d been, to a tolerably well-behaved
old man. But we must not therefore conclude that Charlotte was a better
woman, or a woman more desirous of doing her duty, than Louise d'Albany.
Between the two there was an abyss: Charlotte had been sent for by a man
weary of solitude, smarting under the frightful punishment brought upon
his pride by the flight of his wife; ready to do anything in order not
to be alone and despised by the world; a man broken by illness and age,
weak, hysterical, incapable almost of his former excesses; and Charlotte
was a woman of thirty, she was a daughter, she was free to go where she
would to marry, and her father could buy her presence only at the price
of submission to her tastes and to her desires. How different had it not
been with Louise of Stolberg: united to this man twelve years before, a
mere child of nineteen, given over to him as his wife, his chattel, his
property, to torment and lock up as he might torment and lock up his dog
or his horse; losing all influence over him with every day which made
her less of a novelty and diminished the chance of an heir; and sickened
and alarmed more and more by the obstinate jealousy and drunkenness and
brutality of a man still in the vigour of his odious passions. Still,
the fact remains that while Louise d'Albany was secretly or openly
making light of all social institutions, and living as the mistress,
almost the wife, of Alfieri; this insignificant Charlotte, this
bastard of a Miss Walkenshaw, this woman who had probably never had an
enthusiasm, or an ideal, or a thought, had succeeded in reclaiming
whatever there remained of human in the degraded Charles Edward; had
succeeded in doing the world the service of laying out at least with
decency and decorum this living corpse which had once contained the soul
of a hero, so that posterity might look upon it without too much
contempt and loathing, nay, almost, seeing it so quiet and seemingly
peaceful, with compassion and reverence.

And when, at the beginning of February 1788, the Countess of Albany, in
the full enjoyment of her love for Alfieri, and of the pleasures of the
most brilliant Parisian society, received the news that on the last day
of January Charles Edward had passed away peacefully in the arms of the
Duchess Charlotte; and that the drink-soiled broken body, from which she
must so often have recoiled in disgust and terror, had been laid out,
with the sad mock royalty of a gilt wooden scep