COMMENCEMENT OF THE HUNDRED DAYS.
A family council—Journey from Havre to Paris—Attention of the French officers to the author and his party—Peaceable condition of the intervening country—Thoughts on revolutions in general—Ireland in 1798—Arrival in the French capital—Admirable state of the police—Henry Thevenot—Misgivings of the author—His interview with Count Bertrand—Polite conduct of the Count—The Emperor’s chapel—Napoleon at mass—His deportment—Treasonable garments—Col. Gowen—Military inspection after mass—Alteration in the manner of the Emperor—Enthusiasm of the soldiers.
To see Napoleon, or not to see Napoleon,—that was the question! and well weighed it was in my domestic republic. After a day’s reasoning, pro and con, (curiosity being pitted against fear, and women in the question,) the matter was still undecided, when our friends the colonel and the dirty doctor came to visit us, and set the point at rest, by stating that the regiments at Havre had declared unanimously for the emperor, and that the colonel had determined to march next day direct upon Paris; that therefore if we were disposed to go thither, and would set off at the same time, the doctor should take care of our safety, and see that we had good cheer on our journey to the metropolis.
This proposal was unanimously adopted; we were at peace with France, and might possibly remain so; and the curiosity of three ladies, with my own to back it, proved to be totally irresistible. A new sub-prefect also having arrived in the town, came to see us; expressed his regret that the English should have deemed it necessary to quit the place; and gave us a letter of introduction to his wife, who lived in the Rue St. Honoré, at Paris. We all believed there would be no war.
We immediately packed up. I procured three stout horses to my carriage, and away we went after the advanced guard of the (as well as I recollect) 41st regiment. The soldiers seemed to me as if they thought they never could get to Napoleon soon enough: they marched with surprising rapidity; and after a most agreeable journey, we arrived at the good city of Paris without any let or hindrance; having experienced from the dirty doctor every possible attention. We were sure of the best cheer at any place we halted at; and the more so as the advanced guard only preceded us one stage, and the main body of the troops was a stage behind us. We were immediately escorted by four mounted soldiers, who were in attendance upon our medical friend. I have learnt since that this kind and firm-hearted man escaped the campaign and returned to Italy: the colonel was shot dangerously at Quatre Bras, but I understand his wounds did not prove mortal.
Our route from Havre to Paris exhibited one general scene of peace and tranquillity, not dashed by the slightest symptom of revolution. The national guards every where appeared to have got new clothing, and were most assiduously learning in the villages to hold up their heads, and take long strides and lock steps, but (for any thing that appeared to the contrary) solely for their own amusement. The same evidences of undisturbed serenity and good-humour were displayed in all directions, and the practice of military exercises by the national guards was the only warlike indication of any kind throughout the whole extent of country we traversed.
On our arrival at the capital we found no exception therein to the tranquillity of the provinces. People at a distance are apt to conceive that a revolution must necessarily be a most terrific affair—a period of anarchy and confusion, when every thing is in a state of animosity, bustle, and insecurity. This is in some instances a great mistake; (although, generally speaking, true enough;) for, on the other hand, many modern revolutions have been effected, governments upset, dynasties annihilated, and kings trucked, with as little confusion as the exchanging a gig-horse. I have indeed seen more work made about the change of a hat than of a diadem; more anxiety expressed touching a cane than a sceptre; and never did any revolution more completely prove the truth of these remarks than that in France during March, 1815, when Napoleon quietly drove up post, in a chaise and four, to the palace of the Bourbons, and Louis XVIII. as quietly drove off post, in a chaise and four, to avoid his visitor. Both parties, too, were driven back again, within three months, pretty nearly in the same kind of vehicle! Let my reader compare, for his edification, this bloodless revolution with the attempt at revolution in the obscure corner of the globe from whence I sprang, Anno Domini 1798 during the brief summer of which year there was, in secluded Ireland, (the kingdom of Ireland, as it was then called,) more robbery, shooting, hanging, burning, piking, flogging, and picketing, than takes place in half a dozen of the best got-up continental revolutions—always excepting that great convulsion which agitated our French neighbours toward the close of the eighteenth century.
