Apathy of the people—Temporary building in front of the _Ecole
Militaire_—Pont de Jena—Policy of Napoleon regarding Fouché—Procession
to the Champ de Mars—Peculiar accoutrements of a regiment of
cavalry—Reflections on some points in the history of Napoleon—His
mistake in changing the republican into a monarchical
government—Coaches of ceremony of the French noblesse and officers of
state—The Emperor’s liberality to various members of his
court—His personal dejection on this day—Rejoicings succeeding
the promulgation—Superiority of the French in matters of
_embellishment_—Gratuitous distribution of provisions and
wine—Politeness of the lower orders of French—Display of
fire-works—Mr. Hobhouse’s Second Reign of Napoleon.
The next great act of Napoleon’s second reign was the promulgation of
the new articles of the constitution, at the Champ de Mars, which
promised to elicit much of the public sentiment. For my own part, I
conceived it would be the true touchstone of Parisian political feeling;
but in this idea I was greatly disappointed.
It was natural to suppose that the establishing a constitution, by a
nearly despotic monarch, whereby his own power would be greatly
contracted, would, even under Napoleon’s circumstances, be considered
one of the measures best calculated to propitiate a long-tramelled
population. But, in fact, the thing assumed _no_ such character; the
_spectacle_ seemed, indeed, to be held in the utmost value by the
Parisians; but the _constitution_ itself in little, if any. They had
never possessed any regular constitution, and, I really think, had no
settled or digested ideas upon the subject: even as yet they are but
wandering.
The extraordinary splendour of the preparations for this ceremony, and
the admixture of civil and military pomp, were to me very interesting.
The temporary buildings thrown up for the occasion might, it is true, be
denominated _tawdry_; yet, strangely enough, there is no other people in
the world who can deck out gewgaws with any thing like corresponding
taste and effect.
The scene was on an immense scale. In an inconceivably short time, and
almost as if by magic, a sort of amphitheatre was constructed in front
of the Ecole Militaire, of magnitude sufficient to contain about 15,000
persons. Though only of planks and paper, it seemed of marble and
bronze, and glowed with the richest velvets and most sumptuous gilding.
In the centre arose an altar similar to those provided, in ancient
sacrifices, for the _sacred fire_ to descend on; and at this altar
Cardinal Cambaceres presided. A great proportion of the front of the
military school was covered with crimson velvet, and the imperial throne
was placed on the platform of the first story, facing the altar: around
it were seats for the princes. I was not present at the actual ceremony
within the great temporary edifice.
I had, on the inauguration, (as already stated,) fully satisfied myself
as to the demeanour both of the emperor and the senators; but I had not
seen the grand procession which had preceded; and on this occasion, as
it was to be much more of a military character, and the emperor’s last
public appearance before he joined the army to decide the fate of
Europe, I was desirous of witnessing the spectacle, and accordingly
engaged a window on the quay for my family, in a house close to the Pont
de Jena, over which the whole must pass. We had thence a full view of
the Champ de Mars, of the amphitheatre, and of the artificial mount
whence the constitution was to be proclaimed by the emperor in person to
the people.
Napoleon well knew the great importance of leaving a strong impression
on public feeling. His posting from the coast to the Tuileries without
interruption was the most extraordinary event in history, ancient or
modern: but it was not _immediately_ followed up by any unusual
circumstance, or any very splendid spectacle to rouse or gratify
Parisian volatility. The retired official life of the emperor after his
return (necessarily absorbed in business night and day) had altogether
excited little or no stir, and still less expression of public feeling
in the metropolis: in fact, the Parisians did not seem to feel so much
interest about the state of affairs as they would have done upon the
most unimportant occurrences: they made light of every thing except
their _pleasure_, which always was and always will be the god of Paris:
and never was any deity more universally and devoutly worshipped! The
king’s flight to Ghent was then as little thought of or regarded as if
he had gone to St. Cloud; and Napoleon’s arrival made as little stir as
Louis’s departure. But the emperor was now about to go to battle; he was
well aware of the treachery which surrounded him, and that on his
success or discomfiture depended its explosion. He determined,
therefore, as he had not time to counteract, to dissemble; and I have no
doubt that to this circumstance alone Fouché knew he owed his existence.
