They who remember the excited state of England on the rupture of the
peace of Amiens; the spirit of military ardor that animated every class
and condition of life; the national hatred, carried to the highest pitch
by the instigations and attack of a violent press,--can yet form but an
imperfect notion of the mad enthusiasm that prevailed in France on the
same occasion. The very fact that there was no determinate and precise
cause of quarrel added to the exasperation on both sides. It was less
like the warfare of two great nations, than the personal animosity of
two high-spirited and passionate individuals, who, having interchanged
words of insult, resolve on the sword as the only arbiter between them.
All that the long rivalry of centuries, national dislike, jealousy in
every form, and ridicule in a thousand shapes could suggest, were added
to the already existing hate, and gave to the coming contest a character
of blackest venom.
In England, the tyrannic rule of Bonaparte gave deep offence to all true
lovers of liberty, and gave rise to fears of what the condition of their
own country would become should he continue to increase his power by
conquest. In France, the rapid rise to honor and wealth the career of
arms so singularly favored, made partisans of war in every quarter of
the kingdom. The peaceful arts were but mean pursuits compared with
that royal road to rank and riches,--the field of battle; and their
self-interest lent its share in forming the spirit of hostility, which
wanted no element of hatred to make it perfect.
Paris,--where so lately nothing was heard save the roll of splendid
equipages, the din of that gay world whose business is amusement; where
amid gilded salons the voluptuous habits of the Consulate mixed with
the less courtly but scarce less costly display of military
splendor,--became now like a vast camp. Regiments poured in daily,
to resume their march the next morning; the dull rumble of ammunition
wagons and caissons, the warlike clank of mounted cavalry, awoke the
citizens at daybreak; the pickets of hussar corps and the dusty and
travel-stained infantry soldiers filled the streets at nightfall. Yet
through all, the mad gayety of this excited nation prevailed. The cafés
were Crowded with eager and delighted faces; the tables spread in the
open air were occupied by groups whose merry voices and ready laughter
attested that war was the pastime of the people, and the very note of
preparation a tocsin of joy and festivity. The walls were placarded
with inflammatory addresses to the patriotism and spirit of France.
The papers teemed with artful and cleverly written explanations of the
rupture with England; in which every complaint against that country was
magnified, and every argument put forward to prove the peaceful
desires of that nation whose present enthusiasm for war was an unhappy
commentary on the assertion. The good faith of France was extolled; the
moderation of the First Consul dwelt upon; and the treachery of that
“perfidious Albion, that respected not the faith of treaties,” was
displayed in such irrefragable clearness, that the humblest citizen
thought the cause his own, and felt the coming contest the ordeal of his
own honor.
All the souvenirs of the former wars were invoked to give spirit to the
approaching struggle, and they were sufficiently numerous to let no week
pass over without at least one eventful victory to commemorate. Now it
was Kellerman's cuirassiers, whose laurel-wreathed helmets reminded
the passing stranger that on that day eight years they tore through the
dense ranks of the Austrians, and sabred the gunners at the very guns.
Now it was the Polish regiments, the steel-clad lancers, who paraded
before the Tuileries in memory of the proud day they marched through
Montebello with that awful sentence on their banners, “Venice exists
no longer!” Here were corps of infantry, intermingled with dragoons,
pledging each other as they passed along; while the names of
Castiglione, Bassano, and Roveredo rang througl the motley crowd. The
very children, “les enfants de troupe,” seemed filled with the warlike
enthusiasm of their fathers; and each battalion, as it moved past,
stepped to the encouraging shouts of thousands who gazed with envious
admiration on the heroes of their country.
Never did the pent-up feelings of a nation find vent in such a universal
torrent of warlike fervor as now filled the land. The clank of the
sabre was the music that charmed the popular ear; and the “coquette
vivandiére,” as she tripped along the gravel avenued of the Tuileries
gardens, was as much an object of admiration as the most splendidly
attired beauty of the Faubourg St. Germain. The whole tone of society
assumed the feature of the political emergency. The theatres only
represented such pieces as bore upon the ancient renown of the nation
in arms,--its victories and conquests; the artists painted no other
subjects; and the literature of the period appealed to few other
sympathies than are found in the rude manners of the guardroom or around
the watchfires of the bivouac. Pegault Lebrun was the popular author of
the day; and his works are even now no mean indication of the current
tastes and opinions of the period.
The predictions too hastily made by the English journals, that the
influence of Bonaparte in France could not survive the rupture of that
peace which had excited so much enthusiasm, were met by a burst of
national unanimity that soon dispelled the delusive hope. Never was
there a greater error than to suppose that any prospect of commercial
prosperity, any vista of wealth and riches, could compensate to
Frenchmen for the intoxication of that glory in which they lived as
in an orgy. Too many banners floated from the deep aisles of the
Invalides--too many cannon, the spoils of the Italian and German wars,
bristled on the rampart--not to recall the memory of those fête days
when a bulletin threw the entire city into a frenzy of joy. The Louvre
and the Luxembourg, too, were filled with the treasures of conquered
States; and these are not the guarantees of a long peace.
Such! in brief, was the state of Paris when the declaration of war by
Great Britain once more called the nation to arms. Every regiment was at
once ordered to make up its full complement to the war standard, and the
furnaces were employed in forging shot and casting cannon throughout the
length and breadth of France. The cavalry corps were stationed about
St. Omer and Compiègne, where a rich corn country supplied forage in
abundance. Among the rest, the order came for the huitième to march: one
squadron only was to remain behind, chosen to execute _le service
des dépêches_ from St. Cloud and Versailles to Paris; and to this I
belonged.
