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Title: Journal of the Waterloo campaign, vol. 2 (of 2)
kept throughout the campaign of 1815
Author: Cavalié Mercer
Release date: April 16, 2025 [eBook #75873]
Language: English
Original publication: London: William Blackwood & sons, 1870
Credits: Brian Coe, John Campbell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOURNAL OF THE WATERLOO CAMPAIGN, VOL. 2 (OF 2) ***
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Footnote anchors are denoted by [number], and the footnotes have been
placed at the end of the book.
Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.
JOURNAL
OF THE
WATERLOO CAMPAIGN
JOURNAL
OF THE
WATERLOO CAMPAIGN
KEPT THROUGHOUT THE CAMPAIGN OF 1815
BY THE LATE
GENERAL CAVALIÉ MERCER
COMMANDING THE 9TH BRIGADE ROYAL ARTILLERY
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II.
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCLXX
_The Right of Translation is reserved_
CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
CHAPTER XV.
PAGE
Passage of the Army--The Road blocked up--Preparing to
Bivouac--The Nassauers--The White Flag--Reception at
Forêt--The Peasantry--Village of Montay--Ordered to
Return--A Night Alarm--A Halt--Visit to Cateau--Our
Allies Plundering--The German Bocks--Wretched Fare--Return
to Forêt--Female Costumes--Louis XVIII.--Again
on the Move--Difficulties of our March--Aspect of the
Country--Lose our Way--Our Destination at Last--Rejoin
the Main Army--Caulincourt’s Country House--Comfortable
Quarters--A Warm Welcome--Our Sleeping-Quarters--French
Cultivateurs--Their Characteristics--Our Dinner, 1
CHAPTER XVI.
Passage of the Somme--Indifference of the Natives--Our
Quarters--French Deserters--A French Chaussée--Mortemer and
its Miseries--Improved Aspect of the Country--First Traces
of the Prussians--Prussian Revenge--A Deputation--Valley
of the Oise--Its Scenery--Our March unopposed--Preparation
to Bivouac--Again in Advance--Beauty of the Scenery
at Verneuil--Our Bivouac--Plundering--Senlis--Feelings
of the Population--Prussian Lancers--Devastation by the
Prussians--Chenevière--Our Night-Quarters, 33
CHAPTER XVII.
The Cumberland Hussars--Warlike Rumours--Expectation and
Excitement--A Quiet Morning--Orders to Advance--We come on the
Enemy--Our Dilemma--In Sight of Montmartre--First Glimpse of
Paris--Prussian Devastations again--Comfortless Bivouac--Progress
of the Prussians--A Halt--Davoust’s Country Seat--Devastation
in it--Destruction of the Library--Churlishness of our
Allies--Rumours of Peace--St Denis--An Excursion--Aspect of the
Country--Revolting Destruction--The Destroyers at Work--Visitors
for Paris--Inconstancy of the People--Aspect of the Crowd--At
Arnouvilles--The Royal Cortège--Louis XVIII., 60
CHAPTER XVIII.
On the March--The Seine--Beauty of the Country--Passage of
the Seine--Colombes--Drawbacks--My Quarters--The Garden
and Grounds--View from my Window--My Chateau--Its
Furnishings--State of our Horses--An Excursion--The
Country round Paris--View of Paris--A Wet Day--My
Landlord--Country Pleasures--My Occupations--Our Fare--A
Fracas--Our Brunswickers Mutinous--Their Complaints--My
Answer to them--Harvesting--French Peasantry--The
Women--Food of the Peasantry--Inn Signs--A Lady of the Old
Régime--A Ride to Paris--The Seine and its Banks--First Visit
to Paris--Aspect of the Streets--Parisian Equipages--The
Champs Elysées--The Place Louis Quinze--The Austerlitz
Column--London and Paris--The Streets of Paris--The Boulevard
des Italiens, 94
CHAPTER XIX.
Our Major Domo--Inspection of Troops--Prospect of Change--Prussian
Bivouac--The Louvre--The Venus de Medici--The Laocoon and the
Apollo--The Paintings--The Tuileries--The Gardens--The Palais
Royal--Habitués of the Palais--Road to Malmaison--Malmaison--A
Panic--A Farmhouse--Versailles--Sevres and St Cloud--Hôtel Dieu
and Nôtre Dame--The Invalides--Models of Fortresses--A Sunday, 138
CHAPTER XX.
My New Quarters--Their Desolate Aspect--First Night in
them--Change of Abode--My New Residence--Ma’amselle Rose--A
She-Dragon--Our Fare--The Villagers--The Maire and
his Complaints--More Grievances--The Postmaster of St
Denis--Insolence of the Villagers--The Allied Sovereigns--A
Review--Difficulties--Order from Headquarters--A
Complaint--A Visitor--Rascalities--The French Police--Pertinacity
of my Persecutor--Church Reopened--Sunday in France--Review
of Prussians--A Scene--A Craven--Our Artillery--Positions
of Troops--Scenes of Battles--View from Montmartre--The Works
on Montmartre--Belleville and Vincennes--Aspect of
Country--Washerwomen--Village Gossip, 166
CHAPTER XXI.
Sisters of Charity--New Messroom--A House-warming--The Bond
Street of Paris--The Boulevards--Their Frequenters--Street-
Beggars--Street-Vendors--Street-Scenes--News-Rooms--Open-Air
Loungers--An Exquisite--A Parisian Restaurant--Waiters--Parisian
Cookery--Paris by Night--Torment of Flies--Amicable Relations--The
Peasantry--Again at Paris--A Russian Equipage--A Picturesque
Coachman--A Russian Boy--Russian Soldiers--The Austrians, 206
CHAPTER XXII.
My First Ride to Paris--The Aristocratic Quarters--Different
Quarters of the City--Differences in these--The Boulevards--The
Quays--The Squares of London and Paris--An Excursion--Again
in Paris--Numbering the Streets--The Jardin des Plantes--The
Menagerie--The Hothouses--Released from Arrest--An Unfortunate
Accident--A Comrade’s Quarters--Cabriolet-Drivers--The
Fountains--A Street-Lecturer--Itinerant Violinist--A Suicide--The
Change of Dynasty--The Luxembourg--The Chamber of Peers--The
Poultry and Flower Market--Marauding Neighbours--A
Capture--Bibliothèque Royale--Cabinet des Gravures--Shop-Signs
in Paris--The Palais Royal--Café Aux Milles Colonnes--A
Shoeblack’s Establishment--The Jardin du Prince--The Place
des Innocens--The Vegetable Markets--The Louvre once more--The
Statuary, 233
CHAPTER XXIII.
Admiral Rosily’s Villa--The Duke and the 5th Division--Views
in the Neighbourhood--Our Patron Saint--Village Amusements--The
Fauigny Affair--M. Fauigny and the Duke--Injustice
of the Duke--Indifference as to Dress--A General
Order--An Affray--Russian Review--The Allied Sovereigns--The
Russian Artillery--The Artillery Horses--Leave of Absence
at last--Regrets at Leaving--My Portmanteau--Departure--Our
Journey--We take the Wrong Road--At Amiens--The Hôtel
d’Angleterre--A Caravan Journey--A Cabriolet--A John Bull
Astray--Montreuil--An English Party--A Misadventure--England
once more, 273
CHAPTER XXIV.
Our Fellow-Passengers--From Dover to Calais--For Paris once
more--Montreuil again--Abbeville and its Cathedral--A
Bridal Party--Hotel at Breteuil--A Race--Arrival at
Clermont--The Stables at Chantilly--Our Old Quarters at
Stain--Attempts at Comfort--A Dreary Winter--Our
Occupations--Outbreaks of Fire--Preparations for
Departure--Preparations for a Start--Leave-Takings--Our
Quarters at Beaumont--Noailles and Beauvais--A Scene with our
Hostess--The Theatre at Beauvais--Major Dyas--A Cheerless
Day’s March--Grandvilliers--An Altercation with our Host--Quarters
at Poix--The Village and its Scenery--A Proposal--Comfortless
Quarters--Difficulties at Airaines--Our Amusements--The Town
Shepherd--A Court-Martial--At Boulogne--At Guines--Kindness
of Our Hosts--En Route for Calais--Our Stay there--Embarkation
and its Evils--Our Difficulties--Embark at last--England
once more, 304
JOURNAL
OF THE
WATERLOO CAMPAIGN.
CHAPTER XV.
_22d._--Morning fine, and things look more cheerful. March, according
to order, at four. Troop turned out of its wet bivouac; did not look
very brilliant; moreover, there had been no time for cleaning. The
village street such a perfect slough that even the riding-horses
struggled through with difficulty, and our carriages stuck fast
several times ere they could be brought to the hard ground beyond.
Immediately on emerging from the orchards, we entered on the same
cheerless uninteresting country as before: interminable fields of
corn, without enclosures, only broken here and there by small
patches of coppice or young timber. Through this sort of country
marched to Bavay; and here we formed up in the fields by the roadside
and dismounted, whilst an officer was sent to summon the garrison
of Maubeuge--the first word of an enemy since quitting Waterloo.
As the infantry continued moving on, we were somewhat at a loss to
conjecture what was to be done should the answer to our summons be
unfavourable. The whole army--cavalry, infantry, and artillery,
English and allies, all appeared to be marching along this one line
of road. We heard nothing of any columns moving parallel on our
flanks, and for about three hours that we halted here this incessant
passing afforded us some amusement. The crowd was endless, though
varied--regiments of infantry or cavalry following each other in
constant succession, intermingled with, and striving to pass, the as
endless file of waggons, baggage-carts, baggage-animals, led horses,
batteries of artillery, and convoys of stores. All struggled to get
ahead to choose a bivouac, or get the first-fruits of any village
or farm on or near the road, which was sure to be left quite bare
the moment the first corps passed--I mean bare of provisions; for
I believe our people did not otherwise plunder. It might truly be
said that a torrent of men and animals rolled along the road. Even
when we resumed our march there was no cessation, no diminution of
the crowd. The numbers of servants, sutlers, stragglers, and women
were incredible, and added not a little to the general confusion. As
far back, too, as I could see, the same swarm covered the road--the
troops seemed to form the smallest part of the crowd. What the
answer was to our summons we have not yet heard, but suppose all
went on smoothly; for, after a wait of three or four hours, we
again got under way, and made an attempt to penetrate the throng,
but in vain--we got jammed and stuck fast. Lord Edward, seeing our
case hopeless, abandoned us as soon as he could get his dragoons
disengaged from the crowd, and took across the fields, leaving me
directions to make the best of my way to Cateau Cambresis, and
bivouac there if I did not find him and the brigade. In this state
we were obliged to give up all thoughts of pushing on, and rest
contented to swim with the stream. This swept us in due time into
one end of Bavay (pleasingly situated on a rising ground) and out
at the other, leaving just time to see that the place had a clean
and cheerful appearance, and that the street we passed through was
well built and had many genteel-looking houses in it. Quitting the
town by a steepish hill, we entered the forest of Mormal; and the
road was bordered on both sides by a thick coppice of hazel, young
ash, &c., over which the larger timber-trees reared their heads.
Many corps of infantry had drawn off the road, and were busy cutting
down the coppice to prepare their bivouacs by constructing huts of
leaves and branches. Fires were made, and cooking already going on.
Officers, divested of swords and sashes, were strolling amongst
the thickets, or listlessly lolling under their leafy bowers. All
this would have been very pretty, but that a heavy shower, which
fell as we struggled through Bavay, had left everything dripping,
consequently deteriorated the scene much. Still the grouping of the
figures round the fires, or interspersed among the thickets, was very
good. Emerging from the woods, we again entered on the ocean of corn;
but here the features of the ground were bolder, and the view more
extensive, though not less cheerless.
At some distance ahead, in a deep valley, of which the heights all
descended by fine bold slopes, stood the little town of Cateau
amidst flat alluvial meadows, the lively verdure of which, and
that of a few trees, contrasted strikingly with the golden hue of
all the country around it. The road along the plateau on which
we now travelled was hard and excellent, so that, by watching
our opportunity and pushing in whenever an opening in the crowd
permitted, we managed, with some considerable wrangling, to get
ahead. This was rather a dangerous operation, for the Belgic, and
particularly the Nassau troops, were so savage, and so constantly
threatening us with their bayonets, that I feared every minute we
should come to blows. In this manner we had struggled on to the crest
of the hill descending toward Cateau, where, to lessen the descent,
it had been cut down, consequently was confined between high banks.
Now, as the devil would have it, we got into this gully at the same
time with a battalion of Nassau, and as both parties pressed on to
head the other, some jostling ensued. Our wheels were too formidable
to be resisted when in motion; but at last we got completely
entangled, and then they turned upon us, striking our horses, and
even pricking them with their bayonets. Our men, of course, resented
this, and a serious affray was likely to take place; but at last,
assisted by their officers, we disengaged ourselves without any
one being materially hurt, although many had bruises, scratches,
and slight bayonet-stabs. In this affair one fellow was very
deliberately going to give me a _coup de bayonette_ in the side, but
old Quartermaster Hall knocked up the point with his sabre, and could
scarcely be prevented from splitting his skull. The English, with
whom we also occasionally crossed and jostled, contented themselves
with abusing us. For some days after, we were constantly falling in
with these very people, and our so doing resembling the approach of
two angry dogs. I was constantly alarmed lest some serious affray
should take place. But they have led me ahead of my march. Somewhat
more than a mile before we came to the descent above mentioned, we
passed through Forêt, a pretty large village, surrounded as usual
by orchards, with a few small woods scattered about the vicinity,
which diversified agreeably the otherwise monotonous scenery. On
approaching this village, a dirty sheet or table-cloth, attached to a
pole, and projected from a window of the church-tower, attracted our
attention. It was the first time we had seen the immaculate _pavillon
blanc_ since entering the French territory; and one could not but
admire the wisdom and foresight which had established as a national
standard what could be readily furnished at any moment by every,
even the most humble, _ménage_. A tall, thin, venerable-looking
old man in the clerical habit stood by the roadside amidst several
peasants, male and female. His countenance was radiant with joy,
and he appeared quite elated in contemplating the column as it
passed along. Pinch after pinch he took from a little tortoise-shell
snuff-box in his left hand, whilst with earnestness he pointed out
to, or seemed describing, something in our column. As I came up,
followed by my trumpeter, the old man, uncovering his white head,
made me a profound obeisance. This opened the interview, and I was
soon master of his history. He had been driven from his _curé_ by
the Revolution; returned on the abdication of Napoleon last year;
but the return from Elba had again nearly caused a second flight. He
had, however, ventured to remain, upon the affectionate assurances
of his parishioners, and after suffering during the Hundred Days
most horrid anxiety and even indignities, had at last been restored
to security and tranquillity by the battle of Waterloo. He was now
come out not only to witness the passage of the brave English, to
whom his country and himself stood so much indebted, but also to meet
and do homage to his beloved monarch, who he understood would pass
through Forêt on his way to his capital. Nothing could exceed the
good man’s joy; his spirits quite ran away with him, and his tongue
ran nineteen to the dozen. At parting we cordially shook hands, and
he tendered me the little tortoise-shell box with the most amiable
_bonhommie_. How the rustics gazed! They seem a very ignorant, simple
people, the peasantry of this country. Hitherto, since passing the
frontier, we have found them everywhere pursuing their rural labours
with as much tranquillity as in the most profound state of peace:
quite undisturbed by, and exhibiting very little curiosity about, the
continued passage of foreign troops along their roads and through
their villages. The village of Forêt presented a cheerful rustic
aspect--such as a village should. Thatched barns and farmhouse in
the usual style of such buildings in England, standing detached and
retired from the broad street, if so it might be termed, embosomed
in apple or cherry orchards;--quite unlike what one so often meets
with in other parts of France, where the villages, of stone houses
three or four storeys high, with large windows, &c., appear more like
pieces of towns cut out and popped down here than what is consonant
to our ideas of villages.
From the place where our scuffle with the Nassau men took place we
descended into the valley by a long winding hill, at the bottom of
which the little village of Montay lay like an oasis in the desert;
verdant meadows overshadowed by numerous pine-trees, a pretty rivulet
winding along amongst them, here passed by a narrow stone bridge;
the place itself consisting of one large farm, several cottages, and
a small church;--altogether offering a refreshing variety in this
ocean of corn. The heights rising abruptly above it on either side
make this a sort of pass, which, had the retiring French thought fit
to defend, would have cost us some trouble and many lives, no doubt.
As it was, although we understood their outposts were not far, not a
man was in sight; and we were allowed to pass as quietly as our own
internal dissensions would allow, for the narrowness of the bridge
produced here a fearful struggle. The road along which the army was
marching, passing through Montay, immediately ascended the opposite
heights. A road branching from this led to Cateau along the foot of
these heights and through the meadows about a mile or rather more
higher up the stream. We took this road, and thus, for the first
time since leaving Nivelles, enjoyed the indescribable pleasure of
having the road to ourselves. From the heights on this side of Forêt,
whence the view was very extensive, I could distinguish nothing of
the brigade; and now, finding ourselves quite alone, and seeing no
symptoms of troops about Cateau, I began to be rather uneasy. In
this dilemma I was about to establish my bivouac on a piece of turf
just without the town--for the evening was fast closing in--when our
lieutenant-major-general of cavalry, Lord Greenock, rode hastily up,
and demanded why we were here. “My orders were to march to Cateau, my
lord, and bivouac, with which I am complying. I expect Lord Edward
will join us here;” and I gave him an account of their taking to the
fields, &c. “There is some mistake in this,” replied Lord Greenock.
“Your brigade has halted at Forêt, and you must return thither, for
you are now in a very dangerous position, and at all events ought not
to have crossed the river. The enemy’s outposts are on the heights;
and should they attempt anything during the night, which is probable,
you could never recross the bridge. Return, therefore, without
delay.” This was comfortable, to have to grope our way to Forêt, and
when there pick out a bivouac; and the alternative that of remaining
and being caught in this _coupe gorge_. The idea was not a pleasant
one. Disobeying orders, too! We countermarched, however; but on
reaching Montay the stream of people and carriages sweeping over
the narrow bridge made it evidently useless attempting to move in a
contrary direction. I gave up the idea, and established my bivouac in
the little churchyard close to the bridge. I felt less compunction
at doing this, because several regiments of Hanoverian infantry had
extended themselves in bivouac along the meadows, both up and down
the stream, on the same side; and, moreover, I had learned from Lord
Greenock that two or three troops of horse-artillery and a large
corps of hussars were occupying the plateau in front, between us and
the enemy. Under the impression of security, therefore, I laid myself
down after our evening meal was finished, expecting a good sleep; but
my eyes were scarcely closed ere the never-to-be-mistaken sound of
a distant cannonade caused me to start up again. Everything around
was perfectly still; the Hanoverians seemed to be all asleep; and no
stir or bustle of any kind in our immediate neighbourhood indicated
an alarm. The cannonade, too, though sometimes more distinctly heard
than at others, did not, on the whole, seem to approach. After
listening for a time, sleep got the better of me, and I sank down in
spite of the distant cannonade and the more immediate concert of
thousands of frogs in the adjoining ditch.
_23d._--A fine day. Uneasy at hearing nothing of the brigade being
in motion. The cannonade during the night proceeded from Sir Charles
Colville and the 4th division attacking Cambray.
About noon Sir Augustus Frazer, with Sir Julius Hartman of the K. G.
Legion horse-artillery, paid us a visit. From them I learned that
headquarters are established in Cateau, and that the Duke intends
halting in our present position for a day or two to give time for
the rear of the army to close up, since, from the rapidity of our
march, and from the whole marching in a single column, many corps
are still a long way in the rear. At the same time, Cambray on our
right and Landrecy on our left are to be secured before we advance
further. Moreover, we are likely, it seems, to have another battle
immediately, for the French army has rallied in considerable force,
and is in position not far in front of us. Upon this intelligence
I decided on remaining at Montay until the brigade should come up;
therefore, leaving my second captain to inspect ammunition, and
forward cleaning, repairing, shoeing, &c., I set off with our two
visitors on their return to Cateau. This place, which is very small,
is situated in a rich alluvial bottom amongst fine, well-irrigated
meadows. The only trees, however, in this bottom are at Montay.
The town is surrounded by a simple wall, perhaps only for excise
purposes; and I was at a loss to conjecture the use of a single
battery of two or three pieces near the gate leading to Montay. On
entering this gate I was struck by the dismal aspect of the street
within--narrow, dirty, and composed of mean-looking houses built
of sombre-coloured stone, and scarcely a human being visible; for
although headquarters were here, none of the members of it were to
be seen in the streets. Priests in their black cassocks and band
strode solemnly along from time to time. The house in which the Duke
lodged was the only decent-looking one in the place. It stood at the
extremity of the street, crossing at right angles the one we entered
by--large, and pierced with numerous windows, apparently new, and
having the advantage of a row of three or four fine trees in front.
Some pretensions there were, too, to architectural decorations in
the façade, which was of stucco, painted buff. Cateau was soon
seen, and I returned to Montay, where I found the poor farmer (the
farm adjoined the church) in great distress. The Hanoverians were
plundering barns, farmyard, and all. “Ah, monsieur, tout sera
abimé!” cried the poor fellow, wringing his hands, and presenting
the very picture of despair. Yesterday evening he complained to
me, and I did what I could to prevent it, but without much effect.
The bivouac of these marauders in the adjoining meadows was only
separated from his garden by a sort of willow hedge; and although I
planted sentries for the protection of it, everything disappeared.
This morning, becoming bolder, they have plundered his barns, &c.,
and even threatened the house itself. As we draw our own supplies of
eggs, milk, &c., from the farm, I did what I could to save him from
further plunder, and sent Breton to remonstrate with their commanding
officer, and give him to understand that, unless he kept his men
under better discipline, I would report him to the Duke. Got nothing
by this, for he persisted in not understanding English. Thus we have
been obliged to be constantly on the alert, and to keep them out by
main force. The poor farmer is very grateful, and loud in praise of
_les bons Anglais_, whilst he _sacrés_, &c., their allies down to
the bottomless pit--“aux enfers.” He admits the truth of what I said
about retaliation, and turned up his eyes in horror at the account
I gave him of the ravages committed by French troops in other
countries. “Mais, monsieur, je le crois bien, les soldats Français
sont de vrais brigands; ils pillent partout même dans la patrie; oui,
monsieur, ici même;” and he related how a detachment of cuirassiers
had quartered on him for three days, having only departed the morning
of that in which we arrived. They had treated him cruelly; and not
content with living on him all that time, were on the point of
destroying everything that was left and burning the premises, when
the unexpected appearance of some of our advanced corps obliged them
to make a precipitate retreat. In the evening, a general parade of
the Germans. They have formed a sort of diminutive tents for the
night by striking two ramrods into the ground, crossed, to form each
end; I forget how they form the ridge. A blanket is laid over, and
the other two serve to lie under and over the three men the tent
just holds. The different bands, all good, continued playing until
after dusk, which we enjoyed sitting in the willow hedge smoking our
cigars. The scene was remarkably pretty. Groups of men scattered
about amongst the little tents, some preparing supper, &c.; the
bands, with officers in picturesque costumes hovering about them; the
town of Cateau in the background; and on either hand the picture
shut in by bold naked slopes of the neighbouring heights.
_24th._--Fine warm morning, but day promises to be rather too hot.
Not a gun to be heard to-day by the sharpest ear; the business at
Cambray must be settled somehow or other. Getting accustomed to our
churchyard. To be sure, none of the graves are recent; it seems long
since any one has been buried here. Hitchins and I have decided on
breakfasting together; and as he is more at leisure than I am, he has
undertaken the foraging department. This morning our repast consisted
of bread (sour as vinegar), cheesy butter, and hard eggs, washed down
with weak grog (Hollands)--table a grave. Ever since we passed Mons
good bread is not to be had--all is of this horrid sour description.
To the eye it is well enough. The peasantry make their bread in large
flat loaves, 2 or 2½ feet in diameter--no mistake!--nearly circular.
Sometimes the loaves are annular, and of the above diameter. Enter
Lieutenant and Adjutant Bell, R.H.A., and I can write no more, for he
no doubt brings news.
9 P.M.--Here we are, then, back again in Forêt. Bell brought us the
order to return forthwith, as the brigade was to march without delay
on Landrecy, the commandant of which place refuses to surrender.
We lost no time in obeying the order, and the road being now quite
clear--indeed solitary--marched here in a very short time; and
instead of finding the brigade ready to move, were surprised on
reaching the village at seeing the Life Guardsmen quietly grooming
their horses in front of the barns and stables of their billets.
The place being already full, we were directed to bivouac, and
accordingly I pitched upon this orchard, which is high and dry;
but the trees are too young and too far apart to afford us much
shade, which we want just now. The arrival of strangers attracted a
concourse of villagers to our bivouac, many old women and young girls
bringing quantities of very fine cherries for sale. The former were
remarkably coarse and ugly, the latter generally pretty, and all
had sparkling, speaking eyes. These, of course, sold their cherries
first; but the article was too grateful in such a roasting day as
this has been not to insure the sale of all. The costume of these
women--who, by the way, seemed quite at home with us--was rather
picturesque. Lofty white caps, with long flaps hanging down to the
shoulders, their naked stays sometimes not very closely laced, bosom
covered with a coloured handkerchief put on with a degree of taste,
coarse woollen petticoats of a blue stuff striped with white or pink
and reaching only to the calf of the leg, coarse woollen stockings,
and clumsy wooden shoes (_sabots_). Most of them wore large gold or
silver rings in their ears, and many a little golden cross suspended
from the neck by a black riband or a strip of black velvet. The Duke
has published a manifesto from Cateau. Several copies are stuck up
in the village, and the people here seem very much pleased with it;
and well they may, for it assures them they shall be treated like
gentlemen, and not get the punishment which France, as a nation,
so richly deserves. It calls upon the people to remain quietly at
home, as we make no war on them, but ought rather to be considered
as their allies; further, it goes on to assure them that the
strictest discipline will be maintained in the Allied army, and that
everything required by the troops must be paid for at its full value.
The Forêtiens, and particularly the Forêtiennes, actually express
astonishment at our generosity.
Louis XVIII., &c., passed through the village this evening on his
way to Cateau. Leathes and I rode a little way out to meet him,
which we did about a quarter of a mile off. The cortège consisted
of several Berlines, escorted by about two squadrons of the Royal
Garde de Corps--fine young men (all gentlemen), dressed in a
very becoming uniform, blue turned up with red, and silver lace
tastefully disposed, with Grecian helmets, silver, with a golden
sun on the front, the most elegant I ever saw. The king was in the
last carriage, on each side of which rode the Duc de Berri and that
General whose acquaintance I made on the drill-ground near Alost.
We had drawn up on the roadside as the cortège passed. The moment
the Duc de Berri and the General saw us, they came up, and, offering
us their hands, poured forth such a torrent of compliments and
congratulations as made even our horses blush. His Royal Highness
could never sufficiently testify his gratitude to the English nation,
&c. &c.; was impatient to see us in Paris, for then and there indeed,
&c. &c. The General was equally profuse in compliments and promises,
so that, forgetting the adage, “Put not your trust in princes,”
Leathes and I have ever since been feeling the Croix de St Louis
dangling at our breasts--_nous verrons_! The monarch was detained
from his dinner more than half an hour by my worthy friend Mons. le
Curé, who, in full pontificals, and followed by his congregation
_en habits de Dimanches_, met him at the entrance of the village,
and, standing on a little bank at the coach-door, delivered a long
harangue, set off by Mandarine-like bobs of the head at the end of
every period, and a most profound bow at the conclusion, all which
were received and returned by his Majesty with exemplary patience and
punctuality. At length the cortège moved on, and we returned to our
orchard.
_25th._--Here we are, another day’s march in advance, not only
without the expected battle, but also without having either seen or
heard of an enemy. Nor have we seen any traces of one, having found
the peasantry everywhere as peaceably occupied as if no war existed.
Nothing more have we heard of Landrecy, which, I suppose, must have
surrendered, since Lord Edward sent us orders this morning to march
on Sequehart, where the brigade halts to-night. Accordingly I marched
immediately towards Montay in a thick drizzling rain, which made this
dismal country appear ten times more dismal. The cavalry regiments
marched at the same time (about five A.M.?) and we kept company as
far as Montay; but there they left us, for we found the road again
so choked with baggage, &c., that although we succeeded in passing
the bridge, yet the deep hollow road (_encaissé_ between very high
steep banks), ascending to the opposite heights, was so inextricably
crammed with carriages, and the unctuous soil so slippery, that I
feared we should bivouac in the churchyard again. We attempted the
ascent, and being better horsed than the others, succeeded in getting
ahead wherever an opening offered. Our column was broken into as many
fractional parts as we had carriages. At length, after a most arduous
struggle, we mustered our whole force on the plateau, and pushed
forward in the old way--sometimes getting along pretty smoothly by
keeping one side of the road; then a choke would stop us for a time,
until, an opportunity offering, the head of our column would make a
dash and break the file of waggons; but occasionally in doing this,
if the rear carriages did not keep close up, the waggoners would
dash in their turn, and cut them off. Then again we got foul of our
Nassau friends, and the old quarrel was revived; cursing, swearing,
and bayoneting followed as matter of course. The road itself was
execrable, and in places a complete slough. It appears that our
march has been so conducted as to avoid the main avenues, and thus
turn the fortresses; consequently, with the exception of some little
bits of chaussée, we have been travelling on the cross-roads--in
France always execrable. On gaining the plateau we saw everywhere
around us again those interminable fields of wheat--not a hedge
nor a dividing wall; the only relief a few small woods here and
there. A hamlet we occasionally met with, and sometimes a solitary
cabaret of the meanest appearance--“Ici on loge à pied et à cheval,”
scrawled on a board in black letters, on a dirty-white ground,
invited the traveller to enter. Sometimes a longer inscription set
forth other inducements. I pity the luckless wight who trusts to
their hospitality. A remarkable feature in the cheerless scenery of
these oceans of corn is the row of apple-trees so frequently seen
skirting the horizon. The by-roads here are frequently bordered by
apple or pear trees, which accounts for this. As we advanced on
the plateau, and still found no concentration of troops, or other
indication of the neighbourhood of the enemy, our expectation of
another battle vanished. Insensibly we had deviated from the general
route, and found ourselves only accompanied by Major Bull’s troop
of horse-artillery. Bull had got the same discretionary orders from
his general as myself, and was also making his way to Sequehart,
where his brigade was to halt. The country had become prettier and
more interesting, and the rain had ceased. Woods were more frequent
and larger, and at last we marched through what might strictly be
termed a wooded country. The ground, too, became more undulating,
and pastures of green meadows occurred to relieve most agreeably the
tiresome sameness of the corn crops. Occasionally, also, openings
between the woods would give us glimpses of distant and pretty
country. But where dwell the husbandmen who cultivate those lands? In
this district we saw not a single habitation, and only here and there
met a solitary peasant--not working, but in the road--moving from
one place to another. Of these we incessantly demanded “Où se trouve
Sequehart?” and the response was invariably “_N’sais paw, Monsire_,”
or a shake of the head. Bull and I began to be uneasy as the evening
drew on, whilst we were surrounded by woods, and not the slightest
appearance of a village to be seen. Our own people were now the only
troops visible, and we began to suspect what proved to be true--we
had lost ourselves!
We were so enclosed by woods that it was impossible to see to any
distance; and cross-roads branching off right and left became very
frequent, so that we were puzzled how to proceed. Every peasant we
met persisted in knowing nothing of Sequehart, nor had met any other
troops. We were evidently astray. At last an old man, to whom the
usual questions were put, after puzzling over it for a few minutes,
begged we would repeat the name. “Sequehart!--Sequehart!” said he,
two or three times. “_Monsire, n’le connois paw_; mais, ma foi, ce
sera sans doute Escars que vous cherchez.” We stared in our turn,
but the old man was positive, and insisted that we were leaving it
behind us. After some little irresolution, Bull and I made up our
minds to follow his directions; and accordingly, after a few miles
threading our way between woods, arrived here a little before sunset.
The village is already full of Life Guards, and therefore we are
obliged to bivouac again; but that is of little moment, for we have
an excellent spot on a rising ground, covered with short velvety
turf, close to the chaussée leading to St Quentin, on the other side
of which, about two or three hundred yards distant, is the village of
Sequehart, or Escars, so buried in the foliage of fine walnut-trees,
and of the hedges enclosing the gardens and some fields, that
scarcely a roof is to be seen; and it is only through the ascending
columns of blue smoke from amongst the trees that the site of the
village is to be detected. From the swelling hills up which the St
Quentin road runs in front of us, the short clean turf, and the chalk
(or gypsum) that appears in patches where this has been removed, we
might fancy ourselves on the South Downs, in Sussex. It is a sweet
rural spot, and, what is better, we see few signs of war about us;
for except Walcott’s troop (rocket), which has just come up, no other
soldiers whatever are to be seen. Bull left us at the other side of
the village, and our cavalry are, like it, buried in the foliage
and invisible to us. We understand headquarters are at Joncour, a
village not far off, and that Lord Hill’s division is at Belleglise,
somewhere in front, so that we may sleep securely to-night. Lovely
evening.
_26th._--Fine morning. Marched early, and, crossing the downs,
traversed beyond them a pretty well-wooded country, diversified very
agreeably by several large sheets of water, formed by embankments,
and regained the route of our army, which we had deviated from
yesterday at Belleglise, just as the bustle commenced. Plunged once
more into the torrent, with all its _désagrémens_ and vexations,
and swam along with it as before. The wooded country gave place
to the dismal sea of corn a little beyond Belleglise; but after
travelling about four or five miles through this tiresome region, we
once more came amongst trees, and crossed a deep ravine, or rather
wooded valley, in which was situated a most respectable-looking
country-house, brick, with stone angles, window-cases, &c., standing
upon a terrace, with an old-fashioned garden divided into rectangular
beds, with stone vases, &c., sheltered in the rear by the woods,
and to the south looking upon a fine sheet of water--artificial,
no doubt--most probably formed by damming up the stream which we
crossed in the bottom. The country people told us this place belongs
to Caulaincourt, Duc de Vicenza, which is no doubt the truth, since
in my map I find it called Caulaincourt. The hanging woods and shady
winding paths of this ravine appeared to us heavenly when contrasted
with the dreary exposed plain above; and this, if possible, was more
hideous than ever when we again debouched upon it--a dead flat,
unrelieved by the slightest undulation--a sea of wheat extending to
the horizon, with here and there a few clumps of beggarly pines,
and the usual straggling lines of apple-trees fringing the horizon.
I forget where, but it must have been just before crossing the
valley at Caulaincourt that we left the direct route, together with
Bull’s and Whinyate’s troops, as we were directed to halt for the
night at Etreillers. After marching two or three miles more over
this uninteresting plain, on passing one of these circular pine
clumps we suddenly came in sight of fine trees bounding the horizon,
intermixed with buildings, which, on approaching it, proved to be
Etreillers. The village is a very large one, composed principally of
large farms, with a few dwellings of an inferior description, all,
however, standing back in gardens, or in their large straw-yards,
which are separated from the broad avenues constituting the village
street by high walls, with a great gateway of entrance, and generally
surrounded on three sides by orchards. Such quarters are quite a
luxury; for although we are three troops in the village, yet all
get under cover, man and horse, in houses, barns, stables, &c.
The appearance of the place is not gay, and may truly be said to
harmonise in tone with the dreary but fruitful plain around. The
buildings are generally of a dark stone, with enormous thatched
roofs, which, if not lively, has at least an air of substantial
comfort that makes ample amends for everything else.
I have established myself in a most comfortable farmhouse of the
first class, and, to complete my good fortune, have an exceedingly
pretty and most obliging hostess. Instead of the black looks an
intruder like myself might have expected, I was received with smiles,
and a welcome which sounded sincere. I was shown into their best
room (the one which I now write in), my horses into the best stable,
and everything done to make me most comfortable. My fair friend has
let out one reason for all this, although I still believe genuine
hospitality has a great share in it--she is delighted at having
English instead of Prussians quartered on her; all the country are
in dread of the latter. As may be supposed, we were soon quite at
home--I say we, for my second captain (Newland) was with me. In the
stable, men and boys have been at work helping our men to clean their
horses, whilst in the house the women busied themselves in arranging
our room, cooking dinner, and even asking for our dirty linen, which
they are in the act of washing for us, so that to-day I can afford a
clean shirt and still start to-morrow with a clean kit. The room we
occupy is large and rather dark, for there are only two small windows
looking out to the farmyard, and these rather obscured with the white
draperies with which they are ornamented. The furniture is coarse and
clumsy, made of walnut, and is as black as ebony. One side of the
room is occupied by two sleeping-places, let into the wall, exactly
like the berths on shipboard. The bedding in these, though coarse
also, is very good, and, like everything else, scrupulously clean;
the sheets have just been put in. Our servants have comfortable beds
allotted to them, and have become as much at home in the kitchen
as if they were old acquaintances. Whilst dinner was preparing, I
sallied forth to see how my people were put up, and had scarcely
left the yard when I encountered an old peasant wearing an enormous
cocked-hat, and having a drum suspended from his neck by a broad
band, on which he occasionally gave a sort of roll or flourish. His
grotesque figure, as well as his employment, attracted my attention,
and I was somewhat mystified on observing that every flourish on
the drum was responded to by an opening of doors and the sallying
out of old ladies, each bearing under her arm one of those enormous
loaves already mentioned. What can all this mean, thought I? Is it
possible that in this most military of all nations even women are
subject to regulations, and obliged to conduct the _ménage_ by tap
of drum or sound of bugle? One old lady, with a huge annular loaf,
whom I questioned, soon solved the query. The commissary had ordered
the inhabitants to feed the troops, and this drumming hero was the
crier, who gave notice to that effect, and was likewise collecting
all the ready-baked bread at the church for distribution. The thing
seemed perfectly well understood, each roll of the drum producing
precisely the same effect as the crier moved along the great rambling
street. The old women, as they trotted towards the church, made a
clatter with their _sabots_ like so many horses. Many of the people I
found had, on our first arrival, concealed everything; but the dread
of being plundered was soon removed, and all is now confidence. As
far as I can judge, these people seem to live well enough in their
own way; and in every house one is sure to find good beds, very high,
being raised upon an enormous palliasse. There is no want of silver
spoons, and even forks, in many of them; and their stock of household
linen (good) is really astonishing, many small _cultivateurs_
possessing as much as would set up two or three of our middling
farmers. I use the term “_cultivateur_” to designate a class quite
common in France, but scarcely known in England. They are proprietors
of small estates (perhaps only a few acres), fractions of large ones
sold in lots during the Revolution. These, of course, they cultivate
themselves, with the assistance of their families, and are thence
styled “_cultivateurs_” by the Government, and are obliged to put
this, coupled with their number (they are all numbered), upon their
carts, &c.--for example, “Joachim Laroque, cultivateur, No. 3755;” or
“Jean Baptiste Amand,” &c. &c. &c.
We find them a simple, obliging, but very ignorant race; and their
_patois_ is to me almost unintelligible. Some with whom I conversed
this evening either were, or pretended to be, quite ignorant of what
has been taking place in the great world. They had heard that France
was at war with England, Russia, and Prussia, but that was all. They
had never heard of Wellington, nor of Nelson, nor even Louis XVIII.
They had, however, heard enough to inspire them with some dread of
the Cossacks and Prussians. I asked them if they knew Buonaparte?
“Non, monsieur--non y pas!” “Napoleon?--aw mais oui, monsieur, c’est
l’Empereur que ça--n’est ce paw vrai, monsieur?” They had heard of
him because he made them pay taxes; but of his wars they were as
ignorant as all the rest, and did not speculate the least in the
world as to how and why we are here.
Returned _home_ (conceive being _at home_ in a French farmhouse!)
just as the good woman was placing a most inviting fricasseed fowl
and _omelette aux herbes_, smoking hot, upon our table, to which,
with a good bottle of _vin du pays_, we lost no time in doing
justice. We have passed a most comfortable evening; and if we may
judge by the laughing and chattering in the kitchen, our servants
and the rustics have not passed it badly. As their door is opposite
to ours, we have occasionally peeped in upon them, and been much
amused at seeing the ploughmen equipped in our men’s helmets, belts,
&c.; but their chief source of amusement appeared to be reciprocally
teaching each other English and French words--the attempt at
pronouncing which causes infinite fun.
CHAPTER XVI.
_27th._--Fine warm morning. Started early after an excellent
breakfast of coffee and _et ceteras_. Our orders were to rejoin
the grand column at Ugny l’Equippée; but we had not gone far from
Etreillers when two roads, branching off in different directions,
brought us to a halt. Lord Greenock came up just at the moment, and
blamed me for not bringing a guide from the village--“Better late
than never.” I took the hint, and sent Trumpeter Brown back with
orders to bring the first person he could lay hands on, _nolens
volens_. He went his way and brought back _a tailor_, escorting him
like a prisoner with his drawn sabre. Not knowing why he was thus
forcibly taken from his home, the poor tailor appeared terribly
alarmed--imploring mercy even with tears. When told, however, what
was expected of him, he soon became tranquil; so, sticking him at
the head of the column, we jogged on again. At Ugny l’Equippée we
rejoined the column and dismissed our tailor, slipping into the main
stream as heretofore. We now learned that the army was about to cross
the Somme, and soon felt that it was actually engaged in so doing
from our long and tedious halts--there being but one ford, which
made the operation a very slow one. As we drew near the river the
country improved somewhat, became more undulating and more wooded,
consequently prettier.
The Somme here is but a small stream; flat meadows extend some little
way on each side, and are bordered by moderate hills, running out
here and there into knolls. The point chosen for our passage was a
ford just above a mill on the road to Nesle. Péronne having been
taken yesterday by General Maitland’s brigade of Guards, the only
enemy we heard of in our vicinity was the garrison of Ham, and they
could scarcely have opposed our passage even had they not been shut
up by a brigade of light infantry and a troop of horse-artillery
(Ross’s), which had been sent to summon them. The different divisions
of cavalry, infantry, and artillery, winding down the swelling
knolls, some of which were prettily wooded, and the picturesque
groups of staff and other officers on the points of these knolls,
superintending the passage of their respective brigades, &c., formed
altogether an animated and pleasing picture, although not much could
be said for the beauty of the country on the opposite side of the
river, which looked cheerless enough. It was in one of those groups,
and the most picturesque of them--for they were German hussars--that
I recognised and shook hands with my friend General Victor Alten,
whom I had not seen for more than three years. An interesting
meeting, for he was surrounded by a number of other old acquaintances
of the 2d Hussars.
A foot-bridge at the mill enabled the infantry to file over; but we
had to ford, and got a tolerable wetting, for the water was up to
our saddle-skirts. On the other side, about a mile from the river,
we reached Nesle, the intervening country enclosed but not wooded,
consequently much more ugly and uninteresting than if it had been
open. Nesle is a dismal, dirty town, situated on an eminence of no
great elevation, and perfectly in character with the melancholy
country around it.
This is the first town we have marched through in France. I think it
must have been market-day, from the number of people in the streets;
yet not the slightest apprehension or agitation appeared; and, as we
passed along, the market-people merely turned up their heads, and the
shopkeepers came to their doors to gaze on us, much as if we had been
marching through Exeter, or any other English town accustomed to see
troops.
Since crossing the Somme, the army has marched more cautiously than
hitherto, consequently we have been all day with our brigade. At
Nesle we got on a chaussée, bordered on each side by large elms,
consequently forming a fine avenue; the country on either side
without enclosures and not interesting, although better wooded than
immediately about that town. Roye was ahead of us, but when within a
few miles of it the head of our column led off the chaussée, crossing
the fields by a by-road, and then another chaussée, Péronne to Paris,
until we gained the village of Goyencour, situated in a pretty,
because well-wooded, country. This village, like most of those we
have hitherto passed through, is composed of a number of farmhouses
scattered over a large space, and embowered amongst orchards and some
of the finest linden-trees I ever saw.
The Life Guards and my troop are all housed, so that we are fortunate
again. For my part, I am quartered on a small shop, which, however,
is very clean; and we have excellent beds, Newland and I. In front
of the house an open space affords good room to draw up our guns,
&c., adjoining which are the very pretty pleasure-grounds of a
handsome villa, seen through a stately avenue of lindens. This place
belongs to some lady, who it seems has taken to flight on hearing of
our approach, leaving, however, her butler and some other servants
behind; so that Lord Edward, who has taken up his quarters there,
is as comfortable as he could wish to be. I have just returned from
dining with him, and a better dinner, dessert, and wines,[1] it is
impossible to have enjoyed. What a treat in the midst of a campaign
to enjoy such a party. Besides his lordship’s personal staff, there
were the two colonels of the Life Guards. The front of the house,
having part of the pleasure-ground (it might almost be called a
park) in the fore, has the town of Roye in the distance; a pretty
terrace with aloes in vases and other choice shrubs occupies the
space immediately under the windows, which, opening to the ground,
admit one into a suite of elegantly-furnished rooms. Lord Edward
was perfectly at home, and did the honours as if the house were his,
and so did the butler and other servants. A quieter, better-ordered
dinner, and more excellent, I repeat, could not be.
Lord Edward had heard that, after a little show of resistance, Ham
had surrendered this morning; and we were speculating over our
first glass of wine on the probability of reaching Paris without
resistance, when an officer of the Life Guards came in to report
that a strong corps of cavalry had been seen amongst the woods about
a mile from the village. As his lordship knew positively that the
main body of the French force was retreating before the Prussians,
who had got a march ahead of us, he contented himself with ordering
out a strong detachment to reconnoitre, and we continued at table.
