I propose giving my own impression of the aspect of Paris and its
vicinity when our regiment entered that city on the 25th of June, 1815.
I recollect we marched from the plain of St. Denis, my battalion being
about five hundred strong, the survivors of the heroic fight of the
18th of June. We approached near enough to be within fire of the
batteries of Montmartre, and bivouacked for three weeks in the Bois de
Boulogne. That now beautiful garden was at the period to which I refer
a wild pathless wood, swampy, and entirely neglected. The Prussians,
who were in bivouac near us, amused themselves by doing as much damage
as they could, without any useful aim or object: they cut down the
finest trees, and set the wood on fire at several points. There were
about three thousand of the Guards then encamped in the wood, and I
should think about ten thousand Prussians. Our camp was not remarkable
for its courtesy towards them; in fact, our intercourse was confined to
the most ordinary demands of duty, as allies in an enemy's country.
I believe I was one of the first of the British army who penetrated
into the heart of Paris after Waterloo. I entered by the Porte
Maillot, and passed the Arc de Triomphe, which was then building. In
those days the Champs Elysees only contained a few scattered houses,
and the roads and pathways were ancle deep in mud. The only attempt at
lighting was the suspension of a few lamps on cords, which crossed the
roads. Here I found the Scotch regiments bivouacking; their peculiar
uniform created a considerable sensation amongst the Parisian women,
who did not hesitate to declare that the want of culottes was most
indecent. I passed through the camp, and proceeded on towards the
gardens of the Tuilleries. This ancient palace of the Kings of France
presented, so far as the old front is concerned, the same aspect that
it does at the present day; but there were then no flower-gardens,
although the same stately rows of trees which now ornament the grounds
were then in their midsummer verdure.
Being in uniform, I created an immense amount of curiosity amongst the
Parisians; who, by the way, I fancied regarded me with no loving looks.
The first house I entered was a cafe in the garden of the Tuilleries,
called Legac's. I there met a man who told me he was by descent an
Englishman; though he had been born in Paris, and had really never
quitted France. He approached me, saying, "Sir, I am delighted to see
an English officer in Paris, and you are the first I have yet met
with." He talked about the battle of Waterloo, and gave me some useful
directions concerning restaurants and cafes. Along the Boulevards were
handsome houses, isolated, with gardens interspersed, and the roads
were bordered on both sides with stately, spreading trees, some of them
probably a hundred years old. There was but an imperfect pavement, the
stepping-stones of which were adapted to display the Parisian female
ankle and boot in all their calculated coquetry; and the road showed
nothing but mother earth, in the middle of which a dirty gutter served
to convey the impurities of the city to the river. The people in the
streets appeared sulky and stupefied: here and there I noticed groups
of the higher classes evidently discussing the events of the moment.
How strange humanity would look in our day in the costume of the first
empire. The ladies wore very scanty and short skirts, which left
little or no waist; their bonnets were of exaggerated proportions, and
protruded at least a foot from their faces, and they generally carried
a fan. The men wore blue or black coats, which were baggily made, and
reached down to their ankles; their hats were enormously large, and
spread out at the top.
I dined the first day of my entrance into Paris at the Cafe Anglais, on
the Boulevard des Italiens, where I found to my surprise several of my
brother officers. I recollect the charge for the dinner was about
one-third what it would be at the present day. I had a potage,
fish--anything but fresh, and, according to English predilections and
taste, of course I ordered a beef-steak and pommes de terre. The wine,
I thought, was sour. The dinner cost about two francs. The theatres at
this time, as may easily be imagined, were not very well attended. I
recollect going to the Francais, where I saw for the first time the
famous Talma. There was but a scanty audience; in fact all the best
places in the house were empty.
It may easily be imagined that, at a moment like this, most of those
who had a stake in the country were pondering over the great and real
drama that was then taking place. Napoleon had fled to Rochfort; the
wreck of his army had retreated beyond the Loire; no list of killed and
wounded had appeared; and, strange to say, the official journal of
Paris had made out that the great Imperial army at Waterloo had gained
a victory. There were, nevertheless, hundreds of people in Paris who
knew to the contrary, and many were already aware that they had lost
relations and friends in the great battle.
Louis XVIII. arrived, as well as I can remember, at the Tuileries on
the 26th of July, 1815, and his reception by the Parisians was a
singular illustration of the versatile character of the French nation,
and the sudden and often inexplicable changes which take place in the
feeling of the populace. When the Bourbon, in his old lumbering state
carriage, drove down the Boulevards, accompanied by the Garde du Corps,
the people in the streets and at the windows displayed the wildest joy,
enthusiastically shouting "Vive le Roi!" amidst the waving of hats and
handkerchiefs, while white sheets or white rags were made to do the
duty of a Bourbon banner. The king was dressed in a blue coat with a
red collar, and wore also a white waistcoat and a cocked hat with a
white cockade in it. His portly and good-natured appearance seemed to
be appreciated by the crowd, whom he saluted with a benevolent smile.
I should here mention that two great devotees of the Church sat
opposite to the King on this memorable occasion. The cortege proceeded
slowly down the Rue de la Paix until the Tuileries was reached, where a
company of the Guards, together with a certain number of the Garde
Nationale of Paris, were stationed.
It fell to my lot to be on duty the day after, when the Duke of
Wellington and Lord Castlereagh arrived to pay their respects to the
restored monarch. I happened to be in the Salle des Marechaux when
these illustrious personages passed through that magnificent apartment.
The respect paid to the Duke of Wellington on this occasion may be
easily imagined, from the fact that a number of ladies of the highest
rank, and of course partisans of the legitimate dynasty, formed an
avenue through which the hero of Waterloo passed, exchanging with them
courteous recognitions. The King was waiting in the grand reception
apartment to receive the great British captain. The interview, I have
every reason to believe, was not confined to the courtesies of the
palace.
The position of the Duke was a difficult one. In the first place, he
had to curb the vindictive vandalism of Blucher and his army, who would
have levelled the city of Paris to the ground, if they could have done
so; on the other hand, he had to practise a considerable amount of
diplomacy towards the newly-restored King. At the same time the Duke's
powers from his own Government were necessarily limited. A spirit of
vindictiveness pervaded the restored Court against Napoleon and his
adherents, which the Duke constantly endeavoured to modify. I must not
forget to give an illustration of this state of feeling. It was
actually proposed by Talleyrand, Fouche, and some important
ecclesiastics of the ultra-royalist party, to arrest and shoot the
Emperor Napoleon, who was then at Rochfort: so anxious were they to
commit this criminal, inhuman, and cowardly act, on an illustrious
fallen enemy, who had made the arms of France glorious throughout
Europe, that they suggested to the Duke, who had the command of the old
wooden-armed semaphores, to employ the telegraph to order what I should
have designated by no other name than the assassination of the Caesar
of modern history.