A family council—Journey from Havre to Paris—Attention of the French
officers to the author and his party—Peaceable condition of the
intervening country—Thoughts on revolutions in general—Ireland in
1798—Arrival in the French capital—Admirable state of the police—Henry
Thevenot—Misgivings of the author—His interview with Count
Bertrand—Polite conduct of the Count—The Emperor’s chapel—Napoleon at
mass—His deportment—Treasonable garments—Col. Gowen—Military
inspection after mass—Alteration in the manner of the
Emperor—Enthusiasm of the soldiers.
To see Napoleon, or not to see Napoleon,—that was the question! and well
weighed it was in my domestic republic. After a day’s reasoning, _pro_
and _con_, (curiosity being pitted against fear, and women in the
question,) the matter was still undecided, when our friends the colonel
and the dirty doctor came to visit us, and set the point at rest, by
stating that the regiments at Havre had declared unanimously for the
emperor, and that the colonel had determined to march next day direct
upon Paris; that therefore if we were disposed to go thither, and would
set off at the same time, the doctor should take care of our safety, and
see that we had good cheer on our journey to the metropolis.
This proposal was unanimously adopted; we were at peace with France, and
might possibly remain so; and the curiosity of three ladies, with my own
to back it, proved to be totally irresistible. A new sub-prefect also
having arrived in the town, came to see us; expressed his regret that
the English should have deemed it necessary to quit the place; and gave
us a letter of introduction to his wife, who lived in the Rue St.
Honoré, at Paris. We all believed there would be no war.
We immediately packed up. I procured three stout horses to my carriage,
and away we went after the advanced guard of the (as well as I
recollect) 41st regiment. The soldiers seemed to me as if they thought
they never could get to Napoleon soon enough: they marched with
surprising rapidity; and after a most agreeable journey, we arrived at
the good city of Paris without any let or hindrance; having experienced
from the dirty doctor every possible attention. We were sure of the best
cheer at any place we halted at; and the more so as the advanced guard
only preceded us one stage, and the main body of the troops was a stage
behind us. We were immediately escorted by four mounted soldiers, who
were in attendance upon our medical friend. I have learnt since that
this kind and firm-hearted man escaped the campaign and returned to
Italy: the colonel was shot dangerously at Quatre Bras, but I understand
his wounds did not prove mortal.
Our route from Havre to Paris exhibited one general scene of peace and
tranquillity, not dashed by the slightest symptom of revolution. The
national guards every where appeared to have got new clothing, and were
most assiduously learning in the villages to hold up their heads, and
take long strides and lock steps, but (for any thing that appeared to
the contrary) solely for their own amusement. The same evidences of
undisturbed serenity and good-humour were displayed in all directions,
and the practice of military exercises by the national guards was the
only warlike indication of any kind throughout the whole extent of
country we traversed.
On our arrival at the capital we found no exception therein to the
tranquillity of the provinces. People at a distance are apt to conceive
that a _revolution_ must necessarily be a most terrific affair—a period
of anarchy and confusion, when every thing is in a state of animosity,
bustle, and insecurity. This is in some instances a great mistake;
(although, generally speaking, true enough;) for, on the other hand,
many modern revolutions have been effected, governments upset, dynasties
annihilated, and kings trucked, with as little confusion as the
exchanging a gig-horse. I have indeed seen more work made about the
change of a hat than of a diadem; more anxiety expressed touching a cane
than a sceptre; and never did any revolution more completely prove the
truth of these remarks than that in France during March, 1815, when
Napoleon quietly drove up post, in a chaise and four, to the palace of
the Bourbons, and Louis XVIII. as quietly drove _off_ post, in a chaise
and four, to avoid his visitor. Both parties, too, were driven back
again, within three months, pretty nearly in the same kind of vehicle!
Let my reader compare, for his edification, this bloodless revolution
with the _attempt_ at revolution in the obscure corner of the globe from
whence I sprang, _Anno Domini_ 1798 during the brief summer of which
year there was, in secluded Ireland, (the _kingdom_ of Ireland, as it
was then called,) more robbery, shooting, hanging, burning, piking,
flogging, and picketing, than takes place in half a dozen of the best
got-up continental revolutions—always excepting that great convulsion
which agitated our French neighbours toward the close of the eighteenth
century.
