Chapter VI: Charlemont (2)

“Are you aware,” he added apart, to the daughter, ere turning to the staircase, “whether your mother ever expressed any idea as to the cause of the fire in the house—if it was accidental or otherwise?” The answer was in the negative.

“Or on what floor—her master’s apartments, or some other?” No. Her mother was talkative enough, sometimes, and she believed she knew little of it, and remembered yet less.

“There was no other circumstance, then, of any importance, in the matter, which they were acquainted with?” None, she reluctantly said, after a minute’s reflection; and it was evident that, if it had been otherwise, she would have been eager enough to make the most of it: even the touch of English gold might have no power to make such a woman as Jeannette Deroux feel any sort of genial emotion, but it had at all events given the light of unsatisfied cupidity to her hard grey Normandy eye. Sir Godfrey descended alone, to find the urchins beginning rather to dread the impatience of their charge.

The recent interview, making known little of any additional importance, at least convinced Sir Godfrey of the judiciousness of a step he had hitherto disliked, so long as it seemed possible that unexpected facts might appear from it—an examination for himself, namely, of the original record by the police, whose reputation for exactitude and acuteness was so proverbial. It now, indeed, assumed the air of a somewhat superfluous measure, when through all he had heard from these people, with no motive or means for deception, there did not show the slightest trace of anything unlike other disasters of the kind—of anything equivocal, anything suspicious. It was chiefly, therefore, with the wish for complete reassurance, and final dismissal of the unwelcome subject, that he turned again, on his way homeward, to the chief bureau of police which he had previously passed. He found prompt attendance there, on producing his passport, and the required volume, from under the head of “Conflagrations Domestiques,” soon lay open on a high desk before him at the point he was in search of, while the inspector turned the leaves slowly, reading aloud the passages he indicated, and which the peculiar style of French calligraphy did not tend to render lucid.

The record of nineteen years ago had been made under a different monarch, according to the laboriously prolix system of M. de Sartines, especially when any foreign subject was concerned; and it extended over many of the large pages, betraying by its faint-brown ink how considerable an interval had elapsed. It set out with the alarm being brought past midnight to the residence of the commissary in the Quartier faubourg St Germain, that a house on the Quai d’Orcay was in flames, and the endeavours made to arrest them, as well as to succour the inhabitants, who had been driven to the garret windows, and were attempting to pass to the contiguous roofs; it stated the narrow escape of a maidservant from a front window of the first floor, where the whole of the apartments were full of smoke, by the aid of a gendarme with a ladder too short to allow him to enter—and of a woman in her night-dress, whose shrieks had first given the alarm, but who had disappeared; till she returned to a corner window with a child in her arms, actually pursued by a bursting flame, but rescued by a man on the top of a wall which abutted there on a manufactory canal flowing at a right angle into the Seine—also of the English gentleman, the tenant of the first floor, who had at first made his way from the street into the basement, out of a fiacre which had brought him from the theatre, but who reappeared half drenched, and panting for breath, amidst the play of the fire-engines. The state of the February night was described as being very dark before the occurrence, with a high wind blowing up the river, where, from the tide, and a period of unusual rain, the water of the Seine made the canal overflow, rising almost to a level with its bridges, yet affording the greater facilities for the jets from the fire-engines, which succeeded ultimately in saving the adjoining structures, and the sheds of the tobacco-manufactory adjacent, with the lower part of the house itself. The situation of the house was also minutely given, to the very contiguity of the two poplar trees growing outside the wall, up from the canal, but by which the _pompeurs_ had found it impossible to climb in their heavy accoutrements—the height of the wall on that side, and the manner in which the end of the house rose like a continuation of it towards the quay, rendering it apparently impossible, even when one had gained the top of the wall, to reach at all near the solitary first-floor window, in the middle, and higher up. Then followed a detail of the various occupants of the three floors and garrets—on the basement, the proprietor, a widower, elderly and of avaricious habits, whose warehouse of furniture filled three apartments, his sleeping chamber being a closet attached—his clerk, an old man who lived in a fourth apartment with his wife, both acting as porters: above, the family of Monsieur Vilby, the Englishman, consisting at that time of himself, his wife, and infant son, a young female attendant, a child’s nurse, and the man-servant or butler of M. Vilby: on the third storey and in the attics, a banker’s head-clerk, with his wife, her maid, and three young children—a journalist, a painter, and an actor, living together—a single young man, of no profession, (though calling himself a poet), supposed subject to harmless fits of lunacy, inhabiting an attic where he was known frequently to lock himself in. Of these there had perished—the old proprietor himself, M. Canrobert, in whose apartment the fire was supposed to have originated, since he warmed himself only in bed, while supping alone, by candle-light—and the portress, whose husband, luckily for him, had chanced to be absent on business of his master’s,—the remains of both being still distinguishable if only from the place of their discovery: the English lady, Madame Vilby—her infant, at first supposed to have been the one saved by the nurse, but found afterwards to have perished in her embrace, although the charred and mingled debris of the whole upper storeys fallen from above rendered it difficult to distinguish one mass of human substance from another: the man-servant of the English gentleman, at one time imagined identical with the person so active on the wall;—also others, above, who were enumerated. Then succeeded the depositions of the various individuals in evidence.

