I believe in a former part of this journal I noticed a chateau
belonging to an Admiral Rosily. It is situated quite at the
extremity, or rather beyond the village, on the road to Garges, and
therefore so far out of the way that, except to visit the stables
(for we have a detachment in it), I never have paid any attention
to it, and suffered the people to do as they please. On my return
yesterday evening from Paris I found the following letter:--
“_Ce 11 Août 1815._
“MONSIEUR LE COMMANDANT,--J’apprends que vous faites mettre des
chevaux chez moi. Le Duc de Wellington connoit les destructions
qu’on a causé dans ma maison, il avoit bien voulu même me donner
une sauve garde, qui n’a plus en lieu depuis que le regiment de
Lord Portarlington est parti pour Amiens.
“Je vous prie seulement, que les hommes qui ont soin des
chevaux n’entrent point dans mon jardin, et respectent ma
propriété.--J’ai l’honneur d’être, Monsieur le Commandant, votre
serviteur,
“L’AMIRAL COMTE DE ROSILY.”
The Admiral has taken a much more efficacious way of preserving
his property in thus committing it to my care instead of making a
complaint to the Duke, and certainly a more gentlemanly one. I walked
down to it this afternoon, and was surprised to find a spacious,
well-kept, and most productive garden, enclosed by a high wall, one
side of which runs along the side of the road to Garges, and the
other along the lane leading up to the village. The house is large,
but its exterior not handsome; some fine rooms within, but every
scrap of furniture had been removed before our arrival. In the rear,
all the offices carefully numbered, and their names and uses painted
in large letters on the doors, “_vacherie_,” “_laitérie_,” &c. &c.
Our men have behaved well and destroyed nothing, and the produce of
the garden has suffered little, the officer of the division having
preserved it for himself. I have given directions which no doubt
will leave the Admiral no room to repent of the step he has taken,
although it is not possible to remove the men and horses.
The Duke, it seems, continues to bear malice. I cantered up this
morning to Paris, and called on Sir G. Wood to beg him to forward
my application for two months’ leave of absence, which he declined
doing, as he said it would not be prudent just now “_to remind the
Duke of me in any way_.” Rather hard and unjust this!
In the anteroom, at the Rue de Richelieu (Sir George’s quarter) I
met Captain Light (Bull-dog, as he was called at the academy). He is
just returning from Egypt, where he has been travelling, and tells me
that he ascended the Nile farther than any one yet. All the honour
and glory attending his expedition he would have gladly exchanged for
that of having served the campaign with us. He much blamed himself
for not having done so. Sir George wanted me to stay and dine, but I
begged off.
_16th._--The vengeance of the Duke has at last fallen on the 5th
Division, and it must be confessed they deserve it, having ruined one
of the prettiest villages and some of the most charming villas in the
neighbourhood of Paris. It is said that damages are laid at £5000,
and that the Duke has ordered it to be paid. There is, however, no
depending on reports, everything is sure to be so much exaggerated.
Nothing else to-day, except that I took my usual ride into Paris,
where I lounged away the time principally in shopping, &c.
_20th._--I can hardly tell how, but true it is that my time for
writing is wonderfully curtailed, although in reality I have so
little to do. The journeys to and from town occupy much time; and now
that we are, as it were, settled, people have taken to visiting, so
that we have frequently dinner company, which forbids all attempts at
nocturnal writing. Sunday is my quietest day in general, although not
always. To-day I passed my morning in strolling about the park of the
chateau, the village, &c. Our scenery is too flat to be very pretty,
although the chaussées on either side of us, with their fine elms,
are noble avenues. These are the roads from Pierrefitte and Garges,
which unite near St Denis. There are several spots in the park
affording interesting peeps in the direction of Paris. Having a clump
of picturesque trees in the immediate foreground, the level verdant
carpet stretches away until bounded by the rich masses of foliage
of elms bordering the chaussée, above which tower the light spires
of the Abbey of St Denis; farther on, an opening in the avenue
allows the eye to range over the naked plain of St Denis, bounded in
the extreme distance by the heights of Montmartre and Belleville,
with the dome of St Genevieve rearing itself in the gap between.
