Chapter II (5)

Apathy of the people—Temporary building in front of the _Ecole
Militaire_—Pont de Jena—Policy of Napoleon regarding Fouché—Procession
to the Champ de Mars—Peculiar accoutrements of a regiment of
cavalry—Reflections on some points in the history of Napoleon—His
mistake in changing the republican into a monarchical
government—Coaches of ceremony of the French noblesse and officers of
state—The Emperor’s liberality to various members of his
court—His personal dejection on this day—Rejoicings succeeding
the promulgation—Superiority of the French in matters of
_embellishment_—Gratuitous distribution of provisions and
wine—Politeness of the lower orders of French—Display of
fire-works—Mr. Hobhouse’s Second Reign of Napoleon.

The next great act of Napoleon’s second reign was the promulgation of the new articles of the constitution, at the Champ de Mars, which promised to elicit much of the public sentiment. For my own part, I conceived it would be the true touchstone of Parisian political feeling; but in this idea I was greatly disappointed.

It was natural to suppose that the establishing a constitution, by a nearly despotic monarch, whereby his own power would be greatly contracted, would, even under Napoleon’s circumstances, be considered one of the measures best calculated to propitiate a long-tramelled population. But, in fact, the thing assumed _no_ such character; the _spectacle_ seemed, indeed, to be held in the utmost value by the Parisians; but the _constitution_ itself in little, if any. They had never possessed any regular constitution, and, I really think, had no settled or digested ideas upon the subject: even as yet they are but wandering.

The extraordinary splendour of the preparations for this ceremony, and the admixture of civil and military pomp, were to me very interesting. The temporary buildings thrown up for the occasion might, it is true, be denominated _tawdry_; yet, strangely enough, there is no other people in the world who can deck out gewgaws with any thing like corresponding taste and effect.

The scene was on an immense scale. In an inconceivably short time, and almost as if by magic, a sort of amphitheatre was constructed in front of the Ecole Militaire, of magnitude sufficient to contain about 15,000 persons. Though only of planks and paper, it seemed of marble and bronze, and glowed with the richest velvets and most sumptuous gilding. In the centre arose an altar similar to those provided, in ancient sacrifices, for the _sacred fire_ to descend on; and at this altar Cardinal Cambaceres presided. A great proportion of the front of the military school was covered with crimson velvet, and the imperial throne was placed on the platform of the first story, facing the altar: around it were seats for the princes. I was not present at the actual ceremony within the great temporary edifice.

I had, on the inauguration, (as already stated,) fully satisfied myself as to the demeanour both of the emperor and the senators; but I had not seen the grand procession which had preceded; and on this occasion, as it was to be much more of a military character, and the emperor’s last public appearance before he joined the army to decide the fate of Europe, I was desirous of witnessing the spectacle, and accordingly engaged a window on the quay for my family, in a house close to the Pont de Jena, over which the whole must pass. We had thence a full view of the Champ de Mars, of the amphitheatre, and of the artificial mount whence the constitution was to be proclaimed by the emperor in person to the people.

Napoleon well knew the great importance of leaving a strong impression on public feeling. His posting from the coast to the Tuileries without interruption was the most extraordinary event in history, ancient or modern: but it was not _immediately_ followed up by any unusual circumstance, or any very splendid spectacle to rouse or gratify Parisian volatility. The retired official life of the emperor after his return (necessarily absorbed in business night and day) had altogether excited little or no stir, and still less expression of public feeling in the metropolis: in fact, the Parisians did not seem to feel so much interest about the state of affairs as they would have done upon the most unimportant occurrences: they made light of every thing except their _pleasure_, which always was and always will be the god of Paris: and never was any deity more universally and devoutly worshipped! The king’s flight to Ghent was then as little thought of or regarded as if he had gone to St. Cloud; and Napoleon’s arrival made as little stir as Louis’s departure. But the emperor was now about to go to battle; he was well aware of the treachery which surrounded him, and that on his success or discomfiture depended its explosion. He determined, therefore, as he had not time to counteract, to dissemble; and I have no doubt that to this circumstance alone Fouché knew he owed his existence. The month preceding Napoleon’s departure from Paris he became thoroughly acquainted with the intrigues of his minister; and I firmly believe that each was determined on the destruction of the other upon the first feasible opportunity, as the only means of securing himself. I do believe that Fouché would not have survived Bonaparte’s successful return more than four-and-twenty hours, and I equally believe that Fouché had actually meditated, and made some progress in providing for, Napoleon’s assassination. I made up my mind on these points, not from any _direct_ information, but from a process yclept by our great-grandmothers _spelling_ and _putting together_; and if the reader will be good enough to bear in mind what I have already told him, he will not be at a loss to understand _how_ my suspicions were excited.

In truth, the army _alone_ was sincerely and unanimously attached to the reinstated monarch. By his soldiers Bonaparte was, in every part of his career, almost _worshipped_. They seemed to regard him rather as a demigod; and nobody could be deceived as to their _entire_ devotion to the divinity which they had set up. But it was not so with the civil ranks of Paris.

I should tire myself and readers were I to describe the almost boyish anxiety which I felt when the firing of the ordnance announced the first movement of the emperor from the Tuileries to the Champ de Mars. I shall leave to the supposition of the reader the impression I received from the passing of the _cortége_. Let him picture to himself an immense army pouring along the spacious quays of Paris, in battalions and squadrons:—the enthusiasm of the soldiers, the bright cuirasses, the multitude of waving plumes, the magnificence of the marshals and their staff:—these, set off by the glowing sun, combined to implant in the mind of a person unaccustomed to such a sight the idea of almost certain victory.

