Much more simple and easy was it to treat the pretender as a lunatic or as an adventurer, and to set his claims aside forever. Useless were all the letters which the Baron de Richemont, the name that Louis still bore, addressed to his uncle the king, to his sister the Duchess de Angouleme, imploring them for an interview. No answer was received. No audience was granted to this adventurer, whose claims could not be recognized without dethroning Louis XVIII., and destroying the prospects of the crown for the duchess's son, the Duke de Berri. Louis XVII. had died and he could not return to the living. He saw it, he knew it, and a deep sorrow took possession of him. But he rose above it--he would not die; he would live, a terror and an avenger to his cruel relatives.
But it was a restless life that the son of the queen must lead, in order to protect himself from the daggers of his powerful enemies.
The Prince de Conde conjured him to secure himself against the attacks which were made more than once upon the Baron de Richemont, and Louis gave heed to his requests and tears. He travelled abroad; but after returning in two years from a journey in Asia and Africa, on landing on the Italian coast, he was arrested in 1818, at the instigation of the Austrian ambassador at Mantua, and confined in the prison of Milan.
Seven years the unhappy prince spent in the Austrian prison, without once being summoned before a judge--seven years of solitude, of darkness, and of want. But the son of Marie Antoinette had learned in his youth to bear these things, and his prison-life in Milan was not so cruel as that in the Temple under Simon. Here there were at least sympathizing souls who pitied him; even the turnkeys of the prison were courteous and kind when they entered the cell of the "King of France;" and one day, beyond the wall of his apartment, was heard a voice singing, in gentle, melodious tones, a romanza which Louis had composed, and written on the wall when he occupied the neighboring cell.
This voice, which sounded like a greeting from the world, was that of Silvio Pellico. The celebrated author of "Le Mie Prigioni," relates in touching words this salutation of his neighbor:
"My bed was carried," he said, "into the new cell that was prepared for me, and as soon as the inspectors had left me alone, my first care was to examine the walls. There were to be seen there some words, recollections of the past, written with chalk, with pencil, or with a sharp tool. I found there also two pretty French lines, which I am sorry I did not copy. I began to sing them to my melody of 'The Poor Mugdalen,' when a voice near me responded with another air. When the singer ended, I called out, 'Bravo!' He replied with a polite salutation, and asked me if I was French.
"'No, I am Italian, and am called Silvio Pellico.'
"'The author of Francesca da Rimini?'
"'Yes, the same.'
"And now there followed a courtly compliment, with the usual regrets for my imprisonment. He asked in what part of Italy I was born, and when I told him in Saluzzo, in Piedmont, he awarded the Piedmontese some words of high praise, and spoko particularly of Bodoni (a celebrated printer, director of the national printing establishment at Parma). His compliments were brief and discriminating, and disclosed a finely cultivated mind.
"'And now, sir,' said I, 'allow me to ask you who you are.'
"'You were just singing a song that I wrote.'
"'These pretty verses here upon the wall, are they yours?'
"'Yes, they are.'
"'You are therefore--'
"'The Duke de Normandie.'
"The watchman was just then walking past my window and so I was still. After some time we resumed our conversation. When I asked whether he was Louis XVII., he responded in the affirmative, and began to declaim hotly against Louis XVIII. his uncle, the usurper of his rights.
"I implored him to give me his history in brief outlines. He did so, and related to me all the details connected with the life of Louis XVII., which I knew only in part. He told me how he had been imprisoned with Simon the cobbler, been compelled to sign a calumniating charge against his mother, etc. He then related to me the story of his escape and his flight to America, of his return to reclaim the throne of his fathers, and his arrest in Mantua.
"He portrayed his history with extraordinary life. All the incidents of the French Revolution were present before him; he spoke with natural eloquence, and wove in piquant anecdotes very apropos. His manner of expression smacked once in a while of the soldier, but there was no lack of the elegance that disclosed his intercourse with good society.
"'Will you allow me,' I asked him, 'to treat you as a friend and leave off all titles?'
"'I want exactly that, 'he answered. 'Misfortune has taught me the good lesson to despise all the vanities of earth. Believe me, my pride does not lie in this, that I am a king, but that I am a man.'
"After this we had long conversations mornings and evenings, and I recognized in him a noble, beautiful soul, sensitive to all that is good. He knew how to win hearts, and even the turnkeys were kind to him. One of them said to me on coming from the cell of my neighbor:
'I have strong hopes that he will make me chief porter when he is king; I have had the boldness to ask him for the position, and he has promised it.'
"To the veneration of the turnkeys for the king of the future I owe it that one day when I was led to trial, and had to pass by his cell, they opened the doors that I might see my illustrious friend.
He was of medium size, from forty to forty-five years of age, somewhat embonpoint, and had a thoroughly Bourbon physiognomy."
[Footnote: Silvio Pellico, "Le Mie Prigioni," p. 51 et seq. An examination of Silvio Pellico's work will convince the reader that Silvio Pellico was by no means a believer in the genuineness of his companion's claims. Miss Muhlbach seems to have been scarcely just in leaving the impression conveyed in the text.-TB.]