Old and New Paris: Its History, Its People, and Its Places, v. 2

Thus, long before the war, there were masses of emigrants who adopted from their foreign posts of observation a menacing attitude towards France. Many noble families left France simply from fear; but most of the émigrés, when they had once reached foreign lands, did not scruple to take part in hostile enterprises against France. Invitations to return were addressed to the emigrants by various assemblies; without the least probability, it must be admitted, of their being accepted. Then laws were passed by which the property of the absentees was confiscated, and they themselves threatened with death should they reappear in France without due authorisation. As a matter of fact, the émigrés fought against France, in concert with the invading troops, for the most part as volunteers, though some are said to have received pay from the foreign foe. They had boasted of their ability and readiness to conquer revolutionary France with postillions’ whips, and they had fixed beforehand the day and hour of their entry into Paris. Driven back by the Republican armies, they were mad with humiliation and rage. The King of Prussia abruptly dismissed those who had entered his service, and gradually, as new victories were gained by the Republic, they found themselves expelled from Brussels, Florence, Turin, Berlin, Switzerland, and other asylums, retreating almost exclusively to England. When nearly all their legions had been dissolved, a certain number of them remained in the pay of foreign sovereigns. But many stayed without any resource. A strange sight was then seen: the whole order of nobility, and the most brilliant nobility in Europe, some thirty thousand persons, including the members of the priesthood, fallen to the condition of beggars or hangers-on. Sad expiation for the treason of those who had borne arms against their native land.

In the first days of the emigration the French nobility continued to lead a life of luxury and pleasure. When their last resources had been exhausted, they had to hold out their hands for such alms as the coalition would give them. The name of émigré became a synonym for “poor devil” and parasite. A few of the most fortunate of the refugees had preserved private resources, but the great majority were in a sad condition of poverty. Beaumarchais has described the misery of those who had sought asylum at Hamburg, where he helped them to the best of his power, though he himself was suffering from straitened means. It was no uncommon sight to see Knights of St. Louis, gentlemen who had ridden in the king’s carriages, asking for alms at the corner of the streets. Chateaubriand has drawn a striking picture of his own poverty and that of his companions at this trying time. “I was devoured by hunger,” he writes; “sucked pieces of linen which I had steeped in water; chewed grass and paper. When I passed before a baker’s shop I felt the greatest torture. On a cold winter’s evening I stood two hours in front of a shop of dried fruits and smoked meats, devouring with my eyes whatever I saw. I could have eaten not only the comestibles, but the boxes and baskets which held them.”

In 1793 the English Government thought of offering the emigrants settlements in Canada. The Empress Catherine of Russia, who had behaved generously to the small number rich enough to find their way to her distant dominions, proposed to establish six thousand of them on the shores of the Sea of Azof, under the command of Condé. In London a certain number of the émigrés received from the English Government one shilling a day as subsidy. It was very little, but many received nothing at all. Tired of having to choose between living on alms and dying of hunger, numerous émigrés determined at last to seek some regular occupation. Duchesses and marchionesses were now seen in charge of haberdashers’ and perfumers’ shops; of cafés and other establishments of the kind. The Count de Vieuville became a messenger, or “commissionaire” as he would now be called; the Chevalier de Lanty a servant; Madame de la Londe a shopwoman; Mlle. de St. Marceau a shop-girl; Madame de la Martinière a dealer in second-hand clothes; a well-known marquis an actor (not in those days considered a very gentlemanly profession); the Chevalier d’Anselme a waiter; the Marquis de Montbazet a lamplighter; while others turned themselves into hairdressers, barbers, and dancing-masters. One émigré, mentioned by Brillat-Savarin, used to dress salads, and, what was still more remarkable, obtained a guinea for every salad he dressed.

A few exercised more lucrative functions as secret political agents. Among these may be mentioned Count d’Antraigues, the husband of Madame de St. Huberty, the famous singer, who, with his wife, was assassinated at Barnes by an irritated domestic. The Count had rendered important services to the Coalition, and claimed to have revealed to the English Government the secret articles of the Treaty of Tilsit.

