When I arrived at the rendezvous, I found Duchesne already awaiting me
with a carriage, into which we stepped, and drove rapidly away.
“A man of your word, Burke; and, what is scarcely less valuable in the
times we live in, a man of prudence too.”
“As how the latter, may I ask?”
“You have not come in uniform, which is all the better where we are
going; besides, it gives me the hope of presenting you to my respected
aunt, the Duchesse de Montserrât, who will take your black coat as a
compliment to the whole Bourbon dynasty. You must come with me there, if
it only be for half an hour. And now tell me, have you ever dined at the
'Moisson d'Or'?”
“Never; not even heard of the house.”
“Well, then, you shall to-day. And meanwhile I may tell you, that
although in a remote and little-visited quarter of Paris, it stands
unrivalled for the excellence of its fare and the rare delicacy of its
wines,--a reputation not of yesterday, but of some years' standing.
Nor is that the only thing remarkable about it, as I shall explain
hereafter. But come! How are your friends at the Hôtel Clichy? and how
fares your suit with mademoiselle?”
“My suit? It never was such. You know, to the full as well as I do, my
pretensions aspired not half so high.”
“So much the better, and so much the worse. I mean the former for me,
as I hate to have a friend for a rival; the latter for you, who ought to
have learned by this time that a handsome girl and a million of
francs are more easily won than a cross of the Legion or a colonel's
epaulette.”
“And are you serious, Duchesne? Have you really intentions in that
quarter?”
“_Morbleu!_ to be sure I have. It is for that I am here in Paris in
the dog days; travelled one hundred and twenty leagues; ay, and
more, too,--have brought with me my most aristocratic aunt, who never
remembers in her life to have seen full-grown leaves in the Tuileries
gardens. I knew what an ally she would be in the negotiation; and so I
managed, through some friends in the bureau of the minister, to give her
a rare fright about an estate of hers, which by some accident escaped
confiscation in the Revolution, and which nothing but the greatest
efforts on her part could now rescue from the fangs of the crown. You
may be sure she is not particularly in love with the present Government
on this score; but the trick secures her speaking more guardedly than
she has the habit of doing, besides inducing her to make acquaintances
nothing but such a threat would accomplish.”
“You intend, then, she should know Madame de Lacostellerie?”
“Of course. I have already persuaded her that the Hôtel Clichy is the
pivot of all Paris, and that nothing but consummate tact and management
on her part will succeed there.”
“But I scarcely thought you cared for mademoiselle; and never dreamed of
your proposing to marry her.”
“Nor I, till about a week ago. However, my plans require money, and
would not be encumbered by my having a wife. I see nothing better at
the moment, and so my mind is soon made up. But here we are; this is our
resting-place.”
The “Moisson d'Or,” although not known to me, was then the most
celebrated place for dining in Paris. The habits of the house--for there
was no _table d'hôte_--required that everything should be ordered
beforehand, and the parties all dined separately. The expensive habits
and extravagant prices secured its frequenters from meeting the class
who usually dined at restaurants; and this gave it a vogue among the
wealthy and titled, whose equipages now thronged the street, and filled
the _porte cochère_. I had but time to recognize the face of one of the
marshals and a minister of state, as we pushed our way through the
court, and entered a small pavilion beyond it.
“I'll join you in an instant,” said Duchesne, as he left the room
hastily after the waiter. In a couple of minutes he was back again.
“Come along; it's all right,” said he. “I wish to show you a corner of
the old house that only the privileged ever see, and we are fortunate in
finding it unoccupied.”
We recrossed the court, and mounted a large oak stair to a corridor,
which conducted us, by three sides of a quadrangle, to a smaller stair,
nearly perpendicular. At the top of this, a strong door, barred and
padlocked, stood, which, being opened, led into a large and lofty
_salon_, opening by three spacious windows on a terrace that formed
the roof of the building. Some citron and orange trees were disposed
tastefully along this, and filled the room with their fragrance.
“Here, Antoine; let us be served here,” said Duchesne to the waiter;
“I have already given orders about the dinner. And now, Burke, come out
here. What think you of that view?”