From the evening of Monsieur Gisquet's visit I had never seen or heard
of De Beauvais; and at last the hope grew in me that we were to meet no
more, when suddenly the thought flashed across my mind: this is what he
spoke of,--he promised I should be sent to Versailles! Can it be chance?
or is this his doing? These were difficult questions to solve, and gave
me far more embarrassment than pleasure. My fear that my acquaintance
with him was in the end to involve me in some calamity, was a kind of
superstition which I could not combat; and I resolved at once to see
my colonel,--with whom, happily, I was now on the best of terms,--and
endeavor to exchange with some other officer, any being willing to
accept a post so much more agreeable than a mere country quarter, I
found the old man busied in the preparations for departure; he was
marking out the days of march to the adjutant as I entered.
“Well, Burke,” said he, “you are the fortunate fellow this time; your
troop remains behind.”
“It is on that account, sir, I am come. You'll think my request a
strange one, but if it be not against rule, would you permit me to
exchange my destination with another officer?”
“What,--eh? the boy 's mad! Why, it 's to Versailles you are going.”
“I know, sir; but somehow I'd rather remain with the regiment.”
“This is very strange,--I don't understand it,” said he, leisurely;
“come here.” With that he drew me into the recess of a window where we
could talk unheard by others. “Burke,” continued he, “I'm not the man
to question my young fellows about secrets which they 'd rather keep for
themselves; but there is something here more than common. Do you know
that in the order it was your squadron was specially marked out--all
the officers' names were mentioned, and yours particularly--for
Versailles?”
A deadly paleness and a cold chill spread over my face. I tried to say
some commonplace, but I could not utter more than the words, “I feared
it.” Happily for me he did not hear them, but taking my hand kindly,
said,--
“I see it all: some youthful folly or other would make you better
pleased to leave Paris just now. Never mind,--stormy times are coming;
you 'll have enough on your hands presently. And let me advise you to
make the most of your time at Versailles; for if I 'm not mistaken, you
'll see much more of camps than courts for some time to come.”
The rest of that day left me but little time for reflection; but in such
short intervals as I could snatch from duty, one thought ever rose to
my mind: Can this be De Beauvais's doing? has he had any share, in my
present destination,--and with what object? “Well,” said I to myself at
last, “these are but foolish fears after all, and may be causeless ones.
If I but follow the straight path of my duty, what need I care if the
whole world intrigued and plotted around me? And after all, was it not
most likely that we should never see each other again?”
The day was just breaking when we left Paris; the bright beams of a May
morning's sun were flickering and playing in the rippling river that ran
cold and gray beneath. The tall towers of the Tuileries threw their
long shadows across the Place Carrousel, where a dragoon regiment was
encamped. They were already astir, and some of the men were standing
around the fountains with their horses, and others were looking
after the saddles and accoutrements in preparation for the march; a
half-expiring fire here and there marked where some little party had
been sitting together, while the jars and flasks about bespoke a merry
evening. A trumpeter sat, statue-like, on his white horse his trumpet
resting on his knee,--surveying the whole scene, and as if deferring to
the last the wakeful summons that should rouse some of his yet sleeping
comrades: I could see thus much as we passed. Our road led along the
quay towards the Place Louis the Fifteenth, where an infantry battalion
with four guns was picketed. The men were breakfasting and preparing for
the route. They were part of the grande armée under orders for Boulogne.
We soon traversed the Champs Élysées, and entered the open country. For
some miles it was merely a succession of large cornfields, and here
and there a small vineyard, that met the eye on either side: but as we
proceeded farther, we were girt in by rich orchards in full blossom,
the whole air loaded with perfume; neat cottages peeped from the woody
enclosures, the trellised walls covered with honeysuckles and wild
roses; the surface, too, was undulating, and waved in every imaginable
direction, offering every variety of hill and valley, precipice and
plain, in even the smallest space. As yet no peasant was stirring, no
smoke curled from a single chimney, and all, save the song of the lark,
was silent. It was a peaceful scene, and a strong contrast to that we
left behind us, and whatever ambitious yearnings filled my heart as I
looked upon the armed ranks of the mailed cuirassiers, I felt a deeper
sense of happiness as I strayed along those green alleys through which
the sun came slanting sparingly, and where the leaves only stirred as
their winged tenants moved among them.
We travelled for some hours through the dark paths of the Bois de
Boulogne, and again emerged in a country wild and verdant as before. And
thus passed our day; till the setting sun rested on the tall roof of the
great Palace, and lit up every window in golden splendor as we entered
the town of Versailles.
I could scarce avoid halting as I rode up the wide terrace of the
Palace. Never had I felt before the overcoming sense of grandeur which
architecture can bestow. The great façade in its chaste and simple
beauty, stretched away to a distance, where dark lime-trees closed the
background, their tall summits only peeping above the lofty terrace in
which the château stands. On that terrace, too, were walking a crowd of
persons of the Court, the full-dress costume showing that they had but
left the salons to enjoy the cool and refreshing air of the evening.
I saw some turn and look after our travel-stained and dusty party, and
confess I felt a half sense of shame at our wayworn appearance.
I had not long to suffer such mortification, for ere we marched
more than a few minutes, we were joined by a Maréchal de Logis, who
accompanied us to our quarters,--one of the buildings adjoining the
Palace,--where we found everything in readiness for our arrival. And
there! to my surprise, discovered that a most sumptuous supper awaited
me,--a politeness I was utterly a stranger to, not being over-cognizant
of the etiquette and privilege which await the officer on guard at a
Royal Palace.