He was brought to trial at the Cumberland assizes on the 15th of August 1803, charged with personation and forgery, and was found guilty and sentenced to death. He was executed at Carlisle on the 3d of September 1803.



HERVAGAULT—SOI-DISANT LOUIS XVII. OF FRANCE.

There is no darker page in the history of France than that whereon is inscribed the record of the Revolution; and in its darkness there is nothing blacker than the narration of the horrible treatment of the young dauphin by the revolutionists. The misfortunes of his father King Louis XVI., and of Marie-Antoinette, are sufficiently well known throughout Europe to render the repetition of them tedious; but the evil fate of the son has been less voluminously recorded by historians, and it is, therefore, necessary to repeat the story at some length to render the following narratives of claims to royalty thoroughly intelligible.

Louis-Charles was the second son of Louis XVI. and his consort Marie-Antoinette, and was born at the Chateau of Versailles, on the 27th of March, at five minutes before seven in the evening. An hour and a half later he was baptised with much ceremony by the Cardinal de Rohan and the Vicar of Versailles, and received the title of Duke of Normandy. Then the king, followed by all the court, went to the chapel of the chateau, where Te Deum was sung in honour of the event, and subsequently the infant prince was consecrated a knight of the order of the Holy Ghost. Fireworks were displayed on the Place d'Armes at Versailles; and when the news reached Paris it is said "joy spread itself from one end of the great city to the other; the cannon of the Bastille responded to the cannon of the Invalides; and everywhere spontaneous illuminations, the ringing of bells, and the acclamations of the people, manifested the love of France for a king who, in the flower of his youth, found his happiness in the happiness of the people." Such was the introduction into the world of the young prince.

Fate seemed to have the brightest gifts in store for him. On the 4th of June 1789, the dauphin, his elder brother, died at Meudon, and the young Louis-Charles succeeded to his honours. At this time he was rather more than four years old, and is described as having a graceful and well-knit frame, his forehead broad and open, his eyebrows arched; his large blue eyes fringed with long chestnut lashes of angelic beauty; his complexion dazzlingly fair and blooming; his hair, of a dark chestnut, curled naturally, and fell in thick ringlets on his shoulders; and he had the vermilion mouth of his mother, and like her a small dimple on the chin. In disposition he was exceedingly amiable, and was a great favourite both with his father and mother, who affectionately styled him their "little Norman."

His happiness was destined to be very short-lived, for the murmurs of the Revolution could already be heard. On the 20th of July, 1791, King Louis XVI., his family and court, fled from the disloyal French capital in the night, their intention being to travel in disguise to Montmedy, and there to join the Marquis de Bouille, who was at the head of a large army. When they awoke the little dauphin, and began to dress him as a girl, his sister asked him what he thought of the proceeding. His answer was, "I think we are going to play a comedy;" but never had comedy more tragic ending. The royal party were discovered at Varennes, and brought back to the Tuileries amid the hootings and jeers of the mob. "The journey," says Lamartine, "was a Calvary of sixty leagues, every step of which was a torture." On the way the little girl whispered to her brother, "Charles, this is not a comedy." "I have found that out long since," said the boy. But he was brave, tender to his mother, and gravely courteous to the commissioner of the Assembly who had been deputed to bring them back. "Sir," he said, from his mother's knee, "you ask if I am not very sorry to return to Paris. I am glad to be anywhere, so that it is with mamma and papa, and my aunt and sister, and Madame de Tourzel, my governess."

There soon came the wild scene in the Tuileries, and the sad appearance of the dethroned king in the Assembly, with its still more lamentable ending. Louis XVI. was carried to the prison of the Temple. This building had originally been a fortress of the Knights Templars. In 1792, the year in which it received the captive monarch, it consisted of a large square tower, flanked at its angles by four round towers, and having on the north side another separate tower of less dimensions than the first, surmounted by turrets, and generally called the little tower. It was in this little tower that the royal family of France were located by the commune of Paris. Here the king spent his time in the education of his son, while the best historian of the boy says he devoted himself to comforting his parents: "Here he was happy to live, and he was only turned to grief by the tears which sometimes stole down his mother's cheeks. He never spoke of his games and walks of former days; he never uttered the name of Versailles or the Tuileries; he seemed to regret nothing."

On the morning of the 21st January, 1793, Louis XVI. was carried to the scaffold, and suffered death. On the previous day, at a final interview which was allowed, he had taken the dauphin, "his dear little Norman," on his knee, and had said to him, "My son, you have heard what I have just said"—he had been causing them all to promise never to think of avenging his death—"but, as oaths are something more sacred still than words, swear, with your hands held up to Heaven, that you will obey your father's dying injunction;" and, adds his sister, who tells the story, "My brother, bursting into tears, obeyed; and this most affecting goodness doubled our own grief." And thus father and son parted, but not for long.

On the 1st of July the Committee of Public Safety passed a decree, "That the son of Capet be separated from his mother, and committed to the charge of a tutor, to be chosen by the Council General of the Commune." The Convention sanctioned it, and it was carried into effect two days later. About ten o'clock at night, when the young dauphin was sleeping soundly in his bed, and the ex-queen and her sister were busy mending clothes, while the princess read to them, six municipal guards marched into the room and tore the child from his agonized mother. They conveyed him to that part of the Tower which had formerly been occupied by his father, where the "tutor" of the commune was in waiting to receive him. This was no other than a fellow called Simon, a shoemaker, who had never lost an opportunity of publicly insulting the king, and who, through the influence of Marat and Robespierre, had been appointed the instructor of his son at a salary of 500 francs a month, on condition that he was never to leave his prisoner or quit the Tower, on any pretence whatever.

On the first night, Simon found his new pupil disposed to be unmanageable. The dauphin sat silently on the floor in a corner, and not all his new master's threats could induce him to answer the questions which were put to him. Madame Simon, although a terrible virago, was likewise unsuccessful; and for two days the prince mourned for his mother, and refused to taste food, only demanding to see the law which separated him from her and kept them in prison. At the end of the second day he found that he could not persist in exercising his own will, and went to bed. In the morning his new master cried in his elation, "Ha, ha! little Capet, I shall have to teach you to sing the 'Carmagole,' and to cry 'Vive la Republique!' Ah! you are dumb, are you?" and so from hour to hour he sneered at the miserable child.

On one occasion, in the early days of his rule, Simon made his pupil the present of a Jew's harp, at the same time saying, "Your she-wolf of a mother plays on the piano, and you must learn to accompany her on the Jew's harp!" The dauphin steadily refused to touch the instrument; whereupon the new tutor, in a passion, flew upon him and beat him severely. Still he was not cowed, although the blows were the first which he had ever received, but bravely answered, "You may punish me if I don't obey you; but you ought not to beat me—you are stronger than I." "I am here to command you, animal! my duty is just what I please to do; and 'vive la Liberte, l'Egalite.'" By-and-by personal suffering and violence had become only too common occurrences of his daily life.

About a week after the dauphin was transferred from the little tower, a rumour spread through Paris that the son of Louis XVI. had been carried off from the Temple Tower, and crowds of the sovereign people flocked to the spot to satisfy themselves of its truth. The guard, who had not seen the boy since he had been taken from his mother's care, replied that he was no longer in the Tower; "and from that time the popular falsehood gained ground and strength continually." In order to quiet the public apprehension, a deputation from the Committee of Public Safety visited Simon, and ordered him to bring down "the tyrant's son," so that the incoming guard might see him for themselves. They then proceeded to cross-question Simon as to the manner in which he discharged his duties. When that worthy had satisfied them as to his past treatment, he demanded decisive instructions for his future guidance.

"Citizens, what do you decide about the wolf-cub? He has been taught to be insolent, but I shall know how to tame him. So much the worse if he sinks under it! I don't answer for that. After all, what do you want done with him? Do you want him transported?"

"No."

"Killed?"

"No."

"Poisoned?"

"No."

"But what then?"

"We want to get rid of him!"

The guard saw him and questioned him, and some of them even sympathized with him and tried to comfort him; but Simon came and dragged him away with a rough "Come, come, Capet, or I'll show the citizens how I work you when you deserve it!"

When the commissaries returned to the Convention they were able to announce that the report which had stirred up the populace was false, and that they had seen Capet's son. From this time forward Simon redoubled his harshness; beat the boy daily; removed his books and converted them into pipe-lights; cut off his hair, and made him wear the red Jacobin cap; dressed him in a scarlet livery, and compelled him to clean his own and his wife's shoes, and to give them the most abject obedience. At last the boy's spirit was thoroughly broken, and Simon not only did as he had said, and forced his victim to sing the "Carmagnole," and shout "Vive la Republique!" but made him drunk upon bad wine, and when his mind was confused forced him to sing lewd and regicide songs, and even to subscribe his name to foul slanders against his mother.