“‘_Victorine Tronchet_, fille-de-chambre to the late Madame Vilby, declared, that before ten o’clock her mistress signified an intention to sit up for monsieur, who had gone to a theatre at some distance, and that she might retire. Retired to bed, accordingly, in a closet adjoining the nurse’s room—saw the nurse, as she thought, carry out the child as usual to her mistress—imagined, while half asleep, or dreamt, that her mistress herself afterwards passed through the room, stooped over the bed with the child in her arms, and disappeared. But knew nothing further until awoke by the suffocating vapours. Could read—but did not sit up in bed with a candle, perusing romances. There was a lamp always burning on the floor of the nurse’s room. Was not aware, that night, of the nurse having her own child in the house. Believed her mistress to be ignorant of it. Could not tell why her mistress did not herself suckle the child—knew nothing of such affairs. Did not know that Madame’s voice had been brilliant—had heard her mistress sing to a musical instrument, when M. Vilby was at home. M. Vilby had returned home that day, unexpectedly, from England. He went to the theatre, accompanied only by M. Adolphe, his servant—perhaps because Madame had a headache. They used frequently to go to the theatre. Had heard that a new actress of celebrity would perform. The man-servant, M. Adolphe, returned early with some message to Madame, and retired up the outside stairs to his attic at the top of the house.’”

“‘The examination of the stranger who had been so active was made through an interpreter. Stated his name to be Guillaume Greefeeze. Was not a native of England, but of Wales. Knew nothing of the fire, except that having followed M. Vilby’s hackney-coach from the theatre, he smelt smoke, and saw immediately the fire lick out (_se lécher_) through the front-windows, when the doors below were burst open—heard shrieks at the further end—leapt down by the canal, to climb the wall,—saw suddenly, by the light of the fire, a woman in white at the window a little above—thought she had fallen down inside, till she came back, holding out a child and calling to him. Succeeded in getting to the window by help of the barred outside shutter on that side, which swung with him, however—found it impossible to get either of them down to the wall, which did not come near enough towards being under the window—without firmly fastening the outer edge of the shutter to a staple already there. Refused to leave the woman as she seemed to wish—signed to her to hold the child fast—tore down one end of the window-curtain, which held firm—made her slip herself down after him in the fold of the curtain, while he held the end firm with one hand, catching the shutter by the other. On the top of the wall, which was luckily broad enough to hold them, the woman seemed to faint away, so as nearly to drag them off, when they would have fallen into the canal—shouted for assistance then—before that, all the firemen and the crowd were in front, making a noise—with the pumping, the sound of the fire and wind, and the falling of the roof, it was useless. They were seen by chance, when the woman and child were carried to the hospital. Afterwards assisted at the pumps till the end.’

“The evidence of this witness was extracted with difficulty, by fragments, in spite of a somewhat sullen and cynical air, almost cunning. He frequently used the eccentric phrase ‘for reasons of his own.’ It was thought proper, from these and other suspicious circumstances, to detain him in the meanwhile.

“The statement of the nurse, Suzanne Deroux, was taken formally by her bed-side, in a ward of the Hotel Dieu, where the fever from her injuries continued, while it was doubtful whether her sight would again become perfect. As for her child, whose arm had suffered, hopes had only begun to be entertained of its recovery. ‘Was a native of Normandy, unmarried. Had two children—a girl of four, and the young child which she had left with a neighbour, to obtain support by nursing that of Madame Vilby. Had obtained the assistance of the portress in having her own child brought to her privately, at intervals, that she might still contribute to its health. Had thought it pining, as her neighbour was a Parisian—was very healthy herself, being originally a peasant—but was not allowed to go out, except with the child of Madame Vilby in the daytime, accompanied by her or a servant. On the night of the fire, had had both the children with her—and as usual, conveyed that of Madame Vilby to her bed-chamber, to be seen by her while awake. Did not see Madame Vilby after that, but fell asleep holding her own child in her arms to lull an uneasiness it showed—while that of Madame Vilby, which was younger, slept soundly at the other side of the large bed. The suffocating smoke, and the shrieks of Victorine, the fille-de-chambre, made her rise bewildered, seizing the child which she felt clasping her and again uttering complaints. She rushed to the nearest window, which would not open—that of the opposite room, however, yielded, admitting a gust of wind by which the smoke appeared to explode beyond into flame, and showing a man attracted by her cries to the adjoining wall. Confessed that her recollection of the other infant had not till then returned—that her instinct urged her to return only for her own, which she had let fall when attempting to open the first window—that she ran to search the bed, however, in vain—concluded that Victorine or some one else had snatched the child immediately from the side of the bed. Caught up her own infant from the floor where she had dropped it, and after both had been for a moment on fire from the partition of the room, was rescued by the window. Did not yet know whether any one had perished. Was certain the fire had not begun in the nursery, from the lamp on the floor—having distinctly recollected awaking in complete darkness—the lamp must have been overturned, extinguished, or taken away. Acknowledged, of her own accord, that in secretly obtaining her own infant she had committed a crime. Always slept soundly at night, having been a peasant. Did not know anything more, and had no expectation of her child living, it was so sickly from the manner of nourishment.’