Scarcely had I set foot on the terrace, when I started back in mingled
admiration and amazement. Beneath us lay the great city, in the mellow
light of an evening in September. Close--so close as actually to
startle--was the large dome of the Invalides shining like a ball of
molten gold, the great courtyard in front dotted with figures; beyond,
again, was the Seine, the surface flashing and flickering in the
sunlight,--I traced it along to the Pont Neuf; and then my eye rested on
Notre-Dame, whose tall, dark towers stood out against the pinkish sky,
while the deep-toned bell boomed through the still air. I turned towards
the Tuileries, and could see the guard of honor in waiting for
the Emperor's appearing. In the gardens, hundreds were passing and
repassing, or standing around the band which played in front of the
pavilion. A tide of population poured across the bridges and down the
streets, along which equipages and horsemen dashed impetuously onward.
There was all the life and stir of a mighty city, its sounds dulled
by distance, but blended into one hoarse din, like the far-off sea at
night.
“You don't know, Burke, that this was a favorite resort of the courtiers
of the last reign. The gay young Gardes du Corps, the gallant youths of
the royal household, constantly dined here. The terrace we now stand on
once held a party who came at the invitation of no less a personage than
him whom men call Louis the Eighteenth. It was a freak of the time to
pronounce the Court dinners execrable: and they even go so far as to
say that Marie Antoinette herself once planned a party here; but this I
cannot vouch for.”
At this moment Duchesne was interrupted by the entrance of the waiters
who came to serve the dinner. I had not a moment left to admire the
beauty and richness of the antique silver dishes which covered the
table, when a gentle tap at the door attracted my attention.
“Ha! Jacotot himself!” said Duchesne, as, rising hastily, he advanced
to meet the new arrival. He was a tall, thin old man, much stooped by
years, but with an air and carriage distinctly well bred; his white
hair, brushed rigidly back, fastened into a queue behind, and his lace
“jabot” and ruffles, bespoke him as the remnant of a date long past. His
coat was blue, of a shade somewhat lighter than is usually worn. He also
wore large buckles in his shoes, whose brilliancy left no doubt of their
real value. Bowing with great ceremony, he advanced slowly into the
room.
“You are come to dine with us,--is it not so, Jacotot?” said Duchesne,
as he still held his hand.
“Excuse me, my dear chevalier; the Comte de Chambord and Edouard de
Courcelles are below,--I have promised to join them.”
“And is Courcelles here?”
“Yes,” said the old man, with a timid glance towards where I sat, and a
look as if imploring caution and reserve.
“Oh, fear nothing. And that reminds me I have not presented my friend
and brother officer: Captain Burke,--Monsieur Jacotot. You may feel
assured, Jacotot, I make no mistake in the friends I introduce here.”
The old man gave a smile of pleasure; while, turning to me, he said,--
“He is discretion itself; and I am but too happy to make your
acquaintance. And now, Chevalier, one word with you.”
He retreated towards the door, holding Duchesne's arm, and whispering as
he went. Duchesne's face, however, expressed his impatience as he spoke;
and at last he said,--
“As you please, my worthy friend; I always submit to your wiser
counsels. So farewell for the present.”
He looked after the old man as he slowly descended the stairs, and then
closing the door and locking it, he exclaimed,--
“_Parbleu!_I found it very hard to listen to his prosing with even a
show of patience, and was half tempted to tell him that the Bourbons
could wait, though the soup could not.”
“Then Monsieur Jacotot is a Royalist, I presume?”
“Ay, that he is; and so are all they who frequent this house. Don't
start; the police know it well, and no one is more amused at their
absurd plottings and conspirings than Fouché himself. Now and then, to
be sure, some fool, more rash and brainless than the others, will come
up from La Vendée and try to knock his head against the walls of the
Temple,--like De Courcelles there, who has no other business in Paris
except to be guillotined, if it were worth the trouble. Then the
minister affects to stir himself and be on the alert, just to terrify
them; but he well knows that danger lurks not in this quarter. Believe
me, Burke, the present rulers of France have no greater security than
in the contemptible character of all their opponents. There is no course
for a man of energy and courage to adopt. But I ask your pardon, my dear
friend, for this treasonable talk. What think you of the dinner? The
Royalists would never have fallen if they had understood government as
well as cuisine. Taste that _suprême_, and say if you don't regret the
Capets,--a feeling you can indulge the more freely because you never
knew them.”
