On the afternoon of that same Second of December, a man, sauntering
along the Boulevards, said to himself:
"There's trouble hanging over this gay city of Paris. I can smell
mischief in its atmosphere."
The man who made this remark was Captain Maynard. He was walking out
alone, having arrived in Paris only the day before.
His presence in the French metropolis may be explained by stating, that
he had read in an English newspaper a paragraph announcing the arrival
of Sir George Vernon at Paris. The paragraph further said, that Sir
George had returned thither after visiting the various courts of Europe
on some secret and confidential mission to the different British
ambassadors.
Something of this Maynard knew already. He had not slighted the
invitation given him by the English baronet on the landing-wharf at
Liverpool. Returning from his Hungarian expedition, he had gone down to
Sevenoaks, Kent. Too late, and again to suffer disappointment. Sir
George had just started for a tour of travel on the Continent, taking
his daughter along with him. He might be gone for a year, or maybe
more. This was all his steward could or _would_ tell.
Not much more of the missing baronet could Maynard learn in London.
Only the _on dit_ in political circles that he had been entrusted with
some sort of secret circular mission to the European courts, or those of
them known as the Great Powers.
Its secrecy must have been deemed important for Sir George to travel
_incognito_. And so must he have travelled; else Maynard, diligently
consulting the chronicles of the times, should have discovered his
whereabouts.
This he had daily done, making inquiries elsewhere, and without success;
until, months after, his eye fell upon the paragraph in question.
Had he still faith in that presentiment, several times so confidently
expressed?
If so, it did not hinder him from passing over to Paris, and taking
steps to help in the desired destiny.
Certain it was still desired. The anxiety he had shown to get upon the
track of Sir George's travel, the haste made on discovering it, and the
diligence he was now showing to find the English baronet's address in
the French capital, were proofs that he was not altogether a fatalist.
During the twenty-four hours since his arrival in Paris, he had made
inquiries at every hotel where such a guest was likely to make stay.
But no Sir George Vernon--no English baronet could be found.
He had at length determined to try at the English Embassy. But that was
left for the next day; and, like all strangers, he went out to take a
stroll along the Boulevards.
He had reached that of Montmartre as the thought, chronicled above,
occurred to him.
It could scarce have been suggested by anything he there saw. Passing
and meeting him were the Parisian people--citizens of a free republic,
with a president of their own choice. The bluff _bourgeois_, with _sa
femme_ linked on his left arm, and _sa fille_, perhaps a pretty child,
hand-led, on his right. Behind him it might be a brace of gaily-dressed
grisettes, close followed by a couple of the young _dores_, exchanging
stealthy glance or bold repartee.
Here and there a party of students, released from the studies of the
day, a group of promenaders of both sexes, ladies and gentlemen, who had
sallied out to enjoy the fine weather, and the walk upon the broad,
smooth _banquette_ of the Boulevard, all chatting in tranquil strain,
unsuspicious of danger, as if they had been sauntering along a rural
road, or the strand of some quiet watering-place.
A sky over them serene as that which may have canopied the garden of
Eden; an atmosphere around so mild that the doors of the cafes had been
thrown open, and inside could be seen the true Parisian _flaneur_--
artists or authors--seated by the marble-topped table, sipping his _eau
sucre_, slipping the spare sugar lumps into his pocket for home use in
his six francs-a-week garret, and dividing his admiration between the
patent-leather shoes on his feet and the silken-dressed damsels who
passed and repassed along the flagged pavement in front.
It was not from observation of these Parisian peculiarities that Maynard
had been led to make the remark we have recorded, but from a scene to
which he had been witness on the preceding night.
Straying through the Palais Royal, then called "National," he had
entered the Cafe de Mille Colonnes, the noted resort of the Algerine
officers. With the recklessness of one who seeks adventure for its own
sake, and who has been accustomed to having it without stint, he soon
found himself amidst men unaccustomed to introductions. Paying freely
for their drinks--to which, truth compels me to say, as far as in their
purses they corresponded--he was soon clinking cups with them, and
listening to their sentiments. He could not help remarking the
recurrence of that toast which has since brought humiliation to France.
"_Vive l'Empereur_!"
At least a dozen times was it drunk during the evening--each time with
an enthusiasm that sounded ominous in the ears of the republican
soldier. There was a unanimity, too, that rendered it the more
impressive. He knew that the French President was aiming at Empire; but
up to that hour he could not believe in the possibility of his achieving
it.
As he drank with the Chasseurs d'Afrique in the Cafe de Mille Colonnes,
he saw it was not only possible but proximate; and that ere long Louis
Napoleon would either wrap his shoulders in the Imperial purple or in a
shroud.
The thought stung him to the quick. Even in that company he could not
conceal his chagrin. He gave expression to it in a phrase, half in
soliloquy, half meant for the ear of a man who appeared the most
moderate among the enthusiasts around him.
"_Pauvre France_!" was the reflection.
"_Pauvre France_!" cried a fierce-looking but diminutive sous-lieutenant
of Zouaves, catching up the phrase, and turning toward the man who had
given utterance to it.
"_Pauvre France! Pourquoi, monsieur_?"
"I pity France," said Maynard, "if you intend making an Empire of it."
"What's that to you?" angrily rejoined the Zouave lieutenant, whose
beard and moustache, meeting over his mouth, gave a hissing utterance to
his speech. "What does it concern you, monsieur?"
