A portion of the Luxembourg was devoted to the reception of the
_compagnie d'élite_ for whom a household on the most liberal scale was
provided, a splendid table maintained, and all that wealth and the taste
of a voluptuous age could suggest, procured, to make their life one of
daily magnificence and pleasure. Daru himself, the especial favorite
of the Emperor, took the head of the table each day, to which generally
some of the ministers were invited; while the “Moniteur” of every
morning chronicled the festivities, giving _éclat_ to the most minute
circumstance, and making Paris re-echo to the glories of him of
whose fame they were but the messengers. The most costly equipages,
saddle-horses of great price, grooms in gorgeous liveries, all that
could attract notice and admiration, were put in requisition; while
ceremonies of pomp went forward day by day, and the deputation received
in state the congratulatory visits of different departments of the
Government.
While thus this homage was paid to the semblance of Napoleon's glory,
his progress through Germany was one grand triumphal procession. One day
we read of his arrival at Munich, whither the Empress had gone to meet
him. There he was welcomed with the most frantic enthusiasm: he had
restored to them their army almost without loss, and covered with
laurels; he had elevated their elector to a throne; while he cemented
the friendship between the two nations by the marriage of Eugène
Beauharnais with the Princess of Bavaria. Another account would tell
us of sixteen thousand Russian prisoners on their way to France,
accompanied by two thousand cannon taken from the Austrians. All
that could excite national enthusiasm and gratify national vanity was
detailed by the Government press, and popular excitement raised to a
higher pitch than in the wildest periods of the Revolution.
Hourly was his arrival looked forward to with anxiety and impatience.
Fêtes on the most splendid scale of magnificence were in preparation,
and the public bodies of Paris held meetings to concert measures for
his triumphal reception. At last a telegraphic despatch announced his
arrival at Strasburg. He crossed the Rhine at the very place where,
exactly one hundred days before, he passed over on his march against
the Austrians; one hundred days of such glory as not even his career had
equalled,--Ulm and Austerlitz, vanquished Russia, and ruined Austria the
trophies of this brief space! Never had his genius shone with greater
splendor; never had Fortune shown herself 'more the companion of his
destiny.
Each hour was now counted, and every thought turned to the day when he
might be expected to arrive; and on the 24th came the intelligence that
the Emperor was approaching Paris. He had halted part of a day at Nancy
to review some regiments of cavalry, and now might be expected in less
than twenty-four hours. The next morning all Paris awoke at an early
hour; when what was the surprise and disappointment to see the great
flag floating from the pavilion of the Tuileries! His Majesty had
arrived during the night, when, at once sending for the Minister of
Finance, he proceeded, without taking a moment's repose, to examine into
the dreadful crisis which threatened the Bank of France and the very
existence of the Government.
At eleven, the Council of State were assembled at the Tuileries; and
at twelve, a proclamation, dispersed through Paris, announced that M.
Molien was appointed minister, and M. Marbois was dismissed from his
office. The rapidity of these changes, and the avoidance of all public
homage by the Emperor, threw for several days a cast of gloom over the
whole city; which was soon dissipated by the reappearance of Napoleon,
and the publication of that celebrated report by M. Champagny in which
the glories of France--her victories, her acquisitions in wealth,
territory, and influence--were recited in terms whose adulation it would
be now difficult to digest.
From that moment the festivities of Paris commenced, and with a splendor
unsurpassed by any period of the Empire. It was the Augustan era of
Napoleon's life in all that concerned the fine arts; for literature,
unhappily, did not flourish at any time beneath his reign. Gérard and
Gros, David, Ingres, and Isabey committed to canvas the glories of the
German campaigns; and the capitulation of Ulm, the taking of Vienna,
the passage of the Danube, and the field of Austerlitz still live in the
genius of these great painters.
The Opera, too, under the direction of Gimerosa, had attained to an
unwonted excellence; while Spontini and Boieldieu, in their separate
walks, gave origin to the school so distinctly that of the Comic Opera.
Still, the voluptuous tastes of the day prevailed above all; and the
ballet, and the strange conceptions of Nicolo, a Maltese composer,--in
which music, dancing, romance, and scenery all figured,--were the
passion of the time.
