Afternoon ramble on the Boulevard Italien—Interrupted by the report of
artillery—_Sang-froid_ of the fair sex—Female soldiers—The author
repairs to a point commanding the field of battle—Site of the
projected palace of the king of Rome—Rapidity of the movements of the
French as contrasted with those of the Prussians—Blowing up of the
bridge of St. Cloud—Visit of the author to the encampment in the Champ
de Mars—The wounded soldier.
My anxiety to witness a battle, without being a party in it, did not
long remain ungratified. While walking one afternoon on the Boulevard
Italien, a very heavy firing of musketry and cannon burst upon my ear.
It proceeded from up the course of the Seine, in the direction of
Sevres. I knew at once that an engagement was going forward, and my
heart bounded at the thought: the sounds appeared to me of all others
the most sublime and tremendous. A light breeze bore them to the city.
One moment there was a rattling of musketry, which appeared nearer or
more distant according to the strength of the air which wafted its
volleys; another, the heavy echo of ordnance rolled through the groves
and valley of Sevres, and the village of Issy; again, these seemed
superseded by a separate firing, as of small bodies of skirmishers; and
the whole was mingled with the distant yet audible shouts and hurras of
the assailants and assailed. Altogether, my nerves experienced a
sensation different from any that had preceded it, and alike
distinguished both from bravery and trepidation.
As yet the battle had only reached me by one sense; although
imagination, it is true, supplied the place of all. Though my eyes
viewed not the field of action, yet the sanguinary conflict moved before
my fancy in most vivid colouring.
I was in company with Mr. Lewins when the first firing roused our
attention. “A treble line” of ladies were seated in front of Tortoni’s,
under the lofty arbours of the Boulevard Italien, enjoying their ices,
attended by a host of unmilitary _chers-amis_, who, together with
mendicant songsters and musicians, were dispersed along that line of
female attraction, which “occupied” one side of the entire boulevard,
and with scarcely any interruption “stretched away” to the Porte St.
Martin. Strange to say, scarcely a movement was excited amongst the fair
part of the society by the report of the ordnance and musketry; not one
beauty rose from her chair, or checked the passage of the refreshing ice
to her pouting lips. I could not but be astonished at this apathy, as I
supposed, which was only disturbed by the thunder of a tremendous salvo
of artillery, announcing that the affair was becoming more general.
“_Ah! mon Dieu! ma chère!_” said one lovely creature to another, as they
sat at the entrance of Tortoni’s: “_sacre Dieu! qu’est-ce que ce superbe
coup-là?”—“C’est le canon, ma chère!_” replied her friend: “_la bataille
est à la pointe de commencer.”—“Ah! oui, oui! c’est bien magnifique!
écoutez! écoutez!”—“Ah!_” returned the other, tasting with curious
deliberation her lemon-ice, “_cette glace est très excellente!—mon Dieu!
mon Dieu!_”
Meanwhile the firing continued. I could stand it no longer; I was stung
with curiosity, and determined to see the battle. Being at a very little
distance from our hotel, I recommended Lady Barrington and my family to
retire thither, (which advice they did not take,) and I immediately set
off to seek a good position somewhere in the neighbourhood of the fight,
which I imagined could not be far distant, as the sounds seemed every
moment to increase in strength. It had reached Issy, and seemed
approaching. I now perceived a great many gendarmes singly, and in
profound silence, strolling about the boulevard, and remarking (though
without seeming to notice) every thing and every body.
I had no mode of accounting for the fortitude and indifference of so
many females, but by supposing that a great proportion of them might
have been themselves campaigning with their husbands or their
_chers-amis_—a circumstance that, I was told, had been by no means
uncommon during the wars of the revolution and of Napoleon. But that
could not have been the case with at least five hundred who then were
seated on the boulevard under the trees.
One lady told me herself, some time after, that she did not dress for
ten years in the attire of a female: her husband had acted, I believe,
as commissary general. They are both living and well, to the best of my
knowledge, at this moment: the lady is particularly clever and
intelligent. “Nothing,” said she to me one day, “nothing, sir, can
longer appear strange to me. I really think I have witnessed an example
of every thing good or evil!” and from the various character of the
scenes through which she had passed, I believe her.