What struck me most, was the appearance of a splendid, but not numerous regiment, in the costume of Turkish cavalry, mounted upon small barbs and dashingly accoutred: their officers rode, for the most part, piebald horses, many of which were caparisoned with breast armour, and decked with gaudy trappings. The uniform of the men was scarlet, with green cossack trowsers, immense turbans, and high plumes of feathers; the whole ornamented and laced in as splendid and glittering a style as ingenuity could dictate: their stirrups were foot-boards, and they had very crooked sabres and long lances. I believe these men were accoutred _en Mamelück_, and I mention them the more particularly, because I believe they did not go to Waterloo—at least not in that uniform. In calling to my recollection this superb scene, the hundred bands of martial music seem even at this moment to strike my ear. It seemed as if every instrument in Paris was in requisition! The trumpets and kettle-drums of the gaudy heralds; the deep sackbuts; the crashing cymbals; and the loud gongs of the splendid Mamelukes, bewildered both the ear and the imagination: at first they astonished, then gratified, and at length fatigued me. About the centre of this procession appeared its principal object, who, had he lived in times of less fermentation, would, in my opinion, have been a still greater statesman than he was a warrior. It is indisputable that it was Bonaparte who definitively freed the _entire_ continent of Europe from that democratic mania, of all other tyrannies the most cruel, savage, and unrelenting; and which was still in full, though less rapid progress, when he, by placing the diadem of France on his own brow, restored the _principle_ of monarchy to its vigour, and at one blow overwhelmed the many-headed monster of democratic revolution.

It has been the fashion, in England, to term Napoleon a “Corsican usurper.” We should have recollected Paoli before we _reproached_ him for being a _Corsican_, and we should have recurred to _our own_ annals and our great King William, who dethroned his _father_, before we called Napoleon a _usurper_. _He_ mounted a throne which had long been vacant; the decapitation of Louis, in which he _could_ have had no concern, had completely overwhelmed the dynasty of Bourbon, and Napoleon in a day re-established that monarchical form of government which _we_ had, with so much expense of blood and treasure, been for many years unsuccessfully attempting to restore. I cannot avoid repeating this pointed example of _our own inconsistency_. We actually made peace and concluded treaties with Napoleon Bonaparte when he was acting as a _republican_ (the very species of government against which we had so long combated); and we refused to listen to his most pacific demonstrations when he became a monarch![46]

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Footnote 46:

Another observation I cannot but make on this subject.—As events have
turned out, Napoleon only sat down on the throne of France to _keep it
for the Bourbons_. Had he remained a republican, as when we
acknowledged and made peace with him, the names of the whole family of
Louis would still have appeared on the pension list of England.

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This has I confess been a sad digression: but when I call to mind that last scene of Bonaparte’s splendour, I cannot altogether separate from it the prior portion of his history and that of Europe. I have mentioned that about the centre of the _cortége_ the emperor and his court appeared. It was the custom in France for every person of a certain rank to keep a sort of state-coach gaudily gilded and painted, and, in addition to the footmen, a chasseur to mount behind, dressed _en grande toilette_, with huge mustaches, immense feathers in his hat, and a large sabre depending from a broad-laced belt, which crossed his shoulder:—he was generally a muscular, fine-looking man, and always indicated rank and affluence in his master. Napoleon liked this state to be preserved by all his ministers, &c. He obliged every man in office to appear at court and in public according to the station he held; and instances were not wanting where the emperor, having discovered that an officer of rank had not pecuniary means to purchase a coach of ceremony, had made him a present of a very fine one. He repeatedly paid the debts of several of his marshals and generals, when he thought their incomes somewhat inadequate; and a case has been mentioned, where a high officer of his household had not money to purchase jewels for his wife, of Napoleon ordering a set to be presented to her with an injunction to wear them at court.

On this day he commanded the twelve mayors of Paris to appear in their carriages of ceremony; and, to do them justice, they were gilt and caparisoned as finely as time and circumstances could admit. Bonaparte himself sat alone, in a state coach with glass all round it: his feathers bowed deeply over his face, and consequently little more than the lower parts of it were quite uncovered. Whoever has marked the countenance of Napoleon must admit it to have been one of the most expressive ever created. I have already spoken of it as affected on distinct occasions; but I beg to be understood as distinguishing it from what is _generally_ called an expressive countenance; namely, one involuntarily and candidly proclaiming the feelings whereby its proprietor is actuated: the smile or the look of scorn, the blush, or the tear, serving not unfrequently to communicate matters which the lips would have kept secret. Though that species of expressive countenance may be commonly admired, it is often _inconvenient_, and would be perfectly unbefitting a king, a courtier, a gambler, a diplomatist, or, in short, a man in any station of life which renders it incumbent on him to _keep his countenance_. The lower portion of Bonaparte’s face (as I have mentioned in speaking of my first glance at it) was the finest I think I ever saw, and peculiarly calculated to set the feelings of others on speculation, without giving any decided intimation of his own. On the day of the promulgation, it occurred to me, and to my family likewise, as we saw him pass slowly under our window, that the unparalleled splendour of the scene failed in arousing him from that deep dejection which had apparently seized him ever since his return to Paris, and which doubtless arose from a consciousness of his critical situation, and the hollow ground whereon he trod. There was ill-timed languor in his general look: he smiled not, and took but little notice of any surrounding object. He appeared in fact _loaded_ with some presentiment, confined however to himself; for of all possible events, his approaching and sudden fate was last, I believe, in the contemplation of any person among that prodigious assembly. I apprehend the intelligence of Murat’s defeat in Italy had reached him about that time, and made a great impression on him.

