“The 21st of November, in the morning, the arrival of a French regiment was announced. How shall I describe the enthusiasm with which it was received? To understand such emotions properly one must have lost everything and believe in the possibility of hoping for everything—like ourselves. This handful of warriors, when they set feet on our soil, seemed to us a guarantee of the independence we were expecting at the hands of the great man whom nothing could resist.
“The popular intoxication was at its height: the whole town was lit up as if by magic. That day, forsooth, the town authorities had no need to allot quarters to the new arrivals. People fought for them, carried them off, vied with each other in treating them best. Those of the citizens who knew no French, not being able to make themselves understood, borrowed the dumb language which belongs to all countries, and by signs of delight, handshakings, and bursts of glee made their guests comprehend that they freely offered all their houses contained, cellars included.
“Tables were even laid in the streets and squares. Toasts were drunk to Napoleon, to his Grand Army, to the Independence of Poland. There was hugging and kissing, and a little too much drinking.” Next day came dashing Murat and his brilliant staff, with braided uniforms, gold and silver lace, nodding plumes of red, white, and blue, and a good deal of rattle and bang, fuss and bustle, generally. A noisy cavalier was Murat, ostentatious, boastful, full of the reminiscences of his own meteoric career.
Lodged at the Hotel Raczynski, where there was a vile chimney which smoked, the Grand Duke of Berg left it, and quartered himself “in our house,”—the palace Potocki,—where he bored the inmates with his loud manners, his theatrical airs, and his too frequent reference to his most recent feat of arms,—the storming and taking of Lubeck at the head of his cavalry. Murat gave the Warsaw people to understand that the Emperor would soon arrive, and would enter the city with a certain degree of pomp. The authorities bestirred themselves; reared triumphal arches, composed inscriptions, ordered fireworks, plaited wreaths, and gave the usual warnings to poets and orators. The whole town was thrown into the private agony which is the prelude to a public and joyful reception.
And after all the toil and suffering of preparing for the Emperor’s triumphal entrance, what should he do but come riding into Warsaw on a shabby little post-horse, between midnight and day, with no one in attendance save Roustan, the Mameluke! The imperial carriage had mired on the road, and Napoleon had left it sticking in the mud. When he reached Warsaw, all were asleep, and “the Emperor went to the sentry box himself to wake up the sentinel.”
That same evening the authorities of the city were received by the Liberator, who talked to them graciously and volubly upon all topics excepting that of liberation. Upon this all-important subject he uttered nothing more than what are called “glittering generalities.” Poland, it appeared, had not yet done enough. Poland must rouse herself. “There must be devotion, sacrifices, blood.” Otherwise Poland would never come to anything. Running on in his nervous, rapid way, Napoleon alluded to the great exertions he would have to make to bring the campaign to a prosperous end. But he was sure that France would do all he demanded of her. Putting his hands in his pockets, he exclaimed: “I have the French there. By appealing to their imagination I can do what I like with them!”
The Polish magnates listened to this statement with considerable surprise, which pictured itself upon their faces. Observing this, Napoleon added, “Yes, yes, it is just as I tell you,” and took snuff.
Keenly disappointed as many of the Polish nobles were at Napoleon’s doubtful attitude, the country generally was enthusiastic in its faith that he would, at the proper time, do the proper thing. Every want of the French was supplied. Where voluntary offerings fell short, forced contributions made good the difference.
Warsaw had never been more brilliant. The heart of the doomed nation beat again. There were smiles, open hands, glad festivities. There were brilliant balls at Murat’s; brilliant balls at Talleyrand’s; brilliant balls at the palace of Prince Borghese; brilliant receptions held by the Emperor. It must have been a spectacle worth seeing,—a ballroom in reawakened Warsaw, where the loveliest ladies of Poland and the bravest warriors of France danced the happy hours away. It must have been a sight worth seeing,—Talleyrand entering a grand reception hall filled with the notables of Poland and gravely announcing, “The Emperor!”
Well worth seeing was the stout, stunted figure, crowned by the pale, set, marble-like face and large head, which came into view at Talleyrand’s announcement, and which stood within the doorway a moment to see and to be seen.