Story by Pauline Guizot

« A Month in 1848 »

Brompton, 6 August 1848

I wanted, my dear sister, to write down for you our memories of those sad days we went through together, from 22 February to the end of March; that month held enough to fill many years, and I thought that ten years from now you would like to find a trace of the emotions, the anxieties and the joys we felt. I know that in describing my impressions I am describing more or less your own, for, as Mme Tastu{{1}}[[1]]Amable Voïart, born in 1798, who became Mme Tastu in 1816, a woman of letters whose first collection of poems, Romantic in sensibility, appeared to great acclaim in 1826. FG took her under his protection when she was close to destitution. In 1840 she won the first prize of the Académie française, whose competition that year was for a eulogy of Mme de Sévigné.[[1]] told us, “We have the same faith, the same hope, the same love”; and I like to think that later on, whether we are apart or together, you will take pleasure in seeing this little notebook written by someone who loves you more than she says, perhaps more than you believe.

I shall therefore begin my account on 23 February 1848. The day before, my father had wished us not to stay at the ministry on the Tuesday; he expected some disturbance in front of the building and feared it for my grandmother. So we left the house on Tuesday at nine in the morning to spend the day with Madame Lenormant{{2}}[[2]]The Lenormants were close to FG. Amélie Cyvoct, wife of Charles Lenormant, had been brought up by her aunt, Juliette Récamier. Her husband was a curator at the Bibliothèque royale. They had three children: Juliette, Paule and François.[[2]]; we expected to come back to dine with him; we never returned there. People had been so reassured that morning by the news that the deputies would not go to the banquet{{3}}[[3]]The Campaign of Banquets refers to a series of some 70 meetings organised throughout France in 1847-1848 by the reformers to call for an extension of the franchise and to oppose the decisions of François Guizot’s conservative government. The banning of one of these meetings, which was to be held in Paris on 14 January 1848, set off the February 1848 revolution, which brought about the fall of the July Monarchy and the departure of King Louis-Philippe.[[3]] that we thought it absurd to leave our house, and we laughed heartily at the precaution my father took of making us bring our diamonds and our gold. We arrive at Mme Lenormant’s and find her very unwell; Henriette and I had set out with Granny, Guillaume had gone to school, and Miss Wisley{{4}}[[4]]English governess to Pauline and Henriette.[[4]] was not to come until later.

On our way from the ministry{{5}}[[5]]The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was at 9 boulevard des Capucines.[[5]] to the rue des Petits-Champs, we notice how perfectly calm the streets are; impossible to tell any difference between the workers’ attitude that day and on any other day; here and there we saw a few groups reading the Prefect of Police’s proclamations; otherwise perfect calm. The first part of the day passes very peacefully; around one o’clock M. Génie{{6}}[[6]]Auguste Génie, born in 1794, a lawyer from Toulouse, secretary-general of the Haute-Garonne prefecture, then chief of staff to FG as Minister of Public Instruction from 1832 and from then on his confidential agent; maître des requêtes at the Conseil d’État.[[6]] comes and tells us that some people have come to make a little noise in front of the ministry; nothing serious. We see several people, Mme Grandpierre{{7}}[[7]]Fanny Guyot was the second wife of Pastor Jean-Henri Grandpierre, born in 1799, a native of Neuchâtel, an active member of the evangelical movement and pastor of the Reformed Church of Les Batignolles. [[7]], Coste{{8}}[[8]]Jean Victor Coste, born in 1807, a physician specialising in embryology, holder since 1837 of the chair of comparative anatomy at the Muséum d’histoire naturelle, and professor of embryology at the Collège de France since 1844.[[8]], Meurand{{9}}[[9]]Joachim Meurand was a schoolfellow of François, FG’s eldest son, who died in 1837. He remained close to the Guizots all his life.[[9]], my uncle{{10}}[[10]]Maurice de Vaines, half-brother of her mother Eliza.[[10]]; all say that the crowds are small and made up largely of Paris urchins who look as if they are playing. Some game! Miss Wisley and Juliette Lenormant go out and come back to us quite calm; it was not a riot. The day ends without our hearing anything alarming; in the evening, however, we receive a note from my father telling us to sleep at Mme Lenormant’s; he thought it was not over and that it was better to stay where we were; he was not mistaken; it was only the beginning.

