_August 1st._--Our fine weather still continues--with the exception
of one or two days, we have scarcely had any rain since we arrived
here. Our army is breaking up from hence and going into Normandy.
Some of our troops of horse-artillery marched the day before
yesterday, and yesterday some regiments of cavalry. The infantry are
also preparing for their departure. Ross’s troop and mine, belonging
to the reserve, are to remain in the neighbourhood of Paris. This
appearance of peace has, I suppose, induced the Beguines, or Sœurs
de la Charité, to return to the village, much to our annoyance;
for their house is the one in which we mess, and where Ambrose and
Maunsell live. Five of the sisterhood called on me this morning
for the purpose of obtaining the restoration of their house, and
permission to return and inhabit it. I was at breakfast, but these
good dames would take no refusal, and William was obliged to show
them up. My little room was crammed.
I have always up to this date associated most inseparably in my mind
youth and beauty with the term nun. It was, therefore, not without
some trifling emotion that I awaited the five nuns whom William had
announced, and heard them bustling along the narrow bricked passage
leading from the head of the stairs to my room. Such being the case,
it may easily be imagined that it was not without disappointment I
saw entering, one after another, four ugly old women, in shabby black
dresses, and at the same time became sensible of a very unpleasant
odour accompanying the ladies. All this was enough; and, in the
politest manner possible, I hastened to meet their wishes as soon as
known, in order to get rid of them. Here I reckoned without my host.
The good dames found my politeness so winning, that they were in no
hurry to move, nor did they until they had inflicted on me the whole
history of their adventures and sufferings from the first invasion by
the Allies last year down to last night. When, at length, they did
depart, I thought I could never sufficiently inhale the fresh air of
heaven.
Having got rid of the ladies, after visiting the parade (which
we hold in the park of the great chateau), I rode to St Ouen
and Clichy. In the last and neighbourhood our fifth division is
quartered, and I was astonished to see the Prussian-like manner
in which the place is occupied. One very handsome villa I visited
had its pretty pleasure-ground trampled and spoiled as much as the
chateau at Stain; and, to my surprise, in the house I found two
formerly splendid _salons_ converted into stables, and actually
occupied by officers’ horses. I don’t know what the Duke will
say when he comes to know this. The neighbourhood of Clichy is
pretty--all villas and gardens, &c.
_August 2d._--Another beautiful day. More regiments marching towards
Normandy. In consequence of the return of our nuns, we moved our mess
establishment to-day into the Petit chateau, having prepared and
made as comfortable as circumstances would admit the grand _salon_
in the centre of the front. This is a very fine room with a boarded
floor in little squares (_parquet_), which looks very well, but is
very creaky, as all these floors are. We collected what chairs were
still serviceable as seats, and as they were few, the wheeler patched
up others; a table was a more difficult article to procure; the
floor served as a sideboard. There being no glass in the window, we
are obliged to make the venetians (which fortunately are unbroken)
answer, lowering those to windward when the air is too much. We
are raised about six feet above the lawn, and two winding flights
of steps afford the means of descending from the windows of the
bowed front to the turf below. Fatigue-parties have been employed
all yesterday and this morning clearing the lawn of the fragments
of furniture, rags of curtains, torn books, and broken glass, that
encumbered and disfigured it--so that now our domain looks decent,
and we have actually wondered we could stay so long in the gloomy old
house we have left. By way of a house-warming I gave my champagne
on promotion, and we have had a merry evening, without excess, or I
should not be able to write this.
_3d._--No headache this morning; our champagne was excellent and
very cheap. In England we should pay from 10s. to 15s. per bottle.
This cost me precisely 5 francs, or 4s. 2d., a bottle--some little
difference. But to my journal. Rode to Paris, and as usual put up
Cossack at a stable I have discovered in Rue de Malle, just by the
Place du Carrousel, consequently very convenient. When I arrived,
there were several people in the stable, who gathered round me and
Cossack, asking with apparent curiosity if he was in the battle of
Mont St Jean. I told them Yes, and all about his eight wounds--the
scars of which were visible enough. This seemed to excite great
interest; and I walked off, leaving them assembled round the
fellow’s stall, having first, however, warned them of his heels.