In the course of the evening the detachment returned, and a report
was brought in that they had ascertained that the cavalry seen was a
corps of about 600 men, composed of deserters from the French army;
and these people, taking advantage of the present state of affairs,
have been plundering and levying contributions in all the villages,
and even towns, throughout this country--that the inhabitants of
Amiens itself are greatly alarmed, and have been anxiously expecting
our arrival as their only protection against these brigands--a French
population actually hailing the arrival of their English invaders
with joy! Not knowing what these desperadoes may attempt, we have
doubled our guards. The division is ordered to be on the alert, and
patrols are established for the night. I shall undress and enjoy my
nice clean bed, nevertheless.
_28th._--A fine morning, after a quiet night, notwithstanding
the banditti. Marched early to Roye by a cross-road bordered by
apple-trees. Here we rejoined the main column, and got upon the
chaussée to Paris by Pont St Maxence, &c., a fine broad road as
usual, the middle paved (rather roughly) with a summer or unpaved
road on each side, the whole bordered by noble elms, and generally
a perfectly straight direction: tiresome this from the long vistas
which open on one from the summit of every elevation. The country
on either hand flat and covered with corn as usual, but had nothing
of the wearying sameness of that I so much complained of a day or
two ago; for here it was prettily broken by woods and villages, and
the distance, instead of terminating with the fringe of apple-trees,
presents an interesting range of blue hills. This day’s march,
however, has not been marked by any occurrence, either of scenery
or adventure, worthy of notice. Towards evening, when Lord Edward
was about to establish his night-quarters, he directed me to leave
the chaussée to take possession of a little place about a quarter
of a mile off; and here I am in Mortemer, perhaps one of the most
miserable hamlets in all the country. Its short straggling street
of poor cottages we found quite deserted, and they have taken away
everything that could be useful to us, leaving only the walls
and roofs. These cottages are built of rough limestone, and the
interiors we have found so filthy and full of vermin, that, one
and all, we have preferred to bivouac in the orchards ourselves,
and have put our horses into the houses; straw spread under guns
and ammunition-waggons, with the painted covers closing them in to
windward, forms no despicable sleeping-place. One of my drivers,
rummaging about, has discovered a vast quantity of excellent
household linen buried under the floor. Several other discoveries
of this sort have been made; but I have strictly forbidden anything
being touched, only leaving these _caches_ open that the natives
may know they have not deceived us, but are beholden to us for
our moderation. Had we depended on Mortemer, we should have gone
supperless to bed; but Mr Coates has been so successful in foraging
the neighbourhood, that both man and horse have fared sumptuously.
_29th._--Since yesterday the character of the country has been
insensibly changing: country-houses with extensive gardens and
pleasure-grounds, and a more careful style of architecture, seem to
indicate an approach to the capital. The villages, too, alas! in my
estimation, are changed for the worse--the large thatched farmhouses,
barns, &c., and rural cottages, scattered amongst orchards and
verdure, have given place to regular streets of three-storey houses.
Pieces of towns--surely not villages--these! Mortemer was an
exception. The scenery, too, has improved: features more bold and
varied, better wooded, and habitations more numerous. The chain of
blue hills seen yesterday continues to bound the southern horizon.
The first village we passed after leaving Mortemer was almost
entirely composed of respectable houses standing in gardens, and
having lofty iron railings (_grilles_) to the street. I think this
was Cuvilly. Hitchins and I breakfasted as usual, _en chemin_. We
find this a good plan, marching as we do so early. Each of us has
his cold salt-beef and biscuit in his havresack, and weak grog in
his canteen. The troop fairly started, we drop astern a little, the
Doctor produces the profits of his evening’s forage in the shape of
hard-boiled eggs, &c. I have seldom enjoyed anything more than these
ambulatory breakfasts in the cool refreshing air of a calm morning. A
cigar always concludes my repast, and prolongs the pleasure of it.
After travelling some distance through the sort of country just
spoken of, we again emerged upon a high and open tract of corn,
and in a hollow some way in front saw the neat village of Gournay,
forming a broad street of clean-looking buff cottages, all, I think,
slated. Here we stumbled upon the first traces of our allies the
Prussians, who bivouacked (at least some of their corps) last night
upon these heights. Of all disgusting objects in the world, there is
perhaps none more so than the deserted bivouac--the ground everywhere
covered with half-extinguished fires, broken jugs, &c., bits of rags,
shreds of uniforms, straw trampled in the miry soil, remnants of
food of all sorts, &c. In histories of war and warlike operations,
the pomp and glitter and excitement are all that present themselves
to our mind’s eye, whilst the bivouac, the battle-field encumbered
with carnage and misery, the hospital with its heartrending scenes,
the plundered cottage, the brutal outrage, and a thousand other
disgusting and harrowing episodes, are carefully slurred over if
touched upon, but more generally never produced. Up to this moment
I have actually not known with what part of the army we have
been marching. As far as I could see, we have had an apparently
interminable column ahead and astern of us; now, however, I find we
are with the advance.
A few paces from the highroad, and in the midst of the bivouac (at
the point from whence we obtain sight of Gournay) stood a monument
of Republican and Prussian revenge--pitiful revenge!--such as,
having enacted, a schoolboy would blush at--the mausoleum of some
illustrious lady, whom a long inscription, in the true French style
of mawkish sentiment, told us “had been lovely in person and elegant
in mind--that, soaring above superstition, she eschewed the folly
of laying her bones in _consecrated_ ground, choosing rather to
lie overshadowed in death by those trees of which she had been so
enamoured (_passionné_) whilst living,” &c. The monument was a stone
pyramid, standing in a small square space enclosed by an embankment,
and planted round with acacias. The Prussians had cut down the trees,
nearly levelled the embankment, and made a fruitless attempt at
destroying the pyramid itself. Descending from this eminence by a
long but gradual slope, we entered Gournay after crossing a little
stream tumbling from the heights. This certainly is the neatest and
cleanest place we have seen in France; pity it is, however, that
it stands so bare--scarcely a bush to be seen. I don’t know how
it happened, but when we reached Gournay we were ahead of almost
everybody. About the middle of the long village several well-dressed
persons were standing at the door of an auberge, attentively watching
our advance. As we approached they hurried forward to meet us,
eagerly demanding when the Duke of Wellington would come up. Now
I suspected the report which we heard yesterday--of Paris having
surrendered to the Prussians, and that Buonaparte had fled--might be
true, and that these people were deputies sent to avert the wrath
of the conqueror; so, addressing myself to the principal person,
a short, square-built, rather pursy man, wearing some decoration,
I asked if it were so, and when we might arrive there. My friend,
drawing himself up, and affecting an air of contempt, exclaimed
aloud, “_Paris se rendre?_--non, monsieur, n’y contez pas! il faut
passer sur les corps de 200,000 hommes, avant d’y arriver,” at the
same time coming close up, and tapping me on the knee, he whispered,
“_Mais si votre Duc de Vellintone traitera, il tient la bonté à
ses pieds, et fera tout ce qui lui plaira_.” I thanked him for the
confidence, told him I knew nothing about the Duke, which made him
stare, and rode on.[2]
Leaving Gournay, the country became more pleasing, because more
wooded, and the fields generally enclosed by hedges. This style of
scenery continued until it brought us to the valley of the Oise, by
far the most interesting part of France we had yet seen. How can I
describe my feelings when it first opened out before me? How, alas!
can I describe the scene itself? But to see and feel it aright
one must first have passed over the monotonous melancholy country
extending almost uninterruptedly from Nivelles to the Oise--must have
had the retina so imbued with the eternal brown and yellow of that
ocean of corn as to see everything of a yellow or jaundiced hue--then
he may imagine somewhat of the pleasurable relief with which the
eye rested for the first time on the lovely scenery and refreshing
verdure of this charming valley. The ground, descending by a gradual
slope on our side, ran into a vast succession of most beautiful
green meadows, everywhere adorned with magnificent elms, either
standing detached, or in groups, or in rows. Beyond these, at about
a mile from us, ran the Oise--a broad stream, sometimes exhibiting
its sparkling surface nearly on a level with the meadows, at others
encased between steep banks of some height. Immediately above the
river rose a bold range of hills, thickly wooded from the river-banks
to their summit. To the right and left this sort of scenery continued
until further view was shut out by the overlapping hills. The road by
which we travelled ran straight as a line across the meadows; and at
the point where it appeared to cross the river was a pretty-looking
little town, Pont St Maxence, partly on one bank, partly on the
other. If we were to be opposed, there I thought is the position in
which the French await us, and tough work we shall have of it. These
ideas occurred to me as we descended toward the meadows; and as the
corps in advance of us approached the town, I momentarily expected
to see flashes and smoke issuing from masked batteries in the
opposite woods; and it now struck me for the first time as a singular
circumstance that cavalry should be allowed to advance alone in
the face of such a position, for we had considerably outmarched the
infantry. Of course the Duke knew there would be no opposition; and
yet it was difficult to imagine what then had become of the French
force, which we knew was retiring before us--of the 200,000 men our
friend at Gournay had spoken of. No opposition was there. Instead of
finding the banks of the Oise garnished with cannon and bristling
with bayonets--instead of broken-up roads and inundated fields, woods
full of riflemen and the town of grenadiers--instead of all this,
we found a peaceable population in a lovely country, labourers in
their fields and fishermen on the rivers, whilst flocks and herds
pastured in quiet security on the verdant carpet which overspread
the plain. The little town of Pont St Maxence looked cheerful and
pretty as we approached it, lying partly on one side of the river,
partly on the other. The wooded hills rose abruptly over it, the
lower part of their slopes interspersed with pretty villas, standing
amongst vineyards and in gardens, with terraced walks overhanging the
scenery below. After marching all day in a hot sun, what a feeling of
coolness and enjoyment was conveyed in the appearance of the large
open windows and shady balconies, draperied with clematis and other
elegant creepers, of these sylvan villas! It appears that the bridge
had been broken down last year, and never repaired. To do this a
detachment of the staff corps was pushed forward either yesterday
or early this morning; but when we reached the end of the town they
had not yet rendered it passable, and we were ordered to take post
in the neighbouring splendid meadows, where, expecting to remain
all night, we commenced at once establishing ourselves. Several
troops of horse-artillery and some regiments of cavalry were already
up, and others of all arms were continually arriving. The horses,
unharnessed and watered, were already feeding, fires were lighted,
kettles on, and every one was congratulating himself on having halted
on so charming a spot. Thus settled, I strayed into the garden of a
neighbouring mill, full of fine currants and cherries, to which the
pretty _meunière_ not only bade me welcome, but even herself helped
me to the best fruit. I was just in the height of enjoyment of the
delicious coolness of the fruit, and the piquant badinage of my
companion, when suddenly the “boot-and-saddle” re-echoed through the
valley, and a confused hum of voices arose simultaneously from every
bivouac. With hurried thanks I took leave of my “Maid of the Mill,”
and hastened back to my people, expecting every moment a fire would
open upon us from the opposite woods, having no idea that so sudden
an alert could proceed from any other cause than the approach of the
enemy.
In a moment our horses were reharnessed, the nose-bags with the
unconsumed part of their feed attached again to the saddles,
officers’ baggage replaced on the mules, the kettles, with the
half-cooked messes in them, suspended under the carriages, and all
was ready to move. Corps after corps filed out of the meadows and
took the road to the town; we followed the general movement, which
we now learned was occasioned by the coming up of the infantry, who
were to occupy the ground we left, whilst the cavalry was to push
on beyond the river as long as daylight lasted. Still no word of an
enemy.
The broken bridge had been repaired by the staff corps in so
temporary a manner, that the very first detachment of hussars who
passed deranged it so much as to render it quite unsafe, and we had
to dismount at the entrance of the town and wait a full hour ere
it was again rendered passable. This bridge, with its right-lined
top, was to me an extraordinarily beautiful piece of architecture;
and there is a charm in this right-line which I could not have
imagined. The little town was all bustle, every auberge crammed with
officers enjoying the luxuries of the French cuisine and vintage.
At last the bridge was reported safe, and we recommenced our march,
regretting the necessity which prevented our seeing more of this
lovely place. Immediately on crossing, we turned to the right and
pursued a tolerably good road winding about the foot of the wooded
heights, which on the one hand rose immediately above us, whilst the
silver Oise glided tranquilly along its course on the other. About a
mile, or perhaps more, from Pont St Maxence, we quitted the river,
and turning up a beautiful ravine, the slopes of which were partly
covered with wood, partly with the rich foliage of the vineyards, we
pushed into the bosom of the hills, quitting with regret this sweet
river. It is impossible to imagine anything more beautiful than this
evening’s march. The picturesque scenery of the ravine; the clearness
and serenity of the sky; the warm colouring thrown over the one side
of the ravine by the declining sun opposed to the deep purply tones
of the other; the various and varied picturesque military groups
reposing on the turf by the way-side, or winding along amongst the
vineyards, altogether formed a picture, or rather a succession of
pictures, perfectly ravishing. Never shall I forget this evening!
The sun had set some time when we reached the village of Verneuil,
which was to be the termination of this day’s journey. Seated in the
bosom of the hills, now veiled in a purply obscurity, intermingled
with that yellowish hazy light always succeeding a warm sunset, the
place looked beautiful. Several corps had already halted--some had
taken possession of the houses, barns, &c., others bivouacked amongst
the vineyards. Immediately about the village were large gardens
enclosed by stone walls, and it was some time before I could make up
my mind to invade these. There was no alternative, however. We could
not remain in the road; the only fields I saw were covered with rich
crops of wheat ready for the sickle, and even these could not be
approached but through the gardens. The great gates of one of these
were immediately forced open, and, trampling under foot artichokes,
asparagus, &c., and flowers, we reached the field after a struggle
through the _eschalots_ of an intervening vineyard, which, with the
vines and their fruit, were miserably crushed beneath our gun-wheels
and horses’ feet. I could not but regret this devastation, though it
could not be avoided. The wheat shared the fate of the artichokes,
and we soon established ourselves on it, surrounded as with a wood by
the tall stalks of what was still standing.
What a splendid Rembrandt-like picture presented itself from this
spot: the valley buried in hazy obscurity; the whitened dwellings,
just made out, scattered over the slopes of the hills, whose bold
outlines, one of them crowned by a ruined castle, cut strongly
against the glowing but gradually fading tints of the clearest sky.
In the farm just by we have found stabling for our own horses and
lodging for some of our people. But the evening is so fine that I
infinitely prefer the field. Seated on the ground with a lantern by
my side, I scribble my notes in comfort; but an attempt has just
been made to turn us out even from this humble abode--an officer
of hussars with an order from General Grant to quit the ground
immediately, as he wants it for his hussars. Good man! he thinks a
9-pounder or its ammunition waggon as easily moved as a hussar and
his horse. It proved, however, a mere bugbear--he wanted the house
and stables; and his emissary having full power to treat, the affair
is amicably arranged by our giving up the stable.
_30th._--Fine morning again. Quitted with regret this lovely
country, and climbing the hills by a steep gravelly road, gained the
plateau--covered with corn as usual, but here diversified by a pretty
sprinkling of trees. Lieutenant Breton, who slept at the farmhouse
last night, gives a bad account of our hussars, who, not content with
living at free quarters, completely sacked it this morning before
they marched--one of their officers taking away a beautiful pony in
spite of the old farmer’s entreaties, who begged with tears in his
eyes that it might be spared, since it was a pet of the whole family.
The pony, however, marched.
After marching some distance on this plateau by very good gravelly
cross-roads, we rejoined the chaussée from Pont St Maxence to Senlis,
and soon after began descending towards the latter place, which is
separated from the former by this ridge of hills, covered in most
parts by the forest of Balatte. Though not to be compared to Pont St
Maxence in point of situation, yet Senlis stands in a pretty country,
well wooded, surrounded by fine meadows, watered by the little
crystal Nonette. Just beyond the town, on the Paris side, commences
the forest of Pontarme, a continuation of that of Chantilly. Senlis
being the first place of any importance through which we have passed,
was of course approached with much interest, and this was heightened
by its picturesque appearance: antique walls, pierced by an arched
gateway, the summit decayed and irregular, fringed with verdure.
Spires, and lofty houses showing themselves above it, appeared to
advantage through the foliage of the trees, which ran scattering and
in clumps up to the very gate, through which crowds of peasantry,
with little carts and asses laden with the produce of their farms,
were passing to the market. When we passed in our turn, we found
the street so thronged that it was with difficulty we could get
along, for the market was held in it. The passage of our column,
threading its way through the crowd of stalls and baskets of poultry,
vegetables, &c., did not seem to excite any very lively emotion, or
to interrupt the business of the day. Some of the more idle, or more
curious, left their stalls to get a nearer look at _les Anglais_.
Nothing like apprehension was visible even among the women, and the
boys were as bold and familiar as usual. Here and there I heard a
shout of “Vive le Roi!” once or twice it looked in earnest. To try
the sincerity of this versatile people, I stooped in passing near
some of the most vociferous, and in a subdued tone treated them to
“Vive l’Empereur!” The result was always the same--staring first
at me, then at each other, with a sly expression of countenance,
some one of them, slapping me on the thigh, would reply in the same
tone, “Mais oui, monsieur, vive l’Empereur--vive Napoleon! C’est
bon, monsieur, c’est bon--vive l’Empereur!” seemingly delighted at
being able to express their true sentiments. This might have been
mere fun, certainly, but I thought them in earnest. I found this the
case everywhere. To us they were never backward in avowing their
attachment to Buonaparte or their hatred of the Bourbons, of _Louis
le Cochon_. The animated scene in the streets prevented me paying
much attention to the town. The impression I retain of it is, that
it is gloomy and the streets narrow; but that there are many most
respectable-looking houses, some of them very prettily situated
amongst shrubbery, and particularly one just as we left the town
and crossed the Nonette--the long open windows of which enabled us
to peep into spacious and handsomely-furnished apartments, looking
most deliciously cool. Just beyond the town we overtook the rear
of the Prussian baggage, escorted by a corps of lancers, whose
simple and serviceable costume pleased me much: plain blue frocks,
buttoned close up to the throat,[3] and drab trousers or overalls;
not a particle of ornament, nor a superfluous article about their
appointments. I think they are the most soldier-like looking fellows
I have ever seen. This is our first meeting with any of their army
since the 18th. Continuing our route through the forest of Pontarme,
we soon came out on a more open but still well-wooded country--the
chaussée constantly bordered and overshadowed by lofty elms, the
cross-roads by apple, pear, and cherry trees, all now loaded with
fruit. Here a sudden and disagreeable change took place in the aspect
of the towns and villages. We had got on the route of the Prussian
army, which was everywhere marked by havoc and desolation. What a
contrast! In Senlis, a few miles back, all was peace, plenty, and
confidence,--here traces of war in its most horrid form, desolation
and desertion. The inhabitants had everywhere fled, and we found
naught but empty houses. Troops and their usual followers were the
only human beings we saw now. The village of Loures,[4] where we
arrived about noon, presented a horrid picture of devastation. A
corps of Prussians halted there last night, and, excepting the walls
of the houses, have utterly destroyed it. The doors and windows torn
out and consumed at the bivouac-fire--a similar fate seems to have
befallen furniture of every kind, except a few chairs, and even
sofas, which the soldiers had reserved for their own use, and left
standing about in the gardens and orchards, or, in some places,
had given a parting kick to, for many had fallen forward on the
embers of the bivouac-fires, and lay partially consumed. Clothes
and household linen, beds, curtains, and carpets, torn to rags, or
half-burned, lay scattered about in all directions. The very road
was covered with rags, feathers, fragments of broken furniture,
earthenware, glass, &c. Large chests of drawers, _armoires_, stood
about broken or burned. The very floors had been pulled up and the
walls disfigured in every possible way. It were needless to add that
no human being was to be seen amidst this desolation. It was with
no small pleasure I found we were not to halt amid this disgusting
scene, as I expected, but to move on somewhat farther; and with still
greater pleasure I received the order to quit the chaussée for the
village of Chenevière,[5] about a mile to the left. This removing us
out of the Prussian line of march, we hoped to find things somewhat
better. The village, like most others we have seen, consisted of a
number of farmhouses with their barns and outbuildings, &c., all
standing amidst orchards and gardens--the whole surrounded by corn,
corn, corn! The place, I should think, has not been visited by the
Prussians, for no pillage or destruction is to be seen; but it is
deserted--not a soul except our soldiers to be seen. Besides our
brigade of cavalry, two or three other troops of horse-artillery
are here, so that the place is pretty full; and as we are among the
latest arrivals, we have not got under cover, but are bivouacking in
a very nice orchard, separated from the village street by some large
open sheds; but as the weather is fine, and probably from habit,
my people have _littered themselves down_ as usual under their guns
instead of profiting by these--this they are enabled to do very
comfortably here, for there is no want of straw. The people, in their
retreat, seem to have taken little with them, except their animals,
so that we have all kinds of pots and pans, jugs, basins, &c., _ad
libitum_. In short, we should be pretty comfortable but for one want,
and that a most important one. The weather is dreadfully hot, and we
have scarcely any water; there is but one good well in the place,
and that has been surrounded by a crowd ever since we arrived. It is
impossible to imagine what a gloom this throws over everything: were
it not for the abundance of ripe cherries growing along the roadsides
(not of the best flavour, but juicy), we must have suffered to-day
terribly from thirst in this burnt-up plain. The corn (standing) is
almost bleached--it should have been cut long ago.
CHAPTER XVII.
_July 1st._--Tiresome work this--very! Here we are in Chenevière
with little to do but smoke and sleep, or saunter about the hundred
yards of street, which is all the place can boast of; and that can
hardly be called a street, being formed of stone enclosures or the
backs of barns, &c., the dwellings being in the yards. A rivulet
once enlivened one end of this street, but now, alas! when most
needed, it is not there--the dry bed with a slimy pool or two, still
unevaporated, are all that remain to tell the tale of its quondam
existence. How melancholy! I scribble _pour passer le temps_. Some
good, however, results from this tiresome halt. Marching at or before
daybreak, and not halting until dusk, our shoeing was in a bad state,
which Farrier Price and his myrmidons are now busy remedying. The
forge is established on the bank of the _ci-devant_ rivulet in the
rear of our orchard, and under two or three spreading elms. As it is
on the edge also of the corn, we have been on the eve of consummating
the ruin of the poor fugitive _habitans_, for it has been once or
twice on fire. Another piece of service the halt has rendered, is
the allowing Hincks with the guns and carriages left at Waterloo
to overtake us. He brings also a remount of tolerably good horses,
though rather fatigued, since he has made tremendous marches to
overtake us. These arrive most opportunely; for with all care we have
a number of galled backs and shoulders, though in this respect we are
not half so bad as the cavalry, amongst whole squadrons of whom there
is scarcely a sound horse.
Another reinforcement has just joined us. That beautiful but
unfortunate regiment the Cumberland Hussars has been broken up for
its retrograde movement on the 18th ultimo, and distributed amongst
the different corps, to be employed as forage escorts, &c., for the
commissaries. Being all gentlemen in Hanover, it is easy to imagine
they are rather irate at this degradation. A corporal and four
privates have joined us. They are all amazingly sulky and snappish
with every one, forgetting that neither I nor Mr Coates, nor any of
our people, have anything to do with their disgrace. They come,
however, very opportunely, since for the last day or two Mr Coates
has been resisted by the peasantry, and only this morning several
shots were fired at him and his convoy of forage from a wood near
which he was obliged to pass. In general, during the above period, he
has been obliged to help himself from the barns and granaries, having
found every place deserted.
Lord Edward ordered a sale to-day of the effects of the slain. This
occasioned a little stir in the village, and passed away an hour or
two. I have purchased a good large cloak, erst the property of poor
Colonel Fuller of the 1st Dragoon Guards. Things sold well in general.
From the front we heard (I don’t know how) that the French army are
in position at Montmartre, where they intend to fight us again. If
they are beaten--of which we entertain no doubt--the fate of Paris
is certain; every one fully expects it will be plundered and burned,
and thus my prediction verified, the campaign ending with a _grand
embrassement_, as I have already written down! There is some firing
just begun in front. The Prussians commencing, no doubt!
_July 2d._--Having no candles last night, could not write up as
usual, but was forced to sit in the dark smoking our cigars and
listening to the incessant firing in front. This morning is
beautiful again, but terribly hot. The latter part of yesterday
evening we passed on the tiptoe of expectation, for the firing became
constantly heavier and more distinct; that a battle was fighting
could not be mistaken. Lieutenant Bell, our adjutant, came to tell
me my troop was for the reserve. He also told us that many messages
had passed between the Duke and the French authorities. Anxiously
we gazed across the top of the waving corn, hoping every moment to
see the messenger bringing orders for our advance. Twilight began
to shorten our ken, and still the cannonade continued without
intermission. At last an orderly dragoon did come, but he brought
an order for the rocket-troop only to advance, whilst we were to be
saddled and ready to move at a moment’s notice. The rockets soon
moved, and our bivouac became more gloomy than ever. Fatigued more
from excitement than anything else, I lay down at a late hour to
sleep; but though I slept I did not rest--feverish dreams of Paris in
flames; of plundering, mutinous soldiers, and all sorts of horrors;
so that I could hardly believe my eyes and ears when I awoke this
morning at three o’clock and looked round me. The orchard presented
a scene of the most perfect tranquillity; the firing had ceased;
my people, ensconced in the straw, their blankets drawn over them,
lay quietly sleeping under their guns; no sound broke the silence of
this most delicious summer morning save the jingling of our horses’
collar-chains, and the sweet songs of birds, with which the trees
were filled. I could scarcely credit the agitation of yesterday
evening--it all seemed part of my dream. By degrees our village was
all alive; and as the morning advanced, so has our excitement, for
the cannonade in front has recommenced. Evening approaches again; the
firing has lasted all day without intermission; and yet here we are,
doing nothing, or worse, for both our horses and ourselves are drying
up with thirst. We cannot stay here much longer, for our only well is
almost exhausted.
_July 3d._--Fine and hot morning. Yesterday morning I awoke and found
myself under the trees of a thick orchard; this morning I am lying
amongst artichokes, and the Lord knows what, upon a soil somewhat
like that one sees about Hammersmith, and, instead of the warbling
of birds, the air is filled with the hum of a multitude and the
monotonous beating of a watermill close at hand, which has never
ceased its “thump, thump, thump, thump” all the livelong night,
the quartermaster of some regiment having been placed in it with a
detachment to grind corn for us all. Yesterday evening, near sunset,
an order arrived for all the artillery at Chenevière to move to
the front, but that the cavalry should remain, which puzzled us a
little. Accordingly we marched forthwith in company with Major Bull’s
troop; but I saw nothing of the others, for we were all left to
march independently. The order was scrawled out on a scrap of dirty
paper and hardly legible, so that neither Bull nor I could make it
out perfectly, and were consequently in some doubt as to the exact
point to march upon, although in none about going forward in the
direction of the cannonade. Instead of returning to the chaussée by
the way we came,[6] as I believe the other troops did (they were not
so quickly ready as we were), Bull and I took a road which appeared
to lead straight to the front. The country we marched through, though
perfectly flat, was still interesting:--one vast expanse of golden
wheat, divided as it were into beautiful fields by the crossing
of numerous roads, all bordered by two, or even four rows of most
magnificent elms. A few vineyards, with here and there a village,
diversified very agreeably this scenery. For a time we seemed to
approach the field of battle--the firing became more distinct; and at
times we saw, or thought we saw, the slate-coloured smoke rising over
the tufted tops of the elms. By-and-by it drew off more to the right,
and insensibly became less intense, though still kept up with great
vigour. Notwithstanding some little anxiety as to the correctness
of our route, and an impatience to arrive on the field of action,
still I could not be insensible to the beauty of the noble avenues,
umbrageous and cool, along which we marched. They are at all times
superb, but become exquisite when seen as we saw them, illumined
by the blaze of a cloudless sunset. At a place called Vauderlan we
rejoined the chaussée, and had marched little beyond when I observed
Bull’s troop, which was ahead, suddenly come to a halt at a point
where another chaussée came in from the left. What was my surprise,
on riding forward, when Bull told me we had run in upon the French
outposts: and sure enough, not far in front of us, a long line of
vedettes extended across the fields to a village--Blanc Menil, with
its white houses and white garden-walls--about a mile on our left;
and to our right were lost behind the little woods with which that
part of the country was covered. In rear of the vedettes, on the
chaussée, was an intrenchment, with an abatis in front of it; beyond
was another village;[7] and to the right the lofty spires of St
Denis, towering above the woods, showed us that we were nearer that
place than we had expected.
What was to be done in this dilemma? Two troops of horse-artillery,
totally unsupported, within musket-shot of the enemy’s lines!
During our march we had not fallen in with a single corps, and
every house was deserted, so that we had no opportunity of gaining
information. I had relied on Bull’s experience, which, however, in
this instance, was at fault. We both agreed as to the necessity of
a retreat; as also that we ought to betray no hurry and confusion
in so doing. The French pickets and those within the intrenchment
were evidently watching us very attentively, but made no move, nor
did we for a short time. Whilst thus hesitating, a few of the staff
corps made their appearance in the fields on our right, and from
them we were rejoiced to learn our neighbourhood to the main body,
which occupied all the country in that direction; the staff corps
being on the extreme left in the village of Dugny, which, though
close at hand, was hid from us among the trees. This accounted at
once for the inactivity of the enemy; so, reversing, we followed a
miserable cross-road through some low swampy ground to Dugny, where
the officers of the staff corps succeeded in deciphering our ticket,
and gave us directions for finding Garges, the place mentioned. The
infantry must have advanced whilst we halted at Chenevière, for these
people appeared settled in their quarters. The route pointed out
led us for about half a mile between meadows surrounded with high
trees and intermingled with little thickets; then, after crossing
a small muddy rivulet, we debouched upon more open ground, and a
most interesting scene burst upon us. On our left, and very near,
the Abbey of St Denis with its elegant spires reared its venerable
form above the intervening thick masses of foliage, formed by the
converging of several chaussées with their noble bordering of elms,
to a point near the town. Beyond, in the distance, appeared the
heights of Montmartre, with its telegraph and numerous windmills
and chalky cliffs; a narrow gap, through which was seen the dome
of St Genevieve, separated them from the heights of Belleville,
where a succession of the same sort of white cliffs encouraged the
idea of a gap having here been broken through the range of heights,
leaving Montmartre an isolated mass. Through this gap we obtained the
first view of Paris, and the heights were everywhere gay with white
buildings, gardens, shrubberies, &c.
To our right the ground ascended by a gentle slope to the village
of Garges, whose numerous villas and summer-houses (_kiosks_),
intermingled with shrubberies, yet illuminated by the warm mellow
light of the western sky, crowned the summit; whilst the intervening
space presented one vast bivouac alive with men and animals, and
all busy with preparations for passing the night. This ground a day
or two ago was covered with the most luxuriant crops of flowers,
fruits, vegetables, and some corn--now all trampled under foot;
in like manner the chaussée descending from the village had been
bordered with fine trees--now lying prostrate in the form of an
abatis a little to our left. In our front the dense foliage and
rounded summits of the trees in the Park of Stains cut strongly
against the yellow sky of the west. It was certainly an animating,
interesting scene. Here at length was assembled the advanced-guard
of our victorious army, in full view of the devoted, fickle, guilty
city--of that city which, in the days of her prosperity, arrogated
to herself the empire of the world; that city which for years--nay,
for our whole life--had been the great centre of our most intense
interest; that city which both historical and romantic reading had
rendered perfectly classical, and over which the long exclusion of
Englishmen from the Continent had drawn a veil of mystery, rendering
her doubly interesting. There she lay, as it were, prostrate at our
feet, awaiting in breathless anxiety the fiat of her conqueror.
The firing had now become very indistinct, and ceased to occupy
our attention, for here we found the troops quietly establishing
themselves, and no appearance whatever of any fighting. There, to
be sure, was the intrenchment and abatis similar to that we had
seen near Bourget; and there were the French vedettes extending
across the plain and those of our Rifles opposite them; but all
remained peaceable and quiet. The troops in bivouac presented in the
twilight many a picturesque group as we marched along, none more
so than a corps of Brunswick lancers, with their sombre uniforms
and drooping black plumes--the horses, all saddled, picketed in a
line, and in rear of them the lances stuck upright in the ground.
The dark mustachioed visages of these men completed the colouring
of the picture. Amongst these I met some old acquaintances, who
were lounging at the roadside to see us pass. They were all elated
and eager for the morrow, which they confidently expected would see
Paris delivered up to the punishment she deserved. Leaving them, we
turned to the right up the treeless chaussée and soon reached Garges,
which we found principally occupied by our artillery; but here the
scene we passed through greatly cooled the excitement caused by our
march through the bivouacs. The village, or town I should call it,
is composed of one long and broad street of good houses--generally,
I fancy, the country residences of the Parisian cockneys. These have
all been gutted and disfigured in the same manner as at Loures: torn
carpets and paper-hangings, broken furniture and glass, and even
pianofortes, encumbered the streets in all directions. Inhabitants
there were none--not a cat remained in the place; and our soldiers
and their horses were the only living animals to be seen. The sight
of this devastation cast an inexpressible gloom over me; and I shall
never forget the sickening sensation I experienced whilst traversing
the street of Garges in search of some unoccupied garden in which
we might establish ourselves for the night. All the best houses
and gardens were already occupied; so, after marching through the
whole place, on arriving at the end of it we were obliged to content
ourselves with a great unsheltered market-garden, close to a muddy
sluggish rivulet; and here we are, Hitchins and I, sitting amongst
potatoes and artichokes. This fine rich soil does not make the most
agreeable parlour-floor. In short, contrasting our position with that
of our other troops, we think we have a right to grumble. Every one
that I looked in upon in my search had a house and offices more or
less convenient (shells, to be sure), and the troop-horses and men
who could not be accommodated under cover found themselves almost
equally well off amongst the _allées_, _berceaux_, and shrubberies
of the gardens. On the contrary, we have a damp location; no shelter
of any kind higher than an artichoke, or, much the same thing, a
vine. There is a well on the premises, certainly, but the water is
so brackish that it is not drinkable; and that of the neighbouring
rivulet, naturally foul, is now so impregnated with soap-suds, from
the multitudes of washermen and washerwomen at work in it, that we
are at a loss how to water our horses, for they won’t touch it.
Bell (our adjutant) has just found us out, and communicated an order
to remain harnessed and ready for an alert, as it is expected the
enemy will attempt something during the night. The firing which we
have heard these two days has proceeded from the Prussians having
attempted to force the French lines; but they met with a more
determined opposition than they expected, and kept fighting their way
round to the right to a place called Argenteuil,[8] where, throwing
a bridge over the Seine, they have crossed that river, and Bell says
are at this moment in possession of St Cloud. So that Paris is, in a
manner, invested.
_July 4th._--Last night passed very tranquilly; and, _malgré_ our
position, I never enjoyed a sounder sleep or woke more refreshed. If
the French intended an attack, they thought better of it, and let us
sleep quietly. We have had some visitors already this morning from
some of the neighbouring bivouacs. They tell us the Prussians are
reported to have lost 15,000 men in the last three or four days’
fighting, and, what is more interesting, that the Duke, _en grande
tenue_, and followed by a numerous retinue, also in their smartest
uniforms, has just galloped down toward St Denis--that a rumour of
negotiations is afloat, and not a word about advancing. Pretty mess,
then, we are in. If this be true, we may stay in this mud-hole for
a week yet. Fortunately for us, Dynely, who occupies a very fine
house and garden a little way up the street, has a most abundant well
of excellent water, to which he has given my people free access,
although he guards it most jealously from everybody else. My poor
horses suffered last night in getting no drink after their hot march.
7 P.M.--I have already got some little confusion in my notes from
not writing them at once, therefore must jot down to-day whilst
daylight enough yet remains to do so. _Imprimis_, then: This has been
a completely idle day; very fine, very hot, and very dusty. Having
nothing else to do, I have amused myself with rambling about the
place, smoking a cigar here and a cigar there, &c. &c. Bull was more
fortunate than we were last night--he stumbled upon a most excellent
bivouac, which I paid my first visit to this morning, as it is not
far up the street. The place is said to belong to the Prince of
Eckmuhl (Davoust), and must have been a delightful residence; it
is now _tout à fait abimé_. The pleasure-grounds and gardens, laid
out in the English style, are quite delicious, not only from the
lovely shady walks and prettily-disposed shrubberies, but also from
the splendid terraces, and the views they command of Paris and the
neighbourhood. Bull’s guns, &c., are packed amongst parterres of the
choicest and rarest flowers: the _berceaux_ and shady walks form
excellent stables, and there his horses are picketed. The officers
occupy a charming _kiosk_, partly embosomed in wood, but open to
the extensive view over the country toward Paris. Here I found some
of them sleeping on the floor, whilst the vacant blankets of others
marked the spot they had chosen as their own.
The house itself, large and magnificent, had already been completely
pillaged. The doors and windows, where not torn from their frames,
were all flying open; furniture of every kind, broken to pieces, and
partly thrown out into the garden or courts, and partly littering the
rooms; pier-glasses of immense size shivered to atoms; the very walls
defaced and smeared with every species of filth. A few of the rooms
had escaped this species of pollution, and, except the destruction of
their furniture, remained in pretty good order. One of these (which
I wondered at) was very handsome, of fine proportions, well lighted,
and the walls exquisitely painted (_not stamped_), to represent an
Oriental landscape through the open sides of the room, the roof being
supported on pillars, which stood so strongly forward that, at the
first _coup d’œil_, the illusion was complete. Unless this were saved
by the interposition of some officer--a man of taste--I much marvel
at the barbarians leaving it untouched; perhaps whilst I write the
destruction is accomplished, for I left numbers of Dutch, Nassau,
and Belgian gentry wandering about on the hunt for plunder.[9] A
large room adjoining was hung round with very fine prints from
Vernet’s paintings of the French ports, all in rich frames. These,
by some miracle, had all escaped destruction, though not one article
of furniture was left. My friend Hitchins, an amateur, thought it
a pity they should be left for destruction, and appropriated the
whole of them, and not only them, but some fine paintings which he
found elsewhere, and cut out of their frames with his penknife.
This certainly is not justifiable, but his argument is a specious
one--better save them at any rate than leave them to be destroyed by
the Belgians. At the back of the house, on the same floor, had been
a handsome library, but here as elsewhere the genius of destruction
had been busy. The furniture was broken to pieces, the books pulled
from their shelves, scattered over the floor, many of them torn to
pieces, and many, thrown out of the windows, lying in heaps on the
pavement of the court below. The foreigners were not the only busy
people in Garges--our own troops were not idle. Leathes’ servant in
this very house has found a magnificent work in three folio volumes,
splendidly bound--a series of views of the principal buildings and
scenery in France, in the best style of line-engraving. This appears
to have been considered the greatest treasure in the library, being
the only work attempted to be hidden. He found it under a cask in the
wine-cellar, where he had no business. In the gardens and shrubberies
the foreign troops were searching for plunder very systematically.
Armed with watering-pots, they proceeded regularly over the ground,
watering as they went, and whenever the moisture was quickly
absorbed, dug. In this manner I understand they have already found
many valuable things--certes, whilst I was at this chateau they found
a batch of very fine wine buried under a flower-bed. Our men are not
so indefatigable; they certainly take what they want when it presents
itself, but do not give themselves much trouble in hunting things up.
A party of Dutch (Protestants) broke into the church this morning,
and after amusing themselves for a time with dressing themselves
in the priests’ garments, &c., and turning into ridicule the Roman
Catholic ceremonies, finished by breaking to pieces the altar and
destroying everything they found in the church or vestry. Our allies
are by no means an amiable set, nor very cordial with us. If an
English corps (as Bull’s troop) occupy a chateau and its grounds,
still they leave free ingress and egress to any others so long as
they do not interfere with them. On the contrary, a single Dutch,
Nassau, or Belge, will sometimes (if a commanding officer) occupy
a whole place himself: sentinels are placed at every gate, and the
place strictly _tabooed_. They are a brutal set. The Dutch appear the
best. They are all uncommonly insolent to us.
_July 5th._--Our conjectures as to the business which took the Duke
to St Denis yesterday prove to be correct. It is rumoured this
morning that the preliminaries of peace are signed, and that the _war
is at an end_! So terminates, then, our campaign--short, but active,
brilliant, and honourable to all concerned. Another fine but hot day.
This morning rode to Gonesse, the headquarters, through a country no
doubt pretty enough before our arrival, but in which armed men now
occupy the place of vines and fig-trees, &c.--in short, one continued
bivouac. Arnouvilles, through which I passed, is a pretty village,
and, although the houses were filled with soldiers, did not seem to
have suffered like many other places, especially that unfortunate
Garges. Four short but well-built and clean streets branch off from
a pretty circus, the area of which is a nice smooth turf planted
round with young elms. The shrubberies and pleasure-grounds of the
Archbishop of ---- (I forget who), all untouched and in good order,
added to the pleasing appearance of the place, forming, as it did,
such a contrast with the desolate state of the surrounding country.
Louis XVIII. occupies the palace, and his Suisses, gardes du corps,
&c., the village. Gonesse is a nasty, dirty, gloomy place, and I made
little stay there after getting my English letters. My garden begins
already to be _home_, spite of its _désagrémens_.
_July 6th._--All quiet; not a word about moving. Hitchins and I were
both very ill last night after drinking some coffee. This we had
brought with us, and therefore it was good: the horrible water here
must have caused our illness. Passed the whole morning in idling
about the street. There is a very pretty house with (apparently)
delicious gardens at the upper end of the town; but some Dutch
colonel has got possession, and his sentry turned me from the gate
rather rudely. This evening the Doctor and I rode down to St Denis
to see the lions. The French outposts had been withdrawn and their
barricade removed, so that nothing impeded our progress until we
arrived at the entrance of the town, and had a glimpse of the
long dusky perspective of its principal street; but here we found
an English guard, whose orders were to permit no one (officer or
soldier) to enter the place. This was somewhat of a disappointment,
but we must see it soon. Just at the entrance to the town is a very
fine barrack of grey stone, with a spacious parade, separated from
the road by a handsome _grille_ or iron railing. The little muddy
rivulet which runs through Garges and Dugny crosses the road, just
by the entrance, into St Denis, and then falls into the Seine.
This feature had been taken advantage of in the intended military
defence: the bridge removed and a battery constructed with earth
and casks quite across the road. The approach to St Denis on this
side is very fine; for at a short distance from this battery three
chaussées converge to a point, and a more magnificent _coup d’œil_
cannot be conceived than that which presents itself to a person
placing himself at the point of union, which at once commands three
splendid avenues of the finest elms joining overhead and forming so
many lofty arches. From Garges to this point our bivouacs extend; and
the rich harvest of wheat which had covered the adjacent fields is
completely trodden down. Just by the _etoile_ formed by the meeting
of the roads, we found Dick Jones encamped with his corps (about 500)
of Flemish waggoners with their horses and waggons--a motley and not
unpicturesque crew, with their blue smock-frocks and _bonnets de
nuit_, wooden shoes, &c., as they sat in groups cooking, or smoking
their short pipes. As it was yet early, we did not relish returning
immediately to Garges and therefore made a detour to the left
through the vineyards, plantations of artichokes, rose-bushes, &c.
It was quite refreshing to find this part of the country untouched,
everything uninjured and thriving. But there were no vine-dressers,
no inhabitants of any kind--not a soul; field and houses all alike
deserted. Philosophising as we went on the horrors of war and the
beauty of the scenery we were passing through, which contrasted so
strongly with that about Garges and every other place where the
army halted, we rather unexpectedly entered a pretty village--that
is, it had been once so; now devastation had visited it, and the
forlorn deserted street was everywhere encumbered as usual with
broken glass and fragments of furniture, &c.; every window in the
place was destroyed. In front of the church was a small open space,
whence a handsome lodge and _grille_ gave a view of a long avenue
terminated by a chateau. In this place about twenty or thirty hussar
horses were standing linked together under charge of one hussar. I
believe these people were Prussians, but I can’t say. From this man
we learned that his comrades were at the chateau, and thither we
went, curious to ascertain what they did there. We were certainly not
quite so much shocked at the scene of ruin and havoc which presented
itself as we went down the avenue as we should have been a week ago;
they are becoming familiar now. The fragments of sofas, chairs,
tables, &c., lying about the grass, bespoke a richly-furnished
house, and the nearer we drew to the house the thicker became these
signs of vengeance. Large pieces of painted paper torn from the
walls, remnants of superb silk window-curtains, with their deep
rich fringe, hung amongst the bushes; broken mirrors and costly
lustres covered the ground in such a manner as to render it difficult
to avoid hurting our horses’ feet--the brilliant drops of these
last, scattered amongst the grass, might, with a little stretch
of imagination, have induced us to believe ourselves traversing
Sinbad’s valley of diamonds; slabs of the rarest marble, torn from
the chimney-pieces, lay shattered to atoms; even the beds had been
ripped open, and the contents given to the winds, and conveyed by
them to all parts of the park, covering in some places the ground
like newly-fallen snow. The trees of the avenue were cut and hacked,
and large patches of bark torn off--many were blackened and scorched
by fires made at the foot of them, with the mahogany furniture for
fuel; the shrubs cut down or torn up by the roots; the very turf
itself turned up or trampled into mud by the feet of men and horses.
Hitchins and I dismounted at the grand entrance into the house; and,
by way of securing our horses, shut them up in a little room to which
a door was still left, and proceeded to inspect the interior of this
once splendid mansion. Shouts and laughter resounded through the
building. The hussars were busy completing the work of destruction;
and as we passed the magnificent stairs leading up from the hall,
we narrowly escaped being crushed under a large mirror which these
gentlemen at that very moment launched over the banisters above with
loud cheers. The ground-floor on the side fronting the park consisted
of a suite of magnificent rooms, lofty, finely proportioned, and
lighted by a profusion (as we should deem it) of windows down to the
floor. These had been most luxuriously and richly furnished; now they
were empty, the papering hanging in rags from the walls, and even
the cornices destroyed more or less. Every kind of abuse of France
and the French was written on the walls. In one room was the remnant
of a grand piano. The sad reflections awakened by this sight may be
more easily conceived than described, and I turned from it with a
sickening and overwhelming sensation of disgust, in which I am sure
Hitchins fully participated. The next room seemed to have been chosen
as the place of execution of all the porcelain in the house, which
had there been collected for a grand smash. The handsomest Sêvre and
Dresden vases, tea and dinner services, formed heaps of fragments all
over the floor, and a large porcelain stove had shared the same fate.