On the Wednesday morning, Georges brought us another letter from my father, telling us that he had slept at the Duc de Broglie’s and hoped to see us again in the evening; nothing new during the night; a few attempts at barricades in the faubourgs. We have lunch, then the same friends as the day before come (Miss Wisley and Guillaume had joined us on the Tuesday morning). We all stay waiting for news, watching with some anxiety as bands of armed men begin to circulate in the streets, at four o’clock. M. Lenormant comes home very troubled and tells us that the King has dismissed his ministry; this astonishes us greatly, and we see with deep sorrow the enormous mistake that had just been made, a mistake that perhaps decided the Revolution. During dinner, Messrs Herbet{{11}}[[11]]Born in 1813, Edmond Herbet, Guizot’s private secretary at the London embassy in 1840, had been deputy director of commercial affairs at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs since 1845. [[11]], de Carné{{12}}[[12]]Comte Louis de Carné, born in 1804, entered the diplomatic service in 1825. He was deputy for the Finistère from 1839 to 1848. A liberal Catholic, politically close to Molé but won over to FG in 1847, he contributed to the Revue des Deux Mondes and to Le Correspondant, which he had helped to found.[[12]] and de Lavergne{{13}}[[13]]Léonce Guilhard de Lavergne, born in 1809, newly elected deputy for the Gers, deputy director and head of the America and Indies office at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. [[13]] arrive, all deeply shaken by the news of the change of ministry and very worried about what would follow. M. Rousset{{14}}[[14]]Camille Rousset, born in 1821, assistant history teacher at the Collège de Bourbon, was tutor to Guizot’s children.[[14]] and Meurand also arrive, very sad. At half past nine we see M. Libri{{15}}[[15]]Guglielmo (Guillaume) Libri, of Italian origin, FG’s collaborator at the Ministry of Public Instruction, professor of mathematics at the Collège de France, member of the Académie des sciences, inspector general of libraries, soon to be convicted of stealing rare books.[[15]] and M. Hamon{{16}}[[16]]René Amédée Hamon, born in 1814, first-class auditor at the Conseil d’État in 1846, was seconded in 1847 to the private office of Guizot as Minister of Foreign Affairs. [[16]]; a painful discussion obliges Miss Wisley to leave us that evening, to her great regret and ours; she goes off with M. Coste to sleep at the home of her friends the Fauquets, who live in the rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin. A few moments before she left, we had heard the gunfire in front of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and it had made us all extremely agitated. That evening was one of the most painful of that painful week. On her way, Miss Wisley, on reaching the boulevard, is prevented from crossing by cavalry regiments that were arriving, and obliged to go back up through the side streets as far as the rue Montmartre. At ten o’clock we go to bed, exhausted by the day, very anxious, yet not foreseeing the grief and anxiety the next day would bring us.

I can say that that night we did not sleep a wink; our dear Granny, Henriette and I slept in the drawing room, Guillaume in the library next door. Around midnight, we hear a hardware shop opposite the library being broken into; a band of young men had come to take powder and weapons. I was very tired and agitated, and I cannot describe the effect those blows of rifle butts and those furious shouts had on me; they made us start up in our beds. A fairly quiet hour goes by, then we are again thrown into turmoil by the noise of barricades being put up all around us; that night the rue de Richelieu was cut by thirty barricades; the drums beat the rappel or the générale at every moment. It is a night I shall never forget as long as I live; what anxiety! What suffering!

On the Thursday morning at 6 o’clock we get up and are terrified by the number of armed men, with National Guards among them, passing by at every moment; they shout “Vive la Réforme”; many of them even shout “Vive la République”, and always “À bas Guizot”. The evening before, all Paris had been forced to illuminate, and nothing could be more sinister than those cries of “Des lampions, des lampions” mingled with the Marseillaise, the “Ça ira” and “Mourir pour la Patrie”. In the bands one saw the most sinister faces, even here and there a few women: poor misguided creatures who were stepping so sadly out of the place of humility and peace where God has put them. Rose and her husband come at eight o’clock on the Thursday morning, she full of courage and resolve, telling us how she had spent the night tending the wounded laid out in the ground-floor reception rooms at the ministry – in that blue drawing room where, the Friday before, two hundred people had come to congratulate my father on all his recent successes, and where, on Sunday the 20th, we were so happily gathered, listening to Meurand and my uncle singing us a thousand silly songs after a very merry dinner. None of us had any fears; how astonished we would have been had anyone told us that by Sunday the 27th we would be separated, without even saying goodbye, and would not see one another again for so long. We would have called anyone who made such a prediction a madman and a prophet of doom, and we would have believed his words no more than the Trojans believed those of the prophetess Cassandra. I cannot recall without sadness all the jokes made about that banquet and that riot so long announced: “God’s ways are not our ways, and his thoughts are not our thoughts.” On the Thursday morning we still thought we would go and settle in our little house in the rue de la Ville-l’Évêque, and by the evening we thought only of leaving France. So much in one day, so many years in one hour! At eleven o’clock on the Thursday, M. Coste comes, very shaken and looking exhausted. He had just crossed the place de la Concorde through an enormous crowd of troops, insurgents and onlookers, and he was very worried. After lunch he leaves again, leaving us in an anguish heightened at every moment by the frenzied shouts of the bands of insurgents rushing towards the Tuileries; all were armed, some with rifles or pistols, others with pikes and sabres – men, youths, children. We would leave the window for a moment, then a new band passing by would bring us back to it; each troop had a red flag. How glad we were then of our poor grandmother’s deafness: she would have suffered so much on hearing those cries, which would have reminded her of days that the ones then passing resembled all too closely. Around two o’clock M. Coste returns and tells us he has just heard talk in the streets of the King’s abdication; we refuse to believe it. He goes out again and comes back knowing for certain of the abdication and saying that the Republic had been proclaimed. So many events since the morning. How fast the torrent had overflowed, and how sad it is to think that in a few hours a few thousand madmen destroyed what it had been so hard to establish – the peace and happiness of France – and proclaimed, against the will of the country, a form of government that for four months has brought France nothing but misery and shame. Around half past three, M. Plichon{{17}}[[17]]Charles-Ignace Plichon, 1814-1888. First a Saint-Simonian lawyer, he was sent by FG on a mission to the East in 1841, then elected deputy in 1846 for the Nord, where he had important business interests, and mayor of Arras. [[17]] and M. de Lavergne come; both had just left the Chamber, where they had witnessed the terrible scene that had just taken place; they had seen the heroism and nobility of the Duchesse d’Orléans and the courageous devotion of the Duc de Nemours. But what use were heroism and devotion? The unhappy, misguided people listened only to the voice of those who were leading them to their ruin and, seduced by the mad theories of some or the corrupting doctrines of others, drove out a King who had given his country eighteen years of glory and prosperity, and exiled men who devoted to the service of their homeland all the talent, courage and wisdom God had given them.