“I cannot comprehend, Duchesne, what are the grievances you charge
against the present Government of France. Had you been an old courtier
of the last reign,--a hanger-on of Versailles or the Tuileries,--the
thing were intelligible; but you, a soldier, a man of daring and
enterprise--”
“Let me interrupt you. I am so only because it is the taste of the day;
but I despise the parade of military glory we have got into the habit
of. I prefer the period when a _mot_ did as much and more than a
discharge of _mitraille_, and men's _esprit_ and talent succeeded better
than a strong sword-arm or a seat on horseback. There were gentlemen
in France once, my dear Burke. Ay, _parbleu!_ and ladies too,--not
marchionesses of the drum-head nor countesses of the bivouac, but women
in whom birth heightened beauty, whose loveliness had the added charm of
high descent beaming from their bright eyes and sitting throned on their
lofty brows; before whom our mustached marshals had stood trembling and
ashamed,--these men who lounge so much at ease in the _salons_ of the
Tuileries! Let me help you to this _salmi_; it is _à la Louis Quinze_,
and worthy of the Regency itself. Well, then, a glass of Burgundy.”
“Your friend Monsieur Jacotot seems somewhat of an original,” said I,
half desirous to change a topic which I always felt an unpleasant one.
“You are not wrong; he is so. Jacotot is a thorough Frenchman; at
least, he has had the fortune to mix up in his destiny those extremes of
elevated sentiment and absurdity which go very far to compose the life
of my good countrymen. I must tell you a short anecdote--But
shall we adjourn to the terrace? for, to prevent the interruption of
servants, I have ordered our dessert there.”
This was a most agreeable proposal; and so, having seated ourselves in
a little arbor of orange-shrubs, with a view of the river and the Palace
gardens beneath us, Duchesne thus began:--
“I am going somewhat far back in history; but have no fears on that
head, Burke,--my story is a very brief one. There was, once upon a time,
in France, a monarch of some repute, called Louis the Fourteenth; a man,
if fame be not unjust, who possessed the most kingly qualities of which
we have any record in books. He was brave, munificent, high-minded,
ardent, selfish, cruel, and ungrateful, beyond any other man in his own
dominions; and, like people with such gifts, he had the good fortune to
attach men to him just as firmly and devotedly as though he was not in
his heart devoid of every principle of friendship and affection. I need
not tell you what the ladies of his reign thought of him; my present
business is with the ruder sex.
“Among the courtiers of the day was a certain Vicomte Arnoud de Gency,
a young man who, at the age of eighteen, won his grade of colonel at the
siege of Besançon by an act of coolness and courage worthy recording. He
deliberately advanced into one of the breaches, and made a sketch of the
interior works of the fortification while the enemy's shot was tearing
up the ground around him. When the deed was reported to the king, he
interrupted the relation, saying, 'Don't tell me who did this, for I
have made De Gency a colonel for it;' so rapidly did Louis guess the
author of so daring a feat.
“From that hour, the young colonel's fortune was made. He was appointed
one of the gentlemen of the chamber to his Majesty, and distinguished by
almost daily marks of royal intimacy. His qualities eminently fitted him
for the tone of the society he lived in; he was a most witty converser,
a good musician, and had, moreover, a very handsome person,--gifts not
undervalued at Saint-Germain.
“Such were his social qualities; and so thoroughly did he understand
the king's humor, that even La Vallière herself saw the necessity of
retaining him at the Court, and, in fact, made a confidant of him
on several occasions of difficulty. Still, with all these favors
of fortune, when the object of envy to almost all the rest of the
household, Arnoud de Gency was suffering in his heart one of the most
trying afflictions that can befall a proud man so placed; he was in
actual poverty,--in want so pressing that all the efforts he could
make, all the contrivances he could practise, were barely sufficient
to prevent his misery being public. The taste for splendor in dress and
equipage which characterized the period had greatly injured his private
fortune, while the habit of high play, which Louis encouraged and liked
to see about him, completed his ruin. The salary of his appointments was
merely enough to maintain his daily expenditure; and thus was he, with
a breaking heart, obliged not only to mix in all the reckless gayety and
frivolity of that voluptuous Court, but, still more, tax his talents and
his energies for new themes of pleasure, fresh sources of amusement.
“Worn out at length by the long struggle between his secret sorrow and
his pride, he resolved to appeal to the king, and in a few words
tell his Majesty the straits to which he was reduced, and implore his
protection. To this he was impelled not solely on his own account, but
on that also of his only child, a boy of eight or nine years old, whose
mother died in giving him birth.
“An occasion soon presented itself. The king had given orders for a
hunting-party at St. Cloud; and at an early hour of the morning De Gency
in his hunting-dress took up his position in one of the ante-chambers
through which the king must pass: not alone, however; at his side there
stood a lovely boy, also dressed in the costume of the chase. He wore
a velvet doublet of green, slashed with gold, and ornamented by a
broad belt, from which hung his _couteau de chasse_; even to the falcon
feather in his cap, nothing was forgotten.
