Ever since it first came to the Exhibition it has excited the most lively interest, and, until it was covered in by a glazed case, visitors enjoyed the privilege of sitting inside—a proceeding which would not have mattered had not unscrupulous souvenir hunters abused this favour by pilfering portions of the fabric that lined it.
Time-worn, it now stands before us, a thing of gaunt and sombre aspect. This old war-coach offers, to those who contemplate it, a full measure of historic reminiscence, recalling the most striking and critical episodes in the great Corsican’s career.
He entered it at the time his power stood at its zenith, and retained it in constant attendance upon him down to the hour he took refuge within it, a conquered and a broken man. It was built for his campaign in Russia. In it he travelled many a league on the road to Moscow. Bereft of its wheels and lashed upon a sleigh, through the perils of that terrible retreat, it safely carried him far on his way back to the gates of Paris. With him it was sent to the Isle of Elba; thence it helped him along on his last auspicious journey to the French capital.
NAPOLEON’S MILITARY CARRIAGE
Scene of its capture at Jenappe. From a colored engraving published during the autumn of 1815.
It assisted him on his way to Waterloo. Standing on the main road hard by La Belle Alliance, it waited him throughout that memorable Sunday, the 18th of June, over a hundred years ago. At the end of the day’s ordeal into it, sore and ill, he flung himself, only to struggle from it at the point of capture to take refuge in the confusion and the shadow of the night, leaving his hat, sword, and many other things behind him.
Deepened long ago into a monotone of dusky grey, still here and there the old coach betrays a touch of colour, revealing a fair estimate of its former self. Simple and modest as Imperial carriages go, nevertheless, on a certain May day in the year 1812, as it sallied forth on its maiden voyage, its back turned upon the old Palace of St. Cloud and its fore-carriage set upon the highroad to Russia, it must have looked a comely chariot—as yet unsullied by the stain of travel, and not yet degraded by the lust of war.
By the man that made it—one Simon, of Brussels, to whom reference has already been made—it would have been designated a berline de voyage, or maybe a carrosse a six chevaux, by us it has been called a travelling carriage, and technically classed as a chariot-built coach.
Dark-blue, black, and yellow, with here and there a line of red and gold, were the colours under which it made its début.