_Sunday, July 22d._--This is the first time I have been sufficiently
settled and quiet to sit down to write since the evening of the
17th, my last at Colombes--dear Colombes! The intervening space has
not been passed in idleness. On the morning of the 18th I was fully
occupied in giving over my troop and stores to Major Wilmot, who
takes possession also of my charming apartment, and Mademoiselle
Ernestine gets a new neighbour. After an earlier dinner than usual,
Hitchins accompanied me to St Denis; my servants and horses started
in the morning. At St Denis I could gain no immediate and distinct
information. Some of Ross’s non-commissioned officers whom I met with
said they thought the troop must have halted in Stain. I shuddered at
the very name of the place; it was the worst I had anticipated. As
Hitchins knew the desolation of Stain, and the utter impossibility
of my giving him a bed, even if I could get one myself, he took his
leave, and I proceeded thitherward alone. It was with a heavy heart
that I traversed the once rich crops of grain, now trodden into mud
by having been the bivouac of our troops, and still heavier that I
rode through the dismal street of the ruined village. I soon met some
of the gunners, who confirmed my worst fears--viz., that the troop
actually was stationed here. The officers were living and messing
in a house close to the church, and opposite the _grille_ of the
great chateau; and thither I repaired, and found them accordingly
sitting at their wine. My servants had been here some time, and
had taken possession of the Petit chateau, already mentioned. The
house I found my officers in belongs to the Sœurs de la Charité.
I was sensibly struck on entering it at the contrast with my
villa at Colombes; mean, gloomy, dirty, and scarce an article of
furniture in it, and what there was, of the poorest description.
To counterbalance all this, it is the only house in the place (at
least so they thought then) that has any glass in the windows, and
how it escaped is extraordinary. They were seated in a dismal room,
very low, and having a very disagreeable odour, overpowering even
that of the dinner, in which the flavour of onions predominated.
After introducing myself, and drinking a glass or two of wine, as
the daylight began to fail I set off to inspect my new quarters. The
appearance of this in its best days would not have been pleasing
after Colombes; but now, forlorn, deserted, plundered! The handsome
furniture which had once adorned it, mutilated and torn to pieces,
was yet fresh when last I saw it; the fragments retained their paint
or gilding, the mahogany its varnish; the tatters of silk fringe and
curtains, scattered over the lawns and walks, or hanging from the
branches in the shrubberies, yet retained their colour in all its
freshness: now, after having been drenched by rain, and bleached
in the sun and wind, all remains of former beauty were gone--all
associations with splendour and magnificence vanished; they conveyed
to the mind no feeling but that of squalidness and wretchedness.
Amidst all this I entered the house. There things looked even worse.
The winds of heaven had freely coursed through the paneless windows,
the rain had inundated the floors, decay had already commenced,
and the place looked as if it had been years deserted. Chilly,
comfortless, and wretched, the floors still covered with fragments of
glass, which, crunching under one’s feet, added not a little to the
misery of the scene, still further enhanced by a most gloomy evening,
and the dismal sound of the wind through the branches foretelling a
stormy night. At length, after wandering from room to room, always
finding one worse than the last, the approaching darkness obliged
me to decide quickly, so I pitched upon a large one, with a recess
for a bed, where I could at least be at some distance from the
windows. My men had already made themselves tolerably comfortable in
the stable, and I now summoned all hands to make me so too. Brooms
were speedily made by stripping the branches from some acacias or
laburnums in the courtyard, and all the rubbish and broken glass
swept out of the window; candles were procured from the mess, my bed
made in the recess upon a bedstead, nearly sound--the place began to
look a little better, and I a little more cheerful. Though not so
luxuriously, yet I slept as soundly as ever at Colombes, _malgré_ the
forlorn feeling that crept over me as I fell into unconsciousness at
the idea of being the only person in the great rambling mansion, with
doors and windows all open, and admittance free to whomsoever might
come.