M. Plichon and M. de Lavergne burst into tears on seeing us, and it took a great deal of willpower for me not to do the same; so many emotions had broken me, but I felt this was not the moment to weep. My grandmother was exhausted by such violent shocks, and our tears would have done her so much harm. M. Grandpierre comes and says a prayer with us that restores a little courage to us all. Poor M. Grandpierre! His dear little daughter had just fallen ill, and since then she suffered constantly until the moment when the Lord took pity on her poor parents and took her back to Himself. What grief! A little later we see M. Rousset and Meurand; these dear friends were stunned. We could hear the insurgents passing in the street on their way back from pillaging the Tuileries; each carried on the end of his rifle or pike a trophy of his triumph: the King’s liveries, the hats of the municipal guards so horribly massacred a few steps from us at the Château-d’Eau guardhouse, the gowns and handkerchiefs of the Queen or the Princesses. It was heartbreaking! And my father? What had become of him? That is what we were anxiously wondering, what all our friends were asking us. Had he managed to escape? Had he gone to the Chamber? Or to the Tuileries? We had had no news of him since the previous evening, not a word since he told us of the change of ministry; by then he had foreseen everything. At five o’clock we see Béhier{{18}}[[18]]Born in 1813, Louis Béhier, a schoolfellow of François the son, was the Guizots’ family doctor.[[18]] and M. Lemoinne{{19}}[[19]]John Lemoinne, born in London in 1815 to French parents, joined the Journal des débats in 1840, where he was editor responsible for domestic politics.[[19]]. What a change since we had last seen them! Only on the Monday they had lunched with us, and although both were rather worried, how far they were from foreseeing what would happen. Béhier was utterly dejected, M. Lemoinne very sad. Throughout that dreadful day our good friend Mme Lenormant was in bed, very ill and, naturally, in a state of agitation that greatly worsened her illness. Poor friends! How much trouble we gave them! At half past seven we sit down to dinner; it was very much for form’s sake, for only Guillaume and François{{20}}[[20]]François Lenormant, born in 1837, son of M. and Mme Lenormant. [[20]] touched their food. In the evening we see a few more people, M. de Lavergne again, M. Herbet, Meurand, all coming to ask for news of my father and adding by their anxiety to our own, already so great. What anguish! God alone knows all the thoughts that passed through our hearts; we did not dare speak to one another of what concerned us most. I shall never forget my grandmother’s face that evening; she was lying on the drawing-room sofa, her body broken – her physical strength could not withstand such a day – but what strength of soul! What admirable calm! What faith! What trust in Him in whom she had believed! It was into His hands that she committed the son of so many prayers and so many tears, the father of the three children kneeling before her, who, like her, found rest only in prayer. The Journal des débats said truly that those who had seen my dear grandmother in those days could know what strength and faith there was in that soul; it is in trials such as these that one discovers the depths of the heart, and nothing teaches one better to appreciate hearts than seeing them at a moment of great suffering! I felt this keenly during those days of the Revolution, when we received so many proofs of affection and devotion, and learned to count on people we had not thought true friends. At nine o’clock we go to bed, expecting not to sleep a wink and very anxious about what would happen during the night; anything was to be expected from those wretched people left to themselves at the moment of so astonishing a triumph, and the looting or burning of Paris was feared.

