Such, under his various aspects, was the brother I had lost.
I reached Neuilly in time to be present at his solemn funeral, which took place at Notre-Dame amid the most touching proofs of the general sorrow. We took him to the mausoleum at Dreux, and then we shut ourselves up at Neuilly to cling to each other and mourn him in silence and retirement.
But though my brother Nemours, upon whom the eventual duties of Regent fell by the Duc d'Orleans' death, was by that fact prevented from going away, neither I nor my other brothers, who wore the King's uniform, were able to remain long in idleness.
Aumale was appointed to the command of the Province of Tittery, in Algiers. The Belle-Poule was ordered on a cruise along the Guinea Coast and to South America, touching first of all at Lisbon, and it was settled that Aumale should take passage on board her as far as that port. So after a sad farewell we started together to join her at Brest. As our mourning exempted us from all official receptions, we took the longest way round, by the Loire Valley, with its ancient castles, the wild country of Morbihan, and the picturesque scenery of Finistere. Our first stage was to Blois, where we went to see the castle, an historic gem, then on to Amboise, Saumur, Angers, Pont-de-Ce, and Nantes. Everything about that journey—scenery, monuments, memories, legends—is delightful. It is a touching unfolding of the history of old France—that France of bygone days, which, with her faded glories and her chivalrous adventures, consoles those who love her for the calamities born of revolution. We made a short stay at Nantes, whence Aumale went to Chateaubriand to look at his property with M. de la Haye-Jousselin, while I went to Karheil to see the chateau of the Coislin family. This was for sale, and my father was anxious to buy it as a centre to the sandy tracts of Saint Gildas and Lanvaux, which he owned already, and which previous to the year 1830, he had planted with trees, which had done well.
On my way to Karheil I passed through Blain, where I saw the ruins of the famous castle of the Rohans, the cradle of that mighty race. Only two out of the nine towers adorning it are still standing. The rest were pulled down during the Revolution. The heart tightens at the sight of these ruins scattered in all directions and the inevitable repetition of the phrase, "Destroyed during the Revolution." The Saracens and Huns did no worse things.
In the company of an aged man with powdered wig and side curls, the picture of an old-fashioned henchman, and armed with full powers from the Coislin as well as from the Rohan family, I went to see Karheil, a castle perched on a rock, encircled by a pretty stream. The glades of the fine park were obstructed by fences, hedges, and ditches, and other artificial obstacles, which turned them into a steeplechase course—an arrangement, so M. Bizeul told me, of M. le Marquis "for the amusement of the people coming to the chateau." Then he looked at me. I know not what he read in my eyes, but a paroxysm of grief seized him, and he was almost in tears as he confided to me the sorrow he felt at seeing one of the oldest and most venerated families in Brittany go down the hill. And the old friend of the family had good reason to be grieved. There was good stuff in the Marquis de Coislin of that date. As a young man he had put himself at the head of his devoted partisans, like a gallant knight, in the Duchesse de Berry's insurrection. Later on, I had met him in Paris, a splendid gentleman, whose deep glance breathed passion, and no doubt inspired it too. Many years later yet, in 1871, those who saw Charette's Zouaves fighting with the army of the Loire noticed in their ranks a tall old white-bearded man, a simple Zouave indeed, but an exemplar of courage and devotion. That was the Marquis de Coislin. Sad it is that it is through our revolutions and divisions the services of such men should be lost to France.
From Nantes too I went to see the naval workshops at Indret, where I was received by exceedingly capable and intelligent chiefs of departments, and where I saw a body of artificers quite out of the common, but all of them misplaced in a badly situated establishment, the original plan of which was utterly defective, and in which they were forced to vegetate uselessly in spite of their own impotent efforts and endeavours. Thence we took our way across the Morbihan to Vannes, which during the whole of my father's reign was administered by the same prefect, and that with the esteem of every party. An exceptional case this (especially when the state of latent civil war in which the department was, is considered), and one much to the credit of the gentleman in question, M. Lorois. Our journey was so hurried that we had barely time to kneel at the shrine of St. Anne d'Auray, so highly venerated by Breton pilgrims, and to give some hasty alms to the crowd of beggars clustered on the steps of the sanctuary. They all limped off at once, with a great clatter of crutches and wooden shoes, to fetch us water from the Bonne-Mere to wash our faces and eyes with. The journey across Brittany from Nantes to Brest, by Auray, Rosporden, and Quimper, is a delightful one. Smiling and picturesque scenery everywhere, old churches too, surrounded by fine trees, and at the period of which I speak, 1842, the quaintest of costumes as well. Here withy-cutters, or salt-marsh workers from Guerande, in blouses, breeches, and long white gaiters, with broad-brimmed hats laden with charms on their flowing hair. There people from St. Pol-de-Leon, all in black. Further on, a group of women, in embroidered bodices and quaint headdresses, kneeling on the open heath, at the foot of a stone cross. How pretty those little Breton women are with their well-shaped waists and their short petticoats, showing glimpses of neat blue stockinged legs, and fresh rosy faces under their white caps! Those eyes of theirs are cast down devoutly at their prayers, but on feast days they are raised and shine with passionate fire. On such occasions, if we may believe report, the pretty little devotees follow the guidance of that eleventh commandment, which, according to the late Lord Clarendon, sums up all the rest:
D'etre pince te garderas,
Afin de fauter librement—
or, in the English version, "Thou shalt not be found out."
We reached Lisbon after a swift passage. The Tagus is a fine river, certainly, but, to my mind, the much vaunted panorama of Lisbon does not merit its reputation. The Tower of Belem alone, with its curious architecture, enchants the eye, and the enchantment is prolonged, on landing, by the sight of the exquisite church standing behind it. But there it ends. All the rest is ugliness. We went ashore in the royal launch (Falua), a vessel adorned with gilt carvings, and with a silken awning over her stern. The crew were men from Algarve, with tanned skins, dressed in short drawers and jackets of amaranth-coloured velvet, with Venetian caps on their heads. They stood upright to row, keeping their strokes in time to a sort of litany in the Queen's honour, which they sang in chorus.