It might be supposed that the Convention was thoroughly satisfied with its worthy subordinate who had done his peculiar work so effectively, but he was considered too costly, and was ousted from his post. It was resolved that the expenses of the children of Louis Capet should be reduced to what was necessary for the food and maintenance of two persons, and four members of the Council-General of the Commune agreed to superintend the prisoners of the Temple. A new arrangement was made, and a novel system of torture was inaugurated by Hebert and Chaumette, two of the most infamous wretches whom the Revolution raised into temporary notoriety. The wretched boy was confined in a back-room which had no window or connection with the outside except through another apartment. His historian describes it vividly—"The door of communication between the ante-room and this room was cut down so as to leave it breast high, fastened with nails and screws, and grated from top to bottom with bars of iron. Half way up was placed a shelf on which the bars opened, forming a sort of wicket, closed by other moveable bars, and fastened by an enormous padlock. By this wicket his coarse food was passed in to little Capet, and it was on this ledge that he had to put whatever he wanted to send away. Although small, his compartment was yet large enough for a tomb. What had he to complain of? He had a room to walk in, a bed to lie upon; he had bread and water, and linen and clothes! But he had neither fire nor candle. His room was warmed only by a stove-pipe, and lighted only by the gleam of a lamp suspended opposite the grating." Into this horrible place he was pushed on the anniversary of his father's death. The victim did not even see the parsimonious hand which passed his food to him, nor the careless hand that sometimes left him without a fire in very cold weather, and sometimes, by plying the stove with too much fuel, converted his prison into a furnace.

This horrible place he was expected to keep clean, but his strength was unequal to the task, and he was glad to crawl to his bed when ordered by his guards, who refused to give him a light. Even there he was not allowed to rest in peace, and often the commissaries appointed to relieve those on duty would often noisily arouse him from his pleasant dreams by rattling at his wicket, crying, "Capet, Capet, are you asleep? Where are you? Young viper, get up!" And the little startled form would creep from the bed and crawl to the wicket; while the faint gentle voice would answer, "I am here, citizens, what do you want with me?" "To see you," would be the surly reply of the watch for the night. "All right. Get to bed. In!—Down!" And this performance would be repeated several times before morning. It would have killed a strong man in a short time. How long could a child stand it?

Days and weeks and months did pass, and as they passed brought increasing langour, and weakness, and illness. The want of fresh air, the abandonment and the solitude, had all had their effect, and the unfortunate dauphin could scarcely lift the heavy earthenware platter which contained his food, or the heavier jar in which his water was brought. He soon left off sweeping his room, and never tried to move the palliasse off his bed. He could not change his filthy sheets, and his blanket was worn into tatters. He wore his ragged jacket and trousers—Simon's legacy—both day and night, and although he felt all this misery he could not cry. Loathsome creatures crawled in his den and over his person until even the little scullion who attended him shuddered with horror as he glanced into the place and muttered, "Everything is alive in that room." "Yes," says Beauchesne, "everything was alive except the boy they were killing by inches, and murdering in detail. This beautiful child, so admired at Versailles and at the Tuileries, would not recognise himself, his form is scarcely human—it is something that vegetates—a moving mass of bones and skin. Never could any state of misery have been conceived more desolate, more lonely, more threatening than this!... And all that I here relate is true! These troubles, insults, and torments were heaped on the head of a child. I show them to you, like indeed to what they were, but far short of the reality. Cowardly and cruel men, why did you stop in your frenzy of murder? It would have been better to drink that last drop of royal blood, than to mingle it with gall and venom and poison; it would have been better to smother the child, as was done by the emissaries of Richard III. in the Tower of London, than to degrade and sully his intellect by that slow method of assassination which killed the mind before it slew the body. He should have been struck a year or two before; his little feet should have been aided to mount the rude steps of the guillotine! Ah, if she could have known the fate you were reserving for him, the daughter of Maria-Theresa would have asked to take her child in her arms: she would have shared her very last victory with him; and the angels would have prepared at once the crown of the martyred and that of the innocent victim! Alas, history is fain to regret for Louis XVII. the scaffold of his mother!"

But the end of the torture was very near. Robespierre fell, and Simon, the Barbarous, accompanied him in the same tumbril to the guillotine, and shared his fate. Barras, the new dictator, made it almost his first care to visit the Temple; and, from what his colleagues and himself saw there, they came to the conclusion that some more judicious control was needed than that of the rough guards who had charge of the royal children—that a permanent agent must be appointed to watch the watchers. Accordingly, without consulting him, they delegated the citizen Laurent to take charge of the dauphin and his sister. Laurent was a humane man, and accepted the appointment willingly. Indeed he dared not have refused it; but, in common with the rest of the public, he had heard that the boy was miserably ill and was totally uncared for, and seems to have had a notion that he could better his condition.

He arrived at the Temple in the evening; but, having no idea of the real state of the child, he did not visit his little prisoner until the guard was changed at two o'clock in the morning. When he arrived at the entrance-door, the foul smell emanating therefrom almost drove him back. But he was forced to overcome his repugnance; for when the municipals battered at the little wicket, and shouted for Capet, no Capet responded. At last, after having been frequently called, a feeble voice answered "Yes;" but there was no motion on the part of the speaker. No amount of threatening could induce the occupant of the bed to leave it, and Laurent was compelled to accept his new charge in this way, knowing that he was safe somewhere in that dark and abominable hole. Early next morning he was at the wicket again, and saw a sight which caused him to send an immediate request to his superiors to come and visit their captive. Two days later several members of the Committee of General Safety repaired to the Temple, the barrier and the wicket were torn down, and "in a dark room, from which exhaled an odour of corruption and death, on a dirty unmade bed, barely covered with a filthy cloth and a ragged pair of trousers, a child of nine years old was lying motionless, his back bent, his face wan and wasted with misery, and his features exhibiting an expression of mournful apathy and rigid unintelligence. His head and neck were fretted by purulent sores, his legs and arms were lengthened disproportionately, his knees and wrists were covered with blue and yellow swellings, his feet and hands unlike in appearance to human flesh, and armed with nails of an immense length; his beautiful fair hair was stuck to his head by an inveterate scurvy like pitch; and his body, and the rags which covered him, were alive with vermin." Mentally he was almost an imbecile; and in answer to all the questions which were put to him, he only said once, "I wish to die." And this was the son of Louis XVI., and the nearest heir to the throne of France!

The commissaries having given some trifling directions, went their way to concoct a report, leaving Laurent with very indefinite instructions. But all the human feelings of the man were roused. He sent at once for another bed, and bathed the child's wounds. He got an old woman to cut his hair, and comb it out, and wash him, and persuaded one of the municipals, who had been a kind of doctor, to prescribe for the sores, and managed to persuade his superiors to send a tailor, who made a suit of good clothes for the dauphin. At first the boy had some difficulty in understanding the change, but as it dawned upon him he was very grateful. Nor did Laurent's good work stop here. Although the Revolution was less bloody than before, it was still very jealous; and the keeper of the Temple was not permitted to see his prisoner, except at meal times and rare intervals. Still he contrived to obtain permission to carry him to the top of the Tower, on the plea that fresh air was essential to his health, and tended him so assiduously, that while the prisoner was partially restored, and could walk about, the strength of his custodier broke down.

Under these circumstances he applied for an assistant, and citizen Gomin was appointed to the duty. Citizen Gomin, the son of a well-to-do upholsterer, had no desire to leave his father's shop to become an under-jailer at the Temple; but his remonstrances were silenced by the emissaries of the committee, and he was carried off at once from his bench and his counter in a carriage which was waiting. He was a kindly fellow, but prudent withal, and was so horrified when he saw the condition of his charge, that he would have resigned if he had not been afraid that by so doing he would become a suspect. As it was he did his best to help Laurent, and by a happy thought, and with the connivance of a good-hearted municipal, brought into the invalid's room four little pots of flowers in full bloom. The sight of the flowers and the undisguised mark of sympathy and affection did what all previous kindness had failed to do—unlocked the fountains of a long-sealed heart—and the child burst into tears. From that moment he recognised Gomin as his friend, but days elapsed before he spoke to him. When he did, his first remark was—"It was you who gave me some flowers: I have not forgotten it."

Gomin and Laurent by-and-by came to be great favourites; but the latter was compelled to resign his post through the urgency of his private affairs, and he was replaced by a house-painter called Lasne, who, like Gomin, was forced to abandon his own business at a moment's notice. He proved equally good-natured with the other two, and like them succeeded in gaining the friendship of the dauphin. As far as he could, he lightened his captivity and tended him with the utmost care. But no amount of kindliness could bring back strength to the wasted frame, or even restore hope to the careful attendants. They sang to him, talked with him, and gave him toys; but it was all in vain. In the month of May, 1705, they became really alarmed, and informed the government that the little Capet was dangerously ill. No attention was paid to their report, and they wrote again, expressing a fear that he would not live. After a delay of three days a physician came. He considered him as attacked with the same scrofulous disorder of which his brother had died at Meudon, and proposed his immediate removal to the country. This idea was, of course, regarded as preposterous. He was, however, transferred to a more airy room; but the change had no permanent effect. Lasne and Gomin did all they could for him, carrying him about in their arms, and nursing him day and night; but he continued gradually to sink.

On the morning of the 8th of June a bulletin was issued announcing that the life of the captive was in danger. Poor patient Gomin was by his bedside, on the watch in more senses than one, and expressed his profound sorrow to see him suffer so much. "Take comfort," said the child, "I shall not always suffer so much." Then, says Beauchesne, "Gomin knelt down that he might be nearer to him. The child took his hand and pressed it to his lips. The pious heart of Gomin prompted an ardent prayer—one of those prayers that misery wrings from man and love sends up to God. The child did not let go the faithful hand that still remained to him, and raised his eyes to Heaven while Gomin prayed for him." A few hours later, when Lasne had relieved his subordinate, and was sitting beside the bed, the prince said that he heard music, and added, "Do you think my sister could have heard the music? How much good it would have done her!" Lasne could not speak. All at once the child's eye brightened, and he exclaimed, "I have something to tell you!" Lasne took his hand, and bent over the bed to listen. The little head fell on his bosom; but the last words had been spoken, and the descendant and heir of sixty-five kings was dead. The date was the 8th of June, 1795; and the little prisoner, who had escaped at last, was just ten years, two months, and twelve days old.

