A Princely Ploy Inside the Ruse of a French-Armenian Scammer
“Portrait of the Prince of Lusignan [Ambroise Calfa]”, ca. 1898
Hidden away in a villa on the outskirts of Paris lived a defrocked Armenian monk who fancied himself a prince. By the end of his life in 1906, this man had led many lives and was known by many names. Priest, teacher, translator, lexicographer, he ultimately made his living masquerading as the heir to a medieval throne in the Eastern Mediterranean. In this guise, he spent years swindling social climbers around the world, charging them handsomely for the honor of being knighted by his royal scepter.
We will call him Ambroise Calfa. But he would have much preferred His Royal Highness Guy de Lusignan, Prince of Cyprus, Jerusalem, and Armenia. He would have also answered to Nar-Bey, an earlier alias, and perhaps even to Artin, rumored to have been his name as a boy. Like the droves of other conmen who populated the nineteenth century, Calfa kept details about his early years vague. What we do know is that he was born into an Armenian family in the Ottoman capital of Istanbul in the early to mid-1830s.
During his childhood, Istanbul was in the midst of major social changes, and young Calfa reaped the fruits of many of them, including the expansion of access to education abroad. As a boy, he was sent to study in Venice, on the island of San Lazzaro, which had been home to an Armenian Catholic monastery since 1717. A former leper colony, the island had been transformed by an industrious congregation of monks into a hub for Armenian intellectual and educational life in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
Generations of Armenian boys from across Eurasia journeyed to Venice to study with these learned monks. Most returned home. But Calfa chose to stay and become a monk himself, pledging his life to the Armenian Catholic Mekhitarist Congregation. Monastic life in this congregation was far from cloistered, and young monks were often dispatched to Armenian communities across Europe and the Ottoman Empire to teach in the congregation’s schools for boys. Calfa’s path was no different. In the early 1850s, we find him teaching in Paris and feverishly publishing Armenian-language textbooks for his students to learn math, history, English, and French.
His days as a teacher and as a monk, however, did not last long. As the story goes, Calfa was booted from the school and from his congregation in 1855 for insubordination. Here is one of a handful of points in Calfa’s life story where we seem to catch a glimpse of a principled man working for the greater good. He was said to have been part of a trio of monks who were removed from their positions after protesting their abbot’s plan to limit school admission only to students from certain religious backgrounds. The trio reacted swiftly by establishing a rival school in Paris, the Collège National Arménien, and opening its doors wide to all Armenian boys who wished to attend.
They also began work on an illustrated, bilingual journal called La colombe du Massis (The Dove of Ararat), which had an educational mission at its core: to introduce Armenian-language readers to European ideas and to introduce French-language readers to the Armenian past and present in hopes of correcting the misinformation in circulation among both groups. A foot in both worlds, Calfa would exploit his liminality and the general European ignorance of things Armenian to fuel his ruse later in life.
The school and the journal moved to Crimea in 1860, but Calfa stayed put in Paris and started a radically new life. Within a few years, he found love — or at least money — with Marie-Louise-Joséphine Legoupil, the former lover of a baron who, upon his death, had left her his fortune and a handful of properties around Paris. As nearly all coverage of Calfa during his lifetime and beyond is quick to mention, Victor Hugo was one of his tenants. Gesturing to their acquaintance at nearly every turn added some much-sought-after allure to the couple, helping them expand their social circle and project an elite lifestyle that would ultimately serve their bottom line.
After his marriage in 1863, Calfa kept a low profile for more than a decade before reemerging with a bold claim: he was a long-lost prince of the royal House of Lusignan. The Lusignans were a medieval noble family with roots in what is today western France. During the Crusades, a few of its scions set out for Jerusalem and managed to attain a certain degree of power and prestige in the region, ruling at various points over Jerusalem, Cyprus, and an Armenian kingdom along the Mediterranean. Recalling this past, Calfa dubbed himself Prince Guy de Lusignan, claiming direct descent from the twelfth-century Crusader king of the same name.
As ridiculous as a sudden royal reveal may sound, there may have been honorable intentions behind it. In 1878, Calfa and his brothers purported to have received a letter from a relative in St. Petersburg who called himself Louis de Lusignan, the head of the Lusignan family of Cyprus, Jerusalem, and Armenia. In this letter, Louis de Lusignan recognized the Calfa brothers as legitimate members of the House of Lusignan, urging them to claim their titles and all the rights, privileges, and honors due to them.
