Part 8

A principal agent of Grieve in his campaign against Madame du Barry was her black page, Zamor, who appears in many a picture, fantastically dressed, standing by the side of the beautiful mistress of Louis XV. The old King himself took the greatest interest in Zamor, and bored as he usually was with everything, would yet sometimes deign to smile at the pleasantries of the spoilt little negro, who was allowed to take pretty well any liberties he pleased. Zamor had been originally brought from Bengal as a child by an English sea-captain, and, having been made chief page to the favourite (who acquired him as a pleasing contrast to her white dog and her monkeys), received an excellent education after being baptized with the greatest pomp. Nevertheless, in spite of the favours with which his mistress had loaded him, Zamor turned against her at the time when one word from him could have saved her head. An ardent student of Rousseau and an enthusiastic democrat, this little negro attained a certain position in revolutionary circles, being given an official position in the district of Versailles. He was called as an important witness at the trial of his benefactress, and manifesting the greatest bitterness against her, coldly and brutally gave such testimony as directly contributed to her condemnation.

His ingratitude, however, did him no good, for, falling into disgrace with the revolutionary authorities, he soon sank into the most dire poverty, the property which he had amassed being got out of him by a designing milliner. In old age he supported life by giving elementary lessons to the children in the quarter of Paris which he inhabited, where the little wizened old man was well known as “the negro who had betrayed la du Barry.”

Silent and taciturn, he retained the cult of the revolutionary doctrine to the end of his life, which seems to have occurred somewhere about 1820, his little room being decorated to the last with the portraits of Marat and Robespierre, whilst the works of Rousseau, his favourite author, occupied a prominent place upon his modest bookshelf.

Zamor was a traitor, it is true, but there is no doubt he was sincere in his devotion to the revolutionary ideal, whereas the arch-scoundrel Grieve was nothing but an egotistical hypocrite—a callous, canting rogue.

An ancient Norfolk family, which in old days had much to do with France, is that of Jerningham of Costessey Hall. Many of its members indeed, prevented from entering the English army owing to their unswerving adherence to the Roman Catholic faith, crossed the Channel and took service under the banners of the French king, attaining in several cases to high military command. The last of these to do this was General Jerningham, Colonel Commandant of several Irish regiments under Louis XVI., who, returning to England after the Revolution, died at Costessey in 1814. At the present day the best known representatives of this old family are that distinguished man, Sir Hubert Jerningham, and his brother, Mr. Charles Edward Jerningham, a cultured collector and authority upon prints of Old London. A peculiarity of the Jerninghams is that, though they have steadfastly adhered to the Roman Catholic Church, no one of them has ever been a priest, or, on the other hand, become a Protestant; though Mr. Edward Jerningham, the friend of Horace Walpole, well known as a good scholar and elegant poet, did, I believe, more or less abjure his faith and declare himself an Agnostic. Notwithstanding the very strong anti-Catholic feeling which in old days prevailed in Norfolk (the bells of the Norwich churches were rung on the rejection of the Catholic Emancipation Bill in 1825), the Jerninghams did not, like so many of their co-religionists, abstain from social intercourse with their Protestant neighbours, with whom, in spite of their faith, they were always very popular. One of the Dillons, a close connection of the family of which I have been speaking, took a leading part in the many attempts made to rescue the unfortunate Dauphin who, according to the most modern authorities, was actually got out of the Temple, a substituted child being left in his stead. Another Norfolkian also made several strenuous efforts to the same end. This was a lady, Mrs. Atkyns of Ketteringham Hall, near Norwich, who expended practically her entire fortune in efforts to save the unfortunate Prince.

An energetic and adventurous woman, the story of her life has been given to the world in a French book published a short time ago. She was, before her marriage, Miss Charlotte Walpole, an actress of Drury Lane Theatre, and I like to believe that she was in some way connected with the Walpole family to which I belong; her father, Robert Walpole, was certainly a Norfolk man, but the exact degree of his relationship to us I have never been able to discover. Certain is it, however, that she used the Walpole crest with the addition of a lion, a circumstance which might possibly point to a descent from Colonel John Walpole, a Royalist who, for his services at Cropredy Bridge, was granted such an addition to his arms. Miss Walpole, who appears to have been exceedingly fascinating, before very long captured the heart of a Norfolk squire, and after their marriage the young people took up their abode at Ketteringham Hall, old Mrs. Walpole, the bride’s mother, being installed in the Park close by in a house which has been long pulled down. Curiously enough, flowers still come up in the spring-time at this spot, which yet retains the name of Madame Walpole’s garden. After a short time passed in Norfolk, Mr. and Mrs. Atkyns went to Versailles, where, introduced into the intimate entourage of Marie Antoinette by the Duchesse de Polignac, the lady conceived a respectful veneration for the unfortunate Queen, which, in after-years, caused her to penetrate, disguised as a member of the National Guard, into the prison of the Conciergerie. By means of a daring stratagem she actually contrived to obtain admission to the cell in which Marie Antoinette lay, her intention being to inform the Queen of a plan of escape. At the moment, however, of handing the royal captive a bouquet of flowers, the missive which was concealed amongst its leaves fell to the ground, when Mrs. Atkyns, seeing that a gaoler was about to read it, snatched the note from his hands and without a moment’s hesitation swallowed it. Later on Mrs. Atkyns was the chief organiser of several attempts to save the Dauphin, and expended some very large sums of money in plots, actually hiring ships to lie off the French coast ready to receive the young Prince should one of the efforts made to rescue him prove successful.

