Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume I

His position was a small village, three leagues in advance of Lesseim, called Dulaure, where, at nightfall on the 18th of March, Alfred arrived with two companies of his regiment, his orders being to reconnoitre the valley towards Lesseim, and report if the enemy should present himself in that quarter.

After an anxious night on the alert, Alfred lay down to sleep towards morning, when he was awoke by the sharp report of a musket, followed immediately after by the roll of the drum and the call for the guard to “turn out.” He rushed out, and hastened towards the advanced picket. All was in confusion: some were in retreat; others stood at a distance from their post, looking intently towards it; and at the picket itself were others, again, with piled arms, standing in a close group. What could this mean? Alfred called out, but no answer was returned. The men stared in stupid amazement, and each seemed waiting for the other to reply.

“Where is your officer?” cried De Vitry, in an angry voice.

“He is here!” said a pale, calm-featured man, who, buttoned up in a grey surtout, and with a low chapeau on his head, advanced towards him.

“You the officer!” replied Alfred, angrily: “you are not of our regiment, sir.”

“Pardon me, Colonel,” rejoined the other; “I led the twenty-second at Rovigo, and they were with me at Wagram.”

“Grand Dieu!” said Alfred, trembling; “who are you, then?”

“Your Emperor, Colonel de Vitry!”

Alfred stepped back at the words. The order to arrest and make him prisoner was almost on his lips. He turned towards his men, who instinctively had resumed their formation; his head was maddened by the conflict within it; his eyes turned again towards Napoleon – the struggle was over-he knelt and presented his sword.

“Take mine in exchange, General de Vitry,” said the Emperor; “I know you will wear it with honour.”

And thus, in a moment, was all forgotten – plighted love and sworn faith – for who could resist the Emperor?

The story is now soon told. Waterloo came, and once more the day of defeat descended, never to dawn upon another victory. Alfred, rejected and scorned, lived years in poverty and obscurity. When the fortunes of the Revolution brought up once more the old soldiers of the Empire, he fought at the Quai Voltaire and was wounded severely. The Three Days over, he was appointed to a sous-lieutenancy in the dragoons. He is now chef-d’escadron, the last of his race, weary of a world whose vicissitudes have crushed his hopes and made him broken-hearted.

The relator of this tale was Alfred de Vitry himself, who, under the name of his maternal grandfather, St. Amand, served in the second regiment of Carabiniers.

CHAPTER V

12 o’clock, Tuesday night, May 31st, 184-

“Que bella cosa” to be a king! Here am I now, returned from Neuilly, whither I dreaded so much to venture, actually enchanted with the admirable manner of his Majesty Louis Philippe, adding one more to the long list of those who, beginning with Madame de Genlis and Johnson, have delighted to extol the qualities whose pleasing properties have been expended on themselves.

There is, however, something wonderfully interesting in the picture of a royal family living en bourgeois– a King sitting with his spectacles on his forehead and his newspaper on his knee, playfully alluding to observations whose fallacy he alone can demonstrate; a Queen busily engaged amid the toils of the work-table, around which Princesses of every European royalty are seated, gaily chatting over their embroidery, or listening while an amusing book is read out by a husband or a brother: even an American would be struck by such a view of monarchy.

The Duc de Nemours is the least prepossessing of the princes; his deafness, too, assists the impression of his coldness and austerity: while the too-studied courtesy of the Prince de Joinville towards Englishmen is the reverse of an amicable demonstration.

I could not help feeling surprised at the freedom with which his Majesty canvassed our leading political characters; for his intimate acquaintance with them all, I was well prepared. One remark he made worth remembering, – “The Duke of Wellington should always be your Minister of Foreign Affairs, no matter what the changes of party. It is not that his great opportunities of knowing the Continent, assisted by his unquestionable ability, alone distinguish him, but that his name and the weight of his opinion on any disputed question exert a greater influence than any other man’s over the various sovereignties of Europe. After the Emperor himself, he was the greatest actor in the grand drama of the early part of the century; he made himself conspicuous in every council, even less by the accuracy of his views than by their unerring, unswerving rectitude. The desperate struggle in which he had taken part had left no traces of ungenerous feeling or animosity behind, and the pride of conquest had never disturbed the equanimity of the negotiator.”

