We were both suddenly awakened from a sound sleep in the _calèche_ by
the loud cracking of the postillion's whip, the sounds of street noises,
and the increased rattle of the wheels over the unequal pavement. We
started up just as, turning round in his saddle and pointing with his
long whip to either side of him, the fellow called out--
'Paris, Messieurs, Paris! This is Faubourg St. Denis; there before you
lies the Rue St. Denis. _Sacristi!_ the streets are as crowded as at
noonday.'
By this time we had rubbed the sleep from our eyelids and looked
about us, and truly the scene before us was one to excite all our
astonishment. The Quartier St. Denis was then in the occupation of
the Austrian troops, who were not only billeted in the houses, but
bivouacked in the open streets--their horses picketed in long files
along the _pavé_, the men asleep around their watch-fires, or burnishing
arms and accoutrements beside them. The white-clad cuirassier from the
Danube, the active and sinewy Hungarian, the tall and swarthy Croat were
all there, mixed up among groups of peasant girls coming in to market
with fowls and eggs. Carts of forage and waggons full of all manner of
provisions were surrounded by groups of soldiers and country-people,
trading amicably with one another as though the circumstances which had
brought them together were among the ordinary events of commerce.
Threading our way slowly through these, we came upon the Jager
encampment, their dark-green uniform and brown carbines giving that
air of _sombre_ to their appearance so striking after the steel-clad
cuirassier and the bright helmets of the dragoons. Farther on, around
a fountain, were a body of dismounted dragoons, their tall colbacks
and scarlet trousers bespeaking them Polish lancers; their small but
beautifully formed white horses pawed the ground, and splashed the
water round them, till the dust and foam rose high above them. But
the strangest of all were the tall, gigantic figures, who, stretched
alongside of their horses, slept in the very middle of the wide street.
Lifting their heads lazily for a moment, they gazed on us as we passed,
and then lay down again to sleep. Their red beards hung in masses far
down upon their breasts, and their loose trousers of a reddish dye but
half concealed boots of undressed skin. Their tall lances were piled
around them; but these were not wanting to prove that the savage,
fierce-looking figures before us were the Cossacks of the Don, thus
come for many a hundred mile to avenge the slaughter of Borodino and the
burning of Moscow. As we penetrated farther into the city, the mixture
of nation and costume became still more remarkable. The erect and
soldierlike figure of the Prussian; the loose, wild-eyed Tartar; the
brown-clad Russian, with russet beard and curved sabre; the stalwart
Highlander, with nodding plume and waving tartan; the Bashkir, with
naked scimitar; the gorgeous hussar of Hungary; the tall and manly form
of the English guardsman--all passed and repassed before us, adding, by
the babel of discordant sound, to the wild confusion of the scene.
It was a strange sight to see the savage soldier from the steppes of
Russia, the dark-eyed, heavy-browed Gallician, the yellow-haired Saxon,
the rude native of the Caucasus, who had thus given themselves a
rendezvous in the very heart of European civilisation, wandering
about--now stopping to admire some magnificent palace, now gazing with
greedy wonder at the rich display of some jeweller, or the costly and
splendid dresses which were exhibited in the shop windows; while here
and there were gathered groups of men whose looks of undisguised hate
and malignity were bent unceasingly upon the moving mass. Their
_bourgeois_ dress could not conceal that they were the old soldiers of
the Empire--the men of Wagram, of Austerlitz, of Jena, and of Wilna--who
now witnessed within their own capital the awful retribution of their
own triumphant aggressions.
As the morning advanced the crowds increased, and as we approached the
Place du Carrousel, regiments poured in from every street to the morning
parade. Among these the Russian _garde_--the _Bonnets d'or_--were
conspicuous for the splendour of their costume and the soldierlike
precision of their movements, the clash of their brass cymbals and
the wild strains of their martial music adding indescribably to their
singular appearance. As the infantry drew up in line, we stopped to
regard them, when from the Place Louis Quinze the clear notes of a
military band rang out a quick step, and the Twenty-eighth British
marched in to the air of 'The Young May Moon.' O'Grady's excitement
could endure no longer. He jumped up in the _calèche_, and, waving his
hat above his head, gave a cheer that rang through the long corridor
beneath the Louvre. The Irish regiment caught up the cry, and a yell
as wild as ever rose above the din of battle shook the air. A Cossack
picket then cantering up suddenly halted, and, leaning down upon their
horses' manes, seemed to listen; then dashing spurs into their horses'
flanks they made the circuit of the Place at full gallop, while their
'Hurra!' burst forth with all the wild vehemence of their savage nature.
