Title: The Fall of Prince Florestan of Monaco
Author: Dilke, Charles Wentworth
Language: English
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                 [Picture: Monaco Town, from Monte Carlo]



                                 THE FALL
                                    OF
                       PRINCE FLORESTAN OF MONACO.


                                * * * * *

                               BY HIMSELF.

                                * * * * *

                                 London:
                            MACMILLAN AND CO.
                                  1874.

        [_The Right of Translation and Reproduction is reserved_.]

                   [Picture: Map of the Town of Monaco]



THE FALL OF PRINCE FLORESTAN OF MONACO.


I am Prince Florestan of Wurtemberg, born in 1850, and consequently now
of the mature age of twenty-four. I might call myself “FLORESTAN II.” but
I think it better taste for a dethroned prince, especially when he
happens to be a republican, to resume the name that is in reality his
own.

Although the events which I am about to relate occurred this winter, so
little is known in England of the affairs of the Ex-principality of
Monaco, now forming the French commune of that name, that I feel that the
details of my story, indeed all but the bare facts on which it is
grounded, will be news to English readers.  The English Post Office
believes that Monaco forms part of Italy, and the general election
extinguished the telegrams that arrived from France in February last.

All who follow continental politics are aware that the Prince Charles
Honoré, known as Charles III. of Monaco, and also called on account of
his infirmity “the blind prince,” was the ruling potentate of Monaco
during the last gambling season; that there lived with him his mother,
the dowager princess; that he was a widower with one son, Prince Albert,
Duc de Valentinois, heir apparent to the throne; that the latter had by
his marriage with the Princess Marie of Hamilton, sister to the Duke of
Hamilton, one son who in 1873 was six years old; that all the family
lived on M. Blanc the lessee of the gambling tables.  But Monaco is shut
off from the rest of the world except in the winter months, and few have
heard of the calamities which since the end of January have rained upon
the ruling family.  My cousin, Prince Albert, the “Sailor Prince,” a good
fellow of my own age, with no fault but his rash love of uselessly
braving the perils of the ocean, had often been warned of the fate that
would one day befall him.  Once when a boy he had put to sea in his boat
when a fearful storm was raging, had been upset just off the point at
Monaco, and had been saved only by the gallantry of a sailor of the port
who had risked his own life in keeping his sovereign’s son afloat.  In
October 1873 my unfortunate cousin bought at Plymouth an English sailing
yacht of 450 tons.  He had a sailor’s contempt for steam, which he told
me was only fit for lubbers, when he came up and stayed with me at
Cambridge in November to see the “fours.”  He explained to me then that
he had got a bargain, that he had bought his yacht for one-third her
value, and that he was picking up a capital crew of thirty men.  He had
no need to buy yachts for a third their value, for he was rich enough and
to spare, having enjoyed the large fortune of his mother from the time he
came of age.  She was a Mérode, and vast forests in Belgium—part of
Soignies for instance—belonged to him.  His wife had her own fortune of
four and a half million francs, bringing her in about seven thousand
pounds a year, so he was able to spend all his money on himself.  He did
not spend it on his dress, for when he came to Cambridge and was
introduced to Dr. Thompson, he neither had a dress suit to dine in at the
lodge, nor a black morning coat to put on for hall, where his rough
pea-jacket scandalised the “scouts.”  He sailed from Plymouth in
November, and reached Monaco at the end of that month.  In December he
made several excursions, in none of which did his father go to sea with
him, but on the 26th of January, as ill luck would have it, he tempted my
poor uncle to go with him for a three days’ cruise.  It came on to blow
hard that night, and nothing was ever heard of them again.  Great was the
excitement at Monaco on the 27th and 28th, but on the 29th the worst was
known, as a telegram from Genoa informed the unfortunate old princess—who
has all her faculties at the age of eighty-six—that her son and grandson
were both numbered with the dead, for one of the boats of the rotten
yacht had been fallen in with by a fishing vessel floating empty in mid
sea.

The Conseil d’Etat was at once called together by the Governor General,
and the little boy of the Princess Marie proclaimed by their order at the
market-place.  A proclamation was posted in the town the moment the
sitting ended, declaring the joint regency of the dowager princess and of
Baron Imberty.  A telegram was sent to Princess Marie, who was staying
with her child at Nice, informing her of her husband’s death and of the
accession of her son, and begging that she would the next day confide the
little Duc de Valentinois to the deputation of the councillors of state
and of the officers of guards, who would reach Nice by train at noon.
She was in the same despatch assured that on the death of the old dowager
princess she should succeed her in the regency, but for family reasons on
which I need not enlarge, she was requested not on this occasion to
accompany her son.

All this I learnt by a telegram from the baron; I, as the son of the
sister of the late prince, having now become most unexpectedly next heir
to the throne of Monaco.  I had no idea of the possibility of my ever
being called upon to succeed a healthy boy of six, and gave the matter no
thought but one of regret at the death of my gallant cousin Albert, who
in the Prussian war had proved his courage in the French navy, while I,
had I been older, should have had to have fought upon the other side, my
father having been a prince of Wurtemberg.

I was thoroughly English in my ways.  My father, a man of wide and
liberal views, disliking “professors” as much as Mr. Disraeli does, and
especially distrusting Prussian pedagogues, had sent me to Eton and to
Trinity. At Eton I had lived rather with the King’s scholars than with my
more natural allies, and had imbibed some views at which my poor father
would have groaned.  When I went up to Cambridge my friendships were in
King’s rather than in Third Trinity, and my opinions were those now
popular among spectacled undergraduates, namely, universal negation.  I
even joined First Trinity Boat Club, instead of Third, because the
gentlemen of the latter were too exclusive for my princely tastes.

During my four years at Cambridge I had rowed in First Trinity Second.  I
had heard at the Union Mr. Seeley defend the Commune, and oppose a motion
declaring it innocent because it did not go on to express the “love and
affection” with which that body was regarded by the University.  I had
supported a young fellow of Trinity when he showed that the surplus funds
of the Union Society should be applied to the erection of statues of
Mazzini in all the small villages of the West of England—a motion which I
believe was carried, but neutralized by the fact that the Union Society
possessed no surplus funds.  I had also had the inestimable advantage of
attending the lectures of Professor Fawcett on the English poor laws.  I
had, by the way, almost forgotten the most amusing of all the Union
episodes of my time, which was the rising of Mr. Dilke of Trinity Hall,
Sir Charles Dilke’s brother—but a man of more real talent than his
brother, although, if possible, a still more lugubrious speaker—to move
that his brother’s portrait, together with that of Lord Edmond
Fitzmaurice, the communist brother of a Marquis and a congenial spirit,
should be suspended in the committee room to watch over the deliberations
of that body, because, forsooth, they had happened to be president and
vice-president of the Society at a moment when the new buildings were
begun out of the subscriptions of such very different politicians as the
Prince of Wales, the Duke of Devonshire, and Lord Powis.  Mr. Dilke and
his radicals were sometimes in a majority and sometimes in a minority at
the Union, and the portraits of the republican lord and baronet went up
on the wall or down under the table accordingly, Mr. Willimott, the
valued custodian of the rooms, carrying out the orders of both sides with
absolute impartiality.