On the outbreak of the Revolution most of the great families who, collectively, may be said to compose the Faubourg St. Germain, had left France, when a special law against “emigrants” was passed, striking through their property those who, had they remained, would have suffered in person. Some members, however, of the ancient nobility stayed in Paris throughout the Reign of Terror, among whom may in particular be mentioned that Baron Lézardière who saved, or did his best to save, the heroic Abbé Edgeworth, when the last confessor of Louis XVI. was, or believed himself to be, in imminent danger of his life. “The friend,” wrote the abbé to his brother, “whose name must be for ever sacred to you, since to him your brother owes his life, was the Baron de Lézardière, a nobleman of high character, advanced in years, and then living in opulence, who not only received me with open arms, but, slighting all the dangers to which he exposed himself and family by giving hospitality to such a guest, insisted on my regarding his house as my own, seeking for no other place of refuge; so that I received during those months every attention that the most delicate friendship could invent, and though the family was large and the servants numerous, my existence was hardly perceived out-of-doors, so well was the secret kept. I had not been long in this charming solitude when I received information from Paris that at two or three different clubs, and especially at the Jacobins’, my head was mentioned as the only atonement equal to my guilt of having openly professed my attachment for the ‘tyrant.’ This was alarming news indeed. But a journalist (friend or foe) having announced some days afterwards that I had got safe over to England, and had there had frequent conferences not only with the principal emigrants, but with Mr. Pitt himself, this idle story was credited by all, and I was completely forgotten.

“However, the fiction, though favourable to me in one sense, distressed me much in other respects, as it obliged me to conceal myself more cautiously than ever, for had I been discovered in France after such a report, I must have been, in the eyes of Government, no less than an emissary from the court of England, an agent to the emigrants, and an emigrant myself – all titles that made my case the blacker by adding to my former guilt. Hence I was obliged to keep within doors more than ever; nor could I venture out to Paris but by night. Then I dared but to remain a day or two at a time, and though my house should have been open to all, since to all I owed myself, few people knew where it was or how to get admittance into it. It is true that from my solitude in the country I entertained a large correspondence with the town; but all kinds of business could not be transacted by letters, and I soon perceived that the diocese committed to my care, far from prospering in my hands, suffered materially from my absence.

“In this distressing situation, and really not knowing what part to take, I wrote a long letter to the archbishop, informing him of all and demanding his advice; but, unfortunately for me, my letter, though directed to one of the commanding officers upon the frontier (who favoured, underhand, my correspondence), was seized, opened, and sent back to the Comité de Salut Public. Soon after, the house of M. de Lézardière, where I lay concealed, was assaulted in mid-day, and the whole family, supposing the storm to be directed against me alone, fell at my knees, requesting I would provide for my own safety by a timely flight. I yielded, though indeed with some reluctance, to their entreaties, and casting into the fire all my papers, I escaped by a back road into the fields, where I remained until it was dark. But how bitter was my grief when, coming back at night, I was informed that my valuable friend had been carried off to prison with his youngest son and eldest daughter, and that upon the road to Paris, three different times, the bloodthirsty gang had held counsel whether it was not best to shorten the business by murdering them upon the spot. My mind was relieved a few days after (at least in some degree) by the positive assurances given me that amongst the questions put to the three prisoners, upon their arrival in Paris, not a word had been said about me, which clearly proved that I had not been the innocent cause of their misfortune; but my friend was not the less in danger (for prison and death now began to be synonymous terms in France), and my papers were lost for ever.” This accident did not prove fatal to M. de Lézardière, for after ten days’ confinement he was dismissed. “As to my papers, those I regret the most, and shall in all probability ever lament, were the letters written to me from the Temple by Madame Elizabeth. I have already hinted to you (but this to you and no other mortal, as the time for revealing is not yet come) that notwithstanding the unrelenting vigilance of her guardians, this unfortunate princess found a means to correspond with me from time to time, and to take my advice on many critical occurrences during her imprisonment. These letters were conveyed to me in a ball of silk, and all measures so prudently taken that the correspondence, though at last suspected, was never found out entirely. I had already destroyed, in one of my critical moments, all those she had written to me upon different subjects before her confinement, nor was I sensible of the loss, as she was still alive to repair it; but when I now reflect that she is no more, and that her last pages, bathed with her tears, and painting in so lively colours her resignation and her courage, are now lost for posterity, I cannot but lament it as a public misfortune.