Lasne at once acquainted Gomin and Damont, the commissary on duty, with the event, and they instantly repaired to the room. The poor little royal corpse was carried from the apartment where he died into that where he had suffered so long, the remains were laid out on the bed, and the doors were thrown open. Gomin then repaired to the offices of the Committee of Safety, and announced the decease of his charge. He saw one of the members, who told him that the sitting was ended, and advised the concealment of the fact till the following morning. This was done. The same evening supper was prepared at eight o'clock for "the little Capet," and Gomin pretended to take it to his room. He left it outside, and entered the chamber of death. Many years afterwards he described his feelings to M. Beauchesne—"I timidly raised the covering and gazed upon him. The lines which pain had drawn on his forehead and on his cheeks had disappeared.... His eyes, which suffering had half-closed, were open now, and shone as pure as the blue heaven. His beautiful fair hair, which had not been cut for two months, fell like a frame round his face, which I had never seen so calm."

At eight o'clock next morning four members of the committee came to the Tower to assure themselves that the prince really was dead. They were satisfied and withdrew. As they went out some of the officers of the Temple guard asked to see "the little Capet" whom they had known at the Tuileries, and were admitted. They recognised the body at once, and twenty of them signed an attestation to that effect. Four surgeons arrived while the soldiers were in the room, and had to wait until it could be cleared before they could begin the autopsy which they had been sent to perform. By this time also everyone outside the Temple had learned the event, except his sister, who was confined in another part of the Tower; and the good-hearted Gomin could not muster up courage to tell her.

On the evening of the 10th of June the coffin which contained the body was carried out at the great gate, escorted by a small detachment of troops, and the crowd which had collected was kept back by gens d'armes. Lasne was among the mourners, and witnessed the interment, which took place in the cemetery of Sainte-Marguerite. As the soldier-guarded coffin passed along, the people asked whose body it contained, and were answered 'little Capet;' and the more popular title of dauphin spread from lip to lip with expressions of pity and compassion, and a few children of the common people, in rags, took off their caps, in token of respect and sympathy, before this coffin that contained a child who had died poorer than they themselves were to live.

The procession entered by the old gate of the cemetery, and the interment took place in the corner on the left, at a distance of eight or nine feet from the enclosure wall, and at an equal distance from a small house. The grave was filled up—no mound was raised, but the ground was carefully levelled, so that no trace of the interment should remain. All was over.

This is the story of M. Beauchesne, and there seems to be little reason to doubt its truth in any essential particular. He writes with much feeling, but he does not permit his sentiments to overcome his reason, and has verified the truthfulness of his statements before giving them to the public. His book is the result of twenty years' labour and research, and he freely reproduces his authorities for the inspection and judgment of his readers. He was personally acquainted with Lasne and Gomin, the two last keepers of the Tower, and the government aided him if it did not patronise him in his work. Certificates, reports, and proclamations are all proved, and lithographs of them are given. The book is a monument of patient research as well as of love, and the mass of readers will find no difficulty in believing that it embodies the truth, or that Louis XVII. really died in the Temple on the 8th of June 1795.

* * * * *

But in a land such as France, it is not remarkable that the utmost should have been made of the mystery which surrounded the fate of the youthful dauphin, or that pretenders should have endeavoured to personate the son of Louis XVI. The first of these was a lad called Jean Marie Hervagault, a young scamp, who was a native of St. Lo, a little village in the department of La Manche, and who resided there during his early youth with his father, who was a tailor. This precocious youth, who was gifted with good looks, and who undoubtedly bore some resemblance to the deceased prince, ran away from home in 1796, and, by his plausible manners and innocent expression, succeeded in ingratiating himself with several royalist families of distinction, who believed his story that he was the son of a proscribed nobleman. His good luck was so great that he was induced to visit Cherbourg, and tempt his fortune among the concealed adherents of the monarchy who were resident there; but he was quickly detected, and was thrown into prison.

His father, learning his whereabouts, repaired to the jail, and implored his prodigal son to return to the needle and the shop-board at St. Lo, but his entreaties were unavailing, and the would-be aristocrat plainly announced his intention of wearing fine clothes instead of making them. Accordingly, when he was released, he assumed feminine attire, had recourse to prominent royalists to supply his wants, and explained his disguise by mysterious allusions to political motives, and to his own relationship to the Bourbons. The officers of the law again laid hands on him, and threw him into prison at Bayeux, and his father had once more to free him from custody. Still his soul revolted at honest industry; and, although he condescended to return to St. Lo, the shears and the goose remained unknown to him, and he made his stay under the paternal roof as brief as possible.

One morning in October, 1797, the honest old tailor awoke to find that his ambitious son was missing for the third time, and heard no more of him until he learnt that he was in prison at Chalons. He had contrived to reach that town in his usual fashion, and when he found himself in his customary quarters, and his further progress impeded, he informed some of his fellow-prisoners, in confidence, that he was the dauphin of the Temple, and the brother of the princess. They, of course, whispered the wondrous secret to the warders, who in turn conveyed it to their friends, and the news spread like wildfire. The whole town "was moved, and the first impulse was to communicate to Madame Royale" the joyful intelligence that her brother still lived. Crowds flocked to see the interesting prisoner and to do him homage, and the turnkeys, anxious to err on the safe side, relaxed their rules, and permitted him to receive the congratulations of enthusiastic crowds, who were anxious to kiss his hand and to avow their attachment to himself and his cause.

The authorities were less easily moved, and sentenced the sham dauphin to a month's imprisonment as a rogue and vagabond, and, moreover, took good care that he suffered the penalty. On his release he was loaded with gifts by his still faithful friends, and went on his way rejoicing, until at Vere he had the misfortune to be captured by the police, and was sentenced to two years' imprisonment for swindling. The royalists of Chalons, however, remained true to him, and when his captivity was ended he was carried to the house of a Madame Seignes, where he held a mimic court, and graciously received those who flocked to do him honour. But the attentions of the police having become pressing, he was compelled to move secretly from place to place, until he found a temporary home in the house of a M. de Rambercourt, at Vetry. Here he first told the full story of his adventures to a wondering but believing audience. He glibly narrated the events which took place in the Temple up to the removal of the miscreant Simon from his post; but this part of the tale possessed little attraction, for the cruelties of the shoemaker-tutor were well known; but the sequel was of absorbing interest.

He said that after the fall of Robespierre and his myrmidons, he received much more lenient treatment, and was permitted to see his sister daily, to play with her, and to take his meals in her company. Still his health did not improve, and the compassion of his nurse having been excited, she informed his friends without of his condition, and it was resolved to effect his release. An arrangement was made, and the real dauphin was placed in the midst of a bundle of foul linen, and was then carried past the unsuspecting guards, while a child who had been purchased for the occasion from his unnatural parents was substituted in his place. The laundress' cart containing the prince was driven to Passy, and there three individuals received him, and were so certain of his identity that they at once fell on their knees and did him homage. From their care he was transferred to Belleville, the head-quarters of the Vendean army, where with strange inconsistency he was compelled to observe an incognito! Here he passed two months disguised as a lady; and, although known to the chiefs, concealed from the loyal army.

Meantime the poor child who had been foisted upon the republicans was drugged and died, and Dessault, his medical attendant, died also—the suspicion being that both were poisoned. This miserable child, who had thus paid the death penalty for his king was none other, the pretender said, than the son of a rascally tailor, named Hervagault, who lived at St. Lo!

He further stated that, while the royalist cause was wavering, instructions arrived from some mysterious source to send him to England to secure his safety, and that thither he was despatched. The Count d'Artois, he admitted, refused to acknowledge him as his nephew; but simple George III. was more easily imposed upon, and received the pseudo-dauphin with much kindness, and after encouraging him to be of good cheer, despatched him in an English man-of-war to Ostia. At Rome he had an interview with the Pope, and presented to him a confidential letter which had been given to him by the English monarch. Moreover, the pontiff prophesied the future greatness of his illustrious visitor; and, in order to confirm his identity, stamped two stigmata on his limbs with a red-hot iron—one on the right leg, representing the royal shield of France, with the initial letter of his name; and the other, on his left arm, with the inscription of "Vive le roi!"

Embarking at Leghorn, he landed in Spain, and without staying to pay his respects to the king at Madrid hurried on to Portugal, where he fell in love with the Princess Benedectine. This damsel, who was fair as a houri, had, he declared, returned his affection, and the Queen of Portugal had favoured his addresses; but as his friends were about to get up a revolution (that of the 18th Fructidor) on his behalf, he was compelled to leave his betrothed and hurry back to France. The pro-royalist movement having failed, he was forced to conceal himself, and to save himself by a second flight to England. But robbers, as well as soldiers, barred his way, and, after being stripped by a troop of bandits, he at last succeeded in reaching Chalons and his most attentive audience.

As it was known to those present that he had been imprisoned in Chalons as a rogue, and had condescended subsequently to accept the hospitality of the tailor of St. Lo, it was necessary to give some slight explanation of circumstances which were so untoward. But his ingenuity was not at fault, and the audacity of his story even helped to satisfy his dupes. He admitted that when he was examined before the authorities he had acknowledged Hervagault as his father; but he declared that he had done so simply to escape from the rage of his enemies, who were anxious to destroy him; and he considered that the tailor, who had accepted royalist gold in exchange for a son, was both bound to protect and recognise him.