Fired with the enthusiasm of my party and of my age, I had subscribed to
the Woman’s Suffrage Association, to Mr. Bradlaugh’s election expenses,
to the Anti-Game-Law Association, and to the Education League.  My
reading was less one-sided than my politics, and my republicanism was
tempered by an unwavering worship of “Lothair.”  Mr. Disraeli was my
admiration as a public man—a Bismarck without his physique and his
opportunities—but then in politics one always personally prefers one’s
opponents to one’s friends.  As a republican, I had a cordial aversion
for Sir Charles Dilke, a clever writer, but an awfully dull speaker, who
imagines that his forte is public speaking, and who, having been brought
up in a set of strong prejudices, positively makes a merit to himself of
never having got over them.  This he calls “never changing his opinions.”
For Mr. Gladstone I had the ordinary undergraduate detestation.  There
are no liberals at Cambridge.  We were all rank republicans or champions
of right divine.

The 31st of January was a strange day in my history.  On entering my
rooms in my flannels, hot from the boats, and hurrying for hall, I saw a
telegram upon the table.  I tore it open.

                      “_The Governor-General_, _Monaco_;
                                     _to_
                   _His Serene Highness Prince Florestan_,

                                                        _Trinity College_,
                                                             _Cambridge_.”

“His Serene Highness!”  Surely a mistake!  I read on.

    “This morning at noon his Serene Highness the reigning prince was
    committed by the princess his mother to the care of M. Henri de
    Payan, at Nice.  The princess being nervous about railway accidents,
    the departure for Monaco took place by road.  The carriage conveying
    his Serene Highness and M. de Payan was drawn by four horses.  Turbie
    was reached without mishap, but half-way between Turbie and
    Roquebrune, at a sharp turn in the road, the horses took fright, and
    the coachman, in avoiding the precipice, threw the carriage upon the
    rocks on the mountain side of the road.  His Serene Highness was
    thrown on his head and killed on the spot.  Your Serene Highness is
    now reigning prince of Monaco, and will be proclaimed to-night after
    the meeting of the Council of State by the style of Florestan II.
    Lieutenant Gasignol, of the guard, will proceed at once to England
    and meet your Serene Highness at any spot which your Highness may
    please to indicate.  M. de Payan escaped without a scratch.”

Prince of Monaco!  Prince of Monaco.  And I had seen Lafont in _Rabagas_!
I was not a “milk-and-water Rabagas,” as Mr. Cole called Mr. Lowe, when
all the papers reported him to have said “milk-and-water Rabelais,” and
the _Spectator_ mildly wondered at the strangeness of the comparison.
No, but I was somewhat of a milk-and-water Prince of Monaco after Lafont.
What distinction!  What carriage!  If the princes of the earth were only
like the princes of the stage, there would be no republicans.  But then,
fortunately, they are not.  “Fortunately!” and I one of them.  What am I
saying?

Poor little fellow!  How sad for his young mother too.  A reigning prince
for nineteen hours, and that outside of his own dominions and at the age
of six.  A strange world! and a strange world, for me too.  A
half-Protestant, half-free-thinking, republican, German, Cambridge
undergraduate, suddenly called to rule despotically over a Catholic and
Italian people.  My succession, at least, would be undisputed.  No one
had ever vowed that I “should never ascend the throne—without a protest.”
One of the Grimaldis had a claim which was no doubt a just one, my
respected great uncle having been probably a usurper; but Marshal
MacMahon and the Duc de Broglie would, I well knew, support me,
preferring even a German prince at Monaco to an Italian.  My succession,
I repeat, was undisputed; but if anybody had taken the trouble to dispute
it, I can answer for it that they would have been cheated out of their
amusement, for I should willingly have resigned to their charge so
burdensome a toy.  I was that which the republican mayor of Birmingham,
Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, in his jocular speech proposing the Prince of
Wales’ health at the mayor’s banquet, said that one of his friends had
been trying by argument to make the Prince—with, “as yet,” only “partial
success”—a republican King.  I would have gone only to Monaco to proclaim
the republic had I not known that the strange despotism—presided over not
as a despotism should be by one clever despot, but by two stupid despots,
the Dukes of Magenta and Broglie—which is called the French republic,
would not permit the creation of a small model for herself in the middle
of her commune of Roquebrune.

I was not sorry to leave Cambridge.  My rooms in the new court overlooked
Caius, where they had typhoid fever; and between the fear of infection
and the noise of the freshmen’s wines in Trinity Hall, I was beginning to
have enough of Cambridge.  My bedmaker and tutor were the only people to
whom I bid goodbye.  The men were all in hall and out at wines, and I
left notes for my friends instead of looking them up in their rooms.  I
caught my tutor as he was going into hall.  I told him of the news, and I
could see the idea of an invitation for next winter to the castle at
Monaco pass through his mind as he assured me that my rule would be a
blessing to my country, and that nothing could better fit me for a
sceptre than the training of an English gentleman.  He added, with a
return of the grim humour of a don, that he supposed that as a sovereign
prince I need scarcely “take an _exeat_.”  My poor old bed-maker, who had
read the telegram in my absence from my room, called me “your imperial
majesty” three times while she packed my shirts, but in half-an-hour I
was off to London; and on the evening of the 3rd of February I met M. de
Payan and Lieutenant Gasignol by appointment at the Grand Hotel at Paris.

From M. de Payan I obtained my first accurate ideas as to the State of
Monaco.  I found that I was not more independent under the supremacy of
France than is the Emperor William independent under the domination of
Prince von Bismarck.  I had not only the Code Napoléon, and a Council of
State dressed in exact copies of their Versailles namesakes, but French
custom-house officers levying French custom-house duties in my dominions.
At the beginning of our conversation I had said to M. de Payan, “Between
ourselves, and fearing though I do that like Charles I. of England I may
be committing high treason against myself, I feel bound to tell you that
my only ideas of my principality are derived from M. Sardou’s _Rabagas_.”

Why is it that inhabitants of small and isolated communities never can
see a joke?  M. de Payan, slightly drawing himself up and speaking with
as much stiffness as he could assume towards his prince, gravely answered
me, “Your Serene Highness is not aware, I presume, that _Rabagas_ was a
satire directed against France in her decline, and not against your
Highness’s principality.”

M. Sardou wasting his hours on satirising Monaco.  I will never joke
again, I said to myself, unless I should suffer the modern fate of kings
and be deposed.

“M. de Payan,” I replied, “I am aware of what you say, and I was joking.”

“We have no Gambettas at Monaco, your Highness; that is all I meant.”

“Perhaps, Sir, the country would be happier if you had.  Rabagas was not
Gambetta, but Emile Olivier—not the man who never despaired of France,
but the man who sacrificed his opinions to his advancement.  I admire M.
Gambetta, who is at this moment the first man in France, in my
estimation, and the second political man in Europe.  His figure will
stand out in history, daubed as even it is with the mud that French
politicians are ceaselessly flinging at each other.”

