Many years afterwards when the splendors of the second empire, no longer a dream but a magnificent pageant, had dazzled mankind; after the fatal day of Sedan and the revolution of September which drove the lovely Eugenie from Paris, among the papers found at the Tuileries was a bill for the articles used in this disguise. It amounted to twenty-five francs. Upon so small a sum rested an empire. Through all those years of imperial magnificence, this man, with a heart full of sentimental longings, preserved in his palace this little paper memento of the hour which tried his soul.
On May 26th, the workmen would have completed their task; it was settled that on the 25th the attempt should be made. On the 24th, in bidding General Montholon and his wife good night, the prince embraced them with an emotion which came near betraying him; but neither of them suspected what was going on.
The day dawned on the 25th of May. The curé of Ham was to say mass at the fortress, in the chapel on the ground floor. Very early in the morning the prince wrote this note to him: “M. Dean, I should be glad to have you put off until to-morrow or the next day the mass you were to celebrate to-day at the chateau; for, as I suffered great pains on rising, I am obliged to take a bath to alleviate them.” This curé of Ham under the reign of Napoleon III was made a bishop and almoner of the Tuileries. At half-past six o’clock in the morning the workmen were already at work renewing the paint on the staircase. The captive abandoned himself to his destiny and assumed his disguise. The future emperor darkened his complexion and shaved off his mustache. Superstitious, and a fatalist, he concealed, under his apparel, a portfolio containing two letters, one from his uncle, the great Emperor, and the other from the Empress Josephine, his grandmother. These letters he regarded as talismans. It was a grave imprudence to take them, for if the fugitive had been arrested on his way they would have betrayed him.
His disguise accomplished, Prince Louis Napoleon put a pipe between his teeth and a plank on his shoulder. This plank, inscribed with the letter “N,” was one of his library shelves; he believed it would bring him good luck—it was the plank of his salvation. “If the escape is a failure,” he says, “I will not survive; if it succeeds I shall become master of France.” Romantic and eager for emotion, this man of calm and gentle manner delighted in thus braving fortune.
Charles Thelin asked the workmen to take a drink; they accepted and followed him into a room on the ground floor. Two wardens, however, were on duty; the prince passed down the stairs putting the plank before his face as he met one of the wardens at the foot. He passed the whole length of the court, keeping the plank constantly between himself and the sentinels. In passing the first sentry he let his pipe fall, stooped to pick up the pieces and then walked on. He met the officer of the guard who happened to be reading a letter and did not notice him. He passed under the commandant’s window to the only door of the fortress; the soldiers at the guard-house looked carelessly at the workman as he came near them; the drums rolled several times; the orderlies opened the door; the fugitive was outside the fortress. Just then, two workmen looking at him attentively, he shifted his plank to the shoulder next to them and heard one of them say: “It is Bertrand.”
In the meantime, Thelin, unrestricted, to a certain degree, in his comings and goings, had been talking to the soldiers and remarked, as he passed out of the fortress, that he would not be back until quite late. As soon as he was out of their sight he sped to Ham for a cab which he had engaged the day before, and hurried to overtake the prince on the St. Quentin road. A few days after, Louis Napoleon wrote to a friend: “When about half a league from Ham, while awaiting Charles, I found myself opposite the Cemetery Cross and fell on my knees before it and thanked God—ah, do not laugh at it! There are instincts that are stronger than all philosophic arguments.”
The prince hid his plank in a ditch, and sitting down on the side of the road, counted the minutes while he waited for Thelin. At last he saw him coming, and in about an hour they reached St. Quentin. Outside the city the prince alighted, leaving Thelin to go on alone; he removed his workman’s dress, hiding that also in a ditch, and then walked on to where he was to meet Thelin on the Valenciennes road.
Thelin had taken another carriage at St. Quentin, and overtaking the prince, they arrived at Valenciennes about 3 o’clock. Here they had to wait two interminable hours for the train to Brussels. While they were waiting, Thelin heard a loud voice calling him by name. Their hearts sank in despair. It proved, however, to be a former gendarme of Ham, who was now employed on the railroad. He asked for news of the prince and had a long conversation with Thelin but did not observe his companion.
The railway train at last drew up, they entered, and soon passed the boundary. The government of King Louis Phillippe had lost its captive. Eight hours after putting the plank on his shoulder, Louis Napoleon was in Belgium; twelve hours later he was in England.
Just as he arrived in London he passed an English acquaintance (Lord Malmesbury) who was on horseback and merely bowed in passing, without having an opportunity to speak. That evening Lord Malmesbury met at dinner an attaché of the French Embassy. “Have you seen him?” said he. “Seen whom?” asked the attaché. “Louis Napoleon; he has just arrived in London.” The diplomat left the table at once and went to communicate the news to his chief.