There was no doubting. Those who listened were convinced. The king had come to take his own again; and Louis XVII. was the hero of the hour. Royalist vied with royalist in doing him service, and the ladies, who loved him for his beauty, pitied him for his misfortunes, and admired him for his devotion to the Princess Benedectine, were the foremost in endeavouring to restore him to his rights. Like devout Frenchwomen their first thought was to procure for him the recognition of the church, and they persuaded the cure of Somepuis to invite their protege to dinner. The village priest gladly did so, inasmuch as the banquet was paid for by other folks than himself; but, being a jovial ecclesiastic, he failed to perceive the true dignity of this descendant of St. Louis, and even went so far as to jest with the royal participant of his hospitality, somewhat rudely remarking that "the prince had but a poor appetite, considering that he belonged to a house whose members were celebrated as bons vivants!" The dauphin was insulted, the ladies were vexed, and the cure was so intensely amused that he burst into an explosive fit of laughter. The dinner came to an untimely conclusion, and the branded of the Pope retired wrathfully.

But Fouche heard of these occurrences! The great minister of police was little likely to allow an adventurer to wander about the provinces without a passport, declaring himself the son of Louis XVI. By his instructions the pretender was arrested, but even when in the hands of the police lost none of his audacity. He assumed the airs of royalty, and assured his disconsolate friends that the time would speedily come when his wrongs would be righted, his enemies discomfited, and his adherents rewarded as they deserved. The martyr was even more greatly feted in jail than he had been when at liberty. The prison regulations were relaxed to the utmost in his favour by dubious officials, who feared to incur the vengeance of the coming king; banquets were held in the apartments of the illustrious captive; valuable presents were laid at his feet; and a petty court was established within the walls of the prison.

But again the dread Fouche interposed; and although Bonaparte, then consul, would not allow the sham dauphin to be treated as a political offender, the chief of police had him put upon trial as a common impostor. Madame Seignes was at the same time indicted as an accomplice, she having been the first who publicly acknowledged her conviction that Hervagault was the dauphin of the Temple. The trial came on before the Tribunal of Justice on the 17th of February, 1802. After a patient hearing Hervagault was sentenced to four years' imprisonment, while his deluded admirer was acquitted.

There was some hope in the bosoms of Hervagault's partizans that the influence of his supposed sister, the Duchess d'Angouleme, would be sufficient to free him from the meshes of the law, and she was communicated with, but utterly repudiated the impostor. Meantime appeals were lodged against the sentence on both sides—by the prosecuting counsel, because of the acquittal of Madame Seignes, and by the friends of the prisoner against his conviction. A new trial was therefore appointed to take place at Rheims.

In the interval a new and powerful friend arose for the captive in Charles Lafond de Savines, the ex-bishop of Viviers. This ecclesiastic had been one of the earliest advocates of the revolution; but, on discovering its utter godlessness, had withdrawn from it in disgust, and had retired into private life. In his seclusion the news reached him that the dauphin was still alive, and was resolved to re-establish a monarchy similar to that in England, and in which the church, although formally connected with the state, would be allowed freedom of thought and freedom of action within its own borders. His zeal was excited, and he resolved to aid the unfortunate prince in so laudable an undertaking. He was little disposed to question the identity of the pretender, for the surgeons who had performed the autopsy at the Temple Tower had told him that, although they had indeed opened the body of a child, they had not recognised it, and could not undertake to say that it was that of the dauphin. To his mind, therefore, there appeared nothing extraordinary in the story of Hervagault, and he resolved to aid him to the best of his ability.

Recognising the deficiencies of the presumed heir to the throne of France, he determined to educate him as befitted his lofty rank, and declared himself willing, if he could not obtain the liberty of the prince, to share his captivity, and to teach him, in a dungeon, his duty towards God and man. He also entered into a lengthy correspondence with illustrious royalists to secure their co-operation in his plans, and even projected a matrimonial alliance for his illustrious protege. Nor did he offer only one lady to the choice of his future king. There were three young sisters of considerable beauty at the time resident in the province of Dauphine, and he left Hervagault liberty to select one of the three. He assured his prince that they were the daughters of a marquis, who was the natural son of Louis XV., and as the grand-daughters of a king of France were in every respect worthy of sitting by his side on his future throne. But the prisoner's deep affection for the Princess Benedictine for a time threatened to spoil this part of the plan, until, sacrificing his own feelings, he consented to yield to considerations of state, and placed himself unreservedly in the hands of his reverend adviser, who at once set out for Dauphine, and made formal proposals on behalf of Hervagault on the 25th of August, 1802, the anniversary of the festival of St. Louis.

But justice would not wait for Hymen; and while the fortunate young ladies were still undecided as to which of them should reign as Queen of France, the trial came on at Rheims. Crowds flocked to the town, prepared to give their prince an ovation on his acquittal; but the law was very stern and uncompromising. The conviction of Hervagault was affirmed; and, moreover, the acquittal of Madame Seignes was quashed, and she was sentenced to six months' imprisonment as the accomplice of a man who had been found guilty of using names which did not belong to him, and of extorting money under false pretences.

But all the evidence which was led failed to convince his dupes, and they subscribed liberally to supply him with comforts during his confinement. The authorities at Paris had ordered him to be kept in strict seclusion; but his jailers were not proof against the splendid bribes which were offered to them, and the august captive held daily court and fared sumptuously, until the government, finding that the belief in his pretensions was spreading rapidly, ordered his removal to Soissons, and gave imperative injunctions that he should be kept in solitary confinement.

The infatuated ex-bishop in the meantime was wandering about the country, endeavouring by every possible means to procure his release; and when he heard that the pseudo-prince was to be transferred from one prison to another, spent night after night wandering on the high road, or sitting at the foot of some village cross, hoping to intercept the prisoner on his way, and perhaps rescue him from the gens d'armes who had him in custody. Of course, he did not succeed in his quixotic undertaking; and when he subsequently demanded admission to see the prince in Soissons jail, he was himself arrested and detained until the government had decided whether to treat him as a conspirator or a lunatic.

At Soissons, as at Vitry, Chalons, and Rheims, crowds flocked to pay homage to the pretender, until at last Bonaparte, disgusted with the attention which was given to this impudent impostor, caused him to be removed to the Bicetre, then a prison for vagabonds and suspects. The place was thronged with the offscourings of Paris, and Hervagault found himself in congenial quarters. Certain enjoyments were permitted to those of the inmates who could afford to pay for them; and, as the so-called prince had plenty of money, and spent it liberally, his claims were as unhesitatingly recognised by his fellow-prisoners as they had been by the royalists of the provinces. Gradually his partizans found means to approach his person, and to procure for him extraordinary indulgences, which were at first denied to him; but when intelligence of this new demonstration in his favour reached the ears of the First Consul, he at once gave orders that he should be placed in solitary confinement, and that the ex-bishop of Viviers, who was at large under the surveillance of the police, should be arrested and shut up in Charenton as hopelessly mad. His instructions were fully carried out, and the unfortunate bishop shortly afterwards ended his days in the madhouse.

The last commands of Bonaparte had been so precise that no one dared to disobey them, and the sham dauphin for a time disappeared from public view. When the period of his imprisonment was at an end, he was turned out of the Bicetre, with an order forbidding him to remain more than one day in Paris—a miserable vagabond dressed in the prison garb! During his incarceration he had gained the friendship of a Jew named Emanuel, who had given him a letter to his wife, in which he entreated her to treat his comrade hospitably for the solitary night which he was permitted to spend in the capital. When Hervagault arrived at the Rue des Ecrivains, where the Jewess lodged, she was not at home; but a pastry-cook and his wife, who had a shop close by, invited the dejected caller to rest in their parlour until his friend returned. The couple were simple; Hervagault's plausibility was as great as ever, and, little by little, he told the story of his persecution, and passed himself off as a distressed royalist. The sympathies of the honest pastry-cook were stirred, and he not only invited the rogue to make his house his home, but clothed him, filled his purse, and took him to various places of public entertainment.

In return for this generous treatment, Hervagault in confidence informed his new protector that he was none other than the prisoner of the Temple; and that, when his throne was set up, the kindness he had received would be remembered and recompensed a thousandfold. One favour he did ask—money sufficient to carry him to Normandy. The needful francs were forthcoming, and the deluded pastry-cook bade his future sovereign a respectful adieu at the door of the diligence, never again to behold him, or his money, or his reward.

Hervagault's next appearance was in an entirely new character. He entered on board a man-of-war at Brest, under the name of Louis-Charles, and distinguished himself both for good conduct and courage. But he could not remain content with the praises which he acquired by his bravery, and once more confided the wonderful story of his birth and misfortunes to his shipmates, many of whom listened and believed. But the monotony of life at sea was too great for his sensitive nerves, and he deserted, and again took to a wandering life, trying his fortunes, on this occasion, among the royalists of Lower Brittany. Intelligence of his whereabouts soon reached the government, and he was arrested and again conveyed to the Bicetre, with the intimation that his captivity would only terminate with his life.

By this time it was well known in France that Bonaparte's word, once passed, would not be broken; and Hervagault, losing all hope, abandoned himself to drunkenness and the wildest excesses. His constitution gave way, and in a very short time he lay at the gates of death. A priest was summoned to administer the last consolations of religion to the dying pretender, and urged him to think on God and confess the truth. He gazed steadily into the eyes of the confessor, and said—"I shall not appear as a vile impostor in the eyes of the Great Judge of the universe. Before His tribunal I shall stand, revealed and acknowledged, the son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette of Austria. A Bourbon, descendant of a line of kings, my portion will be among the blessed. There I shall meet with my august and unfortunate family, and with them I shall partake of the common eternal rest." Two days afterwards he died, as he had lived, with a lie on his lips.



