The equivocal wording of the medical report, aided by other suspicions, caused an idea to gain extensive currency that a dead child had been substituted for the royal infant; and that he had escaped from his jailers by a well-laid plan, carried out by his partisans.  This notion was so prevalent, that we find, amongst the records of the Convention, a decree dated June 14, 1795—­only six days after the date fixed as that of the young king’s death—­ordering him to be sought for along all the roads of the kingdom.  However, the better-informed part of the community were firmly convinced that Louis XVII. was dead and buried; and from that time till 1832, the belief was never effectually disturbed.  Taking advantage of the doubt, several impostors made their appearance, claiming to be the prince.  The first of these was one Hervagaut, who, when discovered to be a tailor’s son, was condemned in 1802 to four years’ imprisonment.  In 1818, Mathurin Bruneau, a shoemaker, tried the same trick; but failing, was sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment.  In short, no fewer than fifteen impostors have been enumerated; all of whom pretended to be the wretched young prince, returned from exile after escaping from the Temple.  The latest claimant is the subject of the present notice; and so startlingly do some of the circumstances of his career coincide with the short history of the son of Louis XVI., that many well-informed persons really believe he was the person he represented himself to be.

Between the termination of Charles-Louis’s imprisonment by death or otherwise, and the appearance of this individual on the scene, it may be necessary to remind the reader that several revolutions and counter-revolutions had swept over France.  Napoleon’s career had begun and ended; the allies had seated the Bourbons on the throne in the person of Louis XVIII., brother to Louis XVI., and uncle to his latest predecessor; Charles X. had succeeded, and was driven from the throne by the revolution of 1830, which seated Louis-Philippe on it in his stead.  All these events had taken place when the story of the so-called Duke of Normandy commences.

On an unusually hot evening for the season—­an early day in the May of 1832—­a man covered with dust, and who appeared to be borne down with fatigue, entered Paris through the Barrier d’Italie.  Still, he traversed the Boulevard de l’Hopital with a firm step, being a fine well-made man, apparently about forty-eight years old.  On arriving at the bridge of Austerlitz, he crossed to the toll-bar at the further extremity, and was accosted by the keeper, an invalid soldier, who demanded the toll.  Upon this he made a sign that he did not understand French; but, on the other pulling out a sous piece, to intimate the nature of his demand, the stranger shook his head, heaved a deep sigh, and, after some hesitation, drew forth a fine handkerchief, which he threw towards the toll-keeper, and hastened away in the direction of the Boulevard Bourbon, to Pere la Chaise.  He got within the gates just before they were closed for the night, and concealing himself amongst the tombs and bushes, escaped the notice of the watchmen.  It was thus that the stranger passed his first night in Paris.