Living to a great age, the poor woman eventually died almost penniless in Paris as late as the year 1836, for Louis XVIII. though admitting, on his restoration, that she had devoted her life and fortune to the service of his line, would never reimburse any serious portion of the sums which the mistress of Ketteringham Hall had, with the greatest difficulty, raised upon her estate. He did once, however, under great pressure, send her some insignificant sum. Ketteringham Hall itself is now the property of Sir Francis and Lady Boileau, who, together with a few others, have, within the last year, erected a memorial tablet to the friend and would-be rescuer of Marie Antoinette. Owing to the comparative state of destitution in which the poor woman died her wish to be buried in Ketteringham church had not been respected. It is therefore pleasant to think that, owing to the kindly initiative of Lady Boileau, a memorial of her now exists close to those of her husband and son—the last members, it may be added, of a distinguished county family.

There exists a print of Mrs. Atkyns engraved by Watson and Dickinson after Bunbury. In this she is represented in the character of “Nancy,” who, dressed as a young soldier, has followed her lover to the camp of Coxheath, a part which contemporary critics tell was enacted by the young actress with much dash and charm. In this character, indeed, she won the heart and hand of her Norfolk squire.

Retiring from the stage after the conclusion of the run of _The Camp_, her next appearance in a soldier’s dress was to be in far different surroundings. Surely when assuming the costume of the National Guard in which she set out to attempt the rescue of the captive queen, her thoughts must have flown back to those careless days in which, miniature firelock in hand, she had gone through the military exercise amidst the plaudits of the audience at “Old Drury.”

An inscription under the print runs:—

My Nancy leaves the rural plain A camp’s distress to prove, All other ills she can sustain But living from her love,

to which I have added on a small plaque attached to the frame:—

Elle poussa le dévouement jusqu’à l’héroisme et la courage jusqu’à la témérité,

a tribute paid to this brave Englishwoman by that admirable writer, M. de la Sicotière, Sénateur de l’Orne.

Mrs. Atkyns, whilst residing on her estate in Norfolk, would seem to have taken a warm interest in politics, her sympathies being, of course, strongly anti-democratic. The following letter was found by my cousin, Sir Spencer Walpole, amongst the papers of his grandfather, Mr. Perceval, the distinguished statesman who met with such a tragic end:—

SIR—I flatter myself you will do me the honour to excuse my intruding upon you at a time you must consequently be extremely occupied. I most sincerely congratulate you on your becoming one of His Majesty’s ministers. I, with a large majority of England, felicitate myself as a true and faithful subject to my sovereign on seeing a gentleman of your abilities and loyalty in the situation you now fill. May Heaven prosper your efforts to serve your King and country! I take the liberty to suggest an idea, or rather, offer an opinion. I have heard that the present Receiver-General for the county of Norfolk, Sir Roger Kerrison of Norwich, is likely to lose that place; permit me, sir, to hint to you that all the other bankers except Kett or Day are downright revolutionists. From the knowledge I have of the inhabitants of Norwich (my house being situated but five miles from that city), I have taken the liberty to recommend either the House of Kett or that of Day in case there should be a change. Mr. Day is an alderman of the City of Norwich, a man much respected. Kett was a Quaker, but was read out of the meeting for having subscribed to the volunteers. In case of a dissolution of Parliament either of these gentlemen will be useful and active agents. Do not think, sir, that I recommend them from my having any interest in their having such an advantageous place, or from having any particular acquaintance with either; on the contrary, I never spoke to Mr. Kett that I know of, and not twice in my life to Mr. Day, but they are loyal subjects to their King—that is enough for me—Day in particular. Norwich is famous for the number of its democrats. Excuse, sir, my troubling you, but it is for the public good; that, I think, with you will be sufficient apology. The present Receiver-General is not of what we call the Loyal Party. I shall not mention to mortal my having written this. Should there be a dissolution of Parliament, and that you think I can be of any service in this county or the city, having some interest in both, I request you will have the goodness to inform me.—I have, sir, the honour to be, your most obedient, very humble servant,

CHARLOTTE ATKYNS. KETTERINGHAM HALL, WINDHAM, NORFOLK, _5th April 1807_.