“In reference to some of the remains discovered, surgical testimonies were opposed. Amongst several unclaimed bodies deposited at La Morgue, during the progress of this examination, was that, evidently, of an Englishman, whose blue coat and top-boots betrayed his origin. Although swollen and disfigured, while found naturally at a distance down the Seine, yet no other Englishman than the man-servant of M. Vilby had disappeared. The inference became certainty from the subsequent declarations of many pompeurs, gendarmes, and bystanders, that after the rescue of the nurse with her child, a figure had been seen to leap from the pursuit of the flames out of this window into the canal.

“The declaration of M. Vilby, after several days, was taken. ‘Believed the fire to be accidental. Had left Madame slightly indisposed, to see an after-piece at the theatre, which he particularly wished to see with her. Had been somewhat annoyed at her inability to accompany him. Had met friends, and instead of remaining, had sent home a message by his servant, to say he might return late. Had left them, however, earlier than he at first intended—and’——the emotion of the witness was at that point more expressive than words. The commissary-in-chief intimated that no further evidence on the part of M. Vilby would be necessary, unless on inferior points. ‘He was aware of the employment of Suzanne Deroux. Did not know of her introduction of her own infant on any occasion into the house. During his absence on business, his wife had gone out of Paris for some days to visit a married friend, leaving their child, with his full approval. He had approved her not nursing the child herself—nay, had suggested it. He had considered Suzanne a faithful servant, if not very intelligent. Certainly, had she been so, she might have saved his child, without risking her own. He was now about to visit the married friend of his wife in the neighbourhood of Paris.’

“Additional statement of M. Vilby, ‘Knew the young man _Greefeeze_. Had seen him several times in England—was unaware of any reason why Greefeeze should follow him from the theatre, or from the hotel of his friends. There was no enmity between himself and this man—on the contrary, he had always found Greefeeze apparently desirous to serve him—had at one time intended to employ him, and once recommended him as gamekeeper to his brother in England. With regard to the body found, had gone to see it at La Morgue, and could trace no resemblance to his servant, John Adolphe. Adolphe never had worn top-boots, that he was aware of. Adolphe was not an Englishman; but, he believed, a Swiss. Having been a trooper in the regiment of his own brother, a British officer, and been for a time his brother’s servant, particularly recommended by him when leaving the regiment for private service, this young man had had his perfect confidence. Was convinced that Adolphe must have lost his life in endeavouring to save what was most precious to his master. Had had him some time before his own marriage, and knew him well. Had _himself_ leapt out of the open window at the end of the house, hardly knowing the canal was below—after the utmost hazard of his life. Had found the whole interior a mass of smoke, bursting into flame from near the staircase—the wind from the open casement alone saved him from suffocation. Had heard no one—felt no one—all whirling, crackling, burning—a hell out of which he still wished he could have thrown himself into annihilation. It was, therefore, probably himself the other witnesses had taken for his servant—or for the dead body at the Morgue. Had been carried into the river, no doubt—but swam to the quay—there was light enough, God knew—came up the stairs without even being noticed—was only sorry that men were so mad as to cling to life, when it was misery. Thought it proper to comply with the forms of law in a country, but considered them often a mockery.’”

Here ended the main portion of the police record. A subsequent note in red ink, however, directed farther on to a later entry in the volume, with the date of nearly six months after. “The Englishman Greefeeze reappeared at the bureau, with passports to be viséd for England. ‘Stated that he was in the service of M. Vilby, who had suddenly become, by the death of an elder brother, the possessor of a title and estates. Desired, in the indifferent manner of the English, to know the state of the woman Suzanne Deroux. Inquired for her residence, on the ground that his master would confer a pension on her for her injuries.’ An inspector was sent with him to the woman’s house, where she had at length returned from the hospital with her child. The emotion of her gratitude on perceiving Greefeeze was the more conspicuous from his impassibility. Yet on the following day, accompanied by the woman and her child, now recovered, Greefeeze presented himself at the bureau, to declare his adoption of the latter, under his own name. He was required to procure a notarial and ecclesiastical testification, as well as to engage against the future return of the child for subsistence from the police—also the approval of his master, Sir Vilby.—Sir Vilby indeed appeared at the bureau, when about to leave Paris in haste. His voice and features were scarcely recognisable from the effects of suffering. He disavowed consent to the act of Greefeeze, who followed him, and whom he contemptuously called a fool. Sir Vilby, however, intimated the right of Greefeeze to pursue his eccentric idea, if persevered in. The stubborn Greefeeze alluded to a wife whom he had left in his own country of Wales, and who was unhappy from the absence of children. His sentiments had apparently been touched in the act of rescuing this infant, which he was about to intrust, on the journey, to the female fellow-travellers who might accompany them. The act of adoption is consequently recorded as follows—— * * * Sir Vilby requested to correct his statement on the previous occasion, six months before, with regard to the body at La Morgue, since, on reflection, he was decidedly of opinion that it was that of the Swiss, John Adolphe, his servant. This had already, indeed, been perceived by the commissary—but the retractation appeared more eccentric than the denial. The pension, too, which Sir Vilby now conferred on the nurse, ought to have been given before, as the very material injuries were received at all events in his employment.”

