CHAPTER X

THE COMTE DE CHAMBORD AND HIS PARTY

I had had the honour to be introduced to the Comte de Chambord in Vienna, long before the fall of the Empire had once more put him forward as a Pretender to the throne of France; I had even once or twice been invited to Frohsdorf. These visits always left me a sadder if not a wiser man. They were more like a pilgrimage to an historical monument, than a visit to a living man. Everything seemed dead in that small, unpretentious house, for it could hardly be called a castle, in which the last direct descendant of Louis XIV. was ending his uneventful existence. The walls themselves told you of something that was past and gone, and the inhabitants of this living grave flitted like ghosts of the great traditions that were embodied in them. Everything was dignified, solemn, and hushed. The rooms were small, but full of great things and mementoes, from the large equestrian portrait of Henri IV., to the stately picture of Louis XVI., and the smiling one of unfortunate Marie Antoinette. Lackeys in the blue livery of the House of France, met you at the door, and ushered you into an unpretentious study, where, sitting at a table littered with books and papers, the Comte de Chambord was awaiting his visitors.

He was a most charming man, with grand manners, and much stateliness, but one on whom the many deceptions of his life had left their impress, and aged before his time. He always questioned all those whom he was about France, Paris, and everything that was going on there, taking the liveliest interest in his country, but not understanding it at all, and not realising that the France of after the Revolution was no longer the France which the old Bourbon monarch had ruled. He had strong principles, earnest convictions, was in the full sense of the term a “chevalier sans peur et sans reproche,” but he harboured no illusions as to his possibilities of playing any part in the political life of his country. Had he had any children it is probable that he would have tried to reconcile the traditions of his family with the requirements of modern France, but in presence of the fact that with him the elder branch of the House of Bourbon was coming to an end, he must have had the feeling, though he never owned to it in public, that there was no necessity for him to abdicate any part of the inheritance of his ancestors, in order to benefit the Orleans dynasty who had sent his great-uncle to the scaffold, and had tried to dishonour his own mother. He was too much of a gentleman not to have received with politeness the overtures of his cousins when they made up their minds to come and pay their respects to him at Frohsdorf; but he could not, and would not, affect in regard to them a cordiality which he did not really feel.

The Comte de Chambord was essentially _un homme d’autrefois_; he never shirked what he considered to be his duty, but who would never give himself the appearance of liking what he did not, or of respecting what did not deserve respect. He had grand manners that savoured of hauteur, and left one in no doubt as to what he thought or believed. Life had been one long disappointment to him, which he had accepted with a true Christian spirit, devoid of the slightest shade of rebellion, and he had picked up his burden, and carried it nobly to the end. He died wrapped in the folds of the old flag which he had refused to renounce, even when a crown would have rewarded him for its abandonment.

At Frohsdorf he led the existence of a country gentleman; there was no semblance of a Pretender about him. As he once said to a visitor who very tactlessly had remarked upon it: “I am not a Pretender, and do not need give myself the appearance of one. I am a principal for those who see in me their King.”

And yet there was much that was kingly in that quiet Austrian domain, to which the Duchesse d’Angoulême had retired towards the end of her earthly career, and which she had bequeathed to her nephew. The big drawing-room where one assembled in the evenings after dinner had a vague appearance of a palace, though the master of it did his best to put his visitors at their ease; but the Comtesse de Chambord sitting in her big arm-chair by a round table, upon which her needlework was laid, or bending over the stitches of her tapestry, looked every inch a sovereign, in spite of the knitted scarf which she often tied round her head, or the extreme simplicity of her black silk dress, made quite high to the throat and finished by a plain white linen collar. The atmosphere of the room, too, was laden with a hush and solemnity that at once made one feel and understand that one was not in the dwelling of a common mortal. These evenings were anything but amusing, though the Comte did his best to keep the ball of conversation rolling; but somehow it was impossible to give it a frivolous turn, or to drive away an impression that everyone in the room was waiting for something. What, of course, was not known; but one was waiting, waiting like the son of the murdered Duc de Berry had been waiting ever since his birth, for the call of his country, which never came, or at least not in the way in which he would have cared to respond to it.

A great deal has been said concerning the attempt at a monarchical restoration that had taken place during the presidency of Marshal MacMahon, and the circumstances which had accompanied it have not been commented upon in a manner favourable to the Comte de Chambord. I was in Versailles at the time it occurred, and from what came to my knowledge I do not think that the real reasons which influenced Henri V., as his adherents called him, have ever been known in their entirety. One has spoken of the flag and of the reluctance of the Pretender to accept the tricolour, but what has never been revealed to this day is that a compromise had been suggested by a clever French politician who had been consulted. Gifted with a singular gift of observation, this politician was very well _au courant_ of the feelings of the different parties which were represented in the National Assembly, and consequently he was in a position to give sound advice to those who had recourse to his experience.

