Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume I
“I saw it all from the window of the church; and suddenly, as my eyes turned from the grand spectacle of the moving column, with its banners flying and bayonets glistening, to the dim, half-lighted aisles of the old church, with smoky tapers burning faintly, amid which an old decrepid priest was moving slowly, a voice within me cried, – ‘Better a tambour, than this!’ I stole out, and reached the street just as the last files were passing: I mingled with the crowd that followed, my heart beating time to the quick march. I tracked them out of the town, further and further, till we reached the wide open country.
“‘Will you not come back, Pierre?’ said I, pulling him by the sleeve, as, at last, I reached the leading files, where the little fellow marched, proud as the tambour-major.
“‘I go back, and the regiment marching against the enemy!’ exclaimed he, indignantly; and a roar of laughter and applause from the soldiers greeted his words.
“‘Nor I either!’ cried I. And thus I became a soldier, never to regret the day I belted on the knapsack. But here comes the Père Duclos: I hope he may not be displeased at your having kept me company. I know well he loves not such companionship for his pupil – perhaps he has reason.”
Alfred did not wait for the priest’s arrival, but darted from the spot and hastened to his room, where, bolting the door, he threw himself upon his bed and wept bitterly. Who knows if these tears decided not all his path in life?
That same evening the lieutenant left the château; and in about two months after came a letter, expressing his gratitude for all the kindness of his host, and withal a present of a gun and a chasseur’s accoutrement for Alfred.. They were very handsome and costly, and he was never weary of trying them on his shoulder and looking how they became him; when, in examining one of the pockets for the twentieth time, he discovered a folded paper: he opened it, and found it was an appointment for a cadet in the military school of St. Cyr. Alfred de Vitry was written in pencil where the name should be inscribed, but very faintly, and so that it required sharp looking to detect the letters. It was enough, however, for him who read the words: he packed up a little parcel of clothes, and, with a few francs in his pocket, he set out that night for Chalons, where he took the malle. The third day, when he was tracked by the Père, he was already enrolled a cadet, and not all the interest in France could have removed him against his consent.
I will not dwell on a career which was in no respect different from that of hundreds of others. Alfred joined the army in the second Italian campaign – was part of Dessaix’s division at Marengo – was wounded at Aspern, and finally accompanied the Emperor in his terrible march to Moscow. He saw more service than his promotion seemed to imply, however; for, after Leipsig, Dresden, Bautzen, he was carried on a litter, with some other dying comrades, into a little village of Alsace – a lieutenant of hussars, nothing more.
An hospital, hastily constructed of planks, had been fitted up outside the village – there were many such, on the road between Strasbourg and Nancy; and here poor Alfred lay, with many more, their sad fate rendered still sadder by the daily tidings, which told them that the cause for which they had shed their blood was hourly becoming more hopeless.
The army that never knew defeat now counted nothing but disasters. Before Alfred had recovered from his wound, the allies bivouacked in the Place Carrousel, and Napoleon was at Elba!
When little dreaming that he could take any part in that general joy by which France, in one of her least-thinking moments, welcomed back the Bourbons, Alfred was loitering listlessly along one of the quays of Paris, wondering within himself by what process of arithmetic he could multiply seven sous – they were all he had – into the price of a supper and a bed; and while his eyes often dwelt with lingering fondness on the windows of the restaurants, they turned, too, with a dreadful instinct towards the Seine, whose eddies had closed over many a sorrow and crime.
As he wandered thus, a cry arose for help: an unfortunate creature – one whose woes were greater, or whose courage to bear them less, than his own – had thrown herself from the Pont-Neuf into the river, and her body was seen to rise and sink several times in the current of the rapid stream, It was from no prompting of humanity – it was something like a mere instinct, and no more – mayhap, too, his recklessness of life had some share in the act; – whatever the reason, he sprung into the river, and, after a long and vigorous struggle, he brought her out alive; and then, forcing through the crowd that welcomed him, he drew his miserable and dripping hat over his eyes. He continued his road – Heaven knows he had little purpose or object to warrant the persistence!
He had not gone far when a number of voices were heard behind him, calling out, —
“That is he! – there he is!” and at the same instant an officer rode up beside him, and, saluting him politely, said that her royal highness the Duchess of Berri desired to speak to him; – her carriage was just by.
Alfred was in that humour when, so indifferent is every object in life, that he would have turned at the bidding of the humblest gamin of the streets; and, wet and weary, he stood beside the door of the splendid equipage.
“It was thou that saved the woman?” said the Duchess, addressing him, and using the conventional “Du,” as suitable to his mean appearance.
“Madame,” said Alfred, removing his tattered hat, “I am a gentleman! These rags were once – the uniform of the Guard.”
“My God! – my cousin!” cried a voice beside the Duchess; and, at the same instant, a young girl held out her hands towards him, and exclaimed, —
“Knowest thou not me, Alfred? I am Alice – Alice de Vitry – thy cousin and thy sister!”
It would little interest you to dwell on the steps that followed, and which, in a few weeks, made of a wretched outcast – without a home or a meal – an officer of the Guard du Corps, with the order of St. Louis at his breast.
Time sped on, and his promotion with it; and at length his Majesty, graciously desiring to see the old nobility resume their place and grade, consented to the union of Alfred with his cousin. There was no violent love on either side, but there was sincere esteem and devoted friendship; and if they neither of them felt that degree of attachment which becomes a passion, they regarded each other with true affection.
Alice was a devoted Royalist: all that she had suffered for the cause had endeared it to her; and she could forgive, but not forget, that her future husband had shed his blood for the Usurper.
Alfred was what every one, and with reason, called a most fortunate fellow: a colonel at twenty-eight – a promotion that, under the Empire, nothing but the most distinguished services could have gained – and yet he was far from happy. He remembered with higher enthusiasm his first grade of “corporal,” won at Aspern, and his epaulettes that he gained at Wilna. His soldiering had been learned in another school than in the parade-ground at Versailles, or the avenue of the Champs Elysées.
“Come, mon ami!” said Alice, gaily, to him one morning, about ten days before the time appointed for their marriage; “thou art about to have some occasion for thy long-rusting sword: the Usurper has landed at Cannes.”
“The Emperor at Cannes!”
“The Emperor, if thou wilt – but without an Empire.”
“No matter. Is he without an army?” said Alfred.
“Alone – with some half-dozen followers, at most. Ney has received orders to march against him, and thou art to command a brigade.”
“This is good news!” said Alfred; for the very name of war had set his heart a-throbbing; and as he issued forth into the streets, the stirring sounds of excitement and rapid motion of troops increased his ardour.
Wondering groups were gathered in every street, some, discussing the intelligence, others, reading the great placards, which, in letters of portentous size, announced that “the Monster” had once more polluted by his presence the soil of France.
Whatever the enthusiasm of the old Royalists to the Bourbon cause, there seemed an activity and determination on the part of the Buonapartists who had taken service with the King to exhibit their loyalty to the new sovereign; and Ney rode from one quarter of Paris to the other, with a cockade of most conspicuous size, followed by a staff equally remarkable.
That same day Alfred left Paris for Lyons, where his regiment lay, with orders to move to the south, by forced marches, and arrest the advance of the small party which formed the band of the invader. It was Alice herself fastened the knot of white ribbon in his shako, and bade him adieu with a fondness of affection he had never witnessed before.
From Paris to Lyons, and to Grenoble, Alfred hastened with promptitude. At Lesseim, at last, he halted for orders.
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.