MATURIN BRUNEAU—SOI-DISANT LOUIS XVII. OF FRANCE.

Maturin Bruneau, the next pretender to the honours of the deceased son of Louis XVI., was quite as great a rascal as Hervagault, but he lacked his cleverness. Bruneau was the son of a maker of wooden shoes, who resided at the little village of Vezin, in the department of the Maine and Loire. He was born in 1784, and having been early left an orphan, was adopted by a married sister, who kept him until she discovered that he was incorrigibly vicious, and was compelled to turn him into the streets to earn his livelihood in the best way he could. Although Maturin was only eleven years old at the time, he found no difficulty in providing for himself. He strayed a little distance from home, into regions where he was personally unknown, and there accosted a farmer whom he met, asking him for alms, and stating at the same time that he was a little "De Vezin." The farmer's curiosity was excited, for the Baron de Vezin was a well-known nobleman, who had suffered sorely in the civil war of 1795, whose chateau had been burnt, and whose estates had been devastated by the republican soldiery; and that his son should be compelled to beg was more than the honest agriculturist could bear. So he took the little waif home with him, and kept him until the Viscountess de Turpin de Crisse heard of his whereabouts, and carried him off to her own chateau at Angrie.

In her mansion Maturin Bruneau was treated as an adopted son, and lived in great splendour until, in 1796, a letter arrived from Charles de Vezin, the brother of the baron, who had just returned to France, and who informed the viscountess that she had been imposed upon, for the only nephew he ever possessed was at that time an emigrant refugee in England. The result was that Bruneau was thrust out of doors, and, sent back to his native village and the manufacture of wooden shoes. The jibes of his fellow-villagers, however, rendered his life so miserable that the viscountess consented to receive him as a servant, and he remained with her for a year; but his conduct was so unbearable that she was at last compelled to dismiss him.

After a brief sojourn with his relatives he announced his intention of making the tour of France, and left his home for that purpose at the age of fifteen. He seems, in the course of his wanderings, to have fought in the Chouan insurrection in 1799 and 1800, and having been press-ganged, deserted from his ship in an American port, and roamed up and down in the United States for some years. When the news of Napoleon's downfall reached that country in 1815, he returned to France, arriving with a passport which bore the name of Charles de Navarre. He reached the village of Vallebasseir in great destitution, and there, having been mistaken for a young soldier named Phillipeaux, who was supposed to have perished in the war in Spain, he picked up all available intelligence respecting the family, and forthwith presented himself at the house of the Widow Phillipeaux as her son. He was received with every demonstration of affection, and made the worst possible use of his advantages. After spending all the ready money which the poor woman had, he proceeded to Vezin, where he was recognised by his family, although he pretended to be a stranger. Thence he repaired to Pont de Ce, where lived a certain Sieur Leclerc, an innkeeper, who had formerly been a cook in the household of Louis XVI. To this man he paid a visit, and demanded if he recognised him. The innkeeper said he did not, whereupon he remarked on the strangeness of being forgotten, seeing, said he, "that I am Louis XVII., and that you have often pulled my ears in the kitchen of Versailles."

Leclerc, whose recollections of the dauphin were of quite a different character, ordered him out of his house as an impostor. But it does not fall to everybody to be familiar with the ways of a court, or even of a royal kitchen, and a few persons were found at St. Malo who credited his assertion that he was the Prince of France. The government, already warned by the temporary success of Hervagault's imposture, immediately pounced upon him, and submitted him to examination. His story was found to be a confused tissue of falsehoods; and after being repeatedly interrogated, and attempting to escape, and to forward letters surreptitiously to his "uncle," Louis XVIII., he was removed to the prison of Rouen as the son of the Widow Phillipeaux, calling himself Charles de Navarre. When he entered the jail he was the possessor of a solitary five franc piece, which he spent in wine and tobacco, and he then took to the manufacture of wooden shoes for the other prisoners in order to obtain more. As he worked he told his story, and his fellow jail-birds were never tired of listening to his romance. Visitors also heard his tale, and yielded credence to it, and it was not long before everybody in Rouen knew that there was a captive in the town who claimed to be the son of the murdered king.

Among other persons of education and respectability who listened and believed was a Madame Dumont, the wife of a wealthy merchant. This lady became an ardent partizan of the pretender, and not only visited him, but spent her husband's gold lavishly to solace him in his captivity. She supplied him with the richest food and the rarest wines that money could buy. A Madame Jacquieres, who resided at Gros Caillon, near Paris, who was greatly devoted to the Bourbon family, also came under the influence of Bruneau's agents, and finally fell a victim to his rascality. This good lady was an ardent Catholic, and having some lingering doubt as to the honesty of the prisoner of Rouen, in order to its perfect solution she visited many shrines, said many prayers, and personally repaired to the old city in which he was confined, where she caused a nine days' course of prayer to be said to discover if the captive were really the person he pretended to be. This last expedient answered admirably. The Abbe Matouillet, who celebrated the required number of masses before the shrine of the Virgin, was himself a firm believer in Bruneau, and he had no hesitation in assuring the petitioner that loyalty and liberality towards the prince would be no bad investment either in this world or the next. The Abbe then led his credulous victim into the august presence of the clogmaker, and the poor dupe prostrated herself before him in semi-adoration. Nor would she leave the presence until his Majesty condescended to accept a humble gift of a valuable gold watch and two costly rings. His Majesty was graciously pleased to accede to the request of his loyal subject.

Bruneau could neither read nor write, and perhaps it was as well for himself that his education had been thus neglected, for if he had been left to his own devices his imposture would have been very short-lived. But he contrived to attach two clever rascals to himself, who helped to prolong the fraud and to victimise the public. They were both convicts, but convicts of a high intellectual type. One was Larcher, a revolutionary priest, and a man of detestable life; while the other was a forger named Tourly. These worthies acted as his secretaries. On the 3d of March 1816, the priest wrote a letter to "Madame de France" in these terms:—

"MY SISTER,—You are doubtless not ignorant of my being held in the saddest captivity, and reduced to a condition of appalling misery. So may I beg of you, if you should think me worthy of your especial consideration, to visit me here in my imprisonment. Even should you for an instant suspect me of being an impostor, still may I claim consideration for the sake of your brother. The scandal and judgment of which our family is daily the object throughout the entire kingdom may well make you shudder. I am myself sunk in despair at the thought of being so near the capital without being permitted to publicly appear in it. If you determine upon coming down here you would do well to preserve an incognito. In the meantime receive the embraces of your unfortunate brother, THE KING OF FRANCE AND NAVARRE."

This precious epistle Madame Jacquieres undertook not only to forward to the Duchess d'Angouleme, but also promised to procure the honour of a private interview for the bearer of the missive.

Larcher and Tourly must have been kept very busy, for the pretended dauphin was never tired of sending appeals for assistance to the foreign powers, of addressing proclamations to the people, and even went so far as formally to petition the parliament that he might be taken to Paris, in order there to establish his identity as the son of Louis XVI. The whole of the papers issued from the prison, and they were enormous in quantity, were signed by his secretaries with his name.

About the same time considerable interest was excited by a trashy novel, called the "Cemetery of the Madeleine," which pretended to give a circumstantial account of the life of the dauphin in the Temple. Out of this book the secretaries and their employer proceeded to construct "The Historical Memoirs of Charles of Navarre;" but after they had finished their work, they found that it was so ridiculously absurd that there was no probability that it would deceive the public for a moment. They accordingly handed the manuscript over to a more skilful rogue with whom they were acquainted, and this man, who was called Branzon, transformed their clumsy narrative into a well-written and plausible history. He did more, and "coached" the pretender in all the petty circumstances which he could find out respecting the Bourbon family. Manuscript copies of the "Memoirs" were assiduously distributed in influential quarters in Rouen, and particularly among the officers of the third regiment of the royal guard, then quartered in the town. A copy fell into the hands of a Vendean officer named De la Pomeliere, who recollected the story of the pretended son of Baron de Vezins, and half-suspected a similar imposture in this instance. With some difficulty he procured admission to the royal presence, and induced the sham dauphin to speak of La Vendee. During the conversation he remarked, that when the chateau of Angrie, the residence of the Viscountess de Turpin, was mentioned, the pretender slightly changed colour and became embarrassed. The acknowledgment that he was acquainted with the mansion, and the accurate description which he gave of it, gave the first clue whereby proof was obtained of his identity with Maturin Bruneau.

But although M. de la Pomeliere, from his previous knowledge, had a hazy idea of the truth, the uninformed public continued devoted to the cause of the pretender; and the convict secretaries, if they failed to stir up the educated classes, at least succeeded in entrapping the ignorant. The prison cell of Bruneau was converted into a scene of uninterrupted revelling. Persons of all classes sent their gifts—the ladies supplying unlimited creature comforts for their king, while their husbands strove to compensate for their incapacity to manufacture dainties by filling the purse of the pretender. Nothing was forgotten: fine clothes and fine furniture were supplied in abundance; and the adoring public were so anxious to consider the comfort of the illustrious prisoner, that they even subscribed to purchase a breakfast service of Sevres, so that the heir to the throne might drink his chocolate out of a porcelain cup.