Another room had been lined with mirrors from the ceiling to the
floor; it appeared these had been made targets of, for many were the
marks of pistol-balls on the walls they had covered; little remained
of these except some parts of their rich gilt frames. The last room
of the suite had the end farthest from the windows semicircular,
and this end had been fitted up with benches, _en amphithéâtre_.
The whole of this room was painted to represent the interior of
a forest, and on one side was a pool of water, in which several
naked nymphs were amusing themselves. The plaster was torn down in
large patches, and the nymphs stabbed all over with bayonets. The
upper floor consisted of bed-rooms, dressing-rooms, and baths, and
exhibited the same melancholy destruction as those below; even the
leaden lining of the baths, the leaden water-pipes, &c., were cut to
pieces. On inquiring of one hussar why they so particularly wreaked
their vengeance on this house, he said because it belonged to Jerome
Buonaparte, whom every German detested. Having seen enough here, we
looked into another chateau somewhat smaller, but which had also been
something very fine; it was precisely in the same state. A very fine
library had been here, but the books had been thrown out of window; a
small pond below had received multitudes of them, and the rest were
scattered all over the park. In the pond I saw several beautiful
Oriental MSS., and I fished out a pretty little edition of ‘Seneca,’
which I pocketed. Disgusted, we returned to our garden, which, by the
by, begins to look rather the worse for wear, and I hope if we stay
any longer we may be able to get into some house.
_July 7th._--Fine hot day. Since early morning the road from Paris
has been crowded with people of all ages, sexes, and conditions
flocking to Arnouvilles to greet their _beloved monarch_. The whole
population seems to have turned out, so continuous is the stream.
Berlines, caleches, equestrians, and pedestrians, flow along without
cessation or diminution of numbers. All are in their _habits de
Dimanche_, and all gay and merry. It is a perfect holiday, which
all seem to enjoy without alloy. I could scarcely persuade myself
that the gay throng passing before me was the same that, after being
accustomed for a quarter of a century to look upon themselves as
invincible, then twice within a twelvemonth saw themselves humbled to
the dust, and those whom they had so long been accustomed to trample
on in military possession of their capital, who now were hastening
to do homage to the family twice driven from their throne--and who,
in traversing the bivouac of their conquerors, saw on all sides
the wreck and ruin of their own houses, fields, and gardens;--yet,
nothing daunted, on they went, laughing, chatting, and even singing,
in the gayest of all possible moods. For them it was a _jour de
fête_, which they seemed determined to enjoy, no matter what its
origin. The smart dresses and lively colour contrasted strongly with
the dingy clothing, hardy embrowned visages, and apathetic demeanour
of our soldiery, who lounged at the roadside, amused by the passing
crowd. There were the members of the Legislative Assembly in their
embroidered uniforms, some in carriages, some on horseback, others
walking and looking dignified; near them, perhaps, a group of pretty
brunettes, with brilliant black eyes and coquettishly arranged
_cornettes_. Then comes a National Guardsman with his blue and red
uniform, with white breeches and _brown-topped boots_, strutting
along most consequentially, a handkerchief in hand, which ever
and anon he applies to wipe away the dust from his fair face. High
and low, rich and poor, jostle along together; and not the least
remarkable amongst them is the _limonadier_, in his light cotton
jacket and cocked-hat. On his back is suspended a tall machine of
lustrous tin or some such metal, picked out with brass. Its shape
is that of a Chinese pagoda, and from the lower part of it two long
slender leaden pipes, terminating in brass cocks, lead round under
his right arm. _Chemin faisant_, the tumblers which he carries in his
left hand are filled from one or other cock as may be called for,
and handed to his fellow-travellers. One cock furnishes lemonade,
but of the produce of the other I am ignorant--perhaps a light
beer, for the French seem fond of such thin drinks, although the
constant repetition of the words “_Eau de vie_” (sometimes “_Au de
vis_”) indicates that they are not altogether averse to something
more stimulating. In the afternoon I mounted Cossack and joined the
throng. There was no choice but to go at their pace, so completely
filled was the road. The easy, natural, good-humoured manner in which
my companions, right and left, chatted and laughed with me, left no
room to feel one’s self a foreigner, much less an enemy. We were all
“_hail fellow well met_.” Occasional openings allowed me from time
to time to push on, and thus change my company. There was, however,
no difference between them in one respect--I always found my new
friends just as chatty and good-humoured as those left behind.
At Arnouvilles, still following the stream, I was swept into
the palace gardens, and found myself in the midst of a most gay
_fête-champêtre_. All had come provided with a little basket, or
something of the sort, and now, seated round a clean white cloth
spread on the grass, numerous parties were enjoying at once the
coolness and fragrance under the shade of fine trees or thickets
of acacias, laburnums, syringas, &c. &c. Merry laughter, and an
occasional “Vive le Roi!” resounded on all sides, and was from time
to time responded to more loudly by the crowd assembled without, all
anxious to get a sight of their _new old_ King. I longed to try the
same experiment as at Senlis, but did not dare.[10] Handsome young
men of the Garde-de-Corps, in their classical helmets and brilliant
uniforms, were strolling along the gravel walk, their countenances
radiant with joy. I could not but sympathise with them in thus
returning into the bosom of their country, and again meeting with
those dearest to them after an absence which, though short, had at
its commencement promised a most hopeless duration. Indeed, I did
witness more than one tender recognition and affectionate embrace.
In the palace his majesty was holding a levee, which, judging from
the numbers crowding in, must have been very fatiguing work. Whilst
strolling about amidst this scene of festivity, the sharp notes of a
trumpet recalled me to the palace, where I found all bustle. It was
the _bout-selle_ that had sounded, and the Garde-de-Corps was already
formed on parade to accompany the advance of the royal cortège.
As I wished to see this, and had as yet not dined, I returned
forthwith to Garges, which a diminution of the throng fortunately
allowed me to do speedily, and having got my dinner, regained the
highroad (which crosses at the higher end of our village) just as
the cortège and crowd came up. First marched the Garde-de-Corps,
resplendent with steel and silver; then came the Garde Suisse, about
two hundred as handsome young men as can well be imagined, and such
as I never before saw in one body--tall, straight, even genteel
figures. They owed nothing to their dress, which was shabby in the
extreme--old threadbare frock-coats, once blue, now of any colour,
and sufficiently ragged; trousers to match, and mean misshapen
forage-caps; arms and accoutrements all wanting--to be sure, some
of them carried sticks; knapsacks of long-haired goatskins, once
white, but now of a reddish-yellow hue. To these succeeded five or
six 4-pounders, in style and equipment a fitting match for such
soldiers, who, I should have added, marched along very dejectedly, as
if ashamed of their mean appearance. The guns were drawn by little
ragged farmers’ horses, with their own common harness, driven by the
_cultivateur_ himself in his smock-frock, night-cap, and _sabots_;
carriages, deplorably in want of paint, and further disguised by
Belgic mud still adhering to them, were loaded (limbers, trails,
and all) with women, children, and bundles; a few old cannoneers,
quite in keeping with all the rest, walked beside the wheels;--the
whole corps more fit to march through Coventry than to accompany the
triumphal entry of a monarch into his capital, and that eminently
military. The royal carriages, drawn by post-horses, came next,
and in outward appearance were little better than those of his
majesty’s guns. Louis was in the last carriage, and a dense cloud
of pedestrians, with a plentiful admixture of British officers on
horseback, closed the procession. I accompanied the throng as far
as St Denis, which took up a considerable time, since its movements
were necessarily slow. No complimentary movement was made by our
troops, although his majesty passed through the midst of us. The more
curious crowded to the roadside, which was lined by them, but all in
their fatigue-jackets, or even without any--but numbers remained at
their occupations, or sitting smoking at a distance. The brigade of
Highlanders alone cheered as the King passed through their bivouac.
Why was this? Is there any connection between this and the protection
afforded the Stuarts by the Bourbon family? Certain it is that the
Highlanders alone cheered! The entrance to St Denis was almost
impossible, such was the multitude choking up the street, peasantry
as well as citizens; and, as the royal carriages approached, they
made the air ring with their shouts of “Vive le Roi!” “Vivent les
Bourbons!” Only a short month ago, perhaps, these same people, and
on this very spot, had shouted as lustily, “Vive l’Empereur!” “Vive
Napoleon!” “A bas les Bourbons!” &c. &c. I never felt prouder of
being an Englishman! From Garges to St Denis I kept close to the
royal carriage, watching the countenance of his majesty in order
to detect any emotion. He betrayed none. It was calm, serious, and
unvarying in general, occasionally illumined by a faint smile as he
returned salutations, but the smile was evanescent--very--and the
features immediately resumed their calmness. Our troops seemed to
attract considerable interest, particularly the Highlanders; and to
every English officer he paid most marked attention, returning their
salutes with eagerness and punctilio.
CHAPTER XVIII.
_July 8th._--Here I am in heaven, as it were--in _Colombes_!--in a
_perfect paradise_! More of that hereafter. I am sitting scribbling
at last in a handsome room, all to myself! But to begin at the
beginning. This morning was (as usual of late) very fine and very
hot. At an early hour we received orders to hold ourselves in
readiness to march, and understood that we were about to move on the
Loire, where the French army had mustered in force and refused to
acknowledge the capitulation. Hitchins and I had just found a very
pretty little house vacant near our bivouac, and little damaged.
Into this we proposed getting to-day, and were rather disappointed
when the order for moving came. It was no small comfort, however,
to escape from Garges and all its horrors of plundered houses and
bad water. The filth of the bivouac, from such long occupation, was
becoming intolerable, and the water, bad as it was, was failing fast.
Being sufficiently occupied, I did not notice at what hour we
marched, but it must not have been late; for, notwithstanding delays,
we arrived here early in the afternoon--the distance probably six or
seven English miles. A column of cavalry, composed of our brigade
and some other regiments of heavy dragoons, preceded us, and all
together took the road to St Denis. Arrived at the point of junction
of the three chaussées, instead of marching through the town we
struck off to the right. This was not the road to the Loire, and we
were puzzled. Wherever we were going the road was beautiful, and
the cool shade of the green vault under which we marched peculiarly
agreeable in so hot a day. All the country right and left was like a
garden; laid out in little square plots of vegetables or roses, an
astonishing quantity of which flower is grown in this neighbourhood.
Passing through the pretty village of Epinay on the banks of the
Seine, we soon after came to a singular ridge of chalky hills
separating the road on which we marched from the river. Here then we
quitted the chaussée for a cross-road skirting those hills on the
side next the river, which we now understood was to be crossed by a
pontoon bridge thrown across a little lower down.
Quitting the delicious shade of the elms for the open fields, and
these lying on a southern slope, the heat was intense, and when,
getting between vines and fig-trees (of which we found whole fields
here), the little air there was became shut out from us, it was quite
suffocating. The ripe, cool, juicy figs with which the trees were
loaded, relieved us, however; the poor fellows placed to watch these
looked on rather piteously, but we committed no waste nor destruction
beyond eating a few as we went along. These were the first peasantry
we had found in the fields since passing Senlis. All along our route
dead horses in abundance poisoned the air, and marked the line of
operations of Blucher’s army. The bridge was at Argenteuil, another
pretty village; but on arriving there we found so many corps to
pass before us, that, having got into a shady spot, we dismounted
and disposed ourselves to rest. The Seine here appeared to me such
another river as the Thames at Vauxhall Bridge. The ground on our
side sloped rapidly down to it; on the other the banks were low and
rushy, an extent of flat meadow-land lay beyond, and thence arose
gently swelling hills, covered with shrubberies, villages, villas,
&c. The scenery was animated by the masses of our troops and the
novelty of the pontoon bridge, together with the interest excited by
a number of women and pretty girls who brought us in abundance (for
sale) flowers and very fine cherries.
What a change from the sickening, desolated, deserted country we
have left, where everything breathed war! Suddenly we enter a land
of peace, plenty, and happiness, fields covered with luxuriant crops
of various kinds of vegetables, amongst which the large, dark-tinted
leaves of the artichoke predominate; vines, figs, and myriads of
roses are extended over the face of the hills; whilst the meadows
beyond the river exhibit a vast tract of the richest pasture.
Innumerable villages, all full of people; their dwellings comfortable
and in good order. No desertion here; no sign of military exaction or
plundering; no apprehension betrayed at our approach. We are received
as countrymen might be. The people are confiding and happy; nor would
one imagine that the blast of war had passed so near and left them
scathless.
At length our turn to pass arrived, and we crossed the Seine. It
seems there were not pontoons enough by half for this bridge,
consequently what they had were placed at double distance; the
bridge was therefore so weak that the utmost precaution was necessary
in passing it, and our guns and detachments (the latter dismounted
and leading their horses in file) were obliged to go over separately;
but it was also necessary to take the three pair of leaders (eight
horses to a gun) off, and let the wheel horses alone take over the
guns. Even then, each pontoon sank until its gunwale was within two
or three inches of the water as the gun passed over it.
My tutelary genius, Major M’Donald, met me in the meadows, and, as
we rode along together, pointed out a village on a rising ground
peeping through the trees as my destination--the village of Colombes.
“Are we to halt there to-night?” I asked. “Yes, a good many nights;”
and then, for the first time, I learned that our army was going into
cantonments. On entering the village I found we were not to have
it all to ourselves. Bull’s and M’Donald’s troops were here before
me; but as it is very large, and there are plenty of good houses,
we have all got abundance of rooms and capital quarters. The place
consists principally of two long streets, with a good many detached
country-houses of citizens; and as the houses of these streets are
generally two or three storeys, it holds us well. We have divided
the village into three districts: Bull has all the upper end towards
Courbevoie; M’Donald has a fine chateau and park at the bottom of the
hill, in the meadows, with the adjacent parts; I have the end where
the two streets join on the road to Nanterre--by far the pleasantest.
The peasantry all remain here quietly; but whether fled in alarm, or
that it is not the fashion to be seen in the country at this season,
I know not; but, certes, all the villas and better description of
houses are either entirely empty or only a few servants left in them.
Such is the case with this house I now write in. My men and horses
are all well put up with the cultivateurs, and the officers are
superbly lodged in the different _quintas_. My own is charming; and
no one can imagine the delight of such a residence, nor the pleasure
I enjoy at again having a place to myself, and that, too, such a
paradise. One drawback there is; I have been obliged to park my guns
in my own pleasure-grounds--a sad invasion of my privacy this; but
I have made it as little annoyance as possible by forming the park
close to the further gate, with orders to the sentry to allow no one
to pass beyond; and as there is a thick shrubbery between that part
of the grounds and the house, it is completely excluded. Another
very sad one was the loss of my poor old dog Bal, who had been my
companion day and night about eleven years, always sleeping under
my bed or by my side. In 1807 he accompanied us to South America.
On arriving at Colombes he was first missed. I sent Milward back
to Garges, but never heard more of him. _My establishment_ appears
to be small; I have only seen one old man-servant as yet, though I
know there are more. He is extremely obsequious and attentive to my
wants, apparently somewhat alarmed, and not quite certain whether
I mean to eat him up alive or not. He gave me an excellent dinner
to-day and delicious wine--so that he hopes his fate is deferred. A
most luxurious-looking bed tempts me, and as I am somewhat tired,
and more lazy just now, I shall consign myself to it without delay,
and describe my house, &c., to-morrow, when I shall have had time to
examine it more leisurely.
_July 9th._--Hot, beautiful day. A haziness in the atmosphere--the
effect of this great heat--makes the distance quite _dreamy_. After
so many bivouacs and cottage-beds, the delicious sensation with
which I took possession of my voluptuous couch last night is not
to be set forth in words, any more than the puzzled astonishment
with which I gazed around on awaking this morning. It was some time
ere I could clearly recollect where I was--surrounded by everything
rich, beautiful, and luxurious. From my bed, too, I could see the
meadows below, the silver current of the Seine, and the vine-clad
hills beyond. It was impossible to jump up in my usual abrupt manner
immediately on waking. I was loath to bring so much pleasure to a
conclusion, convinced as I was that it must be less keen to-morrow;
so I lay on until hunger reminded me that there were other duties to
attend to--other pleasures to be enjoyed.
I have now completed the inspection of my domain, and a right lovely
one it is. Let me try and preserve a _souvenir_ of it. Architectural
pretension the house has none--its charm consisting in the elegant
and luxurious fitting-up of its interior, together with the exterior
accessories by which it is surrounded. A neat (not small) house
of two storeys, with dormitories under the usual very high roof
characterising most French houses, seated on the very brink of the
rather steep _coteau_, and thus overlooking the meadows, the Seine,
the country beyond; and having in the foreground, and immediately
below it, the fine massed foliage of the noble trees in the park
occupied by Major M’Donald’s troop. From the village you enter by
a _grande porte cochère_ into a neat gravelled courtyard--having
the house in front, offices on the left, and a range of excellent
light airy stables, and one or two coach-houses on the right.
The lower floor of the _corps de logis_ consists of a suite of
handsomely-furnished saloons, in one of which is a billiard-table--a
most delightful solace in such a situation. The end room, having a
large window opening to the floor upon a flight of steps leading
down to a pretty terrace, is ornamented with some good statues. The
corresponding rooms up-stairs are all fitted up as bed-rooms. The
opposite side of the house from the court looks upon a charming
garden presenting every variety of parterre and shrubbery, among
which wind cool and shady walks; whilst the innumerable flowers of
the parterres fill the air with their perfume; and the sparkling
waters of a fountain continually playing under the windows impart
a refreshing coolness and throw an air of romance over the whole.
A broad terrace, overshadowed by linden-trees and acacias, runs
along the edge of the _coteau_ from the end of the house, as above
mentioned, to the extremity of the grounds, commanding a charming
prospect through its whole length, but particularly from its
termination, where, from a picturesque little _kiosk_ seated on an
artificial tumulus-shaped mound, the eye wanders down the sweet
scenery of the valley until in the extreme distance it rests on the
palace and park of St Germain-en-Laye. Masses of roses, carnations,
lavender, geraniums, and a multitude of other flowers, planted in
beds along the upper side of the terrace, contribute their fragrance
to enhance the delight of this lovely walk. Immediately beneath the
terrace, enclosed by a wall covered with vines, and roofed or coved
with large picturesque tiles, is a spacious kitchen and fruit garden,
covered just now by its luxuriant crop of all kinds. The more distant
part of the grounds is laid out in lawns of smooth turf, interspersed
with a variety of shrubs and forest-trees, scattered about singly,
in clumps, or sometimes in close thickets or open groves. A lofty
stone wall encloses three sides of this domain, the terrace forming
a fourth, and a gateway in the further part permits access to my
park without trespassing on my _homestead_. The house is elegantly
furnished with articles of the most costly and luxurious description,
and exquisite statues of white marble decorate the corridors,
staircases, and the large saloon before mentioned. The apartment I
have chosen for myself is immediately over and corresponding to this,
and is a perfect _bijou_; it is fitted up with a taste and splendour
that bespeak the inhabitant at once voluptuous and refined. Separated
from the other apartments by a small antechamber, it occupies the
whole extremity of the house, overlooking the Seine, &c. In this end,
like the saloon below, one large window opening to the floor, but
into an iron balcony, commands a most delicious view. Immediately
below is my well-stocked rich-looking garden; beyond that, yet still,
as it were, under me, the finely-rounded luxuriant masses of foliage
of the stately elms in the park; then stretch out, like a verdant
carpet, the spacious meadows, the sameness of their level expanse
diversified and rendered interesting by thickets of underwood,
bushes, and occasional clumps of trees. These are bounded by the
silvery waters of the Seine, above which rises rather abruptly a
curious chain of hills, round-topped, and broken in places by gypsum
cliffs, their slopes clothed with vineyards, and separated from a
similar isolated hill,[11] evidently a continuation, by a singular
gap, through which is seen a rich country extending far back, and in
the extreme distance the chateau and park of the Montmorenci. The
contrast between the purply haze enveloping this country, and the
more vivid colouring of the nearer landscape, gives it a dreamy and
indescribably mysterious appearance. At the foot of the hills on the
river-bank, and immediately opposite my window, the white buildings
of Argenteuil, mingled with foliage, form a pleasing object, its
church-tower decorated by the sacred _pavillon blanc_, which waves
continually from its upper window. To the left the picturesque little
village of Bezons and its ruined bridge, and beyond a wide extent
of open, not picturesque, though rich country, covered with wheat,
vines, and fig-trees, extends to St Germain--the sombre trees of
whose park terminates the view in that direction. The other windows
look over the garden, and the bubbling, sparkling fountain throws its
glittering drops quite up to them, if not actually cooling the air,
at least refreshing to the imagination. Here the view is bounded by
the thick foliage of the shrubbery; but the contrast between this
and the extended view from the balcony only serves to enhance the
one and the other. The balmy fragrance arising from the parterres,
the splashing of the water, and the cheerful songs of innumerable
birds, with which the trees are filled, make this a most luscious
apartment. But for the interior!--the walls are nearly covered with
large mirrors, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, encased in
frames richly carved and gilt. The compartments between these are
filled up with fine engravings or drawings. In a recess (as the
French fashion is) stands a spacious and sumptuous bed, which may be
concealed at pleasure by curtains of green silk with deep rich yellow
fringe. The bedstead is of mahogany, highly varnished, sculptured,
and enriched with gilt ornaments, but looks unfinished to an English
eye not yet accustomed to the absence of posts and curtains. The bed
itself the most luxurious and fastidious must be content with; the
silk counterpane matches the curtains of the recess; the enormous
pillows, encased in the finest and most delicately white linen, are
edged with rich lace; the sheets are as the pillow-cases, and in
texture rival cambric. An elegant little table, standing between the
two side windows, serves as a stand for beautiful vases of Sevres
porcelain, holding large bouquets of the choicest productions of
the garden; a large round table of mahogany, covered with oil-cloth
and edged with gilt bronze, occupies the middle of the floor;--the
rest of the furniture, in short, is of a piece, and the accessories
of a bedroom are of porcelain or fine crystal. A little door beside
the recess opens into a narrow passage leading round to the rear of
the house, where a small cabinet, lined with mahogany and lighted
by an _œil de bœuf_, leaves no want on the score of conveniences
unsupplied. At the other end of the room a small closet, fitted as a
library, contains a collection of the most splendid editions of the
best French authors. Here, however, the voluptuary was conspicuous;
the licentiousness of Voltaire, Louvet, and others, is innocence
itself compared to many works in this collection. My establishment
consists of the old butler (Monsieur Ferdinand), the gardener, the
cook, and, I believe, a girl as a scrub. These, with the addition of
William and my two grooms, make up a snug little family. M. Ferdinand
is attentive, and seems solicitous to please. Cook sent me up
yesterday a remarkably nice dinner; and the gardener brought a fine
fresh bouquet this morning for my vases, which he promises to do
daily, also fruit for my dessert. My larder seems well stocked, and
so does my cellar, for I had a bottle of excellent wine yesterday;
therefore I have every reason to be satisfied with my good fortune.
The houses in which my officers lodge are all either entirely or
nearly deserted; so that, having the only convenience for the
purpose, I have acceded to their request, and allowed our mess to be
established here, though it is hardly fair upon the proprietor, on
whose resources we shall draw largely; however, I have given orders
for the dinner to be prepared to-day, and M. Ferdinand has made no
scruples.
_July 10th._--Splendid morning, but heat excessive. Sorry to say that
at the parade this morning I found we had no less than thirty horses
with sore backs. This is terrible! but I know others are worse.
Yesterday we dined together, and a capital dinner and excellent wine
we had. After dinner, the evening being so fine, Hitchins, Breton,
and I, mounted our horses for an exploration. We first crossed the
meadows to the river, and rode a little way along the banks; at the
ferry we found the ferryman asleep in his boat, and I could not
prevent Breton from launching him into the stream--how far he went
down we have not yet heard. This was childish, certainly. Quitting
the river-bank we made for a high hill, whence we expected a view
of Paris. _Chemin faisant_, we stumbled on some singular quarries,
immense caverns cut in the soft calcareous stone, and going farther
in than we thought it prudent to follow. These were in the middle of
the fields, in the low ground between Colombes and Nanterre. As we
enjoy the privilege of travelling over fields, &c., and are therefore
quite independent of roads, we made straight for the hill, and gained
its summit just as the sun was setting in all the glory of a fine
summer’s evening. We had judged rightly, for Mont Valerien (so it is
called in my map) commands a most lovely view. Before us all Paris
lay extended as in a plan; we could see every part of it, and even
the far-away country beyond. Here was no dingy, orange-coloured
smoke, like that which obscures the London atmosphere, and blackens
the country for miles round. _Au contraire_, the clearness of the
Parisian atmosphere was scarcely deteriorated by the very light
transparent vapour floating over the city, which rather increased
the interest and beauty of the scene by the softened outlines, and
by the rich purply tint communicated to all parts of the landscape
seen through it. The country immediately around, and the slopes
of the hill itself on which we stood, had the appearance of one
vast and productive garden, being divided into rectangular patches
planted with rose-bushes, cherry-trees, vines, fig-trees, artichokes
and several other sorts of culinary vegetables, all growing in the
greatest luxuriance, and presenting a most extraordinary mass of
verdure. Amongst all this, the white walls and red-tiled roofs of
several neat villages and picturesque villas harmonised charmingly.
The foot of the hill towards Paris was washed by the gently-flowing
waters of the Seine, on whose placid bosom a few boats occasionally
appeared.
The lively verdure of a long narrow strip of meadow-land lying on
the opposite bank of the river, and the white walls of several
large-windowed Italian-like houses bordering on them, contrasted
strongly with the sombre tones of the Bois de Boulogne behind
them, amongst whose thickets several columns of blue smoke, and a
line of white tents seen here and there on the lawns, attested the
presence of some part of our army. Along the line of the river were
the villages of St Cloud, with its bridge; Suresnes, Puteaux, and
Neuilly, from the end of whose bridge a most superb avenue of elms
stretched away toward the city. Beyond could clearly be discerned
the column of Austerlitz, the dome of the Pantheon, Nôtre Dame, with
its high-pointed façade, circular window, and two flanking Gothic
towers. A little to our right the elegant dome of the Invalides,
its gilded decorations glittering in the last rays of the setting
sun; the cream-coloured portico of the Hotel de Bourbon; and the
more deep-toned architecture of the Hotel des Monnaies and its dome.
Still further to the right the scene was closed by the wooded heights
of Bellevue, which appeared continuous with the Park of St Cloud.
These, wrapped in deep shadow, formed a mass of sombre verdure,
balancing well the other parts of this brilliant picture. In the
distance beyond the city were the smiling heights of Belleville,
covered with villages and country-houses, gradually descending into
the vale of the Seine, of whose waters an occasional glimpse might
be caught winding their tortuous way like silver threads through
the rich plain. To the left the buildings of the city spread up
the steep slopes of Montmartre, the summit of which presented a
formidable appearance with its lines of fortifications. Windmills
and a telegraph occupied the higher end of its ridge, whilst that
next us terminated in a perpendicular precipice, the white face
of which overhung the tufted groves of Monceaux and Clichy. Still
further to the left extended the plains of St Denis, yellow with the
golden harvest, beyond which arose the town and abbey. The horizon
on this side was bounded by a low range of blue hills, of pleasing
though not very varied outline. The balmy softness of the evening
air--the varied noises, softened by distance, arising from the
village below--the sounds of music, mirth, and revelry coming up
more distinctly,--all contributed to heighten the interest of this
charming panorama. Long did we linger on Mont Valerien, until the
coming shades of night reminded us that we were strangers to the
intricate maze of vineyards, &c., which we must traverse to regain
Colombes, and we turned our backs on the lovely scene.
_July 13th._--This is our first wet day. Hitchins and I went to Paris
this morning; but the rain set in so much in earnest that we returned
forthwith, and I have devoted the remainder of the day to bringing
up my leeway; for, between much occupation and much idleness, I have
let my journal drop astern, and now I hardly know how to begin what
I have to record, which, though trifling for others, is to me worth
its weight in gold--at least will be so years hence.
_Imprimis_, then, I have discovered my landlord to be a M.
L’Eguillon, who is an old bachelor (seventy-four years of age), and
resides in a handsome town-house, Rue des Enfans Rouges. He is said
to be very rich, but I cannot find out whether he has or had any
employment under Government. I find that I can in some measure repay
him for my good living here by sending his hay, oats, or anything
else he may want, under an escort, as otherwise it would not be
allowed to pass the _barrière_.[12] I suppose Ferdinand has reported
us as good people, for I have received a most polite and obliging
note asking this favour, and at the same time assuring me that
Ferdinand has orders to pay us every attention. I sent Bombardier
Ross up the other day, as he speaks French, with a load of hay, and
he reported that nothing could exceed the kindness with which he was
treated, and that the old gentleman’s town residence is a magnificent
one. A very pretty girl of sixteen (Mademoiselle Ernestine), whom
the servants call his niece, lives with him. There seems a mystery,
however, in the matter, for the gossips of the village declare she is
not his niece. It is Mademoiselle Ernestine’s apartment which I have
taken possession of, it seems.
Up to the present moment nothing could have been more delightful
than my residence here--so much so, that it was some time before I
could tear myself away from it to go to Paris, though only about
six English miles distant, and then with reluctance. To me the
country at all times has so many charms, and the city so few, that
it is never without regret that I exchange the one for the other.
Situated as I am here, during this fine season, and surrounded by
luxuries, it is a hard task to think of sacrificing even a single
day to the close, disagreeable streets of a large town. Rinaldo
in the gardens of Armida was not more completely enthralled than
I am in this little paradise. On first awaking in the morning, my
delighted ear is saluted by the melodious warble of innumerable
pretty songsters in the shrubbery, which comes accompanied by the
soft murmurs and splash of the fountain. My toilette occupies a much
longer time here than it ever did anywhere else, so great is the
luxury of wandering about in a dressing-gown: finished, however,
it must be, and then I descend to my stable, talk nonsense to my
horses, examine poor Cossack’s wounds, which were not improved by
our lengthened march, and then stroll into my garden, cool my palate
with some of the delicious fruit, take a turn or two on the terrace
under the linden-trees, look at St Germain, think of the unfortunate
James who died there in exile, then at Argenteuil, where Heloise
pined for her mutilated lover, return to my penetralia and find
that William has arranged a delicious little breakfast. A parade of
the troop in the village street follows; a visit to the quarters,
stables, &c.; an inspection of carriages; concluding with a little
peroration with Farrier Price and Wheeler Rockliff. All this occupies
the first part of the morning; the remainder is passed in lounging
about the village, visiting the other troops, or wandering about my
own delightful grounds; sometimes a game at billiards, sometimes a
little scribbling. So pass my mornings. Five o’clock usually finds
us all assembled in the _salle de compagnie_ awaiting M. Ferdinand’s
annunciation, “On vient de servir, M. le Commandant,” throwing open
the _battants_ with a bow and an air worthy a groom of the chambers.
Dinner consists of a _potage_ and several other dishes, always
excellent; it is followed by a dessert of fine fruit from my _own_
garden. Our wines, too, are not only of the best quality, but we
have an astonishing variety--in short, we live like fighting-cocks.
After passing a reasonable time at table, and drinking a reasonable
allowance of M. Eguillon’s wine, we break up for the evening. Some
resort to the billiard-room, some to the neighbouring troops, and I
either take a ride or saunter about my terrace as I did in the avenue
at Strytem, smoking some of the few remaining excellent cigars I
have brought all the way from Brussels--doubly precious now, since I
find there are none such to be got in Paris. Cigars are, I think, a
government monopoly here as in Spain--at least there is some mystery
which I don’t understand further than that the French Government has
been concerned in forcing the lieges to smoke bad cigars or none at
all. Only two kinds are procurable here: the one, a little black
thing made of the commonest tobacco, they call Dutch, _des cigars
Hollandais_; the other, a large cigar of very common bad tobacco
also, has a wheaten straw stuck into it to suck the smoke through;
and this, besides the villanous taste of the tobacco, burns your
palate horribly.
The other evening I had retired after dinner to the terrace to enjoy,
as usual, the charms of a fine sky and fine landscape. Twilight crept
gradually over the valley, and, by obscuring the distant parts,
allowed play to imagination, and gave additional interest to the
scenery. Light airs from time to time sighed amongst the overhanging
foliage; the joyous laugh of the villagers comes softened on the
breeze, united with the monotonous splash of the fountain. I had
seated myself in the little _kiosk_ at the end of the terrace; the
smoke of my cigar arose lazily in the air; my eyes were fixed on the
silver Seine, and my mind travelling over again the events of the
last three or four weeks, drawing comparisons between the feverish
excitement prevailing through the former but greater part of that
time, and the delicious tranquillity of the present, when suddenly
the grating sound of angry voices wounded my ear and dissipated my
reverie. I listened; the speakers appeared to be at our park, or near
it. There were English voices and foreign of some sort. A quarrel
between my men and the natives, no doubt. But how came the latter
in the grounds? The voices became louder and fiercer; there was a
rattling of sabres, too. Good heavens! are the French renewing the
Sicilian Vespers? Whilst asking myself this question, I was already
hurrying along the tortuous path leading to that part of the grounds,
and soon came upon the scene of action. Here I found Quartermaster
Hall and several gunners struggling with our hussars of Brunswick,
whose horses, bridled and saddled, seemed the objects of contention
from the way in which they were alternately seized by one or the
other and most unceremoniously dragged about by both.
High words and threatening gestures, pulling and scuffling, seemed
the order of the day, but no blows were interchanged. Both parties
seemed equally enraged, but neither understood the other,--for one
swore in German, the other in English; the gestures, however, spoke a
sort of universal language which all parties comprehended perfectly.
At the moment of my arrival one of the hussars, having rescued his
horse from the grip of his opponent, had raised his foot to the
stirrup, and was in the act of mounting, when an athletic gunner,
seizing him by the waist, swung him to some distance, rolling on
the turf. The fellow, springing up again, had half drawn his sabre
as I emerged from the shrubbery with an authoritative “_Halt da!_”
which was instantly obeyed by all; whilst old Hall, the moment he
saw me, cried, “They are off, sir--they are going off.” The hint was
sufficient. I despatched a gunner with orders to the guard to shut
the iron gates and allow none to pass, then proceeded to investigate
the origin of this quarrel. I had placed these people in the grounds
from the first, that they might be more under surveillance. They
have a tent for themselves, and their horses are picketed near our
guns. This I have found necessary, from the sulky mutinous spirit
they have always evinced since the first day of joining us. They
have always been a source of considerable worry to me, and have been
getting worse lately. According to their own account, they are all
_volunteers_ and _gentlemen_; therefore they feel very severely the
degradation of their present position, particularly being put under a
vile commissary, whom they affect to treat with the utmost contempt.
Their present complaint was about their bread, which they said “was
not even fit for _common soldiers_;” and they accused Mr Coates of
having purposely given them this bread as an insult. In their rage
they had saddled their horses with the intention of returning home,
or the Lord knows where, when Hall interfered, and the scuffle took
place. The corporal (a fine young man) was particularly indignant,
and held forth most vehemently on what was due to a gentleman, partly
in German, partly in French. Hall’s insolence he spoke of with great
bitterness, giving me to understand that he expected my men should
pay him somewhat of the same deference as to their own officers.
My answer to all this was short: “The bread is of the same quality
as that served out to our own men; therefore, if the _gentlemen_
disliked it, they might leave it. As to their rank in civil society,
I know nothing about it; they were put under my orders as any other
soldiers, and as such should do their duty.” Two or three of the
most refractory I made prisoners of, and if they still remained
discontented, they at least remained quiet. This disturbance,
however, spoilt my evening; so, having consumed my cigar whilst
lecturing the gentlemen, I retired to my room and spent an hour or
two over Voltaire’s ‘Philosophical Dictionary.’
Notwithstanding the raptures in which our people spoke of Paris,
which some of them visited the very first evening of our coming
here, yet it was only a day or two ago that I could tear myself from
the country and go thither. The village and _les villageois_ had
not yet lost the freshness of novelty. Strolling about the street
gossiping with the people has been a source of infinite amusement
to me, and I have been much interested in observing their peculiar
manners and habits. The harvest, which has just commenced, causes
considerable stir in the village, as all the produce of the fields
is brought to be stored in their granaries here. The villages round
Paris have anything but a rural aspect: houses of stone, roofed
either with tiles or slates, from two to three and even four storeys
high; large windows, like those of town houses; the attics are their
granaries, hay-lofts, &c., and a window or door, furnished with a
crane and tackle similar to those of our merchants’ stores, furnishes
the means of hoisting in the sheaves, bundles of hay, &c. The
consequence of this is, that our streets are all in a bustle--loaded
carts continually arriving from the fields, and drawing up under
the entrance-window of their respective houses. Bundles and sheaves
are mounting into the air, and various gossiping groups are formed
below. The peasantry in this neighbourhood are almost all of them
proprietors of the lands they cultivate. As with us, the law obliges
every man to put his name, &c., on his cart; so we see continually
“Jacques Bonnemain, cultivateur,” “Jean le Mery, propriétaire,” &c.
The figures composing these street-groups are sturdy well-made men;
much more active and springy than our clowns, although sufficiently
rustic. Their costume, too, widely differs from everything we
are accustomed to associate with rusticity. The bronzed visage,
surrounded by its setting of black locks, surmounted by the _bonnet
de nuit_, usually white, or having once been so, round jackets of
blue-striped cotton stuff, and trousers of the same--bare feet,
thrust into a pair of clumsy _sabots_, complete the costume. Amongst
the young men and boys I have remarked a much greater proportion
of handsome intelligent faces than one usually sees in any English
village; our rustics are generally coarse-featured, and have a most
unintellectual expression of face. The French peasant not only has
the advantage in point of person and carriage, but infinitely so in
his address. The women partake of the labours of the field, and enter
largely into the composition of our village groups. Their general
costume is not unpicturesque. They are always without gowns, the
exposed stays (not always very clean) sometimes laced up, sometimes
quite loose and open; blue and white, or pink-striped petticoats;
neck partially covered by a coloured handkerchief (_fichu_[13]);
the head by another, gracefully turned round it, something in the
shape of a turban;[14] large gold or silver hoops in the ears, and a
small cross of the same suspended by a black ribbon from the neck;
stockings of grey or blue thread, or bare legs; large _sabots_,
the insteps frequently garnished with a strip of rabbit-skin. Such
are our village belles. At a superficial glance one does not see
amongst them such gradations from youth to age as among our own
women. All are either old or young, hideously ugly, or pretty, or
very pretty. About the age of puberty (which seems to be earlier than
with us), they become masculine and coarse, though still handsome.
But about thirty (or earlier, if they have children) they lose all
pretensions to good looks, and immediately assume the appearance
of old age--wrinkled, skinny, with sunken cheeks, hollow eyes--and
such necks! Like the men, these women are vastly superior to our
female peasantry in carriage of person and in manners. The former is
invariably erect and commanding, giving to the ugliest old woman an
air of dignity never or very rarely to be met with among our working
classes, and not always amongst our ladies. Some of the young ones,
well made and tall, with their firm determined step, are really
majestic creatures.
The ordinary diet of these people seems little calculated to enable
them to go through the portion of hard labour that falls to their
lot. Bread, black, coarse, dry, and diabolically sour, a bit of
hard tasteless cheese, compose the usual breakfast and dinner, with
the occasional addition of haricots, or some other vegetables; for
supper, broth (_potage aux herbes_), in which a bit of lard or some
kind of grease is melted to give it richness and perhaps flavour.
Their beverage is a poor sort of _vin du pays_, very sour, and
very inferior to the sound rough cider used in our apple-counties,
Hereford and Devon. In the _cabarets_ beer is to be had of a pleasant
quality, although not strong. The _bonne double bierre de Mars_ is of
a superior caste, and, when bottled (as it is sold), a refreshing,
agreeable drink in hot weather.
March is to their brewers what October is to ours. This _bierre de
Mars_ (from the month, I presume) one would suppose exclusively
military, from the numerous coloured prints stuck on the
window-shutters of most _cabarets_, representing officers and
soldiers in the acts of drawing, pouring out, or drinking this
favourite tipple. The most common of these represents two officers
in _grande tenue_, plumed hats, swords by their sides, spurs on
the heel, &c., seated at a small round table. Each holds in the
right hand an uncorked bottle, in the left a tumbler, the _bierre_
rising in a jet from the bottles, forming two intersecting arches,
terminating precisely in the opposite and apposite tumblers. The
shutters frequently bear both pictorial and scriptorial annunciations
not a little amusing. I have seen numbers on our march, but thought
no more of them; and it was only the other day, at Courbevoie, that
“_audevie à vandre_” upon a shutter gave rise to the idea of making a
collection of them. The universal “_Ici on loge à pied et à cheval_”
is parallel to our entertainment for man and horse.
I have before noticed that on arriving here we found all the gentry
fled. That was not quite the truth. A few days since I discovered
that a certain handsome house, in Bull’s quarter of the village,
is still inhabited by the proprietor, an old lady of seventy (la
Marquise de * * *), very partial to, because somehow connected with,
the English, and therefore remaining at home in full confidence of
good treatment. She has judged rightly; not a soul has trespassed
upon her except as visitors, of which she is very proud, and holds
a sort of daily levee, which we sometimes find a convenient lounge.
Brought up in the Court of Louis XVI., Madame la Marquise is a strict
observer of all the etiquette of the old _régime_. A light active
figure, and a natural (or perhaps assumed) sprightliness of manner,
added to a very juvenile costume, give her at a little distance
quite the appearance of a girl. A nearer approach, however, spite of
rouge, &c., most liberally applied, betrays the _septuagénaire_. At
my first visit I found this extraordinary old woman alone, dressed,
and evidently expecting visitors. I introduced myself, and was
received with almost affectionate kindness. Our _tête-à-tête_ was a
long one, for she would make me listen to the whole of her family
history, and how one of her ancestors, having married some English
lady of rank, she considers herself _à moitié Anglaise_. She was not
content with telling me her history, but showed me her whole house
and gardens (both very handsome and in excellent order), even her
own boudoir, _chambre à coucher_, &c. On taking leave she exacted
a promise of being a good neighbour, which I have endeavoured to
perform by devoting to her a small portion of my leisure time. It
is to her that I am obliged for breaking the spell that bound me to
the village, and at last _visiting Paris_. The other morning she
expressed such unfeigned astonishment at my want of curiosity that
I resolved to see the place forthwith, if only for a few minutes.
Accordingly, after dinner I mounted Nelly, and set off by what I
guessed must be the road thither. The day had been exceedingly hot,
the roads were very dusty, and, half irresolute, I rode slowly over
the uninteresting parched-up plain between Colombes and Courbevoie,
made disgusting, moreover, by the trodden-down corn and carcasses
of horses, &c., which marked the old bivouacs. The handsome cavalry
barracks for the Imperial Guard at the entrance of Courbevoie
detained me a moment, and then I descended the winding shabby street,
and came suddenly on the beautiful Pont de Neuilly. The lovely
scenery here, above and below the bridge, and the magnificent avenue
beyond it, put an end to my Paris trip. For the life of me I could
not resolve to exchange such scenery, and pass such an evening in the
streets of a city, however fine they might be. This bridge, and the
one at St Maxence, are elegant things, certainly; but the straight
line, which is one of their great beauties, must not be claimed by
the architects as an original idea. The Roman bridges at Alcantra and
elsewhere no doubt have been their prototypes. I found here defences
similar to those at St Denis--the road to the bridge broken up and
obstructed by carts, and a sort of abatis; this was commanded by a
2-gun battery, built across the road on the Paris side, secured at
each flank by a stockade. These mementos of war were unpleasing
objects certainly, yet they could not divert the mind from the sweet
scenery on every side. The Seine came gliding tranquilly along
through green meadows, fringed with willows, bordered on each side by
villages and villas; several verdant islands, also, decorated with
large umbrageous willows, divided its stream into different channels,
on which floated boats of various descriptions--some plain and of
coarse construction, laden with goods; others of a more elegant
construction, gaily painted, and filled with joyous light-hearted
people, already forgetful of the downfall of their idolised
Emperor--of their national glory tarnished--even that, in these
their moments of mirth and recreation, they were in the presence of
their conquerors--of their ancient enemy. British soldiers stood on
the river-bank as they passed along--British soldiers occupied the
barracks of the late Imperial Guard, under which lay their course,
and yet the laugh was as joyous, the countenances as bright, as they
could have been after the bulletins of Austerlitz or Jena. Not so, I
ween, on the slimy Thames had England fallen as low, were London the
cantonment of French legions.
A most superb avenue is the road which gradually ascends from the
Pont de Neuilly to the Barrière de l’Etoile, the unfinished works of
which terminate this unrivalled perspective. I forget whether there
are two or four rows of elms on either side--and such trees! This
splendid road was alive with carriages, equestrians, and pedestrians,
as I rode up it to the _barrière_; and here another magnificent
scene burst upon me. Hence the road descended gradually towards the
city, handsome houses, and even rows of houses, intermingling with
the masses of foliage on either side; and far away, in hazy, dreamy
distance, this avenue was terminated by the heavy but imposing mass
of the Tuileries, with the spotless banner of ancient France waving
gracefully in the evening breeze from the elevated central mass. I
returned from this interesting excursion just as the fading tints of
the western sky began to sober down into the greys of twilight. My
curiosity was excited by this peep of Paris, and the next morning
actually found me riding slowly down from the Barrière de l’Etoile
towards the Place Louis Quinze, delighted with the novelty of the
scene by which I was surrounded. On either side of the road, among
the noble trees, were handsome houses, the large open windows and
balconies of which were filled with green shrubs and brilliant
flowers. Beyond these I came to a wide open space everywhere
covered with trees, but poor ones compared to the giants forming
the avenue. Under these a regiment of English hussars, and a band
of Cossacks, were in bivouac together--a novel and amusing scene.
