So, all is settled!--I leave Paris to-morrow. I hate leave-takings, even
where common acquaintanceship only is concerned. I shall just write a
few lines to the Favancourts, with the volume of Balzac--happily I know
no one else here--and then for the road!
Why this haste to set out, I cannot even tell to myself. I know, I feel,
I shall never pass this way again; I have that sense of regret a last
look at even indifferent objects suggests, and yet I would be “en route”
There are places and scenes I wish to see before I go hence, and I feel
that my hours are numbered.
And now for a moonlight stroll through Paris! Already the din and tumult
is subsiding--the many-voiced multitude that throngs the streets long
after the roll of equipage and the clattering hoofs of horses have
ceased. How peacefully the long shadows are sleeping in the garden of
the Tuileries! and how clearly sounds the measured tread of the sentinel
beneath the deep arch of the palace!
Not a light twinkles along that vast façade, save in that distant
pavilion, where a single star seems glistening--it is the apartment of
the King, “The cares of Agamemnon never sleep;” and royalty is scarce
more fortunate now than in the days of Homer.
Louis Philippe has a task not less arduous than had Napoleon to found a
dynasty. There is little prestige any longer in the name of Bourbon; and
the members of his family, brave and high-spirited though they be, are
scarcely of the stuff to stand the storm that is brewing for them.
As for the Emperor, the incapacity of his brothers was a weight upon his
shoulders all through life. His family contributed more to his fall than
is generally believed: it was a never-ending struggle he had to
maintain against the childish vanity and extravagance of Josephine,
the wrongheadedness of Joseph, the simple credulity of Louis, and
the fatuous insufficiency of Jerome and Lucien. All, more good than
otherwise, were manifestly unsuited to the places they occupied in life,
and were continually mingling up the associations and habits of their
small identities with the great requirements of newly acquired station.
Napoleon created the Empire--the vast drama was his own. However he
might please to represent royalty, however he might like to ally the
splendours of a throne with the glories of a great captain, it was
all his own doing. But how miserably deficient were the others in that
faculty of adaptation that made him “de pair” with every dynasty of
Europe!
Into these thoughts I was led by finding myself standing in the Rue
Taibout, opposite the house which was once celebrated as the _Café du
Roi_--a name which it bore for many years under the Empire, and, in
consequence, was held in high esteem by certain worthy _Légitimistes_,
who little knew that the “King” was only a pretender, and, so far from
being his sainted majesty Louis Dix-huit, was merely Jerome Buonaparte,
king of Westphalia.
The name originated thus:--One warm evening in autumn, a young man,
somewhat over-dressed in the then “_mode_” with a very considerable
border of pinkish silk stocking seen above the margin of his low boots
“_à revers_” and a most inordinate amount of coat-collar, lounged along
the Boulevard Italiens, occasionally ogling the passers-by, but, oftener
still, throwing an admiring glance at himself, as the splendid windows
of plate-glass reflected back his figure. His whole air and mien
exhibited the careless _insouciance_ of one with whom the world went
easily, asking little from him of exertion, less still of forethought.
He had just reached the angle of the Rue Vi-vienne, and was about to
turn, when two persons advanced towards him, whose very different style
of dress and appearance bespoke very different treatment at the hands of
Fortune. They were both young, and, although palpably men of a certain
rank and condition, were equally what is called out-at-elbows; hats that
exhibited long intimacy with rain and wind, shoes of very questionable
colour, coats suspiciously buttoned about the throat, being all signs of
circumstances that were far from flourishing.
“Ah, Chopard, is’t thou?” said the fashionably dressed man, advancing
with open hand to each, and speaking in the “tu” of intimate friendship,
“And thou, too, Brissole, how goes it? What an age since we have met!
Art long in Paris?”
“About two hours,” said the first. “Just as I stepped out of the Place
des Victoires I met our old friend here; and, strange enough, now
we have come upon _you_; three old schoolfellows thus assembled at a
hazard!”
“A minute later, and we should have missed each other,” said Brissole.
“I was about to take my place in the _malle_ for Nancy.”
“To leave Paris?” exclaimed both the others.
“Even so--to leave Paris! I’ve had enough of it.”
“Come, what do you mean by this?” said Cho-pard; “it sounds very like
discouragement to me, who have come up here with all manner of notions
of fortune, wealth, and honours.”
“So much the worse for you,” said Brissole, gaily; “I’ve tried it for
five years, and will try it no longer. I was vaudevillist, journalist,
novelist, feuilletonist--I was the glory of the Odéon--the prop of the
‘Moniteur’--the hope of the ‘Siècle’--and look at me----”
“And thou?” said the fashionable, addressing him called Chopard.
“I have just had a little opera damned at Lyons, and have come up to try
what can be done here.”
“Poor devil!” exclaimed Brissole, shrugging his shoulders; then, turning
abruptly towards the other, he said, “And what is thy luck? for, so far
as externals go, thou seemest to have done better.”
“Ay, Jerome,” chimed in Chopard, “tell us, how hast thou fared?--thou
wert ever a fortunate fellow.”
“Pretty well,” said he, laughing. “I’ve just come from St.
Cloud--they’ve made me King of Westphalia!”
“The devil they have!” exclaimed Chopard; “and dost know, _par hazard_,
where thy kingdom lies on the map?”
“Why should he torment himself about that?” said Brissole. “It’s enough
to know they have capital hams there.”