It was with no ordinary feelings that Sir Godfrey Willoughby perused or listened to this formal memorial of an event that had been so long obscure to him: it seemed, however, to leave little now indefinite or concealed; numerous though the details were, which it presented for the first time, they implied nothing really evil, or extraordinary, save as most human calamities might; and the result was rather satisfactory than otherwise. But the afternoon was now far advanced, and he rode homeward, to dine alone, to finish an uncompleted packet to his Exeter lawyer, with information and inquiries about the so-called young Griffiths, as well as in regard to his adoptive father—then to set off, a little later than he had expected, to meet his returning party on the Versailles road.

The circumstances of their late dilemma were soon related—rather tending to Charles’s disadvantage in the eyes of his father, who, amidst all his general mildness, was inclined to look upon the youth’s disposition with occasional severity; seeming, as it did to him, at that half-formed stage, when lads are least agreeable in the paternal view, to indicate some traits, both erratic and froward, though at times brilliant, of his second uncle, John. He scarce listened to the boy’s explanation, and checked his self-justifying arguments somewhat abruptly; to the silent chafing of his son’s spirit, and the mother’s still more silent concern. But at their late coffee-table, all being apparently forgotten with Sir Godfrey’s expressed resolution never to trust the carriage in future apart from his own guidance, they sat pleasantly talking by candle-light. “So soon as Frank arrives, my dear Kate,” said Sir Godfrey, from his arm-chair to the sofa where his wife leant near, recovering from her fatigues, “we shall leave forthwith for the country. I have scarcely any further business in Paris. And you have seen here, I daresay, all that is to see?” She assented perfectly. Mr Thorpe had launched out almost in a dissertation to the governess and Miss Willoughby, the fruit of his late rural notices, on agriculture and ecclesiastical arrangements; led on by Mrs Mason’s attentive air, and the apparently intelligent interest of Rose. It was with a mild confusion that he heard the young lady’s abrupt doubt as to the sufficiency of sugar in his cup, followed straight by the addition of another lump from the silver tongs in her hand; and while Mr Thorpe stirred, and tasted, she had quietly escaped from the room, perhaps to re-read her dearest friend’s epistle. So Sir Godfrey, who not merely treated the tutor with the utmost deference as a graduate and a deacon of the Church of England, but entertained great respect for him as a learned and good man—at once joined himself to the topic—differing slightly from the view that English plans, even English Protestantism, would improve Frenchmen.

“I, of course, have happened to come a good deal in contact with them abroad, my dear sir,” added he, “particularly in North America, during the late war, and I assure you they have many generous, noble, and honourable qualities, peculiarly their own, which would perhaps be lost in any forced imitation of us. When I was taken prisoner by our own rebels there, I really believe, Thorpe, that but for the clear and gentlemanly conviction of some French naval officers, who came up at the time, I should have been summarily hanged on the spot as a spy. I had sought to escape in the uniform of a dead Frenchman, from a band of savages, and colonials more brutal by far—though, among my captors, there were some who ought to have known better. Nothing saved me, in fact, but the ready quickness of these officers, whom I had never in my life seen before. They immediately claimed me as a prisoner who had broken parole from their frigate, by swimming to the river bank—a charge which I, of course, indignantly disowned. I was, however, taken on board in their boat, when the assertion was persisted in by the captain, a French nobleman, on the suggestion of his officers, so that the ship set sail with me beyond colonial reach. In the fleet of Count de Grasse I was indebted for the utmost kindness to the captain of the frigate; and when, not long after, at the defeat by Lord Rodney, he himself, with his ship, was captured, I was enabled, in some degree, to repay the obligation. We contracted the warmest friendship. Indeed, I regret not having heard from the Count for many years, and his estates, I believe, are not near Paris.”

“Observe, however,” persisted Mr Thorpe, stubbornly, “the extreme want of principle which, in the bulk of the population, must be a thousand times more egregious. A Protestant, Sir Godfrey, would rather have”—