What other statesman in England had dared to ratify the Belgian revolution, and, by his simple acknowledgment, place the fact beyond appeal? It is with statesmen as with soldiers; the men who have been conversant with great events maintain the prestige of their ascendancy over all who “never smelt powder;” and Metternich wields much of his great influence on such a tenure.

Apropos of Metternich; the King told a trait of him which I have not heard before. In one of those many stormy interviews which took place between him and the Emperor, Napoleon, irritated at the tone of freedom assumed by the Austrian envoy, endeavoured by an artifice to recall him to what he deemed a recollection of their relative stations, and then, as it were, inadvertently let fall his hat for the Prince to take it up; instead of which Metternich moved back and bowed, leaving the Emperor to lift it from the ground himself.

Napoleon, it would seem, was ever on the watch to detect and punish the slightest infraction of that respect which “doth hedge a king,” even in cases when the offender had nothing further from his mind than the intention to transgress: a rather absurd illustration was mentioned by the King. The Emperor was one day seeking for a book in the library at Malmaison, and at last discovered it on a shelf somewhat above his reach. Marshal Moocey, one of the tallest men in the army, who was present, immediately stepped forward, saying, “Permettez, Sire. Je suis plus grand que votre Majesté!” “Vous voulez dire plus long, Maréchal,” said the Emperor, with a frown that made the reproof actually a severity.

From the tone of his Majesty’s observations on our nobility, and the security such an order necessarily creates, I thought I could mark a degree of regret at the extinction of the class in France. How natural such a feeling! For how, after all, can a monarchy long subsist with such a long interval between the crown and the people? The gradations of rank are the best guarantees against any assault on its privileges; a House of Lords is the best floating breakwater against the storms of a people in revolt.

With a marked condescension, his Majesty inquired after my health and the object of my journey; and when I mentioned Naples, hastily remarked, “Ah, well! I can promise you a very agreeable house to pass your evenings in: we are going to send Favancourt there as envoy, and Madame la Comtesse is your countrywoman. This, however, is a secret which even Favancourt himself is ignorant of.”

I am not casuist enough to say if this intimation of the King is binding on me as to secrecy; but, possibly, I need not risk the point, as I shall not be likely to see Favancourt or Madame de Favancourt before I start to-morrow.

I am already impatient for the hour to go; I want to be away – afar – from the gorgeous glitter of this splendid capital. Something nigh to misanthropy creeps over me at the sight of pleasures in which I am no more to take a part, and I would not that a feeling thus ungenerous should be my travelling companion. I do not experience the inordinate love of life which, we are told, ever accompanies my malady. If I have a wish to live, it is to frame a different kind of existence from what I have hitherto followed, and I believe most sick people’s love of life is the desire of dwelling longer amid the pursuits they have followed. And now for the map, to see how I may trace a route, and see – shame that I must say so! – fewest of my countrymen. Well, then, from Strasbourg to Fribourg, and through the Hohlen-Thal.

So far, so good! This is all new to me. Thence to Munich, or direct to Inspruck, as I may decide later on. This, at least, avoids Switzerland, and all its radicalism and roguery, not to speak of the “Perkinses,” who are “out” by this time, touring it to Lausanne and Chamouni.

What a tremendous noise a carriage makes coming through these portes-cochères! Truly, the luxury is heavily paid for by all the inhabitants of a house. Is that a tap at my door?

A few lines before I lie down to sleep! It is already daybreak. What would poor Dr. S – say if he knew I had been sitting up to this hour, and at a petit souper too, with some half-dozen of the wealthiest people in Paris, not to speak of the prettiest? Madame de F – would take no refusal, however, and averred she had made the party expressly for me; that V – H – had declined another engagement to come; and, in fact – no matter what little flatteries – I went; and here I am, with my cheek flushed and my head on fire, my brain whirling with mad excitement, laughter still ringing in my ears, and all the exaltation he feels who, drinking water while others sip champagne, is yet the only one whose faculties are intoxicated.