Thank God, the night was quiet, and we were so tired that we all slept well; we needed to gather a little strength for the Friday, which was so full of suffering and difficulty. On the Friday morning, we were barely awake when M. Plichon arrives; he had come for news of my father; to the question “Where is M. Guizot?” we always had to answer that we did not know. Then comes Cornélis de Witt{{21}}[[21]]Cornélis de Witt, born in 1829, Guillaume’s schoolfellow, was to marry Pauline in 1850.[[21]], who tells Guillaume about the pillaging of the Tuileries, then M. Coste, M. Rousset, and M. Grandpierre, who comes to tell us on behalf of Mlle de Chabaud{{22}}[[22]]Rosine de Chabaud-Latour, born on 15 September 1794 in Nîmes, was very close to Mme Guizot and had assisted her in her educational tasks with Henriette, Pauline and Guillaume. During the Terror, her father, Antoine de Chabaud-Latour, had been hidden with André Guizot in the Bonicels’ house. Both fled, but André Guizot was arrested and guillotined.[[22]] that she would go with us wherever we went, for by then no one was thinking of the rue de la Ville-l’Évêque any more; it was leaving France that had to be considered. We are not surprised by our dear friend’s offer – we were counting on her – but I cannot say what relief and joy that offer was to me; it was a moment of happiness in the midst of great sorrow. Around noon my uncle, Meurand and others come. At three o’clock, M. Delahante{{23}}[[23]]Aged 33 in 1848, Adrien Delahante (the son) had founded a bank in Paris and acquired shares in the Compagnie des chemins de fer du Nord. Attractive, he lived as a much sought-after bachelor (not least by the tragedienne Rachel). His father, also named Adrien, receiver-general of finances for the Rhône, had lent money to Louis-Philippe and was a friend of the Lamartines.[[23]]. He had come to take us away; he wanted to send all three of us, Guillaume and the two of us, off on the Le Havre railway that very evening. This proposal throws us into terrible confusion and anxiety; we did not know what to decide. It is agreed to ask him to go to the Duc de Broglie’s to find out what had become of my father. He leaves; during his absence Mlle de Chabaud comes. How happy we were to see her! She is asked to be ready to leave that evening. What hours! I no longer knew what to think or do. The idea of leaving this mother who obviously could not come with us, the sight of her grief and her anxieties, hurt me terribly, and if I had a little courage and resolve, it was indeed from the goodness of God that I received them; by myself I was good for nothing. We spent two hours, all three of us, sitting or kneeling before our mother, embracing her, trying to console her, reading her from time to time one of the promises of mercy of our God, praying with her at every moment. At five o’clock M. Delahante returns. He had not found the Duc de Broglie; we therefore had to decide without knowing where my father was, without his advice; we had to judge for ourselves what was to be done. On the one hand we were urged to leave by M. Delahante and Mme Lenormant, who thought it essential for my father’s peace of mind; on the other we were held back by our own hearts, which bound us to this old and exhausted mother who had been so much to us. It was a moment when it seemed to me that all my judgement had vanished and that I would never be able to decide. Nevertheless, we yielded to our friends’ entreaties and advice and resolved to leave that very evening at ten o’clock. M. Delahante was to come and fetch us to take us to the railway, while Meurand was to take Mlle de Chabaud there separately.

I felt much calmer once this decision had been taken. Nothing is worse at such a moment than uncertainty; we still had, however, a very heavy weight on us: nothing from my father, not a word from him since the Wednesday evening. At six o’clock we see M. Piscatory{{24}}[[24]]Théobald-Émile Arcambal Piscatory, 1800-1870, deputy for the Indre-et-Loire since 1832, diplomat, friend of Guizot.[[24]] arrive. He seemed to us a saviour, for he knew where my father was. He told Granny that my father had left, but he took Henriette into the next room and told her that he had not left, that he might not leave for some days, but that for us there was no question of hesitating: we must go to England as soon as possible, and it would be a great relief to my father to know we were there. The evening passes very, very sadly. Before dinner Henriette had said goodbye to M. Lemoinne, M. Rousset and others. Every passing moment brought us closer to the separation, and I could not stop looking at and embracing this mother to whom we would have to say goodbye. M. Plichon and M. Coste come; when they leave, we press their hands to make them understand that it was for the last time. Meurand comes; Mme Lenormant arranges all the plans for the departure with him; how sad he was! We wait for M. Delahante until a quarter to eleven. We thought we were taking the eleven o’clock evening train and could not understand the delay. He arrives with M. Berry. The railway line had been cut; nothing is said about it to my grandmother, and we get ready to leave. The preparations did not take long, for our only luggage was some stockings and handkerchiefs that we put in M. Delahante’s cartridge pouch. M. Berry takes charge of Guillaume, poor boy, who was so sad to leave so many friends and his school. His grief hurt me, though he showed very little of it. We say goodbye to him, then to our mother, to that whole family to whom we owed so much, to my dear Rose, who was dissolving in tears, and to several of our servants who were there, most of whom gave us proofs of devotion we shall not forget. It is one of those minutes that count for hours in one’s life, that one always remembers but never tells. I leave with M. Delahante, Henriette with M. Lenormant. The weather was dreadful, and we cross the boulevard in pouring rain; we have to climb over several barricades. Henriette, who had not taken the same route as I, crossed a very high one and heard the men guarding it say to her: “Mind your feet, Madame.” Those words, spoken by armed men in red caps guarding the barricades by torchlight, produced a strange effect. There is in the French people an odd mixture of politeness and coarseness. I reach M. Delahante’s at half past eleven, very wet, very tired and very sad. I expected to find a woman there to receive us; I do not know why, but we had imagined he was married, and we are very disconcerted on arriving to find that he is not. Henriette arrives ten minutes after me. M. Lenormant leaves us. As I watched him go, it seemed to me that the last tie was breaking and that we were left entirely to ourselves. M. Delahante, by a quite unnecessary precaution, sets us to work before we go to bed unpicking the name-marks from the little linen we had. We felt very ill at ease in that little drawing room, all alone with a young man we had seen very rarely. It was very awkward, but what could we do? We could only wait. At midnight M. Delahante leaves us; we go to bed. He had given us his bedroom and, with charming delicacy, went to spend the night at the guardhouse. I was so tired that I slept that night; Henriette not at all. On the Saturday morning at seven o’clock we get up, fully hoping to leave during the day. Our dresses, petticoats and so on were so muddy that we spend more than an hour brushing them. We dress and do our hair with great difficulty; it was the first time. Around ten o’clock M. Delahante comes to see us and leaves to find a way of getting us away. We have lunch in our room. He forbade us to go into the drawing room and bolted us in. At two o’clock he returns; no way of leaving that day. Seeing this, we beg him to fetch Mlle de Chabaud or Miss Wisley. It was impossible for us to stay alone at his house any longer, and difficult to tell him so. At last he understands and sends for Miss Wisley. What a pleasure for us to see her again. We had been separated for three days, and what days! They seemed to me like years.