Except such peeps, our view is everywhere confined by the foliage
and the rising ground extending all round our rear from Garges to
Pierrefitte. Water, or the want of it rather, is a great drawback on
the scenery about the district: true, there are two or three muddy
rivulets, such as the Rouillon, La Vieille Mer, Crouy, &c., but they
are too insignificant and too much encased to aid in any way the
scenery.
Yesterday, when I called at the Hotel du Nord, I was surprised at
meeting Lady Frazer, her brother, and two sisters (Dr James and the
Misses Lind).
The festival of our patron saint was celebrated last Thursday with
much merriment and conviviality, and it was very pleasing to see
the familiar and confident manner in which our people mingled in
the amusements of the day, and the cordiality with which they were
treated by the villagers.
The favourite (indeed, the principal) game played by the young men
was one resembling our trap-ball, with this difference, that instead
of a trap, the ball was made to rebound from a large sieve placed on
the ground, and propped upon one side so as to present an inclined
surface. In the evening a most animated dance was kept up in the park
until a comparatively late hour.
Angélique was the distinguished belle of the evening, and by far the
best (as she was the stoutest) _danseuse_, although they all dance
well. As I saw her swinging through the figure, “Cutty-sark” came
forcibly to my recollection, and mentally I exclaimed “weel done,”
&c. We were at mess when M. Bonnemain called to announce that all was
ready, but that he had forbidden the commencing until the sanction of
M. le Commandant was obtained.
This is of a piece with his whole conduct now: everything that passes
in the village I am made acquainted with; he has even confided to me
several important family secrets;--in short, on every affair, even
of the slightest moment, M. le Commandant is consulted. Moreover, M.
Bonnemain pays me a regular visit at ten every morning to know my
pleasure for the day. Several ridiculous petitions to the Duke (all
of which he attends to) have been suppressed, and the complainants
brought before me. But this is out of fashion; at present nobody
thinks of complaining; we are all too good friends for that. Nor is
this all: I begin to have hopes that my Fauigny affair has at last
obtained a proper hearing, since an officer sent by Sir Edward Barnes
came down to inquire how matters stand, and whether I have as yet
paid any of the money.
_August 21st._--Called at Rue de Richelieu this morning to learn from
Sir George Wood what is in the wind, but he knew nothing about it.[26]
_August 26th._--I find an undoubted communication from Sir George
Wood’s major of brigade (Captain Baynes, R.A.), informing me that the
Fauigny (or lead) affair had assumed a more favourable appearance,
and that Sir George desired I would take no further steps in it until
I heard again from him. This is established; but then follow some
contradictions which I cannot reconcile, and must therefore note them
down as they are, rather than lose them altogether. M. Fauigny, quite
elated at the attention paid to his first complaint, had employed an
appraiser, or some such person, to draw up a complete estimate of
furniture destroyed, and every sort of damage done to the chateau,
with which he again waited on the Duke, in the hope that all would be
ordered to be paid as before. This time, however, he was unfortunate
in arriving just as the Duke dismounted, in a very ill humour, at
his residence in the Elysée Bourbon. With true French effrontery,
M. Fauigny followed his Grace up the grand staircase. Arrived at
the landing, the Duke, probably observing him for the first time,
turned sharply, demanding, “What the devil do you want, sir?” Nothing
daunted by this rough address, M. Fauigny mentioned his subject in a
few words, presenting at the same time his _bill_, instead of taking
which, the Duke, turning hastily away, in his usual rough manner,
exclaimed to his aide-de-camp, “Pooh!--kick the rascal down-stairs!”
Such is the story as I got it--whether exactly true or not is more
than I can now decide; but this much is certain, that Sir Edward
Barnes immediately communicated to Sir George Wood M. Fauigny’s
discomfiture, adding, “Send word of this to your friend Captain
Mercer, and let him do as he pleases about the lead.”
