Personal sketches of his own times, Vol. 2 (of 3)

by Sir Jonah Barrington

Among other individuals of note to whom I was presented by the colonel, was Labedoyere, who was destined so soon to atone with the forfeiture of his life for his fidelity to his first patron. I had heard then nothing particular of this man, and consequently took but little notice of him. There was not one whom I remarked more than Ney, then prince of Moskwa. “That,” said the colonel, as he pointed him out to me, “is the greatest sabreur in Europe:” and Ney’s rough, manly, sun-burnt countenance, well set off by his muscular, warlike figure, confirmed the character. “There,” continued my informant, pointing to a civilian in full dress, “is one of the truest partisans the emperor has in France—Count Thibaudeau, though at one time doubted.” I had previously remarked the person to whom my attention was thus directed, as one not formed of common materials, and had occasion soon after to observe him still more particularly.

So many of the objects of that day have been sketched in various publications, that I shall not endeavour to give any thing in the shape of a list of them, but content myself with the mention of those which struck me most forcibly at the moment.

Whoever was in Paris during the Hundred Days must have seen the old guard of Napoleon. Such a body of soldiers (all appearing as if cast in the same mould) I believe never was collected! Their Herculean vigour, more than the height of their persons, was remarkable; and their dark, deep-furrowed visages, (enveloped in mustaches and surmounted by the bear’s skin of their lofty caps, glittering with ornaments,) combined, together with their arms, their clothes, and more particularly their steadiness, to exhibit to me the most perfect model of real soldiers. Their looks, though the very emblem of gravity and determination, were totally devoid of ferocity; and I could fancy the grenadiers of the old guard to be heroes, uniting the qualities of fidelity, of valour, and of generosity: their whole appearance indeed was most attractive.

The cavalry had dismounted, and were sitting around on the steps and parapets of the edifice, mostly employed in sharpening their sabres with small hones; and the whole seemed to me as if actuated only by an ardent wish to proceed to action. One officer asked me in English, rather more freely than the rest, if I knew the British commander (Lord Wellington)? I said I did.—“Well,” replied he, “we shall have a brush with him before quinze jours are over!” and turned away with an expression strongly indicative of contempt. I believe Lord Wellington did not quite anticipate the short time that would be given him by his opponents. My observations and introductions were however at length interrupted by the first cannon, which announced that the emperor had commenced his passage from the Tuileries. All was in immediate bustle; the drums beat, the trumpets sounded, the deputies and officials flocked into their halls, the cuirassiers were mounted, the old guard and grenadiers in line, the officers at their stations;—and in less than five minutes the mingled and motley crowd was arranged in order so regular and so silently assumed, that it was almost impossible to suppose they had ever been in confusion. The different bands struck up: they had received orders respecting the airs that should be played as the emperor approached, which they began to practise; and the whole scene, almost in a moment, wore an aspect entirely new.

The firing of cannon continued: the emperor had advanced along the quays, and passed over that very spot where the last French monarch had, twenty years before, been immolated by his subjects. The word enthusiasm, strong as its meaning is generally held to be in France, failed, on this occasion, to express as much as the military seemed to feel. The citizens who thronged around did not, it is true, appear to partake in this sentiment to any thing like a corresponding extent. Whether it was that they felt it not, or that they were conscious of acting only a subordinate part in the pageant, (which unquestionably bore too much of a military character,) I do not know.