The soldiers and their horses were objects of curiosity (English as
well as Cossacks) to a crowd of idle Parisians who stood by, not in
silent contemplation of the _strange animals_, but chattering like
a pack of monkeys, and explaining what they saw to those of their
neighbours less gifted with the powers of conception. Carriages,
too, as they passed, and groups of young men on horseback (looking
half-military, half-bourgeois, from their mustachioed upper lips,
erect carriage, holstered saddles, and cavalry bridles), paused to
contemplate the foreign bivouac. If these last were amused with my
countrymen and their friends, I was no less so with them. There was
something irresistibly comic in their self-satisfied air as they
paraded their managed cats of steeds before the fair ones in the
carriages, and the affected, contemptuous looks they cast on the
hardy fellows who had so recently chased their own braves (perhaps
some of themselves) from Brussels to Paris. The equipages, too,
were worthy of notice: they reminded me of Ireland--“_Nothing of
a piece_.” Handsome carriage, well-dressed servants, dog-horses
and shabby harness; or shabby servant and beautiful horse, new
harness, and an old jarvey of a carriage--the fair dames within
invariably smart. No comparison can be instituted between French
and English equipages. The neatness and perfect completeness,
beauty, finish, lightness, and goodness--all are on the side of
the latter. Their cabriolet, however, is something _sui generis_,
and worthy of admiration. They are generally drawn by one horse,
sometimes a postilion on a second horse attached as an outrigger.
It was one of these that captivated my fancy near the _barrière_.
Such a turn-out! The carriage was just like other cabriolets, only
a very smart one; and here I must acknowledge an exception to what
I have just written--the whole _was_ of a piece--good, smart, and
respectable; but, _mon Dieu!_ what a spectacle! The heavy harness
under which the horses were almost buried was covered with plated
buckles, bosses, &c. On the outrigger sat a fine, well-made fellow,
six feet if an inch, erect as a grenadier. On his head an enormous
cocked-hat, bound with broad silver lace and loop, stuck square on;
a blue coat, collar, skirts, and sleeves, all covered with silver
lace; the clothing of his nether limbs hid in a tremendous pair of
boots, sticking six inches above his slightly-bent knee, and armed
with a most formidable pair of spurs; like all the rest of them,
riding exceedingly long, consequently bumping along at a moderate
trot with most imperturbable gravity. How I should have liked to see
this equipage trotting down St James’s Street! A passer-by, of whom
I asked the question, informed me that this was Les Champs Elysées.
I could hardly credit him. What! the far-famed, much-vaunted,
much-bescribbled Champs Elysées! Impossible!--or, if true, what a
disappointment! I hardly know what sort of an idea I had formed of
the Champs Elysées--certainly nothing like the reality. No turf, no
verdure, in short, no fields, but a gravelly dusty space, surrounded
nearly by buildings, and barely shaded from the scorching sun by a
parcel of miserable-looking half-grown trees, sufficiently powdered
to conceal whatever verdure they might have. If ever the grass had
grown here, every trace was now obliterated. Bivouacs are sadly
destructive of nature’s beauties. “Thus, then,” said I, “here is one
illusion dissipated. Let us see farther, perhaps all will equally
vanish in smoke and dust.” A certain feeling of exultation, a
tumultuous rising of spirits came over me as I rode into the Place
Louis Quinze, and pulling up, regardless of the moving throng of
people, contemplated at my leisure the scene around me. I have now
got a map and a ‘Guide de Paris,’ both of which I have since had
opportunities of elucidating or confirming by inquiry and _vivâ voce_
evidence. Then, I knew not that I stood precisely on the same spot
where the martyrdom of Louis Seize and the fair Marie Antoinette had
been consummated. I knew that the walls in front of me as I entered
the Place from the Champs Elysées were the ramparts of the Tuileries;
that the bowery trees which overtopped them were in the gardens; and
that the immense pile seen again over these was the chateau itself:
but I did not know that the magnificent ranges of buildings, with
their rich sculptures and Corinthian colonnades on my left, were
those of the Garde Meuble; nor that the fine but short perspective
by which they were separated was the Rue de la Concorde; nor that
the handsome bridge on my right was the Pont de la Concorde, and the
imposing portico which reared its lofty Corinthian columns beyond was
the entrance to the Salle des Representatifs. Although ignorant of
the names and destinations of the noble objects, I could not but be
sensible of their effect individually and as an _ensemble_; and I
did acknowledge that nothing could be more imposing, more strikingly
magnificent, than this entrance to the city of Paris.
Every faculty absorbed in the contemplation of the various and
varied novelties around me, I progressed mechanically, and without
knowing or seeking to know where I was going, found my way down
the Rue de Rivoli, and so into the Place Vendome, where the column
of Austerlitz, by its beautiful workmanship, and the historical
recollections associated with it, arrested my course for some time.
Strange, however, that a nation like France should borrow from
Rome--that she could not produce an original idea to commemorate a
great national triumph. It is nevertheless a superb monument; and
at least the idea of using the guns taken in the battle to decorate
the city--was not _that_ an original idea? The Place itself I do not
like. Its houses are certainly fine, and uniformly built, but the
style is heavy, the material dismal, and the want of _trottoirs_
gives the whole the air of a “mews.” In approaching the Place
Vendome by the Rue Castiglione, I crossed the Rue St Honoré, the
busy stream flowing along which would have induced me to follow it,
but the column in front drew me forward like a magnet. The streets
of Paris are infinitely more amusing than those of London, inasmuch
as they everywhere teem with animation, from the pavements to the
roofs. Nowhere do we meet such long, tiresome, dull avenues of brick
and mortar as Baker Street, Gore Street, Gloucester Place, &c. In
London, “home’s home,” &c.--and when people are at home, they like
quietude and retirement. In Paris _au contraire_, people cannot
exist in quietude, and solitude is abominated. To see and be seen
seems the universal maxim. The varied forms of the houses, too, and
the still more varied styles of ornament, render the streets much
more picturesque and interesting in Paris than in London. There is
something very picturesque and interesting, I think, in the immense
long perspectives between the tall houses of such streets as the
Rue de Richelieu, into which I was led by the Rue Neuve des Petits
Champs. This is the Bond Street of Paris, and is a most amusing one.
Here every thing savoured of the fashionable world. Shops of a more
respectable description richly decorated; goods of the most costly
kind arranged for display with a very superior degree of taste and
even elegance. Numerous equipages with liveried attendants driving
about or waiting at the doors. Numberless loungers sauntering up
and down, or philandering in the shops, a striking feature among
these the foreign officers, particularly English, all indicating
the Rue de Richelieu as the focus of fashionable resort. After all,
however, there is something about this as well as all the other
streets of Paris, with a few exceptions--such as the Rue de Rivoli,
de la Concorde, de la Paix, and some part of the Boulevard--that
displeases an Englishman’s eye and nose. The buildings in general
have a worn and shabby appearance; their great height, and the
narrowness of the thoroughfare, throws a degree of darkness and gloom
over everything; but, above all, the olfactory nerves are continually
offended by a certain pervading odour, difficult to be accounted
for, since it is everywhere the same--not arising from any visible
cause, but omnipresent and unvarying. In the Rue de Richelieu not
all the fragrant odours issuing from that _magazin_ of odours, the
Cloche d’Or, and fifty others, were sufficient to overpower this most
unsavoury of smells. It may be said to characterise Paris--to stamp
it as the sulphureous city. My attention was attracted by a broad
avenue crossing one end of it, and along which flowed a dense and
continuous stream of passengers and carriages. I directed my horse’s
head thither, and in a few minutes found myself in the Boulevard
des Italiens. The excitement and interest of that moment will not
soon be forgotten. The breadth of the street, the mixture of trees
and houses, the number and variety of the immense multitude moving
on, all contributed for a moment to electrify me, and I should have
forgotten Colombes and the lateness of the hour had not Hitchins at
that moment rode up and asked me if I was not going home to dinner.
Colombes and M. Ferdinando’s good cheer regained their sway, and we
trotted off together, vowing an early return to explore the wonders
of this mine of novelty and excitement.
CHAPTER XIX.
_July 17th._--Alas! how transient is all earthly happiness! To-morrow
I quit Colombes and my delightful residence for ever; except, indeed,
I pay it a casual visit, and that I shall hardly have heart to do. A
few short days passed in this elysium have endeared it to me beyond
expression, and, spite of certain little differences, M. Ferdinand
and I have become quite friends. The old man’s manner is always so
kind that I really believe he likes me; but then these French are
consummate _blagueurs_. Our principal quarrel has been invariably
about wine. At first he always produced such as would have done
honour to any table, but by degrees he began from time to time to
introduce a bottle of inferior quality. It was, however, too late;
our palates were formed, and could bear nothing but the best, which
we insisted on having, spite of his equivocations and harangues to
prove to us that we were no judges of wine. Some droll scenes have
arisen out of this; for we discovered that M. Ferdinand has the
greatest horror of our invading his territory, and availed ourselves
of the discovery whenever he tried to play us a trick. Nothing could
be more comical than the expression which his countenance assumed on
these occasions. “Ferdinand!” “Monsieur!” “Ce vin ci n’est pas bon!”
“Ce vin n’est pas bon, monsieur?” arching his grey eyebrows. “Non, il
est exécrable, vilain.” “Mais, monsieur,” with emphasis, “c’est du
meilleur vin de la cave, je vous assure;” and then, with an “Excusez,
monsieur!” he takes the bottle, pours a little wine into the palm of
his hand, tastes it, makes a grimace indicative of pleasure, rubs
down his stomach with feigned ecstasy, and exclaims, “Dieu merci,
comme il est excellent!” “Eh bien, M. Ferdinand, vous ne savez plus
plaire à notre gout; allez vous en, cherchez une chandelle et la clef
de la cave, j’y descendrai choisir moi-même,” &c. &c. This always
produced the desired effect--the comic expression of his countenance
would give place to one of extreme anxiety. “Tenez, monsieur!--tenez!
cela ne sera pas bon; la cave est si obscure, si humide. Ah, je ne
le permettrai jamais. Si monsieur le trouve bon, je descendrai
chercher d’autre vin, et peut-être je serais plus heureux.” Without
waiting for a reply, he would brush off with the activity of a man
twenty years younger. In due time, allowing for the supposed search,
re-enter M. Ferdinand with a joyous countenance and bottle in hand,
from which, the long cork duly extracted, he would deliberately
fill a _large_ glass, look exultingly around, and, making a most
profound bow (without, however, spilling one drop), drink “au
bonheur de Monsieur le Commandant et des braves Anglais,” then
triumphantly plant the bottle on the table with renewed assurances
of the excellence of its contents, which we invariably found to be
perfectly true. On the whole, however, as I before said, we were
excellent friends, and Monsieur le Commandant a special favourite
with honest Ferdinand, whose attentions were unremitting. It grieves
me, certainly, leaving Colombes--but go I must.
Yesterday Sir George Wood received despatches from Lord Mulgrave
appointing Sir John May and Major William Lloyd to the two troops
vacant by the deaths of Ramsay and Bean. This is a disappointment,
for I had fully expected one of them; however, it is somewhat
softened by the handsome manner in which his lordship directs that
I be retained as a supernumerary captain of horse-artillery until a
vacancy may occur, which it is known must be soon, for poor Lloyd
is too severely wounded to survive. But the worst part of the story
is, that my old troop, in which I have now been nine years, is to be
taken from me and given to Major Wilmot, who has just arrived from
England, and I am to go to D Troop, late Bean’s, now Lloyd’s, and no
doubt soon to be mine. This morning Sir Augustus Frazer inspected
G Troop, previously to my giving it up to Wilmot, in the field by
the side of the road from Neuilly Bridge to L’Etoile. I took the
opportunity of complaining that certain malicious reports had been
circulated by persons unknown, to the injury of my character. These
set forth that the great loss sustained by G Troop on the 18th
arose from my culpable stupidity in having unnecessarily exposed my
detachment, gun-horses, &c. Sir Augustus acknowledged having heard
such a report, which he had taken every pains to contradict, and
added, “I have told everybody that the imputation is false; and,
moreover, that if blame attach to any one, it must be to myself
and Major M’Donald, for I placed you in your position, and both of
us visited you repeatedly during the action, and ought to have
corrected anything that was wrong.” This has been some ill-natured,
jealous person, who envies us the little credit we got on that
occasion.
After our inspection I sent Newland home with the troop, and
accompanied Sir Augustus to La Chapelle under Montmartre, on the
road to St Denis, where he inspected the D Troop, now commanded by
Major D., previously to his giving it up to me to-morrow. It is a
wretched troop, and very badly officered; the state of discipline
such as I never thought could have existed in such a perfect service
as the horse-artillery. Frazer flattered me by saying, in answer to
my complaint, “Never mind; I am sure you will soon have it in a very
different state.” I hope so. To-morrow, then, I depart hence--give
up my elysium, and exchange one of the very finest troops in the
service for the _very worst_. But I must try and bring down my
journal, if possible, to the present day, so as to begin a new score
at my new station, wherever that may be. The 13th was the wet day on
which I last wrote, and then did not finish up to the date, I think
the 12th. Hitchins and I breakfasted at seven, and set off together
immediately after for Paris. The road thither, with the exception
of the naked plain between this and Courbevoie, is most interesting.
At the Place Louis Quinze we dismounted, and Milward brought the
horses back, whilst we continued on towards the Louvre by the Rue
de Rivoli, &c. The Louvre is now in all its glory--nothing has been
touched, although restoration is talked of. The Place du Carrousel we
found occupied by Prussian infantry in bivouac. Not far off, near the
Boulevard de la Madelaine, are several large timber-yards. Blucher,
less scrupulous than Wellington, has emptied the contents of one of
these on the Place du Carrousel, where his people have constructed
a little town of sheds or shanties with the planks. A singular
spectacle is this bivouac. The sheds form regular streets parallel
to the Grille; along the centre of these are lines of fires, with
camp-kettles suspended over them, and soldiers in most slovenly (even
beggarly) _déshabillé_ sitting round, peeling potatoes, turnips,
onions, &c., or cutting up very carrion-like meat for their messes.
A chain of sentries kept back the crowd, which was immense--all
eager to see the warriors so often beaten by their own troops, now
in their turn conquerors, and enjoying the fruits of their victory
on the very ground where the mighty Emperor of the West had passed
in review those _soi-disant_ invincible legions, and whence they had
successively departed for Madrid, Vienna, Jena, and Moscow.
Except a scowling ex-_militaire_ here and there, nothing could exceed
the _bonhommie_ apparent in every countenance. Curiosity--pure
curiosity--had drawn them thither, and their staring physiognomies
did not betray an idea beyond the gratification of it. What a
holiday for the Parisians this is, after all! The city seems in
a continued state of festivity, and at the same time of fever.
Amidst such a crowd and such excitement it was not possible to
indulge reflections; yet, spite of these, a confused jumble of
very curious ones flashed across my mind as, _en passant_, I
contemplated this host of foreigners, domesticated, as it were, on
the _sacred territory_; beyond them, and overtopping their temporary
dwellings, the celebrated triumphal arch, surmounted by the four
Venetian horses; and beyond these again, the immense façade (dark
and gloomy) of the Tuileries, scene of such strange and startling
events. Struggling through the crowd, our approach to the Gallery
of the Louvre was announced by a host of boys and women, “A bill of
the play, sir?” “Please to buy a bill of the play?” which was soon
exchanged for “Catalogue du musée, monsieur? un franc, monsieur.”
“Voulez-vous un catalogue du musée, monsieur?” &c. &c. These people
are more persevering than our vendors of these articles; however,
the purchase of one was a mouth-stopper, and we were then suffered
to proceed unmolested to the great doors, where two servants, most
respectably dressed in blue and silver, with white waistcoat and
breeches, received us, and pointed out the way to the first _salon_.
A perfect stream, almost all foreigners, was setting in, and the
_salons_ were already pretty full, although so early in the day. I
cannot set up for a connoisseur either in painting or sculpture,
therefore have little to record of this celebrated collection beyond
my unfeigned admiration of what I there saw. My emotions in each
individual _rencontre_ with the different _chefs-d’œuvre_ here
assembled might be a source of amusement to myself at some future
period had I faithfully noted them down at the moment, but that was
impossible in such a crowd; moreover, I had a companion, the most
complete hindrance imaginable in my estimation to the enjoyment of
anything admirable either in art or nature. Now they are nearly
obliterated, and I can only say that I was delighted, though in some
cases disappointed. This was particularly the case with the Venus de
Medici. I scarcely know what I expected to see; but when a statue,
patched and cracked, the marble discoloured and disfigured with
greenish stains, such as one sees in our garden Neptunes, Tritons,
&c., was pointed out by the number in our catalogue as the Venus, I
could scarcely believe but that it must be a mistake. Such was the
effect of the first _coup d’œil_. Upon a more attentive examination,
however, I could not but admit the thing to be a most beautiful
piece of workmanship as such; and the lady represented a very pretty
woman, but I felt no raptures. The colossal group of the Laocoon,
occupying, like an altar-piece, the whole extremity of the same
apartment, hence called the Salle de Laocoon, had no charms for me.
In the first place, I dislike colossal statues as much as I dislike
allegorical paintings; both are a departure from nature, which I am
not poetical enough to appreciate. Secondly, I hate such subjects--I
hate a gratuitous contemplation of horrors and suffering--and to me
there is something exquisitely disgusting in this subject. Thirdly,
I dislike all attempts at representing violent action either in
painting or sculpture, except for a momentary glance; they cannot
deceive the senses--there is no illusion. Specimens of either should
be subjects to dwell upon, to contemplate, to study. But who can
dwell upon action that _stands still_? What can be more tiresome
than the continually-uplifted arm of the Laocoon, or the immovable
struggles of the two little (by comparison) men (for they are not
boys), with formal curly wigs, on each side of him. In short, I
hate this so far-famed group. Occupying the extremity of the next
_salle_, is the Apollo. Here I was not disappointed. The action has
just ceased--the figure is in a sufficient state of repose to keep up
the illusion and bear continued looking at. And who could ever tire
of this? Such grace and ease, such lightness and activity--activity
written in broad characters upon a figure not in movement--such an
elegant and perfect form, and such a divine head! How often I have
returned to gaze upon this most perfect conception of the human
mind--this most perfect execution of the human hand! How often have I
turned into the _musée_, and, heedless of the Venus, the Laocoon, and
all the other celebrated statues in my way, have passed along, seeing
nothing and heeding nothing, until I stood once more before this most
exquisite piece of statuary! In collections of this kind too many
choice _morceaux_ in juxtaposition, or in immediate neighbourhood,
injure each other--they distract the attention; and it is only after
repeated visits that we become cool enough to attach ourselves to
particular pieces. It was thus with me at my first visit both to
these and the _galerie_; and I have felt the same effect in passing
through a wild and picturesque country exhibiting beautiful features
and pictures at every turn. I have been cloyed, even fatigued; and
looked with pleasure on, and found relief in, a landscape of a tamer
description.
From the _salons_ we ascended to the Galerie du Louvre by a most
superb staircase. English riflemen were posted, not only on the
landing-place, but also distributed at intervals through the whole
length of the gallery--whether to preserve order or the pictures, I
know not; but I do know that the appearance of their green uniforms,
as they stood leaning on their rifles all along this magnificent
perspective, was another of those sights calculated to excite in our
minds such strange tumultuous feelings. What must have been those
of the Parisians, of whom a part of the immense crowd that thronged
the _galerie_ and anteroom was composed? They apprehend that the
spoliation will commence directly, and are therefore assiduous in
their worship of those treasures about to quit them for ever, and
with them, they think, their national glory. The only record I make
of the _galerie_ is, that Poussin’s “Deluge” fascinated me. Never did
I see a picture inspiring so much awe. Paul Potter’s “Bull” pleased
me as an inimitable copy from nature, but as a picture it struck me
as wanting in poetry. Some beggar-boy, by Murillo, perfectly ravished
me, _malgré_ the disgusting subject: here was nature and the most
delicious colouring imaginable.
As both Hitchins and I proposed paying many more visits to the
_musée_, we did little more than walk to the end of the _galerie_ and
back, and then departed, crossed the Prussian bivouac, and wandered
into the palace of the Tuileries. We went as we listed, no one
offering us the slightest obstruction; and the sentinels (I think
they were of the National Guard), although they did not salute us,
yet drew up respectfully at their posts as we passed them. Ascending
a magnificent staircase, we found our way into a large handsome
saloon, over the fireplace in which was a very fine painting of a
battle. I think this was the Salle des Maréchaux. There was not
a living soul to answer our questions; but I have since learned
that what I took for a painting was a piece of Gobelins tapestry.
Unheeded, we rambled on from one large room to another; indeed we
met but few anywhere, until at last we walked most unceremoniously
into one where a number of servants in the royal livery were laying
a dinner-table, which, to our astonishment, we found was for his
Majesty. They hardly noticed us, and answered all our questions in a
most good-natured but most respectful manner. There was a beautiful
service of Worcester ware, and, for a private gentleman, a decent
display of plate, but nothing more--so far all was respectable; but
what a table-cloth! I doubt whether most of our gentry of even the
second table wouldn’t turn up their insolent noses at such a one.
Sure I am that no gentleman in England ever sits down to so coarse
a thing. As dinner was just coming up, the butler (I suppose) very
civilly begged us to retire, as his Majesty would be in immediately.
We descended to the gardens. I had heard and read so much of the
gardens of the Tuileries, that here I experienced a disappointment
similar to that inflicted by the Champs Elysées. Nevertheless they
certainly form a very agreeable promenade. That part immediately
under the windows of the palace is laid out in parterres of
flower-beds of different geometrical figure. I should say that the
garden is a dead level.[15] Between the parterres are broad walks,
well rolled and well swept. The further part is a grove, forming a
cool and pleasant promenade or lounge, much taken advantage of by
the Parisians, who may be seen lounging in one or two chairs, as may
be, in all directions. These chairs are the property of individuals
who bring them there, and make a livelihood by letting them out at
two or three sous the chair. Similar accommodation, it appears,
is to be found in every public place, even in the Boulevards. The
ramparts (rather grandiloquent, when speaking of a mere terrace),
which surround the garden on three sides, are planted also, and
afford a most interesting promenade from the views they command;
yet, strange to say, people appear to prefer the more confined
one below. Although I do not like the formal laying out of these
gardens, yet can I not but confess there is something very lordly
(or kingly) in them. The broad, well-kept gravel-walks, the play
of the fountains, the numerous orange-trees in boxes, which fill
the air with their delicious but rather overpowering perfume, the
multitude of statues, the view down the centre _allée_, which is
prolonged into an immense perspective by being on the same line with
that of the Champs Elysées, and on the other hand the ancient and
venerable pile, with its numerous windows, long covered verandas,
&c., overlooking the whole. The gaily-dressed crowd, too, by which
the garden is almost always filled, gives it a holiday air very
pleasing. Passing once more through the palace and traversing the
Place du Carrousel, we soon reached the southern entrance of the
Palais Royal. It was “change time,” and the place in front of the
gate was filled with business-like people, exactly as in our Royal
Exchange. What a strange propensity the French have for misnomers! On
entering the so-called “_garden_”[16] of the Palais Royal, I was for
the third time disappointed. Instead of a garden I found myself in an
immense arid esplanade, surrounded (at least on three sides) by lofty
uniform buildings, the façade of which was decorated by Corinthian
pilasters, and surmounted by vases, &c. An arcade ran all round the
base. The side by which we entered was disfigured by a shabby wooden
erection, under which were numerous stalls of petty dealers in every
sort of articles, but apparently all of inferior quality. Under
the arcades were shops of a better description, intermingled with
cafés, restaurants, &c., and here was certainly a splendid display of
goods of the richest kind. Watch-makers exhibited the most elegant
little toys, enriched with pearls and chased-work; jewellers the most
splendid articles in precious stone, gold, silver, &c.; shops of
_gourmandise_ (if I may be allowed the term)--everything that could
stimulate or pamper the appetite. Many were entirely filled with
knick-knackery, or articles of _vertu_; others with steel or cutlery;
in others, again, were tastefully displayed the finest cashmere or
merino shawls and _fichûs_ of the most brilliant colours. In short,
I cannot remember the tenth part of the rich display under these
arcades.
In the esplanade were a few shabby trees, some benches, and piles
of chairs. The crowd of loungers, &c. (for I presume most there
were so), under the arcades, was very great, principally, I think,
military. Prussian and Russian officers in blue or green uniforms,
waists drawn in like a wasp’s, breasts sticking out like a pigeon’s;
long sashes, with huge tassels of gold or silver, hanging half-way
down their legs--pretty red and white boyish faces, with an enormous
bush of hair over each ear; lancers in square-topped caps and waving
plumes; hussars in various rich uniforms, one more remarkable,
sky-blue, curiously laced with a sort of chain-lace, very ugly to
my taste; Austrian officers in plain white uniforms, turned up
with red--very neat, very soldier-like, very becoming, and the
men who wore them more gentlemanly in their appearance than any
of the others; English officers in all sorts of dresses, fancy,
half-military, and quite so. To say that women abounded amongst
these would be almost superfluous--some very handsome, some quite
the contrary--all wearing looks of the boldest and most meretricious
character. Boys, too, abounded, as in the Pays Bas, following
and pestering you with their odious propositions. The cafés and
restaurants were principally filled with officers smoking, drinking,
playing chess, &c. &c. A few turns in the promenade, and then it
was so late that we returned to the Place Louis Quinze, whence a
cabriolet in due time brought us to our quiet peaceable village.
The next day (13th), although it looked black and threatening, we
went to Paris; but the rain set in so heavily that we returned
forthwith, most completely drenched, to Colombes, having seen nothing.
The 14th was fine again, and I resolved on an expedition to Malmaison
and Versailles if possible. The road lay through Nanterre, on the
_coteau_, but a little elevated above the meadows through which the
Seine holds its course. The scenery, without being very striking,
was very pleasing and pretty. On my right at some little distance
ran the river, beyond which rose a ridge of vine-clad hills, a
continuation of those behind Argenteuil; on the left, the vineyard,
corn-fields, and rose-gardens terminated in a range of high ground,
wooded, continuing from Mont Valerien towards Marly, where the
water-works, projecting from the there steep acclivity, formed rather
a picturesque object--following the windings of the Seine through
a less interesting country (because all corn). In the distance one
sees the chateau of St Germain, with its long white terrace, backed
by the dark foliage of the park; beneath, the waters of the river
glitter like silver in the bright light. Malmaison is on the higher
ground; and on ascending to the park-gates, I was pleased to find
two neat little lodges, and an entrance perfectly English, which was
the style all around. The house had nothing extraordinary in its
appearance, but the little lawn in front was redolent of the perfume
of the orange-flower, numerous trees being ranged around all in full
blossom. I found but few servants in the house; on asking to see
which, a lady-like person was called, who acted as cicerone with the
easy and graceful manner so characteristic of French women. Had it
not been for the interest one attaches to whatever is connected with
great or extraordinary people, the houses at Malmaison perhaps were
not so much worth seeing as many houses even of our commoners. There
was only one room remarkable for its fitting-up, and it was in other
respects the most interesting. It was Josephine’s bedroom. A little
scene took place here. My companion idolised her former mistress; the
recollections of past times and of her beloved Empress, renewed by my
questions, overpowered her. I believe she was sincere. The furniture
of this room (which was, I think, an octagon) was certainly splendid.
Scarlet cloth (very fine) with trimmings of broad gold-lace, and
deep gold fringe of bullions. The bed-curtains and coverlet were of
the same, and the walls were covered with it instead of paper, the
gold-lace serving as a border to the panels, &c. I did not admire
the taste of Josephine in this. Here it was she expired. Running at
right angles to the front of the house is the _galerie_--a beautiful
_salon_, full of exquisite morsels of sculpture, all modern, but in
my estimation many of them rivalling the antique. Taking leave of
my amiable conductress, I set off to pick my way without a guide
through a woody, intricate, wild country, where the openings were
of no extent, so that no view could be obtained. After riding up
one avenue and down another for some time, I began to fancy I was
lost, when suddenly riding out upon an open I saw several peasants,
male and female, at work near a _bergerie_,[17] which occupied the
centre of the place. I rode forward to inquire my way, when lo! down
went hoes, and away went men, women, and dogs as fast as their legs
could carry them into the neighbouring woods, leaving me as much at
a loss to account for their fright, as to which of the many roads
(_forest_) diverging hence I should take to extricate myself from my
dilemma. As the English nowhere inspire terror, these people must
have taken me for a Prussian hussar, from my pelisse and enormous
mustache. As no information was to be procured, I had nothing left
but to push on and take my chance. I had not ridden far when the
ground began to descend (I had been travelling on an elevated
plateau), the thickets and wood became thinner and more scattered,
and below me I saw several farmhouses. From subsequent inspection
of the map, this must have been La Selle de St Cloud. I rode up to
the first substantial-looking house, tied my horse up in a shed,
and without ceremony marched into the kitchen, where the mistress
and her maids were busily employed in their household concerns. My
entrance did not in the least disconcert them, or even occasion them
any apparent surprise: they entered gaily into conversation without
for a minute interrupting their work. No running away here. I was
very hungry, but, _malgré_ the opulent appearance of the house, the
good lady could give me nothing but bread (sour, as usual), some
very fine cherries, and delicious milk. For this she would accept
no remuneration, but her maids thankfully accepted the trifle I
offered them for their trouble. I found that my deviation from the
direct road to Versailles had not been great; and having received
instructions for my future progress, and taken leave of my kind
hostess, I once more plunged into a forest, from which, however,
I soon emerged upon a cultivated country sprinkled with farms
and villages, and very agreeably diversified with hill, dale, and
woodland. At last the palace of Versailles, overtopping the trees and
buildings in its neighbourhood, burst upon me with imposing grandeur,
and I soon after entered the town.
In front of the palace is a large, almost triangular, esplanade,
narrowing from the palace until it terminates in the road to Paris.
A clumsy thing enough, for when building the palace they might as
well have laid out a handsome square in front of it. The place looked
dull and lifeless, few people, except some Prussian soldiers, being
visible. The number of hotels, taverns, &c. &c., announced it as
the resort of strangers and idlers. The palace itself, from all its
window-shutters being closed, looked as dismal as the rest. Having
secured my horse, I sounded the bell at the palace-gate, which
brought out the _Suisse_, who sounded another bell, which brought a
most gentlemanly, but very melancholy-looking, young man in the royal
livery, who, upon being informed of my wish to see the palace, made
a very polite bow, and requested me to follow him. It were needless
repeating the history he gave of each splendid apartment, and they
appeared innumerable. Solitary and silent, an overpowering sensation
of melancholy came over me in comparing their present deserted state
with that which had for ever passed, and I no longer wondered at
the pensive manner of my interesting young companion, though he was
too young to have known Versailles in the days of its splendour. I
believe, with the exception of ourselves and the _Suisse_, whom we
had left at the gate, this immense fabric did not contain another
living soul. So long did we continue wandering from room to room,
that at last, on returning to the vestibule--no time was left to
visit the _Trianon_ as I had intended, or even the gardens--all that
I saw of them was from a terrace upon which we were admitted from
one of the central _salons_--unless I remained all night. It became
necessary to depart forthwith, or find my way in the dark back to
Colombes.
The great road to Paris is a superb avenue, but it was disfigured by
dust, which, spite of yesterday’s rain, I found a real nuisance.
Numerous were the villas along the road, but, like those in the
neighbourhood of London, the shrubberies in which they were
embowered, and everything about them, was grey and dingy with the
dust with which they were powdered. A great part of this line seemed
inhabited only by washerwomen. The foul linen of all Paris seemed
assembled here. The abundance of fine water, perhaps, is the cause of
this. Pity that some portion of it were not employed in making this
otherwise beautiful ride somewhat more enjoyable. It was growing so
late as I passed Sêvres, that I merely can say I saw the exterior
of the celebrated manufactory of porcelain. A thick dark avenue of
trees, turning to the left, here seemed to promise a short cut to St
Cloud; so up it I turned, but had not proceeded far ere I stumbled on
a guard of Prussian jägers in an old summer-house. The sentry stopped
and ordered me back. The corporal coming out, and finding that I was
an English officer, very civilly informed me that, as Prince Blucher
had his headquarters in the palace of St Cloud, no one was allowed
to cross the park. Back, then, I went, and descending to the Seine
found a good road, by which, passing through St Cloud, Suresnes, &c.,
I returned hither just as it got so dark that I was obliged to my
horse for bringing me safe home. The latter part of my ride along the
charming banks of the river, and in the cool of a fine evening, was
truly delightful.
_15th._--I went to Paris again, wandered about the streets without
any fixed plan, and quite by accident stumbled upon the Hôtel Dieu.
I like this random mode of proceeding much better than following any
fixed plan of sight-seeing: it is more independent. I walked into the
hospital and through its wards. Nothing could be cleaner or better
arranged; but the whole place, especially about the main entrance,
had such an overpowering smell, that I was glad to make my escape
and find my way to the Cathedral of Nôtre Dame. There is something
exceedingly impressive in the interior of a Gothic cathedral at any
time. Mass was performing as I entered the church, the solemnity
of which, from the little light and rather heavy style of the
architecture, was increased by the fine bass voices of the canons who
assisted in the service, every one in his stall. From Nôtre Dame,
after taking an omelet in a neighbouring restaurant, I had a long
stroll by the quays to the Invalides. The old soldiers lounging or
walking about the approaches to this fine establishment, although
perfectly respectful, I thought looked displeased at seeing me. There
were even some who did not attempt to conceal looks and gestures
of hatred and contempt. They are to be pitied more than blamed for
this feeling, since these were the men who fought and _always_
conquered in Italy and Germany. Notwithstanding their scowling
looks, I could not help regarding these fine veterans with the most
profound veneration. I found no difficulty, however, in procuring a
cicerone to show the lions, and under his guidance walked through the
halls, where the tables were already laid for dinner; through the
dormitories, where the beds were all clean and neatly made up, and
looking comfortable, &c. &c. In the officers’ dining-rooms the tables
were also laid--round ones for four or six persons each--not as with
us, all at one long table. A bottle of wine was here placed by the
side of each man’s plate. Nothing could be more comfortable or more
respectable. We then visited the church under the dome where are the
tombs of Turenne and Vauban.[18] All this was not very amusing, but
my guide, leading the way up several staircases, at last ushered me
into a large but low room, immediately under the roof, filled with
beautifully-finished models of almost all the frontier fortresses in
France. Here I passed the remainder of the day most delightfully. The
most interesting of these models were Chateau Trompette; Brest, with
its harbours and the adjacent country for three or four miles round;
Strasbourg and neighbourhood; but one of the most amusing was an
exquisitely-finished model of the battle of Lodi, under a glass bell.
A fine boy of about fifteen or sixteen, to whom my quondam guide had
delivered me over on entering the model-room, excited my surprise,
not only by the clearness with which he explained everything to me,
but also by the shrewdness of his remarks, and the great knowledge
he evinced of military affairs in general; quite an incipient
Buonaparte, I should say--only Buonaparte was never half so handsome.
I could have lingered for a week over these interesting models, but
the diminution of light obliged me at last reluctantly to leave them.
Whilst we were wandering from loft to loft, for there were several,
we came accidentally into one where two or three Prussian officers
were superintending the dismemberment and packing up of all such as
had any relation to the possessions of their monarch; and my young
companion told me he suspected they meant to take away Strasbourg,
and that they had already packed up several which could not come
under that denomination. The poor boy spoke very feelingly on the
subject, and seemed heart-broken at losing his favourite models. I
shall frequently visit the Invalides, unless the Prussians quite
strip it of the models. It will be a delightful lounge, those lofts.
Yesterday, being Sunday, our three troops assembled, under Major
M’Donald, in the park, where Captain M’Donald’s troop is quartered,
and had divine service. Passed the afternoon in riding about the
neighbourhood, and the evening in the enjoyment of my beautiful
terrace, &c. &c.
To-morrow I go in search of my new troop, somewhere about St Denis.
CHAPTER XX.
_Sunday, July 22d._--This is the first time I have been sufficiently
settled and quiet to sit down to write since the evening of the
17th, my last at Colombes--dear Colombes! The intervening space has
not been passed in idleness. On the morning of the 18th I was fully
occupied in giving over my troop and stores to Major Wilmot, who
takes possession also of my charming apartment, and Mademoiselle
Ernestine gets a new neighbour. After an earlier dinner than usual,
Hitchins accompanied me to St Denis; my servants and horses started
in the morning. At St Denis I could gain no immediate and distinct
information. Some of Ross’s non-commissioned officers whom I met with
said they thought the troop must have halted in Stain. I shuddered at
the very name of the place; it was the worst I had anticipated. As
Hitchins knew the desolation of Stain, and the utter impossibility
of my giving him a bed, even if I could get one myself, he took his
leave, and I proceeded thitherward alone. It was with a heavy heart
that I traversed the once rich crops of grain, now trodden into mud
by having been the bivouac of our troops, and still heavier that I
rode through the dismal street of the ruined village. I soon met some
of the gunners, who confirmed my worst fears--viz., that the troop
actually was stationed here. The officers were living and messing
in a house close to the church, and opposite the _grille_ of the
great chateau; and thither I repaired, and found them accordingly
sitting at their wine. My servants had been here some time, and
had taken possession of the Petit chateau, already mentioned. The
house I found my officers in belongs to the Sœurs de la Charité.
I was sensibly struck on entering it at the contrast with my
villa at Colombes; mean, gloomy, dirty, and scarce an article of
furniture in it, and what there was, of the poorest description.
To counterbalance all this, it is the only house in the place (at
least so they thought then) that has any glass in the windows, and
how it escaped is extraordinary. They were seated in a dismal room,
very low, and having a very disagreeable odour, overpowering even
that of the dinner, in which the flavour of onions predominated.
After introducing myself, and drinking a glass or two of wine, as
the daylight began to fail I set off to inspect my new quarters. The
appearance of this in its best days would not have been pleasing
after Colombes; but now, forlorn, deserted, plundered! The handsome
furniture which had once adorned it, mutilated and torn to pieces,
was yet fresh when last I saw it; the fragments retained their paint
or gilding, the mahogany its varnish; the tatters of silk fringe and
curtains, scattered over the lawns and walks, or hanging from the
branches in the shrubberies, yet retained their colour in all its
freshness: now, after having been drenched by rain, and bleached
in the sun and wind, all remains of former beauty were gone--all
associations with splendour and magnificence vanished; they conveyed
to the mind no feeling but that of squalidness and wretchedness.
Amidst all this I entered the house. There things looked even worse.
The winds of heaven had freely coursed through the paneless windows,
the rain had inundated the floors, decay had already commenced,
and the place looked as if it had been years deserted. Chilly,
comfortless, and wretched, the floors still covered with fragments of
glass, which, crunching under one’s feet, added not a little to the
misery of the scene, still further enhanced by a most gloomy evening,
and the dismal sound of the wind through the branches foretelling a
stormy night. At length, after wandering from room to room, always
finding one worse than the last, the approaching darkness obliged
me to decide quickly, so I pitched upon a large one, with a recess
for a bed, where I could at least be at some distance from the
windows. My men had already made themselves tolerably comfortable in
the stable, and I now summoned all hands to make me so too. Brooms
were speedily made by stripping the branches from some acacias or
laburnums in the courtyard, and all the rubbish and broken glass
swept out of the window; candles were procured from the mess, my bed
made in the recess upon a bedstead, nearly sound--the place began to
look a little better, and I a little more cheerful. Though not so
luxuriously, yet I slept as soundly as ever at Colombes, _malgré_ the
forlorn feeling that crept over me as I fell into unconsciousness at
the idea of being the only person in the great rambling mansion, with
doors and windows all open, and admittance free to whomsoever might
come.
My gloominess had construed the sighing of the wind among the foliage
into a presage of rain and storm. Neither came; and the next morning
I was awakened by the sun streaming full in my face, the carol of
birds innumerable, and the soft, balmy, yet fresh air of a most
lovely morning. As our mess-breakfast was not very early, I jumped up
determined on a thorough examination of the whole village, in hopes
of finding something better than the Petit chateau. After looking
into several, all equally miserable, I found the one where I ought
to have begun, the only one habitable. It was only across the road,
shut in by high walls, overtopped by acacias. This house had escaped
the observation of others as it had mine; and, strange to say, had
scarcely been visited by the spoiler. All the windows were perfect,
and the only injury visible on the premises was the breaking to
pieces of a number of paltry plaster Cupidons and their pedestals,
that had erst disfigured the garden. I took possession immediately,
and here I sit in my cabinet about to give a description of it. The
house is tall and narrow--four storeys counting the ground-floor
to the front, and three towards the garden, which is higher than
the court. The ground-floor consists of stables, wood-houses, &c.,
opening on this court, which is planted with acacias and shut in
from the village by a high wall with great close gates. On the
next (or garden ground-floor), is the only decent-sized room in the
whole house: all the rest are divided into those useless little
cabinets of which the French seem so fond, many of them with glass
doors. All the rooms have the abominable brick or tile floors so
common here: however, all the windows are sound, which is the grand
object. I have chosen the floor above the garden--that is, third
from the court--where I have a narrow slip, with glass door at one
end and window at the other, the view from which certainly does not
rival that at Colombes, for it is bounded by the four high walls
of my garden; another piece, with a recess in it, serves me for
a bedroom, and into these two I have collected all the furniture
remaining in the house, which is but little, and that of the meanest
description--a few clumsy, old-fashioned chairs, and a table or
two. One of the former is a curious article: the seat lifts up, and
behold a _bidet_; the top of the thick back has two or three little
boxes in it for holding soap or what not. My three domestics occupy
the floor below me, and are next the animals. The garden, which
rises in a gentle slope from the house, is a long narrow strip,
neatly laid out and abundantly stocked with flowers, vegetables,
and fine fruit--particularly grapes, plums, and peaches, &c. The
whole is the property of two old maids, Les Demoiselles Delcambre,
Marchandes des Modes, who, on the approach of the Allies, removed all
the furniture worth removal, and left the place in charge of an old
Flemish servant--a virgin, like themselves. Mademoiselle Rose, as
she is called in the village (and I should have mentioned that most,
if not all, the peasantry have returned, and that only the chateaux
and country seats of the citizens remain unoccupied)--Mademoiselle
Rose is a character. Strong in the confidence of her want of charms,
she is said to have remained faithful to her charge,[19] even when
the Prussians entered and plundered the village, and thereby, the
villagers assure me, saved her mistress’s property when all else
was destroyed. A short, squat figure, clad in coarse black frieze,
a face of the ugliest, set off by a pair of black mustaches fit for
a hussar, which gives her a fierce and masculine aspect, like the
dragon of the Hesperides, for she performs the part of watching
the fruit most unremittingly. The moment I enter the garden she
skulks after me; and on looking about I am sure to detect her ugly
phiz watching my movements from behind some bush, not presuming,
however, to interfere. More than once I have noticed the sudden
disappearance of fruit from some particular tree; and William tells
me that Mademoiselle Rose strips the trees at night and sends the
fruit to Paris. I should suspect my own people, only that they would
not take it in such quantities. This, however, is not of any great
consequence, since we have several other well-stocked gardens in the
village from whence to help ones self without trespassing on those
attached to the officers’ houses, which are, of course, considered
as private property. There are, _par exemple_, the chateau belonging
to Jerome Buonaparte; the Petit chateau to M. Domer, who, I believe,
is something in the Admiralty; another large handsome chateau, with
very extensive, well-kept gardens, to Admiral le Comte Rosilly; a
very pretty villa, garden, &c., the property of some rich shopkeeper;
and several little boxes of minor importance. The village itself
may be said to consist of two streets, short, and neither of them
continuous. It is situated on a dead flat, consequently has no other
beauty to boast of than what it derives from the foliage of the trees
in the grounds of the chateaux, &c. The fields about it are corn and
vines--principally the latter, I think.
It was at first certainly rather a nuisance changing from
Colombes, though I have already got pretty well accustomed to
the new situation. The difference was not only in the style of
my lodging, beauty of the surrounding country, &c. &c., but also
most particularly in our living. Instead of the comfortable,
well-served table, and excellent wine of M. Ferdinand, and the new
milk, nice fresh butter, and new-laid eggs--produce of my dairy
and poultry-yard--here we daily sit down to miserably-cooked soup
and _bouilli_, made of ration-beef, and a bad steak of the same,
served in ill-cleaned tin (canteen) dishes. Vegetables, to be sure,
we have in abundance. Then for wine, we have some very poor stuff,
which Ambrose (my surgeon) bought somewhere in Paris, and, from not
understanding French, got cheated. At home here I have managed to
get up a breakfast, though a poor one; the bread is so abominably
sour, and the butter so cheesy. Nor have I been able to dispose of
my time in the same agreeable manner as at Colombes; for between the
constant attention my wretched troop requires, and the plague of
the villagers, I have but little left for amusement. The former of
these, the troop, I have quieted a little, by giving one of them a
severe flogging; but its disorganised state may be guessed at, when
it is known that the payment (contrary to our regulations) is in the
hands of the sergeant-major, and that my predecessor, poor Bean, died
in debt to this man at least £300. Of course everything was winked at.
The villagers (unlike those of Colombes, who have never been
disturbed), after being scared from their dwellings by our advance,
have returned to them, only to find everything ruined and destroyed.
Of course they are not in charity with us, and full of complaining.
