[43]. There were others, but I knew them not. One mysterious person I was then well acquainted with. I have for several years past lost sight of him; and never could find out who he was. He was clever, intelligent, and actively friendly: obviously not rich, and as obviously not poor.—I should be glad to see him again.
The successive occurrences at Paris, after Napoleon’s return, were daily published, and are known to every body. The press seemed free from restraint, and every public act was recorded: it was therefore to the private acts and characters of men I applied my observation, as forming the best ground for speculative opinions, (which that portentous interval necessarily tended to stimulate,) and likewise as calculated to yield the best materials for future entertainment.
Dr. Marshall was, as I have already stated, on certain occasions confidentially employed by Fouché; and placing some confidence in me—perhaps not duly estimating the extent of my curiosity,—he was very communicative. (I think he hated the principles of Fouché.) In fact, not a day passed, particularly after Napoleon’s return from Waterloo, that I did not make some discovery through the doctor, as much from his air of mystery as from direct admissions. From him I collected Fouché’s flagitious character, and the ductility and total absence of principle exhibited by some of his attachés.
The intelligence I daily acquired did not surprise, but greatly disgusted me. Napoleon had many false friends. I hate treachery in all its ramifications: it is not, generally speaking, a French characteristic; but Fouché certainly displayed a complete personification of it. Men of that description generally do each other strict justice, by the operation and exercise of mutual hatred, contempt, and invective. I never heard one such person say a kind word of another behind his back; and when a man is necessitated by policy to puff a brother villain, it is not difficult for a stander-by to decipher the sneer of jealousy and mental reservation distorting the muscles of the speaker’s countenance, and involuntarily disclosing the very feeling which he was perhaps desirous to conceal.
Thus was it with various tools of that treacherous minister; and in his own countenance were engraven distinctly the characteristics of plausibility, cunning and insincerity. From the first moment I saw Fouché, and more particularly when I heard him coldly swear fidelity to his imperial master, I involuntarily imbibed a strong sensation of dislike. His features held out no inducement to place confidence in their owner: on the contrary, they could not but tend to beget distrust and disesteem. The suspicions which they generated in me I never could overcome, and the sequel proved how just were my anticipations.
After awhile, I began slightly to suspect the composition of the society I was associating with, and it occurred to me to request that Lady Barrington would pay a visit to the lady we had met at Doctor Marshall’s, and whom we had understood from Doctor and Mrs. Marshall to be on a visit to Fouché, her relative. I proposed to go also, and leave my card for her husband, whom we had not yet seen. We accordingly waited on them at Fouché’s hotel, and asked the Swiss if madame was at home.
“Madame!” said the porter; “madame! quelle madame?” as if he had heard us imperfectly. We had forgotten her name, and could therefore only reply, “madame la parente de monsieur le ministre.”
“Parente de monsieur le ministre?” repeated the Swiss. “There is no such person here, monsieur,” with a half-saucy shrug.