Dancing was, indeed, the great art of the era. Vestris and Trénis were
the great names in every _salon_; and all the extravagant graces and
voluptuous groupings of the ballet were introduced into the amusements
of society: even the taste in dress was made subordinate to this
passion,--the light and floating materials, which mark the figure and
display symmetry, replacing the heavier and more costly robes of former
times. The reaction to the stern puritanism of the Republican age had
set in, and secretly was favored by Napoleon himself; who saw in all
this extravagance and abandonment to pleasure the basis of that new
social state on which he purposed to found his dynasty.
Never were the entertainments at the Tuileries more costly; never was
a greater magnificence displayed in all the ceremonial of state. The
marshals of the Empire were enjoined to maintain a style corresponding
to their exalted position; and the reports of the police were actually
studied respecting such persons as lived in what was deemed a manner
unbefitting their means of expense. Cambacérès and Fouché, Talleyrand
and Murat, all maintained splendid establishments. Their dinners were
given twice each week, and their receptions were almost every evening.
If the Emperor conferred wealth with a liberal hand, so did he expect to
see it freely expended. He knew well the importance of conciliating the
affections of the _bourgeoisie_ of Paris; and that by no other means
could such an end be accomplished more readily than by a lavish
expenditure of money throughout all classes of society. This was alone
wanting to efface every trace of the old Republican spirit. The simple
habits and uncostly tastes of the Jacobins were at once regarded as
meannesses; their frugal and unpretending modes of life pronounced low
and vulgar; and many, who could have opposed a stout heart against
the current of popular feeling on stronger grounds, yielded to the
insinuations and mockeries of their own class, and conformed to tastes
which eventually engendered opinions and even principles.
I ask pardon of my reader for digressing from the immediate subject of
my own career, to speak of topics which are rather the province of the
historian than a mere story-teller like myself; still, I should not be
able to present to his view the picture of manners I desired, without
thus recalling some features of that time, so pregnant with the fate of
Europe and the future destiny of France. And now to return.
Immediately on the Emperor's arrival, the Empress and her suite took
their departure for Versailles; from whence it was understood they were
not to return before the end of the month, for which time a splendid
ball was announced at the Tuileries. Unwilling to detain General
d'Auvergne's letter so long, and unable from the position I occupied
to obtain leave of absence from Paris, I forwarded the letter to the
comtesse, and abandoned the only hope of meeting her once more. The
disappointment from this source; the novelty of the circumstances in
which I found myself; the fascinations of a world altogether strange
to me,--all conspired to confuse and excite me, and I entered into the
dissipation of those around me, if not with all their zest, at least
with as headlong a resolution to drown all reflection in a life of
voluptuous enjoyment.
The only person of my own standing among the _compagnie d'élite_ was a
captain of the Chasseurs of the Guard, who, although but a few years
my senior, had seen service in the Italian campaign. By family a
Bour-bonist, he joined the revolutionary armies when his relatives fled
from France, and slowly won his steps to his present rank. A certain
_hauteur_ in his manner with men--an air of distance he always wore--had
made him as little liked by them as it usually succeeds in making a man
popular with women, to whom the opposite seems at once a compliment.
He was a man who had seen much of the world, and in the best society;
gifted with the most fascinating address, whenever he pleased to exert
it, and singularly good-looking, he was the _beau idéal_ of the French
officer of the highest class.
The Chevalier Duchesne and myself had travelled together for some
days without exchanging more than the ordinary civilities of distant
acquaintance, when some accident of the road threw us more closely
together, and ended by forming an intimacy which, in our Paris life,
brought us every hour into each other's society.
Stranger as I was in the capital, to me the acquaintance was a boon of
great price. He knew it thoroughly: in the gorgeous and stately _salons_
of the Faubourg; in the _guingettes_ of the Rue St. Denis; in the costly
mansion of the modern banker (the new aristocracy of the land); or in
the homely _ménage_ of the shopkeeper of the Rue St. Honoré,--he was
equally at home, and by some strange charm had the _entrée_ too.