“My dear Thorpe,” eagerly interrupted the baronet, “the Count deplored the necessity, or rather the action, so deeply, as never, I do believe, to have succeeded in reasoning the painful recollection away. It clung to him like a superstition, in fact—for you must notice, he had sacrificed, as it were, his hereditary honour to save me—a thing perhaps more fanciful, less dependent on personal character, and more on externals and reputation, than with us. Yet so delicate was his feeling, and his wish to conceal it from me—that it was only by further acquaintance with his character I could observe it—or understand the restless tread on that poop at midnight—the frequent abstraction and sudden fitfulness of his conduct towards the officers who had first suggested his conduct—mixed with a singular regard towards myself—notwithstanding, nay, as if _because_ of all. Nothing, as he afterwards confessed to me, almost with tears, could have induced it, except his recognition in me of an officer and a gentleman, an unfortunate stranger, whose country had been gratuitously opposed and defeated by French aid—when those of his own race were about to murder him ignominiously. His sword, however, he said, should have been trusted to alone, at all hazards; or, as he afterwards recollected, the frigate’s guns might have been turned toward the neighbouring town; indeed, next morning he had even sent to acknowledge the deception, with a refusal to give me up, and an offer of personal satisfaction to the American in command. Still, not only to have destroyed for ever the prestige of French honour, with all its securities, but to have falsely pledged the escutcheon of his own family, never before soiled, was a thought which enraged him against himself, against others, almost beyond control. It was useless to reason with my friend; it was perfectly hopeless to attempt consoling him; in truth, during the quiet of our voyage, a kind of insanity seemed to possess him, the only lucid intervals in which were our conversations on subjects as remote as possible from that. I think he secretly abhorred the manners of the colonials, like the American alliance, and saw a degree of retribution in the terrible defeat by Lord Rodney. I myself have reason to recollect America with mingled feelings of horror and satisfaction”—he glanced for a moment towards his wife, whose placid features betrayed no consciousness of the allusion to her first conjugal letters—“so that, my dear Thorpe, you may easily believe I could not help sympathising with him!”

“But surely, Sir Godfrey,” continued the graduate, with very logical insensibility, “you must be of opinion that this country, inclined, as it now seems, to copy England, will be”—

“Like the Count de Charlemont and his friends, I should think, with their English riding-coats and bulldogs!” involuntarily broke in Charles Willoughby, with a laugh: he had been listening very intently; but the laugh ceased at his father’s sudden look.

“Do not interrupt Mr Thorpe, boy!” said the latter, rather sternly; then relaxing next minute at the abashed and flushed look, which made him feel as if his tone had been too harsh—“what do you mean—what Count—what did you say?”

“The mayor I had to visit this evening, you know, sir,” replied Charles, “the Comte de Charlemont, I mean—Charlemont is the village we got mobbed in.”

“De Charlemont?” repeated his father slowly, looking at him, “de Charlemont? You mistake, my boy—or is this some silly presumption of yours? That name I thought I had not allowed to slip from me. I never have permitted myself to mention it. Pronounce the name again.”

Charles did so distinctly and firmly. “That is curious,” said his father, rising from his seat. “Were you listening to what I told Mr Thorpe just now, Charles?”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, frankly.

“And I think I uttered no such name?” added the baronet.

“No,” said his son with gravity, “there was no name mentioned, except the Count de Grasse and Lord Rodney—I particularly noticed.”

“Ah—well,” was the only additional remark, as his father turned to the old stove-filled hearth-place, and leaning his arms above, stood plunged in thought; Mr Thorpe calmly reasoning on, till it was past time for prayers to be read, and for retirement. “I shall call on the Comte de Charlemont,” said Sir Godfrey, the last thing, to Lady Willoughby.

THE SPANISH REVOLUTION.