As I had been anxious for some time to get leave and go to England,
I find by the same memorandum that I went that same day to ask Sir
George to make an application for me, which, however, he would not
do, telling me that the Duke had refused leave (and very angrily) to
Captain Cleeve of the German Legion Artillery, though summoned to his
father’s deathbed. That I eventually escaped paying a heavy sum of
money for depredations committed by others, is not attributable to
the Duke of Wellington’s sense of justice, but to the irritability of
his temper. An officer holding a command in his army (particularly of
cavalry or artillery) was in constant jeopardy--constantly struggling
to reconcile two contradictions: 1st, to conciliate the natives,
and thus prevent complaints; and 2d, to keep his men comfortable
and horses _fat_ (that is the word), which could only be done at
the expense of the natives. These, encouraged by the Duke’s orders,
proclamations, &c., were never backward in complaining--indeed, they
soon became insufferably insolent: and whilst affecting to admire and
praise the _grand Vellangton_, and draw comparisons between him and
Blucher and his Prussian _thieves_ (for so they invariably termed
them)--“_voleurs Prussiens_”--they in reality laughed at us; whilst
even the private soldiers of the Prussian army were (to their face,
at least) treated with the most reverential deference. A sad contrast
there was between our relative situations. As for gratitude, the
wretches have not one grain of it. Many actually imagine that motives
of fear have induced the Duke to adopt this (to them) strange line of
conduct.
However severe his Grace may be in this respect, he is easy and
indulgent in another which materially concerns our comfort--I
mean dress. Every one pleases his fancy in the selection of his
costume--some wear plain clothes; others, though in uniform (I speak
of visiting and walking about Paris), choose to be unencumbered with
sword or sash. Many cavalry men, &c., like, in this hot weather, to
go with jackets open, with white or fancy waistcoats, &c. Some wear
mustaches, others beards; others, again, both beard and mustaches. A
neglect of military uniformity so striking, and so much in contrast
with the precision and strictness of costume observed by all the
other armies, could not but be noticed. Accordingly, it is said,
one of the monarchs (Emperor Alexander, I have heard) made an
observation on the subject to the Duke, who, feeling himself called
on to do something, gave out a general order on the subject, in which
he directed that all officers of the British army appearing in the
streets of Paris should be dressed either wholly in plain clothes
or in the strict uniform of their corps. No doubt which was chosen.
There is another general order of the Duke’s quoted, and the cause
of it--for which, however, I do not vouch, having never seen it. The
story is this: An English officer, walking on the Boulevard, was
rudely pushed off the path by a French gentleman, whom the Englishman
immediately knocked down. The person so treated happened to be a
marshal; and he, without loss of time, complained to the Duke, though
unable to identify his man. His Grace in consequence issued a general
order commenting on the outrage offered to a person of such high
distinction, and winding up with desiring that British officers would
in future abstain from beating marshals of France, &c. But I have
digressed from the thread of my discourse, to which I must return,
and endeavour to render it as connected as my disjointed records,
aided by memory, will admit of.
After leaving Sir G. Wood’s, I find no notice of further
transactions until the evening, when, accompanied by Ambrose (our
troop surgeon), I set off to ride home by the Rue de St Denis and
La Chapelle. Returning through La Chapelle accompanied by Ambrose,
a fellow sitting on his cart drove against him. Ambrose’s temper
is rather peppery, and he repaid the affront by a cut across the
shoulders with his horse-whip. The carter, standing up in his cart,
fell furiously on Ambrose in return with his whip, and a regular
battle ensued, Ambrose trying to mount the cart, the other keeping
him down and flogging him. In a twinkling a crowd assembled, and
from reviling soon came to active operations; but I rode round the
cart and prevented interference. At last they began to throw stones.
This was too much. I drew my sword and charged in all directions,
everywhere scattering the wretches like chaff, and thus kept the
cowardly herd at bay until Ambrose succeeded in mounting the cart
and breaking the fellow’s whip over his own back, when, the crowd
becoming very serious, he jumped on his horse, and we made our
retreat, not, however, without showers of stones, none of which
touched us, and being obliged two or three times to turn on our
persecutors, who followed us some distance. At last we effected our
retreat.