The Palais Royal, Rue Vivienne, and Boulevard were the scenes of
my promenade. The first I have spoken of before, and hope to do
so again; the second is a kind of Bond Street, leading straight
away from the northern entrance of the Palais Royal. Like Bond
Street, it is narrow--so narrow, indeed, that the London street
becomes broad by comparison, and is infinitely its superior in the
convenient _trottoir_ which the Rue Vivienne totally wants. In
short, in London this narrow, badly-paved avenue, with its gutter
down the centre, would only rank as a lane. Here is to be seen all
the beauty and fashion of Paris; for here, as in Bond Street, are
all the fashionable shops. If some of those under the arcades of
the Palais Royal are more splendid, the articles in these are more
substantially rich and good. But the Boulevard is the great point
of attraction for me, and there I passed this morning, until it was
time to return here before dark, lounging from the Rue Royale to the
Boulevard du Temple and back again, with an occasional turn down the
Rue de Richelieu, or the Passage des Panorama and Feydeau, into the
Rue Vivienne and Palais Royal. The Boulevards (for there are many,
every few hundred yards having a different designation) form a sort
of circular road round what once was Paris, separating it from the
Faubourgs, now forming part of the great whole; and these Boulevards
form a street about as broad as Oxford Street, perhaps broader.
This, without excepting the Palais Royal, is the most amusing part
of Paris. The houses along this immense avenue are neither regular
nor uniformly handsome, but high and low, rich and poor, wood and
stone--from the cottage to the palace. A broad footway (not a paved
_trottoir_) next the houses is in many parts shaded by rows of
lime-trees, and separated from the road by a shabby wooden railing.
The road is incessantly thronged with carts, fiacres, cabriolets,
private equipages, and horsemen; every now and then a detachment of
_gens-d’armes_ is seen urging their way soberly through the crowd.
This forms a lively and amusing scene enough, particularly just now,
from the contrast between numerous well-appointed English equipages
and the clumsy vehicles and tinsel finery of the native. But it is
in the footway one finds the greatest source of amusement, and most
food for philosophical contemplation. Here one meets promenaders
or passengers in every variety of European, and even some Asiatic,
costumes. Some, you may know by their lounging gait, are employed
only in killing time and dispelling _ennui_; others, bustling from
shop to shop and from table to table, are people whose money burns
in their pockets, and their amusement consists in getting rid of
it as quickly as possible for articles utterly useless to them,
and which, laid aside to-morrow, will quickly be forgotten. Again,
a third, and by far the most numerous class one sees here, have a
directly contrary employment to the last--they are people whose
pockets burn to have money in them; and accordingly here, in this
great thoroughfare, we find them resorting to all sorts, even the
most ludicrous, the vilest, and the most degrading means of obtaining
their end. Here tables innumerable are set out under the trees
covered with all sorts of cheap articles--toys, perfumery, cutlery,
combs, and articles in horn, bone, wood, metal, glass--every thing
and every article upon each table of the same price. In passing
along, one is deafened by the incessant and rapid vociferations of
these dealers enumerating the various articles upon their tables,
eulogising them in the most ridiculous terms, and announcing
their price: “Dix sols pour chacun!--dix sols, dix sols--dix sols
seulement, messieurs!” Then there are jugglers, mountebanks, and
importunate beggars. My great torment in the Boulevard is a little
wretch of a girl, about ten or twelve years old, whose ostensible
business is the sale of toothpicks, but in reality is begging.