“M. Gambetta is, as your Serene Highness says, a man of extraordinary
powers; but his father was a tradesman at Cahors, and is retired and
lives at Nice, near your Serene Highness’s dominions.”

What more could I say?  There was nothing to be made of M. de Payan.

On the 5th of February I reached Nice by the express, and after reading
the telegram which announced the return of Mr. Gladstone by a discerning
people as junior colleague to a gin distiller, was presented with an
address by the Gambettist mayor at the desire of the legitimist préfêt.
The mayor, being a red-hot republican in politics but a carriage-builder
by trade, lectured me on the drawbacks of despotism in his address, but
informed me in conversation afterwards that he had had the honour of
building a Victoria for Prince Charles Honoré—which was next door to
giving me his business card.  The address, however, also assumed that the
Princes of Monaco were suffered only by Providence to exist in order that
the trade of Nice, the nearest large French town, might thrive.

In the evening at four we reached the station at Monaco, which was decked
with the white flags of my ancestors.  What a pity, was my thought, that
M. de Chambord should not be aware that if he would come to stay with me
at the castle he would live under the white flag to which he is so much
attached all the days of his life.  My reception was enthusiastic.  The
guards, in blue uniforms not unlike the Bavarian, but with tall shakoes
instead of helmets, and similar to that which during the stoppage of the
train at Nice I had rapidly put on, were drawn up in line to the number
of thirty-nine—one being in hospital with a wart on his thumb, as M. de
Payan told me.  What an admirable centralisation that such a detail
should be known to every member of the administration!  Two drummers
rolled their drums French fashion.  In front of the line were four
officers, of whom—one fat; Baron Imberty; the Vicar General; and Père
Pellico of the Jesuits of the Visitation, brother as I already knew to
the celebrated Italian patriot, Silvio Pellico, of dungeon and spider
fame.

“Where is M. Blanc?” I cried to M. de Payan, as we stopped, seeing no one
not in uniform or robes.

“M. Blanc,” said M. de Payan, severely, “though a useful subject of your
Highness is neither a member of the household of your Highness, a soldier
of His army, nor a functionary of His government.  M. Blanc is in the
crowd outside.”

Had I ventured to talk slang to M. de Payan, of whom I already stood in
awe, I should have replied, “Elle est _salée_, celle là; puisque sans M.
Blanc mon pays ne marcherait pas.”  But I held my tongue.

I have seen many amusing sights in the course of my short life.  I have
seen an Anglican clergyman dance the cancan—I have seen Lord Claud
Hamilton, the elder, address the English House of Commons—I have watched
with breathless interest the gesticulations of French orators in the
tribune of the Assembly, when not a word could reach my ears through the
din of Babel that their colleagues made.  But the oddest sight I ever saw
was the bow with which Colonel Jacquemet, conscious even at the glorious
moment that history would not forget his name, assured me that “the
devoted army of a Gallant and a Glorious Prince would follow him to the
death, when Honour led and Duty called.”

At this moment Père Pellico slipped round to my side and said, “A word
with your Highness.  A most unfortunate report has got abroad that your
Highness is a heretic.  What is to be done?”

“I very much fear I am,” I replied.

“But surely your Highness has never formally joined a Protestant body?”

“Protestant?  Oh, no.  I am a freethinker; a follower of Strauss rather
than of Dr. Cumming.”

“How your Highness has relieved my mind!  Only a freethinker—but that is
nothing.  I feared that possibly your Highness might have suffered a
perversion to some of the many schisms.”  He bowed and hurried off into
the town, while taking the arm of Baron Imberty I said, “Introduce me to
M. Blanc.”

“Your Highness wishes that M. Blanc should be presented to your Highness,
but there are three hundred and ten or three hundred and twenty gentlemen
who take precedence of M. Blanc.  Nevertheless, your Highness has only to
command.”

“Well, then, touch my arm as we pass him in the crowd, and I will speak
to him informally.”

My ideas of etiquette would have horrified Madame von Biegeleben, the
lady-in-waiting to my poor mother; still, I was improving already, as may
be seen.

As we left the station building a little man in black, who when he is
twenty years older will be as like M. Thiers in person as he already is
in tact, in power of talk, and in the combination of a total absence of
fixed opinions with a decided manner, made a low bow, accompanied with
the shrewdest smile that I had seen.

“That,” I said, halting before him, “is M. Blanc.  I am glad to have so
early an opportunity of commencing an acquaintance, which I hope to
improve.”

“Your Serene Highness does me too much honour.”

Thus I passed the man who played Haussmann to my Emperor, but who had the
additional advantage which the costly baron of demolishing memory
certainly did not possess, of being a magnificent source of revenue to my
state.

Mounting the really fine horse that they had sent me down, and escorted
by the sixteen mounted carbineers (who do police duty on foot in ordinary
times at Monte Carlo and in the town), I rode off at a sharp trot by the
winding road.

“Will your Serene Highness graciously please to go at a walk, for
otherwise the guards will not have time to get up by the military road
and to form again to receive your Highness at the _Place_.”

I did as I was bid, of course.  Bouquets of violets were showered on me
as we passed through the narrow street, and the scene on the public
square in front of the castle was really fine.  The sun was setting in
glory over the Mediterranean in the west; on the north the Alpes
Monégasques were beginning to take the deep red glow which nightly in
that glorious climate they assume.  On the east the palms at Monte Carlo
stood out sharply against the deep still blue sky, and in the far
distance the great waves of the ground swell were rolling in upon the
coast towards Mentone and the Italian frontier, with thousands of bright
white sea-gulls speckling the watery hills with dots of light.  At the
palace gate I was received by the old dowager princess.  She bent and
kissed my hand.  I threw my arms round her neck and kissed her on both
cheeks.

“That was kindly meant, Highness,” she said, “but your Serene Highness is
now the reigning prince, and in the presence of the mob your dignity must
be kept up.”

Passing the two great Suisses who, arrayed in gala costume, stood
magnificently at the gate—but whose wages I afterwards discovered were
supplemented by showing my bedroom when I was out to English tourists at
a franc a head—we entered the grand courtyard, ascended the great stairs,
and passed straight into the reception hall known as the Salle Grimaldi.
There, standing on a dais, opposite to the magnificent fireplace and
chimney-piece, with the baron at my side, I held a levee, and received
the vicar-general, père de Don; the curé of the cathedral, l’abbé Ramin;
the chevalier de Castellat, vice-president of the council of state; the
chevalier Voliver, member of council of state, and president of the
council of public education; the Marquis de Bausset-Roquefort, president
of the high court of justice and member of the council of state; the
treasurer-general, M. Lombard; Monsignore Theuret, the first almoner of
the household; Monsignore Ciccodicola, the honorary almoner; Colonel the
Vicomte de Grandsaigne, my first aide-de-camp; Major Pouget d’Aigrevaux,
commandant of the palace; the two attachés of M. de Payan in his office
of secretary-general, MM. Stephen Gastaldi and John Blanchi; my doctor,
M. Coulon, a leading member of the council of education, and evidently a
most intelligent man; the curés of the six smaller churches; the five
professors of the Jesuit college of La Visitation; three aides-de-camp;
the chef du cabinet; the chamberlain himself, who had introduced the
others; and four officers of guards and one of carbineers, in addition to
Colonel Jacquemet, whom I have already named.  No conversation took
place, and the presentations being over in five minutes, I got out in the
garden before dark for a quiet stroll by myself before dinner.