“But to return to my subject: the poor officer who had favoured my correspondence with the Archbishop of Paris was soon called to an account for the anonymous letter that had been put into the post under his cover; and the affair being likely to take a very serious turn, not, indeed, for him, as he could plead ignorance of the contents, but for the author, whose existence in France could be no longer doubted, all my friends joined in requesting I would retire without delay to some remote province. I had only time to see my poor mother, whom I embraced for the last time, and to provide, as well as the circumstances would permit, for the government of the diocese. These two duties fulfilled, I got into a carriage, and under the name of Essex I got off to Montigny, where M. le Comte de Roche Chouart received me with the greatest kindness in his castle.

“Here my first business was to write to the faithful agent of Madame Elizabeth, giving her at full length my direction, in case she had any silk balls to send me. This letter was directed to her house, and signed ‘Essex’; but no sooner was it put into the post office than I was informed that the very person to whom I wrote had been arrested a few days ago, after I had left Paris, for favouring a clandestine correspondence of one of the royal prisoners; and also that a friend of mine, being cited before the Comité de Salut Public, and questioned about the letter I had written to the Archbishop, had inadvertently discovered the name under which I was endeavouring to conceal my existence. This was fatal indeed; for the letter I had just cast into the post office, being directed to a prisoner, must, of course, go to the Comité de Salut Public; and there the Comité found, without further inquiry, not only my handwriting to compare it with that of the anonymous letter written to the Archbishop, but my name full at length, and every means of discovering me, given by myself. I leave you to judge, my dear Ussher, into what perplexity I was cast by this accident. But Providence looked down upon my distress; and after a whole week spent in the most cruel anxiety, I at last had news from the person herself, informing me that the affair had been hushed up, and that my letter had got safe.

“I pass over in silence many incidents of less importance which I met with during the four months I spent with M. de Roche Chouart. I must now relate the circumstance which obliged me to fly, and to seek for safer concealment. The Comité de Salut Public having got hold of the name under which I concealed myself in France, caused an article, relative to I know not what correspondence, supposed to have existed between Louis XVI. and the King of Prussia, to be inserted in the public papers. The article was insignificant in itself; but the author, in order to obtain more credit for his story, took care to tell the public that he was indebted for the anecdote to Mr. Essex, the last friend to Louis XVI. – Mr. Essex, a person who must have been informed of all that had passed. This paper came to Montigny, where I was publicly known, and was there reputed to be an English gentleman of small fortune, travelling for his private business, or for his health; but this resemblance of names, and I know not what in my person, when nicely viewed, that betrayed a clergyman, soon gave rise to other thoughts. During the first days I paid but little attention to what was whispered about, hoping that the author and the anecdote would soon be forgotten; but as I was thus endeavouring to tranquillise myself, a man advanced in years, and of most noble appearance, came up to the castle, and inquired for Mr. Essex; he was introduced, and, all witnesses being removed, he said, ‘Sir, your existence in this house is no secret to the public, nor has it hitherto occasioned the least suspicion, as you had not been supposed to be a man of importance; but a paragraph inserted lately in the papers is now the subject of all conversation, and all eyes in the neighbourhood are fixed upon you. Be so good as to read the article, and if in it you behold your own features, oh! my dear sir, give leave to a man who was your friend before he had the honour of seeing you, to request of you to provide for your own safety by a timely flight, for here you will be infallibly arrested.’