The brothers did not waste any time. The arrival of this letter in May 1878 coincided with a period of political promise in the lives of Armenians in the Ottoman Empire. The Russo-Turkish War had ended in an Ottoman defeat a few months earlier, and political players were set to meet in Berlin the following month to discuss the new territories that would be formed in its aftermath. Armenians — a stateless minority within the Ottoman Empire — had high hopes that the Congress of Berlin would grant them a degree of political autonomy within the empire, and they sent their own delegation to the Congress to advocate for Armenian interests.
Calfa used his newfound nobility to do the same. Leaning into the Armenian side of the Lusignan past, Calfa transformed himself into a spokesman for the Armenian people, dashing off letters to European dignitaries as Guy de Lusignan, Royal Prince of Armenia. Calfa’s brother, Khoren, went even further. In his capacity as prince, he joined the Armenian delegation in Berlin and traveled to Russia to appear before the czar, perhaps believing that Armenians would fare better on the world’s stage if they had a royal representative to defend their interests. Knowingly or unknowingly, the Calfa brothers were following in the footsteps of Prince Léon of Armenia, an earlier Lusignan imposter who, purporting to be an Armenian prince, had appealed to European governments for help during a period of Ottoman repression of Armenians in the 1860s .Like Prince Léon, the Calfa brothers appear to have initially used their guise as princes for good, giving voice to an overlooked imperial minority by posing as figures who would command respect among aristocratically minded Europeans and be understood as inherently worthy of a seat at the table.
In the end, efforts to secure Armenian autonomy in the Ottoman Empire failed on all fronts. But this was just the beginning for Calfa’s new persona. While his royal ruse may have begun altruistically, it became increasingly self-serving in the 1880s, 1890s, and early 1900s, morphing primarily into a money-making scheme. Together, Calfa and his wife Marie enriched their coffers by reviving chivalric orders of the medieval House of Lusignan and preying on the vanity of social climbers in search of an air of aristocracy.
Boasting membership, or knighthood, in a chivalric order was all the rage in the nineteenth century. Tracing its origins to medieval Europe, knighthood was once limited to a cadre of noblemen who swore loyalty to a sovereign and pledged to work toward shared goals. Insignias would adorn the chests of knights, alluding to their noble pedigree, good deeds, or social standing. By the nineteenth century, knighthood was still only conferred by royalty and heads of state, but it had become exceedingly more widespread and honorific. It had also become ripe for scammers eager to profit off of men with delusions of grandeur. In this climate, self-styled chivalric orders headed by self-styled royalty sprouted up left and right; knighthood could be bought and sold; and insignias could be worn by anyone who was willing to pay for them.
Calfa and his wife cashed in on this epidemic of hubris by turning themselves into the Grand Master and Grand Mistress of two chivalric orders associated with the medieval House of Lusignan: the Order of Mélusine (over which they both presided) and the Order of Saint Catherine of Mount Sinai (founded by Calfa after his wife’s death). In these positions, they conferred knighthood on all those in search of status and prestige.
While Calfa may have taken on a new identity, he did not shed his earlier interest in Armenian intellectual life. All throughout his princely period, Calfa was at work on a massive French-Armenian, Armenian-French dictionary. Here, once again, we seem to catch sight of some altruism: at least a portion of the money Calfa earned through his scheme went toward employing young Armenians to work on his dictionary, young Armenians who were new to Paris and strapped for cash. One such Armenian, the future writer Yervant Odian, worked as one of Calfa’s proofreaders for over a year and inadvertently became an eyewitness to the parade of hopefuls who came knocking on the door of Villa de Lusignan looking for knighthood. Had it not been for Odian and the memoir he penned later in life, the inner workings of Calfa’s ruse would have remained a mystery.
Odian arrived on the scene in 1900 after the couple had been in business for nearly two decades. By that time, Marie had died, and Calfa was sole proprietor of their scheme. In the early days, the couple had been strategic and created an aura of exclusivity for their orders. Building their brand, they sent letter after letter to faraway dignitaries, informing them that Their Royal Highnesses Guy and Marie de Lusignan hereby bestowed upon them the honor of knighthood in the storied Order of Mélusine. As the French government was on the lookout for the machinations of self-styled royalty, the further from home these dignitaries lived the better. The couple conferred knighthood on the presidents of Liberia, Venezuela, Bolivia, Costa Rica, and Haiti; the kings of Spain and Portugal; a smattering of Roman Catholic cardinals; and many others. Duped by their ploy, some responded with heartfelt notes of gratitude for the honor. The founder of the American Red Cross Clara Barton even wrote about her knighthood in her memoir, printing among her life’s greatest achievements a certificate signed by Calfa.