This is all brought to me by the Maire, who pays me a regular visit
every morning, and frequently in the evening also, waylaying me,
besides, whenever I go from home. The Duke’s system of discipline is
well known, and these people seem disposed to take every advantage
of it, fair and unfair. One complains of our occupying his house
and stables, another of his field being mowed, another of something
else, and so on. It is inconceivable that a conquered people, and a
people whose armies have shown no forbearance in foreign countries,
should thus dare lift up their voice and complain that the conqueror
disturbs them, and puts them to some inconvenience. So it is! If
I attended to one half the complaints brought before me, we should
soon be turned out of the place altogether. The very morning after
my arrival, M. Bonnemain (Maire, &c.) called, and was introduced--a
dry, thin, old man, rather above the middle height, in a suit of
rusty-brown clothes, snuff-box in one hand eternally, and the other
gesticulating in aid of his drawling voice and interminable oratory.
After the introductory bow, he commenced by welcoming me to Stain,
eulogised the village and villagers, expressed his satisfaction at
my appointment, having already heard of my high character as an
officer; under the command _d’un tel_ Monsieur, everything must go
on in the happiest manner possible. Then followed butter, thickly
laid on, after which he cautiously and dexterously introduced his
business, no doubt guessing that, having placed me on so elevated a
pinnacle, I should be more cautious of a fall. “Mais, Monsieur le
Commandant,” he continued, “nous sommes des pauvres malheureux, pour
nous tout est perdu--tout abimé, &c.;” and so he went on expressing
his confidence in the justice of M. le Commandant, and that he
would not oppress the poor. Then followed a long--very long--story
about a worthy industrious man, with a large family, whose house
was occupied by our men, and stables by our horses, and a request
that I might have the goodness to relieve this unfortunate family
from so oppressive a burden. He had not reckoned without his host:
Monsieur le Commandant swallowed some, at least, of the dose; was
softened; the quartermaster is called, and orders given that the
detachment should be removed from the farm in question. Monsieur le
Maire is still more profuse in bows and compliments, amidst which
he retired, to my great satisfaction, for I was tired of him. The
next day Monsieur le Maire again appeared, and in similar manner
pleaded the cause of another excellent _malheureux_, whose crop
of oats our people were cutting. Again he was successful; but as
Monsieur le Commissary-General had begged us to supply ourselves
in this manner from the fields, I requested Monsieur le Maire to
point out how we might do so with the least possible injury to
the inhabitants. He did so, and I gave the necessary orders for
confining our foraging parties to the fields indicated, and to avoid
unnecessary waste. Again Monsieur Bonnemain is announced; but this
time he came accompanied by a genteel but rather important-looking
personage, just arrived in a handsome cabriolet, whom Monsieur le
Maire introduces as the postmaster of St Denis. They are somebody
these postmasters. An exordium of a most complimentary character
ushered in, as usual, a complaint, or rather a protest, against
our cutting this gentleman’s oats. Monsieur le Maître des Postes
condescended (and he made the condescension evident) to inform me
that he farmed the land in question at an exorbitant rent; that the
produce was absolutely requisite to enable him to fulfil his contract
with Government; that he should suffer much inconvenience from our
depredations; and that, the public business of the Government being
thus obstructed (with a most ominous shrug and extension of both
hands), it was impossible to answer for the consequences. Hereupon
the great man, with an air of perfect indifference, turned his back
on me, and began asking trifling questions of some villagers who had
flocked in to witness the negotiation. My answer was very brief:
“Monsieur le Maire had himself designated the fields we were to cut.”
(Here a most portentous glance was shot by Monsieur le Maître at
Monsieur le Maire.) “That if the public suffered in the business of
posting, it was of infinitely less consequence than that any part
of the British army should become inefficient for want of forage.
As, in the present case, somebody must suffer, it were better that
the burden should fall on those best able to afford it.” Monsieur
le Maître then shifted his ground somewhat, complaining of the
waste committed by our foragers, who, he said, trampled down more
than they cut. I promised this, if found to be the case, should be
remedied, for our own sakes; and, at his request, that one particular
non-commissioned officer should superintend the foraging. Monsieur,
finding he could get no more, bade me adieu with more politeness
than he had condescended to use on our first meeting, mounted his
cabriolet amidst bows of the assembled peasantry, and drove off. This
fellow’s opposition has not been without consequences. My villagers
have become more bold, and even begin to draw up petitions to the
Duke. Some of these have already been sent to me, with an intimation
that I must not oppress the inhabitants unless it be unavoidable.
This happens to be the case--therefore I have taken no notice of them.
_July 25th._--Yesterday our army (British only) was reviewed by their
Imperial and Royal Majesties. I marched early, as the line was to
be formed by 9 o’clock. After passing through St Denis, we took the
great road to the right by St Ouen, and came on the Neuilly road
just above the village, where we formed, being on the left of the
whole, except the 18-pounder brigades. Ross and Bull’s troops were
on my right. We had a long and tedious wait; and as the day was very
hot, it was no small treat to discover that an apothecary hard by had
some excellent raspberry vinegar, which, I think, we exhausted. At
length the approach of the sovereigns was announced, and they came
preceded and followed by a most numerous and brilliant _cortège_,
in which figured, perhaps, some of almost every arm of every army
in Europe. It was a splendid and most interesting sight. First came
the Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia, in their respective
green and blue uniforms, riding together--the former, as usual, all
smiles; the latter taciturn and melancholy. A little in their rear
followed the Austrian Emperor, in a white uniform, turned up with
red, but quite plain--a thin, dried-up, thread-paper of a man, not of
the most distinguished bearing; his lean brown visage, however, bore
an expression of kindness and _bonhommie_, which folk say his true
character in no way belies. They passed along, scanning our people
with evident interest and curiosity; and in passing me (as they did
to every commanding officer), pulled off their hats, and saluted me
with most gracious smiles. I wonder if they do the same to their
own. Until yesterday I had not seen any British infantry under arms
since the evening the troops from America arrived at Garges, and, in
the mean time, have constantly seen corps of foreign infantry. These
are all uncommonly well dressed in new clothes, smartly made, setting
the men off to the greatest advantage--add to which their _coiffure_
of high broad-topped shakos, or enormous caps of bear-skin. Our
infantry--indeed, our whole army--appeared at the review in the same
clothes in which they had marched, slept, and fought for months. The
colour had faded to a dusky brick-dust hue; their coats, originally
not very smartly made, had acquired by constant wearing that loose
easy set so characteristic of old clothes, comfortable to the wearer,
but not calculated to add grace to his appearance. _Pour surcroit
de laideur_, their cap is perhaps the meanest, ugliest thing ever
invented. From all these causes it arose that our infantry appeared
to the utmost disadvantage--dirty, shabby, mean, and very small.
Some such impression was, I fear, made on the sovereigns, for a
report has reached us this morning, that they remarked to the Duke
what very small men the English were. “Ay,” replied our noble chief,
“they are small; but your Majesties will find none who fight so
well.” I wonder if this is true. However small our men and mean
their appearance, yet it was evident that they were objects of
intense interest, from the immense time and close scrutiny of the
inspection. At length they finished, and, taking their stand in the
Place Louis Quinze, we marched past in column of division. The crowd
assembled to witness this exceeded anything I had ever before seen.
Not only were the people packed as thick as they could stand in the
area itself, but the buildings of the Garde Meuble, the ramparts of
the Tuileries, even the roof of the Hotel Bourbon over the river,
were all crowded--windows, roofs, and every cornice that could hold
human beings. After passing, we took our route along the Rue Royale,
Boulevard and Rue Poissonnière, starting off at a good trot, and got
home about 6 o’clock. In St Denis I met Captain Gaffon and the little
doctor of the Brunswick Hussars, neither of whom I had seen since we
were in barracks together at Woodbridge. The meeting really seemed
to please them, as they had heard I was killed at Waterloo. It seems
somebody is determined I did or ought to have died. One of our people
told me the other day, that the day after the battle a staff-officer
had shown him my name in a list as dangerously wounded. And during
the retreat of the 17th, whilst I was with the cavalry at Jemappes,
one of the Blues who overtook my troop on the road told them that
I was killed, for he had himself seen me cut down by a French
dragoon--_Cependant me voici!_
_July 30th._--More trouble, more complaints. Another memorial to the
Duke from my subjects, complaining of cutting their oats. This I have
very easily disposed of; but lo! here is a more formidable adversary
to deal with--no less than M. le Marquis de Livry, _rentier_ or
_propriétaire_ of the gambling _salons_ in the Palais Royal, and, as
such, a man of immense influence. He has property in this commune,
and a _bergerie_ in the village, where he keeps a flock of merinos.
The sheep being absent when the troop arrived, the _bergerie_ was
converted into a stable; but having lately returned, under their
shepherd, part of the building has been appropriated to their use.
The shepherd, a perfect Sancho Panza in person, not content with
this, has ever since been intriguing to obtain entire possession.
I have been fairly pestered to death about this _bergerie_. Almost
daily M. le Maire and M. le Berger and M. le Marquis de Livry make
their appearance at my quarters, or intercept me in the street to
tell me the same story over again, and to get the same answer.
Finding his perseverance useless, M. le Berger (no doubt assisted by
M. le Maire) draws up a very moving petition to the Duke, which M.
de Livry takes care shall be presented under proper auspices, and
behold the consequence: A positive order from his Grace to evacuate
forthwith the premises of the Marquis de Livry, and _to put up our
horses elsewhere in the best manner we can; that is, respect the
rich man’s property and oppress doubly the poor_--for we must divide
the forty horses hitherto stabled in the _bergerie_ among the poor
villagers, who already have more than is good for them. The Duke
of Wellington’s ideas of discipline, &c., are rigid--his mode of
administering it summary; but he is frequently led into acts of the
grossest injustice. A notorious instance of this I am now suffering
under, and one that makes the _bergerie_ business a mere flea-bite.
Only a few days ago, whilst sitting after dinner at our little mess,
an officer of the mounted staff corps (_gendarmerie Anglaise_) was
announced. He regretted being the bearer of disagreeable orders, &c.
&c., but Colonel Scovell, commandant of the mounted staff corps,
had directed him to show me the paper, which he produced, and to
inform me that his Grace had ordered it should be immediately
complied with. Further, that the Duke was excessively angry, and had
expressed himself very harshly on the subject; therefore Colonel
Scovell recommended me to make no remonstrance, as he could not
foresee what might be the consequence. The paper was a petition from
a certain M. Fauigny (an Italian), setting forth, I think, that he is
proprietor of the Grand chateau which has been miserably plundered;
but more particularly that the English troops now quartered in
the village have stripped the lead off the roofs, from the baths,
water-pipes, &c. &c., and sold it. This is, as nearly as I remember,
the petition. A note written with a pencil by the Duke himself on the
margin was too brief and pithy not to be remembered, and here it is,
_verbatim_: “Colonel Scovell will find out whose troop this is, and
they shall pay.--W.” I was thunderstruck at the complaint and the
decision--the one so unfounded, the other so cruelly unjust. I signed
an acknowledgment of having seen the order; and the officer took his
leave, recommending me to try and compromise with M. Fauigny, who
stated the damage at about 7000 or 8000 francs. Upon inquiry of M.
Bonnemain, he asserts that this M. Fauigny is the agent of Jerome
Buonaparte, to whom the chateau actually belongs, as we were told by
the Prussians who plundered it.
The next morning I had just ordered my horse, and was about to set
off for Paris, when William announced a gentleman who wished to see
me; and a rather genteel-looking man sailed into my little parlour
with an air of _nonchalance_ and easy familiarity quite amusing.
My friend seated himself with the utmost coolness, and drawing out
his snuffy pocket-handkerchief, displaying it--whilst he spat all
about the floor, to my utter disgust, for I had been in the act of
finishing my breakfast--informed me with a slight inclination that he
was M. Fauigny, and had called to know when it would be convenient
to settle this _leaden accompt_. Finding him already acquainted with
the Duke’s order, I was obliged to make the best of it and put him
off with excuses, which he did not seem to relish, having evidently
counted on touching the cash forthwith. However, the man behaved
like a gentleman, kept his disappointment to himself, and turning
the conversation on general subjects, proved himself a man of very
general information and a most agreeable companion. Although he would
not partake of my breakfast, he paid a very long visit; and the
moment he was gone, I set off also for Paris, and went straight to
Sir George Wood’s quarters in the Rue de Richelieu. From Sir George
I learned that the affair was much more serious than I had imagined.
The Duke is furious about it, and Sir George says my only chance
is by evading payment as long as I can, in hopes some favourable
opportunity may offer of inducing the Duke to think more leniently
on the subject; in the mean time, to make every inquiry into the
truth of the statement. Accordingly, we have been at work, and the
result is a discovery that M. Fauigny is a villain--has made a false
statement to the Duke in hopes of gaining payment from us for what
has been actually done by others, but from whom he knew nothing
could be recovered. The villagers themselves have informed me how
the thing happened, and have denounced one of their own body as the
robber, for the lead has in reality been stolen, as set forth in the
petition, only not by us.[20] M. Plé is _couvreur_ by trade, and did
precisely the same thing last year when the village was occupied by
a Russian corps, against which a charge similar to the one against
us was brought, but not with the same success. Their General did not
condemn his people unheard like the Duke of Wellington. However,
having gained this piece of intelligence, I set off to St Denis,
and stated the whole affair to the chief of the police, who smiled,
and anticipated me by himself mentioning M. Plé as a culprit and
an old acquaintance, adding that he would lose no time in sifting
the business thoroughly. A _procès verbal_ was drawn up, and I took
my departure, well pleased with the politeness and urbanity of the
French civil authorities.
Two _gens-d’armes_ were despatched to arrest M. Plé and search his
premises. A day or two afterwards, I received a note requesting my
attendance at the police the next morning at eleven o’clock. Thither
I went, and was met at the door by M. le Chef, who addressed me with
a smile and an assurance that the lead was secured. Accordingly in
the office stood M. Plé between two sentinels, and on the floor lay
several enormous rolls of lead. This was only a part of the plunder,
the rest having already been sold. In short, with admirable dexterity
and perseverance, they followed up the business, and finally
ascertained beyond a doubt that M. Plé was the thief, both now and
last year; but although there is some suspicion of collusion between
him and M. Fauigny, nothing has been brought out that throws any
light on it. I don’t think he seems known to our villagers, as one
would suppose the agent ought to be. M. Plé is lodged in some prison
in Paris, but I have no idea what eventually will become of him.
The exposure of the affair has not in the least altered my position
with the Duke of Wellington, for none dare tell him the story; and
even Sir Edward Barnes, who kindly undertook it, met with a most
ungracious rebuff, as he himself told Sir G. Wood. Meanwhile M.
Fauigny continues to pay me an occasional visit. Sometimes I see the
scoundrel _par nécessité_, but always keep out of his way if I can.
Knowing, as he does, the Duke’s humour, he continues dunning me with
most unblushing effrontery for payment.
Were it not for these complaints, and most particularly this horrible
affair of the lead, I could be happy enough here. I am getting quite
reconciled to my house and to the village, and getting acquainted
with the people, who have pretty well put things to rights again. Old
Bonnemain I find quite manageable and very useful. Another ally has
turned up in the person of the _garde champêtre_, who has at last
ventured back and resumed the insignia of office. A very different
character this from Petit Jean of Strytem; fat, pursy, stupid,
dressed in shabby plain clothes, with a broad embroidered belt over
his shoulder, altogether looking like a rat-catcher, for which I at
first mistook him.
Moreover, to be completely on a peace-establishment, our village
church has been reopened, and mass is now regularly celebrated
there. The curé fled with the rest at our approach; but, unlike
them, has never returned to his lair, and for some time the church
remained closed. The other morning, shaving with the windows open
towards the garden, I was astonished at hearing a most stentorian
voice chanting in the church, which is not far from my garden-wall;
and as nothing does or ought to take place without my knowledge,
William was forthwith despatched to ascertain what was going on.
In a few minutes he returned accompanied by M. Bonnemain, who,
with his usual profusion of bows, commenced a most humble apology
for the step he had taken without first obtaining my permission,
which, however, he trusted would not on that account be withheld.
He had sent to Pierrefitte (a neighbouring village) and engaged M.
le Curé, a most worthy and exemplary man, to come over and “faire
la messe;” and further, provided it met the approbation of M. le
Commandant, and was no disturbance to him, he had engaged M. le Curé
to come over every morning. So we have had mass ever since, and my
morning shave is regularly accompanied by the bass, nasal chant of
M. le Curé performing _l’office_ to about a dozen old women; for,
sometimes when I have been earlier and gone in, I have never found
any other congregation. Yesterday (Sunday) it was more numerous, for
then the girls go; but I am uncharitable enough to believe only to
exhibit their finery. Even on that day very few men attended; indeed,
throughout, since we entered France, we have found religion at a very
low ebb: the churches always thinly attended, and principally by
women; the Sabbath observed, if at all, only as a holiday, apparently
totally unconnected with any religious idea; shops everywhere open;
and agricultural labours, as well as every other kind, going on as
usual, unless people choose to rest and make a holiday of it.
In looking back at this journal (if so we may term what is written
by fits and starts, as an otherwise idle day occurs), I find omitted
altogether the review of the Prussian army, which took place some
days ago in the Place Louis Quinze as usual, only in this case
the line was formed along the Boulevard, and the column entered
the place by the Rue Royale. I have neglected this so long, that
I remember few particulars of the review. The troops looked well,
their equipment appeared good, the men young, active, and well
drilled, countenances full of animation, and apparently proud of
being soldiers; cavalry well mounted, and the cuirassiers wore black
cuirasses, instead of polished ones like the French. The crowd was as
great as when we were reviewed, and the ground was kept by a parcel
of wild-looking Cossacks in blue frocks and very shabby-looking
horses and appointments--_voilà tout!_ But there was one occurrence
at that review that I shall never forget. The Cossacks were under an
old chieftain, evidently of high rank, whom I understood to be no
less a person than their Hettman Platov, besides whom several Russian
general officers rode about giving directions to the Cossacks.
It was with some difficulty that I made my way through the crowd and
gained a front place, not far from the _debouchement_ of the Rue
Royale. The only military man near me was a proud-looking Russian
officer, who, from his large epaulettes and numerous decorations,
I took to be a man of some consequence, and, from the sidelong
glances at my plain and rather shabby pelisse, somewhat annoyed at
my near neighbourhood. We were, however, knee to knee, and, _bongré
malgré_, destined to keep company, for the throng was too dense
to admit of changing place; and so, as it fluctuated backward and
forward, we were forced to advance or retire like files of the same
squadron. The Cossacks were very actively employed with their long
lances keeping us all back, but still the crowd continually pushed us
forward until we were sometimes almost in the ranks of the advancing
column. At length, tired of his ineffectual attempts at restraining
us within bounds, the Cossack who was our immediate sentry made an
angry complaint to one of the general officers, and, from pointing
our way, evidently particularised me and my neighbour. The general,
flying into a passion, first looked thunder and lightning at us, and
then, cane in air, rushed to the charge. It will readily be imagined
that the ferocious gestures meant to drive us from the field only
roused my John Bullism, and caused me to assume an air of defiance.
Not so my superb neighbour; on him it had full effect. He looked
intimidated, reined back his horse, and, turning, endeavoured to
push through the crowd and make his escape, leaving me to bear the
brunt of the attack. The general, however, knew his game; so, passing
me with a scowl which I smiled at, and a grumble which I did not
understand, he pursued my friend with uplifted cane, which every
moment I expected to see descend on his back. The scene was the most
degrading I had ever witnessed--an officer in full uniform, his
breast covered with decorations, actually bending low on his horse’s
neck and making a back to receive a caning, whilst with upturned
face his looks seemed abjectly craving mercy. I wonder what the
French thought of it. I blushed for the cloth, and most sincerely
congratulated myself on being an Englishman. The chase continued
until the discomfited hero was fairly driven from the field, when
his bully returned fuming and chafing and looking very fierce, and
apparently very much vexed at the insolent indifference with which I
purposely surveyed him.
Being on the subject of reviews, I may as well note here one that
took place yesterday, which I have just heard of, but did not see. It
seems that we have been the _rara aves_ of the day ever since our
review. The rapidity of our movements, close-wheeling, perfection
of our equipment, &c. &c., excited universal astonishment and
admiration. The consequence of this was an application to the Duke
for a closer inspection, which he most magnanimously granted, and
ordered Ross’s troop out for that purpose. They paraded in the fields
near Clichy. The reviewers, I understand, were _maréchaux de France_;
but there was also a great concourse of officers of all nations.
After the manœuvres the troop was dismounted, and a most deliberate
inspection of ammunition, and even of the men’s kits, appointments,
shoeing, construction of carriages, &c. &c., took place. I believe
they were equally astonished and pleased with what they saw, and, as
there were several among them taking notes, have no doubt that we
shall soon see improvements introduced into the Continental artillery.
Paris, and the country for leagues round, form one immense garrison.
The Prussians have their headquarters at St Cloud, where Prince
Blucher occupies the palace. Their army occupies all the country
west of Paris--Versailles, Sêvres, Bellevue, &c., and round to the
southward as far as Charenton. In Paris they occupy the arsenal,
and at first had a bivouac of infantry in the Place du Carrousel,
and of light cavalry in the Champs Elysées, both of which have since
been withdrawn and sent somewhere into quarters. They also had
infantry in bivouac in the Jardin du Luxembourg, Place Royale. I do
not know whether they are withdrawn yet or not. Our headquarters
are at the Elysée Bourbon; and our cantonments, commencing at
Suresnes, extend along both banks of the Seine to Argenteuil and St
Germain en Laye, all round the north side of Paris to the heights of
Belleville. The greater part of our cavalry is, I believe, on the
left bank of the Seine. The Life Guards, Blues, &c., are at Nanterre,
Rueil, &c.; hussars at Suresnes, Puteaux, &c., and Gardiner’s (Sir
Robert) troop of horse-artillery. This last is, I think, quartered
on the Duc de Feltre (Clerk). The 12th, and another light dragoon
regiment, at Courbevoie, in the fine barracks. Infantry at Anières,
Villeneuve, and Genevilliers. Colombes--my old troop, Bull’s,
and M’Donald’s. Bezons--the rocket-troop. Neuilly--two troops of
Hanoverian horse-artillery. St Ouen--Brunswick cavalry and infantry;
some in the village, some in bivouac. Epinay--pontoon-train.
Pierrefitte--waggon-train. St Denis--commissariat magazines, &c.,
two regiments of English infantry (64th one of them), a brigade
of 18-pounders, and Sir H. Ross’s troop[21] of horse-artillery.
Malmaison--cavalry headquarters. I think there are cavalry at Marly,
St Germain en Laye, &c. &c. Stain--my troop;[21] communication kept
open by the bridge of Neuilly, and pontoon-bridges at Argenteuil
and Anières. Clichy, Courcelles, and Villiers--the fifth division,
partly in camp, partly in quarters. Bois de Boulogne--infantry,
encamped. Passy--English artillery. Rue Poissonnière--a regiment of
English infantry in the barrack. La Chapelle--Hanoverian dragoons
and a brigade of 18-pounders. Montmartre--English infantry.
Clignancour--21st Regiment of do. Faubourg de Montmartre--English
infantry. Faubourg de Clichy--Rifles. Chaussée d’Antin--Foot Guards.
Vertus, or Aubervilliers--English infantry and Major Morrison’s
9-pounder brigade. Gonesse--English infantry and artillery.
Chenevrière--do. do. do. Luzarches, and along the line of road to
Chantilly--Belgic contingent. Dugny--Staff corps. Garges, Arnouville,
&c.--Nassau troops. Headquarters of our artillery, Rue de Richelieu.
Belleville and the neighbourhood is occupied by Russian infantry.
Abattoirs de Montmartre (the barrack at)--a regiment of cuirassiers,
in white, with black cuirasses; I think they are Russian--not sure.
Faubourg St Denis--Austrian or Hungarian infantry. The Emperor of
Austria lives on the Boulevard (I think des Italiens). The Emperor of
Russia and King of Prussia I know not where; but the Hetman Platoff
(as well as our Colonel Sir A. Fraser) lives at the Hotel du Nord,
Rue de Richelieu, where his guard of wild-looking Cossacks, with
their little shabby horses picketed in the court, furnish gape-seed
for the _badauds_, a crowd of whom are continually at the gate. It
is a singular spectacle to see the public places in town all doubly
guarded--a French and an English or Prussian sentry. When I ride into
Paris by the Barrière de Clichy, as I generally do (that way being
so much pleasanter than passing through La Chapelle and Faubourg St
Denis), I am at once amused and interested at seeing the two sentries
soberly pacing backward and forward, opposite each other, one on each
side of the street. As I draw near they simultaneously front and
pay the usual compliment (there is something piquant in receiving
a salute from a French soldier), each after his own fashion. There
they stand; on the one side a tall handsome fellow, with a fair
face and prim shopkeeper-like air, with his high fur cap and trim
uniform, almost speck and span new; the other, a shorter but more
sturdy figure, bronzed visage, and jacket of brick-dust red, marked
in various places with bivouac stains, and faded from exposure to sun
and rain, but with arms and accoutrements in far better order than
those of his smart neighbour. On first taking possession of Paris,
the Prussians posted one or two field-pieces at each of the bridges,
with a guard of infantry. These guns were kept constantly loaded, and
slow-match lighted. Latterly they have been withdrawn; but we still
have guards at every public building--such as the Louvre, Palais
Royal, &c. These are generally English.
Yesterday I made a most interesting excursion over all the scene of
last year’s battles,--the plain of St Denis, Vertus, the heights of
Belleville, Montmartre, &c. Independent of historical associations,
these heights are extremely interesting, from the fine commanding
views they afford; but particularly in a geological point of view.
Rising abruptly to the height of some hundred feet from the (almost
level) Plain de St Denis, their appearance is very remarkable as we
approach by the great northern road to La Chapelle, almost everywhere
terminating in lofty white precipices of gypsum (or sulphate of
lime)--hence called plaster of Paris. Montmartre appears once to have
been a continuation of the heights of Belleville, from the similarity
of the gypsum cliffs opposite to each other. It is now isolated,
and, with its precipitous terminations and crest covered with
windmills, forms a very remarkable object from the plain below. These
windmills are principally on the end over Clichy; towards the other
is the celebrated telegraph--known by fame to all Europe--whence
were transmitted at various periods orders for the invasion of
Italy, Austria, Russia, Prussia, and Belgium, and by which Paris
was so often roused to the boiling-point of vanity when it brought
intelligence of Jena, Wagram, &c. But _revenons à nos moutons_. The
heights are separated by a narrow gorge, in which, under the cliffs
of Montmartre, is a small hillock[22] (Mamelon), crowned by three
windmills, which appears to have been formed by detritus from above.
The dome of St Genevieve seen through this gorge gave us the first
notice of the French capital the evening we arrived at Garges.
The intermediate part of Montmartre, though not precipitous, descends
by a very rapid slope towards the plain. About midway of the descent
is the pretty village of Clignancour, the houses of which, having
their first floor on a level with the ground behind, command from
their windows and balconies a most extensive and pleasing view over
the country below, and are delightfully intermingled with shrubberies
and gardens. The descent towards Paris is less steep, and is covered
all the way with the suburb of Montmartre. The whole summit is
enclosed by Buonaparte’s celebrated, but, as it has turned out,
useless lines, erected last year for the defence of the metropolis.
Of these I need say little, as I know they are surveying by our
engineers, who will no doubt give us a detailed account of them--a
piece of slavery which I am not at all disposed to engage in. All
I can say of them is that, considering the hurried manner in which
the work has been done, they are very creditable--that they cover
all the ground in front with their fire--and that a tremendous
concentration of fire, direct and flanking, commands every important
point. They are continued partially across the gorge, the bank of the
Canal de l’Ourcq, and fully up the opposite heights of Belleville.
They may, however, be easily turned on either flank. The gorge is
occupied by the humble and uninteresting suburb of La Chapelle. The
heights of Belleville are extremely pretty, being almost covered
with a succession of cheerful and sometimes elegant villas, gardens,
shrubberies, vineyards, and the village. I envied the Russians such
pretty quarters; yet they would be just as well pleased here as
there, perhaps. From these heights I got a peep at Vincennes, with
its park, chateau, and tower, on which the Lilies of France have at
last replaced the Tricolor. The governor (_un vieux moustache_, with
one leg) refused for a long time to surrender; and the sovereigns,
out of respect for the old man, did not insist; but after a time he
grew insolent, and I understand either did or threatened to fire at
some officers who went too near his stronghold. This was too much,
and preparations were making to reduce him when he was fortunately
persuaded to surrender. Having rambled about until I had seen all
worth seeing, and got an omelet in one of the _ginguettes_, or
whatever they call them, I descended from the heights of Belleville,
and crossing the fields (all without hedges here), and the great
road to Soissons, made straight for Vertus. As far as the road to
Soissons, the number of gardens, with summer-houses perched on
one angle of the enclosing wall, thick shrubberies, and the fine
umbrageous avenue which the road itself with its quadruple rows
of elms presents, made the country interesting in spite of its
flatness; but beyond, when one comes on what may more strictly be
termed the plain of St Denis, there is no redeeming point--it is a
vast extent of monotonous corn-field, unrelieved by tree or shrub,
and only broken by the buildings of the village of Vertus and the
elevated bank of the Canal de l’Ourcq. The great road to Compiègne,
which crosses this plain from La Chapelle to St Denis, once had its
trees also; but they were cut down, I think, last year; and the
only objects one now sees along this dreary line are a mile (or a
league) stone on the left going to town, and a cross or Bon Dieu on
the right. Young trees have been planted along part of the line, but
at present they are mere sticks. Met Major Morrison in Vertus; his
9-pounder brigade is stationed there, together with a regiment of
infantry. By the way, the name of that place is Aubervilliers, or
Nôtre Dame des Vertus, but one never hears any more of its name than
the last word--so that it is Vertus _par excellence_, and all the
rest is superfluity.
I have had a long scribble this morning; so now, having jotted down
nearly everything to the present date, I have a right to go and
idle a bit with the girls. This is a lounge of which I have as yet
said nothing, because I thought it commonplace; hereafter, however,
it will be interesting to look back and see as in a picture all
that is now transacting--_allons donc!_ Through the middle of our
village runs a little sluggish rivulet, very like that at Garges.
On the banks of this, every fine day, may be seen assembled the
scraggy-necked dames and black-eyed nymphs of the village, all pretty
much alike in costume--that is, arms bare, stays loosely laced, and
petticoat of _siamoise_, with the eternal blue stockings and wooden
shoes; each has her bundle of linen, her heavy bat, and generally a
bit of board to kneel on. Here, then, kneeling in a line along the
banks of soapy waters, they laugh, chatter, and sing; whilst the bat
incessantly goes slap, slap, slap. Just where the street leading
to St Denis joins ours, in the centre of the village, a bridge of
very humble dimensions spans the stream, on the parapet of which I
have established my divan; and thither I repair to smoke my weed and
enjoy a little badinage with the fair daughters of Stain--to gain a
little information from their wrinkled mothers. Amongst our village
maidens there are several exceedingly pretty--some one or two would
be beautiful, were not their feminine _delicacy_ (perhaps the word
may be used morally as well as physically) much injured by their
being constantly employed in the fields, which cannot but make their
persons coarse. There is one exception to this, however, in Josephine
Chamont, who is really a beautifully-delicate, lady-like girl; but
then she does not go to the fields. Angélique, on the contrary,
is as fine a woman as ever I saw; she is about twenty--a perfect
Juno--tall, erect, with a beautiful countenance and splendid black
eyes; she walks like a queen. When our invasion was expected, the
women of the commune formed themselves into an amazonian regiment,
and Angélique was their sergeant-major.--But I must to the bridge.
M. Fauigny paid me a visit this morning: I did not see him.
CHAPTER XXI.
_August 1st._--Our fine weather still continues--with the exception
of one or two days, we have scarcely had any rain since we arrived
here. Our army is breaking up from hence and going into Normandy.
Some of our troops of horse-artillery marched the day before
yesterday, and yesterday some regiments of cavalry. The infantry are
also preparing for their departure. Ross’s troop and mine, belonging
to the reserve, are to remain in the neighbourhood of Paris. This
appearance of peace has, I suppose, induced the Beguines, or Sœurs
de la Charité, to return to the village, much to our annoyance;
for their house is the one in which we mess, and where Ambrose and
Maunsell live. Five of the sisterhood called on me this morning
for the purpose of obtaining the restoration of their house, and
permission to return and inhabit it. I was at breakfast, but these
good dames would take no refusal, and William was obliged to show
them up. My little room was crammed.
I have always up to this date associated most inseparably in my mind
youth and beauty with the term nun. It was, therefore, not without
some trifling emotion that I awaited the five nuns whom William had
announced, and heard them bustling along the narrow bricked passage
leading from the head of the stairs to my room. Such being the case,
it may easily be imagined that it was not without disappointment I
saw entering, one after another, four ugly old women, in shabby black
dresses, and at the same time became sensible of a very unpleasant
odour accompanying the ladies. All this was enough; and, in the
politest manner possible, I hastened to meet their wishes as soon as
known, in order to get rid of them. Here I reckoned without my host.
The good dames found my politeness so winning, that they were in no
hurry to move, nor did they until they had inflicted on me the whole
history of their adventures and sufferings from the first invasion by
the Allies last year down to last night. When, at length, they did
depart, I thought I could never sufficiently inhale the fresh air of
heaven.
Having got rid of the ladies, after visiting the parade (which
we hold in the park of the great chateau), I rode to St Ouen
and Clichy. In the last and neighbourhood our fifth division is
quartered, and I was astonished to see the Prussian-like manner
in which the place is occupied. One very handsome villa I visited
had its pretty pleasure-ground trampled and spoiled as much as the
chateau at Stain; and, to my surprise, in the house I found two
formerly splendid _salons_ converted into stables, and actually
occupied by officers’ horses. I don’t know what the Duke will
say when he comes to know this. The neighbourhood of Clichy is
pretty--all villas and gardens, &c.
_August 2d._--Another beautiful day. More regiments marching towards
Normandy. In consequence of the return of our nuns, we moved our mess
establishment to-day into the Petit chateau, having prepared and
made as comfortable as circumstances would admit the grand _salon_
in the centre of the front. This is a very fine room with a boarded
floor in little squares (_parquet_), which looks very well, but is
very creaky, as all these floors are. We collected what chairs were
still serviceable as seats, and as they were few, the wheeler patched
up others; a table was a more difficult article to procure; the
floor served as a sideboard. There being no glass in the window, we
are obliged to make the venetians (which fortunately are unbroken)
answer, lowering those to windward when the air is too much. We
are raised about six feet above the lawn, and two winding flights
of steps afford the means of descending from the windows of the
bowed front to the turf below. Fatigue-parties have been employed
all yesterday and this morning clearing the lawn of the fragments
of furniture, rags of curtains, torn books, and broken glass, that
encumbered and disfigured it--so that now our domain looks decent,
and we have actually wondered we could stay so long in the gloomy old
house we have left. By way of a house-warming I gave my champagne
on promotion, and we have had a merry evening, without excess, or I
should not be able to write this.
_3d._--No headache this morning; our champagne was excellent and
very cheap. In England we should pay from 10s. to 15s. per bottle.
This cost me precisely 5 francs, or 4s. 2d., a bottle--some little
difference. But to my journal. Rode to Paris, and as usual put up
Cossack at a stable I have discovered in Rue de Malle, just by the
Place du Carrousel, consequently very convenient. When I arrived,
there were several people in the stable, who gathered round me and
Cossack, asking with apparent curiosity if he was in the battle of
Mont St Jean. I told them Yes, and all about his eight wounds--the
scars of which were visible enough. This seemed to excite great
interest; and I walked off, leaving them assembled round the
fellow’s stall, having first, however, warned them of his heels.
The Palais Royal, Rue Vivienne, and Boulevard were the scenes of
my promenade. The first I have spoken of before, and hope to do
so again; the second is a kind of Bond Street, leading straight
away from the northern entrance of the Palais Royal. Like Bond
Street, it is narrow--so narrow, indeed, that the London street
becomes broad by comparison, and is infinitely its superior in the
convenient _trottoir_ which the Rue Vivienne totally wants. In
short, in London this narrow, badly-paved avenue, with its gutter
down the centre, would only rank as a lane. Here is to be seen all
the beauty and fashion of Paris; for here, as in Bond Street, are
all the fashionable shops. If some of those under the arcades of
the Palais Royal are more splendid, the articles in these are more
substantially rich and good. But the Boulevard is the great point
of attraction for me, and there I passed this morning, until it was
time to return here before dark, lounging from the Rue Royale to the
Boulevard du Temple and back again, with an occasional turn down the
Rue de Richelieu, or the Passage des Panorama and Feydeau, into the
Rue Vivienne and Palais Royal. The Boulevards (for there are many,
every few hundred yards having a different designation) form a sort
of circular road round what once was Paris, separating it from the
Faubourgs, now forming part of the great whole; and these Boulevards
form a street about as broad as Oxford Street, perhaps broader.
This, without excepting the Palais Royal, is the most amusing part
of Paris. The houses along this immense avenue are neither regular
nor uniformly handsome, but high and low, rich and poor, wood and
stone--from the cottage to the palace. A broad footway (not a paved
_trottoir_) next the houses is in many parts shaded by rows of
lime-trees, and separated from the road by a shabby wooden railing.
The road is incessantly thronged with carts, fiacres, cabriolets,
private equipages, and horsemen; every now and then a detachment of
_gens-d’armes_ is seen urging their way soberly through the crowd.
This forms a lively and amusing scene enough, particularly just now,
from the contrast between numerous well-appointed English equipages
and the clumsy vehicles and tinsel finery of the native. But it is
in the footway one finds the greatest source of amusement, and most
food for philosophical contemplation. Here one meets promenaders
or passengers in every variety of European, and even some Asiatic,
costumes. Some, you may know by their lounging gait, are employed
only in killing time and dispelling _ennui_; others, bustling from
shop to shop and from table to table, are people whose money burns
in their pockets, and their amusement consists in getting rid of
it as quickly as possible for articles utterly useless to them,
and which, laid aside to-morrow, will quickly be forgotten. Again,
a third, and by far the most numerous class one sees here, have a
directly contrary employment to the last--they are people whose
pockets burn to have money in them; and accordingly here, in this
great thoroughfare, we find them resorting to all sorts, even the
most ludicrous, the vilest, and the most degrading means of obtaining
their end. Here tables innumerable are set out under the trees
covered with all sorts of cheap articles--toys, perfumery, cutlery,
combs, and articles in horn, bone, wood, metal, glass--every thing
and every article upon each table of the same price. In passing
along, one is deafened by the incessant and rapid vociferations of
these dealers enumerating the various articles upon their tables,
eulogising them in the most ridiculous terms, and announcing
their price: “Dix sols pour chacun!--dix sols, dix sols--dix sols
seulement, messieurs!” Then there are jugglers, mountebanks, and
importunate beggars. My great torment in the Boulevard is a little
wretch of a girl, about ten or twelve years old, whose ostensible
business is the sale of toothpicks, but in reality is begging.
This little animal fixes herself on one with the tenacity of a
leech--running by one’s side, occasionally holding up the articles
of her pretended trade, and unceasingly plying her song: “Ah,
monsieur! cure-dents, monsieur? En voulez-vous, monsieur? deux sols,
monsieur! Ah, monsieur! le pauvre père, monsieur; il est malade,
monsieur!” and then, when she becomes convinced of the inutility of
perseverance, suddenly stopping and entering into an indifferent,
perhaps merry, confab with some chum, and again starting after some
other likely-looking customer. She frequently follows me from her
stand, which is at the end of the Rue de Richelieu, to the Rue de la
Paix. Other characters there are of different descriptions, and many
of them forming a feature in this motley and daily crowd. Amongst
these I have particularly noticed an old man, with long grey locks
flowing in a most picturesque style over his back and shoulders,
strumming a cracked guitar; and a female, somewhat advanced in years,
dressed in shabby old finery, her faded charms partially concealed
under a rusty-black veil, who attempts to excite interest in and
extract metal from the passengers by warbling a pathetic love-song in
a most ominously husky voice. A little farther, a proud and stately
Mohammedan, in full Turkish costume, offers for sale I know not
what, and evinces much indignation at the itinerant sausage-vendor,
who pushes steadily through the crowd, the fiery brasier suspended
before him by a strap passing round his neck, everywhere opening
for him a free passage. Over the brasier a square pan contains the
savoury-smelling, hissing sausages, which as they fry he is able,
from having his hands at liberty, to keep turning, or to serve out
to customers and receive their sols in return. The steaming pan has
frequently made my mouth water, and I give no credit to the fierce
and angry look of our stately Turk when startled by his near and
unexpected approach. I’d wager a sol did they but encounter in some
obscure passage he would himself become a customer to the Giaour’s
polluted pan.
At the angle formed by the Boulevards du Temple and St Martin,
and opposite to the beautiful Fontaine de Boudi or des Lions, in a
snug recess formed by a break in the line of building, may daily be
seen a table, covered with a cloth scrupulously white, on which are
arranged sundry piles of a peculiarly inviting _gâteau_. This table
is constantly surrounded by a certain description of young men, whose
bronzed features, mustachioed lips, and confident, insolent stare,
denote the _militaire en retraite_, or half-pay officer. Here the
presiding goddess is a comely dame of some forty years standing, a
little inclined to _embonpoint_, with a bold masculine countenance
embrowned by constant exposure, but yet having strong claim to a
certain description of beauty, which she understood how to enhance by
the tasteful and coquettish arrangement of her blue _cornette_ and a
studied neatness in every other part of her dress. With her customers
this fair dame carries on a conversation animated and somewhat free,
if she likes them; but Englishmen are by no means favourites. This
portrait will be readily recognised by those to whom the Boulevard
St Martin is familiar. The immense number of tables spread with
books, as well as little sheds for the sale of the same--and their
cheapness, are quite astonishing. I may say the same of engravings,
many of them really good. Equally astonishing is the open and
barefaced display, in these stalls, &c., of the most licentious
works, and pictures of the most indecent kind. Although the best
shops are certainly in the Rue Vivienne, &c., yet are there many
very splendid ones along the Boulevards, particularly the Boulevard
des Italiens. Here are also some good restaurants and cafés; and,
amongst other ornamental buildings, the Bains Chinois. Amid all
these, however, there is a characteristic eye-sore which strikes one
as quite incongruous: I allude to the intervention of shabby wooden
sheds amongst goodly shops and houses. Besides the book-stalls just
spoken of, one sees every here and there a long, low, mean-looking
shed, its front almost all window. This is a news-room, where, for
a few sols, you may read all the daily journals published in Paris,
if you have patience to wait until they be disengaged, for these
places are generally full; and I often amuse myself by stopping
before the broad windows, always open just now, and contemplating
the line of odd figures--some spectacled, others (from the manner of
holding the little--after our own--minikin _feuille_ at arm’s-length)
who evidently ought to be; and all absorbed in the meagre nonsense
which every one of these papers I have looked into contains: a
number of people may commonly be seen in attendance awaiting their
turn. The fellows who keep these sheds must make a mint of money.
Another feature not confined to the Boulevards, but common to all
the public gardens and places of general resort, is the numbers of
well-dressed and often dandified loungers on chairs, and the piles
of these against the trees. To us at first it was a novelty seeing
groups of people seated on chairs in the open street; but I have now
got accustomed to it, and even to appreciate the luxury myself. These
chairs, which are of the plainest kind, form the stock-in-trade,
and furnish the livelihood, of many a poor old man or woman, who
otherwise could do nothing to support themselves; and, _en passant_,
I should note the admirable address with which I have seen these
people turn the wants of human nature to account. On a rainy day some
sally out with a common oil-skin umbrella, which is offered to the
first unfortunate wight caught out in a hat or coat likely to suffer.
Others, providing themselves with a thick plank, repair to some great
thoroughfare where they know there is an insufficient gutter that
will overflow--and this may be everywhere. The plank, laid over the
rushing stream of black water, is paid for by those who are generous
by a sol or two, thus verifying the saying, It is an ill wind that
blows nobody good.
The hire of a chair per hour is a mere trifle--a sol or two; and
thence it is, I suppose, that a Parisian exquisite seems to think
it degrading to occupy only one. Two or three is the common run;
but I saw one gentleman this morning who actually occupied five
whole chairs. He had chosen an excellent position to be seen, on
the Boulevard des Italiens, just by Hardi’s, whither I was bound
to get some dinner. One chair sustained the main body, another the
right leg, a third the left, a fourth afforded a rest for the left
arm, whilst the fifth, bearing gloves, _mouchoir_, and _canne à
pomme d’or_, stood conveniently by his right. The self-satisfied
air with which this exquisite scrutinised with his _lorgnette_ the
passers-by, was not the least amusing part of this entertaining
microcosm. Cogitating on the various means used by mankind to court
or win admiration from their fellow-men, I mounted the steps in
front of Hardi’s, and entered the airy, nicely-furnished _salle à
manger_. “Garçon! la carte!” I cried, throwing myself into a seat
near the window, the table by which appeared unoccupied. There is
about as much difference between one of our dark close coffee-rooms
in London and the _salle à manger_ of a Parisian restaurateur (at
least Hardi’s or Very’s), as there is between a tallow-chandler’s
back parlour in St Martin’s Lane and Lady B.’s beautiful drawing-room
in Park Lane. Here are no closely-shut-up boxes, with their green
curtains, &c.; all is open, airy, and cheerful. Small tables (just
sufficiently large to dine four people) stand about the room covered
with snow-white table-cloths, napkins, and silver forks; and instead
of the dingy smoked walls of a London coffee-house, and windows so
covered with dust that the panes of glass, although translucent,
are not transparent, here the walls, covered with a gay painted
paper, have an air of cheerfulness quite indescribable, especially
when connected with the moving, lively scene without, of which the
constantly open door and windows afford an uninterrupted view. In
looking on the scene below, the continuous lines of trees give such
a rustic appearance to the whole, that it is difficult to imagine
one’s self in the very heart of a great capital. To me the Boulevard
had more the style of Lewisham or Clapham, or some of those “_rus
in urbe_” sort of places so numerous in the vicinity of London. It
seems bells are not in use at these places, and calling out or making
a noise is vulgar. Therefore, instead of the constantly reiterated
“Waiter! waiter!” a sort of masonic signal has been invented to
call the attention of the attendants. I began at my first visit to
Hardi’s as I would have done in England, and summoned the garçon
_viva voce_; but I soon discovered by the glances shot from the
tables, and the quick turning of heads, that there was something
wrong, at least something unusual. I observed there was no calling,
and yet tables were served; and by the occasionally sudden turning
and going up to some particular one, I became aware that some other
mode of communication must be established. I watched. The garçon
was standing near the door looking at an English regiment at that
moment passing along the Boulevard. An elderly gentleman, in a
sad-coloured suit, who had hitherto been busily employed at the next
table discussing his _potage_, stopping suddenly, looked sharply
about the room as if in search of some one. His inquisitive glance
settled at once on the garçon, and taking up the sharp-pointed knife
that lay beside his plate (the knives here are all of one pattern,
very common, and apparently made to be used as stilettos instead
of for cutting beef or mutton), gently touched with it the side of
his wine-glass, producing a slight jingling sound that scarcely
reached my ear, close as we were to each other. It proved sufficient
though, for the garçon started and was at his side in an instant.