_31st._--Review of the Russian Guards, &c. They were formed as usual
along the Neuilly Road, and had the saluting-point in the Place Louis
Quinze. A finer body of men can scarcely be imagined; but to me
their padded breasts and waspish waists appeared preposterous. The
cuirassiers were also very fine men, well mounted, and neatly and
serviceably equipped. I was fortunate enough to wedge myself into
the very middle of the Imperial _cortège_. The Emperor of Austria
received the salutes, and I was immediately behind his Imperial
Majesty--on whose right was our Duke with his blue ribbon on, and
all round about were princes, marshals, generals--all the mighty and
distinguished of Europe. The Emperor of Russia himself gave the word
of command, marched past at the head of the column, and saluted.
The Prussian monarch took the command of a regiment of which he is
colonel, and likewise marched past. When Alexander wheeled round
after passing, and joined our group, he saluted Prince Schwartzenberg
with a slap on the thigh, his countenance lighted up by his customary
good-humoured smile. The proud Austrian bowed in acknowledgment
of the honour done him; but as he cast his eye over his shoulder
and met mine fixed on him, a frown soon chased away the forced
unmeaning smile still lingering round his mouth, and it required no
conjuror to see that he did not admire being treated so familiarly.
The greatest good-humour and cheerfulness seemed to reign amongst
this group of sovereigns, sovereign princes, and renowned chiefs;
and that intuitive awe which little people always experience in such
company, began to give way to confidence and a feeling of delight
at mingling thus intimately, as it were, with those hitherto to me
historical characters, on whose faith depend the destinies of Europe.
My next neighbour, a man of high rank--general, or what not--might
have been a Czernicheff, Wittgenstein, or some other celebrated
man; he wore a Russian uniform, and was covered with decorations.
As he spoke French fluently (what Russian does not?), and seemed an
honest-hearted man, free from vanity, we soon got into conversation,
spite of my shabby old pelisse. Never was I more astonished than
when, in answer to my question who the smart-looking lancers were
who kept the ground, he replied “Cossacks.” A very fine set of tall,
handsome, genteel-looking young men, faces exhibiting a delicate
pink and white complexion fit for a lady, quite undefiled by beard
or mustache; dressed in scarlet jackets without any lace, fitting
like stays; large blue-green overalls, with a broad red stripe, and,
as usual, the waist drawn into the capacity of a decent grasp; their
arms a sabre, brace of pistols stuck in their waist-belt, and a long
red-shafted lance without the pennon; small rough horses--not of a
piece with the delicate man and the quality of his equipment. The
cuirassiers wore black-varnished cuirasses; and one regiment was
entirely mounted on beautiful isabels, or cream-coloured horses. But
the horse-artillery, as _en régle_, attracted my most particular
attention. These, as far as men and horses went, appeared most
efficient: the men stout, of active make, and not too tall; their
dress smart, though exceedingly plain--dark-green; their equipment,
arms, and horse appointments all of the same description--plain,
substantially good, and sufficiently neat, without anything
superfluous. The gunners’ horses were stoutly-made serviceable
animals; but the draught-horses (which seemed an anomaly, though they
know best) were much smaller--and such little wild-looking beauties
as one would be proud to show off in Hyde Park, or down Bond Street.
The worst part of the whole were the guns and carriages--the former
of very light calibre, and polished like brass candlesticks (not
above 3-pounders, I should think); the latter very low, light, and
painted bright green, looking more like toys than service articles.
To these the horses were harnessed three abreast; the outer one on
the off side, more for show than use, prancing along with the neck
bent outward in the true classical position, to which it was confined
by a side rein. The effect of this, as far as appearance goes, is
certainly good. My friend the general, pointing out these pretty
horses with an air of triumph that led me to suspect him of being
in the corps, assured me that they had been almost incessantly on
the march ever since the retreat of the French from Moscow. They
were with the pursuing force, took their share of the campaign in
Saxony 1813, advanced to Paris in ’14. When the Russians retired,
these little animals had drawn the guns back again, and had actually
arrived on the banks of the Vistula (I think he said), when they
were countermanded, and had now arrived a second time in Paris. Is
not this quite astonishing? I could well enter into the feeling
of satisfaction and complacency with which he begged my opinion
as to their appearance, and unhesitatingly gratified him with my
unqualified admiration of them. How could it be otherwise! They were
round as barrels, sleek-coated, and full of life and spirit--in
short, they were so beautiful that the thing looked more like
a showy toy than what had for two years been incessantly in the
field. The review over, I called on Sir Edward Barnes and asked his
intercession with the Duke to obtain my leave, which he readily
promised; so I adjourned to No. 36 Rue Mont Blanc, had some chat
with Bell, heard his fair young hostess play the “Exile” again, and
returned to my dominions.