Saturday goes by; on Sunday morning we pester M. Delahante to get us away; he was not much inclined to do so. We were very worried at the thought that my father might arrive in England expecting to find us there, and we knew how anxious he would be not to see us. And then those hours, those days spent in the most complete physical inactivity, while our minds were so agitated and our hearts so preoccupied, were so painful that we felt the journey, by forcing us to think of something else, would do us good. On the Sunday morning, seeing the people going to the Rédemption{{25}}[[25]]The Lutheran Church of the Redemption.[[25]] pass beneath the windows (M. Delahante’s house is at 17 rue Chauchat), my heart sank; I thought that the following Sunday I would be very far from all my friends, and I cannot say how sad that day was. M. Delahante comes back only for dinner; he had spent seven hours at the Grand Review and so had been unable to see about getting us away. He asks our permission to dine with us; this scruple would have amused us had anything been able to amuse us at that moment. In the evening he gives us the great pleasure of going to ask M. Berry to bring Guillaume to us. We are very, very happy to see this beloved brother again; he was as bored as we were in his solitude and, like us, very eager to leave. At eleven o’clock we go to bed. On the Monday morning we implore M. Delahante to find some way, any way, of getting us out of France. The day passes without our seeing him again. Nothing is more painful than this uncertainty, this impossibility of knowing what we would be doing an hour later.

At last, at five o’clock, M. Delahante comes in and tells us we shall leave that evening; one of his uncles, commander of the National Guard of Senlis, had come to spend the day in Paris, and M. Delahante had said to him: “Providence has sent you; you are going to take the Misses Guizot away with you.” His uncle accepts the proposal with a kindness we shall never forget. We send to Mme Lenormant’s for the things we cannot do without, letting her know that we are leaving that very evening. M. Berry brings Guillaume to dine and say goodbye to us, and at eight o’clock we get into M. Charles Delahante’s carriage, without M. Adrien Delahante having, so to speak, allowed us to thank him for all the friendship he had shown us and all the care he had taken of us. We take an English passport with us, and M. A. Delahante gives us, to accompany us as far as Boulogne, a trusted man who was very useful to us. We cross Paris. The barricades were being taken down and carriages were beginning to circulate in the streets again. My heart sank with every step that took us a little further from our mother and from all the friends we had left without even being able to say goodbye. Our journey goes off very peacefully and at two in the morning we arrive at Senlis, at M. C. Delahante’s, where we were to spend the night. The door is opened by a maidservant still rubbing her eyes and obviously very disconcerted to see three women she had never seen before arriving at that hour. Mme Delahante was naturally in bed, and as we crossed the garden to the house, M. Delahante urged us not to make any noise in case his wife thought she heard burglars and fired a pistol at us from the window. The prospect was not a pleasant one, so we enter as silently as possible a large house that might have been handsome had it been well arranged, but which was very cold, very damp and looked most uncomfortable. We are taken to M. Delahante’s room, where a fire is lit for us with great difficulty while beds are being made up. After half an hour’s wait, Miss Wisley goes to bed on the first floor and the two of us on the ground floor, in a large room that seemed never to have been lived in. At half past three we get into a very damp bed, but we were so tired and so sleepy that we soon fall asleep. On the Tuesday morning, at nine o’clock, the maidservant comes to wake us; as we were supposed to pass for Englishwomen, we speak to her in an Anglo-French jargon, but it seems our accent was rather strange, for the maid went and told her mistress: “Oh, Madame, you can tell they’re English; they speak a sort of Gascon.” We dress and at half past ten go down to breakfast. Downstairs we find Mme Delahante, who welcomes us with touching kindness and affection. During those days of trial we had moments of very real consolation in finding, among people we hardly knew, a sympathy that did good to our so deeply saddened hearts.

At noon Mme Delahante, Miss Wisley and the two of us get into the carriage to go to Creil (a station on the Northern Railway two leagues from Senlis). On arriving at Creil, we go into the waiting room, too grand a name for the very dirty little room that served as one. The troops garrisoned at Creil filled the first-class room; all the travellers were gathered in the same room. Even if there had been no soldiers there, was it not fitting, in the first days of the republican regime, to display that touching fraternity which would abolish every distinction, destroy rank and fortune, and establish complete equality between rich and poor, learned and ignorant, philanthropist and convict? We wait an hour in that room, which held, apart from us, only people of the lowest class: working women, very ragged children, a few soldiers smoking their pipes and taking turns on the only chair in the room, some peasants, and a very ugly, very dirty and very talkative man who was making long speeches about Louis-Philippe, Guizot and the Republic, saying that they were very stupid to think their Republic could work in France, that a King was needed. An hour was very long in such company, obliged as we were to stand, to listen to all the speeches and to endure the smell of coal and pipes, which combined delightfully. At last we went out to sit outside, despite the very cold wind; anything was better than the waiting room. At half past two the train finally arrives. It was the first to leave since the insurgents, now our masters, had cut the rails and burned the bridge at Asnières. We hurry to look for seats; we find three in one carriage; we needed four. Turning round, we catch sight of M. Plichon, who was leaving for the Nord; he makes the Duc de Liancourt get out, who is kind enough to give us his seat and is about to ask us some very awkward questions, or to say things too friendly for the place. Miss Wisley, wishing to cut him short, says to him: “Well, we are going to Boulogne and how do you do?” He replies without hesitation: “Very well thank you”, which leads us to suppose that he knows English.