“Ma foi!” thought I, “this is a ‘wrinkle to my horn,’” I shall be
quite an _habitué_. I tried the experiment again and again:--it
never failed; and being now up to the thing, I soon observed that
everybody used the same signal. It reminds me of the Spanish call,
“Hist!” uttered from the tongue alone, without any sound from the
chest. Things are uncommonly well cooked at Hardi’s, and served in
most comfortable and respectable style. The napkins at a public
table are quite new to us Englishmen. I had a _potage_, and one or
two _petit-plats_, that I selected at random from the _carte_; for
amongst the numbers figuring there, I knew not one by name, and most
probably as little by nature. One thing I dislike in French cookery
is the abominable fashion of disguising vegetables; one cannot even
get a potato plain and unsophisticated. _Gâteau de pommes de terre_,
or some such mixture of potatoes, butter, &c. &c., is the only way
they are eaten here. Having finished my plate of strawberries and a
bottle of very excellent _Lafitte_, I set off for the Rue de Malte;
but instead of going directly thither down the Rue de Richelieu, I
made another little promenade on the Boulevard, and finally down
the Passage des Panoramas and Feydeau, Rue Vivienne, Palais Royal,
&c. The lamps were already lighted, doors open, sentinels posted,
and crowds rushing into the Théâtre des Variétés as I passed. The
passages looked brilliant by the light of multitudes of lamps, and
the arcades of the Palais Royal, where the illumination was only
beginning, already swarmed with depravity, and proposals rung in my
ears from my entrance to my sortie from this sink of iniquity. The
decreasing light warned me not to loiter; so, mounting Cossack, I
made the best of my way over the abominable pavement of the Faubourg
St Denis, until, gaining the end of La Chapelle, the road became
better adapted for rapid movement. Daylight closed, however, just as
I got through St Denis, having just enough to save me from the wheels
of the numerous chariots and other vehicles with which its long
narrow street is always crowded. Having only open fields to traverse
afterwards, I cared less; and trusting myself to Cossack’s sagacity,
he soon brought me safe home--and thus ends one of the many pleasant
days I have passed in this most interesting place. I find Mr Fauigny
has been here to-day. He gets hot after his money. I doubt, however,
if he will ever finger any of it.
_August 4th._--Beautiful day again. Every pleasure in this life
has some drawback--as if this were necessary to prevent our
thinking we have already arrived in paradise. That, then, which in
a measure neutralises our enjoyment of this fine warm weather, is
the incessant torment of swarms of flies (common house-flies) which
infest us within and without doors. From these wretches there is no
respite, except it be at night, or maybe in a darkened room. The
mosquitoes cannot be worse, though they may be as bad. It is not as
in England--merely the buzzing about and tickling caused by their
alighting on and walking about one. No; here the brutes bite, and so
sharply as to bring blood. My greatest suffering from these plagues
is in the morning, when I may wish to lie in bed later than usual,
which is not often. I am generally up too early for them;[23] for
it is only after the sun acquires strength that they begin to be
troublesome: then, unless the room be well darkened, there is no
possibility of sleeping; and in my naked house there are not the
means of doing this--window-shutters, to be sure, but they fit so
badly that there is little difference as to light whether they be
closed or open. In the village the road is quite black every day in
front of our butchers with the dead flies thrown out. He poisons them
with an infusion of quassia sweetened with sugar. In my garden there
is abundance of the finest fruit--peaches, nectarines, figs, plums,
and splendid grapes, now all quite ripe; but such swarms of these
detestable brutes infest the trees that they spoil everything. It is
impossible to eat any of the fruit without first washing it: this
spoils it. Half the battle is picking it off the tree and eating it.
What strange things we live to see and hear! I do think that during
the period I have been in the world, more strange, wonderful,
improbable (and what once would have been deemed impossible) events
have occurred than the whole history of the world, since Noah landed
on Mount Ararat down to 1789, could furnish altogether. Not the
least strange amongst these is the general order just published to
the British army by Wellington, calling upon commanding officers to
give every assistance required by the French farmers or cultivateurs
in getting in the harvest! In consequence, English soldiers and
French peasants are seen everywhere side by side, sickle in hand,
or binding sheaves, &c.--the invader and the invaded alike peaceably
occupied, and reciprocating kind offices one with the other. ’Tis a
goodly sight, truly. Further good consequences are very perceptible
in our village. All mistrust and dislike of each other are at an end;
and our people are now quite on an intimate and friendly footing
with the peasantry. Many an amicable little knot may be seen of an
evening sitting at their doors enjoying at once the cool air, their
pipes, and the pleasures of conversation, or rather of trying to
understand each other. Some of the villagers have already picked up
a little English, and our men a little French. The gayest of the
latter occasionally mix in the rustic dance; and although rather
rough and bearish in their manner of swinging the girls about,
yet are they sought after as partners, the pretty _paysanne_ who
has for her partner _un canonier_ evincing in her look and manner
a degree of satisfaction not to be mistaken. Already symptoms of
jealousy have made their appearance among the young _paysans_, and
I have consulted M. Bonnemain on the subject, expressing my fears
lest it might disturb the harmony already subsisting. “A bah! n’y
a pas de danger!--n’importe, n’importe,” is always his answer;
and accordingly neither I nor my officers have observed anything
like a diminution of friendship among the males. These French girls
are clever creatures. They have hearts and flattering tongues
for all. It is a pleasing sight of an evening to see our people
returning frolicking home from the fields, with the loaded carts,
the cargoes of which all are busily assisting in stowing away in the
_grenier_--soldiers, _paysans_, and _paysannes_.
Generally speaking, these latter (male and female) are very
respectable, well-mannered, and well-spoken people in their way.
There is, however, one, the most perfect Caliban I ever met with
in my life. Bonnemain says he is not an inhabitant of Stain, but
comes from some part of Normandy--I forget where. Short, thick-set,
and powerfully built; covered with hair--head shaggy as that of a
savage; long beard and naked breast, like a bear’s; broad squat face
and enormous features--indeed, when standing close to, and trying
to converse with him, I feel a sensation as if looking at his face
through a powerful magnifier. Of his language (he speaks very fast
and very loud) I cannot succeed in catching a single French word,
and I observe that the inhabitants themselves seem to have some
difficulty in comprehending his meaning. I have christened him
Caliban!--beautiful monster!
But it is almost time to go to bed, and as yet I have not mentioned
my ride to Paris to-day--I should say _usual_, for few days elapse
without my going thither. In general I prefer the road by St Ouen,
Clichy, and Monceaux, &c., because it has trees, the scenery is
better, the line is not so tediously straight, and by the Barrière de
Clichy one enters at once on a decent part of the town, the Rue de
Clichy and du Mont Blanc, instead of having to pass through the long
blackguard suburbs of La Chapelle and St Denis. To-day, however, I
took this road. How unlike the neighbourhood of London, where, for
twenty miles (certainly ten) from town, the country is covered with
villas, and the roads with carriages, equestrians--indeed, travellers
of every kind and in every way! Here we have a long straight road
stretching away with an almost imperceptible ascent for about three
miles--not a tree nor a bush lends its shade or breaks its painful
monotony (if I may so apply the word)--nor house, nor fence. In
the middle reigns a horrible pavement, and on each side of this an
unpaved road for summer use; after rain these become sloughs, and
then, sooner than travel on the pavement, I take to the fields.
These, as I have before said, extend to a considerable distance right
and left, naked and cheerless, forming the plain of St Denis. There
is another by-road leading off near St Denis, which, keeping about
midway between the chaussée just mentioned and that by St Ouen,
ascends Montmartre by Clignancour, &c. This may be travelled _in dry
weather_. In my progress from St Denis to La Chapelle, as usual,
instead of the bustle of a London road, a solitary cabriolet now and
then passed me; and from time to time I overtook a long-bodied cart,
with what we should call half a load--the horses with their broad
painted hames, and the waggoner in his white night-cap (or mayhap
a cocked-hat), blue frock and white stockings, _sabots_, &c. These
things have now lost their novelty--I am too much at home to be
amused by them; so I was pacing along thoughtfully when the wildest
thing in the shape of an equipage whisked past in a twinkling. It
was Russian--a sort of low clumsily-built barouche, with the head
thrown back. In this were seated two officers in full uniform,
cocked-hats, and long drooping black or bottle-green plumes; four or
five (for I did not exactly ascertain which) little, long-tailed,
long-maned, wild-looking horses were driven at a gallop by two boys
as wild in their appearance, seated on the off-horses, and using the
end of the reins as a whip, in the manner of our hussar bridles. I
was delighted; but the thing came up so suddenly, and passed me so
rapidly, that I had but half a look at it. _En revanche_, standing
at the northern entrance of the Palais Royal, I saw to-day again a
regular Russian equipage. This was a low carriage also, but of a
peculiar construction, drawn by four little rough horses harnessed
with rope. On the driving-box sat one of the most picturesque figures
I ever saw in my life. Conceive a head of Jupiter as to features, and
the splendid beard that fell in thick masses over his ample chest,
eyes shooting thunderbolts, overhung by the brow of majesty itself;
the support of this head a neck--such a neck!--such a muscular
column!--such a bust altogether! His costume, too, was piquant from
its novelty. Nothing European was there except the hat, if one
might admit this as such, which differed from anything else of the
sort I had ever seen; crown exceedingly low, and about twice the
diameter at top as at bottom, encircled by an amazingly broad band;
brim very broad, and turned up in a peculiar way at the sides--body
wrapped in a kind of caftan with loose sleeves, and girt round
the waist by a broad sash. On the off-leader sat one of the most
beautiful and wildest urchins it is possible to conceive, wrapped
in a caftan of similar colour and make to that of the coachman’s,
grey forage-cap, and neck quite bare. He was about fourteen this
boy, and a more animated, lovely face could scarcely be imagined. In
repose it would be lovely; but when lighted up by the quick play of
two brilliant eyes, partially overshadowed by long elf-locks, the
beauty and wildness of expression almost exceeds belief. Whilst I
stood wrapt in admiration of these two figures, a Russian officer in
a plain undress came out of the Palais Royal, and stepped into the
conveniently low vehicle. The coachman shook his reins, the boy, who
had been looking back, turned sharply to the front, uttering a loud,
shrill, but musical cry, the little wild horses tossed up their noses
with a snort, burst at once into a gallop, and away they went like a
whirlwind down the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs. For the rest of this
day I have never been able to get them out of my head, and everything
Russian has borne with me a double interest. Strange that, going
as I do every day to Paris, it should never have fallen to my lot
before to see a Russian equipage; and yet every day, at least every
time I pass through La Chapelle, I see hundreds of their soldiers
(infantry) without bestowing on them the slightest attention. These,
smart as they are on the parade, are the dirtiest slovens in the
world off it: the usual costume in which one sees them running
about La Chapelle is a dirty forage-cap, as dirty a grey greatcoat,
generally gathered back by the waist-strap, so as to be out of the
way, dirty linen trousers, shoved up at bottom by the projection of
the unlaced half-boot. Such is the figure I generally see slipping
from house to house, or going across the fields at a sort of Highland
trot. Curiosity they have none, or it is restrained by their
discipline, for I do not recollect once having met a Russian soldier
dressed and walking the streets, as if to see the place. Sometimes,
in passing their quarters, I have heard them sing in their squalling,
drawling style, in a voice as if mocking some one; there is, however,
something wild and plaintive in their ditties. Karl’s ‘Imitations,’
which I always fancied a caricature, is, I find, most excellent. The
Prussians, by the by, show themselves as little about the streets
as the Russians; but Austrians or Hungarians I meet constantly,
generally walking two together--staring into the shop-windows, &c.
&c. Tall, heavily-built, boorish-looking fellows, but apparently
good-natured and orderly in their behaviour. Happening to go into
a shop on the Boulevard a few days ago, one of these came in, and
making some observation on my purchase, was surprised at my answering
him in German, and immediately became quite friendly. Whether he knew
I was an officer or not, it is impossible to say, but he followed me
out of the shop, and walked some way along the Boulevard with me,
and it was not without difficulty I at last succeeded in shaking
him off. They are a heavy people altogether, these Austrians. I
frequently pass the hotel where the Emperor lodges, and in this hot
weather all the windows being open, see from the Boulevard the whole
interior of the waiting-room, where the stiff formality of the Garde
du Corps on duty, in their ugly old-fashioned uniforms of grey and
silver lace, with ill-shaped cocked-hats stuck square on, is not a
little ridiculous. However, they are, as I said before, a good, quiet
people.
CHAPTER XXII.
_August 5th._--I had intended seeing some of the sights to-day--so
accordingly, after breakfast, mounted on Nelly, cigar in mouth, and
followed by my smart orderly, Fitzgerald, I paraded slowly through
the village, crossed the fields to St Denis, having passed which I
had already got over half the dreary road to La Chapelle, when Nelly
suddenly fell dead lame. Upon examination we found a great nail which
had run into her foot (off hind), between the frog and bars. This put
an end to my day. So I returned quietly, put the mule into the stable
with Cossack and the brown horse, Nelly into the mule’s box, sent to
St Denis for Mr Coward, who is veterinary surgeon to our division,
made Farrier Price meantime pare her sole almost to the quick, put
on a bran poultice, and have at last sat down to amuse myself by
scribbling something about Paris--observations, description, or what
else it may be. To proceed, then. I shall not soon forget my first
ride to Paris from Colombes. Although already noticed in its place,
I like to dwell on a subject to me of so much pleasure, and shall
ever recall with emotion my feelings on first passing the Barrière de
l’Etoile and gaining a _coup d’œil_ of the magnificent avenue beyond,
terminated by the venerable palace of the French monarch--its noble
trees, its crowds of carriages, horsemen and footmen, and all the
_et ceteras_ of such a scene. Arriving by this side, the head filled
with preconceived ideas of filthy narrow streets without _trottoirs_,
what was my surprise on passing through the Place Louis Quinze
and entering the magnificent Rue Royale. My previous knowledge of
Paris, picked up in books of travel, &c., has all proved erroneous.
Some travellers are extravagant in its praise; but I think the
greater part have dwelt too much on the dark side of the picture,
otherwise why these unfavourable impressions that occupied my brain?
The natives, on the contrary, are too extravagant in its praise;
and knowing their gasconading style, one is slow to believe their
highly-coloured descriptions, and particularly their saying, “Qui n’a
vû Paris, n’a rien vû”--a sentiment now become a proverb with them.
But this same, or something very similar, is said of many other
cities, if I mistake not--Vienna, Rome, Naples, Florence, Madrid,
Lisbon, &c. However, like everything else, this has two sides--both
parties are right, both are wrong. In the same manner as any other
city, Paris has its clean and its dirty quarters, its St Giles and
its Grosvenor Street, its fine and its mean buildings, its poverty
and its opulence--in short, its _agrémens_ and its _désagrémens_. I
can’t translate these words. Agreeables and disagreeables won’t quite
do. Everything depends on the good or bad humour of the traveller, or
the reception he meets with in the country he undertakes to describe.
It generally, therefore, is either a Pays de Cocagne or a Tierra del
Fuego.
Divided into twelve _arrondissements_ or _mairies_, and every
_arrondissement_ into several _quartiers_, one finds such a
difference between these divisions--in the manners, habitudes,
and physiognomy of their inhabitants--as scarcely to believe they
form part of the same community. Thus les Quartiers des Tuileries,
des Roule, des Champs Elysées, &c. &c.--in which are situated the
court, the hotels of all the _grand seigneurs_, &c., consequently
the richest, smartest, and best shops--distinguished for elegance,
cheerfulness, and cleanliness. Le Quartier de la Chaussée d’Antin
is the residence of the rich bankers, as in like manner that of the
Palais Royal is of merchants, brokers, &c. The Marais is inhabited
principally by people of moderate incomes, fond of quiet and
tranquillity; and among these are to be found the principal remaining
specimens of the _bon vieux temps_--good, easy, old-fashioned people.
The Pays Latin--as the neighbourhood of the Rues St Jacques, de la
Harpe, &c., is called, from containing the College de la Sorbonne,
the schools of the University, &c. &c.--is the cradle of science,
and the residence of almost all the bookbinders, parchment-makers,
&c., of Paris. Here reside professors and students of theology,
medicine, law, natural history, &c. &c. All is here quiet gloom, and
some small degree of filth. Les Halles present the singular spectacle
of a rural population in the heart of a great city. The other parts
of Paris, inhabited by various classes of artisans, are not only
different from all those already spoken of, but differ even amongst
themselves, according to the business pursued in them. Thus the Rue
de Clery is one complete magazine of furniture and cabinet-work,
&c.; and most of the work in silk, such as curtain-fringe, &c., is
done in la Rue de la Feronnerie and Marché des Innocens, &c.--but
of the more distant quarters of this description I only speak from
hearsay, the temper of their population being such as to render it
dangerous for an Englishman to appear there as an idler; therefore
have I never yet seen the Quartier de St Antoine, nor the Place
Royale--the very focus of this spirit. It is clear, therefore, that
Paris cannot be characterised by a _trait de plûme_--as clean or
dirty, grand or mean, &c. Handsome, and what we should call fine,
streets there are, and others which, without any pretension to these
names, are yet striking from their extent and bustle of business,
&c. &c. Of the former are the Rues de la Paix, Royale, de Rivoli,
de Mont Blanc, de la Place Vendome, du Faubourg St Honoré, &c. &c.
All these are scrupulously clean and very cheerful, full of fine
hotels (_not inns_), fine shops, and for the most part have good and
spacious _trottoirs_. The first two in particular are very handsome
streets. Of the latter description are the Rues de St Denis, de St
Martin, de l’Université, du Faubourg St Denis, Neuve des Petits
Champs, and many others. These are generally long streets, some of
them very wide, but almost all of them without _trottoirs_. Beyond
these the streets are generally very narrow, dirty, and dark. This
obscurity is caused by the enormous height of the houses in the
old parts of the town, and their sombre hue--I was going to say
_their being blackened by smoke_, but that can scarcely be possible,
since from using so much wood one never sees that thick canopy of
smoke hanging over Paris that usually shuts out the feeble rays of
the winter’s sun from the citizens of our metropolis. The close
confined streets, indeed all the older streets of Paris, are redolent
at all times of a most disagreeable odour. Evelyn, 160 years ago,
said the streets of Paris smelt of sulphur. The innumerable lamps
swinging from ropes over the centre of these streets give them, in
my eyes, a very mean appearance. I don’t know why, but they seem,
too, in the way. These ropes lead down the wall on one side of the
street in a sort of wooden case, the key of which being kept by the
lamp-lighter, mischievous people are unable to get at the lamps
without breaking open these cases--an operation requiring time, and
not performed without noise, therefore almost impossible with such a
vigilant police. But the greatest ornament of the town, and no doubt
that which contributes most to its salubrity, is the great avenue
which, under various names, is called generally the Boulevards,
from occupying the site of the ancient ramparts of Paris. Since the
increase of the faubourgs has placed these in the midst of the town
as it were, a second concentric circle, called the New Boulevard,
has been formed; but this seems a mere circular road, not much
frequented: and along it is the only enclosure Paris now possesses--a
simple stone wall, connecting the barriers, and thereby insuring
the fiscal duties. Of the old Boulevards I spoke some days ago; it
were needless, therefore, to fill my journal with repetition. They
must be acknowledged as a most agreeable and amusing lounge. After
the streets, the quays of Paris naturally attract our attention--a
feature so ornamental, so commodious, so salubrious, that we wonder
our own metropolis should be destitute in this respect. What a noble
thing it would be were our fine river bordered by such quays as
those de Buonaparte, des Tuileries, de Voltaire, de la Conference,
&c., instead of being enclosed as it is between such a set of shabby
wooden or brick warehouses!
But if London is inferior to Paris in this respect, how superior she
is in public squares! The costly iron railings, the masterly statues
that decorate some, and the pleasant shrubberies, smooth, well-kept
turf, and well-rolled walks which characterise most of them, are
nowhere to be seen in Paris. The Place Louis Quinze is not what we
should call a square in London; it is a sort of esplanade, separating
the ramparts and gardens of the Tuileries from the Champs Elysées;
the third side is closed by the river, and the fourth is the only
side having buildings--those of the Garde Meuble. It is an agreeable
esplanade, but is no square. The Place Royale is, I believe, the
largest square in Paris; but, for the reasons before mentioned,
I have as yet never seen it. From all that I have heard, it is
surrounded by very lofty, and perhaps once handsome houses, which
then were the habitations of the principal _noblesse_, though now of
a numerous population of artisans. In the middle of it, I understand,
is a fountain, some trees, &c., in the manner of our squares. The
Place Vendome is the next in size to the former; it is octagonal,
and the houses, all uniformly built, are of a respectable class,
but the style of them is heavy and dull: the want of a _trottoir_,
the houses standing as they do with their ground-floors unscreened
or unprotected from the carriage-way, spite of the splendid column
springing from its centre, give this places a mean, _triste_
appearance. I could not divest myself of the idea of its being a
mews. The Place des Victoires, meant to be circular, is only a small
concern, neither handsome nor ornamental, and perhaps only useful as
admitting light and air into a very thick and closely-built part of
the town. These are, strictly speaking, the only real public squares;
for the Parvis Nôtre Dame, Place du Carrousel, &c. &c., are only
esplanades in front of the Cathedral and Tuileries. On the whole,
however, Paris is a much more cheerful place than London. In this
respect there is no comparison between them.
8 P.M.--Rambled up the road to Garges, which is still nearly as
deserted as ever; but the rags and tatters, and broken glass,
&c., with which the street was strewed, have in a great measure
disappeared. After dinner, Cossack being still rather lame, I rode
Mula through the vineyards to Pierrefitte. The country is much
prettier on that side than with us, being hilly, whereas we are
on a dead level. Our waggon-train officers are doing cavalry with
a vengeance, and making a great swagger among the natives. Took a
round by Villetaneuse--through vineyards, plantations of artichokes,
&c.--and passing along the enclosure of a very handsome domain, with
a fine house of brick, let Mula find her own road home, which she
did very cleverly and very directly. I think (at least on smooth
ground) mules are not so sure-footed as is usually believed and
asserted--perhaps amongst rocks and mountains they may be.
_6th._--Sunday.
_7th._--To town as usual this morning for sight-seeing. From the Rue
de Malte took my course through the court of the Louvre and the Place
de Jena, still boarded up, crossed the Pont Neuf, “where it always
blows,” and accordingly did blow there to-day certainly, more than
elsewhere. Henri IV., with his manly countenance and pointed beard,
smiled on me as I made my way through the crowd and plunged into
the gloomy and shabby streets of the Pays Latin. Stopped at a mean,
rather dirty restaurant in the Rue St Jacques, where I got a bad
lunch, of course, and a bottle of sour wine; but for this there was
no remedy, as I did not know of any better in the neighbourhood, to
which I am a stranger. After doubling and threading my way through a
number of dirty obscure streets, which no stranger could have done
in London, I at last came out on the Quai St Bernard, where suddenly
I found myself among hundreds, if not thousands, of pipes of wine
ranged in tiers. It is the Marché aux Vins; and whilst seated upon
one of these pipes enjoying the busy scene around, I mentally bless
the ingenious system of numbering the houses and naming the streets
that has enabled me to steer through such a labyrinth as I have just
passed, and which might so well and so easily be applied in London.
All streets running to the Seine are numbered in _black_; all those
parallel, or nearly so, to the river in _red_. Starting from the
river, the numbers commence in a double series in these transverse
streets; and in the longitudinal streets the series of numbers follow
the course of the stream,--equal numbers always on the right, unequal
on the left. In the same manner the names at the corners of the
streets are of a similar colour to the numbers; and moreover, some
remarkable object, giving a designation to the quarter, is painted
at the corners. The Jardin des Plantes, or du Roi, is adjoining
the Marché aux Vins, and thither I went, walking in amongst other
company without let or hindrance of any kind. In this garden, the
Menagerie, and the Cabinet d’Histoire Naturelle, I passed nearly the
whole afternoon in the most agreeable manner possible. Much as I
had heard of this establishment, the reality rather surpassed than
fell short of it--and sorry I am to say we can boast of nothing at
all equal to it in England; nor, if we did, could our populace be
admitted to it with the same freedom as the more volatile yet more
considerate _badauds_ are to this. Everything would soon be ruined.
The men would trample over the beds, the boys would break down the
hedges and fences; knives would operate in all directions; even
the women would find some means of doing mischief;--in short, it
would never do. Here, on the contrary, it was with pleasure that I
observed people of all classes of society, even beggars, conducting
themselves with a modesty and decency of manner not to be surpassed.
The choice of ground has been very judicious, as the plan presents
a pleasing undulation of surface that gives infinite interest to a
promenade. The botanical part is flat and even, divided by walks
into compartments, each forming a small distinct garden by itself.
These are either enclosed by well-kept hedges, or by rails and rustic
fences of every possible useful fashion--which may serve as models
for those in want of such things.
These little gardens each contains some family of shrubs or plants,
and are all arranged according to their respective climates. The
dividing walks form most agreeable promenades, as was evinced by the
number of people I found lounging in them, many evidently not taking
any interest in the botanical treasures around. This flat space is
bounded on one side by a magnificent avenue of elms, under the shade
of which are numerous _vendeurs de boissons_ and _de pâtisserie_,
as well as one or two regular restaurateurs. On the other side, the
ground, swelling gently into hill and dale as it were, is fitted
by enclosures of simple rail or strong stockade, as occasion may
require, for the confinement of an elephant or a deer. Here in little
paddocks, with room to move about and a house to shelter them,
we find a number of animals, who, perhaps, well fed as they are,
little regret the loss of liberty. The elephant even has a pond to
wallow in, to the great amusement of the _badauds_ who constantly
throng the stockade. The more savage beasts (_genus Felis_, &c.)
are confined as with us, in dens. It was only in looking over the
catalogue of the menagerie, and finding the beasts enclosed in the
paddocks classed as ruminant and _fauve_, that I remembered we have
no term to translate the latter word. This part of the establishment
is very entertaining, and I lounged away a great part of my time in
wandering about the winding walks between the enclosures, amused by
the curiosity and _naïveté_ of many of the visitors. The menagerie
is separated from the gardens by a rampart and ditch. In the latter
are the bears, great favourites with the public, particularly the
boys, of whom numbers are always hanging on the wall, watching
the heavy animals climbing a high pole set for the purpose. The
hothouses contain all sorts of things; but what interested me were
the palms--some of these I saw out of doors. Just by the hothouses
is a high mount, ascended by a spiral path, bearing a sort of temple
on the top, whence there is an extensive and much-vaunted view over
the city and neighbourhood; but not half so extensive as, nor in any
way comparable to, those from Belleville, Montmartre,[24] and, above
all, from Mont Aurelian. The School of Comparative Anatomy is very
interesting: it contains perfect skeletons of almost every species of
animal, bird, or fish, from the most diminutive to the largest--from
the minnow to the whale, from the shrew-mouse to the mastodon, from
the humming-bird to the condor.
Evening was drawing on, and I ran hastily through the two floors of
the Cabinet of Natural History, that I might get home before dark.
The entrance to the Jardin des Plantes, by a handsome _grille_ from
the quay opposite the Pont d’Austerlitz, is very good, but I could
not stop to admire it; and hurrying along the _quais_, instead of
blundering amongst the streets, succeeded again in just getting home
in time.
_August 8th._--It seems as if I were destined always to fall under
the Duke’s displeasure, and to be the victim of his injustice. When
I called on Sir Augustus Frazer this morning at the Hotel du Nord,
the first greeting I got on entering the room was, “_Mercer, you
are released from arrest!_” At first I thought this a joke, but Sir
Augustus assured me seriously that I had not only been in arrest,
but _that_, too, ever since our review on the 24th ultimo. He then
told me that I had not been the only unfortunate. Himself and Major
M’Donald had been supposed under arrest at the same time and for the
same _crime_; and what was this?--this very grave crime for which
two field officers and a captain had actually been under ignominious
punishment for a whole fortnight? In the column of review on the
24th ultimo, my troop was on the extreme left (or rear), except
the two brigades of 18-pounders. Our order of marching past was
in column of divisions (we have three divisions), and my post for
saluting was considerably in front of the leading one, to leave room
for the division officers at open order, consequently I was fully
a hundred yards distant from my rear-division when passing the
Duke. Now it so fell out that, at that very moment, a horse of one
of the rear-division carriages got his leg over a trace. The limber
gunners, with their wonted activity, were off, cleared the leg,
remounted, all in sufficient time for the division to pass his Grace
steadily and in good order. But this little halt, momentary as it
was, checked the 18-pounders; and Ilbert, or whoever commanded them,
ignorant of the saluting-point, trotted up to regain his distance,
until suddenly, seeing the sovereigns and their suite, he resumed
his walk too late, and passed them in confusion. The Duke fell into
one of his furious passions, asked how this happened, and (what he
did with the foot-artillery I know not) immediately despatched the
Adjutant-General to put Sir Augustus Frazer, Major M’Donald, and
myself under arrest. The two former, however, had departed; and
whilst the Adjutant-General was struggling through the crowd after
me, I had cleared the Rue Royale, and setting off at a trot down the
Boulevard, had turned down the Rue de Clichy, consequently was out
of sight ere he reached the Boulevard, where he gave up the pursuit
and said no more about it. Whether the Duke forgot us, or whether he
purposely kept us in arrest, we are left to conjecture--certain it
is, that we three actually appear by name in the General’s orders of
yesterday as released from our arrest. _Mens conscia recti_--I snap
my fingers at the disgrace.
Leaving Sir Augustus, I accompanied Bell to his pretty lodging in
the Rue Mont Blanc. I don’t know who the people are, but it is an
uncommonly genteel, well-furnished, well-appointed house. A young
gentleman there is who visits Bell occasionally, and a young lady who
serenades him (if I may so apply the term) continually. She touches
the piano well, has a musical voice, and sings with taste. “L’Exile”
is the favourite just now, a pretty song, which, from so often
hearing there, I shall always henceforward associate with Bell’s
nicely-furnished apartment, and the little pleasure-ground, of some
thirty or forty feet square, with one or two acacias in it. Frazer,
too, has very handsome rooms in the Hotel du Nord, richly furnished,
with green silk window-curtains, &c. &c. Sir Edward Kerrison and
old Platoff also live there. Passed the remainder of this morning
lounging about the Boulevard, as much amused as on the first day. All
the fun, crowd, &c., I observe, is confined to the right side going
up from the Rue Royale; on the left there is comparatively nobody,
except, perhaps, at the Porte St Denis and St Martin, through which
(or rather by which) a crowd is continually setting, and one is
deafened by the importunate clamours of fifty cabriolet-drivers, all
calling at once, “Voiture, Monsieur--Voiture?” “St Denis, Monsieur?”
“Memorency, Monsieur?” “Garges, Monsieur?” “Arnouville?” &c. &c.
These fellows are most active rogues, and their carriages very
convenient, and far more agreeable than the fiacres; and that is the
opinion of the public in general, I presume, from seeing one fiacre
plying for ten cabriolets or coucous, or whatever name they go by.
The coachmen of the former are so well aware of this, that they
generally are dozing on their boxes, giving themselves no trouble in
looking for customers. Perhaps, however, this may arise from their
being only servants, whilst the others are themselves the proprietors
of the vehicles they drive. Although conscious that these _portes_
are in reality triumphal arches, yet I never pass them without
experiencing something of the same feeling with which one would view
the magnificent bridge built by Philip II. over the dry bed of the
Manzanares if ignorant of the impetuous floods to which that river is
liable. The Boulevard presented if anything a more busy, noisy scene
than usual. The Turk I found with an attentive and apparently much
interested audience, whom he was haranguing with vociferations and
gesticulations truly astounding. In vain I tried to catch the purport
of his harangue--the curious _badauds_ were packed so close, and so
firmly maintained their ground, that it was impossible to approach
one inch into the circle. I lounged on and admired the beautiful
Fontaine de Bondy, or de Lions, I know not which it is called, but
its sheets of falling water are singular, and I think it a beautiful
fountain. What a magnificent air these fountains give to the town!
How refreshing and delightful is the splashing of their waters in
warm weather! and oh! the contrast presented to them by our conduits,
&c.--shapeless masses of masonry or brickwork, with a brass cock
stuck in each side, or mayhap the said brass cock protruding from a
common wall.
The French are an ingenious people, and contrive a thousand
curious, uncommon, and often admirable devices for opening people’s
purses, instead of sticking to the unvaried, dismal chant of our
beggars--although “_Pour l’amour de Dieu_” is not uncommon here.
Our wretches drive one away, but the gentlemen of whom I speak
grasp, retain, and even squeeze their auditors as one would a
lemon. Nor do they always assume the repulsive rags, &c., which
our beggars think so essential to obtain their end. An instance
of this I frequently meet on the Boulevard St Martin--an elderly
man, of a grave physiognomy, well featured, and of rather a genteel
appearance, clad in garments somewhat seedy, though fashionably cut.
This man I stumbled on to-day at the corner of the Rue du Temple
lecturing on moral philosophy. Like the Turk, he had a numerous and
attentive audience, but, generally speaking, composed of a better
description of people. To a clear, sonorous voice, he added a
manner demonstrative without being dogmatic, and persuasive without
betraying doubt of his own powers. He defined the motives and rules
of human actions, and showed that these rules are immutable--that we
cannot violate them with impunity. He then went at some length into
the morals of the ancients, touched on the doctrine of expediency,
on the desire of distinction, ambition, &c., and very naturally,
though cautiously, introduced as an illustration Napoleon. No one
could mistake the sensation produced by this magic name--a sensation
which, having produced, he proceeded to neutralise by gradually
slipping into the connection between religion and morality. I left
him explaining the insufficiency of natural religion, &c. Although
this man does not beg, there is no doubt he makes a good trade of
preaching; numerous were the offerings silently put into his hand
and quietly pocketed without once interrupting the thread of his
discourse. Another actor of the same description is a man who usually
frequents the northern entrance of the Passage Feydeau: an immense
power of grimace, and amazing execution on the violin, are the means
by which he gains his daily bread. Clad in an old threadbare frock,
that once was brown, with a pair of enormous spectacles riding
astride on his prominent nose, he takes his stand on the steps at
the entrance of the passage. Heels close together, body drawn up at
attention, and with his gaze directed upwards at the window of the
fourth storey of the opposite house, he appears perfectly unconscious
of the presence of the admiring crowd assembled round him, whilst
he executes with astonishing justness, feeling, and rapidity, the
most difficult passages from some of the favourite composers of the
day--distorting his face all the time in a manner so wonderfully
ludicrous that his really excellent music is almost drowned by the
uncontrollable laughter of the surrounding multitude. These are some
of the many means employed in this gay metropolis for extracting
coin out of the pockets of their fellow-men. Gay, however, as it is,
misery exists here as well as elsewhere, and I shudder even now at
the harrowing tale Bell told me this morning of suicide, to which
he was witness a day or two ago. Passing through the Place Vendome,
he observed several people looking anxiously up at the Column of
Austerlitz, and naturally turning his eyes in the same direction,
beheld a man in the act of climbing over the rails of the gallery,
having effected which, he deliberately lowered himself down until he
hung suspended by the arms over the frightful depth below. In this
position he remained a few seconds, perhaps as if repenting him of
the rash act he was about to perpetrate; but, unable to recover the
gallery, he eventually let go his hold, and was dashed to pieces on
the pavement at the foot of the column: the very idea is harrowing!
A trait of the times, and a very striking one too, which a person
meets with at almost every step in walking about Paris, is the
announcement of the change of dynasty--from an empire to a
kingdom--exhibited in the titles of shops, _lycées_, and every other
establishment; the old word _imperiale_ slightly painted over to
make way for the more humble _royale_--_lycée royale_, &c.--which
is sometimes painted over it, but more frequently by the side of it,
leaving the former word quite legible through the thin daub of paint
laid over it. The postilions, too, are changing their imperial green
livery for the royal blue; yet this change goes on but slowly, for
we still see many of the numerous English equipages daily arriving
brought in by postilions in green livery jackets. In the palaces and
other public buildings, the letter N was abundantly introduced into
all the architectural decorations, besides the armorial bearings
of the Emperor: workmen have been some time employed effacing or
altering all these. Wherever it is possible, the obnoxious letter is
removed altogether; but where that is not the case, which happens
frequently, it is changed into an H and the numeral IV. added. These
and many other changes incident to the present state give a curious
aspect to the nation, and afford much food for speculation and
contemplation. Met my old schoolfellow Courtnay Ilbert coming out of
town, and we rode together to St Denis, where his 18-pounder brigade
is stationed. On reaching home found that M. Fauigny has been here.
Poor man! he is not likely to get much from me.
_August 9th._--Not quite well this morning, but I went to town to
meet Hitchins, and make a sight-seeing day of it. Accordingly we have
done pretty well, galloping through the Luxembourg, Les Monumens, and
wandering over almost the whole southern part of Paris. I can’t say,
however, that this has been to me a day of much interest; I prefer
a thousand times wandering about the town by myself--observing the
habits, manners, &c., of the people--to all the sight-seeing; but I
allowed Hitchins to shame me out of the idea of leaving Paris without
seeing everything. Much, however, I fear I shall have to blush for,
if that be necessary, and amongst others the theatres, not one of
which have I ever entered yet. The Luxembourg is a fine palace,
and I like its style of architecture much better than that of the
Tuileries, though it is vilely situated. The gardens are much the
same--parterres, ponds, ramparts--_voilà tout_. The great attractions
here are the Chamber of Peers, and the Galleries of Rubens, Vernet,
and of the French Raphael Le Sueur. The first I cannot bear, spite of
his beautiful colouring and well-managed _chiaro-oscuro_--allegory
is my abomination; the pictures of the second are more to my taste;
but the blue works of the French Raphael I could not appreciate.
Besides these, we saw a multitude of other masterpieces; and I was
particularly pleased at having an opportunity of seeing some by
David, of whom I have heard so much. Here disappointment awaited me,
and a glance at the “Judgment of Brutus” satisfied me--all yellow
and glare, and extravagant attitudes. Surely the human spine would
never admit of being doubled in the manner of the fainting female
introduced in the foreground of this picture--a perfect parabola. To
reach the Chamber of Peers, we passed through a grove of orange-trees
in boxes, and then mounted a very fine staircase ornamented with
statues of great men, among which two were very spirited--those of
Condorcet and of General Dessaix, said to be likenesses; I had no
idea the latter was so young. The Chamber itself is a very handsome
semicircular hall, having the President’s desk in the centre of
the chord, and those of the members round the curve. Beyond this
is the Salle de la Paix, a very handsome room, the walls of which
are covered with paintings by David, representing the victories of
Napoleon, weakly enough hid with green baize, and not allowed to be
seen.
Of the monuments I have little worth recording. Interesting specimens
there are of French sculpture of every age--all preserved by M.
Lenoir from revolutionary Vandalism. The only thing, however, that
I remember worth noticing, is the tomb of Louis XII. (I think), on
which the corpses of himself and queen soon after death are laid out:
the countenance of the king is expressive of great suffering. The
horrid truth of this sculpture, aided by the colour of the marble--so
completely that of a corpse--leads one to believe that it must by
some means have been actually copied from nature. In a little yard,
about twenty feet square, and surrounded by the high walls of the
neighbouring houses, stands the Paraclete. Its situation is a sad
drawback to the interest one might otherwise take in this specimen
of ancient architecture, for in the history of the Castrato and his
love I can take none. In wandering about the town, amongst other
places we stumbled upon were the poultry or game market, and that
of flowers--two opposite extremes. The first is a very handsome
building on the Quai des Grand Augustins, and this being one of the
days on which the game, &c., arrives, the quantity was prodigious;
but the smell was more than we could stand, and obliged us to a very
precipitate retreat; so, crossing to the Cité, we rambled on, and
quite by accident found ourselves in the empire of Flora, redolent of
mignonette and a thousand other odoriferous plants, and presenting
a _coup d’œil_ not to be excelled: hortensias and camellias appeared
quite common. The Parisian flower-sellers are adepts in making up
nosegays, and, I believe, understand using them as the language of
love like the Turks. Tired with our walk, we returned to Hardi’s,
where, having made an excellent dinner, we separated; and here I am
half asleep recording the day.
_Sunday, 13th._--I have been idle as to writing since Wednesday, but
not so otherwise, having been every day in town; in the mean time,
domestic transactions require some notice. Our vineyards are blessed
this year with a most extraordinary crop of grapes, to secure which
from marauders I have acceded to M. Bonnemain’s petition in behalf
of the villagers, and established a regular patrol of our men--a
precaution certainly most necessary, seeing what neighbours we have:
at Pierrefitte the waggon-train; on the other side, bivouacking
along the chaussée from Garges to St Denis, Jones’s corps of Belgian
waggoners, five hundred in number, men totally unacquainted with the
restraints of military discipline, with full leisure to meditate
mischief, and most persevering foragers for their horses, which
are their own private property; in our rear, at Garges, &c., are
our savage and lawless friends of Nassau, and some Belgians. So
surrounded, vigilance becomes absolutely necessary, not only for
the sake of our villagers, but also for our own; and nothing has
gained their affections, or united us more, than the establishment
of this patrol, especially since it has taken some prisoners. The
other day the _garde champêtre_ detected soldiers stealing along
amongst the vines, but not daring to go near them himself, hurried
into the village and reported it to the sergeant-major, Oliphant,
who lost no time in despatching a corporal and four mounted gunners
in pursuit. The fellows were soon taken and brought in triumph to my
house, the _garde champêtre_ stalking at the head of the procession
in his cocked-hat and broad _bandoulière_, prisoners between the
escort--M. le Maire and some twenty peasants, making more noise with
their _sabots_ than the iron hoofs of the horses, bringing up the
rear. The unfortunates were Belgians, quite lads, so I held a sort of
court-baron in my yard, and upon their expressing great contrition,
and begging a thousand pardons, at M. Bonnemain’s request I forgave
them, but sent the escort to see them home to Garges, whence they
came. The effect on the villagers has been very good--they have all
become the most kindly obliging creatures possible, and our men are
as thick as brothers with them; I trust this harmony may continue. I
have likewise another source of amusement, which makes my residence
here more agreeable--I have hired a very good violin, and bought some
music. The offhanded liberal manner in which Madame Duhan informed
me of the hire, and allowed me to take away the instrument, stranger
as I was to her, without any security, surprised me much. I rather
think none of our musicsellers in London would lend even their worst
instrument to a Frenchman in the same manner. On Thursday last I
went to see the Bibliothèque Royale, a magnificent establishment,
and where I passed a most delightful morning; it is in the Hotel de
Colbert, Rue de Richelieu, from which street the main entrance opens
into a square court surrounded by the building, and having in its
centre a naked statue of Diana in bronze, of fine execution, but in
my opinion misplaced here.
The library occupies two entire and part of a third side of the
quadrangle (about 300,000 volumes), and is on the most liberal
footing. Any well-dressed person is freely admitted, and may range
about unobstructed; but he must touch nothing. Chairs, tables, pens,
and ink, are there for those who wish to write, and servants, in
rich liveries of blue and silver lace, are in attendance to furnish
the books required. These people are positively forbidden to accept
anything from the visitors; and yet no one can be more obligingly
attentive. In the Cabinet des Medailles are many curiosities;
amongst the most interesting, I thought, were the iron chair of King
Dagobert, and a silver disc found in the Rhone, and supposed to have
been the shield of Scipio--I don’t know why. Two enormous globes,
more than 12 feet in diameter, are mounted on the ground-floor, and
circular apertures have been opened in the floor above to admit part
of their circumference through it. The fourth side of the quadrangle
is a most delightful lounge; it is the Cabinet des Gravures. In
this are preserved specimens of the works of every artist of every
nation--from the most ancient period down to the present. The
collection is immense, and is the constant resort of all the artists
of the capital, and a crowd of picture-loving people. I could pass
whole days there, so interesting is the collection, and so great the
facility of using it. This place occupied my morning so completely
that I had barely time to get my _potage à la julienne_, &c., and
come home before dark.
_Friday._--It sounds oddly to an English ear, smuggling into a town
from the country; but the free circulation that exists throughout our
country is unknown here. Everything is examined at the _barrière_.
What would our farmers and their wives say if they were liable to
be stopped at the gate of every principal town, and their loads of
hay, or baskets of eggs, &c., submitted to the scrutiny of excisemen?