“What if we sup together,” said Jerome, “and taste one? I am most
anxious to baptize my new Royalty in a glass of wine. Here we are in the
Rue Taibout--this is Villaret’s. Come in, gentlemen--I’m the host. Make
your minds easy about the future: you, Brissole, I appoint to the office
of my Private Secretary. Chopard, you shall be _Maître de Chapelle_.”
“Agreed,” cried the others gaily; and with a hearty shake of hands was
the contract ratified.
Supper was quickly prepared, and, in its splendour and profusion,
pronounced, by both the guests, worthy of a king. Villaret could
do these things handsomely, and as he was told expense was of no
consequence, the entertainment was really magnificent. Nor was the
spirit of the guests inferior to the feast. They were brilliant in wit,
and overflowing in candour; concealing nothing of their past lives that
would amuse or interest, each vied with the other in good stories
and ludicrous adventures--all their bygone vicissitudes so pleasantly
contrasting with the brilliant future they now saw opening before them.
They drank long life and reign to the King of Westphalia in bumpers of
foaming champagne.
The pleasant hours flew rapidly past--bright visions of the time to come
lending their charm to the happiness, and making their enjoyment seem
but the forerunner of many days and nights of festive delight. At last
came day-break, and, even by the flickering of reason left, they saw it
was time to separate.
“Bring the bill,” said Jerome to the exhausted-looking waiter, who
speedily appeared with a small slip of paper ominously marked “eight
hundred francs.”
“_Diable!_” exclaimed Jerome; “that is smart, and I have no money about
me. Come, Brissole, this falls among your duties--pay the fellow.”
“_Parbleu_, then--it comes somewhat too soon. I am not yet installed,
and have not got the key of our treasury.”
“No matter--pay it out of thine own funds.”
“But I have none--save this;” and he produced two francs, and some sous
in copper.
“Well, then, Chopard must do it.”
“I have not as much as himself,” said Chopard.
“Send the landlord here,” said Jerome; but indeed the command was
unnecessary, as that functionary had been an anxious listener at the
door to the very singular debate.
“We have forgotten our purses, Villaret,” said Jerome, in the easy tone
his last ten hours of royalty suggested; “but we will send your money
when we reach home.”
“I have no doubt of it, gentlemen,” said the host, obsequiously; “but it
would please me still better to receive it now--particularly as I have
not the honour of knowing the distinguished company.”
“The distinguished company is perfectly satisfied to know you: the
_cuisine_ was excellent,” hiccupped Brissole.
“And the wine unexceptionable.”
“The champagne might have been a little more _frappé_,” said Brissole;
“the only improvement I could suggest.”
“Perhaps there was a _nuance_, only a _nuance_, too much citron in the
_rognons à la broche_, but the _filets de sole_ were perfect.”
“If I had the happiness of knowing ‘_Messieurs_,’” said Villaret, “I
should hope, that at another time I might be more fortunate in pleasing
them.”
“Nothing easier,” said Chopard. “I am _Maître de Chapelle_ to the King
of Westphalia.”
Villaret bowed low.
“And I am the Private Secretary and Privy Purse of his majesty.”
Villaret bowed again--a slight smile of very peculiar omen flitting
across his cunning features, while, turning hastily, he whispered a word
in the ear of the waiter. “And this gentleman here?” said he, looking at
Jerome, who, with his legs resting on a chair, was coolly awaiting the
termination of the explanation. “And this gentleman, if I might make so
bold, what office does he hold in his Majesty’s service?”
“I am the King of Westphalia!” said Jerome.
“Just as I suspected. François,” said the landlord insolently, “go fetch
the gendarmes.”
“No, no, _parbleu!_” said Jerome, springing up in alarm; “no gendarmes,
no police. Here, take my watch--that is surely worth more than your
bill? When I reach home I’ll send the money.”
The landlord, more than ever convinced that his suspicions were well
grounded, took the watch, which was a very handsome one, and suffered
them to depart in peace.
They had not been gone many minutes when, on examining the watch, the
landlord perceived that it bore the emblematic “N” of the Emperor within
the case, and at once suspecting that it had been stolen from
some member of the imperial household, he hurried off in terror to
communicate his fears to the commissary of police. This functionary
no sooner saw it that he hastened to Fouché, the minister, who, making
himself acquainted with the whole details, immediately hurried off to
the Tuileries and laid it all before the Emperor. The watch had been a
present from Napoleon to Jerome; but this was but a small part of the
cause of indignation. The derogation from dignity, the sacrifice of the
regard due to his station, were crimes of a very different order; and,
summoned to the imperial presence, the new-made king was made to hear,
in terms of reproachful sarcasm, a lesson in his craft that few could
impart with such cutting severity.
As for the _Maître de Chapelle_ and the Secretary, an agent of
the police waited on each before they were well awake, with strict
injunctions to them to maintain a perfect secrecy on the whole affair;
and while guaranteeing them an annual pension in their new offices,
assuring them that the slightest indiscretion as to the mystery would
involve their ruin and their exile from France for ever.
It was years before the landlord learned the real secret of the
adventure, and, in commemoration of it, called his house “Le Café
du Roi,” a circumstance which the Government never noticed, for the
campaign of Russia and the events of 1812-13 left little time to attend
to matters of this calibre.
The Café du Roi is now a shop where artificial flowers are sold; as
nearly like nature perhaps, or more so, than poor Jerome’s royalty
resembled the real article.