The month preceding Napoleon’s departure from Paris he became thoroughly
acquainted with the intrigues of his minister; and I firmly believe that
each was determined on the destruction of the other upon the first
feasible opportunity, as the only means of securing himself. I do
believe that Fouché would not have survived Bonaparte’s successful
return more than four-and-twenty hours, and I equally believe that
Fouché had actually meditated, and made some progress in providing for,
Napoleon’s assassination. I made up my mind on these points, not from
any _direct_ information, but from a process yclept by our
great-grandmothers _spelling_ and _putting together_; and if the reader
will be good enough to bear in mind what I have already told him, he
will not be at a loss to understand _how_ my suspicions were excited.
In truth, the army _alone_ was sincerely and unanimously attached to the
reinstated monarch. By his soldiers Bonaparte was, in every part of his
career, almost _worshipped_. They seemed to regard him rather as a
demigod; and nobody could be deceived as to their _entire_ devotion to
the divinity which they had set up. But it was not so with the civil
ranks of Paris.
I should tire myself and readers were I to describe the almost boyish
anxiety which I felt when the firing of the ordnance announced the first
movement of the emperor from the Tuileries to the Champ de Mars. I shall
leave to the supposition of the reader the impression I received from
the passing of the _cortége_. Let him picture to himself an immense army
pouring along the spacious quays of Paris, in battalions and
squadrons:—the enthusiasm of the soldiers, the bright cuirasses, the
multitude of waving plumes, the magnificence of the marshals and their
staff:—these, set off by the glowing sun, combined to implant in the
mind of a person unaccustomed to such a sight the idea of almost certain
victory.
What struck me most, was the appearance of a splendid, but not numerous
regiment, in the costume of Turkish cavalry, mounted upon small barbs
and dashingly accoutred: their officers rode, for the most part, piebald
horses, many of which were caparisoned with breast armour, and decked
with gaudy trappings. The uniform of the men was scarlet, with green
cossack trowsers, immense turbans, and high plumes of feathers; the
whole ornamented and laced in as splendid and glittering a style as
ingenuity could dictate: their stirrups were foot-boards, and they had
very crooked sabres and long lances. I believe these men were accoutred
_en Mamelück_, and I mention them the more particularly, because I
believe they did not go to Waterloo—at least not in that uniform. In
calling to my recollection this superb scene, the hundred bands of
martial music seem even at this moment to strike my ear. It seemed as if
every instrument in Paris was in requisition! The trumpets and
kettle-drums of the gaudy heralds; the deep sackbuts; the crashing
cymbals; and the loud gongs of the splendid Mamelukes, bewildered both
the ear and the imagination: at first they astonished, then gratified,
and at length fatigued me. About the centre of this procession appeared
its principal object, who, had he lived in times of less fermentation,
would, in my opinion, have been a still greater statesman than he was a
warrior. It is indisputable that it was Bonaparte who definitively freed
the _entire_ continent of Europe from that democratic mania, of all
other tyrannies the most cruel, savage, and unrelenting; and which was
still in full, though less rapid progress, when he, by placing the
diadem of France on his own brow, restored the _principle_ of monarchy
to its vigour, and at one blow overwhelmed the many-headed monster of
democratic revolution.
It has been the fashion, in England, to term Napoleon a “Corsican
usurper.” We should have recollected Paoli before we _reproached_ him
for being a _Corsican_, and we should have recurred to _our own_ annals
and our great King William, who dethroned his _father_, before we called
Napoleon a _usurper_. _He_ mounted a throne which had long been vacant;
the decapitation of Louis, in which he _could_ have had no concern, had
completely overwhelmed the dynasty of Bourbon, and Napoleon in a day
re-established that monarchical form of government which _we_ had, with
so much expense of blood and treasure, been for many years
unsuccessfully attempting to restore. I cannot avoid repeating this
pointed example of _our own inconsistency_. We actually made peace and
concluded treaties with Napoleon Bonaparte when he was acting as a
_republican_ (the very species of government against which we had so
long combated); and we refused to listen to his most pacific
demonstrations when he became a monarch![46]
-----
Footnote 46:
Another observation I cannot but make on this subject.—As events have
turned out, Napoleon only sat down on the throne of France to _keep it
for the Bourbons_. Had he remained a republican, as when we
acknowledged and made peace with him, the names of the whole family of
Louis would still have appeared on the pension list of England.