Several loads of hay preceded me this morning as I rode through the
Faubourg St Denis. At the _barrière_ the column was halted, and as
the passage was blocked up, I was obliged to wait patiently and see
every load as it passed in succession probed through and through by
the officers with long iron skewers, to ascertain that nothing was
concealed amongst the hay. The signs exhibited by the various shops
in Paris are often quaint and amusing. A description of them would
fill a volume. The one which calls forth this remark struck me as
I entered the Palais Royal this morning from the Rue Vivienne. I
don’t well know how to designate the sort of shop which exhibits
the sign of the “Gourmand;” they are numerous in this part of the
town, and I think more nearly resemble our Italian warehouse than
any other. Here is to be procured every dainty that can stimulate
the palate--pickles, preserves, hams, tongues, hung-beef, cheese,
dried fruits, nuts of all sorts, sauces, dried and cured fish,--in
short, everything. The _enseigne_ of this shop represents a fat
greedy-looking fellow seated at a table, under which his legs are
spread out. The table is covered with every kind of dainty, which,
whilst discussing a large salmon, he is eagerly devouring with
the eyes. If the Boulevard is amusing for the life and movement
it exhibits, so is the Palais Royal in a high degree, and to the
charms of the former it adds that of an endless variety of rich and
beautiful articles of dress, _vertu_, and a number of others, which
employ me incessantly at the windows. The display of elegant little
toys in Bobon’s window is scarcely to be surpassed--such little
beauties of watches,[25] not larger than half-a-crown, cases most
tastefully chased and set in rich pearls; in other shops rich and
elegant shawls, _fichus_, and silks, of the most splendid colours;
then jewellery, so much taste combined with costliness; then cutlery
and works in steel, &c. &c.; and not the least amusing, the numerous
cafés or restaurants. The crowd under the arcades is as varied as
it is immense. If, on entering from Rue Vivienne, one turns to the
right, not many paces in that direction will bring him in front of
the favourite haunt of Austrian and Prussian officers. It resembles
a great conservatory, being all glass, and is in the garden, not
in the house, whence every refreshment has to be brought across
the piazza. About 2 or 3 every afternoon this is crowded, and it
then reminds me of a glass bee-hive, from the busy stir within, and
the facility of observing this from without. The celebrated Café
aux Milles Colonnes is not far off, up-stairs about half-way down
the next branch. I lounged up to it and was disappointed. A decent
_salle_ enough, which, being everywhere panelled with mirrors, the
green marble columns are reflected so repeatedly as to give some
colour to the appellation assumed by the establishment. There are
several rooms; but whether the place is only frequented at night
on certain days, or that something _fâcheux_ had occurred, I know
not--certain it was not in a state to receive company, wherefore
I made no further advance than to the door, and having peeped in,
wheeled down-stairs again. Amongst other curiosities of Paris I have
often stood and contemplated the air of importance and grave bustle
of an establishment unknown to us in London, where the operation in
question is performed in a very modest manner in the public streets.
This morning I walked into the shop of a fashionable _décrotteur_,
that I might see more perfectly all the detail of this most useful
business. The _salon_, a large room, was lighted by numerous windows
near the ceiling (these, like other artists, affecting a preference
for light coming from above: thus I have seen many receiving it
through skylights). The handsomest establishment of this kind is
in the Passage des Panoramas. A certain degree of taste, too, was
visible in the decorations and arrangement of several large mirrors
(mirrors are indispensable to a Frenchman). A sort of divan, a few
feet broad, extended nearly round the apartment, on which were many
gentlemen seated on chairs, gravely reading the daily papers; whilst
one foot, raised on a sort of iron resembling the scraper at a door,
was being operated on by a journeyman _décrotteur_, who rubbed and
polished away with most admirable despatch and dexterity. In the
middle of the room stood the master-spirit, superintending the
active operations of his myrmidons, receiving the acknowledgment for
services performed, ushering the one out of the shop and the other
up to the divans, conversing with the newly-arrived aspirants, and
doing the amiable everywhere. A good-looking, well-dressed man this
master-shoeblack, who might easily be mistaken for a minister.
Disappointment awaits the man who, having read or heard the French
account of any place in France or the French dominions, expects to
find it realised, or even nearly so. With them all is exaggeration
and bombast; even the accounts of their most respectable and
veracious writers, in all matters relating to France or the French,
must be received _cum grano salis_. Disappointment certainly was
mine after reading and hearing so much of the several gardens (as
Frascatin, Tivoli, the Jardins Turc and du Prince) when I turned
into the latter of these two celebrated places in the Boulevard
du Temple. Certes, I took it _en déshabillé_, for the evening and
by lamp-light is its hour of triumph, and then I am here always.
The guide-book speaks of “un jardin agréable.” What did I find?
Certainly no garden--a yard (gravelled) divided by hedges (such
ones as may be expected in a town) into several compartments, in
which are a few boxes; one side bounded by the _salle_, with its
usual accompaniments--the others, by gables or back walls of the
neighbouring houses; figure irregular, and space very confined.
Having nothing fixed for Friday, I made a wandering day of it.
Up one gloomy street, down another; at last found myself in the
Place des Innocens, in which is held the principal vegetable-market
of Paris. The Place is large but gloomy; houses very high, of a
dark-coloured stone, and in the usual French style, windows open,
and exhibiting all the variety of clothes hanging to dry, flowers,
rich curtains and common ones, &c. &c., incident to buildings
inhabited by so many different families. The area presented a
varied, characteristic, and moreover an interesting picture. The
whole space was covered with large umbrellas, fixed upright over
the different tables, &c., the convex surfaces of which, of all the
hues of the rainbow (pink predominating), reminded me strongly of
the _testudo_ of the ancients. Amidst these arose, to the height
of some forty or fifty feet, the noble Fontaine des Innocens, with
its fine _nappes d’eau_. Not only the Marché itself, but the Rue de
la Ferronnerie, and several adjacent ones, seem quite the focus of
business, such stir and bustle do they present. The profusion of
fruits and vegetables in this market is remarkable, more particularly
when it is remembered that not only Paris itself, but also the whole
neighbouring country, is occupied by countless hosts of foreigners.
The old ladies, seated under their immense umbrellas (formed
generally of alternate pink and white breadths), or stumping about
in their _sabots_, give a very animated air to this scene, which,
however, is rendered less pleasing from the overpowering smell of
decayed and decaying vegetable matter profusely strewed over the
pavement. It is an amusing place this Marché, and although only now
mentioned, I have visited it more than once. Besides this, there are
numerous other markets in different parts of the town, the neatest
of which, and one that I always have pleasure in passing through,
because always clean, is the Marché des Jacobins, off the Rue St
Honoré, and not far from the Place Vendome. Speaking of these markets
reminds me of the Abattoir de Montmartre, which I frequently pass
in my way in or out of town, one of several buildings in different
quarters destined for the slaughter of cattle--a most excellent
arrangement, since the blood and filth which usually pollute the
kennels in the neighbourhood of our slaughter-houses, the disgusting
stench arising from them, and the consequent deterioration and
unhealthiness of the surrounding atmosphere, are completely obviated.
Yesterday (Saturday) I devoted to another visit to the Louvre and
its interesting collections. What crowds of English and other
foreigners! The gallery of pictures exhibits just now a new
feature--French and other artists, with their easels, &c., busily
employed copying many of the pictures of which they are soon to be
deprived. Among them, working with the utmost composure, were two
or three women. But women mix themselves up in every transaction in
this country--even in war, as has been illustrated in the formation
of our Amazonian battalion at Stain. Somehow or another the statues
have more attraction for me than the pictures. The _salles_ are
less crowded than the gallery, consequently one is quieter and more
at liberty to contemplate these admirable sculptures at leisure.
The naming of these, however, appears to me very gratuitous, and I
much doubt whether one half of those in the catalogues are properly
designated. Faun is a very vague term. What absorbing reflections
arise in the mind whilst wandering amongst this collection of cold
marble stones! Even when, as has happened occasionally, I have
been the only individual in the vast apartment, it has been hard
to fancy myself alone, so surrounded by beauteous forms, amongst
which such perfect harmony of expression reigns--not an attitude
or gesture amongst them but what is ease and elegance; nothing
constrained, nothing proud, forced, or unnatural; in all, passion,
emotion, repose and tranquillity, love, anger, joy, sorrow--all, all
expressed by these marble stones in language not to be misunderstood.
How powerful is the imagination! These forms address themselves
peculiarly to it. Some excite a train of thought associated
intimately, I might say inseparably, with historical recollections;
others, again, are associated with sensations of voluptuousness,
which, however repressed, cannot be excluded entirely--beautiful
rounded forms associated with our sense of feeling, and conveying to
the too ready imagination ideas of softness and elasticity. How much
more we should appreciate these splendid specimens of human skill and
conception, could we contemplate them separately and alone, instead
of thus jumbled together and in public. In the Salle d’Apollon,
however, I think this inimitable statue rather favoured by his
company, amongst which are several Egyptian statues, the constrained
positions of which--knees pressed together, arms hanging straight
down by the side, stiff draperies, and angular ornaments--contrast
strikingly with the elegant contour and graceful attitude of this
masterpiece by an unknown hand. In this same _salle_ are two chairs
in beautiful _rouge_ antique, both of them found in the Roman baths,
and said to have been used in the middle ages at the inauguration of
the Popes. Pius VI. restored them to the Museum of the Vatican as
antiques, and thence they came here.
I cannot admire the coloured walls of these _salles_: there is
something in them that does not accord with the severity of statuary,
and it struck me that one uniform tint, perhaps maroon, would
considerably enhance the _éclat_ of these fine statues. Nor do I
admire these imitations of nature being perched upon pedestals: were
the Venus, for instance, placed on the floor, or on a low platform
as the Apollo is, I think it would add considerably to her interest.
Every visit to this splendid collection adds to my wonder and
admiration, and I returned yesterday evening with my mind full of
enthusiasm for the science which could so nobly conceive, and the art
which could so skilfully execute, these exquisite productions of the
chisel.
CHAPTER XXIII.
I believe in a former part of this journal I noticed a chateau
belonging to an Admiral Rosily. It is situated quite at the
extremity, or rather beyond the village, on the road to Garges, and
therefore so far out of the way that, except to visit the stables
(for we have a detachment in it), I never have paid any attention
to it, and suffered the people to do as they please. On my return
yesterday evening from Paris I found the following letter:--
“_Ce 11 Août 1815._
“MONSIEUR LE COMMANDANT,--J’apprends que vous faites mettre des
chevaux chez moi. Le Duc de Wellington connoit les destructions
qu’on a causé dans ma maison, il avoit bien voulu même me donner
une sauve garde, qui n’a plus en lieu depuis que le regiment de
Lord Portarlington est parti pour Amiens.
“Je vous prie seulement, que les hommes qui ont soin des
chevaux n’entrent point dans mon jardin, et respectent ma
propriété.--J’ai l’honneur d’être, Monsieur le Commandant, votre
serviteur,
“L’AMIRAL COMTE DE ROSILY.”
The Admiral has taken a much more efficacious way of preserving
his property in thus committing it to my care instead of making a
complaint to the Duke, and certainly a more gentlemanly one. I walked
down to it this afternoon, and was surprised to find a spacious,
well-kept, and most productive garden, enclosed by a high wall, one
side of which runs along the side of the road to Garges, and the
other along the lane leading up to the village. The house is large,
but its exterior not handsome; some fine rooms within, but every
scrap of furniture had been removed before our arrival. In the rear,
all the offices carefully numbered, and their names and uses painted
in large letters on the doors, “_vacherie_,” “_laitérie_,” &c. &c.
Our men have behaved well and destroyed nothing, and the produce of
the garden has suffered little, the officer of the division having
preserved it for himself. I have given directions which no doubt
will leave the Admiral no room to repent of the step he has taken,
although it is not possible to remove the men and horses.
The Duke, it seems, continues to bear malice. I cantered up this
morning to Paris, and called on Sir G. Wood to beg him to forward
my application for two months’ leave of absence, which he declined
doing, as he said it would not be prudent just now “_to remind the
Duke of me in any way_.” Rather hard and unjust this!
In the anteroom, at the Rue de Richelieu (Sir George’s quarter) I
met Captain Light (Bull-dog, as he was called at the academy). He is
just returning from Egypt, where he has been travelling, and tells me
that he ascended the Nile farther than any one yet. All the honour
and glory attending his expedition he would have gladly exchanged for
that of having served the campaign with us. He much blamed himself
for not having done so. Sir George wanted me to stay and dine, but I
begged off.
_16th._--The vengeance of the Duke has at last fallen on the 5th
Division, and it must be confessed they deserve it, having ruined one
of the prettiest villages and some of the most charming villas in the
neighbourhood of Paris. It is said that damages are laid at £5000,
and that the Duke has ordered it to be paid. There is, however, no
depending on reports, everything is sure to be so much exaggerated.
Nothing else to-day, except that I took my usual ride into Paris,
where I lounged away the time principally in shopping, &c.
_20th._--I can hardly tell how, but true it is that my time for
writing is wonderfully curtailed, although in reality I have so
little to do. The journeys to and from town occupy much time; and now
that we are, as it were, settled, people have taken to visiting, so
that we have frequently dinner company, which forbids all attempts at
nocturnal writing. Sunday is my quietest day in general, although not
always. To-day I passed my morning in strolling about the park of the
chateau, the village, &c. Our scenery is too flat to be very pretty,
although the chaussées on either side of us, with their fine elms,
are noble avenues. These are the roads from Pierrefitte and Garges,
which unite near St Denis. There are several spots in the park
affording interesting peeps in the direction of Paris. Having a clump
of picturesque trees in the immediate foreground, the level verdant
carpet stretches away until bounded by the rich masses of foliage
of elms bordering the chaussée, above which tower the light spires
of the Abbey of St Denis; farther on, an opening in the avenue
allows the eye to range over the naked plain of St Denis, bounded in
the extreme distance by the heights of Montmartre and Belleville,
with the dome of St Genevieve rearing itself in the gap between.
Except such peeps, our view is everywhere confined by the foliage
and the rising ground extending all round our rear from Garges to
Pierrefitte. Water, or the want of it rather, is a great drawback on
the scenery about the district: true, there are two or three muddy
rivulets, such as the Rouillon, La Vieille Mer, Crouy, &c., but they
are too insignificant and too much encased to aid in any way the
scenery.
Yesterday, when I called at the Hotel du Nord, I was surprised at
meeting Lady Frazer, her brother, and two sisters (Dr James and the
Misses Lind).
The festival of our patron saint was celebrated last Thursday with
much merriment and conviviality, and it was very pleasing to see
the familiar and confident manner in which our people mingled in
the amusements of the day, and the cordiality with which they were
treated by the villagers.
The favourite (indeed, the principal) game played by the young men
was one resembling our trap-ball, with this difference, that instead
of a trap, the ball was made to rebound from a large sieve placed on
the ground, and propped upon one side so as to present an inclined
surface. In the evening a most animated dance was kept up in the park
until a comparatively late hour.
Angélique was the distinguished belle of the evening, and by far the
best (as she was the stoutest) _danseuse_, although they all dance
well. As I saw her swinging through the figure, “Cutty-sark” came
forcibly to my recollection, and mentally I exclaimed “weel done,”
&c. We were at mess when M. Bonnemain called to announce that all was
ready, but that he had forbidden the commencing until the sanction of
M. le Commandant was obtained.
This is of a piece with his whole conduct now: everything that passes
in the village I am made acquainted with; he has even confided to me
several important family secrets;--in short, on every affair, even
of the slightest moment, M. le Commandant is consulted. Moreover, M.
Bonnemain pays me a regular visit at ten every morning to know my
pleasure for the day. Several ridiculous petitions to the Duke (all
of which he attends to) have been suppressed, and the complainants
brought before me. But this is out of fashion; at present nobody
thinks of complaining; we are all too good friends for that. Nor is
this all: I begin to have hopes that my Fauigny affair has at last
obtained a proper hearing, since an officer sent by Sir Edward Barnes
came down to inquire how matters stand, and whether I have as yet
paid any of the money.
_August 21st._--Called at Rue de Richelieu this morning to learn from
Sir George Wood what is in the wind, but he knew nothing about it.[26]
_August 26th._--I find an undoubted communication from Sir George
Wood’s major of brigade (Captain Baynes, R.A.), informing me that the
Fauigny (or lead) affair had assumed a more favourable appearance,
and that Sir George desired I would take no further steps in it until
I heard again from him. This is established; but then follow some
contradictions which I cannot reconcile, and must therefore note them
down as they are, rather than lose them altogether. M. Fauigny, quite
elated at the attention paid to his first complaint, had employed an
appraiser, or some such person, to draw up a complete estimate of
furniture destroyed, and every sort of damage done to the chateau,
with which he again waited on the Duke, in the hope that all would be
ordered to be paid as before. This time, however, he was unfortunate
in arriving just as the Duke dismounted, in a very ill humour, at
his residence in the Elysée Bourbon. With true French effrontery,
M. Fauigny followed his Grace up the grand staircase. Arrived at
the landing, the Duke, probably observing him for the first time,
turned sharply, demanding, “What the devil do you want, sir?” Nothing
daunted by this rough address, M. Fauigny mentioned his subject in a
few words, presenting at the same time his _bill_, instead of taking
which, the Duke, turning hastily away, in his usual rough manner,
exclaimed to his aide-de-camp, “Pooh!--kick the rascal down-stairs!”
Such is the story as I got it--whether exactly true or not is more
than I can now decide; but this much is certain, that Sir Edward
Barnes immediately communicated to Sir George Wood M. Fauigny’s
discomfiture, adding, “Send word of this to your friend Captain
Mercer, and let him do as he pleases about the lead.”
As I had been anxious for some time to get leave and go to England,
I find by the same memorandum that I went that same day to ask Sir
George to make an application for me, which, however, he would not
do, telling me that the Duke had refused leave (and very angrily) to
Captain Cleeve of the German Legion Artillery, though summoned to his
father’s deathbed. That I eventually escaped paying a heavy sum of
money for depredations committed by others, is not attributable to
the Duke of Wellington’s sense of justice, but to the irritability of
his temper. An officer holding a command in his army (particularly of
cavalry or artillery) was in constant jeopardy--constantly struggling
to reconcile two contradictions: 1st, to conciliate the natives,
and thus prevent complaints; and 2d, to keep his men comfortable
and horses _fat_ (that is the word), which could only be done at
the expense of the natives. These, encouraged by the Duke’s orders,
proclamations, &c., were never backward in complaining--indeed, they
soon became insufferably insolent: and whilst affecting to admire and
praise the _grand Vellangton_, and draw comparisons between him and
Blucher and his Prussian _thieves_ (for so they invariably termed
them)--“_voleurs Prussiens_”--they in reality laughed at us; whilst
even the private soldiers of the Prussian army were (to their face,
at least) treated with the most reverential deference. A sad contrast
there was between our relative situations. As for gratitude, the
wretches have not one grain of it. Many actually imagine that motives
of fear have induced the Duke to adopt this (to them) strange line of
conduct.
However severe his Grace may be in this respect, he is easy and
indulgent in another which materially concerns our comfort--I
mean dress. Every one pleases his fancy in the selection of his
costume--some wear plain clothes; others, though in uniform (I speak
of visiting and walking about Paris), choose to be unencumbered with
sword or sash. Many cavalry men, &c., like, in this hot weather, to
go with jackets open, with white or fancy waistcoats, &c. Some wear
mustaches, others beards; others, again, both beard and mustaches. A
neglect of military uniformity so striking, and so much in contrast
with the precision and strictness of costume observed by all the
other armies, could not but be noticed. Accordingly, it is said,
one of the monarchs (Emperor Alexander, I have heard) made an
observation on the subject to the Duke, who, feeling himself called
on to do something, gave out a general order on the subject, in which
he directed that all officers of the British army appearing in the
streets of Paris should be dressed either wholly in plain clothes
or in the strict uniform of their corps. No doubt which was chosen.
There is another general order of the Duke’s quoted, and the cause
of it--for which, however, I do not vouch, having never seen it. The
story is this: An English officer, walking on the Boulevard, was
rudely pushed off the path by a French gentleman, whom the Englishman
immediately knocked down. The person so treated happened to be a
marshal; and he, without loss of time, complained to the Duke, though
unable to identify his man. His Grace in consequence issued a general
order commenting on the outrage offered to a person of such high
distinction, and winding up with desiring that British officers would
in future abstain from beating marshals of France, &c. But I have
digressed from the thread of my discourse, to which I must return,
and endeavour to render it as connected as my disjointed records,
aided by memory, will admit of.
After leaving Sir G. Wood’s, I find no notice of further
transactions until the evening, when, accompanied by Ambrose (our
troop surgeon), I set off to ride home by the Rue de St Denis and
La Chapelle. Returning through La Chapelle accompanied by Ambrose,
a fellow sitting on his cart drove against him. Ambrose’s temper
is rather peppery, and he repaid the affront by a cut across the
shoulders with his horse-whip. The carter, standing up in his cart,
fell furiously on Ambrose in return with his whip, and a regular
battle ensued, Ambrose trying to mount the cart, the other keeping
him down and flogging him. In a twinkling a crowd assembled, and
from reviling soon came to active operations; but I rode round the
cart and prevented interference. At last they began to throw stones.
This was too much. I drew my sword and charged in all directions,
everywhere scattering the wretches like chaff, and thus kept the
cowardly herd at bay until Ambrose succeeded in mounting the cart
and breaking the fellow’s whip over his own back, when, the crowd
becoming very serious, he jumped on his horse, and we made our
retreat, not, however, without showers of stones, none of which
touched us, and being obliged two or three times to turn on our
persecutors, who followed us some distance. At last we effected our
retreat.
_31st._--Review of the Russian Guards, &c. They were formed as usual
along the Neuilly Road, and had the saluting-point in the Place Louis
Quinze. A finer body of men can scarcely be imagined; but to me
their padded breasts and waspish waists appeared preposterous. The
cuirassiers were also very fine men, well mounted, and neatly and
serviceably equipped. I was fortunate enough to wedge myself into
the very middle of the Imperial _cortège_. The Emperor of Austria
received the salutes, and I was immediately behind his Imperial
Majesty--on whose right was our Duke with his blue ribbon on, and
all round about were princes, marshals, generals--all the mighty and
distinguished of Europe. The Emperor of Russia himself gave the word
of command, marched past at the head of the column, and saluted.
The Prussian monarch took the command of a regiment of which he is
colonel, and likewise marched past. When Alexander wheeled round
after passing, and joined our group, he saluted Prince Schwartzenberg
with a slap on the thigh, his countenance lighted up by his customary
good-humoured smile. The proud Austrian bowed in acknowledgment
of the honour done him; but as he cast his eye over his shoulder
and met mine fixed on him, a frown soon chased away the forced
unmeaning smile still lingering round his mouth, and it required no
conjuror to see that he did not admire being treated so familiarly.
The greatest good-humour and cheerfulness seemed to reign amongst
this group of sovereigns, sovereign princes, and renowned chiefs;
and that intuitive awe which little people always experience in such
company, began to give way to confidence and a feeling of delight
at mingling thus intimately, as it were, with those hitherto to me
historical characters, on whose faith depend the destinies of Europe.
My next neighbour, a man of high rank--general, or what not--might
have been a Czernicheff, Wittgenstein, or some other celebrated
man; he wore a Russian uniform, and was covered with decorations.
As he spoke French fluently (what Russian does not?), and seemed an
honest-hearted man, free from vanity, we soon got into conversation,
spite of my shabby old pelisse. Never was I more astonished than
when, in answer to my question who the smart-looking lancers were
who kept the ground, he replied “Cossacks.” A very fine set of tall,
handsome, genteel-looking young men, faces exhibiting a delicate
pink and white complexion fit for a lady, quite undefiled by beard
or mustache; dressed in scarlet jackets without any lace, fitting
like stays; large blue-green overalls, with a broad red stripe, and,
as usual, the waist drawn into the capacity of a decent grasp; their
arms a sabre, brace of pistols stuck in their waist-belt, and a long
red-shafted lance without the pennon; small rough horses--not of a
piece with the delicate man and the quality of his equipment. The
cuirassiers wore black-varnished cuirasses; and one regiment was
entirely mounted on beautiful isabels, or cream-coloured horses. But
the horse-artillery, as _en régle_, attracted my most particular
attention. These, as far as men and horses went, appeared most
efficient: the men stout, of active make, and not too tall; their
dress smart, though exceedingly plain--dark-green; their equipment,
arms, and horse appointments all of the same description--plain,
substantially good, and sufficiently neat, without anything
superfluous. The gunners’ horses were stoutly-made serviceable
animals; but the draught-horses (which seemed an anomaly, though they
know best) were much smaller--and such little wild-looking beauties
as one would be proud to show off in Hyde Park, or down Bond Street.
The worst part of the whole were the guns and carriages--the former
of very light calibre, and polished like brass candlesticks (not
above 3-pounders, I should think); the latter very low, light, and
painted bright green, looking more like toys than service articles.
To these the horses were harnessed three abreast; the outer one on
the off side, more for show than use, prancing along with the neck
bent outward in the true classical position, to which it was confined
by a side rein. The effect of this, as far as appearance goes, is
certainly good. My friend the general, pointing out these pretty
horses with an air of triumph that led me to suspect him of being
in the corps, assured me that they had been almost incessantly on
the march ever since the retreat of the French from Moscow. They
were with the pursuing force, took their share of the campaign in
Saxony 1813, advanced to Paris in ’14. When the Russians retired,
these little animals had drawn the guns back again, and had actually
arrived on the banks of the Vistula (I think he said), when they
were countermanded, and had now arrived a second time in Paris. Is
not this quite astonishing? I could well enter into the feeling
of satisfaction and complacency with which he begged my opinion
as to their appearance, and unhesitatingly gratified him with my
unqualified admiration of them. How could it be otherwise! They were
round as barrels, sleek-coated, and full of life and spirit--in
short, they were so beautiful that the thing looked more like
a showy toy than what had for two years been incessantly in the
field. The review over, I called on Sir Edward Barnes and asked his
intercession with the Duke to obtain my leave, which he readily
promised; so I adjourned to No. 36 Rue Mont Blanc, had some chat
with Bell, heard his fair young hostess play the “Exile” again, and
returned to my dominions.
_September 2d._--Care less about Paris than I did, and stay more at
home. The parapet of the bridge becomes again my smoking lounge.
_7th._--This morning I received the long-wished-for leave of absence
for two months; and wishing to start immediately, Ambrose and I rode
up to town to take my place in the diligence for Calais. The Bureau
des Diligence is in the Cour des Messageries, Rue Nôtre Dame de la
Victoire--an establishment of which I had before no conception.
The court is very large; there are several offices for different
coaches; but what surprised me most was the parade of those heavy
dismal-looking machines--I think there must have been fifty drawn up
round the court. For Calais there was no room, therefore I have taken
my places--one inside for self, one in the cabriolet for William--in
the Amiens diligence, which starts to-morrow morning at five
o’clock. The seats inside, &c., are not left as with us to the first
comer, &c. On paying my fare I received a ticket with the number of
my seat on it, which will be respected until I am taken up at St
Denis, where they expect to be by six o’clock.
I know not whether the feeling be common to others, but I never
leave a place where I have tarried ever so short a time without
regret; accordingly my approaching departure has imparted a tinge of
melancholy that I cannot shake off. Latterly I have been tolerably
comfortable here; have got reconciled to my house; acquainted
with the inhabitants; into a certain routine of amusements and
occupations. The weather had been generally fine, though hot; and
everything had begun to assume a hue _couleur de rose_: no wonder,
then, that a slight cloud should interfere to alloy in some degree
the joy at returning to all most dear to me.
_White Horse Cellar, Piccadilly, September 13th._--Here I arrived
last night, and having neither time nor inclination to write during
my journey, must note down occurrences now as well as I can recollect
them before I start for Farringdon; the which done, adieu to pens,
ink, and paper--at least for a time.
On the morning of the 8th inst. I was punctually standing on the
_trottoir_ in front of a villanous _tabagie_ in St Denis at six
o’clock, William and my portmanteau beside me. The house was full
of drunken, and therefore insolent, Flemish waggoners, and I had no
inclination to enter. Our Noah’s Ark did not keep me long waiting for
its arrival, although it tarried sufficiently when it did come.
M. le Conducteur, a little man, but a most important one, wrapped
in a brown greatcoat, a silk handkerchief round his throat, and his
head covered by one of those grey linen forage-caps, descended from
his airy perch on the roof with great gravity, and pulling out his
way-bill, demanded of the _cabaretier_ where was the English Monsieur
who was to be taken up at St Denis. I presented myself. The little
man, scrutinising me from head to foot, “Vous avez un portmanteau,
monsieur?” “Oui, monsieur.” “Où se trouvé-t-il donc?” “Le voilà,
monsieur.” “_Le voilà?--quoi ceci?_” “Oui.” “Et vous appelez ceci un
portmanteau? Sacre Dieu! mais c’est une malle que ça! Elle ne montera
pas sur la diligence!” looking up at the insides, who had thrust
their heads out of the window on hearing the row. “Sacre Dieu! cela
_un portmanteau_!” and he began to swagger and fume and pester among
the _saboted_, greasy night-capped gentry who stood by, enjoying
exceedingly having a John Bull on the horns of a dilemma.
According to our English acceptation of the term, my baggage was
literally a large portmanteau; but the passengers within gave me
to understand that Monsieur le Conducteur was perfectly right, and
that I had better try to conciliate him instead of insisting. I took
their advice, and my _malle_ became a portmanteau, under which title
alone it was admissible on the diligence, according to the laws and
ordinances of La Cour des Messageries. I got inside, William mounted
the cabriolet, and I bade adieu to St Denis--at all events for two
months. I was agreeably surprised at finding the diligence such a
comfortable conveyance; well padded and well hung, we rolled along
most agreeably, though only at the rate of six miles per hour. My
companions inside were--an elderly lady, very taciturn but very
amiable; a young one about five-and-twenty, handsome, lively, chatty,
and very shrewd--she talked for both; a good, honest, little man,
who kept some sort of magazine in Paris; a young lad, clerk in some
counting-house; and an officer of our own Rifles. We had not reached
Pierrefitte ere Mademoiselle had managed to introduce us all to each
other in such a manner that formality was banished, and we were the
best friends possible--laughing, joking, quizzing each other or the
_paysans_; nothing could be happier.
At Luzarches, a capital breakfast, and as much time as we pleased to
take it in--M. le Conducteur all suavity and amiability. Our lively
little friend kept up such an animated conversation that I saw only
just enough of the country we were passing through to remark that it
became much prettier and more picturesque as we approached Clermont,
where the diligence stopped for dinner. M. le Conducteur took the
head of the table, and our party was increased by a _soi-disant_, or
_soi-pensant_, humorist of the _gendarmerie_, who, seating himself
_sans cérémonie_, fell to, tooth and nail, as if he had not touched
food for a week. This, however, did not much interrupt the display
of wit, which principally was aimed at the cookery and dishes served
up. A fricassee of rabbit he vowed he would on no account touch
unless Madame produced _les pattes_, since, as he solemnly assured
us, they frequently served fricasseed cats instead. Madame did not,
however, produce _les pattes_, and although none of us touched
it, the dish in a few minutes was cleared of its contents. This
fellow reminded me strongly of the parasite in Gil Blas, and, his
adulations being entirely addressed to our little vain conducteur,
I set him down as the “Antorcha de la Filosofia!”--maybe our hero
always dined with the passengers _par ordre et pour l’espionage_.
Here, as at Luzarches, no _empressement_ was betrayed: the diligence
stood passively at the door without horse, without even an hostler
visible; the ladies retired to a _chambre_; so the Rifleman and I
agreed to walk on, which resolve we communicated to M. le Conducteur,
who assented, and off we set. At the end of the town two roads
appeared, one running straight along the valley, the other crossing
the bridge to the right, then ran rump-fashion up the other side
of the valley, divergingly from the former--and this road was our
proper one; but, without condescending to ask a question, we very
sagaciously chose the other, and had already proceeded some hundred
yards along it, when fortunately (no hedges intervened--the valley
was all grass, a rivulet running through the middle of it) we saw our
lumbering vehicle slowly ascending the opposite hill. The distance
that separated us from it was not great, and we shouted to M. le
Conducteur to wait for us; but neither he nor the coachman heard us,
and, being ignorant of the nature of the rivulet, after a moment’s
hesitation we decided our most prudent plan was to run back to the
bridge, &c. This we immediately did; but although both of us were
pretty active runners, we should have been left behind at last had we
not luckily met a miller coming down on horseback. Him and his sacks
we dismounted _sans cérémonie_, for the diligence, having now arrived
at the summit, had commenced its jog-trot. Mounting the animal, I
pursued as fast as the end of the halter could persuade my beast to
move, and after a long chase succeeded at length in bringing the
vehicle to. Our companions, especially the young dame, or demoiselle,
had a hearty laugh at our expense, and so had our miller, for he
grinned from ear to ear when the silver recompense (never expected)
touched his palm, and he was still grinning and bowing when we
looked back as the diligence drove on. It was about eleven at night
when we reached the _barrière_ of Amiens, and I had been some time
asleep. A bright light presented to my eyes caused me to start up in
surprise, and at first it was difficult to imagine where I was, until
I perceived the uniform of a _gendarmerie_, who, after reconnoitring
us by holding the lantern to our faces, very quietly demanded
something for his trouble. Angry at such a humiliating operation,
the Rifleman and I sent him to the devil; but our companions, whilst
opening their own purses, made it so clear to us that the fellow had
been extremely civil where he might have been extremely troublesome,
that we concluded by doing in Rome, &c. &c.; and away we rumbled over
the jolting pavement, and through a series of dark narrow streets,
until at last we drove into the yard of the Hotel d’Angleterre, as
dark and deserted as the streets themselves. Hostlers, however, were
soon forthcoming, the horses changed, my _malle_ handed down, and
William and myself left standing in the middle of the yard wondering
what was to become of us. After a little hesitation, one of the
hostlers condescended to direct us to the door of the house ere he
retired, and after a good deal of knocking at that we succeeded in
rousing an old fellow--whose duty I suppose it was to sit up for the
diligence--who showed me into a large room, with a bed in one corner;
and at my request for supper brought me a couple of cold widgeons,
which I soon discussed, and jumped into an excellent bed.
_9th._--In a dilemma; no conveyance forward but posting. Did not
exactly believe this, and therefore inquired from _auberge_ to
_auberge_, until at last I discovered that a sort of caravan started
every morning at nine o’clock from the * * * for Abbeville. This
would be getting on, therefore I lost no time in securing my places.
Having risen early, I passed the intervening time in visiting some
of our people stationed here--younger M’Donald’s troop, also 1st
Regiment of Dragoons, K.G.L. Him I found in an excellent lodging.
Our caravan was a curious machine, very much down by the stern,
otherwise resembling a small house on wheels. William and a woman
got into the _fond de la voiture_, whilst I occupied the front seat,
in company with a neat, dapper, little, big-bellied man, wearing
a very smart forage-cap, and speaking a very little English. We
travelled very slowly, and made a long halt at Flixcourt (pronounced
_Fleeshcour_)--nevertheless, to my great joy, we reached Abbeville by
two o’clock. I found here the 13th Light Dragoons and my old troop
G; called on Lieutenant Leathes; dined at the Hotel de Londres, a
very inferior house. Here I hired a cabriolet to take us forward to
Calais for five napoleons. From the first I set my _voiturier_ down
as a scoundrel, from his physiognomy, and the event proved me a sound
judge. The bargain struck, he tried all sorts of shifts and excuses,
in the hope, as I discovered, of associating some other traveller
with me. As soon as I made the discovery, I insisted on his starting
instantly, and after some difficulty at last got him fairly on the
road. It proved a very tedious mode of travelling this; he did not
choose to hurry his horse, was continually stopping, and more uncivil
in his manner than I thought a true Frenchman could be. The motion
of the carriage was very disagreeable--sometimes too heavy before,
sometimes behind; and at times it became necessary to put a great
stone behind to relieve the poor horse of the weight. A sort of
commercial traveller (bagman), who overtook us as we slowly crept up
hill near Montreuil thus loaded, facetiously remarked, “Ah, monsieur,
vous chargez des pierres, donc!” Our driver’s villanous countenance
became black as thunder, but he answered a dry “Oui;” and the other,
seeing it was no joke, passed on.
It was dusk ere we reached Montreuil, and then our poor beast was so
completely done up that I was obliged to subscribe to the necessity
of halting; and accordingly our friend drew up at the door of a
mean-looking _cabaret_, just without the town, and we alighted,
expecting but sorry accommodation in such a place. If, however, La
Renard continue what it was, I shall have no objection whatever to
pass another night there when I return. A pretty little airy parlour,
well though plainly furnished, the windows opening on a garden; as
neat a little bedroom adjoining, bed the very type of cleanliness;
add an excellent supper and a bottle of very fair wine, and it may be
imagined that the evening and night passed in the Renard will always
be a bright spot in the memory. It must not be concealed, though,
that a pair of very brilliant black eyes certainly threw rather a
witching light on my apartments. In the morning, whilst Lisette
was busy preparing my breakfast, I was taking a stroll up and down
the pretty rural garden, when, to my astonishment, the apparition
of a true John-Bull farmer stood before me. At first it appeared
an illusion, but the voice soon dispelled that--brown frock-coat,
breeches and gaiters, with good thick shoes. Out of these, with the
real country twang, issued “Marning, zir; queer chaps here, zir; I
doant onderstand one word as ony on um says--not I.” My friend then
proceeded to ask my assistance as his interpreter, and explained his
being there. His son, it seems, is the saddler of the 13th Light
Dragoons, stationed just now in Abbeville, whither he had been on a
visit, and was now making his way back again to Calais, but being
short of coin (French--he had plenty of English) and words, found
himself here in a dilemma. Sorry I am that I had not time to preserve
the history of his adventures and mishaps since arriving in France;
they were most amusing and laughable, but I have now forgotten more
than odds and ends. As he passed the evening in company with William,
probably that worthy may assist me in recollecting somewhat of it.
My bill was extremely moderate for all the comfort I had enjoyed, and
I parted best friends imaginable with my attentive hostess and her
pretty daughter--_Au revoir!_
It is a curious town Montreuil, with its steep narrow streets and
high walls; but I only saw it _en passant_, for we did not stop.
Beyond it, after ascending from the valley of the Canch, we traversed
a dreary open country for some way, and then came to wood and very
pretty ground, which continued until a long descent brought us at
length creepingly to Samer, where we stopped to breakfast at the
Tête de Bœuf (William Mallet--a Frenchman, spite of the name). A
Cockney party of three ladies and two gentlemen had just arrived
from Boulogne--evidently the first time any of them had been out
of England. They were all flutter and curiosity, quite childishly
so--chattering away bad school French with a regular English
enunciation, and giggling when successful in making themselves
understood. Had they but guessed that the brown-visaged, mustachioed,
befurred hero who stood before them and watched all their movements
was English, perhaps they would have been a little more discreet.
One of the gentlemen drew, and had brought a camera lucida, which he
adjusted at the door of the Tête de Bœuf, and disposed himself to
take a view of Samer, surrounded by some eight or ten gaping clowns
in their blue frocks and clumsy _sabots_, too picturesque objects
to be missed; and my man stuck two or three of them in positions to
enter into his picture--the only feature in it, for the point of view
he had chosen was a most unfortunate one. As I leaned from my window,
right over the artist’s head, and at no great distance above him (for
the Tête de Bœuf boasts but a very moderate elevation), many an ogle
did I get from the young ladies, who kept running out incessantly in
order to persuade our hero that eating his breakfast was better than
sketching. But he was stanch to the backbone, and when my _voiturier_
summoned me to start, I left him in the same position, indefatigably
occupied upon his insipid picture. Before reaching Samer, my rogue
had begun expressing doubts of the soundness of one of his wheels;
and true enough--for just as we gained sight of Boulogne (beyond
which, I believe, he never from the first meant to go), smash it went
all to pieces, and down we came gently enough. The vagabond acted his
part well--pretended astonishment, _au désespoir_, &c. &c.--but I saw
through him. Under the circumstances, only one thing remained to be
done, as no assistance was at hand: William shouldered my _malle_, I
carried the _et ceteras_, and on we trudged; and after a pretty hot
walk we arrived at Boulogne, and entered the first decent-looking
house that presented itself, and ordered dinner. Here I learned that
a packet was about to sail in the evening for Dover, and decided on
cutting connection with my rascally _voiturier_, who managed to bring
in his vehicle shortly after us.
Accordingly in the evening we repaired to the pier and embarked at
two P.M. My fellow-passengers were--Lord Charles Fitzroy; another
officer, his friend; and a very pretty Frenchwoman. We had hardly
made any offing, when the breeze falling, left us at the mercy of
a long swell--the surface as smooth as a mirror. The rolling was
terrible, and the poor Frenchwoman, dreadfully sick, cursing the
ship, cursing England, and cursing herself for venturing on the sea.
Early[27] the following morning we reached Dover, where, to the
unspeakable horror of our poor friend, she was informed that she
could not leave the vessel until her passport had been sent to London
to be verified. O England! what naughty things did not she say of you
then! A coach, starting within an hour after our landing, was very
convenient, and in company of an officer of the 13th Light Dragoons,
I took my seat for London, and here I am.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Two months I rusticated in Berkshire, and then, my leave of absence
having nearly expired, set off in the beginning of November,
taking with me my wife, whose determination not to be again
separated, united to an eager curiosity to see Paris, overcame all
the difficulties I threw in the way of such a winter campaign,
and rendered her deaf to all my representations of hardships and
privations which she would inevitably have to bear and put up with.
My journal of this second residence was hurried, meagre, and very
irregularly kept. She kept likewise a few memoranda, so that from
the two, and what memory and collating will supply, I am enabled to
complete this journal to the return of my troop to Canterbury in
February 1816.
_Sunday, November 5th._--Slept at the York Hotel last night, and
embarked this morning on board the packet for Calais--forget
her name--Captain Keys. All bustle and confusion when we went
on board. Deck encumbered with a carriage and heaps of baggage,
amongst which the complete, well-appointed baggage of Hamilton
Hamilton, Esq., secretary of legation, or some such thing, was most
conspicuous. In time carriage was stowed and baggage sent below,
porters, leave-takers, &c., went ashore, and we quitted the pier.
Passengers numerous: H. Hamilton does exclusive, and even betrays
impatience and vexation at being shut up with such a _canaille_;
then an old gentleman, with a broad-brimmed hat, assumes mighty airs
of consequence, and even looks a little contemptuously at Hamilton
Hamilton himself, who speaks to none but his _own man_; a Scottish
gentleman and his spouse, who makes a terrible sputter about her
dear little dog Rose, which is somehow or another left behind at
Dover; a mean-looking man in a foraging-cap, a melancholy sergeant
of dragoons, and his wife; a Russian dressed in forage-cap and green
jacket, like a servant’s morning one, wearing no gloves, and looking
for all the world like a _courrier_, but F. insisting that such a
white hand decidedly constitutes him a gentleman; besides a crowd,
_gentium minorum_, of whom we make no record. As we left, the guns
on Dover Castle announced Guy Faux by a royal salute. A fresh breeze
and rather dark day--the one operating on the _physique_, the other
on the _morale_, made all the passengers except very few exceedingly
sick. More than half-way over, our breeze gradually subsided into a
calm, and left us bobbing about at a most tantalising distance from
our port. To amuse the tedium of the calm, our Russian (by no means
a handsome man), who had been ogling F. from the very beginning,
managed to pick up a conversation; and in a very short time from
ogling began to make love, which, however, was cut short by her
getting squeamish, and being obliged to lie down. He then transferred
his attentions to me, and I really found him a most gentlemanly,
well-informed man, spite of his exterior. After being tantalised for
some time looking at Calais without being able to reach it, at length
a breeze sprang up and carried us in. Crowds of Sunday people were
on the pier, all anxious to see the arrivals. The usual squabble
about baggage and forcing through the surrounding multitude took
place, and we went to Quillacq’s Hotel without the baggage--which,
after all, was detained on board until it could be inspected at the
custom-house on Monday morning, a most inconvenient arrangement,
as we found ourselves without an article except what we stood in--a
great rambling house, with large dreary (at this season of the year)
rooms and long corridors. Amused with F.’s surprise at the number of
little dishes served up at dinner--all, however, excellent. Obliged
to borrow nightcaps of M. and Madame Quillacq.
_6th._--Up at seven in the morning, and went to the custom-house
for our baggage. _Douaniers_, a set of insolent scoundrels, gave
themselves amazing airs, and tumbled everything out on the floor;
particularly severe with Ham. Hamilton’s baggage, who had sent
his servant for it. At last I got mine out of their clutches;
hired a cabriolet to take us to Paris, where we give it up to the
correspondent. Well stuffed and comfortable, with innumerable little
pockets. F. amused again with our set out: started at half-past ten
A.M., preceded by the little gentleman in the broad-brimmed hat
in one _calèche_, and the two Russians in another. At Marquise we
passed them. Nothing extraordinary in our drive except Buonaparte’s
pillar near Boulogne, and the house he lived in at Pont de Bricq
when he visited the army of England. Arrived at M. Mallet, Samer, by
half-past four P.M. Found the house comfortable, except that our
room smoked somewhat. Girls most merry; gave us an excellent dinner,
but so-so wine. Amused ourselves with arrivals and departures. F.
looked in vain, however, for her Russian lover--he came not.
But another character of more importance came not: Mr William should
have joined us at Dover or Calais; but when at the latter we learned
that he remained at Dover waiting for his trunk, which had been left
behind in London.