We get into the carriage and manage to give the Duc de Liancourt back his seat. In the compartment with us were two girls who looked English, a very sick young man and an elderly lady, all of the same party. At Liancourt the Duc leaves us, and we remain in the most complete silence. All three of us were little inclined to talk and, not wishing to speak English in front of people who would at once have recognised our bad accent, we preferred to keep quiet. We arrive at Amiens at half past five, in dreadful weather. There we meet M. Plichon again, who tells us that instead of taking the branch line to Lille there as he had intended, he will accompany us as far as Boulogne. We refuse at first, but the offer was made with such simplicity and friendship that there was no way of not accepting it, and M. Plichon sends his manservant to his brother at Bailleul to tell him not to expect him for a few days, and comes with us to a hotel where we were to dine and wait for the train to Boulogne, which was not due to leave until midnight. There we eat a very bad dinner, to the great despair of M. Plichon, who could not get over seeing us dine on beef in the guise of jugged hare and other dishes of that kind. In the evening we think of going to see the cathedral, which has a great reputation, but the rain prevents us, and we stay at the Hôtel de France. At ten o’clock M. Plichon takes it into his head to have us take some tea; we ask a servant for it, who answers us as confidently as if caravan tea had been at his disposal, and ends up bringing us two kinds of tea that looked very bad and tasted worse still, for, in M. Plichon’s words, it was much more like a worm medicine than tea.

At half past eleven we go to the station, after a vigorous struggle between M. Plichon and Tissot (M. Delahante’s manservant); both wanted to pay for the dinner. Tissot defends himself so vigorously with the words “Monsieur, when it comes to orders, I know only M. Delahante’s” that M. Plichon is obliged to give in and acknowledge that Tissot is the only man more stubborn than himself he has yet met. We wait quite a long time at the station; finally, at half past midnight, we board the train and take over, for the five of us, a carriage meant to hold eight people. By all sorts of ruses we manage to remain its sole occupants as far as Abbeville, and we make that part of the journey, Miss Wisley, Henriette and I, stretched out very comfortably. At Abbeville two gentlemen come and disturb us. At three in the morning we arrive at Neufchâtel; there the railway stopped, and one had to get into small omnibuses that carried travellers on to Boulogne. We rush towards these very uncomfortable little vehicles; we manage to get into one of them, into which far more people soon crowd than it was properly meant to hold. The company was hardly select; among others, Henriette had beside her a fat Englishman, not at all a gentleman, who had certainly drunk a great deal of gin or whisky and who was particularly anxious to know where we were going and where we had come from.

After two hours of a very unpleasant ride, we enter Boulogne. We are told that the first packet boat leaves at half past six; it was half past five. There was no time to lose. We set off from the place where the omnibuses stop in pouring rain. At the beginning of March (it was 1 March) it is not yet light at half past five, and we make our way to the police office, where we are given a permit to embark. The rain lashed our faces, the wind kept closing the only umbrella the five of us had, it was very cold, and everything conspired to hold us back and make this walk very hard going. M. Plichon gives me his large white burnous to wrap myself in; Henriette puts on the tartan shawl M. A. Delahante had given us, and thus protected we continue our outing. At past six we arrive at the office; our passport is checked again and we are given our permit to embark. Then a gentleman comes along who describes himself as Commissioner of the Republic in London; M. Plichon presents his passport, but he is told that it is valid only for travel within France and that he cannot be given a permit. This annoys us greatly, as M. Plichon was absolutely determined to come with us as far as London. What to do? We have Tissot given a permit to embark, since his passport for England allowed it, and we leave the office to go to the packet. On the way M. Plichon and Tissot exchange passports – the latter, not being due to accompany us to England, had no need of the permit to embark – and we board the mail packet, which we are told leaves in a quarter of an hour. We settle in very comfortably, hoping to fall asleep before the packet sails. We were beginning to doze off when we are abruptly woken and told that the packet will not leave for another hour or two and that we must hurry aboard another vessel about to sail. We leave in haste, accompanied by the Commissioner of the Republic, who was most displeased by this change and complained a great deal at having to run about in such dreadful weather. The fact is that it was very bad. Our feet were wet and we were not at all pleased by the change. We had barely time to board the packet that was leaving; our two night bags are thrown to us, and we go into the ladies’ cabin, to be completely seasick for three hours. The sea was very rough, and for our first crossing it was rather hard. Our poor friend Miss Wisley was having real fits of nerves, so much was she suffering, and the groans of the women around us only added to the unpleasantness of our own suffering. I was very ill, yet I do not understand how people can say that if you were offered to be thrown overboard you would raise no objection. I am perfectly sure I would have raised all sorts of objections, and I did find the strength to lift myself up to see how Miss Wisley and Henriette were. All the same, I suffered a great deal, and on leaving the packet I was very exhausted and very pale when I looked at myself in the little mirror that is found in the cabin, probably to give women the pleasure of finding themselves much uglier than usual. I saw myself looking very ugly and much changed; so I allowed myself, even in the midst of my fatigue, to make fun of M. Plichon, who kept saying over and over again, “Poor angels!” I hoped, and still hope, that angels are much prettier than we were then.

