My dearly beloved Victoria,—What a misfortune! What an awful, overwhelming, unexpected and inexplicable catastrophe. Is it possible that we should witness such events, and that this should be the end of nearly eighteen years of courageous and successful efforts to maintain order, peace, and make France happy, what she was? I have heard, I read hourly, what has happened: I cannot believe it yet; but if my beloved parents and the remainder of the family are at least safe I won't mind the rest. In the hours of agony we have gone through I asked God only to spare the lives, and I ask still nothing else: but we don't know them yet all saved, and till I have heard of my unfortunate parents, of my unhappy brothers far away, of all those for whom I would lay my life at any moment and whose danger I could not even share or alleviate, I cannot exist.
I was sure, my beloved Victoria, of all you would feel for us when you would hear of these awful events. I received yesterday your two kind, warm, sympathising letters of the 25th and 26th, and thank you with all my heart for them, and for yours and Albert's share and sympathy.
ANXIETY OF QUEEN LOUISE
Our anguish has been undescribable. We have been thirty-six hours without any news, not knowing even if my parents and the family were still alive or not, and what had been their fate. Death is not worse than what we endured during these horrible hours. We don't know yet what to think, what to believe, I would almost say, what to wish; we are stunned and crushed by the awful blow. What has happened is unaccountable, incomprehensible; it appears to us like a fearful dream. Alas! I fear my dear beloved father was led away by his extreme courage; by that same courage which had made his success and a part of his strength; for it is strange to say that even those that deplored most his resolution never to yield on certain things gave him credit for it. The exaggeration of the system of peace and resistance, or rather immobility, lost him, as that of war lost Napoleon. Had he shunned less war on all occasions, and granted in time some trifling reforms, he would have satisfied public opinion, and would probably be still where he was only eight days ago, strong, beloved, and respected! Guizot's accession has been as fatal as his fall, and is perhaps the first cause of our ruin, though my father cannot be blamed for having kept him in office, as he had the majority in the Chamber, and an overwhelming one. Constitutionally, he could not have been turned out, and it was impossible to foresee that when all was quiet, the country prosperous and happy, the laws and liberty respected, the Government strong, a Revolution—and such a Revolution—would be brought on by a few imprudent words, and the resistance (lamentable as it was) to a manifestation which, in fact, the Government had a right to prevent. It was the Almighty's will: we must submit. He had decreed our loss the day He removed my beloved brother7 from this world. Had he lived still, all this would have turned otherwise. It has been also an immense misfortune that Joinville and Aumale were both away. They were both popular (which poor dear never-to-be-sufficiently-respected Nemours was not), energetic, courageous, and capable of turning chance in our favour. Oh! how I long to know what is become of them! I cannot live till then, and the thought of my unfortunate parents annihilates me! Poor dear Joinville had foreseen and foretold almost all that has happened, and it was the idea of the crisis he apprehended which made him so unhappy to go. He repeated it to me several times six weeks ago. Alas! nobody would believe him, and who could believe that in a day, almost without struggle, all would be over, and the past, the present, the future carried away on an unaccountable storm! God's will be done! He was at least merciful to my dear Aunt, and I hope He will preserve all those dear to me!
Here everything is quiet: the horror general, and the best feeling and spirit prevailing. There is still now nothing to fear: but if a republic really established itself in France, it is impossible to tell what may happen. For this reason your Uncle thinks it right that we should remove to some place of safety what we have of precious. If you permit I will avail myself of the various messengers that are going now to send under your care several boxes, which you will kindly send to Claremont to Moor, to keep with those your Uncle already sent. They contain your Uncle's letters and those of my parents—the treasure I most value in the world.
29th.—My dearly beloved Victoria,—This was written yesterday, in a moment of comparative quiet, when I thought my parents at least safe and in security in England. Albert's letter to your Uncle of the 27th, which arrived yesterday evening, says they were not arrived yet, and I am again in the most horrible agony. I had also yesterday evening details of their flight (my father flying!!!) by Madame de Murat, Victoire's lady, who has gone to England, which quite distracted me. Thank God that Nemours and Clém at least are safe! I am quite unable to say more, and I hope the Duchess and Alexandrine will excuse me if I don't write to them. Truly, I can't. I thank you only once more, my beloved Victoria, for all your kindness and interest for my unfortunate family, and trust all the anxiety you feel for us won't hurt you. God bless you ever, with all those dear to you. Believe me always, my beloved Victoria, yours most devotedly,
Louise.
I send you no letter for my mother in the present uncertainty.
Footnote 7: The Duc d'Orléans, who was killed on 13th July 1842.