THE GEN D’ARME.
I had fortunately sufficient influence upon my fair friends to persuade
them to leave Calais early on the morning following; and two hours
before Kilkee had opened his eyes upon this mortal life, we were far
upon the road to Paris.
Having thus far perfectly succeeded in my plot, my spirit rose rapidly,
and I made every exertion to make the road appear short to my
fellow-travellers. This part of France is unfortunately deficient in
any interest from scenery; large undivided tracts of waving cornfields,
with a back-ground of apparently interminable forests, and
occasionally, but rarely, the glimpse of some old time-worn chateau,
with its pointed gable and terraced walk, are nearly all that the eye
can detect in the intervals between the small towns and villages.
Nothing, however, is “flat or unprofitable” to those who desire to make
it otherwise; good health, good spirits, and fine weather, are
wonderful travelling companions, and render one tolerably independent
of the charms of scenery. Every mile that separated me from Calais, and
took away the chance of being overtaken, added to my gaiety, and I
flatter myself that a happier party have rarely travelled that well
frequented road.
We reached Abbeville to dinner, and adjourned to the beautiful little
garden of the inn for our coffee; the evening was so delightful that I
proposed to walk on the Paris road, until the coming up of the
carriage, which required a screw, or a washer, or some such trifle as
always occurs in French posting. To this la chere mamma objected, she
being tired, but added, that Isabella and I might go on, and that she
would take us up in half an hour. This was an arrangement so very
agreeable and unlooked for by me, that I pressed Miss Bingham as far as
I well could, and at last succeeded in overcoming her scruples, and
permitting me to shawl her. One has always a tremendous power of
argument with the uninitiated abroad, by a reference to a standard of
manners and habits totally different from our own. Thus the talismanic
words—“Oh! don’t be shocked; remember you are in France,” did more to
satisfy my young friend’s mind than all I could have said for an hour.
Little did she know that in England only, has an unmarried young lady
any liberty, and that the standard of foreign propriety on this head is
far, very far more rigid than our own.
“La premiere Rue a gauche,” said an old man of whom I inquired the
road; “et puis,” added I.
“And then quite straight; it is a chaussee all the way, and you cannot
mistake it.”
“Now for it, mademoiselle,” said I. “Let us try if we cannot see a good
deal of the country before the carriage comes up.”
We had soon left the town behind and reached a beautifully shaded high
road, with blossoming fruit trees, and honeysuckle-covered cottages;
there had been several light showers during the day, and the air had
all the fresh fragrant feeling of an autumn evening, so tranquillizing
and calming that few there are who have not felt at some time or other
of their lives, its influence upon their minds. I fancied my fair
companion did so, for, as she walked beside me, her silence, and the
gentle pressure of her arm, were far more eloquent than words.
If that extraordinary flutter and flurry of sensations which will now
and then seize you, when walking upon a lonely country road with a
pretty girl for your companion, whose arm is linked in yours, and whose
thoughts, as far you can guess at least, are travelling the same path
with your own—if this be animal magnetism, or one of its phenomena,
then do I swear by Mesmer, whatever it be, delusion or otherwise, it
has given me the brightest moments of my life—these are the real
“winged dreams” of pleasures which outlive others of more absorbing and
actual interest at the time. After all, for how many of our happiest
feelings are we indebted to the weakness of our nature. The man that is
wise at nineteen, “Je l’en fais mon compliment,” but I assuredly do not
envy him; and now, even now, when I number more years than I should
like to “confess,” rather than suffer the suspicious watchfulness of
age to creep on me, I prefer to “go on believing,” even though every
hour of the day should show me, duped and deceived. While I plead
guilty to this impeachment, let me show mitigation, that it has its
enjoyments—first, although I am the most constant and devoted man
breathing, as a very cursory glance at these confessions may prove, yet
I have never been able to restrain myself from a propensity to make
love, merely as a pastime. The gambler that sits down to play cards, or
hazard against himself, may perhaps be the only person that can
comprehend this tendency of mine. We both of us are playing for nothing
(or love, which I suppose is synonymous;) we neither of us put forth
our strength; for that very reason, and in fact like the waiter at
Vauxhall who was complimented upon the dexterity with which he poured
out the lemonade, and confessed that he spent his mornings “practising
with vater,” we pass a considerable portion of our lives in a mimic
warfare, which, if it seem unprofitable, is, nevertheless, pleasant.