“He had not waited long when the folding-doors were thrown wide, and
a moment after Louis appeared, accompanied by a single attendant,
the Marquis de Verneuil, unhappily one of the very few enemies Arnoud
possessed in the world.
“'Ah, De Gency! you here?' said the king, gayly. 'They told me “brelan”
had been unfavorable lately, and that we should not see you.'
“'It is true, Sire,' said he, with a sad effort at a smile; 'it is only
on your Majesty fortune always smiles.'
“'_Pardieu!_ you must not say so; I lost a rouleau last night. But whom
have we here?'
“'My son; so please you, Sire, my only son, who desires, at an earlier
age than even his father did, to serve your Majesty.'
[Illustration: 230]
“'How like his mother!' said the king, pushing back the fair ringlets
from the boy's forehead, and gazing almost fondly on his handsome
features,--'how like her! She was a Courcelles?'
“'She was, Sire,' said Arnoud, as the tears fell on his cheek and
coursed slowly along his face.
“'And you want something for him?' said the king, resuming his wonted
tone, while he busied himself with his sword-knot; 'is it not so?'
“'If I might dare to ask--'
“'Assuredly you may. The thing is, what can we do? Eh, Verneuil, what
say you? He is but an infant.'
“'True, Sire,' replied the marquis, with a look of respect, in which
the most subtle could not discover a trait of his sarcastic nature; 'but
there is a place vacant.'
“'Ah, indeed,' said the king, quickly. 'What is it? He shall have it.'
“'Monsieur Jacotot, your Majesty's head cook, stands in need of a
turnspit,' said he, in a low whisper, only audible to the king.
“'A turnspit!' said the king. And scarcely was the word uttered when,
as if the irony was his own, he burst into a most immoderate fit of
laughter,--an emotion that seemed to increase as he endeavored to
repress it; when at the instant the _cor de chasse_, then heard
without, gave a new turn to his thoughts, and he hurried forward with
De Yerneuil, leaving De Gency and his son rooted to the spot,--indignant
passion in that heart which despair and sorrow had almost rendered
callous.
“His Majesty was still laughing as he mounted his barb in the courtyard;
and the courtiers, like well-bred gentlemen, laughed as became them,
with that low, quiet laugh which is the meet chorus of a sovereign's
mirth, when suddenly two loud reports, so rapidly following on each
other as almost to seem one, startled the glittering cortege, and even
made the Arab courser of the king plunge madly in the air.
“'_Par Saint Denis!_Messieurs,' said Louis, passionately, 'this
pleasantry of yours is ill thought of. Who has dared to do this?'
“But none spoke. A terrified look around the circle was the only reply
to the king's question, when a page rushed forward, his dress spotted
and blood-stained, his face pale with horror,--
“'Your Majesty,--ah, Sire!' said he, kneeling. But sobs choked him, and
he could not utter more.
“'What is this? Will no one tell?' cried the king, as a frown of dark
omen shadowed his angry features.
“'Your Majesty has lost a brave, an honest, and a faithful follower,
Sire,' said Monsieur de Coulanges. 'Arnoud de Gency is no more.'
“'Why, I saw him this instant,' said the king. 'He asked me some favor
for his boy.'
“'True, Sire,' replied De Coulanges, mournfully. But he checked himself
in time, for already the well-known and dreaded expression of passion
had mounted to the king's face.
“'Dismiss the _chasse_, gentlemen,' said he, in a low thick voice. 'And
do you, Monsieur de Verneuil, attend me.'
“The cortege was soon scattered; and the Marquis de Verneuil followed
the king with an expression where fear and dread were not to be
mistaken.
“Monsieur de Verneuil did indeed seem an altered man when he appeared
among his friends that evening. Whatever the king had said to him
assuredly had worked its due effect; for all his raillery was gone, and
even the veriest trifler of the party might have dared an encounter with
wits which then were subdued and broken.
“Next morning, however, the sun shone out brilliantly. The king was
in high spirits; the game abounded; and his Majesty with his own hand
brought down eight pheasants. The Marquis de Verneuil could hit nothing;
for although the best marksman of the day, his hand shook and his sight
failed him, and the king won fifty louis from him before they reached
Saint-Germain.
“Never was there a happier day nor followed by a pleasanter evening.
The king supped in Madame de la Vallière's apartment; the private band
played the most delicious airs during the repast; and when at length the
party retired to rest, not one bright dream was clouded by the memory of
Arnoud de Gency.
