Having thus been gratified by the view of what to my unaccustomed eyes seemed a great battle, and would, I suppose, by military men be termed nothing more than a long skirmish, I met Sir Francis Gold, who proposed that we should walk to the Champ de Mars, “just,” said he, “to see what the fellows are doing after the battle.”
To this I peremptorily objected, for reasons which must be obvious, and which seemed to prohibit any Englishman in his sober senses from going into such company at such a moment.
“Never mind,” continued Sir Francis, “I love my skin every bit as well as you do yours; and depend upon it we shall not meet the slightest molestation. If we go with a lady in our company, be assured we may walk about and remain in the place as long as we please. I can speak from experience!”
“Ah, true, true, perhaps: but where is the lady?” said I.
“I will introduce you to a very charming one of my acquaintance,” answered Sir Francis, “and I’ll request her to do us the favour of accompanying us.” I now half-reluctantly agreed; curiosity prevailed as usual, and away we went to the lodgings of Sir Francis’s fair friend. I knew Sir Francis could not be in love with danger, though he might with his fair protectress.
The lady certainly did not dishonour the epithet Sir Francis had bestowed on her: she was a young, animated, French girl, rather pretty, interesting, and very well dressed;—one of those lively creatures who, you would say, always have their “wits about them.” My friend explained the request he had come to prefer, and begged her to make her toilet with all convenient expedition. The lady certainly did not dissent, but her acquiescence was followed by a most hearty and seemingly uncontrollable burst of laughter. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” exclaimed she; “but really I cannot help laughing. I will, with pleasure, walk with you; but the idea of my playing the escort to two gallant English chevaliers, both d’âge mûr, is too ridiculous! However, n’importe! I will endeavour to defend you, though against a whole army!”
The thing unquestionably did look absurd, and I could not refrain myself from joining in the laugh. Sir Francis too became infected, and we made a regular chorus of it, after which the gay Frenchwoman resumed:—
“But surely, Sir Francis, you pay the French a great compliment; for you have often told me how you alone used to put to flight whole troops of rebels in your own country, and take entire companies with your single hand!”
Champagne was now introduced, and Sir Francis and I having each taken a glass or two, perhaps more, at the lady’s suggestion, to keep up our courage, we sallied out in search of adventures to the Champ de Mars. The sentinel at the entrance demurred a little on our presenting ourselves; but our fair companion, with admirable presence of mind, put it to his gallantry,—“Can a gallant soldier,” said our fair guardian, “refuse admittance to a lady and her uncles?” The polite soldier, with very good grace, permitted us to enter. As she passed, she held out her hand for him to kiss, which he did most respectfully!
Once fairly inside, we strolled about for above two hours, not only unmolested, but absolutely unnoticed—though I cannot say I felt perfectly at ease. It is certain that the presence of the female protected us. The respect paid to women by the French soldiery is apparent at all their meetings, whether for conviviality or service; and I have seen as much decorum, nay more, preserved in an alehouse festivity at Paris, as at the far-famed Almack’s in London.