My gloominess had construed the sighing of the wind among the foliage
into a presage of rain and storm. Neither came; and the next morning
I was awakened by the sun streaming full in my face, the carol of
birds innumerable, and the soft, balmy, yet fresh air of a most
lovely morning. As our mess-breakfast was not very early, I jumped up
determined on a thorough examination of the whole village, in hopes
of finding something better than the Petit chateau. After looking
into several, all equally miserable, I found the one where I ought
to have begun, the only one habitable. It was only across the road,
shut in by high walls, overtopped by acacias. This house had escaped
the observation of others as it had mine; and, strange to say, had
scarcely been visited by the spoiler. All the windows were perfect,
and the only injury visible on the premises was the breaking to
pieces of a number of paltry plaster Cupidons and their pedestals,
that had erst disfigured the garden. I took possession immediately,
and here I sit in my cabinet about to give a description of it. The
house is tall and narrow--four storeys counting the ground-floor
to the front, and three towards the garden, which is higher than
the court. The ground-floor consists of stables, wood-houses, &c.,
opening on this court, which is planted with acacias and shut in
from the village by a high wall with great close gates. On the
next (or garden ground-floor), is the only decent-sized room in the
whole house: all the rest are divided into those useless little
cabinets of which the French seem so fond, many of them with glass
doors. All the rooms have the abominable brick or tile floors so
common here: however, all the windows are sound, which is the grand
object. I have chosen the floor above the garden--that is, third
from the court--where I have a narrow slip, with glass door at one
end and window at the other, the view from which certainly does not
rival that at Colombes, for it is bounded by the four high walls
of my garden; another piece, with a recess in it, serves me for
a bedroom, and into these two I have collected all the furniture
remaining in the house, which is but little, and that of the meanest
description--a few clumsy, old-fashioned chairs, and a table or
two. One of the former is a curious article: the seat lifts up, and
behold a _bidet_; the top of the thick back has two or three little
boxes in it for holding soap or what not. My three domestics occupy
the floor below me, and are next the animals. The garden, which
rises in a gentle slope from the house, is a long narrow strip,
neatly laid out and abundantly stocked with flowers, vegetables,
and fine fruit--particularly grapes, plums, and peaches, &c. The
whole is the property of two old maids, Les Demoiselles Delcambre,
Marchandes des Modes, who, on the approach of the Allies, removed all
the furniture worth removal, and left the place in charge of an old
Flemish servant--a virgin, like themselves. Mademoiselle Rose, as
she is called in the village (and I should have mentioned that most,
if not all, the peasantry have returned, and that only the chateaux
and country seats of the citizens remain unoccupied)--Mademoiselle
Rose is a character. Strong in the confidence of her want of charms,
she is said to have remained faithful to her charge,[19] even when
the Prussians entered and plundered the village, and thereby, the
villagers assure me, saved her mistress’s property when all else
was destroyed. A short, squat figure, clad in coarse black frieze,
a face of the ugliest, set off by a pair of black mustaches fit for
a hussar, which gives her a fierce and masculine aspect, like the
dragon of the Hesperides, for she performs the part of watching
the fruit most unremittingly. The moment I enter the garden she
skulks after me; and on looking about I am sure to detect her ugly
phiz watching my movements from behind some bush, not presuming,
however, to interfere. More than once I have noticed the sudden
disappearance of fruit from some particular tree; and William tells
me that Mademoiselle Rose strips the trees at night and sends the
fruit to Paris. I should suspect my own people, only that they would
not take it in such quantities. This, however, is not of any great
consequence, since we have several other well-stocked gardens in the
village from whence to help ones self without trespassing on those
attached to the officers’ houses, which are, of course, considered
as private property. There are, _par exemple_, the chateau belonging
to Jerome Buonaparte; the Petit chateau to M. Domer, who, I believe,
is something in the Admiralty; another large handsome chateau, with
very extensive, well-kept gardens, to Admiral le Comte Rosilly; a
very pretty villa, garden, &c., the property of some rich shopkeeper;
and several little boxes of minor importance. The village itself
may be said to consist of two streets, short, and neither of them
continuous. It is situated on a dead flat, consequently has no other
beauty to boast of than what it derives from the foliage of the trees
in the grounds of the chateaux, &c. The fields about it are corn and
vines--principally the latter, I think.
It was at first certainly rather a nuisance changing from
Colombes, though I have already got pretty well accustomed to
the new situation. The difference was not only in the style of
my lodging, beauty of the surrounding country, &c. &c., but also
most particularly in our living. Instead of the comfortable,
well-served table, and excellent wine of M. Ferdinand, and the new
milk, nice fresh butter, and new-laid eggs--produce of my dairy
and poultry-yard--here we daily sit down to miserably-cooked soup
and _bouilli_, made of ration-beef, and a bad steak of the same,
served in ill-cleaned tin (canteen) dishes. Vegetables, to be sure,
we have in abundance. Then for wine, we have some very poor stuff,
which Ambrose (my surgeon) bought somewhere in Paris, and, from not
understanding French, got cheated. At home here I have managed to
get up a breakfast, though a poor one; the bread is so abominably
sour, and the butter so cheesy. Nor have I been able to dispose of
my time in the same agreeable manner as at Colombes; for between the
constant attention my wretched troop requires, and the plague of
the villagers, I have but little left for amusement. The former of
these, the troop, I have quieted a little, by giving one of them a
severe flogging; but its disorganised state may be guessed at, when
it is known that the payment (contrary to our regulations) is in the
hands of the sergeant-major, and that my predecessor, poor Bean, died
in debt to this man at least £300. Of course everything was winked at.
The villagers (unlike those of Colombes, who have never been
disturbed), after being scared from their dwellings by our advance,
have returned to them, only to find everything ruined and destroyed.
Of course they are not in charity with us, and full of complaining.
This is all brought to me by the Maire, who pays me a regular visit
every morning, and frequently in the evening also, waylaying me,
besides, whenever I go from home. The Duke’s system of discipline is
well known, and these people seem disposed to take every advantage
of it, fair and unfair. One complains of our occupying his house
and stables, another of his field being mowed, another of something
else, and so on. It is inconceivable that a conquered people, and a
people whose armies have shown no forbearance in foreign countries,
should thus dare lift up their voice and complain that the conqueror
disturbs them, and puts them to some inconvenience. So it is! If
I attended to one half the complaints brought before me, we should
soon be turned out of the place altogether. The very morning after
my arrival, M. Bonnemain (Maire, &c.) called, and was introduced--a
dry, thin, old man, rather above the middle height, in a suit of
rusty-brown clothes, snuff-box in one hand eternally, and the other
gesticulating in aid of his drawling voice and interminable oratory.