This little animal fixes herself on one with the tenacity of a
leech--running by one’s side, occasionally holding up the articles
of her pretended trade, and unceasingly plying her song: “Ah,
monsieur! cure-dents, monsieur? En voulez-vous, monsieur? deux sols,
monsieur! Ah, monsieur! le pauvre père, monsieur; il est malade,
monsieur!” and then, when she becomes convinced of the inutility of
perseverance, suddenly stopping and entering into an indifferent,
perhaps merry, confab with some chum, and again starting after some
other likely-looking customer. She frequently follows me from her
stand, which is at the end of the Rue de Richelieu, to the Rue de la
Paix. Other characters there are of different descriptions, and many
of them forming a feature in this motley and daily crowd. Amongst
these I have particularly noticed an old man, with long grey locks
flowing in a most picturesque style over his back and shoulders,
strumming a cracked guitar; and a female, somewhat advanced in years,
dressed in shabby old finery, her faded charms partially concealed
under a rusty-black veil, who attempts to excite interest in and
extract metal from the passengers by warbling a pathetic love-song in
a most ominously husky voice. A little farther, a proud and stately
Mohammedan, in full Turkish costume, offers for sale I know not
what, and evinces much indignation at the itinerant sausage-vendor,
who pushes steadily through the crowd, the fiery brasier suspended
before him by a strap passing round his neck, everywhere opening
for him a free passage. Over the brasier a square pan contains the
savoury-smelling, hissing sausages, which as they fry he is able,
from having his hands at liberty, to keep turning, or to serve out
to customers and receive their sols in return. The steaming pan has
frequently made my mouth water, and I give no credit to the fierce
and angry look of our stately Turk when startled by his near and
unexpected approach. I’d wager a sol did they but encounter in some
obscure passage he would himself become a customer to the Giaour’s
polluted pan.
At the angle formed by the Boulevards du Temple and St Martin,
and opposite to the beautiful Fontaine de Boudi or des Lions, in a
snug recess formed by a break in the line of building, may daily be
seen a table, covered with a cloth scrupulously white, on which are
arranged sundry piles of a peculiarly inviting _gâteau_. This table
is constantly surrounded by a certain description of young men, whose
bronzed features, mustachioed lips, and confident, insolent stare,
denote the _militaire en retraite_, or half-pay officer. Here the
presiding goddess is a comely dame of some forty years standing, a
little inclined to _embonpoint_, with a bold masculine countenance
embrowned by constant exposure, but yet having strong claim to a
certain description of beauty, which she understood how to enhance by
the tasteful and coquettish arrangement of her blue _cornette_ and a
studied neatness in every other part of her dress. With her customers
this fair dame carries on a conversation animated and somewhat free,
if she likes them; but Englishmen are by no means favourites. This
portrait will be readily recognised by those to whom the Boulevard
St Martin is familiar. The immense number of tables spread with
books, as well as little sheds for the sale of the same--and their
cheapness, are quite astonishing. I may say the same of engravings,
many of them really good. Equally astonishing is the open and
barefaced display, in these stalls, &c., of the most licentious
works, and pictures of the most indecent kind. Although the best
shops are certainly in the Rue Vivienne, &c., yet are there many
very splendid ones along the Boulevards, particularly the Boulevard
des Italiens. Here are also some good restaurants and cafés; and,
amongst other ornamental buildings, the Bains Chinois. Amid all
these, however, there is a characteristic eye-sore which strikes one
as quite incongruous: I allude to the intervention of shabby wooden
sheds amongst goodly shops and houses. Besides the book-stalls just
spoken of, one sees every here and there a long, low, mean-looking
shed, its front almost all window. This is a news-room, where, for
a few sols, you may read all the daily journals published in Paris,
if you have patience to wait until they be disengaged, for these
places are generally full; and I often amuse myself by stopping
before the broad windows, always open just now, and contemplating
the line of odd figures--some spectacled, others (from the manner of
holding the little--after our own--minikin _feuille_ at arm’s-length)
who evidently ought to be; and all absorbed in the meagre nonsense
which every one of these papers I have looked into contains: a
number of people may commonly be seen in attendance awaiting their
turn. The fellows who keep these sheds must make a mint of money.
Another feature not confined to the Boulevards, but common to all
the public gardens and places of general resort, is the numbers of
well-dressed and often dandified loungers on chairs, and the piles
of these against the trees. To us at first it was a novelty seeing
groups of people seated on chairs in the open street; but I have now
got accustomed to it, and even to appreciate the luxury myself. These
chairs, which are of the plainest kind, form the stock-in-trade,
and furnish the livelihood, of many a poor old man or woman, who
otherwise could do nothing to support themselves; and, _en passant_,
I should note the admirable address with which I have seen these
people turn the wants of human nature to account. On a rainy day some
sally out with a common oil-skin umbrella, which is offered to the
first unfortunate wight caught out in a hat or coat likely to suffer.