_November 7th._--Sophie gave us an excellent breakfast, after which
we set off. Our postilion a character, in the imperial green jacket;
and from under his leathern hat, instead of the usual thick queue,
flowed a mass of locks unrestrained. His beasts were a couple of
long-tailed cart-horses, harnessed principally with rope. The long
ascent, after leaving Samer, brought us on the plateau occupied by
the dreaded forest--dreaded because we had heard reports of banditti
and plundering; but we passed through it without interruption, and
soon after saw the ramparts of Montreuil crowning the isolated hill,
frowning like an acropolis over the lower town--the whole, standing
as it does in a country destitute of the smallest feature of the
picturesque, presenting a most sombre and forbidding aspect. Nor did
the interior belie its exterior aspect, which we entered by a long,
squalid, straggling street, and ascended to the upper town by a very
steep hill. Whilst the horses were changing we got an omelet. Scotch
officer and his wife, who had come on _en voiturier_, we overtook
here. As elsewhere, a crowd of beggars assailed us on alighting and
re-entering our carriage. In this country they spoil their own trade,
for they are too numerous. I hurry over all this, for my notes are
very meagre.
Approaching Abbeville by a long descent, its cathedral, proudly
elevating its beautiful Gothic front above the other buildings (dingy
in colour, and unpicturesque in form) was the only redeeming point
in the view; but that _was_ an interesting one. The town, however,
pleased us, though its streets are rather narrow and dirty. Found our
old friends the hussars of the Brunswick auxiliaries and my old troop
(G) quartered here.
_8th._--Started at a little after seven A.M. Our postilion was the
first one we had had, who astonished F. by wearing jack-boots.
Breakfasted at Flixcourt: little slop-basins instead of cups, with
large spoons; as usual, sour bread and soapy butter--for all which
the charge was exorbitant. During breakfast the beautiful band of
the 1st Hussars, K.G.L., was playing on an open space near the house,
where the regiment had its morning parade.
At Pecquigny met a bridal--all in their best; men and boys firing
guns, and the bride carrying a little flag. A young rogue who stood
by our carriage whilst changing horses begging in a most piteous
accent, observing me start when the first gun was fired, just before
the procession came in sight, could not resist the desire of amusing
himself at my expense, whom he no doubt took for some Cockney, and
shouted, in a voice of affected alarm, “C’est l’ennemi, monsieur!”
and seeing that his _coup_ had _manqué_, burst into laughter.
Beyond Pecquigny came on the valley of the Somme; and the scenery
became somewhat interesting. Amiens we found full of Prussians, and
only stopped to change horses--Maître de Poste quite a gentlemanly
man, riding a managed horse. Fine old town and splendid cathedral.
Stopped for the night at Breteuil. Inn an immense old-fashioned
house, like an old convent; great rambling wainscoted corridor;
and our room large, lofty, and the walls hung with old faded
tapestry, and two old-fashioned beds with curtains of yellow damask;
sitting-room quite on a par with it. Our attendant Josephine (a very
pretty girl) told us our teeth must be bad, because we complained
of our fowl being tough; and to our complaint of knives, she said
they were too sharp, for that she had just cut her finger with
one of them. Apropos of knives, there seems but one pattern all
over France, and that a very coarse one, which, however costly the
table-service in other respects, appears everywhere to spoil the
whole. Its sharp point one sees constantly used as a tooth-pick; and
over and over again I have seen it taken from that employment and
plunged unhesitatingly into some dish, &c. Soup served in a regular
white jorden; however, we find fine Sevres porcelain coffee-services
everywhere. Wine here all out of one cask, though Josephine protested
that the fifty different kinds she enumerated were literally and
truly each from the place named. F. astonished at the immense long
loaves. An English family had arrived in a smart barouche, with
servants in a cabriolet. Forced to sit in their bedroom, ours being
the only _salle_, such as it is.
_November 9th._--Early this morning a large detachment of Prussian
infantry marched into Breteuil, and the officers, as soon as their
parade was over, came tramping _sans cérémonie_ through every
room in the house. F., whom I had left alone whilst I strolled
out to see the place, was terribly frightened by three or four of
them walking into the room, and standing there with the door open
jabbering for some time, as if no one had been present, one of
them ogling most furiously. Spite of our exertions, the family in
the barouche got their horses and set off before us, to our great
annoyance, as of course they would absorb all the attention and
occupy all the accommodation to our exclusion. Josephine gave us
a miserable breakfast, no doubt owing to that accursed barouche;
and, after all, our bill was most exorbitant. Thought our postilion
was mad--for never saw French postilion dash along so recklessly
and at such a pace: the cabriolet rolled from side to side, and
jerked and jumped so that I expected we should plunge through the
windows. Still it was pleasant to get on. At last we overtook the
barouche, and the mystery was explained, for our gentleman relapsed
at once into the tamest of postilions, sticking himself close up to
the other carriage, with his horses’ noses under its very dicky.
Occupant of this a gentleman’s gentleman of the very first water,
who sadly annoyed F. by his impudent staring. Urged our hero of the
jack-boots and sheep’s-skin pelisse to pass ahead, for the heavy
barouche, although drawn by four horses, could only get on at a
jog-trot pace. Urged long in vain. At last, just as he was about to
push on, the gentleman in the dicky dropped his glove, and our most
polite postilion actually stopped, dismounted, picked it up, and
again driving up in the wake of the barouche, presented it with the
utmost deference of manner to the supercilious scoundrel. Got furious
now, and commenced such a volley that I at last actually succeeded
in driving him ahead of the barouche just as we approached Clermont.
Another marriage at St Juste: bride very pretty, and guns fired in
abundance as before. Clermont uncommonly prettily situated. Did not
alight, but enjoyed some delicious grapes which women and girls
brought and sold for a song. Hence to Creil; a great improvement
in the scenery, which became rich, diversified, and well wooded,
until near that place we descended into the beautiful bottom of the
Oise, with its wooded hill and white cliffs. Found here a garrison
of Belges. Our postilion still more mad. As we had foreseen, there
was some difficulty in getting rooms at the Hotel de Bourbon at
Chantilly, and we had scarcely secured them ere the barouche drove
up, but could not find accommodation. Visited the chateau of the
Prince de Condé. Stables magnificent; an immense lofty hall, as big
as a church, with a fine cupola--around are the stalls, &c.--splendid
idea! Our dinner even more than usually ridiculous by the number of
little _plats_--a regular doll’s; liqueurs of sorts, all very bad,
in cruet-bottles--aniseed the only one drinkable. In the evening
entertained by the singing of the Nassau troops stationed here. Bad
news from Paris. In the next room a party of London shop-boys, or
some such thing. One of these, pretty drunk, wanted to be called in
the morning, and as our doors were open, we had the full benefit and
advantage of the fine language propounded to the waiter: “Garçon! mon
domestique à cinq heure et demie.” Garçon does not comprehend; tries
over and over again. “Je ne vous comprends pas, monsieur, se fait
entendre toujours.” At last impatient, “Well, dammee, ’tis simply
this, my man: tell my servant to call me at half-past five o’clock.”
We went to our bedroom ere the matter was settled. The French seem to
think nothing of damp sheets--ours were actually wet.
_10th._--Our host gave us a most comfortable breakfast, after which
we set off in high spirits for Paris; the day fine and scenery
lovely. Whilst changing horses at Luzarches, some non-commissioned
officers of the Belgic or Nassau troops stationed there were
exceedingly impertinent to F., but I had no time to obtain redress,
so left them.
After passing Pierrefitte, made our postilion turn off the chaussée
spite of his objections, and attempt to reach Stain; but we soon
found the cross-road so bad, nearly smashing our wheels, that we
were glad to regain the chaussée. Whilst stopping at the post-house
at St Denis, Frazer and Ambrose rode up. From them we learned that
old Webber had made my house very comfortable; so determined not to
stay in Paris, but to give up our cabriolet, and return forthwith
to Stain. This we accordingly did, driving straight to the Remise,
Rue Faubourg St Denis, where we hired a fiacre, and reached Stain
about dusk. It was a cold gloomy evening. The story of comfort was
exaggerated. Webber had hired some little, shabby, old furniture;
but the place looked wretched, and when F. became fully aware of
its discomforts, her enthusiasm gave way like snow before the sun;
she burst into tears. The heroics vanished, and she confessed
she wished herself again in England. The room had indeed a most
forlorn appearance: a handful of fire flickered in the grateless,
gaping chimney; the little furniture was of the coarsest kind; the
uncarpeted floor of brick;--desolation everywhere! We had had no
dinner, and, except some ration-beef, nothing could be procured. Some
of this, however, was cooked and despatched; and, as the best thing
we could do, we set to work putting to rights, and making the most
of it. Nothing could equal the surprise of Madlle. Rose at finding
that the smooth-faced bourgeois was indeed the identical mustachioed
commandant she had been accustomed to months ago. Next morning
found a poultry-yard--rabbits, &c., all provided by the attentions
of old Robertson, my quartermaster-sergeant. Things looked better;
F. was refreshed, consequently in better spirits. The visits of
congratulation and kind attentions of our villagers delighted her;
but M. le Maire stood like one thunderstruck when introduced to his
old friend with a new face. My cow dead, but another was negotiating
for. The history of the defunct was, that she was a commissariat
issue to me as so many rations; but, instead of putting her to death,
I kept her for her milk.
Here, again, I am without a guide, or nearly so--my diary ends; and,
to continue our residence at Stain, I am reduced to a few brief
notices preserved in my general journal.
That residence was uncomfortable enough, for the winter set in with
a degree of severity unknown in England; and our house, both from
its construction and furnishing, was ill calculated, under such
circumstances, to afford comfort, or indeed at times to prevent
suffering. However, we were in paradise compared to the situation of
the little farmers (cultivateurs) and still poorer people amongst
whom we were thus domiciliated. With them we found that it was no
uncommon practice to live in the stable, &c., among the cattle, for
the sake of sparing fuel--the animals helping to keep them warm.
Sometimes I took F. to Paris to see the lions; but it was sad, cold,
dirty work. The streets were ankle-deep in mud; even the walks of
the Palais Royal, the Passage des Panoramas, &c., were covered with
mud, carried in on people’s feet. Sometimes I took a walk; but the
country, now stripped of its verdure, presented an aspect hideously
cheerless. What could be more so than the extensive, dreary,
snow-covered plain extending from St Denis to the foot of Montmartre
without a redeeming tree? Like other highroads, the one crossing this
plain to La Chapelle, we were told, had once been bordered by trees,
but they were cut down on the approach of the Allied armies, I think,
last year.
Soon after arriving, having published through the commune our want
of a female servant, Mademoiselle Rose introduced Angélique. My
wife took a liking to her immediately; so, having exchanged written
contracts with M. l’Ecuyer (her father), engaging to take care of,
and send her back from England free of expense, she was engaged, and
forthwith entered on her functions, as cook, lady’s-maid, &c. M.
l’Ecuyer is (like most of our neighbours) a cultivateur--works his
own little bit of land, and is independent, except of poverty; for
these little cultivateurs work hard and fare harder, as far as I can
learn.
Sometimes our _séjour_ was enlivened by visits from our own officers,
or from some of those stationed in St Denis, La Vertu, and even
from Paris: and occasionally more genial weather allowed F. to ride
Cossack; but these rides were necessarily confined to the park. With
the villagers we had become as much at home as Frenchmen could be. As
for our _ménage_, it got on pretty well; and once we even ventured
on giving a dinner to Wells and Ambrose, which went off pretty well;
and once we went and passed a day with Sir A. Frazer at the Hotel du
Nord.
Again, one bitter cold black day, we visited the Abbey of St Denis,
and went shivering through its vaults, and were shown the last home
prepared by Napoleon for himself. The town was crowded with troops
on their march northwards. Once or twice F. was able to ride to
Paris; but it was hard work. Amongst other amusements in Stain, we
had one not very agreeable, and which kept us in a continual state of
excitement. Our men were continually setting fire to their quarters,
particularly the chateau of Admiral Rosily. The villagers said this
arose from their removing the ashes, and making their fires on the
bare hearth, which thus became so hot as to set fire to the beams
beneath. They therefore advised the men to leave the ashes and make
their new fire on them. This they did; but Admiral Rosily wrote
to tell me that no fires ought be lighted up-stairs in his house,
as the chimneys were only intended as ventilators, and therefore
begged us to confine the fires to the ground-floor. At the stables
of the chateau, over which a detachment was lodged, a fire occurred,
and continued smouldering in the beams for a fortnight, the centre
remaining on fire when we thought it extinguished.
At length the period of our departure drew nigh, and arrangements
were made at headquarters which totally disorganised my troop at the
moment when a perfect organisation was most necessary. During the
campaign, a detachment of the driver-corps had been attached to each
troop of horse-artillery, our own establishment being insufficient
for the additional carriages. These were now to be withdrawn and sent
home; and accordingly, all this rabble from Bull’s and other troops
still in the neighbourhood of Paris were sent to mine as destined
for England. Secondly, all my officers were allowed to desert me.
Captain Webber protested he was too weak to undertake such a journey,
and obtained leave to remain in Paris; my surgeon (Ambrose) was
permitted to remain in charge of him; Lieutenant Bruce neither liked
the winter-march nor quitting Paris, where he was doing aide-de-camp
to his cousin, Lady Castlereagh; two lieutenants (Maunsell and
Wells) remained to march with the troop; but the former had resolved
on leaving the service, and the latter had obtained an exchange to
a troop forming part of the Army of Occupation, consequently he
accompanies us only a part of the way to Calais--and thus no very
great zeal could be expected from either of these. Thirdly, we were
ordered to give up our white cross-belts to G troop, in exchange
for their waist-belts--exhibiting thus our old worn jackets in all
their nakedness. Fourthly, our overalls were in rags--new ones had
been ordered, and were on the road from Brussels, but we were not
allowed to wait for them. Add to all this the casualties of a long
winter-march, bad lodging, and worse weather, and the condition
of the troop on reaching Calais may be imagined. The defection of
Ambrose, however, was counterbalanced by my old friend Hitchins
getting leave to accompany us to England. He, too, intended quitting
the service.
_December 16th._--Hitchins joined us at Stain; and as he brought
his own bed, I gave him a room in my chateau. The knotty question
of how F. and Angélique were to travel was settled between them
and Hitchins; and, overruling my scruples, it was arranged that
a cabriolet should be hired for Calais, to be drawn by a pair of
troop-horses, with the driver for postilion. Accordingly, on the 18th
Hitchins went to Paris and procured the vehicle, whilst we continued
our preparations.
_19th._--The troop under Maunsell marched at an early hour for
Beaumont, our first halting-place. One would have fancied that the
village militia was about to quit home. No one thought of work: the
whole population of the commune assembled in the park; endless the
leave-takings, and I believe sincere the expressions of friendship
and regrets at separation. Many of the cultivateurs, whose carts we
had taken for the baggage, cheerfully volunteered accompanying us all
the way to Calais.
Our own baggage delayed us so much that it was eleven A.M. before we
were under way--F. and Angélique (whose relations to the twentieth
degree had thronged our house all the morning) in the _calèche_,
Hitchins and myself on horseback, followed by Gunner Fitzgerald, my
orderly, and my groom Milward, in uniform and carrying my Waterloo
lance. The day was fine, and the country pretty enough for the
season; so that, after getting on the chaussée at Pierrefitte, we
moved on merrily and agreeably until evening, when the sky clouded
over, it became very cold, and soon a heavy fall of snow came on,
in the midst of which we arrived at Beaumont, and found our people
just forming the park, and those of Major Dyas already snug in their
quarters. His battery had been ordered to march with us; but he had
also orders not to interfere in any way with me or mine.
Our billet was on an iron merchant, and thither we proceeded,
whilst Hitchins went in search of his own. Our house was a
respectable-looking one outside; inside it was much like a great
foundry, or some such place--almost the whole of it being one vast
hall, lighted from above, and full of bar-iron standing against the
walls. An open staircase conducted us to a small gallery; up one
more step and into a neat little room--but, from the scarcity of
furniture and badness of the fire, looking sufficiently cheerless: a
table, covered as usual with oil-cloth, two or three plain chairs,
a bed without curtains, and windows without shutters;--such was the
domicile into which we were ushered by a hideously ugly and most
sulky maid-servant. Assistance from the house we soon found we must
not expect, and sent out for something to eat; but the answer was
_nil_, and we were forced to content ourselves with some bad tea
and bread-and-butter. The evening was wretchedly cold, and our fire
so insufficient that we were glad to get to bed; but here, again,
were _wet_ sheets, and we were obliged to get between the blankets.
Miserable evening!
_20th._--Weather improved. Started about eleven, and, traversing
a beautiful and fertile country, arrived in the afternoon at the
pretty village of Noailles, where we found ourselves billeted
on a rich old gentleman, who did not ask us to his table, but in
every other respect did his utmost to make us comfortable; and so
in reality we were, for our apartment was delightfully so; our
fare good; and our host furnished us liberally with good wine and
cider. Passed the evening playing dominoes, and wishing we could
stay in such nice quarters. Began to find Angélique[28] very useful
in communicating with the people, whose ways she understood better
than we. Noailles is but a poor village, although prettily situated;
however, there is a manufactory here of those pretty bands which
French women wear below _the knee_.
_21st._--A short march to Beauvais, where we arrived early; and
whilst I parked the guns and saw my people put up, Hitchins
accompanied F. in search of my quarters. My duty finished, I followed
to a handsome house, where I understood they were. Whilst making
inquiries under the gateway, Madame herself came out and told me
rather angrily that I could have no quarters there, as the colonel
(my travelling title) and his lady already occupied all she was bound
to furnish. I endeavoured to explain that the gentleman up-stairs
was my friend, that I was M. le Colonel, and had sent him to escort
my wife, &c. &c. At the word _femme_, the _insolente_ with a sneer
turned from me with, “Ah! soi-disante.” A scene occurred; Monsieur
himself came out, who I insisted should be responsible for his wife’s
tongue. At last they begged pardon, and I mounted the staircase
according to direction, and found a most comfortable lodging--two
well-furnished rooms and a small cabinet. The people sent up soon
after to invite us to dinner, they being ordered to feed us; but we
would not go, and made them send dinner up to us. Our rooms had only
one drawback--they were rather gloomy, the windows opening upon a
courtyard. Stayed three days in Beauvais, during which we lived well
at the expense of our host; and having bought some cards, Hitchins
came every evening to coffee, and we had a game at casino. Our
mornings were passed in visiting the beautiful Gothic cathedral and
other churches; the manufactory of tapestry, equalling that of the
Gobelins, of which this is a branch; in shopping, and in riding about
the neighbouring country, which is pretty--somewhat resembling that
about Bath. One evening we went to the play--a dark dismal house, and
quite a second-rate set of actors. Don’t know what the piece was,
but the humour consisted in the _patois_ of an old Picard servant,
who was continually repeating, “Ya! ya! ya! Munsincur!” There were
a good many of us--all the officers of Ross’s troop and Dyas’s
battery, _par excellence_. The pit was full of French soldiers; yet
all went off cheerfully, until our people called for “Vive Henri
Quatre,” which these Napoleonists fiercely opposed, and a row ensued,
which terminated at last amicably. The ramparts of Beauvais form a
delicious promenade, which I enjoyed; whilst F. and Hitchins were
gadding about from shop to shop, buying lace, cambric, &c.
_22d._--I intended marching forward to-morrow, but Quartermaster
Robertson, who was sent on to take up our quarters, returned at
midnight with the intelligence that all the villages ahead of us were
still full of troops. Relinquished the idea.
Major Dyas came to coffee. When he heard of the insult offered to
F. he insisted upon going immediately to pull my host by the nose.
“_Bloody D._” was one of those jewels we received at the Union
from the Irish artillery--tall, gaunt, and muscular, with a most
truculent physiognomy. His cognomen was received on account of the
ferocity he had displayed in the Irish Rebellion. Now he had become
a gallant Lothario (not a gay one), and, if report spoke true, had
already two wives, and had nearly succeeded in picking up a third in
Paris--daughter of a gentleman of very good property, at whose house
he had been billeted. Strange how insinuating these Irishmen are. To
look at D. one would never suppose that a girl, young enough to be
his daughter, handsome, and rich withal, could ever have fallen in
love with such a man; and yet those best acquainted with the affair
assured me that it was indubitably true.
_23d._--Great market or fair--immense quantity of woollen cloth,
manufacture of the town and neighbourhood. Preparations making for
a grand procession in honour of Jeanne Hachette, who distinguished
herself in the defence of the place against the Duc de Bourgogne in
1740. Until I looked into the history, I thought it had been, as some
of the people informed me, in honour of Joan of Arc. Beauvais is a
gloomy, old-fashioned town; the streets very narrow, and, during our
stay, very dirty. What they might be in summer I can’t guess, but
they look as if they must be then redolent of the same sulphurous
odour as those of Paris.
_24th._--Marched to Grandvilliers; everything looking wretched, for
the day was dark and excessively cold: in France, on such occasions,
there are no redeeming features. The country is in most cases without
enclosures, and the few trees, stripped of their verdure, present
most cheerless pictures, unrelieved by any appearance of warmth
or comfort about the mean and wretched-looking dwellings of the
peasantry. These, when we entered the village, presented rather a
better appearance than usual, for all were _en habits de Dimanche_,
which was the day. Lodged F. in the post-house (here an inn), and
then went round our billets. Village very large, two broad streets
crossing each other, but the houses all farms or cottages, most of
them of mud, like the Devonshire cobbe, and all thatched; the site
of the place a dead flat, but pretty well clothed with trees. At
our post-house we procured a tolerably decent though very small
parlour, the chimney of which, however, smoked so terribly that,
spite of the weather, we were obliged to sit constantly with the door
open; up-stairs (this was a sort of addition to the original house
projecting into the yard) a bedroom of the same size, in which were
two beds; and nothing could exceed the astonishment of our friend the
chambermaid at our arrangement of sleeping together. The inhabitants
here were ordered by beat of drum to feed us. We now came under the
command of Sir Denis Park, who commands at Calais and up the road as
far as this place, he having the arrangement of the embarkations.
We lived well at our inn, and remedied the open door by a large
screen. Every evening we saw company--_i. e._, our officers--and,
although the weather was very cold, passed our time pleasantly
enough. One day an immense market or fair afforded us ample
amusement; another, our attention and curiosity were excited by the
arrival of a troop of the National Guard, _à cheval_, from Beauvais;
but, after staying the whole afternoon and night, they departed the
next morning without our being a bit the wiser. One day the Earl of
Westmeath arrived, and stopped all night; his lordship was obliged to
put up with the rooms we had rejected.
_January 1, 1816._--At last the order for our advance having arrived,
we marched this morning from Grandvilliers, several _paysannes_ of
the village following the troop as volunteers for l’Angleterre,
betraying the effects of idleness in country quarters. Whilst
preparing to set off, our host presented a bill for our living, &c.,
amounting to nine napoleons, which I was about to pay, when Hitchins
and F. interfered, asking the good man whether he would have dared
appear before a Prussian officer with such a thing, and telling him
after the manner his countrymen had treated all other countries that
he ought to think himself well off in being treated so leniently.
He did not subscribe to this, and an argument ensued which I was
sorry for, but was weak enough to allow my better intentions to be
overruled; and at last, when Monsieur begged I would at least certify
that he had not been paid, I did so on the bill, stating as reason
that the inhabitants had been ordered to feed us. Our march to Poix,
the next halting-place, was through a country that never could be
very interesting, still less so in its wintry garb, until, from the
summit of a high hill, we looked down upon the lovely valley in
which that village is situated. On arriving we found all the world
_en habit de Dimanche_ celebrating the opening of the new year. The
principal features in this celebration were the kisses exchanging
in all directions, the enormous stiffly-starched caps of the women,
and the music that paraded continually through the streets. The
_auberge_ we found so noisy, smoky, dirty, and the landlord such
an uncivil brute, that we immediately commenced a search for a
better billet. For a time success seemed uncertain; the houses of
the peasantry were too filthy to be thought of. Not far from the
_auberge_ we found a good house, but shut-up doors and windows. In
vain Hitchins and I knocked and threatened, or asked information of
its inhabitants from the neighbours; nobody would answer from within,
and nobody would answer without--at least more than “Je n’en sais
rien, monsieur.” At last we found a respectable sort of old-fashioned
farmhouse, the mistress of which (a widow) was factotum to the Prince
de Poix, proprietor of the village, and much of the neighbouring
country,--and hither we immediately removed, bag and baggage. A
labyrinth of dark passages led to a large, gloomy, wainscoted room,
in one corner of which was a great old-fashioned bed, with yellow
damask curtains, like the one we slept in at Breteuil. Here we
established ourselves, and Angélique had a small cabinet hard by,
whilst the men were put up in the more distant part of the house
occupied by the family. Although there was a large fireplace, in
which we kept up capital fires, the place was very cold; but a
couple of old screens in some measure remedied this, and at last we
thought ourselves tolerably comfortable. Our park was formed on the
site of the ancient castle of the princes, now almost entirely gone,
except a few mounds marking out the ground-plan. The village of Poix,
though covering a great deal of ground, is not large; for, except
the few houses standing contiguous to the _auberge_, the others are
scattered up and down, widely apart from each other. The situation
is extremely pretty in summer, probably beautiful: a deep and rather
narrow valley, with a small stream running through it; partly below
the village covered with woods, which also ran over and clothed
all the surrounding hills--not close thick copse, but composed of
trees and thickets of coppice, through which one might ride in
all directions on a carpet of turf. On a steep bank, immediately
opposite our dwelling, was the little church, unpretending, but
having a beautiful Gothic western doorway, over which, as a record
of revolutionary folly, was painted in large letters, “_Temple de
la Raison_;” these had been either whitewashed or painted over, but
insufficiently, for they were still distinctly legible. The weather
during our stay at Poix (seven days) was gloomy and very cold, yet we
managed to have many interesting rides amongst the woods. Hitchins
dined with us always, and came provided with some excellent wine,
which he procured from his own hostess. In one of our walks, at the
fork of the roads to Amiens and Abbeville, we found a diminutive
chapel with a figure of the Virgin in it, and as diminutive a priest,
humpbacked. He showed us his chapel, and we put some money into his
box, and so parted mutually satisfied. It was at this corner that I
met an elderly French veteran trudging towards the village in his
_capote_ and forage-cap, with the usual goat-skin knapsack: he was
_minus_ an arm, and upon questioning him I found that he had left it
at Waterloo. Something interesting in this interview.
In the village we found a corporal and four privates of the 18th
Hussars, stationed here for despatches. The corporal fell in love
with Angélique, and proposed for her, but was rejected. Her lover
gave us an alert one night to deliver a despatch (these hussars
always come in the night!), and I made sure we were off. It was an
order to have divine service every Sunday.
_8th._--At length on the 7th the order did come, and this day we
marched to Airaines through a sufficiently dismal country, and
weather very cold and gloomy, still followed by the girls from
Grandvilliers. Some part of the country, from its hilliness and
numerous orchards, in some measure resembled Devonshire; but as we
approached the town these cease, and we saw again only extensive and
treeless plains.
Airaines at first sight was not calculated to remove the unpleasant
feeling excited by its neighbourhood: rather large for a country
town, and lying on a gentle slope; its streets irregular, and
buildings mean, dirty, and ruinous-looking;--altogether very gloomy.
Our billet was on the _auberge_ where the diligences stopped, a
house of very inferior description, in which we did not establish
ourselves without difficulty, and then wretchedly enough. For
ourselves we got a room with two dirty beds in it, and only the
coarsest kind of furniture; floor inch-thick in dirt, and having
chinks between the planks, so gaping that we could see everything
going on below--and being over the gateway, the great lounge of the
postilions, _gens-d’armes_, &c., we had not only the advantage of
all their conversation, but also of their eternal tobacco-pipes;
also the full benefit of a most cooling breeze continually blowing
through the gateway. The only room we could procure for Angélique was
occupied by a postilion, and he was unwilling to evacuate, so that a
little tyranny became necessary to gain possession. We turned him
out _vi et armis_. In this wretched place we remained a fortnight,
during which the weather, always gloomy, was at times bitterly cold,
or heavy rain. As the whole troop could not be lodged here, it was
necessary to detach Maunsell with one division to a village at least
five miles off; and Wells, pretending there was no lodging to be
procured here, asked leave to accompany him--notwithstanding which,
our surgeon, Ambrose, who overtook us here, immediately obtained very
comfortable quarters. Hitchins also was uncommonly well lodged in the
house of an old smuggler. Our park was formed on an open space by
the road to Abbeville, just without the town, where, as the weather
was too cold for our guard to remain in a tent, I asked the mayor to
procure them accommodation in a house hard by. This he refused, until
I made preparations to bring our park into the market-place, which
alarmed him so much that he immediately complied. The market-place,
by the way, was precisely similar to the old buildings one sees in
English country towns; and here the two Sundays during our stay I
performed divine service. To pass our time here we sometimes rode
about the dreary neighbourhood, where we discovered a ruined castle;
and in another part a rather pretty village, with a fine manor-house
and park; but the people soon drove us away from this last, not only
by their abuse, but even pelting us with stones. In bad weather
we resorted to a wretched billiard-table opposite our inn, where
I taught F. the game, and drank bitter coffee to my cigars. There
was nothing extraordinary in her frequenting this table, as it is
customary for females to do so; and there were seldom any other
people present than our own.
In addition to our other occupations, the diligence afforded a
daily and short amusement as it stopped at our inn-door. I can see
now the great lumbering machine just drawn up, a clown in a blue
smock-frock, linen forage-cap with a huge peak sticking straight
out, and a long coach-whip in hand, seated on the near wheeler,
guiding by cord-reins the three cart-horses harnessed abreast as
leaders; and two tall soldier-like _gens-d’armes_, in their neat blue
uniforms and cocked-hats, stepping up to the door, and whilst one
examines the way-bill, the other mounts the step of the vehicle and
scrutinises the passengers. They were fine fellows these, and we got
tolerably intimate with them. Every evening Hitchins came to us and
played a rubber of casino. One evening standing at our window, we
saw some sheep come down the opposite street; two or three went into
the passage of a house, the door of which was instantly closed by an
old woman, and we both exclaimed, “Ah, the wretch! she steals the
sheep.” Our servants who stood by laughed, and explained that the old
shepherd (who now appeared sauntering slowly along) was the guardian
of the town flock, which he conducted to pasture daily.
Accordingly the next morning the old man again marched under our
window towards the fields, blowing his horn, at which sound the door
opposite again opened, and out sallied the same sheep following the
old man, and forming with others assembling from all quarters a large
flock, which we found him with in the fields when we went to ride.
_22d._--Marched to Abbeville. Billeted on a velvet manufacturer
with a pretty wife; excellent house, comfortable living. Visit the
cathedral and walk about the town.
Forgot that I tried one of my men by a court-martial at Airaines
upon a charge of stealing bacon, brought against him by a peasant
of the village where Maunsell was quartered. Sent on to Abbeville
for a captain, and Close came over for the purpose. The _patois_ of
the witnesses was so mixed up with English as to astonish us; one in
particular we shrewdly suspected of being an English deserter. It
was, however, only the _patois_ of Picardy. “Yes” was much oftener
used than “oui” by them. On our way here from Airaines, descending to
the Somme at Point de Remy, I saw a very large Roman encampment on a
neighbouring hill: country about the river pretty as usual. Here most
of my horses were put up in the riding-school of the cavalry barrack.
Our host’s family consisted of himself, a grown-up son, a female
cousin, and his pretty wife, who was very civil, and went shopping
with F., but disgusted me at breakfast by holding up a beastly
pocket-handkerchief and spitting at it.
_23d._--Much pleased at marching to Montreuil, as we had expected Rue
and Nampont would have been our destination. Comfortable inn--the
same Sterne was at; and our _salle_ the identical room in which
LaFleur slept--so said our host. Excellent dinner: Hitchins dined
with us, and we drank two bottles of prime champagne. Wells left us
here to join my old troop at St Pol. As we were tired, we slept so
soundly that we never knew until morning that the house had been set
on fire during the night by a drunken officer of infantry.
_24th._--Wretched morning, snowing heavily, and very cold. Hitchins
suffered much from our ride, and got sulky because F. and Angélique
laughed at him. Stopped at Samer to see our friends the Demoiselles
Mallet, and get some hot wine.
At Boulogne our billet was on a capital house; but our host, an old
officer (I think colonel), extremely sulky and disobliging--obliged
to send to a restaurateur’s for our dinner. Walked about the town and
on the ramparts. No snow here, though the weather was excessively raw
and windy. Ramparts pretty; the only trees in the neighbourhood are
on them.
At night had gone to bed, expecting to remain a day or two, and were
not yet asleep when some one tapped at our window, which opened into
a little flagged court. I got up and found a hussar (as usual), who
brought me a note, which I could not read until he went and got a
light. It was an order to march to-morrow to Guines.
_25th._--As our landlord (commandant of the National Guard) had
been anything but civil, we set off without taking leave of him.
Other cavalry besides ourselves had halted in Boulogne, and we
found the road covered with troops, stragglers, and baggage. Amidst
these we struggled on as far as Marquise, where we left the chaussée
for a villanous cross-road, by which, about noon, we arrived at
Guines, a very pretty little town, and the day being fine, a
very cheerful-looking one. Our billet (if billet it were) was a
capital one--the Chateau de Beauscite; the owner, M. le Baron de
Guesclin, with Madame and his daughters, received us most kindly.
The family consisted of M. le Baron, a good-natured, but ugly, and
not very genteel-looking man, about sixty; Madame la Baronne, a
jolly good-looking woman of forty; one very sickly-looking daughter
about twenty-two; another a year or so older, hideously marked
with small-pox, but extremely obliging and good-natured; and a
tall awkward son of about twenty. The house comfortable and well
furnished. We were treated quite on the footing of guests, and even
welcome ones. Style of living much the same as that of an English
country gentleman of easy fortune. After dinner the Baron proposed
showing us our room and the house. Passing through his own bedroom,
with a knowing wink he gave me to understand that he did not follow
modern fashions in sleeping separate from his wife; for, pointing to
the ample and handsome bed, he exclaimed loud enough to be heard by
all, “M., voilà la fabrique des enfans!” Madame looked archly over
her shoulder at me and burst out laughing.
_26th._--Fine day. Breakfast of tea, &c., got up expressly for us,
as when alone they have no such regular meal, but merely take a cup
of coffee. Afterwards the son showed me the stables, stud, farm,
&c., and then, mounted on a long-tailed Norman horse, with military
saddle and bridle, took us to see the obelisk erected on the spot
where Blanchard descended after crossing the Channel in his balloon.
The country pretty, because well wooded; and from the hill I once
more saw the white cliffs of England, although I will not pretend to
have experienced any very great delight in so doing, as the future
promised nothing good, and I would rather have remained in France.
Reduction, Woolwich duties, and insipidity from the total absence of
excitement--such was the prospect before me.
In the afternoon a very handsome young man (an officer in some
cavalry corps) came in and dined with us. His father, an old
gentleman of good fortune in the neighbourhood, had served many
years in the hussars, and was (I believe) Madame’s brother. In the
evening came in the family confessor--a fat, greasy priest--who made
himself quite at home; but they did not seem over well pleased with
his company. Servants singing in the kitchen: opened a little trap in
the wall of a cupboard which communicated with the kitchen to hear a
young girl from St Omer sing “Brulant d’Amour” and “Partant pour la
Guerre,” which she did with great sweetness. Our hopes of enjoying
this pleasant billet for some days disappointed by the order to march
to-morrow into Calais, only eight miles off.
_27th._--Gloomy cold day. A mass to be celebrated for the soul of
Louis XVI. I had promised M. le Baron to allow my men to assist in
the procession, but instead was obliged to take leave as they were
about to begin. Early in the morning all the front of the chateau
was hung with black cloth. Nothing could be kinder or even more
affectionate than our leave-taking, and Madame obliged F. to wrap up
in a rich _pelerin_ of her own, which we were to leave at Quillacq’s.
The distance being so short, we were not long on the road, which
for the most part lay along the canal as far as St Pierre, a great
straggling suburb of Calais, in which we were to halt. Nothing could
be worse than our accommodations here--horses and men scattered about
by twos and threes, far and wide; some of them were sent back almost
to Guines--so near at least as to hear distinctly the church-bells.
As for us, we were put into a farmhouse, where they gave us a room
without a fireplace, insufferable in such a season; therefore, being
obliged to go into Calais to report our arrival to Webber Smith, I
left F. and Hitchins hunting for another quarter. After some trouble
I got a billet from the Quartermaster-General on the Lion d’Argent,
in Calais, kept by an impudent English scoundrel named Oakshot, who
was not at all well pleased at our being put on him. Rode back to St
Pierre, where I found F. and Hitchins in a bedroom they had procured
at a dirty smoky _brasserie_; so we all adjourned together to the
Silver Lion.
Here we were detained some time, which, however, was of less
consequence, as we were lodged well and fed well. In other respects,
however, the detention was anything but pleasant. Calais at the best
of times must be a dismal stupid hole; at this season of storms,
cold, rain, mud, &c. &c. it was scarcely endurable. Great part of my
day was passed at or about the pier, whence, from time to time as
vessels arrived, we shipped off some of our people.
Nothing can be imagined more harassing and destructive than this
process of embarkation. For example, my people, as before mentioned,
were dispersed in all directions round the neighbourhood, even
to the distance of six or eight miles, by twos and threes, &c.,
so that they were under no control whatever. Meantime the guns,
ammunition-waggons, &c., all dismounted and ready to put on board,
remained exposed to all the weather on the pier. At daylight in
the morning, according to orders, men and horses assembled there
also, and remained--rain, hail, wind or snow (of all which we
had plenty)--until dusk in the evening, when they were permitted
to return to their billets for the night. Nothing could be more
subversive of discipline and harassing to the men, or more ruinous
to the horses; yet, from the system adopted by those who ruled the
transport service, it could not well be avoided, since the vessels
engaged were all schooners, sloops, &c.; and it was necessary,
when any of these returned for a fresh cargo, that the embarkation
should be as prompt as possible, not only for the more expeditiously
getting the troops across, but because they were obliged to leave the
harbour with the same tide, or remain twelve hours. These vessels
did not go all to one place; thus my troop was landed by sixes and
sevens at Dover, Sandwich, Deal, Ramsgate, &c., and then assembled
at Canterbury. Webber Smith was our immediate commanding officer
here; and Sir Denis Park, who commanded, occasionally rode down to
see how things were going on, so that there was no getting out of
the way, and our only relief was an occasional stroll about the
muddy, dismal streets, lounging in some of the shops, &c. Thus time
hung heavily on our hands. Hitchins had left us on the very first
evening of our arrival at the Silver Lion, and we sadly missed his
kind attentions--especially F., who, whilst I was at the pier, had no
one to escort her about, and of course in such a place going alone
was out of the question. I found a pleasing companion to while away
time at the pier in the harbour-master, an old captain of the French
navy, and a well-informed, gentlemanly person, from whom I picked
up a good deal of information. I cannot omit noting the fact that
a female bookseller here, whose _magazin_ we sometimes frequented,
one day let out that she implicitly believed every one of the absurd
lies respecting England contained in General Pelet’s book, and would
hardly credit our contradiction of them.
At last our tedious detention came, like all things else, to a
conclusion. Two sloops, capable of containing all the remainder of
my troop, came in one evening too late to sail before next morning,
and with this last party I decided on embarking. When Angélique heard
this she came and begged I would lend her a suit of my plain clothes,
as the prefect had prohibited French women going with the English,
and had already stopped many. Here was a dilemma. My old Scotch
quartermaster, however, got us out of it. I don’t know how he passed
the gates, but he did manage on the morning of the 25th January 1816
to smuggle Angélique on board before daylight, and conceal her below,
without the necessity of changing her female for male attire.
After breakfast we embarked and immediately sailed. Webber Smith went
with us, as we were the very last of the Royal Horse-Artillery. The
weather was gloomy, cold, and stormy, but the wind was fair, and we
were off Dover early in the afternoon. The tide would not admit even
our little sloop into this miserable harbour before midnight, and
she was hove to almost within speaking distance of the pier-head.
Not relishing this position, we were glad to avail ourselves of
a pilot-gig that came off and go ashore--although these fellows
charged us a guinea a-head for thus carrying us about 200 yards.
After an early dinner at the York Hotel, Smith set off post for
Blackheath, where his family was residing.
_26th._--To Canterbury. F. and Angélique in a post-chaise, to which
I and Milward (carrying his lance) served as an escort, for I had no
men to march with.
So ended the memorable campaign of 1815.
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] There was a species of Malmsey Madeira, the most delicious
wine imaginable. The cellar seemed well stocked, and our table
consequently was well supplied.
[2] These people were deputies sent from the Provisional Government
to treat with the Duke, but I have never made out yet who he of the
decoration might have been.
[3] The close Prussian collar, now so well known to the British
army, was a novelty to us then: our collars were low, and cut down
in front. The cavalry and horse-artillery particularly affected very
narrow sloping collars.
[4] This must have been a mistake, for the Duke dates his despatches
from Loures on the 30th June, and the headquarters would hardly
have been established in a place so utterly destroyed as is here
described. Perhaps the place was La Chapelle, which I find in the
map. My recollection of the scene here portrayed is quite perfect
even now, although not of the name.
[5] This makes it appear that my notes are right, answering with the
map as they do.
[6] We did this to be enabled to march more expeditiously and freely,
observing this road to be quite clear of troops.
[7] Bourget.
[8] Mistake. They passed at St Germain on the 30th June, and were
in position between Plessis Picquet and St Cloud, with reserve at
Versailles, on 2d July.--See Duke’s despatch.
[9] Several regiments from America marched through Garges this
evening, and took up their station in front--fine corps of veterans,
all having served in the Peninsula, and subsequently in America.
Many a cheer from old comrades greeted their arrival. It was a
soul-stirring sight, the proud march of these well-tried troops into
our camp.
[10] Amongst these parties some were of the _haut-ton_, and I saw
many very elegant women. Indeed, amongst the bourgeoise there was no
lack of beauty, and in manner much to admire, since they infinitely
surpass our countrywomen of the same class in gracefulness of
carriage and gentility of address.
[11] Three windmills and an obelisk stand upon the summit next
the gap, and a single mill on the isolated hill beyond it. The
neighbourhood of Paris may be said to be characterised by the
windmills which occupy every height, and thus testify to the sluggish
nature of the streams watering the plains by the want of water-power.
[12] The Prussians seize all forage not under escort and for our own
use. Had they known this last was not the case, our non-commissioned
officer would have availed little.
[13] In English we have no word which will translate.
[14] The _cornette_.
[15] Le Nôtre had five feet (French) difference of level between one
side and the other to remove. There is no accounting for taste.
[16] It once was a garden, but was destroyed by the great fire.
[17] These _bergeries_ are very numerous in the neighbourhood of
Paris, where it seems the fashion among the great proprietors to
keep flocks of merinos. Almost every chateau has its _bergerie_ and
_vacherie_. We have one here in Stain belonging to M. le Marquis de
Livry, as I know to my cost. The _bergerie_ consists of low sheds,
forming a square. Within, they are fitted up with low racks for hay.
The sheep are kept in these all the winter, and at night during the
summer.
[18] I cannot FEEL in public, especially when a _showman_ is telling
me in a garbled manner that which would spontaneously flash across
the memory if left to one’s self. When we do not _feel_, we _can’t
write_.
[19] Angélique told me since that Mademoiselle Rose fled to the woods
with the rest of the villagers, and only returned when they did.
[20] I suspect a fact I have since remembered must have suggested the
idea of charging us with the lead. Finding the horses very ragged
when I first joined the troop, I ordered all their manes to be
plaited and loaded with lead, of which a sufficiency could have been
picked up about the chateau or lawn, or off the ends or remnants of
the _already_ cut pipes.
[21] The two reserve troops.
[22] Under the cliffs at the other extremity, near the Barrière de
Clichy, is a similar mound, originating, no doubt, in the same way.
It is now covered with fine trees, and forms an agreeable object as
one approaches the Barrière. Its name (_Monceau_) perhaps points to
its origin.
[23] Early riser as I am, my neighbour here beat me considerably,
for I always used to hear him harnessing his horses for work before
daylight, which he did with a pretty annoying quantity of noise and
chattering.
[24] To me the most interesting part of this mound was its history,
rising abruptly as it does so much above the surrounding ground. Is
it an enormous barrow, like Silbury, or is it a natural accumulation
of alluvium?
[25] It must be remembered that in those days these, as well as many
other things quite common in England, were novelties to Englishmen.
[26] The rough journal from which I have with much trouble compiled
this copy is here so confused and imperfect as to be of little or no
use; and my great auxiliaries--letters to my wife, from which I was
enabled to correct or confirm dates, and to make more circumstantial
many subjects only mentioned in the journal--I have unwittingly
destroyed. During my stay at Stain, too, I wrote by fits and starts.
Amongst new scenes of every kind, and new people, the excitement was
too great to admit of shutting one’s self up for study or writing.
Thus, from the period I have now reached, my means are so few, that
it is quite impossible to bring my journal (as I wished) down to our
final departure from France--as complete as it might have been.
[27] At three in the morning, when Lord Charles and his companion
immediately landed and tried to persuade me to do the same, but I
remained on board until daylight.
[28] She cooked for us here.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Footnote [21] is referenced twice from page 197.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added,
when a predominant preference was found in the original book.
Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
Pg 15: ‘sout de vrais brigands’ replaced by ‘sont de vrais brigands’.
Pg 62: ‘the poperty of’ replaced by ‘the property of’.
Pg 71: ‘Inhabiants there’ replaced by ‘Inhabitants there’.
Pg 87: ‘cornetts’ replaced by ‘cornettes’.
Pg 115: ‘Cossac’s wounds’ replaced by ‘Cossack’s wounds’.
Pg 183: ‘M. le Berger de’ replaced by ‘M. le Berger and’.
Pg 197: ‘Garges, Arnonville’ replaced by ‘Garges, Arnouville’.
Pg 244: ‘pleasing undulalation’ replaced by ‘pleasing undulation’.
Pg 278: ‘the slighest moment’ replaced by ‘the slightest moment’.
Pg 286: ‘a a delicate pink’ replaced by ‘a delicate pink’.
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