After the introductory bow, he commenced by welcoming me to Stain,
eulogised the village and villagers, expressed his satisfaction at
my appointment, having already heard of my high character as an
officer; under the command _d’un tel_ Monsieur, everything must go
on in the happiest manner possible. Then followed butter, thickly
laid on, after which he cautiously and dexterously introduced his
business, no doubt guessing that, having placed me on so elevated a
pinnacle, I should be more cautious of a fall. “Mais, Monsieur le
Commandant,” he continued, “nous sommes des pauvres malheureux, pour
nous tout est perdu--tout abimé, &c.;” and so he went on expressing
his confidence in the justice of M. le Commandant, and that he
would not oppress the poor. Then followed a long--very long--story
about a worthy industrious man, with a large family, whose house
was occupied by our men, and stables by our horses, and a request
that I might have the goodness to relieve this unfortunate family
from so oppressive a burden. He had not reckoned without his host:
Monsieur le Commandant swallowed some, at least, of the dose; was
softened; the quartermaster is called, and orders given that the
detachment should be removed from the farm in question. Monsieur le
Maire is still more profuse in bows and compliments, amidst which
he retired, to my great satisfaction, for I was tired of him. The
next day Monsieur le Maire again appeared, and in similar manner
pleaded the cause of another excellent _malheureux_, whose crop
of oats our people were cutting. Again he was successful; but as
Monsieur le Commissary-General had begged us to supply ourselves
in this manner from the fields, I requested Monsieur le Maire to
point out how we might do so with the least possible injury to
the inhabitants. He did so, and I gave the necessary orders for
confining our foraging parties to the fields indicated, and to avoid
unnecessary waste. Again Monsieur Bonnemain is announced; but this
time he came accompanied by a genteel but rather important-looking
personage, just arrived in a handsome cabriolet, whom Monsieur le
Maire introduces as the postmaster of St Denis. They are somebody
these postmasters. An exordium of a most complimentary character
ushered in, as usual, a complaint, or rather a protest, against
our cutting this gentleman’s oats. Monsieur le Maître des Postes
condescended (and he made the condescension evident) to inform me
that he farmed the land in question at an exorbitant rent; that the
produce was absolutely requisite to enable him to fulfil his contract
with Government; that he should suffer much inconvenience from our
depredations; and that, the public business of the Government being
thus obstructed (with a most ominous shrug and extension of both
hands), it was impossible to answer for the consequences. Hereupon
the great man, with an air of perfect indifference, turned his back
on me, and began asking trifling questions of some villagers who had
flocked in to witness the negotiation. My answer was very brief:
“Monsieur le Maire had himself designated the fields we were to cut.”
(Here a most portentous glance was shot by Monsieur le Maître at
Monsieur le Maire.) “That if the public suffered in the business of
posting, it was of infinitely less consequence than that any part
of the British army should become inefficient for want of forage.
As, in the present case, somebody must suffer, it were better that
the burden should fall on those best able to afford it.” Monsieur
le Maître then shifted his ground somewhat, complaining of the
waste committed by our foragers, who, he said, trampled down more
than they cut. I promised this, if found to be the case, should be
remedied, for our own sakes; and, at his request, that one particular
non-commissioned officer should superintend the foraging. Monsieur,
finding he could get no more, bade me adieu with more politeness
than he had condescended to use on our first meeting, mounted his
cabriolet amidst bows of the assembled peasantry, and drove off. This
fellow’s opposition has not been without consequences. My villagers
have become more bold, and even begin to draw up petitions to the
Duke. Some of these have already been sent to me, with an intimation
that I must not oppress the inhabitants unless it be unavoidable.
This happens to be the case--therefore I have taken no notice of them.
_July 25th._--Yesterday our army (British only) was reviewed by their
Imperial and Royal Majesties. I marched early, as the line was to
be formed by 9 o’clock. After passing through St Denis, we took the
great road to the right by St Ouen, and came on the Neuilly road
just above the village, where we formed, being on the left of the
whole, except the 18-pounder brigades. Ross and Bull’s troops were
on my right. We had a long and tedious wait; and as the day was very
hot, it was no small treat to discover that an apothecary hard by had
some excellent raspberry vinegar, which, I think, we exhausted. At
length the approach of the sovereigns was announced, and they came
preceded and followed by a most numerous and brilliant _cortège_,
in which figured, perhaps, some of almost every arm of every army
in Europe. It was a splendid and most interesting sight. First came
the Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia, in their respective
green and blue uniforms, riding together--the former, as usual, all
smiles; the latter taciturn and melancholy. A little in their rear
followed the Austrian Emperor, in a white uniform, turned up with
red, but quite plain--a thin, dried-up, thread-paper of a man, not of
the most distinguished bearing; his lean brown visage, however, bore
an expression of kindness and _bonhommie_, which folk say his true
character in no way belies. They passed along, scanning our people
with evident interest and curiosity; and in passing me (as they did
to every commanding officer), pulled off their hats, and saluted me
with most gracious smiles. I wonder if they do the same to their
own. Until yesterday I had not seen any British infantry under arms
since the evening the troops from America arrived at Garges, and, in
the mean time, have constantly seen corps of foreign infantry. These
are all uncommonly well dressed in new clothes, smartly made, setting
the men off to the greatest advantage--add to which their _coiffure_
of high broad-topped shakos, or enormous caps of bear-skin. Our
infantry--indeed, our whole army--appeared at the review in the same
clothes in which they had marched, slept, and fought for months. The
colour had faded to a dusky brick-dust hue; their coats, originally
not very smartly made, had acquired by constant wearing that loose
easy set so characteristic of old clothes, comfortable to the wearer,
but not calculated to add grace to his appearance. _Pour surcroit
de laideur_, their cap is perhaps the meanest, ugliest thing ever
invented. From all these causes it arose that our infantry appeared
to the utmost disadvantage--dirty, shabby, mean, and very small.