Others, providing themselves with a thick plank, repair to some great
thoroughfare where they know there is an insufficient gutter that
will overflow--and this may be everywhere. The plank, laid over the
rushing stream of black water, is paid for by those who are generous
by a sol or two, thus verifying the saying, It is an ill wind that
blows nobody good.
The hire of a chair per hour is a mere trifle--a sol or two; and
thence it is, I suppose, that a Parisian exquisite seems to think
it degrading to occupy only one. Two or three is the common run;
but I saw one gentleman this morning who actually occupied five
whole chairs. He had chosen an excellent position to be seen, on
the Boulevard des Italiens, just by Hardi’s, whither I was bound
to get some dinner. One chair sustained the main body, another the
right leg, a third the left, a fourth afforded a rest for the left
arm, whilst the fifth, bearing gloves, _mouchoir_, and _canne à
pomme d’or_, stood conveniently by his right. The self-satisfied
air with which this exquisite scrutinised with his _lorgnette_ the
passers-by, was not the least amusing part of this entertaining
microcosm. Cogitating on the various means used by mankind to court
or win admiration from their fellow-men, I mounted the steps in
front of Hardi’s, and entered the airy, nicely-furnished _salle à
manger_. “Garçon! la carte!” I cried, throwing myself into a seat
near the window, the table by which appeared unoccupied. There is
about as much difference between one of our dark close coffee-rooms
in London and the _salle à manger_ of a Parisian restaurateur (at
least Hardi’s or Very’s), as there is between a tallow-chandler’s
back parlour in St Martin’s Lane and Lady B.’s beautiful drawing-room
in Park Lane. Here are no closely-shut-up boxes, with their green
curtains, &c.; all is open, airy, and cheerful. Small tables (just
sufficiently large to dine four people) stand about the room covered
with snow-white table-cloths, napkins, and silver forks; and instead
of the dingy smoked walls of a London coffee-house, and windows so
covered with dust that the panes of glass, although translucent,
are not transparent, here the walls, covered with a gay painted
paper, have an air of cheerfulness quite indescribable, especially
when connected with the moving, lively scene without, of which the
constantly open door and windows afford an uninterrupted view. In
looking on the scene below, the continuous lines of trees give such
a rustic appearance to the whole, that it is difficult to imagine
one’s self in the very heart of a great capital. To me the Boulevard
had more the style of Lewisham or Clapham, or some of those “_rus
in urbe_” sort of places so numerous in the vicinity of London. It
seems bells are not in use at these places, and calling out or making
a noise is vulgar. Therefore, instead of the constantly reiterated
“Waiter! waiter!” a sort of masonic signal has been invented to
call the attention of the attendants. I began at my first visit to
Hardi’s as I would have done in England, and summoned the garçon
_viva voce_; but I soon discovered by the glances shot from the
tables, and the quick turning of heads, that there was something
wrong, at least something unusual. I observed there was no calling,
and yet tables were served; and by the occasionally sudden turning
and going up to some particular one, I became aware that some other
mode of communication must be established. I watched. The garçon
was standing near the door looking at an English regiment at that
moment passing along the Boulevard. An elderly gentleman, in a
sad-coloured suit, who had hitherto been busily employed at the next
table discussing his _potage_, stopping suddenly, looked sharply
about the room as if in search of some one. His inquisitive glance
settled at once on the garçon, and taking up the sharp-pointed knife
that lay beside his plate (the knives here are all of one pattern,
very common, and apparently made to be used as stilettos instead
of for cutting beef or mutton), gently touched with it the side of
his wine-glass, producing a slight jingling sound that scarcely
reached my ear, close as we were to each other. It proved sufficient
though, for the garçon started and was at his side in an instant.