His compromise was that the national flag should remain the tricolour, whilst the King would keep for his own personal emblem the white cravat of his ancestors, that alone would be borne before him on all State ceremonies which were not purely military ones. Strange to say, the Comte de Chambord had at first appeared willing to consent, understanding well, in spite of the prejudices of his earlier education, that he would be obliged to make some concessions to the times before he could hope to be accepted by France as its legitimate King. But, before giving his final adherence to this compromise, he wished to know the opinion of his cousin, the Comte de Paris, and to learn from him whether or not he would, when in due course he succeeded him, ratify this arrangement, and maintain its clauses. The Comte de Paris refused to assume the responsibility of saying yes, and replied evasively that his uncle the Duc d’Aumale ought to be consulted. The latter, however, declared that he could not advise his nephew, but that it would be difficult in his opinion for an Orleans prince to forget that the fate of his dynasty was bound up with that of the tricolour banner, and that to renounce it even in part, was to renounce the glorious principles of the Monarchy of July. This answer, when it became known to the Comte de Chambord, did away with his last hesitation. Urged by the strong dynastic feelings that swayed him, he might have made up his mind to sacrifice some part of his principles to the welfare of his race; but only if this sacrifice would have been of some use to it. Seeing that it would only be interpreted as a desire on his part to put on his head a crown he did not care for, and which in his inmost heart he did not think he had either the strength or the ability to carry or to defend, he gave up every idea of winning it by means of a compromise where, in the best of cases, some of his own personal dignity would have foundered; and after a short stay in France, he returned to his beloved Frohsdorf, to die there a few years later, the last of the Burgraves of his generation.

I had occasion to see him during the short stay which he made at Versailles under an incognito which was only discovered by a very few. We took a walk together in the park, and along the alleys of that garden of Trianon, where the young and frivolous Queen, so brutally murdered by the bloody Revolution which she had neither foreseen nor understood, had walked together with the lovely Lamballe and her train of gay courtiers. Everything looked sad, and deserted, and abandoned; it all spoke of a dead past, and of a departed glory. Suddenly the Comte de Chambord stopped in his walk, and turning to me said those memorable words which I have never forgotten: “What a pity that this place was not entirely destroyed in 1793!”

I looked at him with surprise.

“You are astonished to hear me say such a thing,” he continued, “but let me explain to you my thoughts, and you will understand me better. Royalty, like so many other things, is a prejudice, at least for the masses who have neither traditions nor principles. It represents, or at least ought to represent to them, something that is strong, powerful, entirely above them, beyond them; something sacred, that no power save that of God may touch or may destroy. Once this feeling concerning it is gone, half its prestige is gone too. The mob only respects what it can neither harm nor kill. If it once sees that royalty, like everything else, can be touched with a sacrilegious hand, that it is at the mercy of the first boy or man in the street, then the mob not only loses every fear, but also its veneration. It rejoices to see that it has got over the feeling of awe which formerly inspired it with regard to that superior thing which ruled it; it delights in pulling it down, and in treasuring the remembrance of the day on which it smashed it to the ground. Now nothing reminds one more of deeds done, whether good or bad, than the spots where such deeds were committed.

“The French people, when looking at Versailles, and walking freely through the rooms where Kings formerly reigned, can always think, speak and remember, with something of that low pride which a boxer feels when he has knocked his adversary to the ground, of the time when they destroyed the power which had ruled them, and feasted in the halls of their former masters. That remembrance is most unwholesome, and can only foster rebellious feelings in the breasts of those who treasure it. Had Versailles been destroyed the Revolution of course would not have been forgotten, but the nation would not always have had before its eyes the sight of the monument of the fallen grandeur of its Kings. Facts are forgotten or lose their importance far quicker than one thinks; but places, and spots, keep their eloquence, and unfortunately keep it for ever.”

He stopped, and looked back towards the walls of the massive old pile, whose many windows were blazing in the setting sun. And once more he sighed: “Yes, I do regret that this place has not been burned down and destroyed; it would not have witnessed then the triumph of the victorious Prussian eagle, and after that, what real French King would care to live in it, even if a King ever reigns again in France!”

He sighed yet again, and we slowly retraced our steps towards the town. As we passed the Castle gates, he stopped again: “Sic transit gloria mundi,” he quoted; “my glory, like that of my ancestors, has passed away; perhaps it is for the best after all, since I was not destined to see my race continue!”

Much has been related concerning the interview which the Comte de Chambord had with Marshal MacMahon, when he asked him whether or not he would feel inclined to favour a monarchical restoration. It has been said that the old soldier, who without scruple had accepted the succession of Napoleon III., to whom he owed his title and his dignity, found that his conscience would not allow him to “betray,” as he expressed himself, the Republican government, at the head of which he had been called by a parliamentary majority who had done so only in the hope that he would help it to reinstate its former Kings.

There is some truth in this reproach, because certainly MacMahon had not shown himself before, and did not show himself in the future, so very chary of offending public opinion as represented by the Legislative Assembly which was supposed to be the voice of the country. But in the _non possumus_ which he opposed to the restoration of the Comte de Chambord,

there was something else than the desire to remain himself at the head of the State. There was a tacit pledge which he had given to the Orleans dynasty to support its pretensions, and also the feeling that he did not enjoy sufficient popularity among the army to enforce a change of government, and to bring back a dynasty which had been driven out of the country by its own faults. MacMahon was not clever, not far-seeing, but he knew very well what the troops thought of him, and also that at that moment the disaster of Sedan was not sufficiently forgotten for him to risk being punished for it under another pretext, which his lending his hand to an attempt at a monarchical restoration would have furnished.

