite horizon before him.
In the autumn of the year 1789, an Englishwoman, named by the officials charged with the collection of a special poll-tax, Milady Charlotte, arrived at Lille with one servant.[13]
In December, she installed herself in the parish of St. André, in a house in the Rue Princesse, then numbered 337, which belonged to a gentleman named De Drurez. Of her husband there is no mention, nor is her surname given. Probably she had stayed some time at an inn, before settling down in Rue Princesse; but what is to be concluded from so vague an appellation as “Milady Charlotte”? Why did she conceal half her name? Nevertheless, at Lille there is some information to be had about her. We know that she was pensioned upon the Royal Treasury, since she is described as a French pensioner.
In the following year she increases her establishment, keeping one more servant; her poll-tax, which had been 14 louis, now rises to 16. We may add here that, in order to satisfy our curiosity, we have examined—but in vain—the lists of the pensioners from the Royal Treasury at that period; there is no mention anywhere either of Milady Charlotte or of Lady Atkyns—not even in those which relate to the Queen’s household.[14]
By what right did she enjoy this pension? By the same, probably, as so many of those favoured folk whose names fill the famous red-books—the books whose publication was to let loose the fury of the half of France upon the Court and the nobility, because they showed so plainly what treasures had been swallowed up in that abyss.
As we have said, the documents say nothing of the presence of Edward Atkyns at Lille—nothing, that is, with one exception, which, delicate as it is, cannot be passed over in silence. Had disunion already crept into the household? Had the pretty girl from Drury Lane found out too late that he to whom she had given her heart and her life was no longer entirely worthy of her gifts? Perhaps. At any rate, on March 20, 1791, the curate of the parish of St. Catherine at Lille baptized a male child, son “of Geneviève Leglen, native of Lille,” whose father declared himself to be Edward Atkyns.[15] Henceforth this last individual disappears completely from the scene in which we are interested; we shall merely learn that in 1794 Charlotte Atkyns was left a widow.
This somewhat lengthy digression was necessary in order to portray the lady whom Frotté was to designate as “That heroic and perfect being,” and who was to take such a hold upon his life. How did they become acquainted? Probably very quickly, in one of the numerous drawing-rooms where Lille society congregated, at balls, at the theatre, in the concert-hall. The white tunic, with red facings, of the “Colonel-Generals” was eagerly welcomed everywhere. As one of his friends wrote to Frotté: “All the decent people in the town will be delighted to see the uniform, if you wear it there!” And one can imagine the long talks that the young officer had with his fair friend in that winter of ’89—talks that circled always around one precious topic. Already full of Royalist feeling, Frotté grew enthusiastic for the Queen’s cause, as he listened to the stories about Versailles, to the reminiscences of her kindness, her charm, her affectionate ways—of the thousand characteristics, so faithfully recounted by the friend who had come under her influence.[16]