Some such impression was, I fear, made on the sovereigns, for a
report has reached us this morning, that they remarked to the Duke
what very small men the English were. “Ay,” replied our noble chief,
“they are small; but your Majesties will find none who fight so
well.” I wonder if this is true. However small our men and mean
their appearance, yet it was evident that they were objects of
intense interest, from the immense time and close scrutiny of the
inspection. At length they finished, and, taking their stand in the
Place Louis Quinze, we marched past in column of division. The crowd
assembled to witness this exceeded anything I had ever before seen.
Not only were the people packed as thick as they could stand in the
area itself, but the buildings of the Garde Meuble, the ramparts of
the Tuileries, even the roof of the Hotel Bourbon over the river,
were all crowded--windows, roofs, and every cornice that could hold
human beings. After passing, we took our route along the Rue Royale,
Boulevard and Rue Poissonnière, starting off at a good trot, and got
home about 6 o’clock. In St Denis I met Captain Gaffon and the little
doctor of the Brunswick Hussars, neither of whom I had seen since we
were in barracks together at Woodbridge. The meeting really seemed
to please them, as they had heard I was killed at Waterloo. It seems
somebody is determined I did or ought to have died. One of our people
told me the other day, that the day after the battle a staff-officer
had shown him my name in a list as dangerously wounded. And during
the retreat of the 17th, whilst I was with the cavalry at Jemappes,
one of the Blues who overtook my troop on the road told them that
I was killed, for he had himself seen me cut down by a French
dragoon--_Cependant me voici!_
_July 30th._--More trouble, more complaints. Another memorial to the
Duke from my subjects, complaining of cutting their oats. This I have
very easily disposed of; but lo! here is a more formidable adversary
to deal with--no less than M. le Marquis de Livry, _rentier_ or
_propriétaire_ of the gambling _salons_ in the Palais Royal, and, as
such, a man of immense influence. He has property in this commune,
and a _bergerie_ in the village, where he keeps a flock of merinos.
The sheep being absent when the troop arrived, the _bergerie_ was
converted into a stable; but having lately returned, under their
shepherd, part of the building has been appropriated to their use.
The shepherd, a perfect Sancho Panza in person, not content with
this, has ever since been intriguing to obtain entire possession.
I have been fairly pestered to death about this _bergerie_. Almost
daily M. le Maire and M. le Berger and M. le Marquis de Livry make
their appearance at my quarters, or intercept me in the street to
tell me the same story over again, and to get the same answer.
Finding his perseverance useless, M. le Berger (no doubt assisted by
M. le Maire) draws up a very moving petition to the Duke, which M.
de Livry takes care shall be presented under proper auspices, and
behold the consequence: A positive order from his Grace to evacuate
forthwith the premises of the Marquis de Livry, and _to put up our
horses elsewhere in the best manner we can; that is, respect the
rich man’s property and oppress doubly the poor_--for we must divide
the forty horses hitherto stabled in the _bergerie_ among the poor
villagers, who already have more than is good for them. The Duke
of Wellington’s ideas of discipline, &c., are rigid--his mode of
administering it summary; but he is frequently led into acts of the
grossest injustice. A notorious instance of this I am now suffering
under, and one that makes the _bergerie_ business a mere flea-bite.
Only a few days ago, whilst sitting after dinner at our little mess,
an officer of the mounted staff corps (_gendarmerie Anglaise_) was
announced. He regretted being the bearer of disagreeable orders, &c.
&c., but Colonel Scovell, commandant of the mounted staff corps,
had directed him to show me the paper, which he produced, and to
inform me that his Grace had ordered it should be immediately
complied with. Further, that the Duke was excessively angry, and had
expressed himself very harshly on the subject; therefore Colonel
Scovell recommended me to make no remonstrance, as he could not
foresee what might be the consequence. The paper was a petition from
a certain M. Fauigny (an Italian), setting forth, I think, that he is
proprietor of the Grand chateau which has been miserably plundered;
but more particularly that the English troops now quartered in
the village have stripped the lead off the roofs, from the baths,
water-pipes, &c. &c., and sold it. This is, as nearly as I remember,
the petition. A note written with a pencil by the Duke himself on the
margin was too brief and pithy not to be remembered, and here it is,
_verbatim_: “Colonel Scovell will find out whose troop this is, and
they shall pay.--W.” I was thunderstruck at the complaint and the
decision--the one so unfounded, the other so cruelly unjust. I signed
an acknowledgment of having seen the order; and the officer took his
leave, recommending me to try and compromise with M. Fauigny, who
stated the damage at about 7000 or 8000 francs. Upon inquiry of M.
Bonnemain, he asserts that this M. Fauigny is the agent of Jerome
Buonaparte, to whom the chateau actually belongs, as we were told by
the Prussians who plundered it.
