They continued their route by Peronne, Saint Quentin, by the handsome town of Compiegne on the Oise, and through Senlis. The beauty and fertility of the country through which they marched, formed a continual theme of conversation and wonder. Often, for the space of thirty miles, their line of march would be overshadowed by a profusion of apple and pear trees, bordering the highway like one long and matchless avenue. The trees were laden with ripe and tempting fruit; and, in those places where the harvest had commenced, all the inhabitants of the district, men, women, and children, were employed in beating the golden produce from the trees with long poles, and gathering it into vast heaps, which were borne off in carts or baskets to the cider presses. Every where Nature seemed in her richest bloom and beauty, and the hawthorn flower, the day-flower, the woodbine, and the honeysuckle filled the air with the most fragrant perfumes. The march from Brussels to Paris was perhaps the most agreeable that the soldiers had ever performed.
On the 26th of September the detachment arrived at Clichy, a village about two or three miles from Paris. Behind it the British camp was formed, and the long lines or streets of white canvas bell-tents pitched on the grassy bank sloping down to the Seine, all shining white as snow in the sun and with 'the union' floating over them, formed an agreeable prospect amid the universal green of the scenery around. Guards and sentries were posted round the encampment at regular distances. The regiments were on their several evening parades, and a loud but somewhat confused medley of martial music was swelling from amid the tents, and floated away through the still evening air. On the smooth green banks, and by the sandy margin of the clear blue river, hundreds of soldiers' wives were engaged in the homely occupation of washing and bleaching for the troops; while swarms of healthy but ragged-looking children, belonging to the camp, gambolled and scampered about the green, sailed little ships on the river, played at hide-and-seek among the tubs, around the tents and sentries, as they made the welkin ring with shouts of hearty English merriment. Beyond the camp was seen the snug French village, with its picturesque and old-fashioned houses and still older trees, which had survived many generations of men. There was something very pleasing in the aspect of some of the ancient mansions, the high bevelled roofs, with the upper stories projecting far above the lower,—the walls displaying a quantity of planks running up and down, and cross-ways, and the gables ornamented with a variety of gilt finials and weathercocks,—all showing the grotesque taste of a remote age. Still farther beyond Clichy rose the smoke and spires of Paris, which spread afar off like a wilderness of stone and lime, from which rose a murmur like that from a beehive,—the strange mingling but musical hum of a vast and distant city.
Ronald soon 'handed over' his detachment, and joined the group of his comrades on the evening parade. By them he was congratulated on his promotion and recovery, and received such an account of the delights of Paris and the neighbourhood of Clichy, that he regretted having been compelled to tarry so long at Brussels.
CHAPTER XV.
THE CHÂTEAU DE MARIELLE.
Immediately after parade next day, Ronald departed from Clichy on a visit to Paris, "the City of delights," as an enthusiastic French author has termed it,—the famous Paris of which so much has been said, sung, and written. But Ronald was, to a certain degree, disappointed. The look of every man was sad and louring. The armed sentinels of the allies were in every street, their guards on every barrier; cannon were planted to rake every thoroughfare and avenue, and the artillery-men were around them, match in hand, by day and night. The soldier slept with his accoutrements on, and the horse in his harness; and to ensure the peace of the capital, the whole of the troops were ready to act on a moment's notice. The banner of Blucher waved over Paris, and his advance was in front of it, in position on the Orleans road; a brigade of British occupied the Champs Elysées, and the union jack and the white standard of Austria waved over the summit of Montmartre. Proud Gaul was completely humbled, and the Parisian had lost all his swagger, his laughter, and lightness of head and heart. Many of the British officers were insulted, abused,—I believe were spit upon by the lower classes, when the allies first entered the French metropolis. The people had no other means of giving loose to the sentiments of rage, hatred, and hostility which boiled within them. A resort to open violence in arms would only have ended in the destruction of Paris, and the annihilation of its inhabitants. The defeat on the plains of Waterloo will not be soon forgotten in France. Like the murder of Joan of Arc, it will be handed down from parent to child; and thus, from one generation to another, the hereditary hatred to "perfidious Albion" will increase rather than diminish.
In Paris, and in France generally, the Highland garb attracted more attention, and perhaps respect, than that of any other nation. Notwithstanding the bitter hatred which the French avowedly bear to the whole Isle of Britain, they sometimes make a distinction between the Scot and his southern neighbour, as if they were now, as of old, politically aliens to each other. At the cafés, the restaurateurs, the concerts, theatres, promenades, the Boulevards, the Jardin des Tuileries, the Champ de Mars, the Bois de Boulogne, and public places of every kind, the officers who wore the Celtic garb found themselves treated with the utmost respect, attention, and even kindness, when their countrymen belonging to regiments 'in breeks' experienced marked coldness and aversion. The figure of a Highland officer passing a milliner's shop, invariably brought all the girls in it rushing to the door. "An officer of the Scots!" was the cry, and all the pretty grisettes were in the street in a moment, to stare at and talk of the stranger until he was out of sight.
Although Ronald had no acquaintances in Paris, excepting those made by frequenting public places, yet he was well pleased with the Parisians, and as long as he had money to spare and to spend, he enjoyed himself in a manner that he had never done before. Through his banker in London, he drew many a cool hundred on his Scotch agents, Messrs. Diddle and Fleece; and, for a time, he wasted among grisettes, Frenchmen, and fools, rather more than was quite prudent. Being junior major, he had of course nothing to do but to amuse himself, appear on parade once a-day, and ride round the guards and posts when on duty: he spent the whole day in Paris, and generally returned to camp when the reveille was beating, so that his hours were rather early than late.
One evening, when making up a party for the next day, the hard visage of Sergeant Macrone appeared at the door of the tent, announcing that his round of pleasure was closed. The orderly-book—that tome of ill omen, with its brass clasps and parchment boards, was handed in, while the non-commissioned officer, raising his hand to his sunburned and wrinkled forehead, conveyed the unpleasant intelligence "that her honour was for tuty,—no the tay pefore the morn, put the fera neist."
"To-morrow? The devil, Macrone! do you say so?" cried the impatient major, snatching the book from the hand of the Celt, and scanning over the brigade orders. "'Major Ronald Stuart, of the Gordon Highlanders, will take command of the detachment ordered to proceed to—' to where? A cursed cramped hand this! Who wrote these orders, Macrone?"