of the
irresistible De Lauzun, the gallant De Fersen, a fugitive from the love
of a queen, but destined to serve her as lackey in her need, the two
handsome Viosmenils, the baron Cromot du Bourg, the duc de Deux-Ponts,
or any of the brilliant cortege of a bygone day. But what memories the
mere enumeration of their names brings up! Rank and valor were the
heritage of all of them, an heroic but unhappy end the fate of most.
Who can say that the aroma of their presence does not still linger
round the old town, up and down the narrow streets where they passed
with gay jests and clanking sword, or in the quaint mansions, still
peeping out from behind century-old hedges, where they left the record
of their graces in the heart of their host and of their loves on his
window-pane? What can be pleasanter than for the American pen to linger
over the page of history that chronicles the generous sympathy which
brought this fine flower of France to our shores? Where is the heart,
even in our cynical nineteenth century, which holds enthusiasm an
anachronism, that does not thrill at the recollection of the chivalry
that quitted the luxury and revels of Versailles to dare the dangers of
an ocean-voyage (then no ten-day pleasure-trip) for a cause that still
hung in the balances of success? Viewed practically, the help offered
was even more deserving of praise. The French are not an adventurous
nation: they are not fond of travelling. Hugo says Paris is the world,
and to the average Frenchman it embodies the world it comprises: it
_is_ the world. Expatriated, he would rather dwell, like the poet, on a
barren island within sight of the shores of France than seek or find
new worlds to conquer. It must therefore be conceded that the sentiment
which brought us our allies in 1780 was a hearty one, nor had they
encouragement from the example of others; for, although La Fayette,
young and full of ardor, had fired the hearts of his compatriots, and
made it the fashion to help us even before the alliance in 1778, yet
the expedition of that year under the comte d'Estaing had been an utter
failure. There was, however, a strong incentive which brought the young
nobles of the time to us, and that was the one which the old
philosopher declared to be at the bottom of every case--a woman. In
this particular instance the prestige was heightened by the fact that
she was also a queen. Marie Antoinette was then at the zenith of her
beauty and power. The timid