I was struck by the scene.  The tall palms, the giant tree geraniums
blooming in masses down the great cliffs to the very edge of the dark
blue sea, the feathery mimosas, the graceful pepper trees laden with
crimson berries, the orange grove, the bananas fruiting and flowering at
the same time, the passion flowers climbing against the rugged old castle
walls, all were new to me—unused to the south, and brought up in
Buckinghamshire, in Cambridgeshire, and in central Germany.  The scene
saddened me, I know not why, and I asked myself whether, with the odd
combination of my opinions and my position, I could be of any use in the
world except to bring Monarchy into contempt.  Here was I, a freethinker,
called upon to rule a people of bigoted Catholics through a Jesuit
father—for I had already seen that Père Pellico was the real vice-king.
Here was I, an ardent partisan of the doctrine of individuality, placed
suddenly at the head of the most centralized administration in the world.
What was to be done?  Reform it?  Yes, but no reformer has so ill a time
of it as a reforming prince.  Sadly I went in to a sad dinner
_tête-à-tête_ with my crape-covered great aunt in a gloomy room, and so
to bed, convinced that unhappiness may co-exist with the possession of a
hall porter as big as Mrs. Bischoffsheim’s.

The next morning when I dreamily called for my coffee there was brought
to me along with it a gigantic envelope sealed with soft wax stamped with
my arms, and containing a terrific despatch of twenty-three pages.
“Rapport Hebdomadaire.”  “Weekly report” of what, I asked myself.  Why, I
have but five thousand subjects—the same number that Octavia Hill rules
in Marylebone with such success.  I began to read.

    “On Monday night a man named Marsan called the carbineer Fissori a
    fool.  He was not arrested (see Order No. 1142 and correspondence 70,
    10, 102), but a private report was addressed to the Council of State,
    on which the Secretary General decided to recommend that Marsan
    should be watched for a week; referred to the Sub-Committee on Public
    Order.”

    “M. Blanc on Tuesday visited the tunnel in the commune of Turbie
    (France) by which he hopes to obtain an additional water supply for
    the Casino.  As M. Blanc had not had the courtesy to inform the
    secretarial office of his excursion it was impossible to send an
    agent to obtain details of what took place.”

So on for twenty and more pages, the last informing me of the names of
the fishing boats that had come in and gone out, of the time of sunrise,
and of the fact that a private in my guards had caught a cold in his
head.

It was unbearable.  These formalities should be suppressed at once.  The
administration should be decentralised.  I rang and sent to the
secretarial office for M. de Payan.  I addressed him thus:—

“I gather from this tedious document that my principality of five
thousand persons possesses every appliance and every excrescence of
civilized government except a parliament.  The perfection of bureaucracy
and of red tape has been reached in a territory one mile broad and five
miles long.  No doubt centralisation is less hurtful than it is elsewhere
in a country so small that it is virtually all centre, but I intend that
this state of things (for which you are in no way responsible) shall
cease.  In the first place kindly inform me of the facts.  What are the
expenses and what are the revenues of the state, and what is the number
of its officials?”

“There are, Sir,” he answered, “including your household and the officers
of your guards, one hundred and twenty-six functionaries in Monaco.
There are sixty soldiers and carbineers, and there are one hundred and
fifty unpaid consular and diplomatic representatives of Monaco abroad.”

“How many servants have I in all, including stable men?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Then you mean to say that there are three hundred and sixty-one persons
employed under the crown for a population of thirteen hundred male
inhabitants of full age?”

“Yes, Sir, and M. Blanc employs on his works and at the Casino eight
hundred of the remainder.”

This was a startling state of things, but I soon found out that, as
Colonel Jacquemet had used his men twice over on my arrival, so we used
our politicians twice or thrice, politicians being happily scarce with
us.  Many posts were filled by one man, a plan which has its advantages
as well as its drawbacks, the advantages predominating in a country where
there are eleven hundred and sixty posts to fill and only thirteen
hundred grown male inhabitants.

To give you an idea of the way in which we used our men, Baron Imberty,
our Governor-General for instance, was also President of the Council of
State, Chancellor of the Order of St. Charles, President of the Maritime
Council, President of the Board of Public Works, President of the Bureau
de Bienfaisance, etc. etc.

Thanks to M. Blanc and his gambling establishment, and thanks to the
large private fortune of my family, the finances of Monaco were in a
flourishing position.  Prince Charles had had half a million of francs a
year of private fortune and of revenue from the gambling tables.  My
cousin Albert had had three hundred thousand francs a year.  I
consequently had eight hundred thousand francs of private fortune, or
£32,000 a year, out of which I could easily keep up the palace, the
stables, and, if I chose, a powerful steam yacht, together with my
cousin’s house in Belgium as a summer residence.  The cost of the
government for army, church, education, and justice, was two hundred
thousand francs a year.  Public works were dealt with liberally by M.
Blanc as a part of his “concession.”  The ordinary revenue was derived
from four sources, each contributing about an equal share.  These were:—

  I.  The payment of the Government of France for half the value of the
  tobacco sold in the principality on behalf of the French _régie_.

  II. The payment of France for customs collected by France in my ports.

  III. The payment by the “Paris, Lyons, Méditerranée” Railway for right
  of passage.

  IV. Our only local tax, one on all lands and houses changing hands.

The total receipts were two hundred thousand francs, or about the same as
the total expense of government.

I dismissed M. de Payan; and without telling anyone where I was going I
walked up to the Casino by myself.

I was little known by sight at present in the town, as those who had seen
me enter it in uniform and on horseback the day before would hardly
recognize me in deep mourning and on foot.  I passed unnoticed by the
guards, and on reaching the Casino, hot and dusty, was stopped by one of
the employés of the bank, I said, “Take me to M. Blanc.”

Under similar circumstances the Prince of Wales is introduced as “Captain
White,” but then he is not a _sovereign_ prince; and I preferred to give
no name at all than to assume an alias.

I found him literally “a counting out his money.”  That is to say, two
clerks were counting rouleaus of gold while he at a small table was
quietly playing patience with two packs of cards.  At a bureau was a
third clerk, an Englishman, translating into French for his benefit one
of Mr. Bagehot’s leaders in the _Economist_.

He knew me at once, although he had seen me but for a moment and in a
wholly different dress.  Bowing low, and speaking not to me but to his
clerks, he said, “Qu’on nous laisse.”  The moment they had left the room
he bowed to the ground again, and said, “Ah monseigneur, votre
seigneurerie me fait trop d’honneur!  J’allais écrire à monsieur le
chambellan pour lui demander de vouloir bien solliciter une audience en
mon nom, afin de déposer mes respectueux hommages aux pieds de votre
Altesse.  Elle me comble en venant chez moi incognito.”