Meantime Madame Jacquieres had not been idle, and was ready to fulfil her promise to send a messenger to the Duchess d'Angouleme. Her chosen emissary was a Norman gentleman named Jacques Charles de Foulques, an ardent Bourbonist and a lieutenant-colonel in the army. This officer was both brave and suave, and seemed in every respect a fitting person to act as an ambassador to the Tuileries. He was deeply religious, very conscientious, and extremely simple. His mental capacity had been accurately gauged by Bruneau and his associates, and care was taken to excite his religious enthusiasm. The Abbe Matouillet plainly told him that Heaven smiled upon the cause, and introduced him to the prince, who administered the oath of allegiance, which the credulous Norman is said to have signed with the seal of his lips on a volume that looked like a book of gaillard songs, but which the simple soldier mistook for the Gospels. After several audiences, his mission was pointed out, and Colonel de Foulques, without hesitation, agreed to proceed to Paris, and there to place in the hands of the daughter of Louis XVI. a copy of the "Memoirs of Charles of Navarre," and a letter from her reputed brother.

The latter document was produced in the court at Rouen when Bruneau was afterwards placed at the bar, and is a very curious production. In it the maker of clogs thus addresses "Madame Royale:"—

"I am aware, my dear sister, a secret presentiment has long possessed you that the finger of God was about to point out to you your brother, that innocent partaker of your sorrows, the one alone worthy to repair them, as he was fated to share them.

"I know, also, that you were surrounded by snares, and that they who extend them for you are men of wicked ways. They believe they have destroyed the germs of some virtues, as they succeeded in arresting the progress of my education; but there remain to me uprightness of principle, courage, a tendency to good, and the desire of preserving the glory of my nation. Louis XIV. could boast of no more.

"I know that I have been pictured to you as one who has forgotten his dignity, and who is the slave of a love for wine. Alas! that beverage that was forced upon me in my tenderest youth, by the ferocious Simon, has served to fortify my constitution in the course of a most painful life, even as it did that of the great Henry IV.; and, if I have been addicted to the use of it in this place, it was for my health's sake, to preserve which a more refined method would not have so well suited me.

"The use of tobacco was recommended to me in 1797, at Baltimore, also on account of my health. I have profited by it. It has occasionally served to dissipate my sense of weariness, and the thin vapour has often caused me to forget that life might be breathed away from my lips almost as readily.

"I have wished, my dear sister, to speak to you as a brother. Whatever may be the force of a custom preserved during nineteen years, I shall know how, in sharing the fatigues of my troops, to deprive myself of what is a pastime to them. Other occupations will but too easily absorb me entirely. Cease to see by any other vision than your own. Trust to the evidence of your own senses, and no other. I have learned, through a long series of misfortunes, how to be a man, and to be upon my guard against my fellowmen. Truth is not apt to penetrate under golden fringes. It is, however, my divinity; and henceforward, my sister, it will dwell with us. I grant the right of having it told to me. It will never offend a monarch who, having contracted the habit of bearing it, will have the courage to heed it for the benefit of his people.

"I dispersed the last calumny which perversity has aimed at me, when it declared that your brother was still in the United States. No; I had long left it when my evil destiny conducted me from Brazil (as you will see in my "Memoirs") to France, which is anything for me but the promised land. Heaven, to whom my eyes and hopes were ever raised, will not fail to have in its keeping certain witnesses to my existence. There is one to whom I presented, in 1801, at Philadelphia, three gold doubloons, a note of twenty dollars, three shirts, a coat, a levite, and two pairs of old boots. This witness, whom chance has again brought me acquainted with here, is a certain Chaufford, son of a baker of Rouen, well known to the keeper of the prison, and who was on board the French fleet which sailed from Brest. This witness (of whom I have spoken in my "Memoirs") deserted from the fleet. My servant Francois meeting him in Marc Street, brought him to me. I was then suffering in consequence of a fall from my horse, and was obliged to go about on crutches; and it was from me that he received every species of assistance, and it is by me that he has been reminded of it within the walls of this odious prison, where he least of all expected again to meet with his illustrious benefactor.

"I conclude, my dear sister, certifying to you, by my ambassador, the nature of my ulterior projects. He will hear of your final resolution, and will at once return to me, after assuring you that the superior rank to which destiny calls me is only coveted by me for the sake of my people, and in order to share with you the grateful attachment, which will always be for me the sweetest reward. It is the heart of your king and brother that has never ceased to hold you dear. He presses you to that heart which the most cruel misery has not been able to render cold towards you."

Armed with this extraordinary document, Lieutenant-Colonel de Foulques set out for Paris, honoured by his mission, and convinced that he had only to present himself at the Tuileries to obtain easy access to the duchess, and only to gain her ear to insure her co-operation in the sacred task of placing her long-lost and ill-treated brother on the throne of France. Of course, there were certain forms which must be complied with, but the result was, to his mind, certain. He first opened negotiations with M. de Mortmaur, and delivered the despatches to his care. To his surprise they were treated with the utmost indifference, not to say rudeness; and the Norman was still more disgusted when told that no audience would be granted. From M. de Mortmaur he repaired to the Duchess of Serent, and, in a letter, craved her influence to procure for him the desired interview with "Madame Royale." The reply was prompt and unmistakable: If he did not leave the capital within eight days, he would be thrown into jail.

The colonel did not wait for a week; but in an angry mood returned at once to those who sent him, cursing the government in his heart, stigmatizing "Madame Royale" as an unnatural sister, and considering the king no better than other royal uncles who had occupied thrones which belonged to their imprisoned nephews. The news of his discomfiture did not disconcert or dishearten the plotters, and, although their first attempt to approach the daughter of Louis XVI. had resulted in failure, they resolved to make another attempt. Madame de Jacquieres, in particular, was very hopeful, and, with a wisdom and modesty which did her credit, discovered that there would have been great indelicacy in the Duchess of Angouleme granting a private interview to a man. A female messenger ought to have been sent; and she soon found one to repair the first blunder.

Madame Morin, who superseded De Foulkes, was a lady of great accomplishments and considerable intelligence. The documents which the unsuccessful ambassador had carried with him were entrusted to the new emissary; and, in addition, she carried with her a portrait of Charles of Navarre, who was represented in the brilliant uniform of a general officer of dragoons. But Madame Morin was as ill-fated as her predecessor had been, and all her efforts to force her way into the presence of the duchess were fruitless. The police also frightened her as they had terrified De Foulkes, and paid a visit to her residence. They did not make a thorough search, but gave her to understand that if any further attempts were made to annoy the duchess they would institute a strict perquisition—a threat which had so great an effect upon the ambassadress that she immediately burnt her copy of the "Memoirs," her credentials, and even the portrait of her illustrious master and prince, and returned to the power from which she was accredited, shamefacedly to confess that she had been equally unfortunate with the gallant Norman colonel.

It was evident that the hard heart of the duchess could not easily be moved, and it was necessary to have recourse to other tactics. At this time misery and famine were prevalent in the land, and many persons were discontented with the rule of Louis XVIII., who was in extremely ill health. The Abbe Matouillet saw his opportunity, and taking advantage of the prevalent disaffection, issued a proclamation intimating that if the people of France would place their captive king upon the throne now occupied by a dying usurper, the liberated and grateful sovereign would, in return, immediately fix the price of bread at three sous per pound. Meantime, the generous offerer was regaling himself on the fat of the land, and holding his petty court within the walls of Rouen jail. But this last move led to energetic action on the part of the authorities. The attempted rising was crushed, the careless jailers were dismissed, the prisoner was placed in solitary and comfortless confinement, and the keeper of the seals commenced serious proceedings in order to bring him to trial.

The chief object to be accomplished was to prove his birth, for there were many who jumped to the conclusion that he must be the son of Louis XVI., since he was not the son of the Widow Phillipeaux. Seeing that his time had come, and that the government was determined to punish him with severity, Bruneau became alarmed, and offered his new jailers ten thousand francs to set him at liberty. The offer was refused and reported, the prisoner was more narrowly guarded, and his preliminary examinations were hastened. The stories which he told were so absurd and so wildly contradictory, as to leave no doubt of the hollowness of his pretensions; but still the difficulty remained of proving who he really was.

When affairs were in this stage the Viscountess Turpin, Bruneau's first benefactress, arrived in Rouen. M. de Pomeliere, the officer of the king's guard who had suspected him from the first, had communicated his suspicions to the viscountess, and she had come to see him, and, if she could, to expose him. When Bruneau was confronted with his former patroness, he at once admitted that he had enjoyed the lady's hospitality, but declared that that fact did not render him the less the Dauphin of France. The viscountess reproached him, and endeavoured to ashame him; but the impudent and ungrateful scamp turned to her with an air of mock majesty and exclaimed, "Madame, I accept counsel from no one. I give it as I do commands. I am a sovereign!" The members of his family were next brought from Vezin to identify him, and had no hesitation in doing so. He denied ever having seen them before, but frequently betrayed himself by addressing them by their pet household names, and by contradicting them with regard to trivial occurrences. The imposture was plain; and Bruneau, his forger-secretary Tourly, Branzon the author of the "Memoirs," the Abbe Matouillet, and Madame Dumont, were committed for trial as swindlers, as the government did not deem them of sufficient importance to charge them with high treason.

The Abbe contrived to effect his escape from the jail, but the others were placed in the dock, Bruneau was received with some faint cries of "Vive Louis XVII.!" but the scamp knew that his game was played out, and did not care to conceal his knowledge of the fact. He had made no effort to make himself presentable; but appeared in court ill-dressed, unshaven, and wearing a cotton night-cap on his head. It was with difficulty that he could be compelled to respect the forms of the court, or to preserve ordinary decency. He interrupted the opening speech of the government prosecutor by noisy ejaculations, oaths, filthy expletives, and immodest and insulting gestures, and when rebuked by the judges showered down upon them all the abusive and abominable epithets of his extensive vocabulary.

