uproar," said the captain, as they walked along. "He went with Louis to
Ghent; while I, as in duty bound, joined-- But I had better say nothing
more. We are now in the streets of Paris, where every second man is
either a jack-booted gendarme or a villainous government spy. Monsieur
le Baron saved his dirty acres by this policy, while I narrowly lost
mine and the old house of Quinsay, with its ruined hall, where a colony
of rooks, bats, and owls have been comfortably quartered for more than
twenty years. Clappourknuis is as little enamoured of campaigning, as I
am of his crack-jaw name. No, by the bomb! had he loved the flash of
bright steel and the clank of accoutrements, he would have joined the
Emperor on his quitting Elba. And yet I once beheld him charge bravely
at the head of a regiment of Polish lancers. They were attacking a solid
square of the regiment of Segovia; and it was a splendid sight to behold
them, as they swept past the flank of the cuirassiers in line. At the
first blast of the trumpet their thousand lances sunk at once to the
rest, their bright heads flashing like a shower of falling stars; and
the next moment they were riding into the mass of terrified Spaniards,
as one would ride through a river. But he has hung his sabre on the
wall, and now reposes in the ancient hotel, basking in the smiles of the
fair Diane, and snugly ensconced under the shadow of his laurels, which,
by-the-by, are very likely to grow into other ornaments less agreeable
to his martial brow, if he does not look a little sharper after Madame."
"I told you of my adventure with her on the Pyrenees."
"Yes; you will be a welcome friend, unless the story has roused some
unpleasant surmises in the mind of the baron, who is rather inclined to
be suspicious, although his pate is so thick that we considered it
sabre-proof in the 'Devil's Own.' I know that he looks upon me with
eyes the reverse of friendly. _Parbleu!_ what care I? Madame Diane
behaves to me with remarkable attention. Ha! my friend, you see what it
is to have a name: all the women of Paris either love or fear me. While
Monsieur le Baron sits in a corner moping and growling over his swaddled
and gouty leg, I draw my chair beside Madame at the harp, and sit
turning over the leaves of her music, exchanging soft glances, and
saying things quite as soft between. She is an amazingly fine creature,
although she jilted so cruelly poor Victor d'Estouville of the Imperial
Guard."
"If this is the footing on which you visit the Hotel de Clugny, I think
I could scarcely have chosen a more unlucky companion for my morning
call."
"_Pardieu_! Monsieur, this is Paris, where no husband of sense makes
himself in the least uneasy about the intrigues of his wife, and I
should wish to teach old Clappourknuis a lesson. He was twelve months a
prisoner in England, where he picked up some of the strangest notions in
the world about conjugal fidelity and other matters, which, in France,
we know only by name. He must now pay the penalty of marrying a giddy
creature, young enough to be his grand-daughter. We have a proverb
among us, mon ami, which says, 'Beware of women, of fire, of water, and
the regiment de Sault.' Now I am ready to demonstrate to you logically,
that the first part of that proverb-- But, poh! here is the residence
of Monsieur le Baron. _Pardieu!_ a strange old rookery it is; and yet
he admires it, because it is the oldest house in Paris."
Passing through an archway, they found themselves in an irregular sort
of quadrangle, formed by buildings in a very ancient style of
architecture, with mullioned windows, Gothic cusps and pinnacles,
casements on the roof, two octagon towers projecting into the court, and
one circular turret, which was built out from the wall, and shot up to a
great height above the others. Numerous coats of arms and initial
letters appeared above the doors and windows, and an antique fountain
sparkled and murmured in a corner of the court, with a drooping tree
spreading its branches over the stone basin into which the water fell.
There was an appearance of picturesque and gloomy grandeur about the
place, but there was likewise an air of desolation and decay without,
which did not correspond with the rich hangings and furniture that
appeared through the open windows; while the bustle which pervaded the
court and passages, showed that the house was occupied by a large
establishment.
"A strange old place, this."
"_Diable!_ yes; a gloomy old bomb-house, fit only for the bat and the
owl. And yet 'tis here the baron keeps Madame Diane, one of the gayest
women within the gay and glorious circle of the Boulevards. 'Tis the
Chateau de Clugny; but for Heaven's sake and our own, do not say any
thing about it to the baron, who has of late been seized by a fit of
antiquarianism, or we shall probably have the whole history of it
rehearsed, from the time of Noah down to the present day."
The baron was at home, and a servant announced their names.