During the interval of the Hundred Days, and some time subsequently, I kept a regular diary, wherein I accurately took down every important circumstance, except some which I then considered much safer in my mind than under my hand; and a few of these are now, for the first time, submitted to the public. After some days’ stay in Paris, I began to feel rather awkward. I found very few of my fellow-countrymen had remained there, and that there seemed to exist but little partiality toward the English. But the police was perfect, and no outrage, robbery, or breach of the peace was heard of; nor could I find that there were any political prisoners in the gaols, or in fact many prisoners of any kind. No dissolutes were suffered to parade the streets or contaminate the theatres; and all appeared polite, tranquil, and correct. I kept totally clear, meanwhile, both in word and deed, of political subjects.
I hired as footman a person then very well known in Paris, Henry Thevenot. I have since heard (but cannot vouch for the fact) that he is the Thevenot who attended Mr. Wakefield and Miss Turner. I have likewise recently been apprised that, at the time I engaged him, he was actually on the police establishment. Be that as it may, I certainly always considered Thevenot to be a mysterious kind of person, and, on one particular occasion, which will be hereafter mentioned, discharged him suddenly, without enlarging on my reasons: he was however an excellent servant. I had brought a passport from the new Sous-Préfet at Havre, which having lodged at the police-office, I felt quite at my ease; but, reflecting afterward upon the probable consequence in case of war or change of circumstances, I determined at once to take a bold step and go to the Palais de Bourbon Elysée, (where Napoleon resided,) and endeavour to see Count Bertrand, whom I proposed to inform truly of my situation, and ask for a carte de sureté, or a passport to return.
On the second day whereon I made an attempt to see him, with difficulty I succeeded in obtaining an audience. I told the count who I was, and all the facts, together with my doubts as to the propriety of remaining. He very politely said I should have what I required, but that a gentleman in my station was perfectly safe, and there could be no difficulty as to my remaining as long as I chose; and concluded by bowing me out, after a very short interview. As I was going down the steps an officer recalled me, and asked if I had any family in Paris. I replied in the affirmative—three ladies: mutual bows ensued, and I returned very well satisfied with the result of my visit to the Palais de Bourbon Elysée. At that time the emperor was employed day and night on business in the palace: at daybreak he occasionally rode out with some of his staff, to inspect the works at Montmartre; and on hearing this, my ancient curiosity to see so distinguished a person came afresh upon me.
The ensuing day, a man with a large letter-box buckled before him entered our apartment without the least ceremony, and delivered a letter with “Bertrand” signed at the corner. I was rather startled at the moment, as the occurrence certainly looked singular: nevertheless, the man’s appearance and manner were not such as to confirm unpleasant surmises, and I proceeded to unseal the envelope, which enclosed a billet to the Commissaire de Police at the prefecture, desiring him to grant me a carte de sureté and a sauf conduit through any part of France, if I chose to travel in that country—(the signature was not that of Bertrand):—the packet also contained a polite note from an aide-de-camp of the count, mentioning that he was directed to enclose me an admission to the emperor’s chapel, &c. and to say that, on production of my carte de sureté, our party would find a free admission to the theatres and other spectacles of Paris.—So much politeness (so very different from what would have been the case in England) both gratified and surprised me. I wrote a letter of thanks; but at our privy council, we agreed that, under existing circumstances, it would be better to say nothing of the latter favour. I afterward discovered the friendly quarter through which it originated.
We hired a calèche by the month, and set out with a determination to lose no time in seeing whatever was interesting; and in fact every thing was at that moment interesting to strangers. We spoke French sufficiently well for ordinary purposes; and determined, in short, to make ourselves as comfortable as possible.