I proceeded without delay to the stairs which led to my loge, as noted on my admission ticket. This loge, however, it turned out to be no easy matter to find. My heart began to sink; I inquired of every body; some did not understand, others looked contemptuously; nobody would pay the least attention to my solicitations. Thus I seemed likely, after all, to lose the benefit of my exertions. Meanwhile, every new discharge of cannon seemed as if announcing, not only the emperor’s approach, but my seclusion from the chamber; and I was getting fast into a state of angry hopelessness when an officer of the guard, who saw that I was a foreigner, addressed me in English. I explained to him my embarrassments and fears, and showed him my ticket. He told me I was on the wrong side, and was so good as to send a soldier with me to the door of the box. I rapped, and was instantly admitted. There were two rows of chairs, and accommodation for three persons to stand behind. I was one of the latter; and it was impossible to be better situated for hearing and seeing every thing. My loge exactly faced the throne; and in the next sat the emperor’s mother, and all the females, with their attendants. I knew nobody: I saw no English there: there was one person in full-dress, who was said to be un chevalier Ecosse, and who having distinguished himself and announced his nation by making an abominable noise about something or other, was very properly sent out. We sat in silent expectation of the emperor’s arrival, which was to be announced by the cessation of the repeated salutes of artillery. The moments were counted: the peers and deputies were seated in their places, all in full-dress—the former occupying the front benches, and the deputies ranged behind them. Servants of the chamber, in the most splendid liveries that can be conceived, were seen busy at all the side doors: the front door was underneath our loge; it was therefore impossible for me to see the effect of the first appearance of the emperor, who at length, followed by a numerous retinue, crossed the chamber—not majestically, but with rather hurried steps: having slightly raised his hat, he seated himself abruptly on the throne, and wrapping himself in his purple cloak, sat silent.

The scene was altogether most interesting; but there was no time for contemplation. The whole assembly immediately rose; and if a judgment might be formed from the outward expression of their feelings, it would be inferred that Napoleon was enthroned in the heart of almost every peer and deputy who that day received him. A loud, continued, and unanimous burst of enthusiastic congratulation proceeded from every quarter: it echoed throughout the whole chamber, and had all the attributes of sincerity. One circumstance I particularly remarked: the old cry of “Vive l’Empereur,” was discontinued, and, as if the spectators’ hearts were too full to utter more, they limited themselves to a single word,—“l’Empereur! l’Empereur!” alone bursting from the whole assembly. I found afterwards that there was a meaning in this: inasmuch as the ceremony was not a mere greeting—it was an inauguration of the emperor. It was this solemnity which in fact recreated his title after his formal abdication, and the assembly thus noted the distinction.

Meanwhile Napoleon sat apparently unmoved: he occasionally touched his hat, but spake not. I stood immediately in front of, and looking down on, the throne; and being in the back row, could use my opera-glass without observation. Napoleon was at that moment, all circumstances considered, the most interesting personage in existence. His dress, although very rich, was scarcely royal: he was not, as a king should be by prescription, covered with jewels: he had no crown, and wore the same dress exactly as he afterward did on his visit to the Champ de Mars; namely, a black Spanish hat, fastened up in front with a diamond loop and button; heavy plumes of ostrich feathers, which hung nodding over his forehead; and rather a short but very full cloak of purple velvet, embroidered with golden bees. The dimensions of his person were thus concealed; but his stature, which had attained about the middle height, seemed lower on account of his square-built form and his high, ungraceful shoulders: he was, in fact, by no means a majestic figure. I watched his eye; it was that of a hawk, and struck me as being peculiarly brilliant. Without moving his head, or a single muscle of his countenance, his eye was every where, and seemed omniscient: an almost imperceptible transition moved it from place to place, as if by magic; and it was fixed steadily upon one object before a spectator could observe its withdrawal from another.

Yet even at this moment, powerful as was the spell in which Napoleon’s presence bound the spectator, my attention was drawn aside by another object which seemed to me to afford much scope for contemplation: this was the emperor’s mother. I stood, as I have already said, in the next loge of the gallery to that occupied by the imperial family. The dutiful and affectionate regard of Napoleon to his mother is universally authenticated: and as his nature was not framed either to form or perpetuate mere attachments of course, it was natural to conclude that this lady’s character had something about it worthy of affection. I was therefore curious to trace, as far as possible, the impressions made upon her by the passing scene.

Madame Mère (as she was then called) was a very fine old lady, apparently about sixty, but looking strong and in good health. She was not, and I believe never had been, a beauty; but was, nevertheless, well-looking, and possessed a cheerful, comfortable countenance. I liked her appearance: it was plain and unassuming, and I set my mind to the task of scrutinising her probable sensations on that important day.