CHAPTER X. SOME REVERIES ABOUT PLACES.

What would the old school of Diplomatists have said if they saw their secret wiles and machinations exposed to publicity, as is now the fashion? When any “honourable and learned gentleman” can call for “copies of the correspondence between our Minister at the Court of-------- and the noble Secretary for the Foreign Department;” and when the “Times” can, in a leader, rip up all the flaws of a treaty, or expose all the dark intentions of some special compact? The Diplomatic “Holy of Holies” is now open to the vulgar gaze, and all the mysteries of the craft as commonplace as the transactions of a Poor-law Union.

Much of the “prestige” of this secrecy died out on the establishment of railroads. The Courier who travelled formerly with breathless haste from Moscow to London, or from the remotest cities of the far East, to our little Isle of the West, was sure to bring intelligence several days earlier than it could reach by any other channel. The gold greyhound, embroidered on his arm, was no exaggerated emblem of his speed; but now, his prerogative over, he journeys in “a first-class carriage” with some fifty others, who arrive along with him. Old age and infancy, sickness and debility, are no disqualifications--the race is open to all--and the tidings brought by “our messenger” are not a particle later, and rarely so full, as those given forth in the columns of a leading journal.

How impossible to affect any mysterious silence before the “House!”--how vain to attempt any knowledge from exclusive sources! “The ordinary channels of information,” to use Sir Robert’s periphrasis, are the extraordinary ones too; and not only do they contain whatever Ministers know, but very often “something more.”

Time was when the Minister, or even the Secretary at a Foreign Court, appeared in society as a kind of casquet of state secrets,--when his mysterious whispers, his very gestures, were things to speculate on, and a grave motion of his eyebrows could make “Consols” tremble, and throw the “Threes” into a panic. Now the question is, Have you seen the City article in the “Times?” What does the “Chronicle” say? No doubt this is a tremendous power, and very possibly the enjoyment of it, such as we have it in England, is the highest element of a pure democracy. Political information of a very high order establishes a species of education, which is the safest check upon the dangers of private judgment, and hence it is fair to hope that we possess a sounder and more healthy public opinion in England than in any of the states of the Continent. At least it would not be too much to infer, that we would be less accessible to those sudden convulsions, those violent “_coups de main_” by which Governments are overturned abroad; and that the general diffusion of new notions on political subjects, and the daily reference to such able expositors as our newspaper press contains, are strong safeguards against the seductive promises of mob-leaders and liberty-mongers.

In France, a Government is always at the mercy of any one bold enough to lead the assault. The attempt may seem often a “forlorn hope”--it rarely is so in reality. The love of vagrancy is not so inherent in the Yankee as is the destructive passion in the Frenchman’s heart; but it is there, less from any pleasure in demolition than in the opportunity thus. offered for reconstruction. Mirabeau, Rousseau, Fournier, La Mennais, are the social architects of French predilection, and many a clearance has been made to begin the edifice, and many have perished in laying the foundations, which never rose above the earth, but which ere long we may again witness undertaken with new and bolder hands than ever.

Events that once took centuries for their accomplishment, are now the work of days or weeks. Steam seems to have communicated its impetuosity to mind as well as matter, and ere many years pass over how few of the traces of Old Europe will remain, as our fathers knew them?

I have scarcely entered a foreign city, for the last few years, without detecting the rapid working of those changes. Old families sinking into decay and neglect--time-honoured titles regarded as things that “once were.” Their very homes, the palaces, associated with incidents of deep historic interests, converted into hôtels or “_Pensionnats_.”

The very last time I strolled through Paris, I loitered to the “_Quartier_” which, in my young ambition, I regarded with all the reverence the pilgrim yields to Mecca. I remembered the first “_soirée_” in which I was presented, having dined at the Embassy, and being taken in the evening, by the Ambassador, that I might be introduced to the Machiavel of his craft, Prince Talleyrand. Even yet I feel the hot blush which mantled in my cheek as I was passing, with very scant ceremony, the round-shouldered little old man who stood in the very doorway, his wide black coat, far too large for his figure, and his white hair, trimly brushed back from his massive temples.

