“Where to?,” asked the coachman, as we entered the _calèche_.
“Beauvilliers,” said the marquis, throwing himself back in his seat, and
remaining for some minutes silent.
At last, as if suddenly recollecting that we were strangers to each
other, he said, “You know Beauvilliers, of course?”
“No,” replied I, with hesitation; “I really have not any acquaintance.”
“Parbleu,” said he, laughing, “you ought at least to have his
friendship. He is the most celebrated restaurateur of this or any
other age; no one has carried the great art of the cuisine to a higher
perfection, and his cellars are unequalled in Paris. But you shall
pronounce for yourself.”
“Unhappily my judgment is of little value. Do you forget that the diet
roll of the Polytechnique is a bad school for gastronomy?”
“But a glorious preparation for it,” interrupted he. “How delightful
must be the enjoyment to the unsophisticated palate of those first
impressions which a _carpe à la Chambord_, a pheasant _truffé_, a dish
of _ortolans à la Provengale_, inspire! But here we are. Our party is
a small one,--an old préfet of the South, an abbé, a secretary of the
Russian embassy, and ourselves.”
This information he gave me as we mounted a narrow and winding stair,
dimly lighted by a single lamp. On reaching the landing, however, a
waiter stood in readiness to usher us into a small apartment decorated
with all the luxury of gold and plate glass, so profusely employed in
the interior of all cafés. The guests already mentioned were there, and
evidently awaiting our arrival with no small impatience.
“As usual, Henri,” said the old man, whom I guessed to be the
préfet,--“as usual, an hour behind your appointment.”
“Forgive him. Monsieur,” said abbé, with a simper. “The fascinations of
a Court--”
The grimace the old man made at this last word threw the whole party
into a roar of laughter, which only ceased by the marquis presenting me
in all form to each of his friends.
“À table, à table, for Heaven's sake!” cried the préfet, ringing the
bell, and bustling about the room with a fidgety impatience.
This was, however, unneeded; for in less than five minutes the supper
made its appearance, and we took our places at the board.
The encomiums pronounced as each dish came and went satisfied me that
the feast was unexceptionable. As for myself, I ate away, only conscious
that I had never been so regaled before, and wondering within me how
far ingenuity had been exercised to produce the endless variety that
appeared at table. The wine, too, circulated freely; and Champagne,
Bordeaux, and Chambertin followed one another in succession, as the
different meats indicated the peculiar vintage. In the conversation
I could take no part,--it was entirely gastronomic; and no man ever
existed more ignorant of the seasons that promised well for truffles, or
the state of the atmosphere that threatened acidity to the vines.
“Well, Henri,” said the préfet, when the dessert made its appearance,
and the time for concluding the gourmand dissertation seemed
arrived,--“well! and what news from the Tuileries?”
“Nothing--absolutely nothing,” said he, carelessly,--“the same
people; the same topics; the eternal game of tric-trac with old Madame
d'Angerton; Denon tormenting some new victim with a mummy or a map of
Egypt; Madame Lefebvre relating camp anecdotes--”
“Ah, she is delightful!” interrupted the prefet.
“So thinks your chief, at least, Askoff,” said De Beauvais, turning to
the Russian. “He sat on the sofa beside her for a good hour and a half.”
“Who sat near him on the other side?” slyly asked the other.
“On the other side? I forget: no, I remember it was Monsieur de
Talleyrand and Madame Bonaparte. And, now I think of it, he must have
overheard what they said.”
“Is it true, then, that Bonaparte insulted the English ambassador at the
reception? Askoff heard it as he left the Rue St. Honoré.”
“Perfectly true. The scene was a most outrageous one; and Lord Whitworth
retired, declaring to Talleyrand--at least, so they say--that without
an apology being made, he would abstain from any future visits at the
Tuileries.”
“But what is to come of it?--tell me that. What is to be the result?”
“_Pardieu!_ I know not. A reconciliation to-morrow; an article in the
'Moniteur;' a dinner at the Court; and then another rupture, and another
article.”
“Or a war,” said the Russian, looking cautiously about, to see if his
opinion met any advocacy.
“What say you to that, mon ami?” said De Beauvais, turning to me. “Glad
enough, I suppose, you 'll be to win your epaulettes as colonel.”
“That, too, is on the cards,” said the abbé, sipping his glass quietly.
“One can credit anything these times.”
“Even the Catholic religion, Abbé,” said De Beauvais, laughing.
“Or the Restoration,” replied the abbé, with a half-malicious look at
the préfet, which seemed greatly to amuse the Russian.
“Or the Restoration!” repeated the préfet, solemnly, after him,--“or the
Restoration!” And then filling his glass to the brim, he drained it to
the bottom.
“It is a hussar corps you are appointed to?” said De Beauvais, hastily
turning towards me, as if anxious to engage my attention.
“Yes; the huitieme,” said I: “do you know them?”
“No; I have few acquaintances in the army.”
“His father, sir,” said the préfet, with a voice of considerable
emphasis, “was an old garde du corps in those times when the sword was
only worn by gentlemen.”
“So much the worse for the army,” whispered the abbé, in an undertone,
that was sufficiently audible to the rest to cause an outbreak of
laughter.
“And when,” continued the préfet, undisturbed by the interruption,
“birth had its privileges.”