During the interval of the Hundred Days, and some time subsequently, I
kept a regular diary, wherein I accurately took down every important
circumstance, except some which I then considered much safer in my mind
than under my hand; and a few of these are now, for the first time,
submitted to the public. After some days’ stay in Paris, I began to feel
rather awkward. I found very few of my fellow-countrymen had remained
there, and that there seemed to exist but little partiality toward the
English. But the police was perfect, and no outrage, robbery, or breach
of the peace was heard of; nor could I find that there were any
political prisoners in the gaols, or in fact many prisoners of any kind.
No dissolutes were suffered to parade the streets or contaminate the
theatres; and all appeared polite, tranquil, and _correct_. I kept
totally clear, meanwhile, both in word and deed, of political subjects.
I hired as footman a person then very well known in Paris, Henry
Thevenot. I have since heard (but cannot vouch for the fact) that he is
the Thevenot who attended Mr. Wakefield and Miss Turner. I have likewise
recently been apprised that, at the time I engaged him, he was actually
on the police establishment. Be that as it may, I certainly always
considered Thevenot to be a mysterious kind of person, and, on one
particular occasion, which will be hereafter mentioned, discharged him
suddenly, without enlarging on my reasons: he was however an excellent
servant. I had brought a passport from the new Sous-Préfet at Havre,
which having lodged at the police-office, I felt quite at my ease; but,
reflecting afterward upon the probable consequence in case of war or
change of circumstances, I determined at once to take a bold step and go
to the Palais de Bourbon Elysée, (where Napoleon resided,) and endeavour
to see Count Bertrand, whom I proposed to inform truly of my situation,
and ask for a _carte de sureté_, or a passport to return.
On the second day whereon I made an attempt to see him, with difficulty
I succeeded in obtaining an audience. I told the count who I was, and
all the facts, together with my doubts as to the propriety of remaining.
He very politely said I should have what I required, but that a
gentleman in my station was perfectly safe, and there could be no
difficulty as to my remaining as long as I chose; and concluded by
bowing me out, after a very short interview. As I was going down the
steps an officer recalled me, and asked if I had any family in Paris. I
replied in the affirmative—three ladies: mutual bows ensued, and I
returned very well satisfied with the result of my visit to the Palais
de Bourbon Elysée. At that time the emperor was employed day and night
on business in the palace: at daybreak he occasionally rode out with
some of his staff, to inspect the works at Montmartre; and on hearing
this, my ancient curiosity to see so distinguished a person came afresh
upon me.
The ensuing day, a man with a large letter-box buckled before him
entered our apartment without the least ceremony, and delivered a letter
with “Bertrand” signed at the corner. I was rather startled at the
moment, as the occurrence certainly looked singular: nevertheless, the
man’s appearance and manner were not such as to confirm unpleasant
surmises, and I proceeded to unseal the envelope, which enclosed a
billet to the Commissaire de Police at the prefecture, desiring him to
grant me a _carte de sureté_ and a _sauf conduit_ through any part of
France, if I chose to travel in that country—(the signature was not that
of Bertrand):—the packet also contained a polite note from an
aide-de-camp of the count, mentioning that he was directed to enclose me
an admission to the emperor’s chapel, &c. and to say that, on production
of my _carte de sureté_, our party would find a _free admission_ to the
theatres and other spectacles of Paris.—So much politeness (so _very_
different from what would have been the case in England) both gratified
and surprised me. I wrote a letter of thanks; but at our privy council,
we agreed that, under existing circumstances, it would be better to say
nothing of the _latter_ favour. I afterward discovered the friendly
quarter through which it originated.
We hired a _calèche_ by the month, and set out with a determination to
lose no time in seeing whatever was interesting; and in fact every thing
was at that moment interesting to strangers. We spoke French
sufficiently well for ordinary purposes; and determined, in short, to
make ourselves as comfortable as possible.
I have already observed that I kept a diary during the Hundred Days, but
afterward thought it most prudent not to commit any thing very important
to writing. From that diary, so far as I pursued it, (and from scraps
which nobody could understand but myself,) I have since selected some
details and observations which have not hitherto been published, and for
the collection of which my peculiar situation at Paris, and consequent
opportunities, abundantly qualified me. Consistently with the foregoing
part of these fragments, I shall not even attempt any thing like strict
order or chronological arrangement, but leave, generally speaking, the
various subjects brought before the reader’s attention to illustrate and
explain each other. On this principle, I shall now, without further
prelude, describe the first scene which impressed itself on my
imagination.