Two marshals rode on each side Napoleon’s coach, and his three brothers occupied the next. I thought they all appeared cheerful; at least, no evil presentiments were visible in their countenances. After the emperor had passed my interest diminished. I was absorbed by reflection, and my mind was painfully diverted to the probable result of the impending contest, which would most likely plunge into a gory and crowded grave thousands of the gay and sparkling warriors who, full of the principle of life and activity, had that moment passed before me.

The crowds in the Champ de Mars; the firing of the artillery; the spirited bustle of the entire scene; and the return of the same _cortége_ after the new articles of the constitution had been proclaimed, left me in a state of absolute languor; and when I returned to my hotel, it required more than a single bottle of _Château Margot_ to restore the serenity of my over-excited nerves.

The rejoicings which followed the promulgation of the constitution were in a style of which I had no previous conception. I have already observed, and every person who has been much on the continent will bear me out in the remark, that no people are so very adroit at embellishment as the French. Our carpenters, paper-hangers, &c. know no more about Parisian embellishments than our plain cooks do of the hundred and twenty-six modes of cooking an egg, whereof every French _cuisinier_ is perfectly master.

Many temporary stands had been erected in the Champs d’Elysée, whence to toss out all species of provisions to the populace. Hams, turkeys, sausages, &c. &c. were to be had in abundance by scrambling for them. Twenty fountains of wine were set playing into the jars, cups, and pails of all who chose to adventure getting near them. A number of temporary theatres were constructed, and games of every description were dispersed throughout the green. Quadrilles and waltzes were practised every where around: all species of music was heard among the trees, together with regular bands in numerous orchestras; singing—juggling—in fine, every thing that could stamp the period of the emperor’s departure on the minds of the people were ordered to be put in requisition; and a scene of enjoyment ensued which, notwithstanding the bustle necessarily attendant, was conducted with the politeness and decorum of a drawing-room; with much more, indeed, than prevails at most of our public assemblies. No pick-pockets were heard of; no disputes of any description arose; the very lowest orders of the French _canaille_ appear on such occasions cleanly dressed, and their very nature renders them polite and courteous to each other. They make way with respect for _any_ woman, even from a duchess to a beggar; and it is a very paradise for _old_ ladies, who are just as politely treated as young ones.

At night, stretching across the whole of the Place Louis Quinze, was a transparent painting of Napoleon’s return from Elba, the mimic ship being of equal dimensions with the real one. Napoleon appeared on the deck, and the entire effect was most impressive.

The rejoicings concluded with a display of fireworks—a species of entertainment wherein I never delighted. It commenced with a flight of five thousand rockets, of various colours, at one _coup_, and was terminated by the ascent of a balloon loaded with every species of fire-work, in every form and device, and in an abundance I had no conception of; which, bursting high in the air, illuminated by their overpowering momentary blaze the whole atmosphere. At midnight, all, like an “unsubstantial pageant,” had faded away, leaving the ill-starred emperor[47] to pursue his route to partial victory, final defeat,—to ruin, incarceration and death.

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Footnote 47:

I have read with pleasure many parts of “Napoleon’s Second Reign,” by
Mr. Hobhouse. Though I do not coincide with that gentleman in all his
views of the subject, (differing from him _in toto_ as to some,) I
admit the justice of a great portion of his observations, and consider
the work, on the whole, as a very clever performance. In several
matters of description and anecdote he has anticipated me; and I
really think has treated them with as much accuracy, and in a much
more comprehensive manner, than I should, or perhaps _could_ have
done. Mine in fact is but a sketch—his a history. In some matters of
fact he appears to have been imperfectly informed: but they are not
errors of a sufficiently important nature to involve any charge of
general inaccuracy. I myself kept an ample diary of the events of the
Hundred Days, (of so much of them at least as I spent in Paris,) and
until the re-entry of Louis; and in fact subsequently, though less
regularly. From these documents I have extracted what I now publish;
but the whole may perhaps hereafter appear in its original shape.

I cannot but express my regret that Mr. Hobhouse did not remain in
Paris until _after_ Napoleon’s return from Belgium, when there was a
far wider and fairer field presented for the exercise of his pen. I
really conceive it will be a loss to literature if he does not recur
to that period (materials cannot be wanting): take up his own work
where he finished, and continue it until the evacuation of Paris by
the allied forces. The events of that interval are richly worth
recording; and it would fill up what is, as yet, nearly a blank in the
history of Europe.

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One remark in conclusion:—it was really extraordinary to witness the political apathy of the entire population, save the military. Scarce a single expression or indication of party feeling escaped in any direction. All seemed bent on their own pleasures, and on pleasure alone; careless whether the opportunity for its indulgence were afforded them by Napoleon or Louis—by preparations for peace or war—by the establishment of despotism or liberty. They were, I sincerely believe, absolutely weary of politics, and inclined to view any suggestion of that nature with emotions of total indifference. At all times, indeed, the Parisians prefer pleasure to serious speculation. The _wisest_ king of France will ever be that one who contrives to keep his “good citizens” constantly _amused_; and the most impolitic will be any monarch who _curbs_ their enjoyments. No Parisian will _fight_ if he can _dance_. I very lately saw a collection of men who were going about in the evening in Rue de Sevres, crying “_à bas Villele!_” &c. &c., and seeming to be bent on some immediate mischief, stop short to hear an old clarionet player, a long drum, and a barrel organ; and being joined by some ladies of their own class, in ten minutes they were quadrilling with as much politeness as the Almackers.