He was not much changed in appearance since Ronald had seen him in
Estremadura; he looked as rough and weather-beaten as ever, and sat in a
gilded easy chair, rolled in a rich brocaded dressing-gown, with one of
his legs swaddled up in a multitude of bandages, and resting upon a
cushion. A small velvet forage-cap covered his grey hair, and half
revealed a deep scar from a sabre-cut across the forehead.
The apartment into which the visitors were shown, was a splendid old
chamber fitted up as a library; and a softened light, which stole
through between the thick mullions and twisted tracery of two large
windows, cast the varied tints of the stained glass upon the long
shelves of richly gilt but musty old books, on globes, on antique swords
and fragments of steel armour, on ancient chairs and deep-red hangings,
on spurs and helmets, and on rolls and bundles of papers, heaped and in
confusion. The ceiling was covered with stucco fret-work and gilding.
Three large portraits were in the room: these were likenesses of the
famous Mississippi Law--as he was styled; of Beau Law, shot at the siege
of Pondichery, fighting against the British; and of the Marquis of
Laurieston, in his uniform as a General of the Empire, covered with gold
oak-leaves and Orders.
The Baron, whom they found immersed in the pages of a huge and antique
tome, threw it aside on their entrance, and bowed with an air of
politeness so constrained, that it was evident Captain de Mesmai was far
from being considered a welcome visitor. The consciousness that he had
such an introducer made Stuart feel rather uncomfortable, but De
Mesmai's consummate effrontery caused him to value the baron's coldness
not a rush. A piano, which stood at one end of the room, was closed.
The young baroness was not then at home.
"_Monsieur le Baron_," said the captain, placing his cap under his arm,
and leading forward Stuart, "allow me to introduce Major Stuart, an
officer of a Scots regiment, and a very particular friend of mine, who
has come to pay you a visit before marching for Calais to-morrow."
"_Eh bien!_" said the baron, extending his hand, and raising his
eyebrows. "I am very happy to see Monsieur Stuart; his name is one for
which I have a very great respect. But," he added with a smile, "you
give him a bad recommendation in saying he is a 'particular friend' of
yours. Remember, you are considered the greatest _roue_ and libertine
that Paris contains,--between the Champ de Mars and La Roquette."
"_Pardieu!_"
"In truth you are a very sad fellow," continued the baron, while a
servant placed chairs for the visitors. "Your name is on every man's
tongue."
"And woman's too."
"Worse still. Ay, Maurice, in Massena's corps we considered you no
apostle. But draw your chairs nearer to the fire; 'tis cold this
morning. And here, you Monsieur Jacques," addressing the servant; "bring
a couple of logs for the fire, and place the glasses and decanters on
the table."
A smoky wood fire blazed in a large basket or grate of brass and
iron-work placed on the hearthstone: above it rose the arch of an
antique mantelpiece. The square space around the grate was covered with
small diamond-shaped pieces of Delft ware, which were neatly joined
together, and reflected the light and heat.
"Monsieur le Baron will remember that I have not had the pleasure of
seeing him since we were last together in Spanish Estremadura," said
Ronald; "at Almendralejo, or Villa Franca, I think."
"Indeed, monsieur!" replied the old man, bowing. "Ah, _misericorde_! I
was a prisoner then. You must excuse me; but I have seen so many places
and faces, that if I do not exactly remember--"
"I am the officer who shared his ration-biscuit with you one morning at
Merida, when the troops were so scant of provisions."
"What! _Mon Dieu!_" cried the old soldier, grasping him energetically
by both hands, "are you that officer?"
"I am the same, monsieur."
"How happy I am to have you here in Paris,--in my own house, that I may
repay you--at least, as far as hospitality can--for the bestowal of that
half biscuit, wet and mouldy as it was from being carried--"
"A forty miles' march in a wet havresack. I was about to take command
of an out-lying picquet, and the biscuit was my first ration for three
consecutive days."
"Ay, my friends," said De Mesmai with unusual gravity, while he filled
up the glasses, "those were stirring times, when one might see true
soldiering."
"I well remember the morning," continued the baron; "and very
disconsolate fellows your picquet seemed, as they marched by the light
of the grey dawn along the muddy Plaza, with their muskets slung, and
their feathers and great coats soaked in water, for the rain was pouring
down like a second deluge. On my honour, monsieur! I have often
thought of the generous Scottish officer and the wet biscuit. I had
been famishing for eight and forty hours. Ah! 'twas an interesting
adventure that."
"Not so interesting by one half," said De Mesmai slowly, while a wicked
smile lurked on his moustached mouth; "not so singular by one half as my
friend's adventure with the baroness on the Pyrenees, after King
Joseph's misfortunes at Vittoria. There is something very unique, quite
romantic, in that story."