We take a cab to the Royal George’s Hotel, leaving our modest night bags, which certainly contained no contraband, in the care of a young and extremely polite customs clerk. Once at the hotel we began to recover and were able to wash and dress properly, to our great satisfaction, for we were hardly presentable after that journey. We have breakfast, or rather the rest of the party has breakfast without me; I was still too unwell. We rest, and at two o’clock we leave the Royal George, giving our name to the landlord so that my father would know as soon as he arrived that we were in England. Still no news of him. God alone knows what all those days of anguish were like! We leave by the two o’clock train for London. At Folkestone station we had been saluted with a vigorous “hurrah” by the landlord of the Royal George, who had wished to say goodbye to us.

We arrive at London Bridge, the railway terminus. There we find a railway employee who tells us there is no news yet of the King or of my father, and gives us the news. The landlord of the Royal George had given our name at Folkestone, so we had been treated with every consideration along the way. We take a cab and set off for Bryanston Square, to the house of Mr Broadwood, to whom Miss Wisley had written asking him to reserve rooms for us. We cross the whole of London in rain and fog; it was dark (it was seven o’clock), and we find this city immense, but very sad and gloomy. At Bryanston Square we are told that Mr Broadwood is in Scotland. Great disappointment. We had counted on him. M. Plichon suggests a small hotel he knew in Manchester Street. We go there and with great difficulty find rooms. It was as ugly and as cold as could be. We are given a dinner as English as it could possibly be, after which Miss Wisley and M. Plichon go out to leave a letter at Mr Broadwood’s telling Guillaume, who was due to arrive at Bryanston Square, where we were. They come back at ten o’clock and find the two of us alone in that big drawing room, very sad and tired. Until then I had needed all my strength and it had not failed me, but that evening I was more downcast than I can say. I had a feeling of complete isolation and abandonment, and the very dreary rooms we were in did nothing to revive me. We go to bed.

The next morning, 2 March, after breakfast, we see Mr Tom Broadwood come in; having recognised Miss Wisley’s handwriting at his brother’s, he had come to see us. We tell him that we do not know where to stay or what to do while waiting for my father. He answers with that perfect English simplicity: “But why don’t you come and stay at Bryanston Square?” Miss Wisley accepts, and we tell him we shall come and settle there during the day. It was a great relief to feel that we had a home. We see M. de Rabaudy{{26}}[[26]]M. de Rabaudy was the chancellor, that is, the secretary-general, of the French embassy in London. He was already in post when Guizot became ambassador. After the 1848 revolution he seems to have been placed on the inactive list. Indeed, in July 1849 Henry Reeve interceded with Tocqueville, then Minister of Foreign Affairs, to have him reinstated in the public service.[[26]] and Lady Alice Peel{{27}}[[27]]Alice Kennedy, daughter of the twelfth Earl of Cassilis, born in 1805, was the wife of John Peel, younger brother of the former Prime Minister. She had long been close to Dorothea Lieven and through her to FG. [[27]], whose friendship does us good. The day before had been eight years to the day since M. de Rabaudy had seen my father arrive in London as ambassador; one could truly say, “How times have changed!” Around two o’clock we leave Ford’s Hotel and go to do some shopping in London. M. Plichon says goodbye to us and leaves to go home. Throughout those days he had been the best and most devoted of friends to us, and at a moment when proofs of affection were so precious to us. We return to Bryanston Square: still nothing from my father.

The next day we see a great many people. At last, in the evening at six o’clock, M. de Rabaudy arrives with the news of my father’s arrival at Dover; it was in an English newspaper. We could not believe it. M. de Rabaudy tells us he is going to the railway station to wait for the train. How I prayed to God to sustain us if this was to prove a false hope. A little later M. Libri and Mr Panizzi{{28}}[[28]]Anthony Panizzi, born in 1787 near Modena, a former carbonaro settled in England since 1822, joined the British Museum in 1831 and became head of its library. He also played a political role. [[28]] come; both had just seen the newspaper and very much hoped it was true. We hardly dared let ourselves believe it, and yet the heart is so ready to believe what it hopes! We sit down to dinner, all listening for the slightest sound. At seven o’clock a carriage stops at the door; my first impulse is to get up and say, “It’s him.” Miss Wisley and Henriette will not let me look. Footsteps are heard in the hall. The door opens. It was indeed he. My God, You alone know what passed in our hearts in that moment of happiness, such as there are very few in this life. I can say nothing about it; I cannot describe the moment when we were in his arms; it is a memory that has entered too deeply into my soul for me to tell it. But, as my father said a moment later, “There are very great compensations in life: the greatest joys after the greatest sorrows.” “Father, Father” – we could only say and repeat that as we looked at him. He was very pale and very tired; he had suffered so much! His journey had, thank God, been very easy. After leaving the Ministry of the Interior on Thursday the 24th at about one o’clock, he had been hidden by Mme Duchâtel{{29}}[[29]]Églé Paulée, daughter of Mme Jacqueminot, the general’s wife, by her first marriage, who became Mme Duchâtel in 1839.[[29]] in a concierge’s lodge in the rue Vaneau. In the evening Mme de Mirbel{{30}}[[30]]Aimée de Mirbel, born in 1796, a highly gifted miniaturist, wife of the illustrious botanist Charles François de Mirbel. [[30]] had come to fetch him and had dressed him as a woman to take him to her home. There she hid him and cared for him with tireless friendship until Wednesday 1 March, when he left with a friend who took him as his valet on the Northern Railway as far as Brussels. There my father was out of danger, and at Ostend he took the steamer to Dover. He was not recognised on the way, although at the Northern Railway station in Paris he waited an hour and a quarter, the train due to leave at seven o’clock not departing until a quarter past eight. How much thanks we owe to God that he thus escaped his enemies; I cannot think of those sad days without crying from the bottom of my heart with the psalmist: “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not one of his benefits.”