The next morning I had just ordered my horse, and was about to set
off for Paris, when William announced a gentleman who wished to see
me; and a rather genteel-looking man sailed into my little parlour
with an air of _nonchalance_ and easy familiarity quite amusing.
My friend seated himself with the utmost coolness, and drawing out
his snuffy pocket-handkerchief, displaying it--whilst he spat all
about the floor, to my utter disgust, for I had been in the act of
finishing my breakfast--informed me with a slight inclination that he
was M. Fauigny, and had called to know when it would be convenient
to settle this _leaden accompt_. Finding him already acquainted with
the Duke’s order, I was obliged to make the best of it and put him
off with excuses, which he did not seem to relish, having evidently
counted on touching the cash forthwith. However, the man behaved
like a gentleman, kept his disappointment to himself, and turning
the conversation on general subjects, proved himself a man of very
general information and a most agreeable companion. Although he would
not partake of my breakfast, he paid a very long visit; and the
moment he was gone, I set off also for Paris, and went straight to
Sir George Wood’s quarters in the Rue de Richelieu. From Sir George
I learned that the affair was much more serious than I had imagined.
The Duke is furious about it, and Sir George says my only chance
is by evading payment as long as I can, in hopes some favourable
opportunity may offer of inducing the Duke to think more leniently
on the subject; in the mean time, to make every inquiry into the
truth of the statement. Accordingly, we have been at work, and the
result is a discovery that M. Fauigny is a villain--has made a false
statement to the Duke in hopes of gaining payment from us for what
has been actually done by others, but from whom he knew nothing
could be recovered. The villagers themselves have informed me how
the thing happened, and have denounced one of their own body as the
robber, for the lead has in reality been stolen, as set forth in the
petition, only not by us.[20] M. Plé is _couvreur_ by trade, and did
precisely the same thing last year when the village was occupied by
a Russian corps, against which a charge similar to the one against
us was brought, but not with the same success. Their General did not
condemn his people unheard like the Duke of Wellington. However,
having gained this piece of intelligence, I set off to St Denis,
and stated the whole affair to the chief of the police, who smiled,
and anticipated me by himself mentioning M. Plé as a culprit and
an old acquaintance, adding that he would lose no time in sifting
the business thoroughly. A _procès verbal_ was drawn up, and I took
my departure, well pleased with the politeness and urbanity of the
French civil authorities.
Two _gens-d’armes_ were despatched to arrest M. Plé and search his
premises. A day or two afterwards, I received a note requesting my
attendance at the police the next morning at eleven o’clock. Thither
I went, and was met at the door by M. le Chef, who addressed me with
a smile and an assurance that the lead was secured. Accordingly in
the office stood M. Plé between two sentinels, and on the floor lay
several enormous rolls of lead. This was only a part of the plunder,
the rest having already been sold. In short, with admirable dexterity
and perseverance, they followed up the business, and finally
ascertained beyond a doubt that M. Plé was the thief, both now and
last year; but although there is some suspicion of collusion between
him and M. Fauigny, nothing has been brought out that throws any
light on it. I don’t think he seems known to our villagers, as one
would suppose the agent ought to be. M. Plé is lodged in some prison
in Paris, but I have no idea what eventually will become of him.
The exposure of the affair has not in the least altered my position
with the Duke of Wellington, for none dare tell him the story; and
even Sir Edward Barnes, who kindly undertook it, met with a most
ungracious rebuff, as he himself told Sir G. Wood. Meanwhile M.
Fauigny continues to pay me an occasional visit. Sometimes I see the
scoundrel _par nécessité_, but always keep out of his way if I can.
Knowing, as he does, the Duke’s humour, he continues dunning me with
most unblushing effrontery for payment.
Were it not for these complaints, and most particularly this horrible
affair of the lead, I could be happy enough here. I am getting quite
reconciled to my house and to the village, and getting acquainted
with the people, who have pretty well put things to rights again. Old
Bonnemain I find quite manageable and very useful. Another ally has
turned up in the person of the _garde champêtre_, who has at last
ventured back and resumed the insignia of office. A very different
character this from Petit Jean of Strytem; fat, pursy, stupid,
dressed in shabby plain clothes, with a broad embroidered belt over
his shoulder, altogether looking like a rat-catcher, for which I at
first mistook him.
Moreover, to be completely on a peace-establishment, our village
church has been reopened, and mass is now regularly celebrated
there. The curé fled with the rest at our approach; but, unlike
them, has never returned to his lair, and for some time the church
remained closed. The other morning, shaving with the windows open
towards the garden, I was astonished at hearing a most stentorian
voice chanting in the church, which is not far from my garden-wall;
and as nothing does or ought to take place without my knowledge,
William was forthwith despatched to ascertain what was going on.
In a few minutes he returned accompanied by M. Bonnemain, who,
with his usual profusion of bows, commenced a most humble apology
for the step he had taken without first obtaining my permission,
which, however, he trusted would not on that account be withheld.