"Monsieur, was it you who--"
Stuart began to murmur something about having "had the pleasure to be of
some service to the baroness--"
"I have heard of it," said the baron. "Oh, monsieur, you quite
overpower me with your services. How shall we ever repay you!"
"I was merely instrumental. The officer who had the honour to escort
the baroness to Gazan's outposts was killed soon afterwards, when Soult
forced the passes."
"On the 25th. Twenty devils! I was there," said the baron, turning up
his eyes. "Bloody work it was, and your mountaineers defended the hills
with a valour bordering on madness. Your health! monsieur. 'Tis plain
_vin ordinaire_, this; I am restricted to its use, but the decanter next
you contains _Lafitte_."
"I will take Lafitte, with your permission."
The baron bowed.
"_Vive l'Empereur_," muttered De Mesmai as he raised his glass, while
the baron held up one finger warningly, and cast a furtive glance at the
door. "I pray to Heaven," continued the captain, whom some old
recollections had excited, "that the _violet_ may return to France in
the spring." He drank enthusiastically. The baron emptied his glass in
silence, and Ronald did the same, although he knew that _the violet_
meant Napoleon, who was known by that name among his friends and
adherents.
"Well, Maurice; I heard you were about to be married to a widow with
three streets,--old Madame Berthollet, of the Rue de Rivoli," said the
baron. "Or perhaps you are already married?"
"Diable! monsieur," said De Mesmai, indignantly; "do _I_ look like a
married man!"
"I know not, Maurice; but I imagine that the gay old lady would have
little reason to rejoice in her domestic speculation. You are the best
man in Paris to make her golden Louis and Napoleons vanish like frost in
the sunshine. And so, monsieur," addressing Stuart, "your regiment
marches to-morrow?"
"For Calais, _via_ Montfort, where we shall be joined by two other
Scottish regiments, which are also under orders for home."
"A good voyage to the gallant Scots! as our fashionable song says,"
replied the baron, emptying his glass.
"Excellent!" cried De Mesmai, before Stuart could thank the baron; "and
I hope that Madame will soon return, as I wish very much to hear her
perform that piece on the piano. Madame Berthollet--"
"Of the Rue de Rivoli?" interrupted the baron.
"--Informed me that her style excels the most celebrated masters in
Paris."
"Indeed!" said the baron coldly, but bowing to De Mesmai, whom he
heartily wished at the bottom of the sea, or any other place than the
Chateau de Clugny, where his visit had now extended to twice the usual
time of a morning call.
"By the bomb! here comes Madame!" said the _ci-devant_ cuirassier, as a
carriage drove into the court. "Monsieur le Baron must allow me the
honour--"
He snatched up his cap, and vanished from the room, while the features
of the invalid assumed a most vinegar aspect of anger and uneasiness,
which he attempted to conceal from Ronald by conversing about the
weather and other trivial matters. Meanwhile the captain, with all the
air of a true French gallant, assisted the baroness to alight, and led
her into the house. They were long in ascending the staircase, and the
baron's face grew alternately red and white, while he fidgeted strangely
in his easy chair. At last a servant opened the door of the room, and
the handsome captain, with his right hand ungloved, led forward Madame,
who, as she swept in with her long rustling skirt, and with the feathers
of her bonnet drooping over a rich shawl, appeared a very dashing
figure, quite a woman of _ton_, and possessing all that indescribable
_je ne sais quoi_ of face and figure, which are wholly the attributes of
what the Scots call 'gentle blood,' and which never can be attained by
the vulgar. Her morning drive on the Boulevards, the exercise of
ascending the steep old stairs of the hotel, and perhaps a sensation of
pleasure at meeting with De Mesmai, had heightened the glow of her
cheeks, and a rich bloom suffused them. Her eyes were sparkling with
French vivacity, and she looked radiantly beautiful.
"Eh! monsieur, my dear friend!" cried she, springing towards Stuart with
the bird-like step of a Parisian lady. "How happy, oh! how very happy I
am to see you here! I would give you a pretty kiss, if I dared. But
pray, monsieur, be seated; and here, De Mesmai, help me off with my
things."
"How, madame, do you recognise me after so long a lapse of time, and
after such, a very short interview? One at night,--by a picquet fire,
too?"