The Comte de Chambord returned to Frohsdorf a sadder though not a wiser man. He was not fortunate in his advisers; the leaders of the Legitimist party did not understand either the feelings of France nor the strength which they undoubtedly wielded at that particular moment. Instead of doing their best to effect a reconciliation between the different opinions that divided the country, they tried, on the contrary, to exasperate them, and prevented their own triumph by the insolence with which they proclaimed everywhere that its hour had struck. France, at that time, was like a man recovering from a severe illness, whose whole body is sore, and who wants to be handled with the greatest gentleness. The Legitimists ignored this condition, and loudly boasted that the time had come when all past grievances would be avenged, and when they should be allowed to rule according to their own prejudices, bringing back to power with them all the old traditions against which the saner elements in the land had risen in revolt eighty-five years before. They wanted to make a clean slate, and wash out the remembrance of everything that had taken place since Louis XVI. had been murdered on the scaffold. The feeling might have been a natural one; the utterance of it was stupid in the extreme.

Many have wondered at the want of initiative shown by Henri V., as he was called by his partisans. I, who have known him well, saw nothing extraordinary in this. As I have already hinted, he was quite willing to be carried to the throne, but he had no desire to occupy it, and still less to step upon it bound by promises and pledges, which would have interfered with his liberty of action, a thing of which he had always been extremely jealous. He had in him all the authority of the Kings his forefathers, and would no more have submitted to the advice of his courtiers than he would have sacrificed his principles to win back his lost inheritance. He wanted, above all things, to keep his _libre arbitre_, and this explains the apparent apathy with which he witnessed the overthrow of what had been the hopes of his followers rather than his own.

Two years later I called upon the Comte de Chambord at Frohsdorf, during an absence of the Comtesse, in whose presence it was always more or less difficult to discuss political questions, and we talked over those days. Every hope of a monarchical restoration had faded then, and the Republic was more or less an accomplished fact. He seemed to take it as a natural consequence of all the mistakes committed by the different governments that had ruled in France, and if the truth be told, I think he preferred its having overcome all opposition, to the possibility of its being superseded either by the Bonaparte, or the Orleans dynasty, which he recognised, but could not accept as the successor of his own rights. The grand seigneur that he was could not adjust himself to this hankering after a “popularité de bas aloi,” as he described it, which had ever distinguished the younger branch of the house of Bourbon since the days of Philippe Egalité. He refused to profess the theory that it did not matter with whom one shook hands, provided one washed one’s own afterwards. On the contrary, he was of opinion that certain contacts can never be got rid of, no matter how much soap and water one uses to efface them. It was partly on account of that feeling that he did not regret circumstances had interfered with the monarchical restoration, for which so many people had hoped, and he made me understand what he thought of it by saying, among other things, that: “A royalty that has once come down into the street is no longer royalty such as it was understood in the days of old, when the principle of the ‘droit Divin’ was the foremost among those one had been taught to respect and to worship. We Bourbons of the old stock cannot bow before the popularity of the mob, and try to make it accept our own. We can work for the people, act in unison with the nation in all grave questions where its welfare is in question; we cannot accept its sovereign right to dictate to us its laws. I know that my ideas are out of fashion, ‘que je suis démodé,’ but whom do I hurt by clinging to my old traditions, to the ancient glories of my house, which have also been those of France, it must not be forgotten? If I had had children, I might have acted differently; I might, or I might not; and perhaps God has done well in refusing them to me, as they would have been the source of much conflict in my mind. As it is I shall die solitary and alone, and with me shall die the Bourbons of Louis XIV., those who have learnt nothing, and forgotten nothing, as our enemies aver.”

He said the last words smilingly and jestingly, and I could not help smiling, too, though I well knew the latent sadness that was hiding under his apparent mirth. He was still a handsome man at that time, though far too stout, and his lameness, although not interfering with the dignity of his manners, still took away from what otherwise would have been an imposing figure. But the eyes had a wonderfully kind expression, the noble, intelligent forehead revealed a grand nature and a beautiful soul. One could not have passed him in the street without being struck by his appearance, and without noticing him, so completely “grand seigneur” was he, even in his most trivial gestures. Everyone who knew him liked him, respected him, bowed down before the purity of his life, and the earnest, simple manner in which he performed all his duties, even the most trifling ones. He was one of those characters one meets with but seldom, and which reconcile one with humanity.

I never saw him again alive after that conversation, and only looked upon him once more when he lay on his bier, having hurried to Frohsdorf to attend his funeral. The face had an expression of great calm, and bore but few traces of the sufferings he had endured in his last illness. Bunches of roses were scattered on the linen sheet, that covered him up to his chin, and over his feet was draped the white flag that his ancestors had carried to victory; that flag over which he had watched all his life, and which was to be buried with him in the little chapel of Goritz near the Adriatic Sea, far away from that France he had loved so well, from those vaults of St. Denis, whence his race had been excluded for ever.