The Last Hope

  CHAPTER IV

  THE MARQUIS'S CREED

  Dormer Colville smiled doubtfully. He was too polite, it seemed, to besceptical, and by his attitude expressed a readiness to be convinced asmuch from indifference as by reasoning.

  "It is intolerable," said the Marquis de Gemosac, "that a man of yourunderstanding should be misled by a few romantic writers in the pay ofthe Orleans."

  "I am not misled, Marquis; I am ignorant," laughed Colville. "It is notalways the same thing."

  Monsieur de Gemosac threw away his cigarette and turned eagerly towardhis companion.

  "Listen," he said. "I can convince you in a few words."

  And Colville leaned back against the weather-worn seat with the air ofone prepared to give a post-prandial attention.

  "Such a man was found as you yourself suggest. A boy was found who couldnot refuse to run that great risk, who could not betray himself byindiscreet speech--because he was dumb. In order to allay certain rumourswhich were going the round of Europe, the National Convention sent threeof its members to visit the Dauphin in prison, and they themselves haveleft a record that he answered none of their questions and spoke no wordto them. Why? Because he was dumb. He merely sat and looked at themsolemnly, as the dumb look. It was not the Dauphin at all. He was hiddenin the loft above. The visit of the Conventionals was not satisfactory.The rumours were not stilled by it. There is nothing so elusive or sovital as a rumour. Ah! you smile, my friend."

  "I always give a careful attention to rumours," admitted Colville. "Morecareful than that which one accords to official announcements."

  "Well, the dumb boy was not satisfactory. Those who were paid for thisaffair began to be alarmed. Not for their pockets. There was plenty ofmoney. Half the crowned heads in Europe, and all the women, were ready toopen their purses for the sake of a little boy, whose ill-treatmentappealed to their soft hearts: who in a sense was sacred, for he wasdescended from sixty-six kings. No! Barras and all the other scoundrelsbegan to perceive that there was only one way out of the difficulty intowhich they had blundered. The Dauphin must die! So the dumb boydisappeared. One wonders whither he went and what his fate might be--"

  "With so much to tell," put in Dormer Colville, musingly; "so muchunspoken."

  It was odd how the _roles_ had been reversed. For the Marquis de Gemosacwas now eagerly seeking to convince his companion. The surest way topersuade a man is to lead him to persuade himself.

  "The only solution was for the Dauphin to die--in public. So anothersubstitution was effected," continued Monsieur de Gemosac. "A dying boyfrom the hospital was made to play the part of the Dauphin. He was not atall like him; for he was tall and dark--taller and darker than a son ofLouis XVI and Marie Antoinette could ever have been. The prison wasreconstructed so that the sentry on guard could not see his prisoner, butwas forced to call to him in order to make sure that he was there. It wasa pity that he did not resemble the Dauphin at all, this scrofulouschild. But they were in a hurry, and they were at their wits' ends. Andit is not always easy to find a boy who will die in a given time. Thisboy had to die, however, by some means or other. It was for France, youunderstand, and the safety of the Great Republic."

  "One hopes that he appreciated his privilege," observed Colville,philosophically.

  "And he must die in public, duly certified for by persons of undoubtedintegrity. They called in, at the last moment, Desault, a great doctor ofthat day. But Desault was, unfortunately, honest. He went home and toldhis assistant that this was not the Dauphin, and that, whoever he mightbe, he was being poisoned. The assistant's name was Choppart, and thisChoppart made up a medicine, on Desault's prescription, which was anantidote to poison."

  Monsieur de Gemosac paused, and, turning to his companion, held up onefinger to command his full attention.

  "Desault died, my friend, four days later, and Choppart died five daysafter him, and the boy in the Temple died three days after Choppart. Andno one knows what they died of. They were pretty bunglers, thosegentlemen of the Republic! Of course, they called in others in a hurry;men better suited to their purpose. And one of these, the citizenPelletan, has placed on record some preposterous lies. These doctorscertified that this was the Dauphin. They had never seen him before, butwhat matter? Great care was taken to identify the body. Persons ofposition, who had never seen the son of Louis XVI, were invited to visitthe Temple. Several of them had the temerity to protect themselves in thecertificate. 'We saw what we were informed was the body of the Dauphin,'they said."

  Again the old man turned, and held up his hand in a gesture of warning.