The first Sunday after the receipt of our permission we repaired to the
emperor’s chapel, to see that wonderful man, and to hear mass chanted in
the first style of church music. Napoleon had already entered: the
chapel was full; but we got seats very low down, near the gallery in
which the emperor sat; and as he frequently leaned over the front, I had
opportunities of partially seeing him. In the presence of so celebrated
a man as Bonaparte, all other things sank into comparative
insignificance, and the attention of the spectator was wholly absorbed
by the one great object. Thus, in the present case, there was nothing
either in the chapel or congregation that had power to divide my regards
with the great Napoleon. As I have said, he often leaned over the front
of the gallery wherein he sat; and I had thence an opportunity of
observing that he seemed quite restless, took snuff repeatedly, stroked
down his head with an abstracted air—and, in fact, was obviously
possessed by feelings of deep anxiety. I should not suppose he had at
the moment the least consciousness as to where he was, and that, of all
things, the priests and the mass were the last likely to occupy his
thoughts.
Whilst thus employed in reconnoitring the emperor as intensely as stolen
glances afforded me means of doing, a buzz in the chapel caused me to
turn round to ascertain its cause. Though low, it increased every
moment, and was palpably directed toward us—so much so, that no doubt
remained of our being somehow or other the sole objects of it. I then
whispered my companions that our presence was evidently offensive in
that place, and that we had better retire, when a French lady who sat
near Lady Barrington, said to her, “Madame, you perceive that you are
the object of this uncourteous notice.”—“Yes,” replied she, “it is
become quite obvious.” The French lady smiled, and continued, “You had
better _lay aside your shawls_!”—Lady Barrington and my daughter
accordingly, taking the hint, threw off the shawls, which they suffered
to drop at their feet, and at once the buzzing subsided, and no further
explanation took place until the conclusion of the service.
At that moment several French ladies came up with great courtesy, to
apologise for the apparent rudeness of the congregation, which they
begged Lady Barrington to excuse on account of its cause, and to examine
her shawl, on doing which, she would perceive that it was very unlucky
(_bien mal à propos_) to wear such a one in presence of the emperor. She
did so, and found that both hers and my daughter’s (though very fine
ones) were unfortunately speckled all over with _fleurs-de-lis_! They
had been sold her the preceding day by a knavish shopkeeper at the
Passage Feydeau, who, seeing she was a foreigner, had put off these
articles, thinking it a good opportunity to decrease his stock in that
kind of gear, the sale whereof would probably be pronounced high treason
before the month was over.
The confusion of the ladies at this _éclaircissement_ may be well
conceived; but it was speedily alleviated by the elegant consolations
and extreme politeness of the Frenchwomen. Among those who addressed us
was a gentleman in the uniform of a colonel of the national guards; he
spoke to me in perfect English, and begged to introduce his family to
mine. I told him who I was, and he asked us to a dinner and ball next
day at his house in the Rue de Clichy. We accepted his invitation, and
were magnificently entertained. This was Colonel Gowen, the proprietor
of the first stamp-paper manufactory in France—a most excellent,
hospitable, and friendly person, but ill-requited, I fear, afterward by
some of our countrymen. I subsequently experienced many proofs of his
hospitality and attention.
An English lady (the wife of Dr. Marshall, an English physician) was
also remarkably attentive and polite on this occasion, and gave her card
to Lady Barrington, No. 10, Rue Pigale:—so that the affair of the shawl,
so far from being _mal à propos_, seemed to turn out quite a lucky
adventure.
In viewing Napoleon that day, it was not the splendid superiority of his
rank; it was neither his diadem, sceptre, nor power, which communicated
that involuntary sensation of awe it was impossible not to feel:—it was
the gigantic degree of talent whereby a man of obscure origin had been
raised so far above his fellows. The spectator could not but deeply
reflect on the mystic nature of those decrees of Providence which had
placed Napoleon Bonaparte on one of the highest of earthly thrones and
at the very pinnacle of glory; had hurled him from that eminence and
driven him into exile; and now seemed again to have warranted his second
elevation, replacing him upon that throne even more wondrously than when
he first ascended it.