“Ma foi!” thought I, “this is a ‘wrinkle to my horn,’” I shall be
quite an _habitué_. I tried the experiment again and again:--it
never failed; and being now up to the thing, I soon observed that
everybody used the same signal. It reminds me of the Spanish call,
“Hist!” uttered from the tongue alone, without any sound from the
chest. Things are uncommonly well cooked at Hardi’s, and served in
most comfortable and respectable style. The napkins at a public
table are quite new to us Englishmen. I had a _potage_, and one or
two _petit-plats_, that I selected at random from the _carte_; for
amongst the numbers figuring there, I knew not one by name, and most
probably as little by nature. One thing I dislike in French cookery
is the abominable fashion of disguising vegetables; one cannot even
get a potato plain and unsophisticated. _Gâteau de pommes de terre_,
or some such mixture of potatoes, butter, &c. &c., is the only way
they are eaten here. Having finished my plate of strawberries and a
bottle of very excellent _Lafitte_, I set off for the Rue de Malte;
but instead of going directly thither down the Rue de Richelieu, I
made another little promenade on the Boulevard, and finally down
the Passage des Panoramas and Feydeau, Rue Vivienne, Palais Royal,
&c. The lamps were already lighted, doors open, sentinels posted,
and crowds rushing into the Théâtre des Variétés as I passed. The
passages looked brilliant by the light of multitudes of lamps, and
the arcades of the Palais Royal, where the illumination was only
beginning, already swarmed with depravity, and proposals rung in my
ears from my entrance to my sortie from this sink of iniquity. The
decreasing light warned me not to loiter; so, mounting Cossack, I
made the best of my way over the abominable pavement of the Faubourg
St Denis, until, gaining the end of La Chapelle, the road became
better adapted for rapid movement. Daylight closed, however, just as
I got through St Denis, having just enough to save me from the wheels
of the numerous chariots and other vehicles with which its long
narrow street is always crowded. Having only open fields to traverse
afterwards, I cared less; and trusting myself to Cossack’s sagacity,
he soon brought me safe home--and thus ends one of the many pleasant
days I have passed in this most interesting place. I find Mr Fauigny
has been here to-day. He gets hot after his money. I doubt, however,
if he will ever finger any of it.
_August 4th._--Beautiful day again. Every pleasure in this life
has some drawback--as if this were necessary to prevent our
thinking we have already arrived in paradise. That, then, which in
a measure neutralises our enjoyment of this fine warm weather, is
the incessant torment of swarms of flies (common house-flies) which
infest us within and without doors. From these wretches there is no
respite, except it be at night, or maybe in a darkened room. The
mosquitoes cannot be worse, though they may be as bad. It is not as
in England--merely the buzzing about and tickling caused by their
alighting on and walking about one. No; here the brutes bite, and so
sharply as to bring blood. My greatest suffering from these plagues
is in the morning, when I may wish to lie in bed later than usual,
which is not often. I am generally up too early for them;[23] for
it is only after the sun acquires strength that they begin to be
troublesome: then, unless the room be well darkened, there is no
possibility of sleeping; and in my naked house there are not the
means of doing this--window-shutters, to be sure, but they fit so
badly that there is little difference as to light whether they be
closed or open. In the village the road is quite black every day in
front of our butchers with the dead flies thrown out. He poisons them
with an infusion of quassia sweetened with sugar. In my garden there
is abundance of the finest fruit--peaches, nectarines, figs, plums,
and splendid grapes, now all quite ripe; but such swarms of these
detestable brutes infest the trees that they spoil everything. It is
impossible to eat any of the fruit without first washing it: this
spoils it. Half the battle is picking it off the tree and eating it.