M. Blanc, whose appearance I described before, is well known to gambling
Europe as a distinguished political economist, the keeper of the greatest
“hell” on earth, and the loving father of a pair of pretty and
accomplished daughters, living upon roulette, but himself innocent
nowadays of all games but the mildest patience—of which he knows sixty
kinds.  At Monaco he is more than a public character: he is a benefactor
and a prince.  Attacks may be made upon gambling establishments even
conducted as his is, but I am disposed to agree with the Jesuit fathers
of the Visitation that the Monaco roulette—forbidden to the inhabitants
of Monaco and of the neighbouring parts of France—does not do much harm
to anyone, although I could hardly go with Père Pellico so far as to
prohibit the building of a Protestant church while he tolerates a “hell,”
and even permits his students to visit the musical portion of its rooms.
I had no wish in my proposed reforms to reform out of existence my
roulette revenue.  I wished indeed to make good use of it; better use
than my predecessors had done.  I wanted to make of Monaco a Munich and a
Dresden all in one.  I would have a gallery of the greatest modern
pictures—great ancient ones are not now to be obtained—a magnificent
orchestra, a theatre of the first rank; art, in short, of all kind of the
highest class by which to raise the culture of my people, who, excluded
from the gambling side of the Casino by a wise ordinance of my
predecessor, would reap the benefit without drinking the poison of the
roulette.

I found M. Blanc’s mind running upon the question of whether English
families would be most attracted to Monaco by pigeon-shooting or by an
English church.  The church he fancied most, but owing to the opposition
of Père Pellico it would have to be built upon the hill a mile off from
the Casino, in the territory of France.

“I will authorise you to disregard Père Pellico’s bigotry, and to build
it where you please,” I cried.

M. Blanc smiled, and said, “If your Serene Highness will excuse me, I had
sooner not go against the Jesuits.”

I wasn’t king in my own country, as it appeared.  Expel the Jesuits, the
tempter within me suggested; but then I wasn’t Bismarck, and I hadn’t a
“national liberal” party at my back.

I rapidly exposed my views to M. Blanc.  I was much struck by the fact
that his practical mind insisted on viewing my reforms as questions not
of principles but of men.

“You have no men to back you,” he kept saying; “and if you turn out your
present set and get some clever Germans you will be deposed.”  He had
dropped the excessive formality of speech with which he had begun.
Several times he used the phrase, “Dr. Coulon is the only man you have.”
Then, after thinking for a time, “What do you propose to gain by your
reforms?  You are rich.  Your people are contented.  Why trouble
yourself?  As for works of art, as for theatre, as for orchestra, these
things are matters of money, and I will do my best to help.  I am not
sure that as a mere investment they will not pay, and at all events I
will do my best to make them do so; but as for your reforms of army,
church, and education that you talk about, I beg your Highness to leave
it all alone.  The shares in the bank will fall ten per cent. when it is
known.  My shares here are like the funds at Paris, they hate liberty.
The less liberty, the higher they stand.  It is just the same at Paris.
Suppress a journal, and the _rente_ rise a franc.  Suppress all the
journals, and they would rise five francs!  Suppress the Assembly, and
they would rise ten!  Does your Serene Highness take part in
pigeon-shooting?”

Making nothing of M. Blanc, except as to art matters, I returned slowly
to the Castle, where I found the Council of State assembled to take the
oaths.

I chatted with the members of the Council, but arranged to develope my
plans in the first place to a few carefully-selected individuals.  I
fixed hours at which I would receive M. de Payan; Dr. Coulon; the curé of
the cathedral; l’abbé Ramin; Père Pellico; and Colonel Jacquemet; after
seeing the Governor General, Baron Imberty, and talking matters over with
him.  Baron Imberty I only saw because not to see him would be to pass a
slight upon him; but I had no hope of help from him, and none from
Colonel Jacquemet.  From Père Pellico I knew that I should meet with
opposition, and I received him only to see how strong and of what nature
the opposition would be.  I built my hopes upon M. de Payan, Dr. Coulon,
and l’abbé Ramin.

To Baron Imberty I said only that I contemplated a reform in the army, a
gradual liberation of the church from state control, and the
re-organization of the schools.  He answered that my wish was law, but
that the church was very well as she stood.

To Colonel Jacquemet I explained in detail my military re-organization
scheme, which was the best of my reforms.  I pointed out to him that his
force of forty men, now reduced to thirty-eight by the unfortunate wart
and cold, was only preserved from becoming the laughing-stock of Europe
by its exceptional discipline and courage.  It was absolutely necessary
for me to say this or he would have had a fit upon the spot.  I directed
that a list should be prepared of all the male inhabitants aged from
sixteen to thirty, and numbering, as I calculated, about eight hundred.
That of them those physically fit—some six hundred, as I should
suppose—were to receive drill, and ultimately uniforms.  The gallant
forty men were to become sergeants, corporals, and inferior officers of
the new national regiment.  Captain Ruggeri and Lieutenant Gasignol were
named its majors, and Lieutenants Plati and De la Rosière the senior
captains.  Four other captains were to be selected from among the
privates and non-commissioned officers of the guard.  The new levy was to
be unpaid, and the only increased expense would be the uniforms and
rifles, and at first the additional pay of the ten new officers.  As
vacancies occurred in company officers they were to be filled up by
election by the company, but the majors were to be appointed by the
colonel.  The cost of the uniforms and arms I proposed to meet by selling
for old iron our twenty magnificent, but useless pieces of old artillery.
Modern artillery for the fortress I proposed to provide out of my private
income, and as defence of the town was our only possible service, of
field artillery I decided to have none.  The night sentry duty at the
palace was to be performed by the paid sergeants only, and the regiment
was to parade but once a week.  I could see that Colonel Jacquemet did
not like it, but he bowed and left the room.

My next interview was with M. de Payan.  He heartily concurred in my army
reform, and said that no measure could be better for the country,
educationally, than my plan of universal service of this limited
character.  When I came to talk of church reforms, however, M. de Payan
was very cold and hard to fire.  He advised me to talk the matter over
with the curé, l’abbé Ramin, a most moderate man, and to beware of Father
Pellico.  From this negative position I could not move him.

The curé was my next visitor.  He also agreed heartily in the wisdom of
my army reform.  He listened without dissent to my proposal for the
gradual cessation of the small grant to the priests, including that to
himself.  On the other hand, when I spoke about the necessity of
procuring lay teachers for the schools, he began to weep.  I changed the
subject, and when I allowed him to leave the room he said, with a
singularly sweet smile, that he would go with my reforms as far as he
could, that so just a man as my Highness would not harm his country, that
God would watch over his church. I was touched by Abbé Ramin.

Dr. Coulon was then shown in.  A man of intellect, as I could see at the
first glance.  I set before him my army reform, and he was delighted with
it.  I touched upon the separation of church and state, and he said that
it was not hard to be done at Monaco—in name, that is, but difficult
indeed to be done in fact.  Still he supposed the name of separation was
what I wanted, and the gradual cessation of the stipends, which would put
Monaco in accord with the modern movement.  I then referred to education.