“This unexpected visit gave me, as you may believe, much alarm. I thanked the gentleman in the warmest terms, and, after holding counsel with the few friends I had made in that part of France, it was unanimously resolved that I must fly with all speed, and seek for shelter in some other place. I pitched upon Fontainebleau as one of the quietest spots in France; there I had neither friends nor acquaintances, except a lady whom I had never seen but once. Apprised of my arrival, she flew to my assistance; her credit, her purse, her servants – all were at my disposal, and my own mother could not have done more for me than she did during my stay in that place; but, unfortunately, it was not long, for an order was issued to arrest all foreigners, and for me arrestation was certain death. I therefore was obliged once more to seek for safety in some other spot. The Baron Lézardière, who never lost sight of me amidst my distresses, had an old servant – a man of uncommon resolution and prudence. Him he despatched to protect me in my flight. We both fell into the hands of an armed troop appointed to examine all travellers, and to take up all those whom they might suspect; but the fierce and bold countenance of my companion got me off, and, thanks to his zeal, I arrived, without accident, at Bayeux, in Normandy, two hundred miles from Paris.

“There I had it in my power to get off to England, as the coasts were but ill-guarded. But Madame Elizabeth was still alive, and if she should be exposed to danger, I was resolved to keep my word, and to be her friend to the last, let the consequences be what they would for myself. Hence I stopped at Bayeux, and took up my lodging in a poor hut, where I lay unnoticed; nobody suspected that a man of any importance could be lodged in so dismal a place. Soon after, the Baron de Lézardière, hunted from town to town, came to join me in this hole, with his three daughters and his younger son, and there we remained eighteen months, almost forgotten. He was still in opulence when he arrived; but his castle being burned to the ground, all his lands seized, and most of his friends destroyed by the guillotine, he soon fell into poverty, so I became his only resource. My friends, who were numerous, and some of them still wealthy, seeing me in this situation, came on all sides to my assistance, and with the supplies I received from them (without my ever asking), and the little I received from you, I have had the happiness to maintain, not, indeed, in opulence, but still above want, one of the most respectable families in France.

“Our solitude, indeed, was daily bathed with our tears (though otherwise comfortable enough); for there my poor Baron, after the loss of all he possessed in this world, was apprised of the death of his two sons, young men of the greatest merit (a third had been murdered in the prisons of Paris, and the fourth is actually under trial for his life). Soon afterwards he received the shocking news of his four sisters being shot on the same day, as they were flying in the fields to avoid something worse. On my side, it was in the same solitude that I received the fatal news of my poor mother being arrested, and of her soon sinking under her grief; that my sister was torn from her, and conducted from prison to prison, partly on my account; and finally, that Madame Elizabeth, the glory of religion and the idol of France, had fallen a victim to the cruel policy of our tyrants, at a moment when I least expected it. I must confess that this last blow went to my very heart, almost as much as the loss of my dear mother, for she often called upon me; but she was no more when I first heard of her being taken from the Temple. Only sixteen hours elapsed between her being brought to judgment and her death, and my only consolation ever since has been to think that, had I been in Paris, I could have been of no service to her, as nobody even suspected on that day that she was in the fatal cart.

“No sooner had I been informed of her death than I resolved to leave France. It was now a duty to fly, as it had been one to remain as long as she was in existence; for a few days before her imprisonment she had entrusted me with her last will (by word of mouth), and requested I would execute it in person whenever I should hear of her death. It is to perform this duty that I am now in London, and as soon as I close this letter I set off for Edinburgh.”

The abbé started immediately for Edinburgh to carry out the commands of the Princess Elizabeth – in other words, to communicate to the legitimate King of France her last wishes, which she had entrusted to him “by word of mouth.” The Abbé Edgeworth stayed about a week at Edinburgh, returning to London in September, 1796. Soon after his return Mr. Pitt desired to see him, and had a long interview with him at Lord Liverpool’s office. When the interview was concluded, Mr. Pitt informed him that his Majesty intended to settle a pension upon him for life. The abbé expressed his gratitude for the intended honour. But next day he wrote to Lord Liverpool, and in the most polite and grateful terms begged to decline the pension so graciously offered to him. “He could not think of adding,” he said, “to the expenses which the Government had already incurred in providing for such a number of French emigrants.”