What strange things we live to see and hear! I do think that during
the period I have been in the world, more strange, wonderful,
improbable (and what once would have been deemed impossible) events
have occurred than the whole history of the world, since Noah landed
on Mount Ararat down to 1789, could furnish altogether. Not the
least strange amongst these is the general order just published to
the British army by Wellington, calling upon commanding officers to
give every assistance required by the French farmers or cultivateurs
in getting in the harvest! In consequence, English soldiers and
French peasants are seen everywhere side by side, sickle in hand,
or binding sheaves, &c.--the invader and the invaded alike peaceably
occupied, and reciprocating kind offices one with the other. ’Tis a
goodly sight, truly. Further good consequences are very perceptible
in our village. All mistrust and dislike of each other are at an end;
and our people are now quite on an intimate and friendly footing
with the peasantry. Many an amicable little knot may be seen of an
evening sitting at their doors enjoying at once the cool air, their
pipes, and the pleasures of conversation, or rather of trying to
understand each other. Some of the villagers have already picked up
a little English, and our men a little French. The gayest of the
latter occasionally mix in the rustic dance; and although rather
rough and bearish in their manner of swinging the girls about,
yet are they sought after as partners, the pretty _paysanne_ who
has for her partner _un canonier_ evincing in her look and manner
a degree of satisfaction not to be mistaken. Already symptoms of
jealousy have made their appearance among the young _paysans_, and
I have consulted M. Bonnemain on the subject, expressing my fears
lest it might disturb the harmony already subsisting. “A bah! n’y
a pas de danger!--n’importe, n’importe,” is always his answer;
and accordingly neither I nor my officers have observed anything
like a diminution of friendship among the males. These French girls
are clever creatures. They have hearts and flattering tongues
for all. It is a pleasing sight of an evening to see our people
returning frolicking home from the fields, with the loaded carts,
the cargoes of which all are busily assisting in stowing away in the
_grenier_--soldiers, _paysans_, and _paysannes_.
Generally speaking, these latter (male and female) are very
respectable, well-mannered, and well-spoken people in their way.
There is, however, one, the most perfect Caliban I ever met with
in my life. Bonnemain says he is not an inhabitant of Stain, but
comes from some part of Normandy--I forget where. Short, thick-set,
and powerfully built; covered with hair--head shaggy as that of a
savage; long beard and naked breast, like a bear’s; broad squat face
and enormous features--indeed, when standing close to, and trying
to converse with him, I feel a sensation as if looking at his face
through a powerful magnifier. Of his language (he speaks very fast
and very loud) I cannot succeed in catching a single French word,
and I observe that the inhabitants themselves seem to have some
difficulty in comprehending his meaning. I have christened him
Caliban!--beautiful monster!
But it is almost time to go to bed, and as yet I have not mentioned
my ride to Paris to-day--I should say _usual_, for few days elapse
without my going thither. In general I prefer the road by St Ouen,
Clichy, and Monceaux, &c., because it has trees, the scenery is
better, the line is not so tediously straight, and by the Barrière de
Clichy one enters at once on a decent part of the town, the Rue de
Clichy and du Mont Blanc, instead of having to pass through the long
blackguard suburbs of La Chapelle and St Denis. To-day, however, I
took this road. How unlike the neighbourhood of London, where, for
twenty miles (certainly ten) from town, the country is covered with
villas, and the roads with carriages, equestrians--indeed, travellers
of every kind and in every way! Here we have a long straight road
stretching away with an almost imperceptible ascent for about three
miles--not a tree nor a bush lends its shade or breaks its painful
monotony (if I may so apply the word)--nor house, nor fence. In
the middle reigns a horrible pavement, and on each side of this an
unpaved road for summer use; after rain these become sloughs, and
then, sooner than travel on the pavement, I take to the fields.