LAST DAYS OF THE IMPERIAL GOVERNMENT.

Rejoicings on Napoleon’s victory over Blucher and surprise of Lord
Wellington—Bulletin issued at St. Cloud—Budget of news communicated by
a French cockney—Author’s alarm on account of his family—Proposes
quitting Paris—Information of Henry Thevenot: confirmed at
Lafitte’s—Napoleon’s return from Waterloo—The author’s sources of
intelligence—His visits to the Chamber of Deputies—Garat, minister of
justice at the period of Louis’s decapitation—The _Rousseau Mss._ and
their peculiar utility to the author—Fouché’s treachery—Vacillating
plan to inform Napoleon thereof, through Count Thibaudeau—Observations
on the vicissitudes and political extinction of Bonaparte.

The emperor having left Paris to take command of the army in Belgium, the garrison left in that city was necessarily very inconsiderable. It was the universal belief that the allies would be surprised by a simultaneous attack, and the event in some degree warranted this supposition. The result was—a double defeat of Blucher; the separation of the Prussian and British armies; the consequent retreat of Lord Wellington upon Brussels; the march of Grouchy upon that city; and the advance of Napoleon; all this the work of two days only. The impatience of the Parisians for news may be easily conceived; nor were they long kept in suspense. Meanwhile, there ran through the whole mass of society a suspicion that treachery was on foot, but nobody could guess in what shape it would explode. The assassination of Napoleon was certainly supposed to have been then spoken of, and was a thing in contemplation. The disaffection of sundry general officers and others was likewise publicly discussed at the Palais Royal; but no _names_ were mentioned except Fouché’s.

On Sunday, the 18th of June, at day-break, I was roused by the noise of artillery. I arose and instantly sallied out to inquire the cause: nobody could at the moment inform me; but it was soon announced that it was public rejoicings on account of a great victory gained by Napoleon over the Prussians, commanded by Blucher, and the English, by the Duke of Wellington: that the allies had been partly surprised, and were in rapid retreat, followed by the emperor and flanked by Grouchy: that a lancer had arrived as courier, and given many details, one of which was, that our light dragoons, under Lord Anglesey, had been completely destroyed.

I immediately determined to quit Paris for the day. It was Sunday: every body was a-foot; the drums were beating in all directions, and it was impossible to say how the _canaille_ might, in exultation at the victory, be disposed to act by the English in Paris. We therefore set out early, and breakfasted at St. Cloud. The report of the victory had reached that village, but I perceived no indication of any great feeling on the subject. We adjourned to Bagatelle, in the very pretty gardens of which we sauntered about till dinner-time.

This victory did not surprise me; for when I saw the magnificent and to me almost innumerable array of troops on the occasion of the Promulgation, and before, I had adopted the unmilitary idea that they _must be_ invincible. As yet we had heard no certain particulars: about eleven o’clock, however, printed bulletins were liberally distributed, announcing an unexpected attack on the Prussian and English armies with the purpose of dividing them, which purpose was stated to be fully accomplished; the Duke of Brunswick killed; the Prince of Orange wounded; two Scotch regiments broken and sabred; Lord Wellington in full retreat; Blucher’s army absolutely ruined; and the emperor in full march for Brussels, where the Belgian army would join the French, and march unitedly for Berlin. The day was rather drizzling: we took shelter in the grotto, and were there joined by some Parisian shopkeeper and his family, who had come out from the capital for their recreation. This man told us a hundred incidents which were circulated in Paris with relation to the battle. Among other things, it was said, that if the emperor’s generals did their duty, the campaign might be already considered over, since every man in France and Belgium would rise in favour of the emperor. He told us news had arrived, that the Austrians were to be neutral, and that the Russians durst advance no further; that the king of Prussia would be dethroned; and that it was generally believed Lord Wellington would either be dead or in the castle of Vincennes by Wednesday morning! This budget of intelligence our informant communicated himself in a very _neutral_ way, and without betraying the slightest symptom either of gratification or the reverse; and as it was impossible to doubt the main point (the defeat), I really began, from the bulletin, to think all was lost, and that it was high time to consider how we should get out of France forthwith; more particularly as the emperor’s absence from Paris would, by leaving it at the mercy of the populace, render that city no longer a secure residence for the subjects of a hostile kingdom; and, in fact, the _marais_ had already shown great impatience at the restraints of the police, and had got wind of Fouché’s having smuggled a quantity of arms out of Paris, which was a _fact_: he sent them to Vincennes. How singular was it that, at the very moment I was receiving this news,—at the instant when I conceived Napoleon again the conqueror of the world, and the rapidity of his success as only supplementary to the rapidity of his previous return, and a prelude to fresh achievements, that bloody and decisive conflict was actually at its height, which had been decreed by Providence to _terminate_ Napoleon’s political existence! What an embarrassing problem to the mind of a casuist must a speculation be, as to the probable results, had this day ended differently!