He had sent to Pierrefitte (a neighbouring village) and engaged M.
le Curé, a most worthy and exemplary man, to come over and “faire
la messe;” and further, provided it met the approbation of M. le
Commandant, and was no disturbance to him, he had engaged M. le Curé
to come over every morning. So we have had mass ever since, and my
morning shave is regularly accompanied by the bass, nasal chant of
M. le Curé performing _l’office_ to about a dozen old women; for,
sometimes when I have been earlier and gone in, I have never found
any other congregation. Yesterday (Sunday) it was more numerous, for
then the girls go; but I am uncharitable enough to believe only to
exhibit their finery. Even on that day very few men attended; indeed,
throughout, since we entered France, we have found religion at a very
low ebb: the churches always thinly attended, and principally by
women; the Sabbath observed, if at all, only as a holiday, apparently
totally unconnected with any religious idea; shops everywhere open;
and agricultural labours, as well as every other kind, going on as
usual, unless people choose to rest and make a holiday of it.
In looking back at this journal (if so we may term what is written
by fits and starts, as an otherwise idle day occurs), I find omitted
altogether the review of the Prussian army, which took place some
days ago in the Place Louis Quinze as usual, only in this case
the line was formed along the Boulevard, and the column entered
the place by the Rue Royale. I have neglected this so long, that
I remember few particulars of the review. The troops looked well,
their equipment appeared good, the men young, active, and well
drilled, countenances full of animation, and apparently proud of
being soldiers; cavalry well mounted, and the cuirassiers wore black
cuirasses, instead of polished ones like the French. The crowd was as
great as when we were reviewed, and the ground was kept by a parcel
of wild-looking Cossacks in blue frocks and very shabby-looking
horses and appointments--_voilà tout!_ But there was one occurrence
at that review that I shall never forget. The Cossacks were under an
old chieftain, evidently of high rank, whom I understood to be no
less a person than their Hettman Platov, besides whom several Russian
general officers rode about giving directions to the Cossacks.
It was with some difficulty that I made my way through the crowd and
gained a front place, not far from the _debouchement_ of the Rue
Royale. The only military man near me was a proud-looking Russian
officer, who, from his large epaulettes and numerous decorations,
I took to be a man of some consequence, and, from the sidelong
glances at my plain and rather shabby pelisse, somewhat annoyed at
my near neighbourhood. We were, however, knee to knee, and, _bongré
malgré_, destined to keep company, for the throng was too dense
to admit of changing place; and so, as it fluctuated backward and
forward, we were forced to advance or retire like files of the same
squadron. The Cossacks were very actively employed with their long
lances keeping us all back, but still the crowd continually pushed us
forward until we were sometimes almost in the ranks of the advancing
column. At length, tired of his ineffectual attempts at restraining
us within bounds, the Cossack who was our immediate sentry made an
angry complaint to one of the general officers, and, from pointing
our way, evidently particularised me and my neighbour. The general,
flying into a passion, first looked thunder and lightning at us, and
then, cane in air, rushed to the charge. It will readily be imagined
that the ferocious gestures meant to drive us from the field only
roused my John Bullism, and caused me to assume an air of defiance.
Not so my superb neighbour; on him it had full effect. He looked
intimidated, reined back his horse, and, turning, endeavoured to
push through the crowd and make his escape, leaving me to bear the
brunt of the attack. The general, however, knew his game; so, passing
me with a scowl which I smiled at, and a grumble which I did not
understand, he pursued my friend with uplifted cane, which every
moment I expected to see descend on his back. The scene was the most
degrading I had ever witnessed--an officer in full uniform, his
breast covered with decorations, actually bending low on his horse’s
neck and making a back to receive a caning, whilst with upturned
face his looks seemed abjectly craving mercy. I wonder what the
French thought of it. I blushed for the cloth, and most sincerely
congratulated myself on being an Englishman. The chase continued
until the discomfited hero was fairly driven from the field, when
his bully returned fuming and chafing and looking very fierce, and
apparently very much vexed at the insolent indifference with which I
purposely surveyed him.
Being on the subject of reviews, I may as well note here one that
took place yesterday, which I have just heard of, but did not see. It
seems that we have been the _rara aves_ of the day ever since our
review. The rapidity of our movements, close-wheeling, perfection
of our equipment, &c. &c., excited universal astonishment and
admiration. The consequence of this was an application to the Duke
for a closer inspection, which he most magnanimously granted, and
ordered Ross’s troop out for that purpose. They paraded in the fields
near Clichy. The reviewers, I understand, were _maréchaux de France_;
but there was also a great concourse of officers of all nations.
After the manœuvres the troop was dismounted, and a most deliberate
inspection of ammunition, and even of the men’s kits, appointments,
shoeing, construction of carriages, &c. &c., took place. I believe
they were equally astonished and pleased with what they saw, and, as
there were several among them taking notes, have no doubt that we
shall soon see improvements introduced into the Continental artillery.
Paris, and the country for leagues round, form one immense garrison.