What a brilliant scene in a comedy would that little supper have been, just as it really was; scenery, decorations, people all unchanged! the dimly lighted boudoir, where all the luxury of modern requirement was seen through a chiaroscuro, that made it seem half unreal; and then, the splendid brilliancy of the supper-room beyond, where, amid the gorgeous dis-play of vaisselle and flowers, shone still more brightly the blaze of beauty and the fire of genius.

How often have I remarked in these little “jousts of the table,” where each man puts forth his sharpest weapons of wit and pleasantry, that the conqueror, like an Ivanhoe, is an unknown knight, and with a blank shield.

So was it, I remember once, where we had a sprinkling of every class of celebrity, from the Chamber of Deputies to the Théâtre Français; and yet the heart of all was taken by a young Spaniard, whom nobody seemed to know whence or how he came, – a handsome, dark-eyed fellow, with a short upper lip that seemed alive with energy, combining in his nature the stern dignity of the Castilian and the hot blood of Andalusia. It was the Marquis de Brabançon brought him, presenting him to the lady of the house in a half whisper.

There are men it would be utter ruin to place in positions of staid and tranquil respectability, and yet who make great names. They are born to be adventurers. I remained the last, on purpose to hear who he was, feeling no common curiosity, even though – as so often happens – the name, when heard, conveys nothing to the ear, and leaves as little for the memory.

I could not avoid remarking that he bore, in the mild and thoughtful character of his brow, a strong resemblance to the portraits of Claverhouse.

“Alike in more than looks,” said the hostess: “they have many traits in common, and shew that the proud Dundee was no exceptional instance of humanity, uniting the softness of a girl with a courage even verging upon ferocity.”

The stranger was the Spanish General Cabrebra!

“And now that you have seen him, let me tell you a short anecdote of him, only worth remembering as so admirably in colouring with his appearance on entering.

“Last year, at the head of a division of the army, the Bishop of Grenada, accompanied by all his clergy, received him in a grand procession, and safely escorted him to the episcopal palace, where a splendid collation was prepared. The soldierlike air and manly beauty of the young General were even less the theme of admiration than his respectful reception of the Bishop, to whom he knelt in devout reverence, and kissed the hand with deep humility, walking at his side with an air of almost bashful deference.

“At table, too, his manner was even more marked by respect. As the meal proceeded, the Bishop could not fail remarking that his guest seemed deeply possessed by some secret care, which made him frequently sigh, in a manner betokening heavy affliction. After some pressing, it came out; the source of the grief was, the inability of the General to pay his troops, for the military chest was quite empty, and daily desertions were occurring. The sum required was a large one, 20,000 contos, and the venerable Bishop hastened to assure him, with unfeigned sorrow, that the poor and suffering city could not command one-fourth of the amount. Cabrebra rose, and paced the room in great excitement, ever throwing, as he passed, a glance into the court-yard, where a party of grenadiers stood under arms, and then, resuming his place at the table, he seemed endeavouring, but vainly, to join in the festivity around him.

“‘It is evident to me, my son,’ said the Bishop, ‘that some heavier sorrow is lying at your heart; tell it, and let me, if it may be, give you comfort and support.’ Cabrebra hesitated; and at last avowed that such was the case. Considerable entreaty, however, was necessary to wring the mystery from him: when at last he said, in a voice broken and agitated, ‘You know me, Holy Father, for a good and faithful son of the Church – for one who reveres its ordinances, and those who dispense them» Think, then, of my deep misery when – but I cannot – I am utterly unable to proceed.’ After much pressing he resumed, with sudden energy – ‘Yes – I know I shall never feel peace and happiness more, for although I have done many a hard and cruel deed, I never, till now, had the dreadful duty to order a Bishop to be shot! This is what is breaking my heart – this is my secret misery.’