Our minds were now made up to quit Paris on the following Thursday; and, as the securest course, to get down to St. Maloes, and thence to Jersey, or some of the adjacent islands: and without mentioning our intention, I determined to make every preparation connected with the use of the _sauf conduit_ which I had procured on my first arrival in Paris. But Fate decreed it otherwise. Napoleon’s destiny had been meantime decided, and my flight became unnecessary.

On returning to Paris, we found every thing quiet. On that very Sunday night my servant, Henry Thevenot, told me that he had heard the French had got entangled in a forest, and met a repulse. He said he had been told this at a public house in Rue Mont Blanc.

I feared the man: I suspected him to be on the _espionnage_ establishment, and therefore told him to say no more to me about the war, and that I wished much to be in England.

About nine on Wednesday morning, as soon as I rose, Thevenot again informed me, with a countenance which gave no indication of his own sentiments, that the French were _totally defeated_; that the emperor had returned to Paris; and that the English were in full march to the capital.

I always dreaded lest the language of _my servant_ might in some way implicate _me_, and I now chid him for telling me so great a falsehood.

“It is _true_,” returned he.

Still I could not believe it; and I gave him notice, on the spot, to quit my service. He received this intimation with much seeming indifference, and his whole deportment impressed me with suspicion. I went immediately, therefore, to Messrs. Lafitte, my bankers, and the first person I saw was my friend, Mr. Phillips, very busily employed at his desk in the outside room.

“Do you know, Phillips,” said I, “that I have been obliged to turn off my servant for spreading a report that the French are beaten and the emperor returned?”

Phillips, without withdrawing his eyes from what he was engaged on, calmly and concisely replied, “It is true enough.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed I.

“Quite possible,” returned this man of few words, still without looking off his account book.

“Where is Napoleon?” said I.

“In the Palais de Bourbon Elysée,” said he.

I saw it was vain to expect further communication from Mr. Phillips, and I went into an inner chamber to Mr. Clermont, who seemed however more taciturn than the other.

Being most anxious to learn all the facts, I proceeded to the Palais d’Elysée, my scepticism having meanwhile undergone great diminution from seeing an immense number of splendid equipages darting through the streets, filled with full-dressed men, plentifully adorned with stars and orders. When I got to the palace I found the court full of carriages, and a large body of the national guard under arms: yet I could scarcely believe my eyes; but I soon learned the principal fact from a hundred mouths and with a thousand different details:—my informants agreeing only on one point—namely, that the army was defeated _by treachery_, and that the emperor had returned to Paris in quest of new _matériel_. Groups and crowds were collecting every where, and confusion reigned triumphant.

Being somewhat rudely driven out of the court-yard, I now went round to the Champs d’Elysée, at the rear of the palace. Sentinels, belonging to Napoleon’s guard, were by this time posted outside the terrace that skirts the garden. They would permit no person to approach close; but I was near enough to discern Napoleon walking deliberately backward and forward, in easy conversation with two persons whom I conceived to be his uncle, Cardinal Fesch, and Count Bertrand; and I afterward heard that I was right. The emperor wore a short blue coat and a small three-cocked hat, and held his hands behind his back, seemingly in a most tranquil mood. Nobody could in fact suppose he was in any agitation whatever, and the cardinal appeared much more earnest in the conversation than himself. I stood there about fifteen minutes, when the sentries ordered us off; and as I obeyed, I saw Napoleon walk up toward the palace.

I never saw the emperor of the French after that day, which was, in fact, the last of his actual reign. It ought to have been the last day of his existence, or the first of some new series of achievements: but Fate had crushed the man, and he could rouse himself no more. Though I think he could count but scantily on the fidelity of the national guards, yet he was in possession of Montmartre, which the old guard had occupied. Paris was quite within his power; and, as the event proved, another and a very powerful army might soon have been gathered about him. Perhaps, too, had Bonaparte rallied _in good earnest_, he might have succeeded in working even on the very pride of his former subjects to free the soil of the _grande nation_ from foreign invasion. The people of the _marais_ appeared in crowds, quite wild, and I apprehend nearly ungovernable.

Madame Le Jeune, the mistress of the hotel wherein we resided, was sister to General Le Jeune, the painter who executed those noble pieces of the battles of Jena and Austerlitz, which were formerly in the outside room at the gallery of the Tuileries. I am no judge of painting, but I think every thing he did (and his pieces were numerous) possessed great effect. Through him, until the siege terminated by the surrender of Paris, we learned all that was going on among the French; and through Doctor Marshall and Col. Macirone I daily became acquainted with the objects of the English.

After Napoleon had been making faint and fruitless endeavours to induce the deputies to grant him the _matériel_ and aid him in a new armament, their coldness to himself individually became too obvious to be misconstrued: fortune had in fact forsaken Napoleon, and friends too often follow fortune; and it soon became notorious that Fouché had every disposition to seal his master’s destruction. The emperor had, however, still many true and faithful friends—many ardent partisans on whose fidelity he might rely. He had an army which _could_ not be estranged, which no misfortune could divert from him. But his enemies (including the timid and neutral among the deputies) appeared to me decidedly to outnumber those who would have gone _far_ in ensuring his reinstatement. Tranquillity seemed to be the general wish, and the re-equipment of Napoleon would have rendered that unattainable.

Nevertheless, the deputies proceeded calmly on their business, and events every day assumed a more extraordinary appearance. The interval between the emperor’s return from Waterloo and his final abdication—between his departure for Malmaison and the siege of Paris—was of the most interesting and important nature; and so great was my curiosity to be aware of passing events, that I am conscious I went much farther lengths than prudence would have warranted.