The trial lasted for ten days, and the career of Bruneau was clearly traced from his very childhood. As revelation after revelation was made, and the history of crime after crime was disclosed, his interruptions became more and more frequent and violent, until his very accomplices shrank from him in horror, protesting that it he had presented himself to them in the same guise when he first proclaimed his pretensions, they would not have been seduced by him. Their advocates pleaded on their behalf that they were dupes and not confederates, and the plea served to exculpate the Abbe, Madame Dumont, and Tourly. The impostor himself was condemned to five years' imprisonment, three thousand francs fine, and a further imprisonment of two years for his offences against the dignity of justice and the public morality committed in open court. He was further condemned to remain at the after-disposal of the government, and to pay three-fourths of the expenses of the trial. Branzon, his literary friend, was sentenced to two years' imprisonment, and to pay a fourth of the expenses. When that part of the sentence was pronounced, which referred to the cost of the proceedings, Bruneau burst into an insulting laugh, and informed the judges that he would take care to defray the heavy responsibility laid upon him as soon as he was able. But, as the saying is, he laughed without his host. The subscriptions of his dupes were lying at the Bank of France, were confiscated by the state, and, amply served to pay the pecuniary penalty. After his imprisonment had expired Bruneau disappeared from public view.



NAUeNDORFF—SOI-DISANT LOUIS XVII. OF FRANCE.

One evening, while Napoleon I. was still reigning at the Tuileries and guiding the destinies of France, a stranger appeared in the market-place of Brandenburg, in Prussia. He had travelled far, was very tired, and sat him down to rest. But the Prussian police had then, and have still, a deep dislike to weary tramps; and the poor wayfarer had not been long seated when he was accosted, by the guardians of the peace, who demanded his papers. The stranger told them he had none, that he was very weary, that he liked the town, and that he had resolved to take up his abode in it. The police were astounded by his coolness, and continued to ply him with questions. They asked what his station in life was, when he seemed a little confused; but ultimately said he was a watchmaker. They demanded his name, and he said it was Nauendorff, but whence he had come he refused to tell; and his sole worldly possession was a seal, which, he said, had belonged to Louis XVI. of France. The police kept the seal, and, finding that they could elicit no further information from the mysterious being who had thrust himself so unceremoniously into their dull town, permitted him to settle down quietly in Brandenburg.

Without tools, without money, without friends, he found life hard enough at first; but an old soldier and his sister took pity upon him, and took him into their house. To them he first declared himself to be Louis XVII., and narrated the manner of his escape from the Temple. He told them all about Simon and his cruelty, and described the dungeon in which he was confined, the iron wicket, and the loathsomeness of the place. He said he recollected some persons attending him who, he thought, were doctors; but he was afraid of them, and would not answer their questions. As the result of their visit, however, he was cleaned, his room was put in order, and the wicket was torn down.

About this time, he said, his friends determined to rescue him; but they found the guard at the Temple too numerous and too vigilant to allow them to carry out their plans, or to remove him from the place. Accordingly they hit upon a strange device, and resolved to conceal him in the building. They determined to take him from the second floor which he occupied, and hide him in the fourth storey of the Temple. Sometime in June, 1795, an opiate was administered to him, and he fell into a drowsy condition. In this state he saw a child, which they had substituted for him in his bed, and was himself laid in a basket in which this child had been concealed under the bed. He perceived as in a dream that the effigy was only a wooden doll, the face of which had been carved and painted to imitate his own. The change was effected while the guard was relieved, and the new guard who came on duty was content to perceive an apparently sleeping figure beneath the bedclothes, without investigating too closely whether it were the dauphin or not. Meantime the opiate did its work, and not even his curiosity could prevent him from dropping off into insensibility.

When he recovered consciousness he found himself shut up in a large room which was quite strange to him. This room was crowded with old furniture, amongst which a space had been prepared for him, and a passage was left to a closet in one of the turrets, in which his food had been placed. All other approach was barricaded. Before the transfer had taken place, one of his friends had told him that, in order to save his life, he must submit to hardship and suffering, for a single imprudent step would bring destruction, not only on himself, but on his benefactors. It was, therefore, agreed that he should pretend to be deaf and dumb. On awaking he remembered the injunctions of his friends, resolved that no indiscretion on his part should endanger their safety, and waited with patience and in silence in his dreary abode, being supplied at intervals with food, which was brought to him during the night by one of his protectors.

His escape was discovered on the same night on which it took place; but the government thought fit to conceal it, and caused the wooden figure to be replaced by a deaf and dumb boy. At the same time the guard was doubled, to give the public the idea that the dauphin was still in safe-keeping. This extra precaution prevented his friends from smuggling him out of the Tower, as they had intended; but, in order to deceive the authorities, they despatched a boy under his name, in the direction, he believed, of Strasburg. At this time he was about nine years and a half old, and his long imprisonment had rendered him accustomed to suffering. Throughout the long winter he endured the cold without a murmur; and no one guessed his hiding-place, for the room was disused and was never opened, and if any one had by chance entered it, he could not have been seen, as even the friend who visited him could only reach him by crawling on all-fours, and when he did not come the captive remained patiently in his concealment. Frequently he waited for several days for his food; but no murmur escaped his lips, and he was only too glad to endure present suffering in the hope of future safety.

While he was thus stowed away in the upper storey of the Temple Tower, a rumour spread abroad that the dauphin had escaped, and the government took the alarm. It was decided that the deaf and dumb boy, who had been substituted for the doll which had taken his place, should die, and to kill him poison was mixed with his food in small quantities. The captive became excessively ill, and Desault, the surgeon, was called in, not to save his life, but to counterfeit humanity. Desault at once saw that poison had been administered, and ordered an antidote to be prepared by a friend of his own, an apothecary called Choppart, telling him at the same time that the official prisoner was not the son of Louis XVI. Choppart was indiscreet, and betrayed the confidence which had been reposed in him; and the floating rumour reached the authorities. In alarm lest the fraud should be detected, they removed the deaf and dumb child, and substituted for him a rickety boy from one of the Parisian hospitals. To make assurance doubly sure, according to Nauendorff's version, they poisoned both Desault and Choppart, and the substituted rickety boy was attended by physicians, who, never having seen either the real dauphin, or the deaf and dumb prisoner, naturally believed it was the dauphin they were attending.

After recounting further and equally remarkable adventures, Nauendorff declared that he was conveyed out of France, and was placed under the care of a German lady, with whom he remained until he was about twelve years of age. He could not recollect either the name or place of residence of this lady, and only remembered that she was kind to him, and that he used to call her "bonne maman!" From her custody he was transferred to that of two gentlemen, who carried him across the sea; but whether they took him to Italy or America he could not tell. One of these gentlemen taught him watchmaking, a craft which he afterwards used to very good purpose. He had a distinct recollection of an attempt which was made to poison him, but the draught was taken by somebody else, who died in consequence. In 1804, while in the neighbourhood of the French frontier, near Strasburg, he was arrested, and was cast into prison, where he remained under the strictest guard and in the greatest misery till the spring of 1809, when he was liberated by a friend named Montmorin, through the aid of the Empress Josephine. Montmorin and himself then set out for Frankfort-on-the-Maine, and during the journey the former "sewed some papers in the collar of his greatcoat, which would form undeniable proofs of his identity to all the sovereigns of Europe." In 1809, according to his own showing, he was at Stralsund fighting under Major de Schill of the Brunswick dragoons, and, when that redoubtable officer was killed, received a blow on the head which fractured his skull and rendered him unconscious for a long time. In 1810 he was in Italy, where he was recognised by several old officers of Louis XVI., who received him with every mark of loyal respect. Napoleon, he asserted, was aware of his existence, and threatened him with death if he disturbed the public peace; and when, on the downfall of the usurper, he wrote to the European powers urging his claims, his application was coldly passed over in silence, and Louis XVIII. was raised to the throne in his stead.

The credulous soldier and his equally simple sister believed this wonderful tale, and pressed their royal visitor to continue to receive their humble hospitality. Between them a letter was addressed to the Duchess of Angouleme, announcing the existence of a brother, who would be found to be the real man, and no counterfeit. A similar letter was sent to the king, and another to the Duchess de Berri; but all the three missives were careful to state that the Duke of Normandy had no desire to sit upon the throne or to disturb the tranquillity of France, but would be content to accept a reasonable pension and hold his tongue—to surrender all his claims, and retire into obscurity for ever, if he were well paid. His letters remained unanswered, but he returned to the attack, and indulged the Duchess of Angouleme with a multitude of letters, in which he implored her good offices for a brother who needed only to be seen to be recognised. But the duchess remained silent. At length he announced to the French royal family his intention of marrying a young girl only fifteen years of age, the daughter of a Prussian corporal. He could not, of course, expect that such a step would be agreeable to the other members of the House of Bourbon, but he valued his love more than his pride, and if his royal uncle would only grant such an allowance as would enable himself and his wife to live in a position of independence, he would trouble him no more, and the world need never know that the son of Louis XVI. was alive, and had perpetrated a mesalliance. But Louis XVIII. was obdurate, and would not listen even to the seductive voice of Hymen. The young couple were allowed to wed, but they had to look for their means of livelihood elsewhere.