-----
This has I confess been a sad digression: but when I call to mind that
last scene of Bonaparte’s splendour, I cannot altogether separate from
it the prior portion of his history and that of Europe. I have mentioned
that about the centre of the _cortége_ the emperor and his court
appeared. It was the custom in France for every person of a certain rank
to keep a sort of state-coach gaudily gilded and painted, and, in
addition to the footmen, a chasseur to mount behind, dressed _en grande
toilette_, with huge mustaches, immense feathers in his hat, and a large
sabre depending from a broad-laced belt, which crossed his shoulder:—he
was generally a muscular, fine-looking man, and always indicated rank
and affluence in his master. Napoleon liked this state to be preserved
by all his ministers, &c. He obliged every man in office to appear at
court and in public according to the station he held; and instances were
not wanting where the emperor, having discovered that an officer of rank
had not pecuniary means to purchase a coach of ceremony, had made him a
present of a very fine one. He repeatedly paid the debts of several of
his marshals and generals, when he thought their incomes somewhat
inadequate; and a case has been mentioned, where a high officer of his
household had not money to purchase jewels for his wife, of Napoleon
ordering a set to be presented to her with an injunction to wear them at
court.
On this day he commanded the twelve mayors of Paris to appear in their
carriages of ceremony; and, to do them justice, they were gilt and
caparisoned as finely as time and circumstances could admit. Bonaparte
himself sat alone, in a state coach with glass all round it: his
feathers bowed deeply over his face, and consequently little more than
the lower parts of it were quite uncovered. Whoever has marked the
countenance of Napoleon must admit it to have been one of the most
expressive ever created. I have already spoken of it as affected on
distinct occasions; but I beg to be understood as distinguishing it from
what is _generally_ called an expressive countenance; namely, one
involuntarily and candidly proclaiming the feelings whereby its
proprietor is actuated: the smile or the look of scorn, the blush, or
the tear, serving not unfrequently to communicate matters which the lips
would have kept secret. Though that species of expressive countenance
may be commonly admired, it is often _inconvenient_, and would be
perfectly unbefitting a king, a courtier, a gambler, a diplomatist, or,
in short, a man in any station of life which renders it incumbent on him
to _keep his countenance_. The lower portion of Bonaparte’s face (as I
have mentioned in speaking of my first glance at it) was the finest I
think I ever saw, and peculiarly calculated to set the feelings of
others on speculation, without giving any decided intimation of his own.
On the day of the promulgation, it occurred to me, and to my family
likewise, as we saw him pass slowly under our window, that the
unparalleled splendour of the scene failed in arousing him from that
deep dejection which had apparently seized him ever since his return to
Paris, and which doubtless arose from a consciousness of his critical
situation, and the hollow ground whereon he trod. There was ill-timed
languor in his general look: he smiled not, and took but little notice
of any surrounding object. He appeared in fact _loaded_ with some
presentiment, confined however to himself; for of all possible events,
his approaching and sudden fate was last, I believe, in the
contemplation of any person among that prodigious assembly. I apprehend
the intelligence of Murat’s defeat in Italy had reached him about that
time, and made a great impression on him.
Two marshals rode on each side Napoleon’s coach, and his three brothers
occupied the next. I thought they all appeared cheerful; at least, no
evil presentiments were visible in their countenances. After the emperor
had passed my interest diminished. I was absorbed by reflection, and my
mind was painfully diverted to the probable result of the impending
contest, which would most likely plunge into a gory and crowded grave
thousands of the gay and sparkling warriors who, full of the principle
of life and activity, had that moment passed before me.
The crowds in the Champ de Mars; the firing of the artillery; the
spirited bustle of the entire scene; and the return of the same
_cortége_ after the new articles of the constitution had been
proclaimed, left me in a state of absolute languor; and when I returned
to my hotel, it required more than a single bottle of _Château Margot_
to restore the serenity of my over-excited nerves.
The rejoicings which followed the promulgation of the constitution were
in a style of which I had no previous conception. I have already
observed, and every person who has been much on the continent will bear
me out in the remark, that no people are so very adroit at embellishment
as the French. Our carpenters, paper-hangers, &c. know no more about
Parisian embellishments than our plain cooks do of the hundred and
twenty-six modes of cooking an egg, whereof every French _cuisinier_ is
perfectly master.
Many temporary stands had been erected in the Champs d’Elysée, whence to
toss out all species of provisions to the populace. Hams, turkeys,
sausages, &c. &c. were to be had in abundance by scrambling for them.