After all this long tirade, need I say how our walk proceeded? We had
fallen into a kind of discussion upon the singular intimacy which had
so rapidly grown up amongst us, and which years long might have failed
to engender. Our attempts to analyse the reasons for, and the nature of
the friendship thus so suddenly established—a rather dangerous and
difficult topic, when the parties are both young—one eminently
handsome, and the other disposed to be most agreeable. Oh, my dear
young friends of either sex, whatever your feelings be for one another,
keep them to yourselves; I know of nothing half so hazardous as that
“comparing of notes” which sometimes happens. Analysis is a beautiful
thing in mathematics or chemistry, but it makes sad havoc when applied
to the “functions of the heart.”
“Mamma appears to have forgotten us,” said Isabella, as she spoke,
after walking for some time in silence beside me.
“Oh, depend upon it, the carriage has taken all this time to repair;
but are you tired?”
“Oh, by no means; the evening is delightful, but—”
“Then perhaps you are _ennuyée_,” said I, half pettishly, to provoke a
disclaimer if possible. To this insidiously put quere I received, as I
deserved, no answer, and again we sauntered on without speaking.
“To whom does that chateau belong, my old friend?” said I addressing a
man on the road-side.
“A Monsieur le Marquis, sir,” replied he.
“But what’s his name, though?”
“Ah, that I can’t tell you,” replied the man again.
There you may perceive how, even yet, in provincial France, the old
respect for the aristocracy still survives; it is sufficient that the
possessor of that fine place is “Monsieur le Marquis;” but any other
knowledge of who he is, and what, is superfluous. “How far are we from
the next village, do you know?”
“About a league.”
“Indeed. Why I thought ‘La Scarpe’ was quite near us.”
“Ah, you are thinking of the Amiens road.”
“Yes, of course; and is not this the Amiens road?”
“Oh, no; the Amiens road lies beyond those low hills to the right. You
passed the turn at the first ‘barriere’.”
“Is it possible we could have come wrong?”
“Oh, Mr. Lorrequer, don’t say so, I entreat of you.”
“And what road is this, then, my friend?”
“This is the road to Albert and Peronne.”
“Unfortunately, I believe he is quite right. Is there any crossroad
from the village before us now, to the Amiens road?”
“Yes; you can reach it about three leagues hence.”
“And we can get a carriage at the inn probably?”
“Ah, that I am not sure of—. Perhaps at the Lion d’or you may.”
“But why not go back to Abbeville?”
“Oh, Mrs. Bingham must have left long since, and beside you forget the
distance; we have been walking two hours.”
“Now for the village,” said I, as I drew my friend’s arm closer within
mine, and we set out in a fast walk.
Isabella seemed terribly frightened at the whole affair; what her mamma
might think, and what might be her fears at not finding us on the road,
and a hundred other encouraging reflections of this nature she poured
forth unceasingly. As for myself, I did not know well what to think of
it; my old fondness for adventure being ever sufficiently strong in me
to give a relish to any thing which bore the least resemblance to one.
This I now concealed, and sympathised with my fair friend upon our
mishap, and assuring her, at the same time, that there could be no
doubt of our overtaking Mrs. Bingham before her arrival at Amiens.
“Ah, there is the village in the valley; how beautifully situated.”
“Oh, I can’t admire any thing now, Mr. Lorrequer, I am so frightened.”
“But surely without cause,” said I, looking tenderly beneath her
bonnet.
“Is this,” she answered, “nothing,” and we walked on in silence again.
On reaching the Lion d’or we discovered that the only conveyance to be
had was a species of open market-cart drawn by two horses, and in which
it was necessary that my fair friend and myself should seat ourselves
side by side upon straw: there was no choice, and as for Miss Bingham,
I believe if an ass with panniers had presented itself, she would have
preferred it to remaining where she was. We therefore took our places,
and she could not refrain from laughing as we set out upon our journey
in this absurd equipage, every jolt of which threw us from side to
side, and rendered every attention on my part requisite to prevent her
being upset.
After about two hours’ travelling we arrived at the Amiens road, and
stopped at the barriere. I immediately inquired if a carriage had
passed, resembling Mrs. Bingham’s, and learned that it had, about an
hour before, and that the lady in it had been informed that two
persons, like those she asked after, had been seen in a caleche driving
rapidly to Amiens, upon which she set out as fast as possible in
pursuit.
