There is nothing particularly interesting about the road, which is almost an incessant avenue. About half-way we passed a fine Château of Marshal Jourdan's.
The forest of Fontainebleau commences about four miles from the town and extends some nine or ten miles in all directions. At first I was in hopes of being gratified with the sight of fine woods, but,[147] with the exception of a few patches of good oaks, the remainder is little better than underwood and dwarflings.
We went into the heart of the forest to see an old Hermitage now inhabited by a keeper and his family. They had been visited by Cossacks, but had received no injury whatever; on the contrary the poor woman related with all the eloquence of Truth and the French animation that from their own soldiers they had suffered all that cruelty and rapacity could devise—indeed, the house and gardens bore evidence to the facts—window shutters pierced with bullets, broken doors, furniture gone, and above 800 francs' worth of honey destroyed out of pure wantonness—in short the poor people seemed quite ruined. I received a similar account in the town. Fontainebleau is a dull, melancholy-looking place, with a very extensive ugly palace—interesting only from the late events. Scarcely a soul appeared about; we crossed the large court in which Buonaparte took his last farewell and embraced the Imperial Eagles, called by some loyal French "The vile Cuckoos." Our hostess was, I presume, a staunch imperialist, who thought she could not shew her zeal for the Emperor in a stronger manner than by imposing on Englishmen. She began by asking 16s. for a plate of 8 little wretched mutton chops; we resented the imposition, although the sudden appearance of 4 or 5 officers of the imperial guard almost rendered it doubtful whether we ought to act too warmly on the defensive, as they[148] seemed to patronise our hostess; however, we refused to pay and retired unimposed upon.
The imperial guard here are supposed to be particularly attached to the Emperor, and of course averse to Englishmen, but I was agreeably surprised to find three out of the four really something like gentlemen in their manners; we entered into conversation, which I managed as dexterously as I could, manœuvering between the evil of sacrificing my own opinions on one side, and of giving them offence on the other; it was a nice point, as I perceived a word beyond the line of demarcation would have inflamed them in a trice. One happened to differ with another on a political point, which produced a loud and rapid stamping with the feet, accompanied by a course of pirouets on the heel with the velocity of a dervish, which fully proved what might be effected on their tempers had I been disposed to try the experiment. They called themselves the Ex-Imperial Guard. On retiring I shook hands with them, and with as low a bow as the little King of Rome, said "Messieurs les Gardes d'Honneur, Je vous salue." ...
Letter VII.
Monday, July 19th.
...The history of Buonaparte immediately preceding, and subsequent to the surrender of Paris, was never actually known—I will give it you.
The capitulation took place on the 30th (March). In the evening of that day he arrived at Fontaine[149]bleau without his army. Rumours of fighting near Paris had reached him. He almost immediately set off with Berthier in his carriage for Paris, and actually arrived at Villejuif, only 6 miles from the capital; when he heard the result he turned about and appeared again at Fontainebleau at 9 the next morning. When he alighted, the person who handed him out, a sort of head-porter of the Palace, who was our guide, told me he looked "triste, bien triste"; he spoke to nobody, went upstairs as fast as he could, and then called for his plans and maps; his occupation during the whole time he staid consisted in writing and looking over papers, but to what this writing and these papers related the world may feel but will never know; his spirits were by no means broken down; in a day or two he was pretty much as usual, and it is said he signed the Abdication without the least apparent emotion. We heard he was mad, but I can assure you from undoubted authority that he was perfectly well in mind and body the whole time, and, notwithstanding his excessive fatigues, as corpulent as ever; indeed, said our guide, "War seems to agree with him better than with any man I ever knew." Buonaparte laid out immense sums in furnishing and beautifying the Palais here. I got into his library, the snuggest room you ever saw, immediately below a little study in which he always sat and settled his affairs; his arm-chair was a very comfortable, honest, plain arm-chair, but I looked in vain for all the gashes and notches which it was said he was wont to inflict[150] upon it. I could not perceive a scratch, he was too busily employed in that said chair in forming plans for cutting up Europe; within three yards of his table was a little door, or rather trap door, by which you descended down the oddest spiral staircase you ever beheld into the Library, which was low and small; the books were few of them new, almost all standard works upon history—at least I am sure 4 out of 5 were historical—all of his own selection, and each stamped, as in fact was everything else from high to low, far and wide, with his N., or his Bees or his Eagle—all of which Louis XVIII is as busily employed in effacing, which alone will give him ample employment: but to return to the books. Amongst the rest I found—Shakespeare ... and a whole range of Ecclesiastical History, which, if ever read, might account in some degree for his shutting up the Pope as the existing representative of the animals who have occasioned half the feuds and divisions therein recorded. There was a Chapel, which he regularly attended on Sundays and Saints' days. His State bed was a sort of State business, very uncomfortable, consisting of 5 or 6 mattresses under a royal canopy with 2 Satin Pillows at each end.
