THE MYSTERY OF LOUIS XVII
The whole story of the Dauphin seems destined to be wrapped in impenetrable mystery, but, as has been said, it is now believed by those most competent to judge, including M. Sardou (probably the greatest living authority on the French Revolution) that the Dauphin did not, as is generally supposed, die in the prison of the Temple. There is, indeed, good reason to assume that having been got out by some means or other (possibly in a package of dirty linen carried by the wife of Simon, his gaoler), he was conveyed without the walls which encircled his prison. Once liberated, however, his rescuers must have become dispersed, very likely being themselves executed or imprisoned for some reason other than their share in his escape, and the child, already enfeebled by his captivity, alone in the seething whirlpool of revolutionary Paris, entirely devoid of resources of any kind, would under such circumstances have been in a very hopeless position. So in all probability poor little Louis XVII., a forlorn and friendless wanderer, died a miserable death in some obscure part of that vast city over which his ancestors had held such absolute sway. As for the numerous pretenders, some of them, there is no doubt, must have heard the tale of the Dauphin’s rescue from persons who had a hand in it, thus obtaining the material for the more or less plausible stories which made a considerable impression upon certain people who certainly should have known better. The Duchesse d’Angoulême, to the very end of her life, as has been said, was always declared to entertain grave doubts as to her brother having died in the Temple,—a fact which would account for her refusal to accept the heart of the boy buried as the Dauphin by the revolutionary authorities, a gruesome relic which was offered to her by Dr. Pelletan. There exists a story that she left Memoirs with a definite injunction that they were not to be published till one hundred years after her death—1951—and should there be any foundation for such a report it is therefore possible that those who live till that date may see some definite light thrown upon not the least fascinating of historical mysteries.
VII
Travelling abroad—Munich—Lack of comforts—Baths and bathing, then and now—A careless traveller—A carriage on a railway truck in recent years—The last of the Sedan-chairs—An eccentric menu—Abraham Hayward—Acclimatising crayfish—English truffles—Change in dinner hour—Old English fare—Careless housekeeping—Cookery books—Soyer and his wife—An obsolete custom—The triumph of tobacco.
Travelling on the Continent in old days was attended with many discomforts, which to the present generation would appear almost inconceivably irksome. In the first place, there was the passport nuisance, whilst the Customs regulations were infinitely more complicated and tedious than is at present the case. I remember that, in 1844, I nearly involved an old lady we knew—Miss Astley—in very serious trouble through innocently begging her to take a sealed packet to my sister, then staying at Mayence. In my little parcel were, amongst other things, four pairs of Tyrolean gloves, then much in fashion, and these nearly caused the arrest of this poor lady on the Belgian frontier, where the officials threatened the most frightful penalties, amongst them a fine of £50, for attempting to smuggle a lesser number of pairs of gloves through the Customs than the Belgian law allowed—the regulation being that nothing under a dozen pairs could be carried by travellers without liability to a very severe penalty. The postal arrangements abroad in old days were also totally inadequate.
CHILDISH DAYS AT MUNICH
As a child at Munich, in 1837, I recollect that our opportunities of communicating with friends in England were extremely limited, for we were practically dependent, so far as sending letters was concerned, upon our Minister or upon stray travellers passing through the city. Unfortunately for our correspondence, the English Minister had very little to communicate to the Foreign Office at home, and only sent a bag of dispatches about once a month, whilst the arrival of an English visitor was, in those days, quite an event in the old Bavarian city. Many of the habits and customs of the people of Munich were very strange and uncomfortable. The great families, for instance, entertained a strong dislike to having servants to board and sleep in their houses, and the consequence of this was that ladies, on returning from some grand party or other in a gorgeous carriage with two footmen behind, dressed in rich liveries and hats loaded with plumes and feathers, used to descend from their chariots, light their solitary night-lamps from the flambeaux of their departing footmen, and then sadly creep up to bed amidst the dreary and dismal solitude of a dark and deserted mansion.
At that time it was not at all an unusual thing on a cloudy day to see Bavarian officers, in full regimentals covered with enormous military cloaks, walking about attended by their footmen carrying umbrellas. Some of the young officers were very pleasant; we used to meet them at the table d’hôte, where, when tired of our own company, we used occasionally to dine. On one occasion I was very much amused at a newly fledged subaltern—a lieutenant, as he told us, of but six weeks’ standing—bashful and timid as a girl. That evening, for the first time, there happened to be a band at dinner, which surprised my mother, who inquired of the young officer—“D’où vient cette musique?” Blushing up to the eyes, he answered, “Madame la Comtesse, de la part du diable.” We had been talking of the opera, and the poor young man thought that my mother was asking what was the music which the band had been playing, which, oddly enough, happened to be a selection from a piece called “De la part du diable.”
We were all convulsed with laughter at this incident, which was rendered the more amusing on account of the complete mystification of the lieutenant as to what indiscretion he could have committed; however, when the matter was explained, he himself laughed just as merrily as the rest of us.
LACK OF COMFORTS