These, as I have before said, extend to a considerable distance right
and left, naked and cheerless, forming the plain of St Denis. There
is another by-road leading off near St Denis, which, keeping about
midway between the chaussée just mentioned and that by St Ouen,
ascends Montmartre by Clignancour, &c. This may be travelled _in dry
weather_. In my progress from St Denis to La Chapelle, as usual,
instead of the bustle of a London road, a solitary cabriolet now and
then passed me; and from time to time I overtook a long-bodied cart,
with what we should call half a load--the horses with their broad
painted hames, and the waggoner in his white night-cap (or mayhap
a cocked-hat), blue frock and white stockings, _sabots_, &c. These
things have now lost their novelty--I am too much at home to be
amused by them; so I was pacing along thoughtfully when the wildest
thing in the shape of an equipage whisked past in a twinkling. It
was Russian--a sort of low clumsily-built barouche, with the head
thrown back. In this were seated two officers in full uniform,
cocked-hats, and long drooping black or bottle-green plumes; four or
five (for I did not exactly ascertain which) little, long-tailed,
long-maned, wild-looking horses were driven at a gallop by two boys
as wild in their appearance, seated on the off-horses, and using the
end of the reins as a whip, in the manner of our hussar bridles. I
was delighted; but the thing came up so suddenly, and passed me so
rapidly, that I had but half a look at it. _En revanche_, standing
at the northern entrance of the Palais Royal, I saw to-day again a
regular Russian equipage. This was a low carriage also, but of a
peculiar construction, drawn by four little rough horses harnessed
with rope. On the driving-box sat one of the most picturesque figures
I ever saw in my life. Conceive a head of Jupiter as to features, and
the splendid beard that fell in thick masses over his ample chest,
eyes shooting thunderbolts, overhung by the brow of majesty itself;
the support of this head a neck--such a neck!--such a muscular
column!--such a bust altogether! His costume, too, was piquant from
its novelty. Nothing European was there except the hat, if one
might admit this as such, which differed from anything else of the
sort I had ever seen; crown exceedingly low, and about twice the
diameter at top as at bottom, encircled by an amazingly broad band;
brim very broad, and turned up in a peculiar way at the sides--body
wrapped in a kind of caftan with loose sleeves, and girt round
the waist by a broad sash. On the off-leader sat one of the most
beautiful and wildest urchins it is possible to conceive, wrapped
in a caftan of similar colour and make to that of the coachman’s,
grey forage-cap, and neck quite bare. He was about fourteen this
boy, and a more animated, lovely face could scarcely be imagined. In
repose it would be lovely; but when lighted up by the quick play of
two brilliant eyes, partially overshadowed by long elf-locks, the
beauty and wildness of expression almost exceeds belief. Whilst I
stood wrapt in admiration of these two figures, a Russian officer in
a plain undress came out of the Palais Royal, and stepped into the
conveniently low vehicle. The coachman shook his reins, the boy, who
had been looking back, turned sharply to the front, uttering a loud,
shrill, but musical cry, the little wild horses tossed up their noses
with a snort, burst at once into a gallop, and away they went like a
whirlwind down the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs. For the rest of this
day I have never been able to get them out of my head, and everything
Russian has borne with me a double interest. Strange that, going
as I do every day to Paris, it should never have fallen to my lot
before to see a Russian equipage; and yet every day, at least every
time I pass through La Chapelle, I see hundreds of their soldiers
(infantry) without bestowing on them the slightest attention. These,
smart as they are on the parade, are the dirtiest slovens in the
world off it: the usual costume in which one sees them running
about La Chapelle is a dirty forage-cap, as dirty a grey greatcoat,
generally gathered back by the waist-strap, so as to be out of the
way, dirty linen trousers, shoved up at bottom by the projection of
the unlaced half-boot. Such is the figure I generally see slipping
from house to house, or going across the fields at a sort of Highland
trot. Curiosity they have none, or it is restrained by their
discipline, for I do not recollect once having met a Russian soldier
dressed and walking the streets, as if to see the place. Sometimes,
in passing their quarters, I have heard them sing in their squalling,
drawling style, in a voice as if mocking some one; there is, however,
something wild and plaintive in their ditties. Karl’s ‘Imitations,’
which I always fancied a caricature, is, I find, most excellent. The
Prussians, by the by, show themselves as little about the streets
as the Russians; but Austrians or Hungarians I meet constantly,
generally walking two together--staring into the shop-windows, &c.
&c. Tall, heavily-built, boorish-looking fellows, but apparently
good-natured and orderly in their behaviour. Happening to go into
a shop on the Boulevard a few days ago, one of these came in, and
making some observation on my purchase, was surprised at my answering
him in German, and immediately became quite friendly. Whether he knew
I was an officer or not, it is impossible to say, but he followed me
out of the shop, and walked some way along the Boulevard with me,
and it was not without difficulty I at last succeeded in shaking
him off. They are a heavy people altogether, these Austrians. I
frequently pass the hotel where the Emperor lodges, and in this hot
weather all the windows being open, see from the Boulevard the whole
interior of the waiting-room, where the stiff formality of the Garde
du Corps on duty, in their ugly old-fashioned uniforms of grey and
silver lace, with ill-shaped cocked-hats stuck square on, is not a
little ridiculous. However, they are, as I said before, a good, quiet
people.