“It is scarcely necessary to say, that he was speedily recovered from so dreadful an embarrassment, for the Bishop was too good a Christian to see a devout soldier reduced to such extremity. The money was paid, and the Bishop ransomed.”

Our celebrity of to-night was of less mark – indeed, nominally, of none – but he has but to escape “rope and gun.” and he will make a name for himself.

He is a young Frenchman, one who, beginning at the lowest rung of the ladder, may still climb high. Strange paths are open to eminence nowadays, and there is no reason why a man may not begin life as a “Vaudevilliste,” and end it “Pair de France.”

Jules de Russigny – whence the “de” came from we must not inquire – like most of the smart men of the day, is a Provençal; he was educated at a Séminaire, and destined for the priesthood. Some slight irregularity caused his dismissal, and he came to Paris on foot to seek his fortune. When toiling up a steep ascent of the road at St Maurice, he saw before him on the way a heavily laden travelling carriage, which, with the aid of his struggling post-horses, was also labouring up the hill; an elderly gentleman had descended to walk, and was plodding wearily after his lumbering equipage. As Jules reached the crest of the ridge, all were gone, and nothing but a deep column of dust announced the course of the departed carriage: at his feet, however, he discovered a paper, which, closely written, and, by its numerous corrections, appeared as closely studied, must have fallen from the pocket of the traveller.

Jules sat down to inspect it, and found to his surprise it was a species of memorandum on the subject of the educationary establishments of France, with much statistic detail, and a great amount of information, evidently the result of considerable labour and research. There were many points, of course, perfectly new to him, but there were others with which he was well acquainted, and some on which he was so well informed as to be able to detect mistakes and fallacies in the memorandum. Conning the theme over, he reached a little way-side inn, and inquiring who the traveller was that passed, he heard, to his surprise, it was the Minister of Public Instruction.

When Jules reached Paris, it was about a fortnight before the opening of the Chambers, and the newspapers were all in full cry discussing the various systems of education, and with every variety of opinion pronouncing for and against the supposed views of the Government. Most men, in his situation, would have sought out the Minister’s residence, and, restoring to him the lost paper, retired well satisfied with a very modest recompense for a service that cost so little.

Not so Jules; he established himself in a cheap corner of the Pays Latin, and spent his days conning over the various journals of Paris, until, by dint of acute study and penetration, he had possessed himself of every shade and hue of political opinion professed by each. At last he discovered that the “Siècle” was the most decidedly obnoxious to the Government, and the “Moniteur” most favourable to the newly projected system. To each he sent an article: in one, setting forth a dim, but suggestive idea, of what the Minister might possibly attempt, with a terrific denunciation annexed to it; in the other, a half defence of the plan, supported by statistic detail, and based on the information of the manuscript.

These two papers both appeared, as assertion and rejoinder; and so did the polemic continue for above a week, increasing each day in interest, and gradually swelling in the number of the facts adduced, and the reasons for which the opinion was entertained. Considerable interest was created to know the writer, but although he was then dining each day, and that his only meal, for four sous in the “Ilee St. Louis,” he preserved his incognito unbroken, and never divulged to any one his secret. At last came an announcement in the “Siècle,” at the close of one of the articles, that on the next day would appear a full disclosure of the whole government measure, with the mechanism by which its views were to be strengthened, and the whole plan of conception on which it was based. That same evening a young man, pale, and sickly looking, stood at the porte-cochere of a splendid mansion in the Rue St. George, and asked to see the owner. The rude repulse of the porter did not abash him, nor did the insolent glance bestowed on his ragged shoes and threadbare coat cost him a pang of displeasure: he felt that he could bide his time, for it would come at last.

“His Excellency is at the Council!” at last said the porter, somewhat moved by a pertinacity that had nothing of rudeness in it.

With a calm resolve he sat down on a stone bench, and fell a-thinking to himself. It was full three hours later when the Minister’s carriage rolled in, and the Minister, hastily descending, proceeded to mount the stairs.