The same “sesame” opened to him the _coulisse_ of the Opera and the
penetralia of the Français. In fact, he seemed one of those privileged
people who are met with occasionally in life in places the most
incongruous and with acquaintances the most opposite, yet never carrying
the prestige of the one or the other an inch beyond the precincts it
belongs to. Had he been wealthy I could have accounted for much of this,
for never was there a period when riches more abounded nor when their
power was more absolute: but he did not seem so; although in no want of
money, his retinue and simple style of living betrayed nothing beyond
fair competence. Neither, as far as I could perceive, did he incline to
habits of extravagance; on the contrary, he was too apt to connect every
display with vulgarity, and condemn in his fastidiousness the gorgeous
splendor that characterized the period.
Such, without going further, did Duchesne appear to be, as we took up
our quarters at the Luxembourg, and commenced an intimacy which each day
served to increase.
“Well, thank Heaven, this vaudeville is over at last!” said he, as he
threw himself into a large chair at my fire, and pitched his chapeau,
all covered with gold and embroidery, into a far corner of the room.
We had just returned from Notre Dame, where the grand ceremonial of
receiving the standards was held by the Senate with all the solemnity of
a high mass and the most imposing observances.
“Vaudeville?” said I, turning round rapidly.
“Yes; what else can you call it? What, I ask you, had those poor
decrepit senators, those effeminate priests in the costumes of
_béguines_, to do with the eagles of a brave but unfortunate army? In
what way can you connect that incense and that organ with the smoke of
artillery and the crash of mitraille? And, lastly, was it like old
Daru himself to stand there, half crouching, beside some wretched
half-palsied priest? But I feel heartily ashamed of myself, though I
played but the smallest part in the whole drama.”
“Is it thus you can speak of the triumph of our army? the glories--”
“You mistake me much. I only speak of that miserable mockery which
converts our hard-won laurels into chap-lets of artificial flowers.
These displays are far beneath us, and would only become the victories
of some national guard.”
“So, then,” said I, half laughingly, “it is your Republican gorge that
rises against all this useless ceremonial?”
“You are the very first ever detected me in that guise,” said he,
bursting into a hearty laugh. “But come, I'd wager you agree with me
all this while. This was a very contemptible exhibition; and, for my own
part, I 'd rather see the colors back again with those poor fellows we
chased at Austerlitz, than fluttering in the imbecile hands of dotage
and bigotry.”
“Then I must say we differ totally. I like to think of the warlike
spirit nourished in a nation by the contemplation of such glorious
spoils. I am young enough to remember how the Invalides affected me--”
“When you took your Sunday walk there from the Poly-technique, two and
two, with a blue ribbon round your neck for being a good boy during the
week. Oh, I know it all; delicious times they were, with their souvenirs
of wooden legs and plum-pudding. Happy fellow you must be, if the
delusion can last this while!”
“You are determined it shall not continue much longer,” said I,
laughing; “that is quite evident.”
“No; on the contrary, I shall be but too happy to be your convert,
instead of making you mine. But unfortunately, Sa Majesté, Empereur et
Roi, has taught me some smart lessons since I gave up mathematics; and I
have acquired a smattering of his own policy, which is to look after
the substance, and leave the shadow--or the _drapeau_, if you like it
better--to whoever pleases.”
“I confess, however,” said I, “I don't well understand your enthusiasm
about war and your indifference about its trophies. To me the
associations they suggest are pleasurable beyond anything.”
“I think I remember something of that kind in myself formerly,” said he,
musing. “There was a time when the blast of a trumpet, or even the clank
of a sabre, used to set my heart thumping. Happily, however, the organ
has grown steeled against even more stirring sounds; and I listened to
the salute to-day, fired as it was by that imposing body, the artillery
of the 'Garde Nationale,' with an equanimity truly wonderful. Apropos,
my dear Burke; talk of heroism and self-devotion as you will, but show
me anything to compare with the gallantry of those fellows we saw to-day
on the Quai Voltaire,--a set of grocers, periwig-makers, umbrella and
sausage men, with portly paunches and spectacles,--ramming down charges,
sponging, loading, and firing real cannon. On my word of honor, it was
fearful.”
“They say his Majesty is very proud indeed of the National Guard of
Paris.”