“Certainly,” said I, “the plot is thickening; but for that unlucky
mistake she might in all probability have waited here for us. Amiens is
only two leagues now, so our drive will not be long, and before six
o’clock we shall all be laughing over the matter as a very good joke.”
On we rattled, and as the road became less frequented, and the shadows
lengthened, I could not but wonder at the strange situations which the
adventurous character of my life had so often involved me in.
Meanwhile, my fair friend’s spirits became more and more depressed, and
it was not without the greatest difficulty I was enabled to support her
courage. I assured her, and not altogether without reason, that though
so often in my eventful career accidents were occurring which rendered
it dubious and difficult to reach the goal I aimed at, yet the results
had so often been more pleasant than I could have anticipated, that I
always felt a kind of involuntary satisfaction at some apparent
obstacle to my path, setting it down as some especial means of fortune,
to heighten the pleasure awaiting me; “and now,” added I, “even here,
perhaps, in this very mistake of our road—the sentiments I have
heard—the feelings I have given utterance to—” What I was about to say,
heaven knows—perhaps nothing less than a downright proposal was coming;
but at that critical moment a gen-d’arme rode up to the side of our
waggon, and surveyed us with the peculiarly significant scowl his order
is gifted with. After trotting alongside for a few seconds he ordered
the driver to halt, and, turning abruptly to us, demanded our
passports. Now our passports were, at that precise moment, peaceably
reposing in the side pocket of Mrs. Bingham’s carriage; I therefore
explained to the gen-d’arme how we were circumstanced, and added, that
on arriving at Amiens the passport should be produced. To this he
replied that all might be perfectly true, but he did not believe a word
of it—that he had received an order for the apprehension of two English
persons travelling that road—and that he should accordingly request our
company back to Chantraine, the commissionaire of which place was his
officer.
“But why not take us to Amiens,” said I; “particularly when I tell you
that we can then show our passports?”
“I belong to the Chantraine district,” was the laconic answer; and like
the gentleman who could not weep at the sermon because he belonged to
another parish, this specimen of a French Dogberry would not hear
reason except in his own “commune.”
No arguments which I could think of had any effect upon him, and amid a
volley of entreaty and imprecation, both equally vain, we saw ourselves
turn back upon the road to Amiens, and set out at a round trot to
Chantraine, on the road to Calais.
Poor Isabella, I really pitied her; hitherto her courage had been
principally sustained by the prospect of soon reaching Amiens; now
there was no seeing where our adventure was to end. Besides that,
actual fatigue from the wretched conveyance began to distress her, and
she was scarcely able to support herself, though assisted by my arm.
What a perilous position mine, whispering consolation and comfort to a
pretty girl on a lonely road, the only person near being one who
comprehended nothing of the language we spoke in. Ah, how little do we
know of fate, and how often do we despise circumstances that determine
all our fortunes in the world. To think that a gen-d’arme should have
any thing to do with my future lot in life, and that the real want of a
passport to travel should involve the probable want of a licence to
marry. Yes, it is quite in keeping, thought I, with every step I have
taken through life. I may be brought before the “maire” as a culprit,
and leave him as a Benedict.
On reaching the town, we were not permitted to drive to the inn, but at
once conveyed to the house of the “commissaire,” who was also the
“maire” of the district. The worthy functionary was long since in bed,
and it was only after ringing violently for half an hour that a head,
surmounted with a dirty cotton night-cap, peeped from an upper window,
and seemed to survey the assemblage beneath with patient attention. By
this time a considerable crowd had collected from the neighbouring
ale-houses and cabarets, who deemed it a most fitting occasion to
honour us with the most infernal yells and shouts, as indicating their
love of justice, and delight in detecting knavery; and that we were
both involved in such suspicion, we had not long to learn. Meanwhile
the poor old maire, who had been an employe in the stormy days of the
revolution, and also under Napoleon, and who full concurred with Swift
that “a crowd is a mob, if composed even of bishops,” firmly believed
that the uproar beneath in the street was the announcement of a new
change of affairs at Paris, determined to be early in the field, and
shouted therefore with all his lungs—“vive le peuple”—“Vive la
charte”—“A bas les autres.” A tremendous shout of laughter saluted this
exhibition of unexpected republicanism, and the poor maire retired from
the window, having learned his mistake, covered with shame and
confusion.
Before the mirth caused by this blunder had subsided, the door had
opened, and we were ushered into the bureau of the commissaire,
accompanied by the anxious crowd, all curious to know the particulars
of our crime.