_September 2d._--Care less about Paris than I did, and stay more at
home. The parapet of the bridge becomes again my smoking lounge.
_7th._--This morning I received the long-wished-for leave of absence
for two months; and wishing to start immediately, Ambrose and I rode
up to town to take my place in the diligence for Calais. The Bureau
des Diligence is in the Cour des Messageries, Rue Nôtre Dame de la
Victoire--an establishment of which I had before no conception.
The court is very large; there are several offices for different
coaches; but what surprised me most was the parade of those heavy
dismal-looking machines--I think there must have been fifty drawn up
round the court. For Calais there was no room, therefore I have taken
my places--one inside for self, one in the cabriolet for William--in
the Amiens diligence, which starts to-morrow morning at five
o’clock. The seats inside, &c., are not left as with us to the first
comer, &c. On paying my fare I received a ticket with the number of
my seat on it, which will be respected until I am taken up at St
Denis, where they expect to be by six o’clock.
I know not whether the feeling be common to others, but I never
leave a place where I have tarried ever so short a time without
regret; accordingly my approaching departure has imparted a tinge of
melancholy that I cannot shake off. Latterly I have been tolerably
comfortable here; have got reconciled to my house; acquainted
with the inhabitants; into a certain routine of amusements and
occupations. The weather had been generally fine, though hot; and
everything had begun to assume a hue _couleur de rose_: no wonder,
then, that a slight cloud should interfere to alloy in some degree
the joy at returning to all most dear to me.
_White Horse Cellar, Piccadilly, September 13th._--Here I arrived
last night, and having neither time nor inclination to write during
my journey, must note down occurrences now as well as I can recollect
them before I start for Farringdon; the which done, adieu to pens,
ink, and paper--at least for a time.
On the morning of the 8th inst. I was punctually standing on the
_trottoir_ in front of a villanous _tabagie_ in St Denis at six
o’clock, William and my portmanteau beside me. The house was full
of drunken, and therefore insolent, Flemish waggoners, and I had no
inclination to enter. Our Noah’s Ark did not keep me long waiting for
its arrival, although it tarried sufficiently when it did come.
M. le Conducteur, a little man, but a most important one, wrapped
in a brown greatcoat, a silk handkerchief round his throat, and his
head covered by one of those grey linen forage-caps, descended from
his airy perch on the roof with great gravity, and pulling out his
way-bill, demanded of the _cabaretier_ where was the English Monsieur
who was to be taken up at St Denis. I presented myself. The little
man, scrutinising me from head to foot, “Vous avez un portmanteau,
monsieur?” “Oui, monsieur.” “Où se trouvé-t-il donc?” “Le voilà,
monsieur.” “_Le voilà?--quoi ceci?_” “Oui.” “Et vous appelez ceci un
portmanteau? Sacre Dieu! mais c’est une malle que ça! Elle ne montera
pas sur la diligence!” looking up at the insides, who had thrust
their heads out of the window on hearing the row. “Sacre Dieu! cela
_un portmanteau_!” and he began to swagger and fume and pester among
the _saboted_, greasy night-capped gentry who stood by, enjoying
exceedingly having a John Bull on the horns of a dilemma.
According to our English acceptation of the term, my baggage was
literally a large portmanteau; but the passengers within gave me
to understand that Monsieur le Conducteur was perfectly right, and
that I had better try to conciliate him instead of insisting. I took
their advice, and my _malle_ became a portmanteau, under which title
alone it was admissible on the diligence, according to the laws and
ordinances of La Cour des Messageries. I got inside, William mounted
the cabriolet, and I bade adieu to St Denis--at all events for two
months. I was agreeably surprised at finding the diligence such a
comfortable conveyance; well padded and well hung, we rolled along
most agreeably, though only at the rate of six miles per hour. My
companions inside were--an elderly lady, very taciturn but very
amiable; a young one about five-and-twenty, handsome, lively, chatty,
and very shrewd--she talked for both; a good, honest, little man,
who kept some sort of magazine in Paris; a young lad, clerk in some
counting-house; and an officer of our own Rifles. We had not reached
Pierrefitte ere Mademoiselle had managed to introduce us all to each
other in such a manner that formality was banished, and we were the
best friends possible--laughing, joking, quizzing each other or the
_paysans_; nothing could be happier.
At Luzarches, a capital breakfast, and as much time as we pleased to
take it in--M. le Conducteur all suavity and amiability. Our lively
little friend kept up such an animated conversation that I saw only
just enough of the country we were passing through to remark that it
became much prettier and more picturesque as we approached Clermont,
where the diligence stopped for dinner. M. le Conducteur took the
head of the table, and our party was increased by a _soi-disant_, or
_soi-pensant_, humorist of the _gendarmerie_, who, seating himself
_sans cérémonie_, fell to, tooth and nail, as if he had not touched
food for a week. This, however, did not much interrupt the display
of wit, which principally was aimed at the cookery and dishes served
up. A fricassee of rabbit he vowed he would on no account touch
unless Madame produced _les pattes_, since, as he solemnly assured
us, they frequently served fricasseed cats instead. Madame did not,
however, produce _les pattes_, and although none of us touched
it, the dish in a few minutes was cleared of its contents. This
fellow reminded me strongly of the parasite in Gil Blas, and, his
adulations being entirely addressed to our little vain conducteur,
I set him down as the “Antorcha de la Filosofia!”--maybe our hero
always dined with the passengers _par ordre et pour l’espionage_.
Here, as at Luzarches, no _empressement_ was betrayed: the diligence
stood passively at the door without horse, without even an hostler
visible; the ladies retired to a _chambre_; so the Rifleman and I
agreed to walk on, which resolve we communicated to M. le Conducteur,
who assented, and off we set. At the end of the town two roads
appeared, one running straight along the valley, the other crossing
the bridge to the right, then ran rump-fashion up the other side
of the valley, divergingly from the former--and this road was our
proper one; but, without condescending to ask a question, we very
sagaciously chose the other, and had already proceeded some hundred
yards along it, when fortunately (no hedges intervened--the valley
was all grass, a rivulet running through the middle of it) we saw our
lumbering vehicle slowly ascending the opposite hill. The distance
that separated us from it was not great, and we shouted to M. le
Conducteur to wait for us; but neither he nor the coachman heard us,
and, being ignorant of the nature of the rivulet, after a moment’s
hesitation we decided our most prudent plan was to run back to the
bridge, &c. This we immediately did; but although both of us were
pretty active runners, we should have been left behind at last had we
not luckily met a miller coming down on horseback. Him and his sacks
we dismounted _sans cérémonie_, for the diligence, having now arrived
at the summit, had commenced its jog-trot. Mounting the animal, I
pursued as fast as the end of the halter could persuade my beast to
move, and after a long chase succeeded at length in bringing the
vehicle to. Our companions, especially the young dame, or demoiselle,
had a hearty laugh at our expense, and so had our miller, for he
grinned from ear to ear when the silver recompense (never expected)
touched his palm, and he was still grinning and bowing when we
looked back as the diligence drove on. It was about eleven at night
when we reached the _barrière_ of Amiens, and I had been some time
asleep. A bright light presented to my eyes caused me to start up in
surprise, and at first it was difficult to imagine where I was, until
I perceived the uniform of a _gendarmerie_, who, after reconnoitring
us by holding the lantern to our faces, very quietly demanded
something for his trouble. Angry at such a humiliating operation,
the Rifleman and I sent him to the devil; but our companions, whilst
opening their own purses, made it so clear to us that the fellow had
been extremely civil where he might have been extremely troublesome,
that we concluded by doing in Rome, &c. &c.; and away we rumbled over
the jolting pavement, and through a series of dark narrow streets,
until at last we drove into the yard of the Hotel d’Angleterre, as
dark and deserted as the streets themselves. Hostlers, however, were
soon forthcoming, the horses changed, my _malle_ handed down, and
William and myself left standing in the middle of the yard wondering
what was to become of us. After a little hesitation, one of the
hostlers condescended to direct us to the door of the house ere he
retired, and after a good deal of knocking at that we succeeded in
rousing an old fellow--whose duty I suppose it was to sit up for the
diligence--who showed me into a large room, with a bed in one corner;
and at my request for supper brought me a couple of cold widgeons,
which I soon discussed, and jumped into an excellent bed.