  "If they wanted a witness whose testimony was without question--whoseword would have laid the whole question in that lost and forgotten gravefor ever--they had one in the room above. For the Dauphin's sister wasthere, Marie Therese Charlotte, she who is now Duchess of Angouleme. Whydid they not bring her down to see the body, to testify that her brotherwas dead and the line of Louis XVI ended? Was it chivalry? I ask you ifthese had shown chivalry to Madame de Lamballe? to Madame Elizabeth? toMarie Antoinette? Was it kindness toward a child of unparalleledmisfortune? I ask you if they had been kind to those whom they called thechildren of the tyrant? No! They did not conduct her to that bedside,because he who lay there was not her brother. Are we children, Monsieur,to be deceived by a tale of a sudden softness of heart? They wished tospare this child the pain! Had they ever spared any one pain--theNational Assembly?"

  And the Marquis de Gemosac's laugh rang with a hatred which must, itseems, outlive the possibility of revenge.

  "There was to be a public funeral. Such a ceremony would have been ofincalculable value at that time. But, at the last minute, their couragefailed them. The boy was thrown into a forgotten corner of a Parischurchyard, at nine o'clock one night, without witnesses. The spot itselfcannot now be identified. Do you tell me that that was the Dauphin? Bah!my friend, the thing was too childish!"

  "The ignorant and the unlettered," observed Colville, with the air ofmaking a concession, "are always at a disadvantage--even in crime."

  "That the Dauphin was, in the mean time, concealed in the garret of theTower appears to be certain. That he was finally conveyed out of theprison in a clothes-basket is as certain, Monsieur, as it is certain thatthe sun will rise to-morrow. And I believe that the Queen knew, when shewent to the guillotine, that her son was no longer in the Temple. Ibelieve that Heaven sent her that one scrap of comfort, tempered as itwas by the knowledge that her daughter remained a prisoner in theirhands. But it was to her son that her affections were given. For theDuchess never had the gift of winning love. As she is now--a cold, hard,composed woman--so she was in her prison in the Temple at the age offifteen. You may take it from one who has known her all his life. Andfrom that moment to this--"

  The Marquis paused, and made a gesture with his hands, descriptive ofspace and the unknown.

  "From that moment to this--nothing. Nothing of the Dauphin."

  He turned in his seat and looked questioningly up toward the crumblingchurch, with its square tower, stricken, years ago, by lightning; withits grass-grown graveyard marked by stones all grey and hoary withimmense age and the passage of cold and stormy winters.

  "Who knows," he added, "what may have become of him? Who can say where helies? For a life begun as his began was not likely to be a long one.Though troubles do not kill. Witness myself, who am five years hissenior."

  Colville looked at him in obedience to an inviting gesture of the hand;looked as at something he did not understand, something beyond hisunderstanding, perhaps. For the troubles had not been Monsieur deGemosac's own troubles, but those of his country.

  "And the Duchess?" said the Englishman at length, after a pause, "atFrohsdorf--what does she say--or think?"

  "She says nothing," replied the Marquis de Gemosac, sharply. "She issilent, because the world is listening for every word she may utter. Whatshe thinks ... Ah! who knows? She is an old woman, my friend, for she isseventy-one. Her memories are a mil
lstone about her neck. No wonder sheis silent. Think what her life has been. As a child, three years ofsemi-captivity at the Tuileries, with the mob howling round the railings.Three and a half years a prisoner in the Temple. Both parents sent to theguillotine--her aunt to the same. All her world--massacred. As a girl,she was collected, majestic; or else she could not have survived thoseyears in the Temple, alone--the last of her family. What must herthoughts have been, at night in her prison? As a woman, she is cold, sad,unemotional. No one ever lived through such troubles with so littledisplay of feeling. The Restoration, the Hundred Days, the secondRestoration, Louis XVIII, and his flight to England; Charles X and hisabdication; her own husband, the Duc d'Angouleme--the Dauphin for manyyears, the King for half an hour--these are some of her experiences. Shehas lived for forty years in exile in Mittau, Memel, Warsaw, Koenigsberg,Prague, England; and now she is at Frohsdorf, awaiting the end. You askme what she says? She says nothing, but she knows--she has alwaysknown--that her brother did not die in the Temple."

  "Then--" suggested Colville, who certainly had acquired the French art ofputting much meaning into one word.