During the three months that the abbé spent in London he received marks of high respect and of kind attention from persons of the most distinguished character in England; and from all classes he had proofs of the generous feeling of the British public. The polished yet simple manners of the Abbé Edgeworth now attached to his person those who had begun by admiring his character. It became the fashion to invite him everywhere, and such, indeed, was the general eagerness to see and hear him that, had he complied with this desire, he must have lived in public. Had he felt within him any latent love of celebrity, or of popular applause, it would now have appeared, and been fully gratified. But he did not care for fame; he withdrew as much as possible from notice, and lived in retirement with a few private friends.

“His brother and his other relations in Ireland were most anxious to see him, and to welcome to their country one who had brought them so much honour. The abbé, in compliance with their entreaties, was actually preparing to set out on his journey to Ireland, when he was stopped and all his views were altered by the arrival of Mlle. de Lézardière from France, charged with despatches of importance for Louis XVIII. Mlle. de Lézardière had undertaken to deliver the papers to her brother, who was to carry them to the King of France. His Majesty was at this time at Blanckenberg. It happened that M. de Lézardière had left London and had gone on other business to his Majesty. Mlle. de Lézardière therefore applied to the Abbé Edgeworth as the only person whom she could venture to entrust with a confidential mission of so much importance. Had the abbé hesitated he would have been decided by a message delivered to him with the following letter from the king: —

“I have heard, sir, with extreme satisfaction, that you have at last escaped from all the dangers to which your devoted attachment to my brother has exposed you. I sincerely thank Providence for having preserved in you one of his most faithful ministers, and the trusty friend who received the last thoughts of a brother whose death I shall ever deplore – whose memory will ever be venerated by Frenchmen; of a martyr whose triumph you have been the first to proclaim, and whose virtues will, I trust, be at some future day consecrated by the Church. Your miraculous preservation makes me hope that God has not yet abandoned France. He has without doubt ordained that an unimpeachable witness should attest to all Frenchmen the love with which their king was ever animated towards them; so that, knowing the extent of their loss, their grief may not be confined to mere lamentations, but that they may throw themselves into the arms of their heavenly Father and receive from Him the only alleviation of which their sorrow is susceptible. I therefore exhort you, sir, or rather, I entreat, in the most earnest manner, that you will collect and publish all the particulars you can, consistently with your holy office.

“That will be the finest monument that I can erect to the best of kings and the most beloved of brothers.

“I should wish, sir, to give you solid proofs of my profound esteem, but I can only offer you my admiration and my gratitude. These are the sentiments most worthy of you.

“Louis.”

Soon after the establishment of the royal family of France at Mittau, the Emperor Paul wished to confer the order of St. Alexander upon Louis XVIII. He sent for the Abbé Edgeworth to receive the insignia from his hands and to convey them to his royal master, who, in return, presented the Order of the Holy Ghost to the emperor.

When the Abbé Edgeworth arrived at the Court of Russia, Paul was so much struck by his venerable appearance, that he prostrated himself before him and implored his blessing. He presented the abbé with his picture set in diamonds, and settled upon him a pension of 500 roubles a year. The picture the Abbé Edgeworth laid at the feet of his king; the pension he divided with the poor.