During the debates of the deputies after Napoleon’s return, I was almost daily present. I met a gentleman who procured me a free admission, and through whom I became acquainted, by name with most, and personally with many, of the most celebrated characters, not only of the current time, but also those who had flourished during the different stages of the revolution. I was particularly made known to Garat, who had been minister of justice at the time Louis XVI. was beheaded, and had read to him his sentence and conducted him to the scaffold. Although he had not voted for the king’s death, he durst not refuse to execute his official functions; his attendance therefore could not be considered as voluntary. He was at this time one of the deputies. His person would well answer the idea of a small, slight, sharp-looking, lame _tailor_; but his conversation was acute, rational, and temperate. He regarded Napoleon as lost beyond all redemption; nor did he express any great regret hereat, seeming to be a man of much mental reservation. I suspect he had been too much of a genuine republican, and of too democratic and _liberal_ a policy, ever to have been any great admirer even of the most splendid of monarchs. I think he was sent out of Paris on the king’s restoration.

My friend having introduced me to the librarian of the Chamber of Deputies, I was suffered to sit in the ante-room, or library, whenever I chose, and had consequently a full opportunity of seeing the ingress and egress of the deputies, who frequently formed small groups in the ante-room, and entered into earnest although brief conferences. My ready access to the gallery of the house itself enabled me likewise to know the successive _objects_ of their anxious solicitude.

The librarian was particularly obliging, and suffered me to see and examine many of the most curious old documents. But the original manuscript of Rousseau’s “Confessions,” and of his “Eloisa,” afforded me a real treat. His writing is as legible as print: the “Eloisa,” a work of mere fancy, without one obliteration; while the “Confessions,” which the author put forth as matter of _fact_, are, oddly enough, full of alterations in every page.

When I wished for an hour of close observation, I used to draw my chair to a window, get Rousseau into my hand, and, while apparently rivetted on his “Confessions,” watch from the corner of my eye the earnest gesticulation and ever-varying countenances of some agitated group of deputies: many of them, as they passed by, cast a glance on the object of my attention, of which I took care that they should always have a complete view.

Observing one day a very unusual degree of excitement amongst the members in the chamber, and perceiving the sally of the groups into the library to be more frequent and earnest than ordinary, I conceived that something very mysterious was in agitation. I mentioned my suspicions to a well-informed friend: he nodded assent, but was too wise or too timorous to give any opinion on so ticklish a subject. I well knew that Napoleon had been betrayed, because I had learned from an authentic source that _double_ dispatches had been actually sent by Fouché to the allies, and that the embassy to the emperor of Russia, from M. Lafitte, &c. had been some hours anticipated and _counteracted_ by the chief commissioner of government.

It was clear to every body that Napoleon had lost his fortitude: in fact, to judge by his conduct, he seemed so feeble and irresolute that he had ceased to be formidable, and it occurred to me that some sudden and strong step was in the contemplation of his true friends to raise his energies once more, and stimulate him to resistance. I was led to think so, particularly, by hearing some of his warmest partisans publicly declare that, if he had not lost all feeling both for himself and France, he should take the alternative of either reigning again or dying in the centre of his still-devoted army.

The next day confirmed my surmises. A letter had been written without signature,[48] addressed to Count Thibaudeau, disclosing to him in detail the treachery of Fouché, &c. and advising the emperor _instantly_ to arrest the traitors, unfold the treason to the chambers, then put himself at the head of his guards, re-assemble the army at Vilette, and, before the allies could unite at Paris, make one effort more to save France from subjugation. This was, I have reason to believe, the purport of the letter; and I also learned the mode and hour determined on to convey it to Count Thibaudeau. It was to be slipped into the letter-box in the ante-room of the chamber, which was used, as I have already mentioned, as a library. I was determined to ascertain the fact; and, seated in one of the windows, turning over the leaves and copying passages out of my favourite manuscript, I could see plainly where the letter-box was placed, and kept it constantly in my eye. The crowd was always considerable; groups were conversing; notes and letters were every moment put into the box for delivery; but I did not see the person who I believed was about to give Count Thibaudeau the information. At length, however, I saw him warily approach the box: he was obviously agitated—so much so indeed, that far from _avoiding_, his palpable timidity would have _excited_ observation. He had the note in his hand: he looked around him, put his hand toward the box, withdrew it, changed colour, made a second effort—and, his resolution again faltering, walked away without effecting his purpose. I afterward learned that the letter had been destroyed, and that Count Thibaudeau received no intimation till too late.

-----

Footnote 48:

The writer of that letter, whose real politics I was extremely
doubtful of, but which I afterward perceived were unfixed and
speculative, lived to become an _ultra_ loyalist. He was a British
subject, and a bigot in _every thing_: his prejudices _pro_ or _con_
were invincible. He died long since the first edition of this book was
published.

-----

This was an incident fraught with portentous results: had that note been dropped, as intended, into the box, the fate of Europe might have remained long undecided; Fouché would _surely_ have met his due reward; Bonaparte would have put himself at the head of the army assembling at Vilette—numerous, enthusiastic, and desperate. Neither the Austrian nor Russian armies were within reach of Paris; while that of the French would, I believe, in point of numbers, have exceeded the English and Prussian united force: and it is more than probable, that the most exterminating battle which ever took place between two great armies, would have been fought in the suburbs, perhaps _in the boulevards_ of Paris.