_9th._--In a dilemma; no conveyance forward but posting. Did not
exactly believe this, and therefore inquired from _auberge_ to
_auberge_, until at last I discovered that a sort of caravan started
every morning at nine o’clock from the * * * for Abbeville. This
would be getting on, therefore I lost no time in securing my places.
Having risen early, I passed the intervening time in visiting some
of our people stationed here--younger M’Donald’s troop, also 1st
Regiment of Dragoons, K.G.L. Him I found in an excellent lodging.
Our caravan was a curious machine, very much down by the stern,
otherwise resembling a small house on wheels. William and a woman
got into the _fond de la voiture_, whilst I occupied the front seat,
in company with a neat, dapper, little, big-bellied man, wearing
a very smart forage-cap, and speaking a very little English. We
travelled very slowly, and made a long halt at Flixcourt (pronounced
_Fleeshcour_)--nevertheless, to my great joy, we reached Abbeville by
two o’clock. I found here the 13th Light Dragoons and my old troop
G; called on Lieutenant Leathes; dined at the Hotel de Londres, a
very inferior house. Here I hired a cabriolet to take us forward to
Calais for five napoleons. From the first I set my _voiturier_ down
as a scoundrel, from his physiognomy, and the event proved me a sound
judge. The bargain struck, he tried all sorts of shifts and excuses,
in the hope, as I discovered, of associating some other traveller
with me. As soon as I made the discovery, I insisted on his starting
instantly, and after some difficulty at last got him fairly on the
road. It proved a very tedious mode of travelling this; he did not
choose to hurry his horse, was continually stopping, and more uncivil
in his manner than I thought a true Frenchman could be. The motion
of the carriage was very disagreeable--sometimes too heavy before,
sometimes behind; and at times it became necessary to put a great
stone behind to relieve the poor horse of the weight. A sort of
commercial traveller (bagman), who overtook us as we slowly crept up
hill near Montreuil thus loaded, facetiously remarked, “Ah, monsieur,
vous chargez des pierres, donc!” Our driver’s villanous countenance
became black as thunder, but he answered a dry “Oui;” and the other,
seeing it was no joke, passed on.
It was dusk ere we reached Montreuil, and then our poor beast was so
completely done up that I was obliged to subscribe to the necessity
of halting; and accordingly our friend drew up at the door of a
mean-looking _cabaret_, just without the town, and we alighted,
expecting but sorry accommodation in such a place. If, however, La
Renard continue what it was, I shall have no objection whatever to
pass another night there when I return. A pretty little airy parlour,
well though plainly furnished, the windows opening on a garden; as
neat a little bedroom adjoining, bed the very type of cleanliness;
add an excellent supper and a bottle of very fair wine, and it may be
imagined that the evening and night passed in the Renard will always
be a bright spot in the memory. It must not be concealed, though,
that a pair of very brilliant black eyes certainly threw rather a
witching light on my apartments. In the morning, whilst Lisette
was busy preparing my breakfast, I was taking a stroll up and down
the pretty rural garden, when, to my astonishment, the apparition
of a true John-Bull farmer stood before me. At first it appeared
an illusion, but the voice soon dispelled that--brown frock-coat,
breeches and gaiters, with good thick shoes. Out of these, with the
real country twang, issued “Marning, zir; queer chaps here, zir; I
doant onderstand one word as ony on um says--not I.” My friend then
proceeded to ask my assistance as his interpreter, and explained his
being there. His son, it seems, is the saddler of the 13th Light
Dragoons, stationed just now in Abbeville, whither he had been on a
visit, and was now making his way back again to Calais, but being
short of coin (French--he had plenty of English) and words, found
himself here in a dilemma. Sorry I am that I had not time to preserve
the history of his adventures and mishaps since arriving in France;
they were most amusing and laughable, but I have now forgotten more
than odds and ends. As he passed the evening in company with William,
probably that worthy may assist me in recollecting somewhat of it.
My bill was extremely moderate for all the comfort I had enjoyed, and
I parted best friends imaginable with my attentive hostess and her
pretty daughter--_Au revoir!_
It is a curious town Montreuil, with its steep narrow streets and
high walls; but I only saw it _en passant_, for we did not stop.
Beyond it, after ascending from the valley of the Canch, we traversed
a dreary open country for some way, and then came to wood and very
pretty ground, which continued until a long descent brought us at
length creepingly to Samer, where we stopped to breakfast at the
Tête de Bœuf (William Mallet--a Frenchman, spite of the name). A
Cockney party of three ladies and two gentlemen had just arrived
from Boulogne--evidently the first time any of them had been out
of England. They were all flutter and curiosity, quite childishly
so--chattering away bad school French with a regular English
enunciation, and giggling when successful in making themselves
understood. Had they but guessed that the brown-visaged, mustachioed,
befurred hero who stood before them and watched all their movements
was English, perhaps they would have been a little more discreet.
One of the gentlemen drew, and had brought a camera lucida, which he
adjusted at the door of the Tête de Bœuf, and disposed himself to
take a view of Samer, surrounded by some eight or ten gaping clowns
in their blue frocks and clumsy _sabots_, too picturesque objects
to be missed; and my man stuck two or three of them in positions to
enter into his picture--the only feature in it, for the point of view
he had chosen was a most unfortunate one. As I leaned from my window,
right over the artist’s head, and at no great distance above him (for
the Tête de Bœuf boasts but a very moderate elevation), many an ogle
did I get from the young ladies, who kept running out incessantly in
order to persuade our hero that eating his breakfast was better than
sketching. But he was stanch to the backbone, and when my _voiturier_
summoned me to start, I left him in the same position, indefatigably
occupied upon his insipid picture. Before reaching Samer, my rogue
had begun expressing doubts of the soundness of one of his wheels;
and true enough--for just as we gained sight of Boulogne (beyond
which, I believe, he never from the first meant to go), smash it went
all to pieces, and down we came gently enough. The vagabond acted his
part well--pretended astonishment, _au désespoir_, &c. &c.--but I saw
through him. Under the circumstances, only one thing remained to be
done, as no assistance was at hand: William shouldered my _malle_, I
carried the _et ceteras_, and on we trudged; and after a pretty hot
walk we arrived at Boulogne, and entered the first decent-looking
house that presented itself, and ordered dinner. Here I learned that
a packet was about to sail in the evening for Dover, and decided on
cutting connection with my rascally _voiturier_, who managed to bring
in his vehicle shortly after us.
Accordingly in the evening we repaired to the pier and embarked at
two P.M. My fellow-passengers were--Lord Charles Fitzroy; another
officer, his friend; and a very pretty Frenchwoman. We had hardly
made any offing, when the breeze falling, left us at the mercy of
a long swell--the surface as smooth as a mirror. The rolling was
terrible, and the poor Frenchwoman, dreadfully sick, cursing the
ship, cursing England, and cursing herself for venturing on the sea.
Early[27] the following morning we reached Dover, where, to the
unspeakable horror of our poor friend, she was informed that she
could not leave the vessel until her passport had been sent to London
to be verified. O England! what naughty things did not she say of you
then! A coach, starting within an hour after our landing, was very
convenient, and in company of an officer of the 13th Light Dragoons,
I took my seat for London, and here I am.