In the spring of the year 1807, Bonaparte directed the arms of France against the dominions of Russia. During the course of this year it happened that some French soldiers, who had been taken prisoners, were sent to Mittau. Though they had borne arms against the House of Bourbon, yet, in the true spirit of Christian forgiveness, their errors were forgotten by Louis XVIII. The Abbé Edgeworth went, with his Majesty’s permission, to attend them and give them all the comforts which humanity could procure, and all the consolation which religion could bestow. A contagious fever raged among the prisoners, and of this the venerable abbé was aware. But he persevered in his visits and would not abandon those who had no earthly hope but in him. Day and night he continued his attendance, assisted by his faithful servant Bousset, who emulated the virtues of his master. The Abbé Edgeworth caught the fever. His constitution had previously been weakened by ill-health and mental suffering. At length, submitting to the force of disease, he was obliged to desist from all further exercise of his charitable and pious functions. On the 17th of May, 1807, he was confined to the bed from which he never afterwards rose. When the daughter of Louis XVI. heard that the abbé was taken ill, she declared that she would go immediately and see this friend of her family. All her attendants represented to her the danger of infection, and used every argument and entreaty to prevail upon her not to run such a hazard, but in vain. “The less he knows of his own wants,” said the princess, “the more he stands in need of a friend; and if every human being were to fly from him in this contagion, I should never forsake one who is more than my friend: the unalterable, disinterested friend of my family, who has left kindred and country – all! all for us! Nothing shall withhold my personal attendance on the Abbé Edgeworth. I ask no one to accompany me.”

The princess attended the death-bed of the Abbé Edgeworth, administered medicine to him with her own hands, and received his dying breath. This is here recorded, not to do honour to the Abbé Edgeworth, but to do justice to human nature and the gratitude of princes – a virtue whose existence would not, perhaps, have so often been doubted if there had been more examples of attachment as disinterested, sincere, and steady as that which, beyond possibility of doubt, was manifested by him whose life was the best proof at once of his loyalty and his faith.

The abbé died on the 22nd of May, 1807, the fifth day after he had been taken ill. The court of Louis XVIII. went into mourning for him. The Duke and Duchess of Angoulême, the Archbishop of Rheims, and all the nobility of the court, attended his funeral. His epitaph was written by King Louis XVIII.

Many of the émigrés – who, without being banished, felt it necessary, like the Abbé Edgeworth, to fly for their own safety – applied for permission to return to France under the first Directory, and afterwards, in greater numbers, under the Consulate. Bonaparte, who had now conquered the Revolution, was only too anxious to obtain the support of the old French nobility, and did his best to make them accept him in the position he had conquered. But as the great majority of the ancient nobility, the former inhabitants of the Faubourg St. Germain, stayed abroad, Napoleon, on becoming emperor, created a new nobility, choosing its members among his most successful generals and high officials. In 1814, and again in 1815, the Faubourg St. Germain was once more inhabited, and until the downfall of Charles X. in 1830 the ancient nobility seemed to have resumed its position in France. It was not always possible to restore the estates which had been confiscated; but large pecuniary allowances had been made to those who had suffered by the confiscation. In 1830 a number of new peers were created by King Louis Philippe, who, unable to count on the Legitimists of the Faubourg St. Germain, felt it necessary to improvise a nobility of his own. There was now in France a Legitimist nobility, an Orleanist nobility, and a nobility which owed its origin to the creations of Napoleon I.

After the coup d’état of 1851, and the establishment of the Second Empire, Napoleon III., without in any way discountenancing the old nobility of pre-revolutionary France or the new nobility of Louis Philippe’s creation, could not but show favour to the nobility of Napoleonic origin, whose numbers he increased by creations of his own.

After the calamities of 1870 and 1871, the Faubourg looked forward to the restoration of the ancient monarchy, and ardently hoped to see the throne occupied by the Count of Chambord, though there were now two aspirants to the crown: the Count of Chambord on the part of the elder branch of the Bourbons, and the Count of Paris as representing the younger or Orleanist branch.

The Castle of Chambord, which gave its name to the representative of the elder branch of the Bourbons, was originally a family possession of the Duke of Orleans; and it was not until the close of the fifteenth century, when Louis, Duke of Orleans, became, under the name of Louis XII., King of France, that it passed to the Crown. As yet, however, it was merely an ordinary manor-house; and it received nothing like its present shape until the reign of Francis I., who turned it into a palace. The rebuilding is said to have occupied nearly two thousand workmen for the space of twelve years. During the latter part of his life Francis often lived in the newly built château, whose magnificent halls he embellished with the finest works of art. It was on one of the windows of the castle that, after patiently listening to an apology made by his sister Marguerite for the alleged weakness of her sex, he is said (on good authority) to have written with a diamond the famous distich: