Chapter II (4)

In viewing Napoleon that day, it was not the splendid superiority of his rank; it was neither his diadem, sceptre, nor power, which communicated that involuntary sensation of awe it was impossible not to feel:—it was the gigantic degree of talent whereby a man of obscure origin had been raised so far above his fellows. The spectator could not but deeply reflect on the mystic nature of those decrees of Providence which had placed Napoleon Bonaparte on one of the highest of earthly thrones and at the very pinnacle of glory; had hurled him from that eminence and driven him into exile; and now seemed again to have warranted his second elevation, replacing him upon that throne even more wondrously than when he first ascended it.

Such were my impressions on my first sight of the Emperor Napoleon. So much has he been seen and scrutinised throughout the world,—so familiar must his countenance have been to millions,—so many descriptions have been given of his person and of his features by those who knew him well,—that any portrait by me must appear to be at least superfluous. Every person, however, has a right to form his own independent judgment on subjects of physiognomy, and it is singular enough that I have never yet met any one with whom I entirely coincided as to the peculiar expression of Napoleon’s features;—and I have some right to speak, for I saw him at periods and under circumstances that wrought on and agitated every muscle of his fine countenance, and have fancied (perhaps ridiculously) that I could trace indications of character therein unnoticed by his biographers. Several who have confidently spoken of his physiognomy never saw him; by such, therefore, any estimation of its cast cannot be very accurate.

On this day my observations must necessarily have been superficial: yet I thought I could perceive, in the movement of a single feature, some strong-excited feeling, some sensation detached and wandering away from the ordinary modes of thinking, though I could not even guess from what passion or through what impulse that sensation originated. After I had seen him often, I collated the emotions palpable in his countenance with the vicissitudes of his past life, fancying that I might thence acquire some data to go upon in estimating the tone of his thoughts: but at this first sight, so diversified were the appearances as he leaned over the gallery, that even Lavater could not have deciphered his sensations. He was uneasy, making almost convulsive motions, and I perceived occasionally a quiver on his lip: on the whole, my anxiety was raised a hundredfold to be placed in some situation where I might translate at leisure the workings of his expressive countenance. That opportunity was after a short interval fully given me.

On the same day I had indeed a second occasion of observing the emperor, and in a much more interesting occupation—more to his taste, and which obviously changed the entire cast of his looks, quite divesting them of that deep, penetrating, gloomy character, which had saddened his countenance during the time he was at chapel. After mass he first came out upon the balcony in front of the Tuileries: his personal staff, marshals, generals, and a few ladies surrounded him; while the civil officers of the court, in the richest dresses, stood in small groups aside, as if wishing to have nothing to do with the military spectacle. Napoleon was now about to inspect eight or ten thousand of the army in the Place Carousel. The transition from an array of priests to a parade of warriors—from the hymns of the saints to the shouting of the soldiery—from the heavy, although solemn, music of the organ to the inspiriting notes of the drum—added greatly to the effect of the scene, which strongly impressed my mind, alive and open to all these novel incidents. Age had not then, nor has it yet, effaced the susceptibility of my nature. I own the latter scene was on that day to my mind vastly preferable to the first: the countenance of Napoleon was metamorphosed; it became illuminated; he descended from the balcony, and mounted a gray barb. He was now obviously in his element: the troops, as I have said, amounted to about ten thousand: I did not conceive the court of the Tuileries could hold so many.

Napoleon was now fully exposed to our view. His face acknowledged the effect of climate: his forehead, though high and thinly strewn with hair, did not convey to me any particular trait; his eyebrows, when at rest, were not expressive, neither did his eyes on that occasion speak as much as I should have expected; but the _lower_ part of his face fixed my attention at once. It was about his mouth and chin that character seemed to be concentrated. I thought, on the whole, that I could perceive a mixture of steadiness and caprice, of passion and generosity, of control and impetuousness; but I could _decide_ on nothing.

My attention, however, was soon turned to the inspection itself. There was not a soldier who did not appear nearly frantic with exultation, and whose very heart, I believe, did not beat in unison with the hurrahs wherewith they received their favourite leader.

It was the first time I had ever heard a crowd express its boisterous pleasure in a tone of sensibility unknown in our country. The troops were _in earnest_, and so was the general. The _old guard_ (including such as had returned from Elba and such as had rejoined their colours) formed a body of men superior to any I ever before witnessed. Descriptions of Napoleon amidst his soldiers are however so common, that I will not occupy either the reader’s time or my own by enlarging further on the subject.

THE ENGLISH IN PARIS.

Doctor and Mrs. Marshall—Col. Macirone, aide-de-camp to Joachim Murat,
while king of Naples—General Arthur O’Connor—Lord and Lady
Kinnaird—His lordship under the _surveillance_ of the police—Suspected
of _espionage_, and arrested, but set at liberty immediately
after—Messrs. Hobhouse and Bruce—Dr. Marshall’s correct information as
to passing events—Real character of the _coterie_ at his house—_Madame
la parente du ministre Fouché_—Misconception of the minister’s Swiss
porter—Henry Thevenot.

Shortly after this period I became particularly intimate with Dr. Marshall, a circumstance which, in the paucity of English who had remained in Paris, was productive to me of great satisfaction. He was a man of prepossessing appearance and address; had travelled much; had acted (he informed me) as physician to the army in Egypt, &c.; and had gone on some confidential missions to Murat while king of Naples. His wife was a pretty woman, rather _en bon point_, about thirty, and with the complete appearance and address of a gentlewoman. The doctor kept a very handsome establishment, and entertained small companies splendidly.

The society I met there consisted, generally, of Col. Macirone, who had been aide-de-camp to Murat, and has published an account of the romantic circumstances attendant on the death of that ill-fated man. Another member of the society was Count Julien, formerly, I believe, some secretary or civil officer of Murat, a boisterous, overbearing fat man, consequential without being dignified, dressy without being neat, and with a showy _politeness_ that wanted the elements of _civility_. Count Julien was the only person I met at Doctor Marshall’s whose character or occupation I had much curiosity about.

Fouché was then the emperor’s minister of police, and they all appeared to be more or less acquainted with him: but I had not then the slightest idea that most of them were in some way _employés_ of the police minister, and hollow friends, if not absolute enemies to Napoleon.

I met several other gentlemen less remarkable at Doctor Marshall’s; many of them I never saw again: some were Italians, but mostly French. Only one lady appeared besides the mistress of the house. This was a plain, rational, sedate woman under forty. She was introduced to us by Mrs. Marshall as the wife of a _relative_ of Fouché, and at that time (with her husband) on a visit to his excellency at his hotel, Rue Cerutti.

One day before dinner, at Dr. Marshall’s house, I observed this lady, just on our arrival, hurrying into Mrs. Marshall’s boudoir, and when dinner was announced she re-entered decked out with a set of remarkable coral ornaments, which I had seen Mrs. Marshall wear several times. This circumstance struck me at the moment, but was neither recollected nor accounted for till we paid an unlucky visit to that “relative of Fouché,” when the whole enigma became developed, and my suspicions fairly aroused.

Dr. Marshall meanwhile continued to gain much on my esteem. He saw that I was greedy of information as to the affairs of Italy; and he, as well as Col. Macirone, saturated me in consequence with anecdotes of the court of Naples, and of Murat himself, highly entertaining, and I believe authentic; for I do really think that Macirone was sincerely attached to that king, and attended his person with friendship and sincerity. On the contrary, Count Julien seemed to me incapable of much feeling, and perfectly indifferent as to any body’s fate but his own. This, however, I only give as my individual opinion: I soon lost sight of the man altogether. Once (I think the day of the abdication) I saw him at Fouché’s office, whither I strolled to make observations. He was lavishing the most boundless invectives against the ex-emperor.

In the midst of this society I passed my time during the greater part of the Hundred Days: and Doctor Marshall informing me, I believe truly, that he was on terms of confidence (though not immediately) with Fouché, and well knowing that he might with perfect security communicate any thing to me (I should be silent for my own sake), scarce a day passed but we had much conversation in his garden; and he certainly did give me very correct information as to the state of affairs and the condition of the emperor, together with much that was not equally correct, regarding himself. This I occasionally and partially perceived; but his address was imposing and particularly agreeable: he was good-natured and hospitable.

We had also cultivated our acquaintance (originated through the adventure of the shawls) with Colonel Gowen, of the national guards, whose hotel in Rue Clichy bore a most extraordinary castellated appearance, and was surrounded by very large gardens, where we were often nobly entertained: the leads of the hotel overlooked Tivoli, and indeed every place about Paris. The colonel lived extremely well; spoke English perfectly; and might, in fact, be mistaken for an hospitable colonel of British yeomanry.

Another gentleman, a Mr. Lewins, I also happened accidentally to meet, who was an Irishman, and whom I had known many years previously. We became intimate, and I derived utility and information from that acquaintance. This gentleman knew, and had long known, much more of past French affairs and individuals than any of my other acquaintances; and seeming at the same time replete with good-nature (with his _politics_, which I really believe were very _undecided_, I had nothing to do), I could not fail to be a gainer by our intercourse, which continued.

Another more remarkable and very clever person, Mr. Arthur O’Connor, was then a French general unemployed. I had known him thirty years before: he had married the daughter and sole heiress of the unfortunate and learned Marquis de Condorcet; and was prohibited from returning to his native country by act of parliament. General Arthur O’Connor was a remarkably strong-minded, clever man, with a fine face and manly air: he had besides a great deal of Irish national character, to some of the failings whereof he united several of its best qualities. I met him, and relished his company highly. For old acquaintance sake I professed and truly felt a friendship for him; and, differing as we did upon public subjects, we talked over all without arguing upon any, which is the only agreeable method of conversation among persons whose opinions do not coincide.

Lord and Lady Kinnaird were also in Paris at that period. I did not pay my respects to them for a very singular, though at such a time a very sufficient reason. Her ladyship was the daughter of one of my most respected friends, the late Duke of Leinster, to every member of whose family I owe all possible attention: but Lord Kinnaird, by over-acting his part, had drawn on himself an absurd degree of suspicion; and I had been informed by a friend, in confidence, that every person who was seen visiting him was immediately suspected likewise, and put secretly under _surveillance_, which would not have been particularly agreeable to me. In a little time this information was curiously illustrated. I was informed that Lord Kinnaird had been arrested by order of Fouché: but Fouché soon found he had fallen into a very ridiculous error; and I believe his lordship was immediately liberated with an ample apology. I heard also incidentally among the _employés_, (for I took care at all times to display no inordinate curiosity even though I might be literally bursting with that feeling,) that his lordship was accustomed to express himself so hyperbolically in favour of Napoleon, that the police (to whom every thing was made known by unsuspected domestics) could not give his lordship credit for sincerity, and therefore took for granted that he was playing some double game: in fact, they fancied he was a spy!—using ultra eulogiums on the emperor to cloke a secret design.

Messrs. Hobhouse and Bruce were both in Paris at the same period, and I have often regretted that I did not know them. I afterward knew the latter well, when in La Force with Sir R. Wilson and my friend Mr. J. Hutchinson, for assisting the escape of Lavalette. I found in Mr. Bruce an able man with some excellent qualities, and a thirst after information, which I admire in any body.

These, together with the family of Mr. Talbot, were the only English whom I met in Paris immediately after my arrival and during the most momentous crisis Europe ever witnessed.[43] That point of time formed it was then supposed the pivot whereon the future destiny of every nation in the fairest quarter of the globe was vibrating:—but I am here trenching on a subject in which the nature of this work does not permit me to indulge.

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Footnote 43:

There were others, but I knew them not. One mysterious person I was
then well acquainted with. I have for several years past lost sight of
him; and never could find out _who_ he was. He was clever,
intelligent, and actively friendly: obviously not _rich_, and as
obviously not _poor_.—I should be glad to see him again.

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The successive occurrences at Paris, after Napoleon’s return, were daily published, and are known to every body. The press seemed free from restraint, and every public act was recorded: it was therefore to the _private_ acts and characters of men I applied my observation, as forming the best ground for speculative opinions, (which that portentous interval necessarily tended to stimulate,) and likewise as calculated to yield the best materials for future entertainment.

Dr. Marshall was, as I have already stated, on certain occasions confidentially employed by Fouché; and placing some confidence in me—perhaps not duly estimating the extent of my curiosity,—he was very communicative. (I think he hated the principles of Fouché.) In fact, not a day passed, particularly after Napoleon’s return from Waterloo, that I did not make some discovery through the doctor, as much from his air of mystery as from direct admissions. From him I collected Fouché’s flagitious character, and the ductility and total absence of principle exhibited by some of his _attachés_.

The intelligence I daily acquired did not surprise, but greatly disgusted me. Napoleon had _many_ false _friends_. I hate treachery in all its ramifications: it is not, generally speaking, a French characteristic; but Fouché certainly displayed a complete personification of it. Men of that description generally do each other _strict justice_, by the operation and exercise of mutual hatred, contempt, and invective. I never heard one such person say a kind word of another _behind his back_; and when a man is necessitated by policy to puff a brother villain, it is not difficult for a stander-by to decipher the sneer of jealousy and mental reservation distorting the muscles of the speaker’s countenance, and involuntarily disclosing the very feeling which he was perhaps desirous to conceal.

Thus was it with various tools of that treacherous minister; and in his own countenance were engraven distinctly the characteristics of plausibility, cunning and insincerity. From the first moment I saw Fouché, and more particularly when I heard him _coldly_ swear fidelity to his imperial master, I involuntarily imbibed a strong sensation of dislike. His features held out no inducement to place confidence in their owner: on the contrary, they could not but tend to beget distrust and disesteem. The suspicions which they generated in me I never could overcome, and the sequel proved how just were my anticipations.

After awhile, I began slightly to suspect the composition of the society I was associating with, and it occurred to me to request that Lady Barrington would pay a visit to the lady we had met at Doctor Marshall’s, and whom we had understood from Doctor and Mrs. Marshall to be on a visit to Fouché, her _relative_. I proposed to go also, and leave my card for her husband, whom we had not yet seen. We accordingly waited on them at Fouché’s hotel, and asked the Swiss if _madame_ was at home.

“_Madame!_” said the porter; “_madame! quelle madame?_” as if he had heard us imperfectly. We had forgotten her name, and could therefore only reply, “_madame la parente de monsieur le ministre_.”

“_Parente de monsieur le ministre?_” repeated the Swiss. “There is no such person here, monsieur,” with a half-saucy shrug.

“Oh yes,” exclaimed I: “she is on a visit to the Duc D’Otrante.”

“_No, no, monsieur et madame_,” repeated the pertinacious Swiss: “_point du tout!_” and he seemed impatient to send us away; but after a moment’s pause, the fellow burst out into a fit of laughter. “I beg your pardon, _monsieur et madame_,” said he, “I begin to understand whom you mean. _Your friend_ undoubtedly resides in the hotel, but she is just now from home.”

I handed him our cards for her and her husband. On reading “_Le Chevalier et Milady_,” the man looked more respectful, but apparently could not control his laughter. When, however, he at length recovered himself, he bowed very low, begged pardon again, and said he thought we had been inquiring for some _vraie_ madame. The word stimulated my curiosity, and I hastily demanded its meaning; when it turned out that _monsieur_ was the maitre d’hotel, and _madame_, his wife, looked to the linen, china, &c. as _femme de confiance_:—in English, _housekeeper_!

We waited to hear no more. I took up our cards and away we went; and my suspicions as to that lady’s rank were thus set at rest. I did not say one word of the matter at Dr. Marshall’s, but I suppose the porter told the _lady_, as we never saw her afterward, nor her husband at all.

I now began to see my way more clearly, and redoubled my assiduity to decipher the events passing around me. In this I was aided by an increased intimacy with Colonel Macirone, whom closer acquaintance confirmed as an agreeable and gentlemanly man.

I perceived that there was some plot going forward, the nature of which it was beyond my power to develope. The manner of the persons I lived among was perpetually undergoing some shade of variation; the mystery thickened; and my curiosity increased with it.

In the end this curiosity was completely gratified; but all I could determine on at the moment was, that there existed an extensive organised system of deception and treachery, at the bottom of which was Fouché himself: whether, however, my acquaintances would ultimately adhere to the emperor or his minister, seemed quite problematical. I meanwhile dreaded every body, yet affected to fear none, and listened with an air of unconcern to the stories of my valet, Henry Thevenot, though at that time I gave them no credit: subsequent occurrences, however, rendered it manifest that this man procured, somehow or other, sure information.

Among other matters, Thevenot said he knew well there was an intention, if opportunity occurred, of assassinating Napoleon on his road to join the army in Belgium.[44] I did not much relish being made the depositary of such dangerous reports, and ordered my servant never to mention before me again “any such ridiculous stories,” otherwise I should discharge him as an _unsafe_ person. Yet I could not keep his tongue from wagging, and I really dreaded dismissing him. He said “that Fouché was a traitor to his master; that several of the cannon at Montmartre were rendered _unserviceable_; and that mines had been charged with gunpowder under various parts of the city, preparatory to some attempt at counter-revolution.”

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Footnote 44:

I have often thought that the Mameluke who had always been retained by
Napoleon about his person had some very deep reason for his ultimate
desertion; and to this moment that circumstance appears to me to leave
just grounds for a suspicion that his fidelity had long been shaken.

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INAUGURATION OF THE EMPEROR.

The peers and deputies summoned for the 8th of June—Abduction of the
regalia by the royalists—Author obtains a ticket of admission to
the gallery of the Chamber of Deputies, to witness the
ceremony—Grenadiers of the Old Guard—Enthusiasm of the military,
and comparative quiescence of the other ranks—Entrance of Napoleon
into the Chamber—Sketch of his appearance and that of _Madame
Mère_—Administration of the oath of allegiance—The Duke of Otranto
and Count Thibaudeau—The imperial speech and its ineffective
delivery.

The days rolled on, and in their train brought summer and the month of June, on the 8th of which the peers and deputies of the legislative body were summoned to attend collectively at two o’clock in the Chamber of Deputies, to receive the emperor, and take the oath of fidelity to him and to the constitution, in the midst of all the splendor which the brilliant metropolis of France could supply. The abduction of the regalia by some friends of King Louis, when they ran away to Ghent, had left Napoleon without any crown wherewith to gratify the vanity of a people at all times devoted to every species of spectacle; he had only a button and loop of brilliants which fastened up his Spanish hat, over the sides whereof an immense plumage hung nodding. But this was such a scene, and such an occasion, that a wreath of laurel would have become the brow of Napoleon far better than all the diamonds in the universe!—The whole of the imperial family were to be present.

The number of persons who could be admitted as spectators into the gallery was necessarily very limited: and in a great metropolis where every body is devoted to show, the difficulty of procuring admission would, I conceived, be of course proportionably great. It may be well imagined that I was indefatigable in seeking to obtain tickets, as this spectacle was calculated to throw every thing besides that I had witnessed in Paris completely into the back-ground;—and what tended still more to whet the edge of my curiosity, was the reflection that it would, in all probability, be the last opportunity I should have of deliberately viewing the emperor, whose departure from Paris to join the army was immediately contemplated.

I therefore made interest with every body I knew; I even wrote to the authorities; and, in short, left no means whatever untried which suggested themselves to me. At length, when I began to think my chance but a very poor one, on the day actually preceding the ceremony, to my unspeakable gratification, I received a note from the chamberlain, enclosing an admission for _one_ person _debout_, which the difficulty I had every where encountered led me to esteem a great favour. I did not think that, at my age, I could possibly be so anxious about any thing; but I believe there are few persons who will not admit that the excitement was great, occasioned by the prospect of contemplating, for a length of time and in a convenient situation, the bodily presence of a man to whom posterity is likely to award greater honours than can be conceded to him by the prejudices of the present race.

The programme announced that all Napoleon’s marshals and generals, together with the veterans of his staff and the male branches of his family, were to be grouped around him; as were likewise several of those statesmen whose talents had helped originally to raise him to the throne, and whose treachery afterwards succeeded in hurling him a second time from it. The peers and deputies, in their several ranks and costumes, were each, individually and distinctly, on that day to swear new allegiance to their emperor, and a lasting obedience to the constitution.

The solemnity of Napoleon’s inauguration, and that of his promulgating the new constitution at the Champ de Mars, made by far the greatest impression on my mind of all the remarkable public or private occurrences I had ever witnessed. The intense interest—the incalculable importance, not only to France but to the world, of those two great events, generated reflections within me more weighty and profound than any I had hitherto entertained: whilst the variety of glittering dresses, the novelty and the ever-changing nature of the objects around me, combined to cheat me almost into a belief that I had migrated to fairy-land, and in fact to prevent me from _fixing_ my regards on any thing.

The first of those days was the more interesting to France—the second to Europe at large. Though totally unparalleled in all their bearings, and dissimilar from every other historical incident ancient or modern, yet these solemnities seem to have been considered by most who have written upon the subject as little more than ordinary historic transactions. Were I to give my feelings full play in reciting their effect on myself, I should at this calmer moment be perhaps set down as a visionary or enthusiast. I shall, therefore, confine myself to simple narrative.

The procession of the emperor from the Tuileries to the Chambers, though short, was to have been of the most imposing character. But, much as I wished to see it, I found that by such an attempt I might lose my place in the gallery of the Chamber, and, consequently, the view of the inauguration scene.—At 11 o’clock, therefore, I brought my family to a house on the Quay, for which I had previously paid dearly; and where having placed them at a window, I repaired myself to the Chamber of Deputies, in company of a French colonel, who had been introduced to us by Colonel Gowen, and who kindly undertook to be my usher, and to point out to me the most celebrated warriors and generals of the guard and army, who in groups promenaded the courts and gardens of the senate-house, awaiting the appointed hour for parading to receive the emperor. This gentleman introduced me to several officers and persons of rank; and though at that moment war, attended by all its horrors, was deemed inevitable, I was addressed with a courtesy and gentlemanly frankness which, under similar circumstances, would in any other country, I fear, have been wanting. They spoke without reserve of the tremendous struggle about to be commenced; but not a man of them appeared to me to have a single doubt of triumphing; and had my own country been neutral or uninterested, I certainly should have preferred the brilliance of Napoleon’s despotism to the contracted, glimmering tyranny of his continental enemies. But I knew that Great Britain _was_ implicated. Napoleon and England might coalesce for a moment; but I felt that the ascendency of the former was considered as incompatible with the power of the latter, and I was chilled by the reflection, which in some degree abated my relish for the striking scene before me.

Among other individuals of note to whom I was presented by the colonel, was Labedoyere, who was destined so soon to atone with the forfeiture of his life for his fidelity to his first patron. I had heard then nothing particular of this man, and consequently took but little notice of him. There was not one whom I remarked more than Ney, then prince of Moskwa. “That,” said the colonel, as he pointed him out to me, “is the greatest _sabreur_ in Europe:” and Ney’s rough, manly, sun-burnt countenance, well set off by his muscular, warlike figure, confirmed the character. “There,” continued my informant, pointing to a civilian in full dress, “is one of the truest partisans the emperor has in France—Count Thibaudeau, though at one time doubted.” I had previously remarked the person to whom my attention was thus directed, as one not formed of common materials, and had occasion soon after to observe him still more particularly.

So many of the objects of that day have been sketched in various publications, that I shall not endeavour to give any thing in the shape of a list of them, but content myself with the mention of those which struck me most forcibly at the moment.

Whoever was in Paris during the Hundred Days must have seen the old guard of Napoleon. Such a body of soldiers (all appearing as if cast in the same mould) I believe never was collected! Their Herculean vigour, more than the height of their persons, was remarkable; and their dark, deep-furrowed visages, (enveloped in mustaches and surmounted by the bear’s skin of their lofty caps, glittering with ornaments,) combined, together with their arms, their clothes, and more particularly their steadiness, to exhibit to me the most perfect model of real soldiers. Their looks, though the very emblem of gravity and determination, were totally devoid of ferocity; and I could fancy the grenadiers of the old guard to be _heroes_, uniting the qualities of fidelity, of valour, and of generosity: their whole appearance indeed was most attractive.

The cavalry had dismounted, and were sitting around on the steps and parapets of the edifice, mostly employed in sharpening their sabres with small hones; and the whole seemed to me as if actuated only by an ardent wish to proceed to action. One officer asked me in English, rather more freely than the rest, if I knew the British commander (Lord Wellington)? I said I did.—“Well,” replied he, “we shall have a brush with him before _quinze jours_ are over!” and turned away with an expression strongly indicative of contempt. I believe Lord Wellington did not quite anticipate the short time that would be given him by his opponents. My observations and introductions were however at length interrupted by the first cannon, which announced that the emperor had commenced his passage from the Tuileries. All was in immediate bustle; the drums beat, the trumpets sounded, the deputies and officials flocked into their halls, the cuirassiers were mounted, the old guard and grenadiers in line, the officers at their stations;—and in less than five minutes the mingled and motley crowd was arranged in order so regular and so silently assumed, that it was almost impossible to suppose they had ever been in confusion. The different bands struck up: they had received orders respecting the airs that should be played as the emperor approached, which they began to practise; and the whole scene, almost in a moment, wore an aspect entirely new.

The firing of cannon continued: the emperor had advanced along the quays, and passed over that very spot where the last French monarch had, twenty years before, been immolated by his subjects. The word enthusiasm, strong as its meaning is generally held to be in France, failed, on this occasion, to express _as much_ as the military seemed to feel. The citizens who thronged around did not, it is true, appear to partake in this sentiment to any thing like a corresponding extent. Whether it was that they felt it not, or that they were conscious of acting only a subordinate part in the pageant, (which unquestionably bore too much of a military character,) I do not know.

I proceeded without delay to the stairs which led to my _loge_, as noted on my admission ticket. This _loge_, however, it turned out to be no easy matter to find. My heart began to sink; I inquired of every body; some did not understand, others looked contemptuously; nobody would pay the least attention to my solicitations. Thus I seemed likely, after all, to lose the benefit of my exertions. Meanwhile, every new discharge of cannon seemed as if announcing, not only the emperor’s approach, but my seclusion from the chamber; and I was getting fast into a state of angry hopelessness when an officer of the guard, who saw that I was a foreigner, addressed me in English. I explained to him my embarrassments and fears, and showed him my ticket. He told me I was on the wrong side, and was so good as to send a soldier with me to the door of the box. I rapped, and was instantly admitted. There were two rows of chairs, and accommodation for three persons to stand behind. I was one of the latter; and it was impossible to be better situated for hearing and seeing every thing. My _loge_ exactly faced the throne; and in the next sat the emperor’s mother, and all the females, with their attendants. I knew nobody: I saw no English there: there was one person in full-dress, who was said to be _un chevalier Ecosse_, and who having distinguished himself and announced his nation by making an abominable noise about something or other, was very properly sent out. We sat in silent expectation of the emperor’s arrival, which was to be announced by the cessation of the repeated salutes of artillery. The moments were counted: the peers and deputies were seated in their places, all in full-dress—the former occupying the front benches, and the deputies ranged behind them. Servants of the chamber, in the most splendid liveries that can be conceived, were seen busy at all the side doors: the front door was underneath our _loge_; it was therefore impossible for me to see the effect of the first appearance of the emperor, who at length, followed by a numerous retinue, crossed the chamber—not majestically, but with rather hurried steps: having slightly raised his hat, he seated himself abruptly on the throne, and wrapping himself in his purple cloak, sat silent.

The scene was altogether most interesting; but there was no time for contemplation. The whole assembly immediately rose; and if a judgment might be formed from the outward expression of their feelings, it would be inferred that Napoleon was enthroned in the heart of almost every peer and deputy who that day received him. A loud, continued, and unanimous burst of enthusiastic congratulation proceeded from every quarter: it echoed throughout the whole chamber, and had all the attributes of sincerity. One circumstance I particularly remarked: the old cry of “_Vive_ l’Empereur,” was discontinued, and, as if the spectators’ hearts were too full to utter more, they limited themselves to a single word,—“_l’Empereur! l’Empereur!_” alone bursting from the whole assembly. I found afterwards that there was a meaning in this: inasmuch as the ceremony was not a mere greeting—it was an _inauguration_ of the emperor. It was this solemnity which in fact _recreated_ his title after his formal abdication, and the assembly thus noted the distinction.

Meanwhile Napoleon sat apparently unmoved: he occasionally touched his hat, but spake not. I stood immediately in front of, and looking down on, the throne; and being in the back row, could use my opera-glass without observation. Napoleon was at that moment, all circumstances considered, the most interesting personage in existence. His dress, although very rich, was scarcely royal: he was not, as a king should be by prescription, covered with jewels: he had no crown, and wore the same dress exactly as he afterward did on his visit to the Champ de Mars; namely, a black Spanish hat, fastened up in front with a diamond loop and button; heavy plumes of ostrich feathers, which hung nodding over his forehead; and rather a short but very full cloak of purple velvet, embroidered with golden bees. The dimensions of his person were thus concealed; but his stature, which had attained about the middle height, seemed lower on account of his square-built form and his high, ungraceful shoulders: he was, in fact, by no means a majestic figure. I watched his eye; it was that of a hawk, and struck me as being peculiarly brilliant. Without moving his head, or a single muscle of his countenance, his eye was every where, and seemed omniscient: an almost imperceptible transition moved it from place to place, as if by magic; and it was fixed steadily upon one object before a spectator could observe its withdrawal from another.

Yet even at this moment, powerful as was the spell in which Napoleon’s presence bound the spectator, my attention was drawn aside by another object which seemed to me to afford much scope for contemplation: this was the emperor’s mother. I stood, as I have already said, in the next _loge_ of the gallery to that occupied by the imperial family. The dutiful and affectionate regard of Napoleon to his mother is universally authenticated: and as his nature was not framed either to form or perpetuate mere attachments of course, it was natural to conclude that this lady’s character had something about it _worthy_ of affection. I was therefore curious to trace, as far as possible, the impressions made upon her by the passing scene.

Madame Mère (as she was then called) was a very fine old lady, apparently about sixty, but looking strong and in good health. She was not, and I believe never had been, a beauty; but was, nevertheless, well-looking, and possessed a cheerful, _comfortable_ countenance. I liked her appearance: it was plain and unassuming, and I set my mind to the task of scrutinising her probable sensations on that important day.

Let us for a moment consider the situation of that mother, who, whilst in an humble sphere of life, and struggling with many difficulties, had born, nursed, and reared a son, who, at an early age, and solely by his own superior talents, became ruler of one of the fairest portions of the civilised creation; to whom kings and princes crouched and submitted, and transferred their territories and their subjects, at his will and pleasure; to whom the whole world, except England, had cringed; whom one great emperor had flattered and fawned on, handing over to him a favourite daughter even whilst the conqueror’s true wife was still living; and whom the same bewildered emperor had afterwards assisted in rousing all Europe to overthrow; thus dethroning his daughter, disinheriting his grandson, and exposing himself to the contempt and derision of the universe,—only that he might have the gratification of enslaving six millions of the Italian people! The mother of Napoleon had seen all this; and had, no doubt, felt bitterly that reverse of fortune whereby her son had been expelled and driven into exile, after his long dream of grandeur and almost resistless influence. What then must be the sensations of that mother at the scene we are describing! when she beheld the same son again hailed emperor of the French, restored to power and to his friends by the universal assent of a great nation, and the firm attachment of victorious armies! He remounted his throne before her eyes once more, and, without the shedding of one drop of blood, was again called to exercise those functions of royalty from which he had been a few months before excluded.

It was under these impressions that I eagerly watched the countenance of that delighted lady: but her features did not appear to me sufficiently marked to give full scope to the indication of her feeling. I could judge, in fact, nothing from any other feature except her eye, to which, when I could catch it, I looked for information. At first I could see only her profile; but as she frequently turned round, her emotions were from time to time obvious: a tear occasionally moistened her cheek, but it evidently proceeded from a happy rather than a painful feeling—it was the tear of parental ecstasy. I could perceive no lofty sensations of gratified ambition; no towering pride; no vain and empty arrogance, as she viewed underneath her the peers and representatives of her son’s dominions. In fact, I could perceive nothing in the deportment of Madame Mère that was not calculated to excite respect for her as a woman, and admiration of her as the person who had brought into the world a man for many years the most successful of his species.

From observation of this interesting lady I was called off by the scene which followed. After the emperor had been awhile seated, (his brothers and the public functionaries around him, as expressed in a printed programme,) the oath was administered to the peers and deputies individually, so that each was distinctly marked by name; and what I considered most fortunate was, that a French gentleman, who sat immediately before me (I believe some public officer), was assiduous in giving the two ladies who accompanied him, not only the name of each peer or deputy, as he took the oath, but also some description of him. I took advantage of this incident, and in a little tablet copied down the names of such as I had heard spoken of as remarkable persons, and particularly the generals and marshals.

Their manner of administering and taking the oath was very different from ours.[45] The French had, from the period of the revolution, very justly conceived that an oath of any description would not be one atom more binding on the party if taken upon a book than if trust were reposed in their mere word of honour. On the present occasion, each person, as his name was called over, arose, and holding out his right arm to its extent, (the palm of the hand uppermost,) deliberately pronounced, “_Je jure fidélité à l’Empereur, et obédience à la Constitution_.” The reader will easily believe that it was a source of the utmost interest to watch the countenances of these dignitaries of France while they were engaged in performing this important ceremonial. My physiognomical observation was kept fully on the stretch, and was never, before or since, so sated with materials to work on. The emperor, meanwhile, sat almost immovable. He did not appear exhilarated: indeed, on the other hand, I think he was indisposed. His breast heaved at times very perceptibly; an involuntary convulsed motion agitated his lip; but never did I see an eye more indefatigable and penetrating! As each man’s name was called, and the oath administered, its regard was fixed upon the individual; and nothing could be more curious to the spectator than to transfer his gaze alternately from the party taking the oath to the emperor himself. Some of the peers and deputies Napoleon’s eye passed over with scarcely a look; while others he regarded as though disposed to penetrate their very souls, and search there for proofs of a sincerity he considered doubtful. Some seemed to excite a pleasurable, others a painful sensation within him; though this was difficult to recognise, inasmuch as his features seldom, and never more than slightly, changed their expression. The countenances of the members themselves were more easily read, and afforded in many instances good clews whereby, if not the real feelings, at least the _tendency_ of the parties might be deciphered. Some stood boldly up, and loudly, and without hesitation took the oath; while others, in slow, tremulous voices, pledged themselves to what they either never meant, or were not quite certain of their ability to perform; and a few displayed manifest symptoms of repugnance in their manner:—but the scene was of a nature so splendid, so generally interesting, that few persons, except those whose habits had long led them to the study of mankind, or such as might have some especial interest in the result, would have attended to these physiognomical indications, which were of course not suffered in any instance to become prominent.

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Footnote 45:

One of the devices to prevent the accumulation of petty larceny, in
the court of Common Pleas of Ireland, was very amusing. Lord Norbury’s
register, Mr. Peter Jackson, complained grievously to his lordship
that he really could not afford to supply the court with Gospels or
Prayer-books, as witnesses, after they had taken their oaths, were in
the constant habit of stealing _the book_! “Peter,” said Lord Norbury,
“if the rascals _read_ the book, it will do them more good than the
petty larceny may do them mischief.”—“Read or not read,” urged Peter,
“they are rogues, that’s plain. I have tied the book fast, but
nevertheless they have contrived to loosen and abstract it.”—“Well,
well!” replied my lord, “if they are not afraid of the _cord, hang_
your Gospel _in chains_, and that perhaps, by reminding the fellows of
the fate of some of their fathers and grandfathers, may make them
behave themselves.” Peter Jackson took the hint: provided a
good-looking, well-bound New Testament, which he secured with a strong
jack-chain that had evidently done duty, and well, before the
_kitchen-fire_, and was made fast to the rail of the jury gallery.
Thus, the holy volume being gibbeted, had free scope to swing about
and clink as much as it chose, to the great terror of witnesses, and
good order of the jurors themselves.

-----

One of the first persons who took the oath was Fouché, Duke of Otranto. I had been in this nobleman’s office on my first arrival in Paris, had marked his countenance, and have already given my judgment of him. He had originally been a monk, (I believe a Jesuit,) and was on all hands admitted to be a man of the utmost talent, but at the same time without moral principle;—a man who, in order to attain his ends, would disregard justice, and set opinion at insolent defiance. But, above all, Fouché’s reigning character was _duplicity_: in that qualification of a statesman he had no rival. Napoleon knew him thoroughly; but, circumstanced as he was, he had (fatally for himself) occasion for such men.

Yet even Fouché I really think was, on this day, off his guard. He was at the time, there can be little doubt, in actual communication with some of Napoleon’s enemies; and he certainly appeared, whether or no from “compunctious visitings of conscience,” to be ill at his ease. I kept my eye much on him; and it was quite obvious to me that some powerful train of feeling was working within his breast. On his name being called, there was nothing either bold, frank, or steady in his appearance or demeanour. He held out his hand not much higher than his hip, and, in a tone of voice languid, if not faltering, swore to a fidelity which he was determined, should he find it convenient, to renounce. I really think (and my eye and glass were full upon him) that Fouché, at the moment, _felt_ his own treachery: a slight hectic passed over his temples, and his tongue seemed to cleave to his mouth. I cannot account for my impression further than this, but from that instant I set down the man as a traitor! Napoleon for the first time turned his head as Fouché tendered his allegiance. I could perceive no marked expression in the emperor’s countenance, which remained placid and steady; but I could not help thinking that even that complacent regard (which certainly indicated no confidence, if it was free from agitation) seemed to say, “I know you!” The ceremony proceeded; and after awhile the name was called of a person whom I had before seen—Count Thibaudeau. The contrast between this gentleman and Fouché was very remarkable. He stood up quickly, and with great firmness stepped a little forward, and held his arm _higher_ than his shoulder:—“_Je jure_,” exclaimed Count Thibaudeau, “_Je jure_,” repeating the words with emphasis, “_fidélité_ à MON Empereur et obédience à la Constitution!” I watched Napoleon’s look: it was still serene, but a ray of gratification was not absent, and shot rapidly across his features.—The business at length terminated. I treasured up in my mind the impressions made upon it that day, and in very few of my forebodings was I eventually mistaken.

The inauguration of the emperor was now complete, and the reflection was extremely solemn, that all the powers of Europe were armed to overthrow the business of that morning. Neither peace nor truce was to be made with Napoleon, who was, on his part, about to try the strength of France alone against a union of inveterate and inexorable foes. He was now about to inform his assembled legislators of this decision, and to make a declaration that should at once rouse the French people generally, and instil into the legislature a portion of his own energy.

I was all expectation;—the critical moment arrived: the occasion—the place—the subject, and more especially the effect expected to be produced—all combined in leading me to anticipate some speech more impressive than any I had ever heard.

The emperor rose from his throne rather quickly, raised his hat for a moment, and looked round him with a glance which, though probably meant to imply confidence, had to me the expression of _scrutiny_. Having done this, he re-seated himself, and commenced his speech. In language it was well adapted to the French soldiery; as a proclamation it might be considered admirable; but to a _legislative_ assembly, it seemed to me (perhaps erroneously) ill adapted. I did expect, at all events, that it would be pronounced with that energy which was indicative of the speaker’s character; but miserably was I disappointed! Napoleon read it distinctly, but, to my mind, utterly without effect: there was no adequate ardour—no emphasis—no modulation of voice—no action, to enforce the sentiment. The delivery was monotonous and unimpressive; nor can I yet conceive how it was possible such a man could pronounce such a speech without evincing that warmth of feeling which the words, as well as the great subject itself, (to say nothing of his own situation,) were calculated to inspire. The French in general read extremely ill; and Napoleon’s style of elocution was a very humble specimen even of theirs. He ran the sentences into each other: in short, seemed to view the whole thing as a mere matter of course, and to be anxious to _get through_ it. It put me more in mind of a solicitor reading a marriage-settlement than any thing else. Here and there, indeed, he appeared somewhat touched by the text, and most probably _he himself_ felt it all; but he certainly expressed nothing in a manner that could make _others_ feel it. The concluding words of the speech—“_This is the moment to conquer or to perish_,” though pronounced by Napoleon with little more energy than the preceding parts, (much as if he had been saying, “And your petitioner will ever pray,”) yet made a strong and visible impression upon the entire auditory. Two or three of the deputies, I observed, by (to all appearance) an involuntary movement, put their hands on their sword-hilts, and whispered those who sat next them; and among the military officers who were in the assembly there was evidently a very gallant feeling. I cast my eye at this moment on Fouché: he was looking upon the ground, seemingly in contemplation, and moved not a muscle.

At the conclusion of his speech Napoleon, whose languid manner had considerably damped my previous excitement, immediately descended from the throne, and, in the same state and amidst redoubled applauses, returned to the palace to make preparations for meeting his parliaments, and carrying into sudden execution what I have since heard denominated by English generals the finest military manœuvre of his whole life. Two things seem to be universally admitted: that the first object of that train of movements, namely the surprise and division of the allied troops, was completely successful; and that its second object—the defeat of those troops in a general engagement, was so near its accomplishment, that its failure may almost be regarded as miraculous.

I returned home full of reflection. I soon recounted all my impressions (particularly with respect to Fouché and Napoleon) to my family and two or three friends who dined with us. I did not hesitate to speak frankly my opinion of the game playing by the Duke of Otranto; nor did any long period elapse before my predictions were verified.

PROMULGATION OF THE CONSTITUTION.