"De Mesmai told me you were here," said she, as that adroit cavalier
removed her bonnet and shawl, and even adjusted her hair, which was
braided above her forehead and fastened behind with a pearl-studded comb
_a la Grec_. The soldier laid aside the bonnet, arranged the veil, and
folded the collar and shawl with so much the air of a _femme de
chambre_, that Stuart could with difficulty repress a smile; but to the
lady and her husband it appeared nothing unusual.
"The baroness is a fashionable beauty, certainly," thought the wondering
Scot; "but my wife will not be a French woman, thank Heaven!"
"That will do, Maurice," said the lady, freely and easily; "that will
do, I thank you. _Mon Dieu!_ I shall never wear that horrid shawl any
more; mantelets of satin, laced and furred, are becoming all the rage.
Maurice, I know you have quite the eye of a _modiste_; tell me, don't
you think that a mantelet will become me?"
"Madame would appear superb in any thing," replied the other without
hesitation, but bowing low while he spoke.
"Oh, Maurice, you are getting quite commonplace. But I suppose it will
become me as well as the venerable Berthollet of the Rue de Rivoli."
"Doubtless, madame," replied the Guardsman composedly; while, without
noticing her roguish look, he handed her a glass of wine.
"And here, this dear naughty husband of mine asks me not a single
question about my morning airing," said Madame, as she sprang up and
arranged the cushions at the old man's back. "Maurice, help me to punch
these pillows. Monsieur the baron has been poring over some musty old
book till he has been quite overcome with _ennui_, I suppose. _Mon
Dieu!_ what a horrid thing it is to become an antiquary!" she continued,
as she turned up her fine eyes, and shrugged her fair shoulders. "Do you
know, Monsieur Stuart, that ever since the baron became a member of the
_Comite Historique des Arts et Monumens_, he has been like a man
bewitched!"
The attention of his beautiful wife restored the old man's urbanity and
good humour, and when the baroness pressed the visitors to remain to
dinner, he seconded her invitation, and they stayed.
Stuart had reason to regret that they did so, for De Mesmai's folly
brought about a very disagreeable termination to the visit.
After much common-place conversation, he requested the baroness to
favour them with the fashionable air then so much in vogue, and she at
once acceded. The old baron was quite charmed with his wife's
performance, and, closing his eyes, beat time with his fingers on a
worm-eaten volume of Pierre de Maimbourg; but his triumph was somewhat
soured by the presence of De Mesmai, who seated himself close by Diane
for the purpose of turning over the leaves, and he seemed quite in
raptures with her. Stuart likewise was much pleased, for the soft tones
of her voice were delightful to hear, and his patriotism was roused and
his pride flattered by the words of the song,--'A good Voyage to the
gallant Scots.' It was a quick and lively air, and had been first
adopted by the garde-du-corps and other troops of Louis XVIII., after
which it rapidly became popular: the ladies sounded it forth from their
harps and pianos, the dandies hummed it on the Boulevards, the boys
whistled it in the streets, and the grisettes sung it at their work;
and, from reveille till tattoo, scarcely any other tune was heard in the
camps, barracks, and cantonments.
*CHAPTER XVII.*
*A CATASTROPHE.*
"Ah, madame!" exclaimed De Mesmai, whom experience among his
countrywomen had taught that the dose of flattery could never be too
strong for them, "how much we are indebted to you! Such brilliancy of
instrumental execution, and such a voice! My friend, Major Stuart, will
allow--or rather will be compelled to admit--that you far excel any
other singer he has ever heard in Paris, Lisbon, or Madrid?"
Although this was not strictly true, Ronald of course replied in the
affirmative. There is no flattery which can be too pointed for a
_Parisienne_, who can hear, as mere matters of course, such observations
as would bring the red blood rushing into the fair face of an English
lady.
De Mesmai engrossed to himself nearly the whole conversation of the
baroness, and they chatted away, with amazing volubility and merriment,
on such light matters as the marriages, intrigues, and flirtations of
one half of Paris,--the fashionable part at least,--while the petulant
baron, after various ineffectual attempts to interrupt their interesting
_tete-a-tete_, abandoned the idea of doing so; and, while reconnoitring
their position with watchful eyes, and listening with open ears, he gave
Stuart a very long and very tiresome account of the learned society, to
the affairs of which, since the peace of 1814, he had devoted his whole
attention.
De Mesmai and the lady, or, to speak more correctly, the lady and De
Mesmai, were seated on an opposite sofa, and so close, that their dark
hair almost mingled together,--this, too, before the eyes of the baron.