The Prussians have their headquarters at St Cloud, where Prince
Blucher occupies the palace. Their army occupies all the country
west of Paris--Versailles, Sêvres, Bellevue, &c., and round to the
southward as far as Charenton. In Paris they occupy the arsenal,
and at first had a bivouac of infantry in the Place du Carrousel,
and of light cavalry in the Champs Elysées, both of which have since
been withdrawn and sent somewhere into quarters. They also had
infantry in bivouac in the Jardin du Luxembourg, Place Royale. I do
not know whether they are withdrawn yet or not. Our headquarters
are at the Elysée Bourbon; and our cantonments, commencing at
Suresnes, extend along both banks of the Seine to Argenteuil and St
Germain en Laye, all round the north side of Paris to the heights of
Belleville. The greater part of our cavalry is, I believe, on the
left bank of the Seine. The Life Guards, Blues, &c., are at Nanterre,
Rueil, &c.; hussars at Suresnes, Puteaux, &c., and Gardiner’s (Sir
Robert) troop of horse-artillery. This last is, I think, quartered
on the Duc de Feltre (Clerk). The 12th, and another light dragoon
regiment, at Courbevoie, in the fine barracks. Infantry at Anières,
Villeneuve, and Genevilliers. Colombes--my old troop, Bull’s,
and M’Donald’s. Bezons--the rocket-troop. Neuilly--two troops of
Hanoverian horse-artillery. St Ouen--Brunswick cavalry and infantry;
some in the village, some in bivouac. Epinay--pontoon-train.
Pierrefitte--waggon-train. St Denis--commissariat magazines, &c.,
two regiments of English infantry (64th one of them), a brigade
of 18-pounders, and Sir H. Ross’s troop[21] of horse-artillery.
Malmaison--cavalry headquarters. I think there are cavalry at Marly,
St Germain en Laye, &c. &c. Stain--my troop;[21] communication kept
open by the bridge of Neuilly, and pontoon-bridges at Argenteuil
and Anières. Clichy, Courcelles, and Villiers--the fifth division,
partly in camp, partly in quarters. Bois de Boulogne--infantry,
encamped. Passy--English artillery. Rue Poissonnière--a regiment of
English infantry in the barrack. La Chapelle--Hanoverian dragoons
and a brigade of 18-pounders. Montmartre--English infantry.
Clignancour--21st Regiment of do. Faubourg de Montmartre--English
infantry. Faubourg de Clichy--Rifles. Chaussée d’Antin--Foot Guards.
Vertus, or Aubervilliers--English infantry and Major Morrison’s
9-pounder brigade. Gonesse--English infantry and artillery.
Chenevrière--do. do. do. Luzarches, and along the line of road to
Chantilly--Belgic contingent. Dugny--Staff corps. Garges, Arnouville,
&c.--Nassau troops. Headquarters of our artillery, Rue de Richelieu.
Belleville and the neighbourhood is occupied by Russian infantry.
Abattoirs de Montmartre (the barrack at)--a regiment of cuirassiers,
in white, with black cuirasses; I think they are Russian--not sure.
Faubourg St Denis--Austrian or Hungarian infantry. The Emperor of
Austria lives on the Boulevard (I think des Italiens). The Emperor of
Russia and King of Prussia I know not where; but the Hetman Platoff
(as well as our Colonel Sir A. Fraser) lives at the Hotel du Nord,
Rue de Richelieu, where his guard of wild-looking Cossacks, with
their little shabby horses picketed in the court, furnish gape-seed
for the _badauds_, a crowd of whom are continually at the gate. It
is a singular spectacle to see the public places in town all doubly
guarded--a French and an English or Prussian sentry. When I ride into
Paris by the Barrière de Clichy, as I generally do (that way being
so much pleasanter than passing through La Chapelle and Faubourg St
Denis), I am at once amused and interested at seeing the two sentries
soberly pacing backward and forward, opposite each other, one on each
side of the street. As I draw near they simultaneously front and
pay the usual compliment (there is something piquant in receiving
a salute from a French soldier), each after his own fashion. There
they stand; on the one side a tall handsome fellow, with a fair
face and prim shopkeeper-like air, with his high fur cap and trim
uniform, almost speck and span new; the other, a shorter but more
sturdy figure, bronzed visage, and jacket of brick-dust red, marked
in various places with bivouac stains, and faded from exposure to sun
and rain, but with arms and accoutrements in far better order than
those of his smart neighbour. On first taking possession of Paris,
the Prussians posted one or two field-pieces at each of the bridges,
with a guard of infantry. These guns were kept constantly loaded, and
slow-match lighted. Latterly they have been withdrawn; but we still
have guards at every public building--such as the Louvre, Palais
Royal, &c. These are generally English.
Yesterday I made a most interesting excursion over all the scene of
last year’s battles,--the plain of St Denis, Vertus, the heights of
Belleville, Montmartre, &c. Independent of historical associations,
these heights are extremely interesting, from the fine commanding
views they afford; but particularly in a geological point of view.
Rising abruptly to the height of some hundred feet from the (almost
level) Plain de St Denis, their appearance is very remarkable as we
approach by the great northern road to La Chapelle, almost everywhere
terminating in lofty white precipices of gypsum (or sulphate of
lime)--hence called plaster of Paris. Montmartre appears once to have
been a continuation of the heights of Belleville, from the similarity
of the gypsum cliffs opposite to each other. It is now isolated,
and, with its precipitous terminations and crest covered with
windmills, forms a very remarkable object from the plain below. These
windmills are principally on the end over Clichy; towards the other
is the celebrated telegraph--known by fame to all Europe--whence
were transmitted at various periods orders for the invasion of
Italy, Austria, Russia, Prussia, and Belgium, and by which Paris
was so often roused to the boiling-point of vanity when it brought
intelligence of Jena, Wagram, &c. But _revenons à nos moutons_. The
heights are separated by a narrow gorge, in which, under the cliffs
of Montmartre, is a small hillock[22] (Mamelon), crowned by three
windmills, which appears to have been formed by detritus from above.