“Among the rest, that of being the first beheaded,” murmured the
inexorable abbé.
“Were truffles dear before the Revolution, préfet?” said De Beauvais,
with a half-impertinent air of simplicity.
“No, sir; nothing was dear save the King's favor.”
“Which could also be had for paying for,” quoth the abbé.
“The 'Moniteur' of this evening, gentlemen,” said the waiter, entering
with the paper, whose publication had been delayed some two hours beyond
the usual period.
“Ah, let us see what we have here,” said De Beauvais, opening the
journal and reading aloud: “'Greneral Espinasse is appointed to the
command of the fourth corps, stationed at Lille; and Major-General
Lannes to the fortress of Montreil, vacant by--' No matter,--here it is.
'Does the English government suppose that France is one of her Indian
possessions, without the means to declare her wrongs or the power to
avenge them? Can they believe that rights are not reciprocal, and that
the observance of one contracting party involves nothing on the part of
the other?'”
“There, there, De Beauvais; don't worry us with that tiresome nonsense.”
“'Or,' continued the marquis, still reading aloud, 'do they presume to
say that we shall issue no commercial instructions to our agents
abroad lest English susceptibility should be wounded by any prospect of
increased advantages to our trade?'”
“Our trade!” echoed the préfet, with a most contemptuous intonation on
the word.
“Ah, for those good old times, when there was none!” said the abbé, with
such a semblance of honest sincerity as drew an approving smile from the
old man.
“Hear this, Préfet,” said De Beauvais: “'From the times of Colbert
to the present'--what think you? the allusion right royal, is it
not?--'From the times of Colbert our negotiations have been always
conducted in this manner.'”
“Sir, I beseech you read no more of that intolerable nonsense.”
“And here,” continued the marquis, “follows a special invocation of the
benediction of Heaven on the just efforts which France is called on to
make, to repress the insolent aggression of England. Abbé, this concerns
you.”
“Of course,” said he, meekly. “I am quite prepared to pray for the party
in power; if Heaven but leaves them there, I must conclude they deserve
it.”
A doubtful look, as if he but half understood him, was the only reply
the old préfet made to this speech; at which the laughter of the others
could no longer be repressed, and burst forth most heartily.
“But let us read on. Whose style is this, think you? 'France possessed
within her dominion every nation from the North Sea to the Adriatic. And
how did she employ her power?--in restoring to Batavia self-government;
in giving liberty to Switzerland; and in ceding Venice to Austria, while
the troops at the very gates of Vienna are halted and repass the Rhine
once more. Are these the evidences of ambition? Are these the signs of
that overweening lust of territory with which England dares to reproach
us? And if such passions prevailed, what was easier than to have
indulged them? Was not Italy our own? Were not Batavia, Switzerland,
Portugal, all ours? But no, peace was the desire of the nation; peace
at any cost. The colony of St. Domingo, that immense territory, was not
conceived a sacrifice too great to secure such a blessing.'”
“Pardieu! De Beauvais, I can bear it no longer.”
“You must let me give you the reverse of the medal. Hear now what
England has done.”
“He writes well, at least for the taste of newspaper readers,” said the
abbé, musingly; “but still he only understands the pen as he does the
sword,--it must be a weapon of attack.”
“Who is the writer, then?” said I, in a half-whisper.
“Who!--can you doubt it?--Bonaparte himself. What other man in France
would venture to pronounce so authoritatively on the prospects and the
intentions of the nation?”
“Or who,” said the abbé, in his dry manner, “could speak with such
accuracy of the 'Illustrious and Magnanimous Chief 'that rules her
destinies?”
“It is growing late,” said the préfet, with the air of one who took no
pleasure in the conversation, “and I start for Rouen to-morrow morning.”
“Come, come, préfet! one bumper before we part,” said Be Beauvais.
“Something has put you out of temper this evening; yet I think I know a
toast can restore you to good-humor again.”
The old man lifted his hand with a gesture of caution, while he suddenly
directed a look towards me.
“No, no; don't be afraid,” said De Beauvais, laughing; “I think you 'll
acquit me of any rashness. Fill up, then; and here let us drink to one
in the old palace of the Tuileries who at this moment can bring us back
in memory to the most glorious days of our country.”
“_Pardieu!_ that must be the First Consul, I suppose,” whispered the
abbé, to the prefet, who dashed his glass with such violence on the
table as to smash it in a hundred pieces.
“See what comes of impatience!” cried De Beauvais, laughing. “And
now you have not wherewithal to pledge my fair cousin the 'Rose of
Provence.'”
“The Rose of Provence!” said each in turn; while, excited by the wine,
of which I had drunk freely, and carried away by the enthusiasm of the
moment, I re-echoed the words in such a tone as drew every eye upon me.
“Ah! you know my cousin, then?” said De Beauvais,--looking at me with a
strange mixture of curiosity and astonishment.
“No,” said I; “I have seen her--I saw her this evening at the Palace.”
“Well, I must present you,” said he, smiling good-day naturedly.
Before I could mutter my acknowledgment, the party had risen, and were
taking leave of each other for the night.
“I shall see you soon again, Burke,” said De Beauvais, as he pressed my
hand warmly; “and now, adieu!”
With that we parted; and I took my way back towards the Polytechnique,
my mind full of strange incidents of this the most eventful night in my
quiet and monotonous existence.