Caqueray died in 1834, leaving several children quite unprovided for.  They were, however, adopted by their grandmother, d’Ache’s widow, who survived her daughters and son-in-law.  She was small and had never been pretty, but had very distinguished and imposing manners.  She is said to have made the following answer to a great judge who, at the time of her arrest, asked her where her husband was:  “You doubtless do not know, Monsieur, whom you are addressing.”  From that time they ceased questioning her.  She lived on till 1836.  She was never heard to complain, though she and her family had lived in great poverty and known constant anxiety.  She had lost her money, and her husband had died at the hand of a treacherous assassin.  All her children had gone before her, and in spite of all her misfortunes, and old though she was, she still strove to bring up her grandchildren “to love their lawful King,” for whose sake she had now nothing left to sacrifice.

Perhaps in the course of that tragic night when the defeated Napoleon found himself alone in deserted Fontainebleau, the great Emperor’s mind may have reverted jealously to those stubborn royalists whom neither their Princes’ apathy nor the certainty of never being rewarded could daunt.  At that very moment the generals whom he had loaded with titles and wealth were hastening to meet the Bourbons.  He had not one friend left among the hundred million people he had governed in the day of his power.  His mameluke had quitted him, his valet had fled.  And if he thought of Georges guillotined in the Place de la Greve, of Le Chevalier who fell at the wall at Grenelle, of d’Ache stabbed on the road, he must also have thought of the speech ascribed to Cromwell:  “Who would do the like for me?”

And perhaps of all his pangs this was the cruellest and most vengeful.  His cause must, in its turn, be sanctified by misfortune to gain its fanatics and its martyrs.