A Jew physician living in Rue Richelieu, (a friend of Baron Rothschild,)
who had a tolerable telescope, had lent it to me. I first endeavoured to
gain admission into the pillar in the Place Vendome, but was refused. I
saw that the roof of Nôtre Dame was already crowded, and knew not where
to go. I durst not pass a barrier, and I never felt the tortures of
curiosity so strongly upon me! At length I got a cabriolet, and desired
the man to drive me to any point from whence I might see the battle. He
accordingly took me to the farther end of Rue de Bataille, at Chailloit,
in the vicinity whereof was the site marked out for the palace of the
King of Rome. He seemed to me scarcely to regard any thing about him.
(He afterward told me his curious history, which a future volume may
contain.) Here was a green plat, with a few half-dead trees; and under
one of those I sat down upon the grass and overlooked distinctly the
entire left of the engagement and the sanguinary combat which was fought
on the slopes, lawn, and about the house and courts of Bellevue.
Whoever has seen the site of that intended palace must recollect that
the view it commands is one of the finest imaginable. It had been the
hanging gardens of a monastery: the Seine flows at the foot of the
slope, and thence the eye wanders to the hill of Bellevue and onward to
St. Cloud. The village of Issy, which commences at the foot of Bellevue,
stretches itself at some distance thinly up the banks of the Seine
toward Paris, nearly to Vaugirard, one of the suburbs—which leaves a
border of meadow and garden ground here and there to edge the waters.
Extensive, undulating hills rise up high behind the Hotel de Bellevue,
and there the first attack had been made upon the Prussians. In front
the Pont de Jena opens the entrance to the Champ de Mars, terminated by
the magnificent gilt dome of the Ecole Militaire and Hôtel des
Invalides, with the city of Paris stretching to the left.
It was then a tranquil evening: the sun, in all his glory, piercing
through the smoke which seemed to mount reluctantly from the field of
battle, and illuminating its sombre flakes, likened it to a rich gilded
canopy moving over the combatants.
The natural ardour of my mind was peculiarly stimulated on this
occasion. Never having witnessed before any scene of a corresponding
nature, I could not (and indeed sought not to) repress a sensation of
awe: I felt my breathing short or protracted as the character of the
scene varied. An old soldier would no doubt have laughed at the excess
of my emotion—particularly as the affair, although sharp, was not of a
very extensive nature. It was said that the Prussians, &c. amounted to
_thirty_ thousand. If so, they were on the left, out of my sight. The
French certainly were not so numerous. I guessed _twenty_ thousand.
There were _no_ English. But there were of Brunswickers, I think, some
regiments in scarlet. I at the time took them for English. There was no
charge of cavalry, that I saw: but great bodies were in motion on the
plain of Grenelle and the road.
One observation was forcibly impressed on me; namely, that both the
firing and manœuvring of the French were a great deal more rapid than
those of the Prussians. When a change of position was made, the
Prussians _marched_—the French _ran_: their advance was quicker—their
retreat less regular: but their rallying seemed to me most
extraordinary: dispersed detachments of the French reassociated with the
rapidity of lightning, and advanced again as if they had never
separated.
The combats _within_ the hotel of Bellevue and the courts behind were of
course concealed: but if I might judge from the constant firing
within—the echoes—the loud crash of doors and casements—the sudden
rushes from the house—the storming at the entrance, and the battles on
the lawn and in the hall,—there must have been great carnage. In my
simplicity, I only wondered how _any body_ could escape.
The battle now extended to, and quite filled the village of Issy, which
was taken and retaken many times. Neither party could keep possession of
it—scouting in and out as fortune wavered; then storming again; then
retiring in disorder; and again, in narrow columns, forcing back into
the streets. At length, probably from the actual exhaustion of the men,
the fire of musketry slackened, but the cannon still rolled at intervals
around Sevres. In the wood of Sevres the firing was incessant; and a
Prussian shell fell into the celebrated manufactory of that place, while
several cannon-shot penetrated the handsome hotel which stands on an
eminence above Sevres, and killed fourteen or fifteen Prussian officers,
who were in a group taking refreshment.[49]
I now began to feel weary of gazing on the boisterous monotony of the
fight, which, so far as any advantage appeared to be gained on either
side, might be interminable. A man actually engaged in battle can see
but little and think less; but a secure and contemplative spectator has
open to him a field of inexhaustible reflection; and my faculties were
fast becoming abstracted from the scene of strife, when a loud and
uncommon noise announced some singular event, and once more excited me.