I have already observed that I kept a diary during the Hundred Days, but afterward thought it most prudent not to commit any thing very important to writing. From that diary, so far as I pursued it, (and from scraps which nobody could understand but myself,) I have since selected some details and observations which have not hitherto been published, and for the collection of which my peculiar situation at Paris, and consequent opportunities, abundantly qualified me. Consistently with the foregoing part of these fragments, I shall not even attempt any thing like strict order or chronological arrangement, but leave, generally speaking, the various subjects brought before the reader’s attention to illustrate and explain each other. On this principle, I shall now, without further prelude, describe the first scene which impressed itself on my imagination.
The first Sunday after the receipt of our permission we repaired to the emperor’s chapel, to see that wonderful man, and to hear mass chanted in the first style of church music. Napoleon had already entered: the chapel was full; but we got seats very low down, near the gallery in which the emperor sat; and as he frequently leaned over the front, I had opportunities of partially seeing him. In the presence of so celebrated a man as Bonaparte, all other things sank into comparative insignificance, and the attention of the spectator was wholly absorbed by the one great object. Thus, in the present case, there was nothing either in the chapel or congregation that had power to divide my regards with the great Napoleon. As I have said, he often leaned over the front of the gallery wherein he sat; and I had thence an opportunity of observing that he seemed quite restless, took snuff repeatedly, stroked down his head with an abstracted air—and, in fact, was obviously possessed by feelings of deep anxiety. I should not suppose he had at the moment the least consciousness as to where he was, and that, of all things, the priests and the mass were the last likely to occupy his thoughts.
Whilst thus employed in reconnoitring the emperor as intensely as stolen glances afforded me means of doing, a buzz in the chapel caused me to turn round to ascertain its cause. Though low, it increased every moment, and was palpably directed toward us—so much so, that no doubt remained of our being somehow or other the sole objects of it. I then whispered my companions that our presence was evidently offensive in that place, and that we had better retire, when a French lady who sat near Lady Barrington, said to her, “Madame, you perceive that you are the object of this uncourteous notice.”—“Yes,” replied she, “it is become quite obvious.” The French lady smiled, and continued, “You had better lay aside your shawls!”—Lady Barrington and my daughter accordingly, taking the hint, threw off the shawls, which they suffered to drop at their feet, and at once the buzzing subsided, and no further explanation took place until the conclusion of the service.
At that moment several French ladies came up with great courtesy, to apologise for the apparent rudeness of the congregation, which they begged Lady Barrington to excuse on account of its cause, and to examine her shawl, on doing which, she would perceive that it was very unlucky (bien mal à propos) to wear such a one in presence of the emperor. She did so, and found that both hers and my daughter’s (though very fine ones) were unfortunately speckled all over with fleurs-de-lis! They had been sold her the preceding day by a knavish shopkeeper at the Passage Feydeau, who, seeing she was a foreigner, had put off these articles, thinking it a good opportunity to decrease his stock in that kind of gear, the sale whereof would probably be pronounced high treason before the month was over.
The confusion of the ladies at this éclaircissement may be well conceived; but it was speedily alleviated by the elegant consolations and extreme politeness of the Frenchwomen. Among those who addressed us was a gentleman in the uniform of a colonel of the national guards; he spoke to me in perfect English, and begged to introduce his family to mine. I told him who I was, and he asked us to a dinner and ball next day at his house in the Rue de Clichy. We accepted his invitation, and were magnificently entertained. This was Colonel Gowen, the proprietor of the first stamp-paper manufactory in France—a most excellent, hospitable, and friendly person, but ill-requited, I fear, afterward by some of our countrymen. I subsequently experienced many proofs of his hospitality and attention.
An English lady (the wife of Dr. Marshall, an English physician) was also remarkably attentive and polite on this occasion, and gave her card to Lady Barrington, No. 10, Rue Pigale:—so that the affair of the shawl, so far from being mal à propos, seemed to turn out quite a lucky adventure.
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.