The maire soon appeared, his night-cap being replaced by a small black
velvet skull-cap, and his lanky figure enveloped in a tarnished silk
dressing-gown; he permitted us to be seated, while the gen-d’arme
recounted the suspicious circumstances of our travelling, and produced
the order to arrest an Englishman and his wife who had arrived in one
of the late Boulogne packets, and who had carried off from some
banking-house money and bills for a large amount.
“I have no doubt these are the people,” said the gen-d’arme; “and here
is the ‘carte descriptive.’ Let us compare it—‘Forty-two or forty-three
years of age.’”
“I trust, M. le Maire,” said I, overhearing this, “that ladies do not
recognize me as so much.”
“Of a pale and cadaverous aspect,” continued the gen-d’arme.
Upon this the old functionary, wiping his spectacles with a snuffy
handkerchief, as if preparing them to examine an eclipse of the sun,
regarded me fixedly for several minutes, and said—“Oh, yes, I perceive
it plainly; continue the description.”
“Five feet three inches,” said the gen-d’arme.
“Six feet one in England, whatever this climate may have done since.”
“Speaks broken and bad French.”
“Like a native,” said I; “at least so said my friends in the chaussee
D’Antin, in the year fifteen.”
Here the catalogue ended, and a short conference between the maire and
the gen-d’arme ensued, which ended in our being committed for
examination on the morrow; meanwhile we were to remain at the inn,
under the surveillance of the gen-d’arme.
On reaching the inn my poor friend was so completely exhausted that she
at once retired to her room, and I proceeded to fulfil a promise I had
made her to despatch a note to Mrs. Bingham at Amiens by a special
messenger, acquainting her with all our mishaps, and requesting her to
come or send to our assistance. This done, and a good supper smoking
before me, of which with difficulty I persuaded Isabella to partake in
her own room, I again regained my equanimity, and felt once more at
ease.
The gen-d’arme in whose guardianship I had been left was a fine
specimen of his caste; a large and powerfully built man of about fifty,
with an enormous beard of grizzly brown and grey hair, meeting above
and beneath his nether lip; his eyebrows were heavy and beetling, and
nearly concealed his sharp grey eyes, while a deep sabre-wound had left
upon his cheek a long white scar, giving a most warlike and ferocious
look to his features.
As he sat apart from me for some time, silent and motionless, I could
not help imagining in how many a hard-fought day he had borne a part,
for he evidently, from his age and bearing, had been one of the
soldiers of the empire. I invited him to partake of my bottle of Medoc,
by which he seemed flattered. When the flask became low, and was
replaced by another, he appeared to have lost much of his constrained
air, and seemed forgetting rapidly the suspicious circumstances which
he supposed attached to me—waxed wondrous confidential and
communicative, and condescended to impart some traits of a life which
was not without its vicissitudes, for he had been, as I suspected, one
of the “Guarde”—the old guarde—was wounded at Marengo, and received the
croix d’honneur in the field of Wagram, from the hands of the Emperor
himself. The headlong enthusiasm of attachment to Napoleon, which his
brief and stormy career elicited even from those who suffered long and
deeply in his behalf, is not one of the least singular circumstances
which this portion of history displays. While the rigours of the
conscription had invaded every family in France, from Normandie to La
Vendee—while the untilled fields, the ruined granaries, the
half-deserted villages, all attested the depopulation of the land,
those talismanic words, “l’Empereur et la gloire,” by some magic
mechanism seemed all-sufficient not only to repress regret and
suffering, but even stimulate pride, and nourish valour; and even yet,
when it might be supposed that like the brilliant glass of a magic
lantern, the gaudy pageant had passed away, leaving only the darkness
and desolation behind it—the memory of those days under the empire
survives untarnished and unimpaired, and every sacrifice of friends or
fortune is accounted but little in the balance when the honour of La
Belle France, and the triumphs of the grand “armee,” are weighted
against them. The infatuated and enthusiastic followers of this great
man would seem, in some respects, to resemble the drunkard in the
“Vaudeville,” who alleged as his excuse for drinking, that whenever he
was sober his poverty disgusted him. “My cabin,” said he, “is a cell,
my wife a mass of old rags, my child a wretched object of misery and
malady. But give me brandy; let me only have that, and then my hut is a
palace, my wife is a princess, and my child the very picture of health
and happiness;” so with these people—intoxicated with the triumphs of
their nation, “tete monte” with victory—they cannot exist in the horror
of sobriety which peace necessarily enforces; and whenever the subject
turns in conversation upon the distresses of the time or the evil