We could not perceive whence it came; but guessed, and truly, that it
proceeded from the demolition of the bridge of St. Cloud, which the
French had blown up. A considerable number of French troops now appeared
withdrawing from the battle, and passing to our side of the river, many
on rafts, far above the bridge, which was just under our feet. We could
not tell the cause of this movement, but it was reported by a man who
came into the field that the English army at St. Denis was seen in
motion, and that some attack on our side of the city itself might be
expected. I knew not the fact, and I scarcely believed this: yet the
retreat of a part of the French troops tended not to discourage the
idea; and as the national guards were heard beating to arms in all
directions of the city, I thought it most advisable to return, which I
immediately did before the firing had ceased, and in the same cabriolet.
Immense bodies of the national guards were collecting in companies; but
I believe did not form into any columns.
-----
Footnote 49:
I visited the spot a few days subsequently, and found that noble hall,
which had been totally lined by the finest mirrors, without one
remaining. I never saw such useless and wanton devastation as had been
committed. I learned that it was the _Cossacks_ who broke all the
mirrors, looking for money behind them.
-----
On my return, judge of my astonishment at finding _the very same
assemblage_ in _the very same place_ on the boulevard as when I left it;
nor did a single being, except my own family, express the slightest
curiosity upon hearing whence I had come.
The English army, as it turned out, did not move. The firing, after
awhile, totally ceased; and the French cavalry (which I did not see
engaged) with some infantry marched into the Champ de Mars, to take up
their night’s position.
Having thus been gratified by the view of what to my unaccustomed eyes
seemed a great battle, and would, I suppose, by military men be termed
nothing more than a long skirmish, I met Sir Francis Gold, who proposed
that we should walk to the Champ de Mars, “just,” said he, “to see what
the fellows are doing after the battle.”
To this I peremptorily objected, for reasons which must be obvious, and
which seemed to prohibit any Englishman in his sober senses from going
into such company at such a moment.
“Never mind,” continued Sir Francis, “I love my skin every bit as well
as you do yours; and depend upon it we shall not meet the slightest
molestation. If we go with a lady in our company, be assured we may walk
about and remain in the place as long as we please. I can speak from
experience!”
“Ah, true, true, perhaps: but where is the lady?” said I.
“I will introduce you to a very charming one of my acquaintance,”
answered Sir Francis, “and I’ll request her to do us the favour of
accompanying us.” I now half-reluctantly agreed; curiosity prevailed as
usual, and away we went to the lodgings of Sir Francis’s fair friend. I
knew Sir Francis could not be in love with danger, though he might with
his fair protectress.
The lady certainly did not dishonour the epithet Sir Francis had
bestowed on her: she was a young, animated, French girl, rather pretty,
interesting, and very well dressed;—one of those lively creatures who,
you would say, always have their “wits about them.” My friend explained
the request he had come to prefer, and begged her to make her toilet
with all convenient expedition. The lady certainly did not dissent, but
her acquiescence was followed by a most hearty and seemingly
uncontrollable burst of laughter. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” exclaimed she;
“but really I cannot help laughing. I will, with pleasure, walk with
you; but the idea of my _playing the escort_ to two gallant English
chevaliers, both _d’âge mûr_, is too ridiculous! However, _n’importe_! I
will endeavour to _defend_ you, though against a whole army!”
The thing unquestionably did look absurd, and I could not refrain myself
from joining in the laugh. Sir Francis too became infected, and we made
a regular chorus of it, after which the gay Frenchwoman resumed:—
“But surely, Sir Francis, you pay the French a great compliment; for you
have often told me how you alone used to put to flight whole troops of
rebels in your own country, and take entire companies with your single
hand!”
Champagne was now introduced, and Sir Francis and I having each taken a
glass or two, perhaps more, at the lady’s suggestion, to _keep up our
courage_, we sallied out in search of adventures to the Champ de Mars.