Very different indeed were the consequences of that suppression. The evil genius of Napoleon pressed down the balance; and instead of any chance of remounting his throne, he forfeited both his _character_ and his life; while Fouché, dreading the risk of detection, devised a plan to get the emperor clear out of France, and either _end_ him, or at least put him into the power of the British government, as is detailed in a subsequent chapter.

This last occurrence marked finally the destiny of Napoleon. Fortune had not only _forsaken_, she had _mocked_ him! She tossed about, and played with, before she destroyed her victim—one moment giving him hopes which only rendered despair more terrible the next. After what I saw of his downfall, no public event, no revolution, can ever excite in my mind one moment of surprise. I have seen, and deeply feel, that we are daily deceived in our views of every thing and every body, public and private.

Bonaparte’s last days of power were certainly full of tremendous vicissitudes:—on one elated by a great victory—on the next overwhelmed by a fatal overthrow. Hurled from a lofty throne into the deepest profundity of misfortune; bereft of his wife and only child; persecuted by his enemies; abandoned by his friends; betrayed by his ministers; humbled, depressed, paralysed;—his proud heart died within him; his great spirit was quenched; and, after a grievous struggle, Despair became his conqueror, and Napoleon Bonaparte degenerated into an ordinary mortal.

DETENTION AT VILETTE.

Negotiation between the provisional government of Paris and the
allies—Col. Macirone’s mission—The author crosses the barrier of the
French army, misses the colonel, and is detained on suspicion—Led
before Marshal Davoust, Prince d’Eckmuhl and commander-in-chief of the
forces at Vilette—The marshal’s haughty demeanour, and the
imprecations of the soldiery—A friend in need; or, one good turn
deserves another—Remarks of a French officer on the battle of
Waterloo—Account of the physical and moral strength and disposition of
the army at Vilette—Return of the _parlementaires_—Awkward mistake of
one of the sentries—Liberation of the author—Marshal Davoust’s
expressions to the negotiators.

In the month of July, 1815, there was a frequent intercourse of _parlementaires_ between the commissioners of the French government and the allies. Davoust, Prince d’Eckmuhl, commanded the French army assembled at Vilette and about the Canal d’Ourk, a neighbourhood where many thousand Russians had fallen in the battle of the preceding summer. I had the greatest anxiety to see the French army; and Col. Macirone informing me that he was to be sent out with one of Fouché’s despatches to the Duke of Wellington, I felt no apprehension, being duly armed with my _sauf-conduit_, and thought I might take that opportunity of passing the Barrier de Roule, and strolling about until Macirone’s carriage should come up. It however drove rapidly by me, and I was consequently left in rather an awkward situation, not knowing the localities, and the sentry refusing to suffer me to re-enter.

I did not remain long in suspense, being stopped by two officers, who questioned me in French somewhat tartly as to my presumption in passing the sentries, “who,” said they, “must have mistaken you for one of the commissaries’ attendants.” I produced my passport, which stood me in no further advantage than to ensure a very _civil_ arrest. I was directly taken a long way to the quarters of Marshal Davoust, who was at the time breakfasting on grapes and bread in a very good hotel near the canal. He showed at first a sort of austere indifference that was extremely disagreeable to me: but on my telling him who I was, and every thing relating to the transaction, the manifestation of my candour struck him so forcibly, that he said I was at liberty to walk about, but not to repass the lines till the return of the _parlementaires_, and further inquiry made about me. I was not altogether at my ease: the prince was now very polite; but I knew nobody, and was undoubtedly a suspicious person. However, I was civilly treated by the officers who met me, and on the contrary received many half-English curses from several soldiers who, I suppose, had been prisoners in England. I was extremely hungry and much fatigued, and kept on the bank of the canal, as completely out of the way of the military as I could.

I was at length accosted in my own language by an elderly officer, tall and _distingué_ in his appearance.

“Sir,” said he, “I think I have seen you in England?”

“I have not the honour to recollect having met you, sir,” replied I.

“I shall not readily forget it,” rejoined the French officer: “do you remember being, about two years since, in the town of Odiham?”

“Very well,” said I.

“You recollect some French officers who were prisoners there? There were two ladies with you.”

These words at once brought the circumstance to my mind, and I answered, “I do now recollect seeing you perfectly.”

“Yes,” said my interlocutor, “I was one of the three officers who were pelted with mud by the _garçons_ in the streets of Odiham; and do you remember striking one of the _garçons_ who followed us, for their conduct?”

“I do not forget it, sir,” said I.

“Come with me then,” pursued he, “and we’ll talk it over in another place.”

The fact had been as he represented. A few French officers, prisoners at Odiham, were sometimes, as they told me, roughly treated by the mob. Passing by chance one day with Lady Barrington and my daughter through the streets of that town, I saw a great number of boys following, hooting and hissing the French officers, and throwing dirt at them. I struck two or three of these idle dogs with my cane, and rapped at the constable’s door, who immediately came out and put them to flight,—interfering, however, rather reluctantly on the part of what he called the “d—d _French_ * * * *.” I expressed and felt great indignation; the officers thanked me warmly, and I believe were all shortly after removed to Oswestry: they were much disliked on that side of London.