For a time Nauendorff was equal to the occasion, and supported the corporal's daughter and his rising brood by cleaning the watches and clocks of the Brandenburgers. But trouble came upon him. The house of his next door neighbour took fire, and the watchmaker was suspected of being the incendiary. He was arrested and thrown into prison; his wife and children were turned into the street; and, although his innocence was unequivocally proved, his trade was ruined, and he had to flee from the midst of the distrustful and suspicious folks among whom he had laboured and loved and wedded.

By the exertions of one of the few friends who remained to him Nauendorff was appointed foreman in a watchmaking factory at Crossen, and thither he removed, carrying with him his wife and the half-dozen children who had blessed his union. But the distance was long, the roads were bad, and the man was poor. When Nauendorff reached Crossen on foot with his weary and half-famished band he found that the post which he had come to obtain had been given to another, and abandoned himself to despair. Then the plebeian energy of the corporal's daughter rose superior to the weakness of her royal husband. She obtained a temporary shelter, procured needlework, and, by her unaided efforts, managed to keep the wolf from the door. After a little delay work was obtained for Nauendorff also; and as his spirits revived his hopes and pretensions revived also. Little by little he told his story to his fellow-workmen, who paid no heed to it at first, but nicknamed him in derision "the French prince." But the tale was improving as it got older, and by-and-by he could number among his followers the syndic of the town, one of the preachers, a magistrate, and a teacher of languages. The syndic, in particular, was an enthusiastic partizan, and himself addressed a letter to the Duchess of Angouleme and to the principal courts of Europe. He also took a journey to Berlin to claim from the authorities the seal which Nauendorff said had been taken from him by the Brandenburg police—the same seal which Louis XVI., as he was passing to execution, had handed to Clery with his dying injunction to deliver it to his son. The government very sharply ordered their subordinate back to his post, telling him that they knew nothing of Nauendorff, but that they were well aware that Clery had handed the jewel which he mentioned to Louis XVIII., who had rewarded him with the riband of St. Louis. The syndic left Berlin in haste, and arrived at home full of chagrin. He concealed himself from public view, and shortly afterwards sickened and died. Nauendorff declared he had been poisoned.

The discomfited impostor, finding that he was not likely to be able to move the world from his retirement at Crossen, quietly disappeared from that humble town, and was lost to the public gaze for a considerable period. His movements about this time were very mysterious; but it is proved with tolerable certainty that he repaired to Paris, and his visit to the French capital may have had something to do with the visions of Martin of Gallardon. This man was an ignorant peasant, and, being a sort of clairvoyant, pretended that, as the result of a vision, he knew that the son of Louis XVI. was still alive. He said that, in the year 1818, while he was at mass in the village church at Gallardon, an angel interrupted his devotions by whispering in his ear that the dauphin of the Temple was alive, and that he (Martin) was celestially appointed on a mission to Louis XVIII. to inform him of the fact, and to announce to him that if he ever dared to be formally crowned the roof of the cathedral would fall in and make a very speedy ending of him and his court. The king was prevailed upon to grant an interview to this impostor, and made no secret of his message. Therefore, when year after year passed without a formal coronation, the superstitious whispered that Louis knew better than tempt the Divine vengeance, and, although he sat upon the throne, was well aware that he had stolen another man's birthright, and that the dauphin of the Temple was still alive.

But people were beginning to forget the existence of the watchmaker of Crossen, when one evening, in the autumn of 1831, a traveller entered one of the best frequented inns at Berne, in Switzerland. Attached to this inn was a parlour, in which some of the most jovial of the local notables were accustomed to pass their evenings, gossiping over the occurrences of the day, and whiling away an hour or so with a quiet game at dominoes. The stranger was a pleasant-looking man, of from forty to forty-five years of age, and preferred the good company of the familiar parlour to the dulness of his private sitting-room, or the staid society of the public salon. He said his name was Nauendorff, and by his affability soon made himself such a general favourite that one of the leading habitues of the place invited him to his house and introduced him to his family. In private life he shone even more brilliantly than in the mixed company of the hotel. There was a certain dignity about his appearance which seemed to proclaim him a greater personage than he at first claimed to be, and his host was not greatly astonished when, after the lapse of a fortnight, he confided to him the secret that Nauendorff was merely an assumed name, and that he was in reality the Duke of Normandy, the disinherited heir to the French throne. The whole family rose in a flutter of excitement at the presence of this distinguished guest in their midst. They had no doubt of the truth of his story, and one daughter of the house urged him to take prompt and decisive measures to recover his crown. As far as her feeble help could go it was freely at his service. The mouse has e'er now helped the lion; and this enthusiastic girl was not without hope that she might render some assistance in restoring to France her legitimate king. She became amanuensis and secretary to Nauendorff, compiled a statement from his words and documents, laid it before the lawyers, and they pronounced favourably, and advised the claimant to proceed without delay to Paris and prosecute his cause vigorously. He went.

On a May morning in 1833, the watchman of the great Parisian cemetery at Pere la Chaise discovered a dust-stained traveller sleeping among the tombs, and shaking him up demanded his name, and his reason for choosing such a strange resting-place. His name he said was Nauendorff; but as he only spoke German the curiosity of the guardian of the place was not further satisfied. In a short time the same individual met a gentleman who could speak German, who took pity upon his apparent weakness and ignorance of the gay capital, and who, when he heard that he had arrived on foot the night before, and was utterly destitute, advised him to apply to the old Countess de Richemont, as one who was proverbially kind to foreigners, and had formerly been one of the attendants on the dauphin who died in the Temple. The stranger was profuse in his thanks, muttered that the dauphin was not dead yet, and set out for the Rue Richer, where the countess lived.

He obtained easy access to the presence of the lady, and announced himself as the Duke of Normandy. The countess acted in orthodox fashion, and straightway fainted, but not before she had hurriedly exclaimed that he was the very picture of his mother Marie Antoinette. The first joyful recognition over, and all parties being sufficiently calm to be practical, the countess produced the numerous relics which she possessed of the happy time when Louis XVI. reigned in Versailles. The duke recognised them all down to the little garments which he had worn in his babyhood. She mentioned scars which were on the body of the youthful prince, and her visitor assured her that he had similar marks which he could show in private. The countess was wild with delight, ordered him to be placed in the best bed the mansion could afford, sent for a tailor, and had him clothed as befitted his rank, and invited her royalist friends to come and pay their homage to their recovered king. They came in crowds, and to all and sundry, the pretender told the story of his escape from the Tower. They were disposed to be credulous, and the majority yielding readily to the prevalent enthusiasm, proclaimed their belief in his truth, and promised their assistance to restore him to his own again. A few were dubious, and one lukewarm Bourbonist remarked, "You were an extremely clever child, and spoke French like an angel. How is it you have so completely forgotten it?" The duke replied that thirty-seven years of absence was surely a sufficient explanation of his ignorance; but a few held a different opinion and retired, and by their withdrawal somewhat damped the general enthusiasm.

But there was a safe and certain method of arriving at the truth. The duke was taken in haste to be confronted with the seer, Martin, who was then living in the odour of sanctity at St. Arnould, near Dourdin. That fanatic no sooner beheld the stranger than he hailed him as king, and told his delighted auditory that he was the exact counterpart of the lost prince, who had been revealed to him in a vision. The question of identity was considered solved, the whole party proceeded to the church to return thanks for the revelation which had been made, and the village bells were rung to celebrate the auspicious event. The noble ladies who were attached to the pretender influenced the priests, the priests influenced the peasantry, and Martin, the clairvoyant and quack, exerted a powerful influence over all. Money was wanted, and contributions flowed in abundantly, until the so-called Duke of Normandy found his coffers filling at the rate of fifty thousand pounds a-year.

Thus suddenly enriched, he set up a magnificent establishment in Paris. His horses and carriages were among the most splendid in the Champs Elysees, his banquets were equal to those of Lucullus, his name was in every mouth, and people wondered why the government did not interpose. They were afraid, said some, to touch the sacred person of the man they knew to be king; they did not care to meddle with an obvious impostor, whose crest was a broken crown, said others; but his partizans maintained that their silence was more dangerous than their open enmity, and that the crafty Louis Philippe had given orders that his rival should be assassinated. They declared that this was no mere supposition, for late on one November evening, when the duke was returning to his quarters in the Faubourg St. Germain, across the Place du Carrousel, a dastardly assassin sprang upon him and stabbed him with a dagger. Fortunately for the illustrious victim he wore a medallion of his sainted mother, Marie-Antoinette, and the metal disc caught the point of the weapon, and received the full force of the blow; but nevertheless a slight wound was inflicted, and the duke staggered home wounded and bleeding. He was too confused to report the circumstance at any of the guard-houses which he passed, but in his own mansion he showed the dint of the cowardly blade, and the cut on his flesh. It was disgraceful, cried his adherents; it was ridiculous, said his opponents; and they did not hesitate to add, that if blow there had been it was self-inflicted.

But if the calumny was intended to destroy the faith of Nauendorff's partizans, it failed in its effect. Their zeal waxed hotter than ever; their contributions flowed even more freely than before into his treasury; and they conceived the idea of solacing his misfortunes by providing him with a wife. Unfortunately, there remained the long-forgotten daughter of the corporal and her progeny who were alive and well, although somewhat impoverished, at Crossen. Their existence had to be declared, and as it was not seemly that they should be longer separated from their illustrious lord and master, they were sent for, and a governess was provided for the youthful princes and princesses. It was now the turn of the lion to help the mouse. The lady who was selected for the post was the enthusiast of Berne—the same damsel who had acted as scribe to the wandering heir—the daughter of the gentleman who had been the first to penetrate the thin disguise of the illustrious stranger in the cosy parlour of the inn.