He shook his head, and answered, “I should be your Highness’s sole
supporter, and I am a materialist, and only tolerated here on account of
my medical skill, and placed on the Council of Education because, as I am
not in the habit of running my head against stone walls, I always side
with the Jesuits.”

I insisted on the vast improvement in the standard of secular education
to be expected from the introduction of highly trained lay teachers, and
said that the priests should be absolutely free to teach the children out
of school hours.

His reply was a singular one, and shook me.

“Your Highness is a democrat,” he said.  “How then can your Highness
impose your will in this matter upon a people who are unanimous?  If your
Highness wishes to escape individual responsibility for the existence of
the present state of things, your Highness can dissolve the council of
state and institute an elective parliament.  That parliament would
consist, let us say, of twelve members.  If so, eleven would be priests
or Jesuits, and the twelfth M. Blanc of the Casino—a body which would
resemble in complexion some of the school boards in your Highness’s
favourite England.  Your Highness has a heavy task, and if that task be
persevered in, I fear that the state of your Highness’s nerves will be
such as to require my prescriptions.”

He was very free in his conversation, the old doctor, but it was a
pleasing change after Baron Imberty and M. de Payan; not but what Abbé
Ramin had much attracted me.

I did my best to charm Père Pellico.  I courted him as my other subjects
courted me.  He was expansive in manner; but I am not a fool, and though
only twenty-four, I knew enough of human nature to see that there was
another Père Pellico underneath the smiling case-work which talked to me.
To my military reform he had no objection, provided I exempted Jesuit
students from service.  I answered that I would exempt all those at
present in Monaco, to which he replied that he feared then that I should
never have the pleasure of seeing any others.  I thought to myself “here
is”—but Père Pellico smiled and slowly spoke again.

“Your Highness was thinking, I venture to imagine, that that would be an
additional reason for hurrying your military reform.  But I must crave
the pardon of your Highness for speaking except in reply to your
Highness.  I have not the habit of courts.”

I spoke then of the Church; he was indifferent—the salaries of his four
professors could easily be got from Italy.  I then touched upon
education.

Père Pellico, to my astonishment, exclaimed, “But on the contrary; my
opinions are not different from those of your Highness.  They are the
same.  But as a democrat I do not venture, although I may be wrong, to
force them upon the people.”

Here was a change of base.

“If I were your Highness,” he continued, “I would dismiss the Council of
State and call an elected parliament to frame a constitution.  That would
be a more regular method of proceeding than limiting your own prerogative
by the exercise of that very prerogative itself.”

“Father,” I replied, “is not the country somewhat small for the
complicated machinery of parliament?”

“Why then not try a Plebiscite, ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ upon certain written
propositions, as in Zurich?”

“How liberal a politician can afford to be when he has the people with
him,” I thought to myself as I bowed out Father Pellico.

For the next three weeks, until the end of February, things went smoothly
with me.  My great aunt bothered me so to marry a “nice steady young lady
who would maintain the dignity of the Court, check the extravagance of
the steward, and count the linen,” that I got Dr. Coulon to tell her that
she would die unless she removed to Nice.  She preferred a short remove
to a long one, and took herself off to my great relief.  She was a very
fussy, but a clever and a really good old lady.  My army reform went well
enough, and the church edict was fulminated without meeting with
opposition.  I bought, through Mr. Gambart, who often came to Nice, a
charming Leighton and a glorious Watts, and a fine Verboeckhoven from M.
Blanc, as a beginning of the public collection.  I moved the councils to
the palace, and fitted up the public offices thus rendered vacant as my
museum.  I got M. Lucas at the Casino to improve his already admirable
orchestra, to start a free school for instrumental music, and to play
once a week in the town of Monaco instead of at Monte Carlo.  I wrote to
M. Gounod, whom I had the honour to count among my friends, to offer him
the Louis Quinze rooms beyond the Chambre d’York, at the north-west
corner of the Castle, with the most lovely view in both directions, and
the prettiest decorations to my mind in all the palace, if he would come
and stay with me as a permanent visitor, and countenance our musical
efforts.  I founded a school for modelling in clay, a class in decorative
art which I taught myself, and I made the arrangements for the reception
of a troop of actors in the winter, and for the production of Gounod’s
“Jeanne d’Arc”—a piece which was suggested by Père Pellico.  In the
palace itself I made many improvements.  Of the Chambre d’York I left
nothing but the pretty mosaic floor, but the room itself, which had been
gilt from top to bottom, bed and all, by my great-grandfather to take out
the taste of the Great French Revolution, during which the palace had
been a poor-house, I turned into a meeting room for the Council of State.
My steam yacht had come with a temporary crew of English tars, and my two
great 15-inch 60-ton Krupp guns—one for the terrace, seawards, and one
for the garden, landwards—were ordered.  The “reports” had been
abolished; the nagging surveillance of the police had been abolished; the
Church establishment had been abolished; and I then had nothing left to
abolish but myself, the abolition of myself being a measure from which I
shrank although, like King Leopold, I was ready to go if my subjects
wished it.

The only one of my reforms which was really popular was the national
army, which afforded all the young married men in the principality a
weekly holiday away from their wives.  But Major Gasignol, who had a
“soul above buttons,” used on parade when he was acting as adjutant to
take an opportunity of reminding me of the days of glory when one of my
ancestors, Grimaldi II., about the time of the Norman conquest of
England, had delivered at Rome the Pope from the forces of no less a
personage than the Emperor.

All this time, however, my education scheme and my substitution of an
elective for a nominated council were in abeyance, the first on account
of Père Pellico’s opposition, the second I might almost say on account of
his support.

Dr. Coulon, consulted by me, often used to say, “Why does not your
Highness throw the responsibility upon a parliament of leaving matters
where they are?”

“But I wish to change them,” I as often replied.

“I can understand that your Highness should wish to be thought to wish to
change them, but further than that point I can not follow your Highness.”

I seriously thought of clapping Dr. Coulon into prison for his
impertinence, but then he was the only liberal in Monaco, and I was a
liberal prince.  How I wished, though, that my uncle had not been such a
fool as to invite the Jesuits, harassed in Italy in 1862, to take refuge
in his dominions.

I was no further advanced than my grandfather, Florestan I., who when
overtaken by the events of 1848, which lost him Mentone and Roquebrune,
contemplated a parliament, which however he never formed.  It was a funny
constitution was that one which he posted on the walls, and over which I
had often mused.  It had not gone further than being posted on the walls,
I should add, because my grandfather found that it would not bring back
Mentone, and as he was strong enough to keep Monaco with or without it he
had, very sensibly, put it in the fire.  The 11th article of it was the
oddest:—“La presse sera libre, mais sujette à des lois répressives.”  But
the first article gave the tone to the whole:—“The sole religion of the
State is the Catholic, Apostolic, Roman.”