The dome of St Genevieve seen through this gorge gave us the first
notice of the French capital the evening we arrived at Garges.
The intermediate part of Montmartre, though not precipitous, descends
by a very rapid slope towards the plain. About midway of the descent
is the pretty village of Clignancour, the houses of which, having
their first floor on a level with the ground behind, command from
their windows and balconies a most extensive and pleasing view over
the country below, and are delightfully intermingled with shrubberies
and gardens. The descent towards Paris is less steep, and is covered
all the way with the suburb of Montmartre. The whole summit is
enclosed by Buonaparte’s celebrated, but, as it has turned out,
useless lines, erected last year for the defence of the metropolis.
Of these I need say little, as I know they are surveying by our
engineers, who will no doubt give us a detailed account of them--a
piece of slavery which I am not at all disposed to engage in. All
I can say of them is that, considering the hurried manner in which
the work has been done, they are very creditable--that they cover
all the ground in front with their fire--and that a tremendous
concentration of fire, direct and flanking, commands every important
point. They are continued partially across the gorge, the bank of the
Canal de l’Ourcq, and fully up the opposite heights of Belleville.
They may, however, be easily turned on either flank. The gorge is
occupied by the humble and uninteresting suburb of La Chapelle. The
heights of Belleville are extremely pretty, being almost covered
with a succession of cheerful and sometimes elegant villas, gardens,
shrubberies, vineyards, and the village. I envied the Russians such
pretty quarters; yet they would be just as well pleased here as
there, perhaps. From these heights I got a peep at Vincennes, with
its park, chateau, and tower, on which the Lilies of France have at
last replaced the Tricolor. The governor (_un vieux moustache_, with
one leg) refused for a long time to surrender; and the sovereigns,
out of respect for the old man, did not insist; but after a time he
grew insolent, and I understand either did or threatened to fire at
some officers who went too near his stronghold. This was too much,
and preparations were making to reduce him when he was fortunately
persuaded to surrender. Having rambled about until I had seen all
worth seeing, and got an omelet in one of the _ginguettes_, or
whatever they call them, I descended from the heights of Belleville,
and crossing the fields (all without hedges here), and the great
road to Soissons, made straight for Vertus. As far as the road to
Soissons, the number of gardens, with summer-houses perched on
one angle of the enclosing wall, thick shrubberies, and the fine
umbrageous avenue which the road itself with its quadruple rows
of elms presents, made the country interesting in spite of its
flatness; but beyond, when one comes on what may more strictly be
termed the plain of St Denis, there is no redeeming point--it is a
vast extent of monotonous corn-field, unrelieved by tree or shrub,
and only broken by the buildings of the village of Vertus and the
elevated bank of the Canal de l’Ourcq. The great road to Compiègne,
which crosses this plain from La Chapelle to St Denis, once had its
trees also; but they were cut down, I think, last year; and the
only objects one now sees along this dreary line are a mile (or a
league) stone on the left going to town, and a cross or Bon Dieu on
the right. Young trees have been planted along part of the line, but
at present they are mere sticks. Met Major Morrison in Vertus; his
9-pounder brigade is stationed there, together with a regiment of
infantry. By the way, the name of that place is Aubervilliers, or
Nôtre Dame des Vertus, but one never hears any more of its name than
the last word--so that it is Vertus _par excellence_, and all the
rest is superfluity.
I have had a long scribble this morning; so now, having jotted down
nearly everything to the present date, I have a right to go and
idle a bit with the girls. This is a lounge of which I have as yet
said nothing, because I thought it commonplace; hereafter, however,
it will be interesting to look back and see as in a picture all
that is now transacting--_allons donc!_ Through the middle of our
village runs a little sluggish rivulet, very like that at Garges.
On the banks of this, every fine day, may be seen assembled the
scraggy-necked dames and black-eyed nymphs of the village, all pretty
much alike in costume--that is, arms bare, stays loosely laced, and
petticoat of _siamoise_, with the eternal blue stockings and wooden
shoes; each has her bundle of linen, her heavy bat, and generally a
bit of board to kneel on. Here, then, kneeling in a line along the
banks of soapy waters, they laugh, chatter, and sing; whilst the bat
incessantly goes slap, slap, slap. Just where the street leading
to St Denis joins ours, in the centre of the village, a bridge of
very humble dimensions spans the stream, on the parapet of which I
have established my divan; and thither I repair to smoke my weed and
enjoy a little badinage with the fair daughters of Stain--to gain a
little information from their wrinkled mothers. Amongst our village
maidens there are several exceedingly pretty--some one or two would
be beautiful, were not their feminine _delicacy_ (perhaps the word
may be used morally as well as physically) much injured by their
being constantly employed in the fields, which cannot but make their
persons coarse. There is one exception to this, however, in Josephine
Chamont, who is really a beautifully-delicate, lady-like girl; but
then she does not go to the fields. Angélique, on the contrary,
is as fine a woman as ever I saw; she is about twenty--a perfect
Juno--tall, erect, with a beautiful countenance and splendid black
eyes; she walks like a queen. When our invasion was expected, the
women of the commune formed themselves into an amazonian regiment,
and Angélique was their sergeant-major.--But I must to the bridge.
M. Fauigny paid me a visit this morning: I did not see him.