If, sir, at any time you think I can by any means be of the least use with regard to French affairs, having more knowledge of that country than, perhaps, sir, you are aware of, you may command me. There is a circumstance that most certainly may one day or other prove a severe check to the allied Powers should they attempt to enter France; it is a secret or artful menace that Buonaparte reserves for a last manœuvre. When I come to town, which will be in less than a fortnight, I will, sir, if you please, explain my meaning. I need not request, sir, that any communication I give, or my _now_ having taken the liberty to address you, may remain a profound secret.

The secret menace to which Mrs. Atkyns here alludes would seem to indicate that, in her opinion, Buonaparte was aware that Louis XVII.—the child supposed to have died in the Temple—was still alive, and was reserving this knowledge in order to make use of it should necessity arise.

It was another relative of Sir Spencer’s, the Reverend Mr. Perceval, who took such a great interest in the pretender Naundorff, an individual claiming to be Louis XVII. Mr. Perceval it was who published a book called _The Misfortunes of the Dauphin_, in which the adventures of the Duc de Normandie, as Naundorff styled himself, are fully described. Much of this narrative, however, is very involved and unsatisfactory, whilst the account of the Dauphin’s escape from the prison of the Temple, concealed in a coffin, carries but little conviction. The organiser of this rescue is stated to have been Josephine Beauharnais, afterwards Empress of the French.

It is not, in all probability, generally known that there were no less than thirty-six pretended Dauphins, including an American one—Eleazar Williams by name—about whose origin considerable mystery prevails. The story told about him was that he had been brought as a child to America by a French family in 1795, and placed in charge of an Iroquois half-breed, Thomas Williams by name, being as a young man educated by a Mr. Nathaniel Ely, a deacon of the Congregational Church—Eleazar Williams himself afterwards entering the ministry. It was in 1851 that a Mr. Hanson began the investigations which brought Eleazar Williams before the world as the lost Dauphin.

The Duchesse d’Angoulême, sister of the child over whose fate such a mystery prevails, is declared, when on her deathbed, to have sent for General Larochejaquelein, a faithful adherent of the Bourbon cause. “General,” she said, “I have a fact—a very important fact to reveal to you—the testament of a dying woman. My brother is not dead. This is the nightmare of my whole life. Promise me to use all possible means to find him. Travel by land and sea to discover some of the old servants or their descendants; for France can never be happy and tranquil until he is seated on the throne of his fathers.”

Mr. Hanson was much struck with the words which the Duchess was supposed to have uttered, and applied them to Eleazar Williams. In 1853 he published an article embodying his researches and conclusions. It was entitled, “Have we a Bourbon among us?” and appeared in a number of _Putnam’s Magazine_. But Eleazar Williams himself, who appears to have been a very quiet, dignified, and sincerely religious man, never made any particular effort to establish his claims as Dauphin, or rather as King of France, and passed most of his time in missionary work amongst the Indians. He carried on a large correspondence, however, with those interested in his history, and would sometimes discuss the question of his supposed birth. It was a constant practice of his to declare that there lingered in his memory vague recollections of a childhood passed amidst the greatest magnificence. In the freedom of private conversation he would also speak of a feeling of having passed through terrifying scenes as well as of noble edifices, beautiful gardens, troops on parade, and gorgeously furnished apartments—memories, indeed, such as might have been inspired by the splendid Court of Versailles.

Eleazar Williams died in 1858, and a grandson of his is, I believe, still living. The whole story of this American Dauphin—though, perhaps, of no serious historical importance—is a curious one, and the book in which it is set forth, _The Story of Louis XVII. of France_, merits some attention, especially as it deals at length with the pretender to whom allusion has already been made, the celebrated Naundorff, who is, in its pages, ruthlessly denounced as an impostor and cheat. Naundorff’s grandson, it may be of interest to know, is, or was, engaged in commercial pursuits, and is styled Jean III. by the small band of adherents who believe in his claims to the throne of France, whilst the Dauphin, “Prince Henri Charles Louis,” born in 1899, is the offspring of his marriage with the “Princesse Magdelaine,” daughter of a worthy tradesman in the town of Lunel.

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.

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.