_Madrid, 14th August 1854._

Dear Ebony,—My last letter was dated immediately after the first circulation in Madrid of a document, which had a most important effect on the fate of the military insurrection, that soon grew into a popular revolution. You will remember that after the action of Vicálvaro, on the 30th June, the insurgent generals drew their forces southwards, still lingering, however, within a few leagues of Madrid, as if in hopes that the capital would make a demonstration in their favour. But Madrid remained tranquil—almost indifferent; and every post brought accounts of similar apathy in large provincial towns, on whose rising in arms O’Donnell and his friends had doubtless reckoned. A few small bodies of troops and some armed civilians repaired to the insurgent banner; there were trifling disturbances in the Huerta of Valencia; a daring partisan, one Buceta, surprised the slenderly garrisoned but strongly situated town of Cuenca. But these incidents were unimportant; without co-operation on a far larger scale, it was evident the insurrection was a failure, and that O’Donnell and his little army, isolated in the midst of a population which seemed to have lost all spirit (even that of revolt), must soon either make for the frontier, or risk an action with the greatly superior forces concentrating to oppose them. But O’Donnell had a card in reserve, which he was perhaps unwilling to play, but yet was resolved to risk before abandoning the game as lost. In a proclamation, dated from Manzanares, a town nearly half-way on the road from Madrid to Granada, and whither a division under General Blaser was proceeding, although slowly, to operate against him, he issued a declaration in favour of the National Guard, of provincial juntas, and of the assemblage of the Cortes, in which the nation, through its representatives, should fix the basis of its future government. The effect of this profession of faith was soon seen. So long as the generals had limited themselves to invectives against Sartorius and his colleagues, and against the system of corruption and immorality they had fostered into a monstrous development, the nation had remained inactive, because it saw no assurance of gain in a mere change of men, and because no prospect was held out to it of a complete change of system. But when O’Donnell spoke out, and threw himself frankly into the arms of the popular cause, he had not long to wait for backers. On the 15th, 16th, and 17th July, Valencia, Valladolid, Barcelona, Zamora, and, most important of all, Saragossa, declared against the government, and the fall of the ministry was inevitable. On the morning of the 17th, Madrid received the double intelligence of some of these _pronunciamientos_, and that the Sartorius cabinet was out. It was understood that General Cordova, a statesman without talent, and a general without resolution, was to head the new ministry, to which end he had long been intriguing, currying favour with the King-consort, and with a less legitimate influence at court. There was to be a bullfight on the afternoon of Monday the 17th July—the first fight that had been permitted since O’Donnell’s insurrection; and it became known in the morning that Cordova and his friends intended getting up a small _emeute_ or demonstration, when, between seven and eight o’clock, the streets should be thronged with the ten or twelve thousand spectators issuing forth from the bull-ring. The intention of this was doubtless twofold—to let off a little of the popular steam, and to give an air of popularity to the incoming ministry. But Cordova and his advisers had not sufficiently felt the pulse of the people, or duly estimated the possible results of so imprudent a manifestation. It was like exploding fireworks in a powder-magazine; and the moment selected made the trick still more hazardous. On the sultry evening of a burning July day, when several thousand men of the middle and lower classes should just have quitted the spectacle which excites them to the utmost, and habituates them to bloodshed, to raise, in the streets of Madrid, even the simulacre of a riotous banner, and that at a time when the people were galled by a long period of oppression and misrule, and when an insurrectionary army was in the field, was surely an act of as self-destructive madness as ever a doomed and blinded man was afflicted with. Early in the day, one or two leaders of the liberal party in Madrid had spoken to me of the proposed demonstration, and had intimated their intention of being on the watch to improve it, should circumstances turn favourably for their views. Evening came, and the bullfight took place; after it, as usual, the streets were crowded, especially the Puerta del Sol and adjacent thoroughfares. It was about eight o’clock when the first symptoms of disturbance were apparent. Numerous groups were formed in the streets, and parties of men marched through them at a rapid pace, shouting _vivas_ for liberty, and down with the ministry. The resignation of the ministry, I must observe, had not yet been officially published, but it was well known to have been accepted, and that, as far as the cabinet went, Spain was in an interregnum. This was the moment chosen by General Cordova for the farce which was to prove a tragedy. I was reminded, as I watched the proceedings of the night, of the Italian robber story, in which a party of practical jokers, and very _mauvais plaisants_, having gone out with corked faces and leadless pistols to frighten some friends abroad on a pic-nic, suddenly find amongst them the chocolate visages, fierce whiskers, and blunderbusses charged to the muzzle of the genuine brigand and his band, and heartily deplore the sorry plight in which their folly has put them. So it was in Madrid on the 17th July.