It was on Friday 3 March, at seven in the evening, that my father came to us. On Saturday the 4th, at half past six, we were at dinner when our brother arrived, without our expecting him at all. Dear Guillaume! All that was then lacking to our joy was our mother. But to see her again we had to wait another fortnight. It was on Thursday the 17th that she came to London with Mlle de Chabaud. She had borne the journey perfectly well and was hardly tired. What happiness to be with her again, and how good God was to allow us to see her again before taking her back to Himself. Her first words as she embraced my father were: “Now I can die in peace.”

We had rented a small house, and on Saturday the 19th we came to settle in Brompton, where we still are. That day we had the sorrow of parting from Miss Wisley, whom we love so much and who was so devoted to us in days of trial as in days of prosperity. There were many sacrifices during those weeks, and I will not count all the regrets. The first week we spent here was very quiet; our dear mother was fairly well and, although she felt rather alone in this foreign country, she seemed happy among us. However, at the end of the week she began to tire and to cough; her cold worried us a little. But on the Thursday, as she was much better, we were greatly reassured. On the Tuesday morning, while dressing, she said to Henriette: “Hurry and dress me, I am tired, I want to sit down.” She went down to the drawing room. Henriette and I were dressing when Mlle de Chabaud comes to call us: Granny had a violent shivering fit and was very unwell. We try to warm her. The day goes by. At five o’clock Dr Holland, whom my father had sent for, arrives. He finds that it is not very serious, but says nevertheless that he can answer for nothing. During the night Mlle de Chabaud and Henriette sit up with Granny. She was if anything a little better. Dr Holland comes on the Wednesday around noon. He prescribes a few small remedies for the day. Granny, who had taken our room, gets up for a while and lies down on the sofa. She was no worse. During the night from Wednesday to Thursday she suffers quite a lot from stomach pains and breathlessness. We were very anxious; she was restless and, though very patient, could not get comfortable anywhere.

Miss Hallam{{31}}[[31]]Julia Hallam was the daughter of Henry Hallam, the English historian of liberal views whose Constitutional History of England FG had published in translation in 1828, and who had become a very close friend during the 1840 embassy and above all during the exile of 1848-1849.[[31]] comes to take me out for a walk on the Thursday at two o’clock, and we go to see Mrs Austin{{32}}[[32]]Sarah Taylor, 1793-1867, wife of John Austin, a celebrated translator. She lived in France from 1843 to 1848.[[32]]; she comes back with us to Brompton, as kind and devoted as ever. At four o’clock Dr Holland comes. He finds our mother worse and even tells Mrs Austin that there is no longer any hope. So much anguish and sorrow had consumed what little physical strength remained to this sorely tried woman. She was a lamp quietly going out. The night from Thursday to Friday was very painful. My father and Mlle de Chabaud sat up by turns. Granny suffered from a very distressing restlessness. During the night Mlle de Chabaud kept repeating some passage of the Bible to her; she read her psalms, among others Psalm CXXI. Our mother found strength and submission there, and she said to Mlle de Chabaud: “I am going very happy; I know whom I have believed.” On the Friday, life was ebbing fast, but she suffered very little, and nothing, nothing in the world can convey the expression of joy and peace on her face. She could still see us at two o’clock; she often called for Guillaume; in life as at the moment of death, he was her great concern. Until the last moment she kept all her faculties, but at four o’clock she could no longer see and could hardly hear. Yet when Mlle de Chabaud came up to her bed and said to her, “Dear friend, you know me, don’t you? The Lord Jesus is with you?”, she half opened her dying eyes, and her look said more than any words. In that farewell look there was an inexpressible trust and happiness; it was as though she already saw the Saviour holding out His arms to her. At half past seven she fell asleep in the Lord, and her last breath was so gentle and so peaceful that we, who were kneeling in silence close to her bed, recollecting ourselves in the presence of the angels of God who had come to carry the soul of our blessed mother to Heaven, did not hear it. Henriette, who was holding her hand, alone caught that last breath, which had nothing painful or distressing about it. The Spirit of God was among us in that death chamber, and however great the trial, however painful the separation, we could say from the bottom of our hearts: “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them.”