The sentinel at the entrance demurred a little on our presenting
ourselves; but our fair companion, with admirable presence of mind, put
it to his gallantry,—“Can a gallant soldier,” said our fair guardian,
“refuse admittance to a lady and her _uncles_?” The polite soldier, with
very good grace, permitted us to enter. As she passed, she held out her
hand for him to kiss, which he did most respectfully!
Once fairly inside, we strolled about for above two hours, not only
unmolested, but absolutely unnoticed—though I cannot say I felt
perfectly at ease. It is certain that the presence of the female
protected us. The respect paid to women by the French soldiery is
apparent at all their meetings, whether for conviviality or service; and
I have seen as much decorum, nay more, preserved in an alehouse
festivity at Paris, as at the far-famed Almack’s in London.
The scene within the barrier must have appeared curious to any
Englishman. The troops had been about an hour on the ground after
fighting all the evening in the village of Issy. I did not see the
cavalry actually engage, and their horses were picketed. The soldiers
had got, in all directions, tubs of water, and were washing their hands
and faces, which had been covered with dirt, their mouths being quite
blackened by the cartridges. In a little time every thing was arranged
for a merry-making: some took off their coats, to dance the lighter; the
bands played; an immense number of women, of all descriptions, had come
to welcome them back; and in half an hour after we arrived there, some
hundred couples were at the quadrilles and waltzes, as if nothing had
occurred to disturb their tranquillity! It appeared, in fact, as if they
had not only totally forgotten what had passed that day, but cared not a
sou as to what might happen the next.
Numerous old women, with frying-pans strapped before them, with a little
charcoal underneath, were incessantly frying sliced potatoes, livers,
and bacon together: we tasted some of these dainties, and found them
really quite savoury. Some soldiers, who were tired or perhaps slightly
hurt, were sitting in the fosses cooking soup, and, together with the
venders of bottled beer, &c. stationed on the elevated banks, gave the
whole a picturesque appearance. I saw a very few men who had rags tied
round their heads; some who limped a little; and others who had their
hands in slings: but nobody seemed to regard these, or indeed any thing
except their own pleasure. The wounded had been carried to hospitals,
and I suppose the dead were left on the ground for the night. The guards
mounted at the Champ de Mars were all fresh troops.
In contrast with this scene, I digress to remark that there were few
circumstances attending that memorable era which struck me more forcibly
than the miserable condition of those groups of fugitives who continued
every hour arriving in Paris during the few days immediately succeeding
their signal discomfiture at Waterloo. These unfortunate stragglers
arrived in parties of two, three, or four, and in a state of utter
destitution—most of them without arms, many without shoes, and some
almost naked. A great proportion of them were wounded and bandaged: they
had scarcely rested at all on their return; in short, I never beheld
such pitiable figures.
One of these unfortunate men struck me forcibly one evening as an object
of interest and compassion. He was limping along the Boulevard Italien:
his destination I knew not; he looked elderly, but had evidently been
one of the finest men I ever saw, and attached, I rather think, to the
imperial guard. His shoes were worn out; his clothes in rags; scanty
hairs were the only covering of his head; one arm was bandaged with a
bloody rag, and slung from his neck by a string; his right thigh and leg
were also bandaged, and he seemed to move with pain and difficulty, yet
proudly.
Figures of a similar description were, it is true, so common during that
period, that nobody paid them much attention: this man, however, somehow
or other, interested me peculiarly. It was said that he was going to
some hospital where he would be taken good care of: but I felt greatly
for the old warrior; and crossing the street, put, without saying a
word, a dollar into his yellow and trembling hand.
He stopped, looked at me attentively, then at the dollar; and appearing
doubtful whether he ought to receive it, said, with an emphatic tone,
“Not for _charity_! _pas—pour l’amour de Dieu!_”
I saw his pride was kindled, and replied, “No, my friend, in respect to
your bravery!” and I was walking away, when I heard his voice
exclaiming, “Monsieur, Monsieur!” I turned, and, as he hobbled up to me,
he surveyed me in silence from head to foot; then, looking earnestly in
my face, he held out his hand with the dollar: “Excuse me, Monsieur,”
said he, in a firm and rather proud tone,—“you are an Englishman, and I
cannot receive bounty from the enemy of my emperor!”
Good God! thought I, what a man must Napoleon have been! This incident
alone affords a key to all his victories.