Twenty fountains of wine were set playing into the jars, cups, and pails
of all who chose to adventure getting near them. A number of temporary
theatres were constructed, and games of every description were dispersed
throughout the green. Quadrilles and waltzes were practised every where
around: all species of music was heard among the trees, together with
regular bands in numerous orchestras; singing—juggling—in fine, every
thing that could stamp the period of the emperor’s departure on the
minds of the people were ordered to be put in requisition; and a scene
of enjoyment ensued which, notwithstanding the bustle necessarily
attendant, was conducted with the politeness and decorum of a
drawing-room; with much more, indeed, than prevails at most of our
public assemblies. No pick-pockets were heard of; no disputes of any
description arose; the very lowest orders of the French _canaille_
appear on such occasions cleanly dressed, and their very nature renders
them polite and courteous to each other. They make way with respect for
_any_ woman, even from a duchess to a beggar; and it is a very paradise
for _old_ ladies, who are just as politely treated as young ones.
At night, stretching across the whole of the Place Louis Quinze, was a
transparent painting of Napoleon’s return from Elba, the mimic ship
being of equal dimensions with the real one. Napoleon appeared on the
deck, and the entire effect was most impressive.
The rejoicings concluded with a display of fireworks—a species of
entertainment wherein I never delighted. It commenced with a flight of
five thousand rockets, of various colours, at one _coup_, and was
terminated by the ascent of a balloon loaded with every species of
fire-work, in every form and device, and in an abundance I had no
conception of; which, bursting high in the air, illuminated by their
overpowering momentary blaze the whole atmosphere. At midnight, all,
like an “unsubstantial pageant,” had faded away, leaving the ill-starred
emperor[47] to pursue his route to partial victory, final defeat,—to
ruin, incarceration and death.
-----
Footnote 47:
I have read with pleasure many parts of “Napoleon’s Second Reign,” by
Mr. Hobhouse. Though I do not coincide with that gentleman in all his
views of the subject, (differing from him _in toto_ as to some,) I
admit the justice of a great portion of his observations, and consider
the work, on the whole, as a very clever performance. In several
matters of description and anecdote he has anticipated me; and I
really think has treated them with as much accuracy, and in a much
more comprehensive manner, than I should, or perhaps _could_ have
done. Mine in fact is but a sketch—his a history. In some matters of
fact he appears to have been imperfectly informed: but they are not
errors of a sufficiently important nature to involve any charge of
general inaccuracy. I myself kept an ample diary of the events of the
Hundred Days, (of so much of them at least as I spent in Paris,) and
until the re-entry of Louis; and in fact subsequently, though less
regularly. From these documents I have extracted what I now publish;
but the whole may perhaps hereafter appear in its original shape.
I cannot but express my regret that Mr. Hobhouse did not remain in
Paris until _after_ Napoleon’s return from Belgium, when there was a
far wider and fairer field presented for the exercise of his pen. I
really conceive it will be a loss to literature if he does not recur
to that period (materials cannot be wanting): take up his own work
where he finished, and continue it until the evacuation of Paris by
the allied forces. The events of that interval are richly worth
recording; and it would fill up what is, as yet, nearly a blank in the
history of Europe.
-----
One remark in conclusion:—it was really extraordinary to witness the
political apathy of the entire population, save the military. Scarce a
single expression or indication of party feeling escaped in any
direction. All seemed bent on their own pleasures, and on pleasure
alone; careless whether the opportunity for its indulgence were afforded
them by Napoleon or Louis—by preparations for peace or war—by the
establishment of despotism or liberty. They were, I sincerely believe,
absolutely weary of politics, and inclined to view any suggestion of
that nature with emotions of total indifference. At all times, indeed,
the Parisians prefer pleasure to serious speculation. The _wisest_ king
of France will ever be that one who contrives to keep his “good
citizens” constantly _amused_; and the most impolitic will be any
monarch who _curbs_ their enjoyments. No Parisian will _fight_ if he can
_dance_. I very lately saw a collection of men who were going about in
the evening in Rue de Sevres, crying “_à bas Villele!_” &c. &c., and
seeming to be bent on some immediate mischief, stop short to hear an old
clarionet player, a long drum, and a barrel organ; and being joined by
some ladies of their own class, in ten minutes they were quadrilling
with as much politeness as the Almackers.