prospects of the country, they call out, not like the drunkard, for
brandy, but in the same spirit they say—“Ah, if you would again see
France flourishing and happy, let us once more have our croix
d’honneur, our epaulettes, our voluntary contributions, our Murillos,
our Velasquez, our spoils from Venice, and our increased territories to
rule over.” This is the language of the Buonapartiste every where, and
at all seasons; and the mass of the nation is wonderfully disposed to
participate in the sentiment. The empire was the Aeneid of the nation,
and Napoleon the only hero they now believe in. You may satisfy
yourself of this easily. Every cafe will give evidence of it, every
society bears its testimony to it, and even the most wretched
Vaudeville, however, trivial the interest—however meagre the story, and
poor the diction, let the emperor but have his “role”—let him be as
laconic as possible, carry his hands behind his back, wear the
well-known low cocked-hat, and the “redingote gris”—the success is
certain—every sentence he utters is applauded, and not a single
allusion to the Pyramids, the sun of Austerlitz, l’honneur, et al
vieille garde, but is sure to bring down thunders of acclamation. But I
am forgetting myself, and perhaps my reader too; the conversation of
the old gen-d’arme accidentally led me into reflections like these, and
he was well calculated, in many ways, to call them forth. His devoted
attachment—his personal love of the emperor—of which he gave me some
touching instances, was admirably illustrated by an incident, which I
am inclined to tell, and hope it may amuse the reader as much as it did
myself on hearing it.
When Napoleon had taken possession of the papal dominions, as he
virtually did, and carried off the pope, Pius VI, to Paris, this old
soldier, then a musketeer in the garde, formed part of the company that
mounted guard over the holy father. During the earlier months of the
holy father’s confinement he was at liberty to leave his apartments at
any hour he pleased, and cross the court-yard of the palace to the
chapel where he performed mass. At such moments the portion of the
Imperial Guard then on duty stood under arms, and received from the
august hand of the pope his benediction as he passed. But one morning a
hasty express arrived from the Tuilleries, and the officer on duty
communicated his instructions to his party, that the apostolic vicar
was not to be permitted to pass, as heretofore, to the chapel, and that
a most rigid superintendence was to be exercised over his movements. My
poor companion had his turn for duty on that ill-starred day; he had
not been long at his post when the sound of footsteps was heard
approaching, and he soon saw the procession which always attended the
holy father to his devotions, advancing towards him; he immediately
placed himself across the passage, and with his musket in rest barred
the exit, declaring, at the same time, that such were his orders. In
vain the priests who formed the cortege addressed themselves to his
heart, and spoke to his feelings, and at last finding little success by
these methods, explained to him the mortal sin and crime for which
eternal damnation itself might not be a too heavy retribution if he
persisted in preventing his holiness to pass, and thus be the means of
opposing an obstacle to the head of the whole Catholic church, for
celebrating the mass; the soldier remained firm and unmoved, the only
answer he returned being, “that he had his orders, and dared not
disobey them.” The pope, however, persisted in his resolution, and
endeavoured to get by, when the hardy veteran retreated a step, and
placing his musket and bayonet at the charge, called out “au nom de
l’Empereur,” when the pious party at last yielded and slowly retired
within the palace.
Not many days after, this severe restriction was recalled, and once
more the father was permitted to go to and from the chapel of the
palace, at such times as he pleased, and again, as before, in passing
the corridor, the guards presented arms and received the holy
benediction, all except one; upon him the head of the church frowned
severely, and turned his back, while extending his pious hands towards
the others. “And yet,” said the poor fellow in concluding his story,
“and yet I could not have done otherwise; I had my orders and must have
followed them, and had the emperor commanded it, I should have run my
bayonet through the body of the holy father himself.
“Thus, you see, my dear sir, how I have loved the emperor, for I have
many a day stood under fire for him in this world, ‘et il faut que
j’aille encore au feu pour lui apres ma mort.’.”
He received in good part the consolations I offered him on this head,
but I plainly saw they did not, could not relieve his mind from the
horrible conviction he lay under, that his soul’s safety for ever had
been bartered for his attachment to the emperor.
This story had brought us to the end of the third bottle of Medoc; and,
as I was neither the pope, nor had any very decided intentions of
saying mass, he offered no obstacle to my retiring for the night, and
betaking myself to my bed.