From Fontainebleau we went to Melun and kept proceeding through Guignes to Meaux. At Guignes we began to hear of the effects of war: 15,000 Russians had been bivouacked above the town for a week. Buonaparte advanced with his troops, on which they retired, but troops do not walk up and down the earth like lambs, but rather like roaring lions, seeking whom they may devour; however, here let us insert once for all the account I have invariably received from sufferers throughout the whole Theatre of war—that the conduct of the Russians and French was widely different; the former generally behaving as well as could possibly be expected, and pillaging only from necessity; the latter seem to have made havoc and devastation[154] their delight. They might perhaps act on principle, conceiving that it was better for the treasure and good things of the land to fall into their hands than the enemy's.
At a little shabby inn at Guignes where we breakfasted Buonaparte had slept. The people described him dressed "comme un perruquier" in a grey great-coat; he clattered into the house, bustled about, went to his room early, and appeared again at 9 the next morning, but "J'en reponds bien" that he was not sleeping all that time. If from Guignes we traversed a country where we heard of war, at Meaux we began to see the effects—before a picturesque gateway we descended to cross the bridge over a stone arch which had been blown up. Shot-holes marked the wall, and within the houses were well bespattered with musket balls. It was the first visible field of battle we had crossed, and to heighten the interest, while we were looking about and asking particulars of the people, up came bands of Russian troops of all descriptions, Cossacks included, 1,500 having just entered the town invalided from Paris on their return home. To be sure, a more filthy set I never beheld. The country is pretty well stocked with Cossack horses; they were purchased at a very cheap rate—from 25 shillings to 50 a piece. We have had several of them in our carriage, and find them far more active and rapid than the French, though smaller and more miserable in appearance. My conversation with the Russians (for I made it a point to[155] speak to everybody) was rather laconic, and generally ran thus, "Vous Russe, moi Inglis"—the answer, "You Inglis, moi Russe, we brothers"—and then I generally got a tap on the shoulder and a broad grin of approbation which terminated the conference.
You know the chief event which occurred at Meaux was the explosion of the powder magazines by the French on their retreat, for which they were most severely, and, I think, unjustly, censured in our despatches—indeed, after seeing and hearing with my own eyes and ears, I feel less than ever inclined to put implicit faith in these public documents. The Magazine was in a large house where wines had been stored in the cellar—about half a mile to the west of the town upon a hill. About 3 o'clock in the morning the explosion took place with an "ébranlement" which shook the town to its very foundation. In an instant every pane of glass was shattered to atoms, but the cathedral windows, which were composed of small squares in lead, escaped tolerably well, only here and there some patches being forced out. The tiles also partook of the general crash. Many, of course, were broken by the shower of shot, stones, &c., which fell, but the actual concussion destroyed the greater part. Numbers of houses were remaining in their dilapidated state, and presented a curious scene. We went to see the spot where the house stood, for the house itself, like the temple of Loretto, disappeared altogether. Some others near it were on their last[156] legs—top, beams, doors, all blown away. Even the trees in a garden were in part thrown down, and the larger ones much excoriated. Only one person was killed on the spot, supposed to have been a marauder who was pillaging near the place. Another person about half a mile off, driving away his furniture to a place of safety, was wounded, and died soon afterwards.
From Meaux, I may say almost all the way to Châlons, a distance of above 150 miles, the country bore lamentable marks of the scourge with which it has been afflicted. I will allow you—I would allow myself perhaps, when I look back to the circumstances connected with the war—to wish that all the country, Paris included, had been sacked and pillaged as a just punishment, or rather as the sole mode of convincing these infatuated people that they are the conquered and not the Conqueror of the Allies. Wherever I go, whatever field of battle I see—be it Craon, Laon, Soissons, or elsewhere—victory is never accorded to the Russians. "Oh non, les Russes étaient toujours vaincus." One fellow who had been one of Buonaparte's guides at Craon had the impudence to assure me that the moment he appeared the Allies ran away. "Aye, but," said I, "how came the French to retreat and leave them alone?" "Oh, because just then the trahison which had been all arranged 19 months before began to appear."
Again, at Laon I was assured that the French drove all before them, and gained the heights.[157] "Then," said I, "why did not they stay there?" "Oh, then reappeared 'la petite trahison,'" and so they go on, and well do they deserve, and heartily do I wish, to have their pride and impudence lowered. But when I see what war is, when I see the devastation this comet bears in its sweeping tail, its dreadful impartiality involving alike the innocent and the guilty, I should be very sorry if it depended on me to pronounce sentence, or cry "havoc and let loose." ...
On the 14th we slept at Château Thierry—such an Inn, and such insolent pigs of people! Spain was scarcely worse ... added to the filthiness of the place, a diligence happened at the same time to pour forth its contents in the shape of a crew of the most vulgar, dirty French officers I ever saw. It was well we had no communication with them, for by the conversation I overheard in the next room there would have been little mutual satisfaction: "Oh! voici un regiment (alluding to us 5) de ces Anglois dans la maison! où vont-ils les Coquins?" "Moi je ne sais pas, les vilains!" Luckily they all tumbled upstairs to bed very soon, each with a cigar smoking and puffing from beneath the penthouse of their huge moustachios, during their ascent, by the by, keeping the Landlady in hot water lest they should break into her best bedroom, of which she carefully kept the key, telling me at the same time she was afraid of their insisting upon having clean sheets. By their appearance, however, I did not conceive her to be in much danger of so unfair a[158] demand. We had the clean sheets, damp enough, but no matter—she remembered them in the Bill most handsomely, and when I remonstrated against some of her charges, for I must observe that we dined in a wretched hole with our postillions, she checked me by saying, "Comment, Monsieur, c'est trop! Cela ne se peut pas; comme tout ici est si charmant." ... There was no reply to be made to such an appeal, so I bowed, paid, and retired. Then the bridge was blown up, the streets speckled with bullets. Near the bridge, which had been smartly contested, the houses were actually riddled, yet here the Emperor stood exposed as quiet and unconcerned amidst the balls as if (to use their own expression) he had been "chez lui."
As we advanced the marks of war became stronger and stronger, every village wore a rueful aspect, and every individual told a tale more and more harrowing to the feelings. The Postmasters seem to have been the greatest sufferers, as their situation demanded a large supply of corn, horses and forage, all of which, even to the chickens, were carried off. One poor woman, wife of a postmaster, a very well-behaved, gentlewoman-like sort of person, told me that when 80,000 Russians came to their town she escaped into the woods (you will remember the snow was then deep on the ground and the cold excessive) where for two days she and her family had nothing to eat. The Cossacks then found her, but did no harm, only asking for food. I mention her case not as singular, for it was the[159] lot of thousands, but merely to shew what people must expect when Enemies approach.
Soissons was the next place, and compared with the scene of desolation there presented all that we had hitherto seen was trifling.
I little thought last February that in July I should witness such superlatively interesting scenes. With the exception of Elba alone, ours has been the very best tour that could have been taken, and exactly at the right time, for I apprehend that a month ago we could not have passed the country....
Letter VIII.