“Of course he is. Look at them, and just think what must be the
enthusiasm of men who will adopt a career so repugnant, not only to
their fancy, but their very formation. Remember that he who runs
yonder with a twenty-four pounder never handled anything heavier than a
wig-block, and that the only charges of the little man beside him have
been made in his day-book. By Saint Denis! the dromedary guard we had
in Egypt were more at home in their saddles than the squadron who rode
beside the archbishop's carriage.”
“It is scarcely fair, after all,” said I, half laughing, “to
criticise them so severely; and the more, as I think you had some old
acquaintances among them.”
“Ha! you saw that, did you?” said he, smiling. “No, by Jove! I never met
them before. But that _confrèrie_ of soldiers--you understand--soon made
us acquainted; and I saw one old fellow speaking to a very pretty girl I
guessed to be his daughter, and soon cemented a small friendship with
him: here's his card.”
“His card! Why, are you to visit him?”
“Better again; I shall dine there on Monday next. Let us see how he
calls himself: 'Hippolyte Pierrot, stay and corset-maker to her Majesty
the Empress, No. 22 Rue du Bac,--third floor above the _entresol._'
_Diable!_ we 're high up. Unfortunately, I am scarcely intimate enough
to bring a friend.”
“Oh, make no excuses on that head,” said I, laughing; “I really have no
desire to see Monsieur Hippolyte Pierrot's _menage_. And now, what are
your engagements for this evening? Are you for the Opera?”
“I don't well know,” said he, pausing. “Madame Caulaincourt receives,
and of course expects to see our gay jackets in her _salon_ any time
before or after supper. Then there's the Comtesse de Nevers: I never go
there without meeting my tailor; the fellow's a spy of the police, and
a confectioner to boot, and he serves the ices, and reports the
conversations in the Place Vendôme and that side of the Rue St.
Honoré,--I couldn't take a glass of lemonade without being dunned. Then,
in the Faubourg I must go in plain clothes,--they would not let the
'livery of the Usurper' pass the porter's lodge; besides, they worry one
with their enthusiastic joy or grief,--as the last letter from England
mentions whether the Comte d'Artois has eaten too many oysters, or found
London beer too strong for him.”
“From all which I guess that you are indisposed to stir.”
“I believe that is about the fact. Truth is, Burke, there is only one
soirée in all Paris I 'd take the trouble to dress for this evening;
and, strange enough, it's the only house where I don't know the people.
He is a commissary-general, or a 'fournisseur' of some kind or other of
the army; always from home, they say; with a wife who was once, and a
daughter who is now, exceeding pretty; keeps a splendid house; and, like
an honest man, makes restitution of all he can cheat in the campaign by
giving good dinners in the capital. His Majesty, at the solicitation of
the Empress, I believe, made him a count,--God's mercy it was not a
king!--and as they come from Guadaloupe, or Otaheite, no one disputes
their right. Besides, this is not a time for such punctilio. This is all
I know of them, for unfortunately they settled here since I joined the
army.”
“And the name?”
“Oh, a very plausible name, I assure you. Lacostellerie,--Madame la
Comtesse de Lacostellerie.”
“By Jove! you remind me I have letters for her,--a circumstance I had
totally forgotten, though it was coupled with a commission.”
“A letter! Why, nothing was ever so fortunate. Don't lose a moment; you
have just time to leave it, with your card, before dinner. You'll have
an invitation for this evening at once.”
“But I have not the slightest wish.”
“No matter, _I_ have; and you shall bring me.”
“You forget,” said I, mimicking his own words, “I am unfortunately not
intimate enough.”
“As to that,” replied he, “there is a vast difference between the
etiquette Rue du Bac, No. 22, three floors above the _entresol_, and the
gorgeous _salons_ of the Hôtel Clichy, Rue Faubourg St. Honoré; ceremony
has the advantage in the former by a height of three pair of stairs, not
to speak of the _entresol_.”
“But I don't know the people.”
“Nor I.”
“But how am I to present you?”
“Easily enough,--'Captain Duchesne, Imperial Guard;' or, if you prefer
it, I 'll do the honors for _you_.”
“With all my heart, then,” said I, laughing; and pre-pared to pay the
visit in question.