“Here, now, were I merely recounting an anecdote, I should stop,”
said the chevalier; “but must continue a little longer, though all the
romance of my story is over. The Marquis de Verneuil was a good hater:
even poor De Gency's fate did not move him, and he actually did do what
he had only threatened in mockery,--he sent the orphan child to be a
turnspit in the royal kitchen. Of course he changed his name,--the title
of an old and honored family would soon have betrayed the foul
deed,--and the boy was called Jacotot, after the _chef_ himself. The
king inquired no further on the subject; Arnoud's name recalled too
unpleasant a topic for the lips of a courtier ever to mention; and the
whole circumstance was soon entirely forgotten.
“This same Jacotot was the grandfather of my old friend, whom you saw a
few minutes since. Fate, that seems to jest with men's destinies, made
them as successful at the fire of the kitchen as ever their ancestors
were at that of a battery; and Monsieur Jacotot, our present host, has
not his equal in Paris. Here for years the younger members of the royal
family used to sup; this room was their favorite apartment; and one
evening, when at a later sitting than usual the ruler of the feast was
carried beyond himself in the praise of an admirable plat, he sent for
Jacotot, and told him, whatever favor he should ask, he himself would
seek for him at the hands of the king.
“This was the long-wished-for moment of the poor fellow's life. He drew
from his bosom the title-deeds of his ancient name and fortune, and
placed them in the prince's hand without uttering a word.
“'What! and are you a De Gency?' said the prince.
“'Alas! I shame to say it, I am.'
“'Come, gentlemen,' said the gay young prince, 'a bumper to our worthy
friend, whom, with God's blessing, I shall see restored right soon to
his fitting rank and station. Yes, De Gency! my word upon it, the next
evening I sup here I shall bring with me his Majesty's own signature to
these title-deeds. Make place, gentlemen, and let him sit down!'
“But poor Jacotot was too much excited by his feelings of joy and
gratitude, and he rushed from the room in a torrent of tears.
“The evening the prince spoke of never came. Soon after that commenced
the troubles to the royal family; the dreadful events of Versailles; the
flight to Varennes; the 10th August,--a horrible catalogue I cannot bear
to trace. There, yonder, where now the groups are loitering, or sitting
around in happy knots, there died Louis the Sixteenth. The prince I
spoke of is an exile: they call him Louis the Eighteenth; but he is a
king without a kingdom.
“But Jacotot lives on in hope. He has waded through all the terrors of
the Revolution; he has seen the guillotine erected almost before his
door and beheld his former friends led one by one to the slaughter.
Twice was he himself brought forth, and twice was his life spared by
some admirer of his cuisine. But perhaps all his trials were inferior
to the heart-burning with which he saw the places once occupied by the
blood of Saint Louis now occupied by the _canaille_ of the Revolution.
Marat and Robespierre frequented his house; and Barras seldom passed
a week without dining there. This, I verily believe, was a heavier
affliction than any of his personal sufferings; and I have often heard
him recount, with no feigned horror, the scenes which took place among
the _incroyables_, as they called themselves, whose orgies he contrasted
so unfavorably with the more polished excesses of his regal visitors.
Through all the anarchy of that fearful period; through the scarce less
sanguinary time of the Directory; through the long, dreary oppression of
the consulate; and now, in the more grinding tyranny of the Empire, he
hopes, ay, still hopes on, that the day will come when from the hands of
the king himself he shall receive his long-buried rank, and stand forth
a De Gency. Poor fellow! there is something noble and manly in the long
struggle with fortune,--in that long-sustained contest in which he would
never admit defeat.
“Such are the followers of the Bourbons: their best traits, their
highest daring, their most long-suffering endurance, only elicited in
the pursuit of some paltry object of personal ambition. They have tasted
the cup of adversity, ay, drained it to the very dregs; they have seen
carnage and bloodshed such as no war ever surpassed: and all they
have learned by experience is, to wish for the long past days of
royal tyranny and frivolity back again; to see a glittering swarm
of debauchees fluttering around a sensualist king; and to watch the
famished faces of the multitude, without a thought that the tiger is
only waiting for his spring. As to a thought of true liberty, one single
high and noble aspiration after freedom, they never dreamed of it.
“You see, my friend, I have no desire to win you over to the Bourbon
cause; neither, if I could, would I make you a Jacobin. But how is
this? Can it really be so late? Come, we have no time to lose: it is not
accounted good breeding to be late in a visit at the Faubourg.”