The armed police, up to that evening so numerous that nowhere could you walk ten yards without encountering them, were withdrawn from the streets; the soldiers were all in their quarters—the very sentries had disappeared: the main guard, which mounts at a large solid building on the Puerta del Sol, used by the ministry of the interior, but best known as the _Principal_ (chief guard-house), had closed the strong gates of the edifice, and gazed listlessly through the windows at the movements of the mob. Every precaution was taken to avoid collisions between the authorities and the harmless rioters who were to carry out Cordova’s plan. But its execution had scarcely begun when the mockery was turned into earnest—so much so, that I am still at a loss to explain, except by the confusion consequent on a change, and the real absence for some hours of all government in Madrid, the want of any opposition to the insurgents. At first, however, the disturbance was a mere riot, although it soon grew into a political revolt. The bands of men that roamed the streets, with shouts, sticks, and a few with arms, presently began to seek modes of actively employing themselves. Long before the hour (between ten and eleven o’clock) at which, as I afterwards ascertained, the Progresista chiefs in Madrid had decided on an outbreak, the people were busily at work. Before nine o’clock they repaired to two public offices where they knew there were arms—the house of the political governor and the town-hall—and, without opposition from the municipal guards they found there, got possession of between seven hundred and eight hundred muskets. These were regularly served out to the people by the leaders of the movement; and soon, on the Puerta del Sol, an immense crowd, in great part armed, besieged the doors of the Principal. The soldiers within had their orders not to oppose the people, but they did not think proper to admit them into their guard-house. Hard by was an enclosure of planks, placed round some of the demolitions going on in the Puerta del Sol (a flagrant job of Señor Sartorius), and there were also beams from the falling houses. Planks and beams were seized by the mob, piled against the doors of the Principal, and set on fire. The dry wood, parched by the summer sun of Madrid, burned like straw. There was danger of the whole building being consumed. The military evacuated it, and the mob took possession. It would have saved a great deal of fighting, and not a few lives, if they had kept it when they once held it; but, as I have already shown, there was a want of organisation at this early period of the night, and no definite intention, on the part of the masses, of accomplishing a revolution. Even up to eleven or twelve o’clock that night, many persons not inexperienced in such movements thought that the disturbance was a mere popular effervescence—the expression of the joy and relief felt by the people at being rid of their tyrants—and by no means anticipated the serious events that were to grow out of it. The Principal was abandoned by the people, and again occupied by troops. Meanwhile, at other points, the mob was actively mischievous, or, I should perhaps rather say, it actively employed itself in revenging its wrongs on the authors of much of its misery. Below a window, in one of the most frequented and central thoroughfares of Madrid, which I occupied at intervals during the great part of that evening, the passage of strong bodies of the people continued. A great many weapons were now to be seen amongst them—muskets, fowling-pieces, blunderbusses, antiquated firearms of all kinds. At the same time the great majority were unarmed; but their blood was up, their will was strong, and their hands were ready for anything. That night was so full of events that few thought of looking at watches, and I cannot therefore give you the hour at which incidents occurred, or set them down in the exact order of their occurrence, especially as I often changed my place between the hours of eight and two, making excursions into different parts of the town, but frequently returning to the window before mentioned, which, as headquarters and central post of observation, was an excellent position. One of the first acts of violence committed was an attack on the house of Don Luis Sartorius, Conde de San Luis, a man whose name will ever be pre-eminently infamous in the annals of political crime. On their way to his house the people got a ladder, set it against the front of the Principe theatre, which had been endowed when he was in office, and broke to pieces a stone over the entrance on which his name was carved. On reaching his residence they turned his furniture, pictures, and valuable library into the street, and made a bonfire of them. I know of literary amateurs who, on hearing of this, hurried to the spot, hoping to rescue some of the rare and curious books he was known to possess: but their efforts were in vain; the people would allow nothing to be taken away, everything was for the flames. At first the second floor of the house was respected, but presently it was known that it had lately become the residence of Esteban Collantes, the minister of public works, who had sent in, it is said, only a few days before, twelve thousand dollars’ worth of furniture. After Sartorius, Collantes, Domenech minister of finance, and Quinto the civil governor, were the three men in Madrid most detested by the people. Collantes was the _gamin_, the mischievous scapegrace, of the San Luis cabinet, devoid alike of dignity, morality, and common decency. The discovery that he abode above his chief colleague was a godsend to the enraged mob, and his chattels quickly shared the fate of those of Sartorius. Similar destruction proceeded at the houses of the renegade liberal Domenech, of the Marquis de Molins, minister of marine of Count Vista-hermosa, who had commanded under General Blaser at the action of Vicálvaro, and who was then following up with a division O’Donnell’s retiring forces; and at those of the well-known capitalist, Salamanca, and of Count Quinto, the alcalde-corregidor, and governor of Madrid. At these two last houses, especially, great destruction of property took place. Rich furniture, pictures of high value, plate, costly ornaments, jewels (especially at Salamanca’s), to the amount of many thousands of pounds, valuable papers, government securities, and even, it is said, bank notes and coin, were destroyed by fire. There is reason to believe, however, that some of the more portable of these things, particularly the jewels, were stolen—not, as I believe, by the people, who, throughout the whole revolution, set an example of honesty and disinterestedness—but by the professional thieves, who are always on the look-out upon such occasions, and by servants in some of the houses attacked, who, knowing where their masters kept their most precious effects, had great facilities for purloining them. A friend of Salamanca’s went to his house to rescue some valuable papers, and also, if possible, some jewels of great price, which were in an iron chest under a bed. Amongst these jewels was a diamond of remarkable beauty, whose history is rather curious. It had been given, set in a ring, by Count Montemolin, to an attached and faithful follower of his and his father’s fortunes. This gentleman afterwards desired to dispose of the stone, retaining the ring as a memorial, and addressed himself, with this object, to a well-known London jeweller. The jeweller advised him to retain the gem, for that, being of a most unusual size, he should have difficulty, if he bought it, in selling it again—should, perhaps, have to cut it down, &c. &c., and ending by naming a sum, which he acknowledged to be less than its value, as the most he could afford to give for it. The offer was accepted. Señor Salamanca afterwards paid £3000 for it. This ring, with other valuable jewellery and a number of unset stones—worth altogether many thousand pounds—were in the iron chest. Salamanca’s friend reached the house, secured the papers, and went to the chest. It was open and empty.