They conversed in a low tone, which every instant swelled out into a
laugh; and such glances of deep and hidden meaning were exchanged, that,
had they been observed, they would have entirely discomposed old
Clappourknuis's antiquarian discussions about ruins, medals, coins,
MSS., &c. &c. Stuart thought his friend a very odd fellow, and certainly
the free manners of the baroness did not heighten his opinion of
Parisian wives.
Dinner was served up in excellent style, but what it consisted of has
nothing to do with this history. There were enough and to spare of
wonderful French dishes, which the Highlander had never seen before, and
probably has never heard of since. Stuart having led the baroness to
the dining-room, De Mesmai led her back again to the library, falling
into the rear of the baron, who was borne thither in his arm-chair by
six stout valets, with his gouty leg projecting like a bowsprit. In
this trim, as host, he led the way from the table. Coffee and wine were
awaiting them in the library, which was lighted up by wax candles placed
in antique candelabras. The crimson curtains were drawn, and a cheerful
fire blazed on the hearth and roared up the wide chimney. The old gilt
volumes on the shelves, the steel arms and armour, the splendid
picture-frames, the wine-decanters, the silver coffee equipage, and
every thing else of metal or crystal, glittered in the ruddy light, and
the baron's library appeared the most snug place imaginable.
Stuart, who had been accustomed to sit long at the mess-table,--rather a
failing; with the valiant ninety-_twa_,--was unable to adopt the foreign
custom of taking coffee immediately after dinner. He therefore joined
the baron in paying attention to a decanter of light French wine; but De
Mesmai sipped the simple beverage, seated by Madame at a side-table
where the coffee was served up, and his attentions became so very
particular and decided, that in any house in Britain they must have
ensured his exit by the window instead of the door. But the baron,
although a very jealous husband, was a Frenchman, and consequently did
not perceive any thing very heinous in the attention paid to his wife by
the gay guardsman; yet he would rather have seen him lying at full
length in the _morgue_, than seated at the little side-table with the
baroness.
But Monsieur le Baron having dined to his entire satisfaction, was
rather inclined to be in a good humour, and, after a time, he was
obliging enough to place the high stuffed back of his easy chair between
himself and the _tete-a-tete_ which his gay lady enjoyed with her still
gayer cavalier.
Finding that Stuart was conversant with _Pere d'Orleans_; the _Histoire
des Croisades_ of Pierre de Maimbourg, and other old authors,--thanks to
the tawse of his dominie, the old minister of Lochisla,--the baron
resolved to make a victim of him for the remainder of the evening, and
bored him most unmercifully with long antiquarian and archaeological
disquisitions, which were varied only by still more tedious accounts of
his campaigns under Napoleon.
He spent an hour in detailing enthusiastically the services and deeds of
the Scots Guards[*] in France, from the time that Alexander III. sent
them to Saint Lewis for service in the Holy Land down to the battle of
Pavia, where the Scottish corps threw themselves into a circle around
Francis I., and he was not captured by the enemy till only four of that
brave band were left alive.
[*] Now the 1st regiment of the line, or Royal Scots, the oldest corps
in Europe.
"And we are told in this book," continued the prosy baron, laying his
hand on a mighty tome of Philip de Comines; "we are told in this book
that the life of Louis XI., when he was attacked by the rebellious
Burgundians at Liege, was saved solely by the valour of the Scots
Guards, who formed a rampart around him till the Burgundians were
defeated."
"_Morbleu!_ monsieur," said De Mesmai, who now joined them, as the
baroness had withdrawn, "the story of the duel between the Sieur de
Vivancourt of the regiment of Picardie and the Scots Royal, is worth all
that you will find in Philip--Philip--_peste_! I have forgotten his
name. But I will wager a hundred Napoleons to one, that he does not
relate a story by one half so good as that which I have heard from you,
of the unpleasant manner in which the English widow of Monsieur of
France, Louis XII., was surprised in a _tete-a-tete_ with the Duke of
Suffolk, in this very apartment, by the furious Duke de Valois, who
compelled her to marry Suffolk upon the very instant,--ay, _pardieu!_ at
the very drumhead, as the saying is."
Certain associations occurring to the baron's mind made him colour, as
he raised his eyes from his flannel-cased legs, to the tall, erect, and
soldier-like figure of De Mesmai. He glanced furtively at the chair of
the baroness, but it was empty.
"Ay, Maurice, 'twas a strange affair that; but Monsieur of Valois should
have given the English duke a year or two's residence in the Bastile for
his presumption. The stone cages of Louis XI. were then in good
condition, and should always have been tenanted by such blades as
Monsieur of Suffolk."