  "Then why not seek him? you would ask. How do you know that she has notdone so, my friend, with tears? But as years passed on, and brought noword of him, it became less and less desirable. While Louis XVIIIcontinued to reign there was no reason to wish to find Louis XVII, youunderstand. For there was still a Bourbon, of the direct line, upon thethrone. Louis XVIII would scarcely desire it. One would not expect him toseek very diligently for one who would deprive him of the crown. CharlesX, knowing he must succeed his brother, was no more enthusiastic in thesearch. And the Duchess d'Angouleme herself, you ask? I can see thequestion in your face."

  "Yet," conceded Colville. "For, after all, he was her brother."

  "Yes--and if she found him, what would be the result? Her uncle would bedriven from the throne; her father-in-law would not inherit; her ownhusband, the Dauphin, would be Dauphin no longer. She herself could neverbe Queen of France. It is a hard thing to say of a woman--"

  Monsieur de Gemosac paused for a moment in reflection.

  "Yes," he said at length, "a hard thing. But this is a hard world,Monsieur Colville, and will not allow either men or women to be angels. Ihave known and served the Duchess all my life, and I confess that she hasnever lost sight of the fact that, should Louis XVII be found, sheherself would never be Queen of France. One is not a Bourbon fornothing."

  "One is not a stateswoman and a daughter of kings for nothing," amendedColville, with his tolerant laugh; for he was always ready to makeallowances. "Better, perhaps, that France should be left quiet, under the_regime_ she had accepted, than disturbed by the offer of another_regime_, which might be less acceptable. You always remind me--you, whodeal with France--of a lion-tamer at a circus. You have a very slightcontrol over your performing beasts. If they refuse to do the trick youpropose, you do not press it, but pass on to another trick; and the barsof the cage always appear to the onlooker to be very inadequate. Perhapsit was better, Marquis, to let the Dauphin go; to pass him over, andproceed to the tricks suitable to the momentary humour of your wildanimals."

  The Marquis de Gemosac gave a curt laugh, which thrilled with a note ofthat fearful joy known to those who seek to control the uncontrollable.

  "At that time," he admitted, "it might be so. But not now. At that timethere lived Louis XVIII and Charles X, and his sons, the Duc d'Angoulemeand the Duc de Berri, who might reasonably be expected to have sons intheir turn. There were plenty of Bourbons, it seemed. And now--where arethey? What is left of them?"

  He gave a nod of the head toward the sea that lay between him andGermany.

  "One old woman, over there, at Frohsdorf, the daughter of MarieAntoinette, awaiting the end of her bitter pilgrimage--and this Comte deChambord. This man who will not when he may. No, my friend, it has neverbeen so necessary to find Louis XVII as it is now. Necessary forFrance--for the whole world. This Prince President, this last offshoot ofa pernicious republican growth, will drag us all in the mud if he getshis way with France. And those who have watched with seeing eyes havealways known that such a time as the present must eventually come. ForFrance will always be the victim of a clever adventurer. We have foreseenit, and for that reason we have treated as serious possibilities thesefalse Dauphins who have sprung up like mushrooms all over Europe and evenin America. And what have they proved? What have the Bourbons proved infrustrating their frauds? That the son of Louis XVI did not die in theTemple. That is all. And Madame herself has gathered further strength toher conviction that the little King was not buried in that forgottencorner of the graveyard of Sainte Marguerite. At the same time, she knowsthat none of these--neither Naundorff, nor Havergault, nor Bruneau, norde Richemont, nor any other pretender--was her brother. No! The King,either because he did not know he was King, or because he had had enoughof royalty, never came forward and never betrayed his whereabouts. He wasto be sought; he is still to be sought. And it is now that he is wanted."

  "That is why I offer to tell you this story now. That is my reason forbringing you to Farlingford now," said Colville, quietly. It seemed thathe must have awaited, as the wise do in this world, the propitiousmoment, and should it never come they are content to forego theirpurpose. He gave a light laugh and stretched out his long legs,contemplating his strapped trousers and neat boots with the eye of aconnoisseur. "And should I be the humble means of doing a good turn toFrance and others, will France--and others--remember it, I wonder.Perhaps I hold in my hands the Hope of France, Marquis."

  He paused, and lapsed for a moment into thought. It was eight o'clock,and the long northern twilight was fading into darkness now. The bell ofCaptain Clubbe's ship rang out the hour--a new sound in the stillness ofthis forgotten town.

  "The Last Hope," added Dormer Colville, with a queer laugh.