"Not so fast, Virocq!" interposed the officer to whom Maynard had more
particularly addressed himself. "This gentleman is a soldier like
ourselves. But he is an American, and of coarse believes in the
republic. We have all our political inclinings. That's no reason why
we should not be friends socially--as we are here!"
Virocq, after making a survey of Maynard, who did not quail before his
scrutiny, seemed contented with the explanation. At all events, he
satisfied his wounded patriotism by once more turning to the clique of
his comrades, tossing his glass on high, and once more vociferating
"_Vive l'Empereur_!"
It was the remembrance of this scene of last night that led Maynard to
reflect, when passing along the Boulevard, there was mischief in the
atmosphere of Paris.
He became more convinced of it as he walked on toward the Boulevard de
Bastille. There the stream of promenaders showed groups of a different
aspect: for he had gone beyond the point where the genteel bourgeoisie
takes its turn; where patent-leather boots and _eau sucre_ give place to
a coarser _chassure_ and stronger beverage. Blouses were intermingled
with the throng; while the _casernes_ on both sides of the street were
filled with soldiers, drinking without stint, and what seemed stranger
still, with their officers along with them!
With all his republican experience--even in the campaign of Mexico even
under the exigencies of the relaxed discipline brought about by the
proximity of death upon the battle-field, the revolutionary leader could
not help astonishment at this. He was still more surprised to see the
French people along the street--even the blouses submitting to repeated
insults put upon them by those things in uniform; the former stout,
stalwart fellows; the latter, most of them, diminutive ruffians, despite
their big breeches and swaggering gait, looking more like monkeys than
men.
From such a scene, back toward Montmartre he turned with disgust.
While retracing his steps, he reflected:
"If the French people allow themselves to be bullied by such _bavards_
as these, it's no business of mine. They don't deserve to be free."
He was on the Boulevard des Italiens as he made this reflection, heading
on for the widening way of the Rue de la Paix. He had already noticed a
change in the aspect of the promenaders.
Troops were passing along the pavement; and taking station at the
corners of the streets. Detachments occupied the _casernes_ and
_cafes_, not in serious, soldier-like sobriety, but calling imperiously
for refreshments, and drinking without thought or pretence of payment.
The bar-keeper refusing them was threatened with a blow, or the thrust
of a sabre!
The promenaders on the pave were rudely accosted. Some of them pushed
aside by half-intoxicated squads, that passed them on the double-quick,
as if bent on some exigent duty.
Seeing this, some parties had taken to the side streets to regain their
houses. Others, supposing it only a soldierly freak--the return from a
Presidential review--were disposed to take it in good part; and thinking
the thing would soon be over, still stayed upon the Boulevard.
Maynard was among those who remained.
Interrupted by the passing of a company of Zouaves, he had taken stand
upon the steps of a house, near the _embouchure_ of the Rue de Vivienne.
With a soldier's eye he was scrutinising these military vagabonds,
supposed to be of Arab race, but whom he knew to be the scourings of the
Parisian streets, disguised under the turbans of the Mohammed. He did
not think in after years such types of military would be imitated in the
land he had left behind, with such pride in its chivalry.
He saw that they were already half-intoxicated, staggering after their
leader in careless file, little regarding the commands called back to
them. Out of the ranks they were dropping off in twos and threes,
entering the _cafes_, or accosting whatever citizen chanced to challenge
their attention.
In the doorway where Maynard had drawn up, a young girl had also taken
refuge. She was a pretty creature and somewhat elegantly dressed;
withal of modest appearance. She may have been "grisette" or "cocotte."
It mattered not to Maynard, who had not been regarding her.
But her fair proportions had caught the eye of one of the passing
Zouaves; who, parting from the ranks of his comrades, rushed up the
steps and insisted upon kissing her!
The girl appealed to Maynard, who, without giving an instant to
reflection, seized the Zouave by the collar, and with a kick sent him
staggering from the steps.
A shout of "_Secours_!" traversed along the line, and the whole troop
halted, as if surprised by a sudden assault of Arabs. The officer
leading them came running back, and stood confronting the stranger.
"_Sacre_!" he cried. "It's you, monsieur! you who go against the
Empire!"
Maynard recognised the ruffian, who on the night before had disputed
with him in the Cafe de Mille Colonnes.
"_Bon_!" cried Virocq, before Maynard could make either protest or
reply. "Lay hold upon him, comrades! Take him back to the guard-house
in the Champs Elysees. You'll repent your interference, monsieur, in a
country that calls for the Empire and order. _Vive l'Empereur_!"
Half a dozen crimson-breeched ruffians springing from the ranks threw
themselves around Maynard, and commenced dragging him along the
Boulevard.
It required this number to conquer and carry him away.
At the corner of the Rue de la Paix a strange tableau was presented to
his eyes. Three ladies, accompanied by three gentlemen, were spectators
of his humiliation. Promenading upon the pavement, they had drawn up on
one side to give passage to the soldiers who had him in charge.
Notwithstanding the haste in which he was carried past them, he saw who
they were: Mrs Girdwood and her girls--Richard Swinton, Louis Lucas,
and his acolyte, attending upon them!
There was no time to think of them, or why they were there. Dragged
along by the Zouaves, occasionally cursed and cuffed by them, absorbed
in his own wild rage, Maynard only occupied himself with thoughts of
vengeance. It was to him an hour of agony--the agony of an impotent
anger!