My French friend told me that his two comrades at Odiham were killed—the one at Waterloo, and the other by a waggon passing over him at Charleroi, on the 16th of June; and that scarcely an officer who had been prisoner at his _dépôt_ at Oswestry had survived the last campaign. He gave me in his room near Vilette wine, bread, and grapes, with dried sausages well seasoned with garlic, and a glass of eau-de-vie. I was highly pleased at this rencontre. My companion was a most intelligent person, and communicative to the utmost extent of my curiosity. His narrative of many of the events of the battles of the 16th and 18th ult. was most interesting, and carried with it every mark of candour. The minutes rolled away speedily in his company, and seemed to me indeed far too fleeting.

He had not been wounded, though in the heat of both engagements. He attributed the loss of the battle to three causes:—the wanton expenditure of the cavalry; the uncovering of the right wing by Grouchy; and the impetuosity of Napoleon, in ordering the last attack by the old guard, which he should have postponed till next day. He said he had no doubt that the Belgian troops would all have left the field before morning. He had been engaged on the left, and did not see the Prussian attack; but said, that it had the effect of consolidating all the different corps of the French army into a confused mass, which lost the battle.

He told me that Napoleon was forced off the field by the irresistible crowds which the advance of the English cavalry had driven into disorder, while there was not a possibility of rallying a single squadron of their own. His episodes respecting the occurrences of that day were most affecting, and I believe true.

In this agreeable society my spirits mounted again, and I soon acquired courage sufficient to express my great anxiety to see the army, adding, that I durst not go alone. My friend immediately took me under his arm, and walked with me through the whole lines, introducing me to several of his comrades, and acting throughout in the kindest and most gentlemanly manner. This was precisely the opportunity I had so long wished for of viewing the French troops, which were then full of impetuosity and confidence, and eager for battle. Neither the Russians nor Austrians had reached Paris, and it was supposed Davoust would anticipate the attack of the other allies, who only waited for the junction of these powers and their heavy artillery to recommence operations. The scene was so new to me, so impressive, and so important, that it was only on my return home my mind got steady enough to organise its ideas, and permit me to take coherent notes of what I had witnessed.

The battle of Waterloo was understood to have dispersed so entirely the French army,—that powerful and glorious display of heroes and of arms which a very few days previously had passed before my eyes,—that scarcely ten men (except Grouchy’s division) returned in one body to Paris; and those who did return were in such a state of wretchedness and depression, that I took for granted the spirit of the French army had been _extinguished_—their battalions never to be rallied—their courage thoroughly cooled! I considered that the assembly in the vicinity of Vilette could not be numerous, and was more calculated to make a show for better terms than to resist the conquerors. How great then must have been my astonishment when the evening parades turned out, as the officers informed me, _above sixty-five thousand infantry_, which, with artillery and cavalry, reached together near 80,000 men. I thought several of the privates had drunk rather too much: but whether sober or not, they seemed to be all in a state of wild, enthusiastic excitement—little removed from insubordination, but directly tending to hostility and battle. Whole companies cried aloud, as the superior officers passed them, “_Mon Général—à l’attaque!—l’ennemi! l’ennemi!—allons! allons!_” others shouted “_Nous sommes trahis! trahison! trahison! à la bataille! à la bataille!_” Crowds of them, as if by instinct or for pastime, would rush voluntarily together, and in a moment form a long column, then disperse and execute some other manœuvre; while others, dispersed in groups, sang in loud chorus sundry war songs, wherein _les Prusses_ and _les Anglais_ were the general theme.

I had no conception how it was possible that, in a few days after such a total dispersion of the French army, another could be so rapidly collected, and which, though somewhat less numerous, the officer told me evinced double the enthusiasm of those who had formed the defeated corps. They had now it is true the stimulus of that defeat to urge them desperately on to retrieve that military glory which had been so awfully obscured; their artillery was most abundant; and we must never forget that the French soldier is always better informed, and possessed of more _morale_ than our own. In truth, I really do believe there was scarcely a man in that army at Vilette who would willingly have quitted the field of battle alive, unless victorious.

Though their tumultuous excitement certainly at this time bore the appearance of insubordination, my conductor assured me I was mistaken in forming such a judgment: he admitted that they durst not check that exuberant zeal on the instant; but added, that when the period arrived to form them for battle, not a voice would be heard—not a limb move, till the attack commenced, except by order of their leaders; and that if the _traitors in Paris_ suffered them once more to try their fortune, he did not think there was an individual in that army who entertained a doubt of the result.

In the production of this confidence, party spirit was doubtless mixed up: but no impartial observer could deny, that had the troops at Vilette been heartily joined by the national guards and country volunteers then within the walls of Paris, the consequence would have been at least extremely problematical; and if the _marais_ had been armed with pikes, the whole would have been overwhelming.

The day passed on, and I still strolled about with my polite conductor, whom I begged to remain with me. He was not an officer of high rank: I believe a captain of the eighty-first infantry—very thin and worn, gentlemanly, and had seen long service.

From this crowd of infuriated soldiers, he led me farther to the left, whither a part of the old guard, who had been I believe quartered at Montmartre, had been that evening removed. I had, as the reader will perhaps recollect, a previous opportunity of admiring that unrivalled body of veteran warriors; and their appearance this evening interested me beyond measure. Every man looked like an Ajax, exhibiting a firmness of step and of gesture at once formidable and even graceful. At the same time, I fancied that there was a cast of melancholy over their bronzed countenances. When I compare that corps to the ordinary-looking troops now generally composing the guardians of that once military nation, I can scarcely avoid sighing while I exclaim _tempora mutantur_! I returned to the barrier with my friend, after a long walk.