Such were my impressions on my first sight of the Emperor Napoleon. So
much has he been seen and scrutinised throughout the world,—so familiar
must his countenance have been to millions,—so many descriptions have
been given of his person and of his features by those who knew him
well,—that any portrait by me must appear to be at least superfluous.
Every person, however, has a right to form his own independent judgment
on subjects of physiognomy, and it is singular enough that I have never
yet met any one with whom I entirely coincided as to the peculiar
expression of Napoleon’s features;—and I have some right to speak, for I
saw him at periods and under circumstances that wrought on and agitated
every muscle of his fine countenance, and have fancied (perhaps
ridiculously) that I could trace indications of character therein
unnoticed by his biographers. Several who have confidently spoken of his
physiognomy never saw him; by such, therefore, any estimation of its
cast cannot be very accurate.
On this day my observations must necessarily have been superficial: yet
I thought I could perceive, in the movement of a single feature, some
strong-excited feeling, some sensation detached and wandering away from
the ordinary modes of thinking, though I could not even guess from what
passion or through what impulse that sensation originated. After I had
seen him often, I collated the emotions palpable in his countenance with
the vicissitudes of his past life, fancying that I might thence acquire
some data to go upon in estimating the tone of his thoughts: but at this
first sight, so diversified were the appearances as he leaned over the
gallery, that even Lavater could not have deciphered his sensations. He
was uneasy, making almost convulsive motions, and I perceived
occasionally a quiver on his lip: on the whole, my anxiety was raised a
hundredfold to be placed in some situation where I might translate at
leisure the workings of his expressive countenance. That opportunity was
after a short interval fully given me.
On the same day I had indeed a second occasion of observing the emperor,
and in a much more interesting occupation—more to his taste, and which
obviously changed the entire cast of his looks, quite divesting them of
that deep, penetrating, gloomy character, which had saddened his
countenance during the time he was at chapel. After mass he first came
out upon the balcony in front of the Tuileries: his personal staff,
marshals, generals, and a few ladies surrounded him; while the civil
officers of the court, in the richest dresses, stood in small groups
aside, as if wishing to have nothing to do with the military spectacle.
Napoleon was now about to inspect eight or ten thousand of the army in
the Place Carousel. The transition from an array of priests to a parade
of warriors—from the hymns of the saints to the shouting of the
soldiery—from the heavy, although solemn, music of the organ to the
inspiriting notes of the drum—added greatly to the effect of the scene,
which strongly impressed my mind, alive and open to all these novel
incidents. Age had not then, nor has it yet, effaced the susceptibility
of my nature. I own the latter scene was on that day to my mind vastly
preferable to the first: the countenance of Napoleon was metamorphosed;
it became illuminated; he descended from the balcony, and mounted a gray
barb. He was now obviously in his element: the troops, as I have said,
amounted to about ten thousand: I did not conceive the court of the
Tuileries could hold so many.
Napoleon was now fully exposed to our view. His face acknowledged the
effect of climate: his forehead, though high and thinly strewn with
hair, did not convey to me any particular trait; his eyebrows, when at
rest, were not expressive, neither did his eyes on that occasion speak
as much as I should have expected; but the _lower_ part of his face
fixed my attention at once. It was about his mouth and chin that
character seemed to be concentrated. I thought, on the whole, that I
could perceive a mixture of steadiness and caprice, of passion and
generosity, of control and impetuousness; but I could _decide_ on
nothing.
My attention, however, was soon turned to the inspection itself. There
was not a soldier who did not appear nearly frantic with exultation, and
whose very heart, I believe, did not beat in unison with the hurrahs
wherewith they received their favourite leader.
It was the first time I had ever heard a crowd express its boisterous
pleasure in a tone of sensibility unknown in our country. The troops
were _in earnest_, and so was the general. The _old guard_ (including
such as had returned from Elba and such as had rejoined their colours)
formed a body of men superior to any I ever before witnessed.
Descriptions of Napoleon amidst his soldiers are however so common, that
I will not occupy either the reader’s time or my own by enlarging
further on the subject.