Meanwhile the people continued in motion in almost every part of the town. It was by no means the rabble that were abroad and stirring; many persons of the better classes were active in promoting the tumult. In the streets the leaders could be heard consulting together, and planning whither they should proceed. One party went to the Saladero prison to release the political captives detained there; another strong band, including general officers and persons of note and rank, repaired to the town-hall, appointed a committee, and drew up a representation to the Queen, which was delivered to her by a deputation. She promised to give it favourable consideration. Before this time there had been movements of troops in the town, but no hostilities. Towards two in the morning, however, a decided change took place in the aspect of affairs, and firing commenced at two points. After the deputation had returned from the palace, and reported the result of its mission (amongst other things, the Queen had expressed her earnest desire that there should be no effusion of blood), the committee, which was soon to be a junta, exhorted the crowd assembled in the square of the town-hall to return home and await the result of what had been done. They were disposed to do this, when in the Calle Mayor several companies of infantry opened fire upon them. This roused their indignation and anger, and thenceforward a struggle was inevitable. About the same time as those volleys were fired there was an affray around the princely mansion, or as it is usually called the palace, of Queen Christina. There, too, the people had assembled (throughout the night, “Death to Christina!” had been one of the most frequently repeated cries), had stoned and smashed the windows, forced their way into the house, thrown out furniture and valuables, and lit an immense bonfire with them—finally setting fire to the house itself. The scene presented by the triangular _plaza_ in front of the dowager-queen’s residence was striking enough. The wild figures and furious activity of the insurgents—amongst whom were not a few women inciting the men to mischief—contrasted with the passive attitude of a small body of infantry, which tranquilly looked on at the proceedings of the mob. At last, when a considerable portion of the furniture of the right wing was blazing in the plaza, making it as light as day, and illuminating the half-curious, half-frightened physiognomies that peered from the windows of the neighbouring houses, the handful of troops were reinforced by two companies, which at once fired on the people. Two or three volleys cleared the plaza; a tolerable number of persons were killed and wounded. There was firing at about the same time in other parts of the town—in the Calle Mayor, as already mentioned—and skirmishing between the troops and people, the latter of whom had begun to assume the offensive; and from that moment it was pretty evident that a sharp conflict was at hand. But it was not yet fairly engaged in, owing to the absence of orders for the military, and of leaders and organisation for the mob. A new and most unsatisfactory ministry, with General Cordova and the Duke of Rivas at its head, had been appointed, but could not be said to have as yet assumed command. And there was also mistrust as to the extent to which the troops might be depended upon to act against the people. On the other hand, the movement had commenced so suddenly, and so many incidents had filled the few hours that had since elapsed, that nothing like method had as yet been introduced into the proceedings of the insurgents. On the 18th there was a good deal of desultory fighting, and in several places severe conflicts took place; but few barricades were thrown up, and the skirmishing was chiefly from street corners, and from the doors of houses. It was easy to see that the inhabitants of Madrid sympathised with the revolution, and wished well to the insurgents. In many places, when these were hard pressed, and compelled to run, doors were seen suddenly to open to receive them, and again were quickly closed. The insurgents were as yet but imperfectly armed. You might see groups of half a dozen standing at the corner of a cross street, with perhaps two muskets or fowling-pieces amongst them, the others having sticks and swords—the latter often strange old-fashioned weapons, that looked as if they had belonged to the middle ages, and picked out of a curiosity-shop. These gentry would protrude their heads into the main thoroughfare, and watch the favourable moment for a shot at some military post or passing picket. If the shot drew pursuit upon them, they were off into the doors of neighbouring houses, like rabbits into their burrows, or else away through a labyrinth of lanes to harass some other point. A glance at a map of Madrid, if you chance to have one at hand, will show you how well adapted this most irregularly built capital is to the operations of a body of insurgents perfectly acquainted with its intricacies. The uneven surface—the town being built on a collection of small hills—the narrow crooked streets, jumbled together without any sort of order or system—the numerous small squares or open places, in passing over which troops are liable to find themselves under a cross fire from half a dozen different corners—the whole configuration of Madrid, in short, greatly favours its inhabitants when they choose to rise in arms against the garrison. Amongst the most remarkable events of the 18th was the desperate fight maintained by the people against a body of gendarmes, who, all old soldiers, defended themselves with signal valour, but were finally overcome, some of them killed, and the rest disarmed. These gendarmes, or civil guards, as they are here called, were in some sort the Swiss guards of the Madrid July revolution—equally firm in duty and discipline, and almost equally odious to the people, whom they punished pretty severely, and who did not always give them quarter, when vast superiority of numbers at last gave them the advantage which they certainly would not have had in more equal conditions of force. One of the most dashing things done by the insurgents on the 18th was clearing the Plaza del Progreso (one of the larger squares in the heart of the town) with the bayonet, after firing had for some time gone on. The soldiers were fairly driven out by the civilians, and the square and adjoining streets were quickly converted into a fortress, into which there was little probability of the military again penetrating. On the afternoon of the same day a number of lives were uselessly sacrificed, owing to the recklessness and vindictive spirit of a retired officer, a friend of Cordova’s. This person, although no longer in the army, obtained command of a couple of guns, some infantry, and a few dragoons, and, proceeding to the Calle Atocha, one of the principal streets of Madrid, opened a heavy fire of artillery and musketry, firing round shot into the houses, and grape down the street. He did a great deal of damage—some of it to private houses in which no insurgents were or had ever been—killed a few persons, most of them persons who had nothing in the world to do with the insurrection, but who were sitting, inoffensive and terrified, in their houses—lost thirty or forty of his own men, and finally cleared a few hundred yards of street. But this was small gain to the cause he defended, for the insurgents he drove away merely changed their place, and when he departed they returned to contemplate the ravages he had committed in the dwellings of peaceable citizens, and to go forth upon the morrow more embittered than ever to the fight.