I strolled up the terraces of Monte Carlo, which always reminded me of
John Martin’s idea of heaven, and consulted M. Blanc.  He was in
especially good humour that day, because “Madame Brisebanque” and “the
Maltese” had both been losing money.  Still, when I talked of my
parliament and my education reform, he talked of “Jacob’s ladder” and of
other infallible systems of ruining him which never had any result except
that of beggaring their authors.  He told me a long-winded story of how
at Homburg a company called “La Contrebanque” had won twenty-four days in
succession, and how on the twenty-fifth they had sent for a watchman and
an iron chest to guard their winnings, how that afternoon their secretary
had lost the whole capital in eighteen _coups_, and how the innocent
watchman had marched up and down all night religiously guarding an empty
chest.  I tried to hark back to my subject, when off he went again at a
tangent, and told me how the day before on opening the “bienfaisance”
collection-box in the hall of the hotel they had found no money, but all
the letters of an American gentleman who had posted them there the year
before.  Another of his anecdotes was of a lady who, having lost, had
eaten a thousand-franc note on a slice of bread and butter to improve her
luck.  M. Blanc left the Casino in his carriage just after I had ridden
off, and without seeming to look I saw well enough out of the corner of
my eyes after he had passed me on the road, that the people uncovered to
him more universally and for a longer time than to myself.  There was,
however, one difference between us—I returned the bows and he did not.

I gave up M. Blanc and pursued my reforming course, abandoning, however,
the idea of a parliament and fearing to touch education.  My government,
now in working order, resembled in no way that which you English think
the best of all possible polities—“constitutional monarchy”—which with
you appears to me to mean a democratic republic tempered by snobbism and
corruption.  Mine was a socialistic autocracy, which, in spite of my
failure, I maintain to be the best of governments, provided only that you
can secure the best of autocrats.

I had no one to back me in what I did.  Major Gasignol and some of the
other officers were strongly favourable to the army reform, which gave
them service and promotion.  Dr. Coulon was half favourable to my views,
and a quarter favourable to my ways of working them out in action.
L’Abbé Ramin was conciliatory and kind.  M. de Payan was grimly neutral.
Every other functionary was an active, though veiled, enemy to
nine-tenths of my proposals.  The people were abjectly passive, and I
almost wished that the auberge of the “_Crapaud Volant_” of _Rabagas_ had
had a real existence.  At last, however, I conjured up the spirit to
found a school with lay teachers, arranging to pay its cost over and
above the expected fees out of my own purse.  No one came to it, and the
Jesuit schools and the schools of the _frères de la doctrine_ continued
to be thronged.  The Catholic schools were supported by the state.  Mine
were supported by myself.  I went a step further, and I offered Father
Pellico the alternatives of stopping the state contributions to all
schools, or of continuing them, provided that lay teachers only were
employed during the principal hours of the day.  He coldly said that an
agreement of the nature proposed by me would be contrary to his duty, and
that if I chose to stop the state contributions to his schools the effect
of my action would be to shake my throne without harming them.  He added
that if he was to go to prison he was at the service of my officer of the
guard.  I replied that he was welcome to his opinion.

The next day the edict appeared.  It was countersigned by Baron Imberty,
who disapproved of it, but not by M. de Payan, who had resigned and left
for Nice to consult the Bishop.  As I drove through the town in the
afternoon, I was coldly received by the people, and the proclamation was
torn down on the following night.  The weekly parade of the militia was
put off for fear of a hostile demonstration; and on the day on which it
would have taken place I received, instead of the muster-roll of the
national regiment, a vote of thanks from the Executive Committee of the
English National Education League, and notice of my unanimous election to
membership of the Council of that body.

A strange event occurred in the afternoon, (it was the 11th of March), to
distract my thoughts.  General Garibaldi, who had been travelling
_incognito_, and with the permission of the French Government, given
conditionally on the _incognito_ being strictly preserved, to visit his
birthplace—Nice, applied to me to know whether I would receive him if he
stopped at Monaco for a day on his return.  I replied that I should be
glad to see him, the more so as I had met his son Ricciotti at Greenwich
in June 1870, at the dinner of the Cobden Club, to which orgy he and I
had both been lured by the solicitations of the arch-gastronomist, the
jovial Mr. T. B. Potter.  I did not add that our acquaintance had been
interrupted by the war in which the same clever and conceited officer had
cut up my cousin’s (the King of Wurtemberg) troops at
Châtillon-sur-Seine.

On the 12th the old General came, and I met him at the station and drove
him to the palace.  The news that he was with me soon spread through the
town, and a mob collected at the palace gates.  The General, to whom I
had given the “bishop’s rooms,” which had once been occupied by
Monseigneur Dupanloup, his arch enemy, imagined that the crowd was
composed of his admirers, and, leaning upon his stick, he proceeded to
harangue them from the window of the private apartments.  Some hundreds
of my subjects, I was afterwards informed, had listened to him languidly
enough until he began to attack the Jesuits, when arose the uproar which
brought me to his room, and all my household into the courtyard.  I
begged him to remember where he was, but the howling of the mob had
excited the old lion, and the more they threatened the more violently he
declaimed.  When he was pulled into a chair by Major Gasignol the
mischief was done, and a maddened crowd was raging on the _place_ crying
“à bas Garibaldi,” “à bas les Communistes,” “à bas le Prince.”

Colonel Jacquemet made his way to me and said, “Sir, I can count on
twenty of the sergeants and corporals who are in the courtyard,
ex-soldiers of your Highness’s ex-garde.  They are grand old soldiers,
and with the strong walls to help them will hold this _canaille_ in
check.”

He might have said, “Sir, I don’t like your ways, and have disapproved of
everything that you have done, but after all you are the rightful Prince
of Monaco, as well as a good fellow, saving your Highness’s presence, and
I am ready to die for you.”  He didn’t.  He only spoke the words that I
have set down.

My answer was an unhesitating one.

“I, Prince Florestan the Reformer, am not going to hold my throne by
force if I can’t hold it by love; and, moreover, if I wished to do so it
is doubtful whether I could succeed.”

As I spoke the crowd parted asunder, and I saw advancing through it in a
wedge the English blue-jackets from my yacht, armed with cutlasses.  A
few stones were thrown at them, but of these they took not the smallest
notice.  At their head was the captain of the port, a native Monegascan,
the very man who years before had saved my sailor cousin from the waves.
They entered the courtyard, and I at once asked them to make their way,
with General Garibaldi in the midst, back to the yacht, and steam with
him to Mentone, land him, and return.  At the same time I sent for Father
Pellico.  It was lucky the sailors had come, for I soon discovered that
the carbineers had made common cause with the mob, and that the sergeants
who were ready to die for me would not have escorted Garibaldi.

The mob howled dismally as he left, but he was embarked safely just
before Father Pellico reached the palace gate.  I told him that the
General had left, and asked him whether this concession would satisfy the
crowd.  He asked whether I was prepared at the same time to give way
about the schools.  I told him that if I thought that after doing so I
could continue to reign with advantage to the country and credit to
myself I would willingly give way, but that if he thought that in the
event of my abdication the public peace could be maintained until a vote
was taken to decide the future of the country, I should prefer to return
to my books and to my boat.  He said that he hoped that I should stop,
but that if, on the other hand, I went he thought that order would be
maintained.

I bowed to him and said, “Père Pellico, you may if you please occupy the
throne of the Grimaldis.  I shall leave in an hour when the yacht
returns.”