While the Calfas certainly profited from the sale of the insignias their knights wore, there is a possibility that the revival of the Order of Mélusine was not entirely rooted in greed. It may have been used as yet another attempt to galvanize support around the world for Armenian autonomy in the Ottoman Empire. After their hopes were dashed at the Congress of Berlin, Ottoman Armenian leaders in the 1880s increasingly looked abroad for allies and political backing. Alongside a drive to raise the profile of the order, the unsolicited conferring of knighthood on faraway dignitaries may have also been a strategic means of generating sympathy and support for a people the dignitaries had likely known or cared little about. When joining the Order of Mélusine, all knights accepted the “obligation to protect from then on the miserable population of Armenia and, within their limits, cooperate in its moral regeneration and in the lessening of its material suffering.” Among the very criteria for knighthood we find a commitment to “soothing the miseries of the Armenian nation over which [our] glorious ancestors had reigned.” The likelihood that new knights took this duty to heart is slim, but the Calfa couple’s PR campaign did indeed get the word out about the Order of Mélusine and kindled an interest among connoisseurs of insignias in becoming knights themselves.
By the time Odian met Calfa in 1900, the couple’s early work had paid off, and the prince sat back as prospective knights arrived at his doorstep from near and far. For a year and a half, Odian observed Calfa’s charade, marveling at the hoops he required his marks to jump through for the privilege of pinning an insignia to their lapel and calling themselves knights.
In his memoir, Odian tells us the story of one hopeful from Argentina who arrived unannounced at the Villa de Lusignan, asking for an audience with the prince. Odian watched as Calfa’s driver assumed the role of butler, refused the man entry, and insisted that His Royal Highness would only entertain appointments arranged in advance by formal letter. The prince was a busy man, after all.
The Argentinian man’s letter arrived the following day. Lavishing praise on the prince, he explained his wish to make his acquaintance and angled to become a knight of the Order of Saint Catherine of Mount Sinai. Unlike the Order of Mélusine, Calfa’s decision to revive a second order in 1891 does not appear to have been rooted in spreading goodwill but rather in the hope of doubling his profits after his wife’s death. On paper, all knights were to have distinguished records in the arts, sciences, or letters and needed to vow to protect the Monastery of Saint Catherine on Mount Sinai in Egypt. In reality, the only thing prospective knights needed was money in hand and some patience.
When the Argentinian man arrived for his appointment, he was greeted by Marguerite, His Royal Highness’s personal secretary, and escorted to his parlor, where he found the elderly prince seated in an armchair. Bowing deeply, the man presented a series of recommendations from knights in Argentina. These were not sufficient. All prospective knights were required to submit a formal petition for knighthood, including biographical details and a summary of the good deeds that led them to believe they deserved the honor of entering the order. The man returned a few days later with a description of all his noble qualities: He was a devout Christian. He had protected orphans and widows. He had put his life at risk to save two children from a fire. He had once agreed to a duel to protect a girl’s honor. He had acted courageously during his military service, and so on and so forth.
The man was fortunate. The prince deemed him worthy. A few days after his visit, he received an official letter from the royal chancellery inviting him to the villa to finalize his knighthood. Communicating only through his private secretary, the prince stroked the ego of the new knight, emphasizing that knighthood in his order was much sought-after and rarely conferred. Pleased, the man got straight to the point. How could he become a knight of the first rank? Knighthood was available at various ranks, and their insignias varied in ostentation; the insignia of the first rank, as the Argentinian had likely seen on the lapels of other knights, was the glitziest of them all. Drawing out the process, the prince’s private secretary told him that he first needed to donate 2,000 francs to the Monastery of Saint Catherine: the Argentinian was now responsible for maintaining its more than 400 nuns. Shocked by the cost, the man began bargaining with the prince’s secretary, trying to secure the first rank at a discount.
Odian saw many of these negotiations with disgruntled new knights. The prince’s secretary would stand firm until the knight looked like he was about to walk. Then, she would promise to communicate his request to the prince to see if it could be accommodated. Invariably, the prince would consent to a small concession and accept to cover the difference himself, leaving the knights delighted by his munificence.
Next came the knighting ceremony, the date and time for which was conveyed once again by formal letter. When the Argentinian returned to the villa for the third time, he was asked to appear in a black suit. The ceremony took place in a large hall decorated with ribbons and the insignias of Calfa’s chivalric orders and others. His Royal Highness Prince Guy de Lusignan stood before the man while his secretary hovered beside him, introducing the prince with the utmost reverence and holding the official certificate of knighthood on a silver tray. The man knelt before the prince, who reminded him of his responsibilities as a knight and handed him his certificate. He kissed Calfa’s hand to seal the deal and, just like that, he was in.