During his residence he never stirred beyond the gates, though I could not discover that he was at all under restraint, or in any way looked upon as a prisoner; we were told in England (what are we not told there?) that he feared the people, who would have torn him in pieces; this is an idle story. I[151] rather suspect the people liked him too well, besides which his Guards were there, and by them he is idolised. He generally took exercise in a long and beautiful Gallery, called the Gallery of Francis I., on both sides of which were busts of his great Generals on panels ornamented with the N., and some name above alluding to a victory; thus above one N. was Nazareth, which puzzled me at first, but I afterwards heard he had cut up some Turks there; besides the Gallery, he walked every day up and down a Terrace; he dined every day in a miserable (I speak comparatively) little passage room without any shew of state; he was affable to his attendants and is liked by them. His abdication room is not one of the state apartments—it is a shabby ante-room; I could almost fancy that in performing this humiliating deed he had retired as far as possible from the Halls and Saloons which were decorated by his hand, and had witnessed his Imperial magnificence. Most of the Marshals were in the room, and it would have been a tour indeed to have glided through the hearts of each when such an extraordinary performance was transacting. It was in the great Court before the Palace that he took his leave, not above 1,500 troops were present. At such a moment to have heard such a speech, delivered with the dignity and stage effect Buonaparte well knew how to give, must have produced a strong effect—how great (how sad I had almost said) the contrast!
The stones were overgrown with grass; nobody[152] appeared, no voice was heard except the clacking of half a dozen old women who were weeding on their knees, and all the windows were closed. The dreary, deserted present compared with the magnificent past excited nearly the same feelings as if I had been looking on Tadmor in the wilderness. After passing the Imperial prison we were ushered into the apartments of the Imperial prisoners, the poor Pope and his 16 Cardinals. I had quite forgotten the place of their confinement, and was a little surprised when the man said, "Here, Sir, dwelt for 19 months the holy Conclave of St. Peter." He must have led a miserable life, for though he was allowed two carriages, with 6 and 8 horses to each, he neither stirred out himself nor allowed any of the Cardinals to so do, saying he did not think it right for prisoners. Buonaparte saw him in January, I think the man said, for the last time. So much for Fontainebleau. Few have followed their master to Elba. Roustan the Mameluke and Constant his Valet were certainly very ungrateful; one of them—I forget which—to whom Buonaparte had given 25,000 fr. (about £1,200) the day before he left Fontainebleau, applied to the Duc de Berri for admission into his service; in reply the Duc told him his gratitude ought to have carried him to Elba, but though it had not, if he (the Duke) ever heard that Buonaparte wished to have him there, he would bind him hand and foot and send him immediately. None of the Royal allies have been to Fontainebleau at the time or since, except the King of Prussia,[153] who came incog. a few days ago. This the guide said he had heard since; he had, indeed, seen three persons walking about, but he had not shewn them the Palace nor spoken to them. That it was the King of Prussia was confirmed by a curious little memorandum I found wafered over a high glass on the top of the room in which we dined, and which caught my eye immediately; I shewed it to the people of the house, who said they had not observed it before, but remembered three gentlemen dining there on that day. "Sa Majesté le Roi de Prusse accompagné du Prince Guillaume son fils a diné en cette appartement avec son premier Chambellan Mr. Baron D'Ambolle, le 8 Juillet, 1814." ... This is the way the King of Prussia always went about in Paris, nobody knew him or saw him....