I went on to the balcony and attempted to address the crowd.  If they
would have listened to a word I said I might have turned them, but not a
syllable could be heard.  I could not “address my remarks to the
reporters,” because owing to the wise precautions of my predecessor with
regard to the press there were none.  I retired amid a shower of small
stones.

Colonel Jacquemet’s language was fearful to listen to.  The air was thick
with his curses.  I was reminded of the question of a little girl friend
of mine, who having been taken out one day to an inspection by the
Commander-in-Chief of the garrison of Portsmouth upon Southsea common,
asked on her return home if “the Duke of Cambridge wasn’t a very pious
man,” explaining that she had heard him “say his prayers”—alluding
doubtless to His Royal Highness’s favourite expression of “God bless my
body and soul!”  If he had ever read history the colonel would have known
that the fire-eating d’Artagnan of “Three Musketeers” renown once
commanded the fortress of Monaco for Louis the Fourteenth, under my
ancestor the Marshal, and he might have been inspired by a desire to
emulate his fame, but, as it was, he seemed chiefly moved by a loathing
for his tattered fellow-subjects.  He wanted to mow them with grape—of
which we had none; he wanted to blow them into the air—but to reason with
him was useless, and I was unable even to fix his attention enough to bid
him farewell.

As I left the palace, surrounded by the tars and preceded and followed by
the sergeants of the ex-garde, Abbé Ramin came running up and seized me
by the hand.

“Your Serene Highness must not leave us,” he cried; “the people are
irritated for a moment against their prince, but happier days will come.”

“I can stop if I please, Abbé Ramin,” I replied, “but only either by
firing upon the people, or by blockading them and depriving the women and
children of the upper town of their daily bread.  I will do neither.”

“History will speak of your Highness as your Highness deserves!”

“My dear friend—for I believe you are my only friend in Monaco—I thank
you for coming to bid me farewell, but don’t talk of history, for history
will only declare me to have been an obstinate young fool.”

We moved off slowly down the hill amid the hisses of the crowd.  The
sergeants formed square upon the quay, I embraced Colonel Jacquemet and
the Abbé, stepped into the gig, and in a minute was on board.  Steam was
up, and the next evening I landed at Marseilles.

By a telegram from the Abbé I learnt that an informal vote of the adult
male inhabitants of the principality had been taken that day, and that
the result was this:—

                         For Annexation to France

                               1131—_Oui_.
                                 1—_Non_.

The _Non_ was M. Blanc, who, being a Frenchman, ought not to have been
allowed to vote at all.  I heard afterwards that on learning my departure
he had pronounced the following epitaph upon me:—

“Ah le jeune homme est parti.  Je m’y attendais.  Il aimait la liberté
celui là.”

The Casino is removed to Cairo, and M. Blanc’s eldest daughter is to
marry the Viceroy’s youngest son.

My tutor at Cambridge received me with a solemn face; but I laughingly
exclaimed, “You see, Sir, after all I did want an _exeat_, even if an
_absit_ would not have done.”

The only later news that I have to record is a letter from my friend
Gambetta, promising that when he becomes President of France I shall be
préfêt of the Department of the Alpes Maritimes, which includes my
ex-dominions, on condition that I am very moderate.

                                * * * * *

                                   END.

                                * * * * *

There is no moral that can be drawn from my fall applicable to the
present state of English politics.  This may be seen indeed from the
comments of the only three English papers of last Friday and Saturday
that noticed it.  The _Morning Advertiser_, which, Tory as it is, prefers
Radical-Orangeism to Tory-Popery (and beer to both), classed me along
with the Tichborne claimant as a victim to the Jesuits, whereas I wasn’t
a victim at all; and if I had been, should have been a victim to my own
obstinacy, as I certainly could have stopped at Monaco if I had pleased
to do so—either by raising a popular clamour against the priests, which
would have been immoral, or by accepting Père Pellico’s conditions, which
would have been humiliating.  The _National Reformer_, the organ of Mr.
Bradlaugh, patted me on the back as an ill-used republican; and the
_Standard_ said that my fall showed the absolute necessity of maintaining
the 25th clause of the Education Act intact, which is what I could not
for the life of me see.  On the contrary, so opposite are the conditions
of England and of Monaco, that what would have succeeded in one would
have failed in the other as a matter of course.  In England you have a
divided church; an increasing and active though still little numerous
Catholic body; a materialistic world of fashion which goes alternately to
Mr. Wilkinson and Canon Liddon, Mr. Haweis and Mr. Stopford Brooke, and
does not believe a word that any of them says—unless it is Mr. Haweis,
but then, doctrinally speaking, he says nothing.  You have the old
nonconformist bodies, able and powerful still, though less powerful than
before 1868; and you have the Wesleyans, pulpy but rich.  Outside of them
all you have people who believe two-thirds of them in the Bible pure and
simple, but with prominence given in their minds to the communistic side
of the New Testament, and one-third in nothing unless it is Mr. Charles
Watts, Mr. Austin Holyoake, and Mr. Bradlaugh.  The most flourishing
publications in your country are _Zadkiel’s Almanac_ and _Reynolds’
Newspaper_, belonging to the opposite poles, but equally at war with all
that is most powerful and rich and respectable in your society.  What
resemblance is there in this state of things, full of life but wholly
wanting in unity, to that at Monaco, dead, but single in faith?  At
Monaco all that believed—and most believed—were earnest Catholics,
wielded for political purposes by one man.  Had my parliamentary scheme
been carried out the cumulative vote would have been inoperative, and Mr.
Hare had he been there would have hanged himself from the castle
flag-staff, for there was no minority.  As in East Prussia the peasants,
suddenly presented with universal suffrage by Von Bismarck and asked for
whom they would vote, said with one accord, “For the King.”—“You
can’t”—“Then for the Crown Prince”—so at Monaco the population would have
replied “for Père Pellico.”

All the same there is a moral to be drawn from my fall, and it applies to
the French Republic.  I conjure my friends of the French radical party
not to let radicalism in France be bound up with indecent speeches made
over the graves at “civil funerals,” or with the denial of the
Immortality of the Soul.  In England, in spite of occasional attempts of
the _Standard_ to couple “atheists” and “republicans,” no such warning is
needed; but in France it comes almost too late.  No system of government
can be permanent which has for its opponents all the women in the
country, and for supporters only half the men; and any party will have
for opponents all the women which couples the religious question with the
political and the social, and raises the flag of materialism.  Women are
not likely to abandon the idea of a compensation in the next world for
the usage which too many of them meet with in this.

As for my failure at Monaco, I went too fast.  I agree with Mr. Freeman,
your English historian, that a sudden breach in the continuity of
national institutions is an evil, and that “the witness of history
teaches us that, in changing a long established form of executive
government, the more gently and warily the work is done the more likely
it is to be lasting.”  I could have stopped at Monaco by humbling myself,
but at all events I went too fast.  If they take me back, which I really
think for their own sakes they had better do, I will go much slower.  But
I have no time to write any more, for I have been put without training
into the first boat, and we are to stop up during the greater portion of
the Easter “vac.,” as we have a capital chance of “keeping head.”





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