'We shall get into some precious scrape with all this,' said O'Grady,
as, overcome with laughing, he fell back into the _calèche_.
Such was my own opinion; so telling the postillion to turn short into
the next street we hurried away unperceived, and drove with all the
speed we could muster for the Rue St. Honoré. The Hôtel de la Paix
fortunately had room for us; and ordering our breakfasts we adjourned to
dress, each resolving to make the most of his few hours at Paris.
I had just reached the breakfast-room, and was conning over the morning
papers, when O'Grady entered in full uniform, his face radiant with
pleasure, and the same easy, jaunty swagger in his walk as on the first
day I met him.
'When do you expect to have your audience, Phil?' said I.
'I have had it, my boy. It's all over, finished, completed. Never was
anything so successful I talked over the old Adjutant in such a strain,
that, instead of dreaming about a court-martial on us, the worthy man is
seriously bent on our obtaining compensation for the loss of the drag.
He looked somewhat serious as I entered; but when once I made him laugh,
the game was my own. I wish you had seen him wiping his dear old eyes
as I described the covey of gendarmes taking the air. However, the main
point is, the regiment is to be moved up to Paris, the commissaire is
to receive a reprimand, our claim for some ten thousand francs is to be
considered, and I am to dine with the Adjutant to-day and tell the story
after dinner.'
'Do you know, Phil, I have a theory that an Irishman never begins
to prosper but just at the moment that any one else would surely be
ruined.'
'Don't make a theory of it, Jack, for it may turn out unlucky. But the
practice is pretty much what you represent it. Fortune never treats
people so well as when they don't care a fig about her. She's exactly
like a lady patroness--confoundedly impertinent if you'll bear it, but
all smiles if you won't. Have you ever met Tom Burke--“Burke of Ours,”
as they call him, I believe, in half the regiments in the service?'
'No, never.'
'Well, the loss is yours. Tom's a fine fellow in his way; and if you
could get him to tell you his story--or rather one of his stories, for
his life is a succession of them--perhaps you would find that this same
theory of yours has some foundation. Well pick him up one of these days,
and I'll introduce you. But now, Jack, I have a piece of news for you.
What do you think of it, my lad?--Lady Charlotte Hinton 's at Paris.'
'My mother here? Is it possible?'
'Yes. Her ladyship resides No. 4 Place Vendôme, opposite the Hôtel de
Londres. There's accuracy for you.'
'And who is with her? My father?'
'No. The General is expected in a few days. Lady Julia, I believe, is
her only companion.'
There was a kind of reserve suddenly in O'Grady's manner as he mentioned
this name, which made us both pause for a few seconds. At length he
broke the awkwardness of the silence by saying, in his usual laughing
way--
'I contrived to pick up all the gossip of Paris in half an hour.
The town is full of English--and such English too! The Cossacks are
civilised people, of quiet, retiring habits, compared to them. I verily
believe the French are more frightened by our conviviality than
ever they were by the bayonets of the Allies. I'm dying to hear your
lady-mother's account of everything here.'
'What say you, then, if you come along with me? I 'm becoming very
impatient to see my people once more. Julia will, I 'm certain, be very
amusing.'
'Ah, and I have a debt of gratitude in that quarter,' said O'Grady
hesitatingly. 'Lady Julia was so very kind as to extend her protection
to that old villain Corny. I cannot for the life of me understand how
she endured him.'
'As to that,' said I, 'Julia has a taste for character; and not even the
Chevalier Delany's eccentricity would pain her. So let's forward.'
'Did I tell you that De Vere is here?' said O'Grady.
'No; not with my friends, I trust?'
'On the contrary, I ascertained that he does not visit at Lady
Charlotte's. He is attached to Lord Cathcart's embassy; he's very little
in society, and rarely to be seen but at the salon, where he plays
tremendously high, loses every night, but reappears each day with a
replenished pocket. But I intend to know the secret of all this, and of
many other matters, ere long. So now let us proceed.'