The man may have become a knight of the Order of Saint Catherine of Mount Sinai but for all the world to see it he needed an insignia. The insignia, much to his dismay, did not come with knighthood; as he learned too late, knighthood only conferred the right to wear one — the insignia itself would be an extra 150 francs. Calfa was well aware that selling insignias was illegal in France and was careful to never accept money directly in exchange for them. While Odian was working at the villa, another fake prince, Léon Laforge, Prince de Vitanval, was arrested for peddling insignias, and an investigation was opened to look into his friend Calfa too. Spooked, Calfa halted naming any new knights for a few months. In the end, investigators found nothing incriminating, because Calfa always directed his knights to an address where they could show their certificates and buy physical proof of their recently acquired social status. Calfa would, of course, line his pockets with a cut of all sales.
In his front row seat to the smoke and mirrors of Calfa’s dealings, Odian came to see how Calfa was able to keep up royal appearances and trick people for so many years into believing he was a prince. First, he responded to his critics. He acted like a prince and expected to be treated like one. As soon as he began claiming he was a Lusignan, people, including other Lusignan pretenders, started publishing books and pamphlets aimed at poking holes in his story and unmasking him as a fraud. Committed to the role, he would periodically double down on his story and commission his own publications to reiterate his claims to the throne all while extolling his gentility, modesty, erudition, and good looks. These qualities were also central to the poems — epic, acrostic, and otherwise — that Calfa commissioned about himself.
To remain in the public eye, Calfa was also known to underwrite a French monarchist newspaper published in Bordeaux. As a condition of his support, the newspaper did Calfa’s bidding, printing, for example, that the British government should end their occupation of Cyprus and return the island posthaste to Prince Guy de Lusignan, its rightful ruler. Going head-to-head with political leaders and calling them thieves and usurpers seemed to be a go-to strategy. Calfa tried this trick again on Franz Joseph I of Austria, who had had the audacity to claim the title King of Jerusalem, which belonged to the last scion of the House of Lusignan, Prince Guy. Like his fellow royals, Calfa was also adept at playing the part of the magnanimous prince, reaching into his coffers for those who asked for help. Whether Armenian migrants down on their luck or students with unexpected fees to pay, Odian conceded that Calfa took the principle of noblesse oblige to heart and gave generously.
Finally, and perhaps most effectively, Calfa allowed people to interpret his story as they pleased and played into the coverage of Armenians in the European press. In the 1890s, newspapers were filled with sensational stories about a blood-thirsty ruler of the Ottoman Empire, Sultan Abdul Hamid II, who was persecuting his Christian subjects. Europeans were at least vaguely aware that Armenians were among them. As a result, many of the marquises, baronesses, and other acquaintances who came to visit Calfa in Paris believed not only that Calfa was a prince but that he himself had once reigned. They assumed he had been dethroned by the sultan and was now forced to live in exile in Paris like so many other dispossessed sovereigns. They did not know that Armenians had not had a reigning monarch since 1375, and Calfa did not step in to enlighten them. He relied on the association between Armenians and persecution in their minds and let them believe that the Red Sultan had stripped him of his right to rule. He also let people use his story for their own ends. He indulged those who — fueled by Orientalist tropes and anti-Muslim sentiment in Europe — saw in him a Christian prince oppressed by a Muslim sultan, welcoming their calls for new crusades that would reclaim the region for Christendom and restore him to his throne. His story, in other words, was bolstered by the gruesome news of real massacres in the Ottoman Empire and fit neatly into how Europeans expected Armenians to be treated. Ever the opportunist, Calfa used these expectations to garner the sympathy, support, and credibility he needed to prop up his princely claims for the long haul.
There is still a slew of unknowns in Calfa’s story. To what extent did he come to believe his own tales of royal grandeur? How much of his ruse was driven by self-importance and greed, and how much was part of a grand plan to bring attention to the plight of a downtrodden people on the world’s stage? Today, Calfa is remembered in Armenian circles for his French-Armenian dictionary rather than his trickery. But his ruse lives on among a new generation of self-styled Lusignans who maintain the Order of Saint Catherine of Mount Sinai and welcome applications from prospective knights. Calfa’s successors, however, have updated their methods. No longer do would-be knights need to make the trip to Villa de Lusignan in Paris. Knighthood is now just a few clicks away. Send your $60 membership fee (plus your $50 coat of arms fee) to the chancellery’s Hotmail address, and His Royal Highness Prince Louis de Lusignan, the Grand Master of the Order of Saint Catherine of Mount Sinai, will be in touch.