It did not need the warning voice of my introducer, hastily calling my name, to make my sense of shame a perfect agony. “Monsieur Templeton, Monsieur le Prince,” said the Ambassador; “the young gentleman of whom I spoke;” and he added, in a tone inaudible to me, something about my career and some mention of my relatives.

“Oh, yes!” said the Prince, smiling graciously, “I am aware how ‘connexion,’ as you call it, operates in England; but permit me, Monsieur,” said he, turning towards me, “to give one small piece of advice. It is this: ‘If you can win by cards never score the honours.’” The precept had little influence on himself, however. No man ever paid greater deference to the distinctions of rank, or conceded more to the prestige of an ancient name. Neither a general, an orator, nor an author--not even the leader of a faction--this astonishing man stood alone, in the resources of his fertile intellect, directing events, which he appeared to follow, and availing himself of resources which he had stored up for emergency; but so artfully, that they seemed to arise out of the natural current of events. Never disconcerted or abashed--not once thrown off his balance--not more calmly dignified when he stood beside Napoleon at Erfurth, then master of Europe itself, than he was at the Congress of Vienna, when the defeat of France had placed her at the mercy of her enemies.

It was in this same house, in the Rue Saint Florentin, that the Emperor Alexander lived when the Allies entered Paris, on the last day of March, 1814. His Majesty occupied the first floor; M. de Talleyrand, the _rez de chaussée_. He was then no more than ex-Minister for Foreign Affairs; neither empowered by the Bourbons to treat for the Restoration, nor by the nation for the conditions of a government--he was merely “one among the conquered;” and yet to this man all eyes were turned instinctively, as to one who possessed the secret of the future. That _rez de chaussée_ was besieged with visitors from morning till night; and even when, according to the custom of the French, he made his lengthened toilette, his dressing-room was filled by all the foreign ministers of the conquering monarchs, and Nesselrode and Metternich waited at these daily levées. In all these discussions M. de Talleyrand took the lead, with the same ease and the same “_àplomb_” discussing kings to make and kingdoms to dismember, as though the clank of the muskets, which now and then interrupted their colloquy, came from the Imperial Guard of Napoleon, and not the Cossacks of the Don and the Uhlans of the Danube, who crowded the stairs and the avenues, and bivouacked in the court.

Here the Restoration was decided upon, and Talleyrand himself it was who decided it. The Emperor Alexander opposed it strongly at first, alleging that the old spirit and the old antipathies would all return with the elder Bourbons, and suggesting the Duc d’Orléans as king. Talleyrand, however, overruled the objection, asserting that no new agent must be had recourse to for governing at such a juncture, and that one usurpation could not be succeeded by another. It is said that when the news reached Vienna, in 1815, that Napoleon had landed from Elba, the Emperor Alexander came hurriedly over to where Talleyrand was sitting, and informing him what had occurred, said, “I told you before your plan would be a failure!” “_Mais que faire?_” coolly retorted the calm _diplomate_; “of two evil courses it was the better--I never said more of it. Had you proclaimed the King of Rome, you had been merely maintaining the power of Napoleon under another name. You cannot establish the government of a great nation upon a half-measure. Besides that, Legitimacy, whatever its faults, was the only Principle that could prove to Europe at large that France and Napoleon were parted for ever; and, after so many barterings of crowns and trucklings of kingdoms, it was a fine opportunity of shewing that there was still something--whether it be or be not by right divine--which was superior to sabres and muskets, generals and armies.”

It was the sanctity of right--whether of kings, people, or individuals--which embodied Talleyrand’s conception of the Restoration; and this it was which he so admirably expressed when arriving at the Congress of Vienna, the ambassador of a nation without wealth or army. “_Je viens_” said he to the assembled Kings and Ministers of conquering Europe--“_Je viens et je vous apporte plus que vous n’avez,--Je vous apporte l’idée du droit!_” This was happily expressed; but no one more than he knew how to epigrammatise a whole volume of thought. In private life, the charm of his manner was the most perfect thing imaginable: his consciousness of rank and ancient family divested him of all pretension whatever, and the idea of entering the lists with any one never occurred to his mind. Willingly availing himself of the talents of others, and their pens upon occasion, he never felt any embittering jealousy. Approachable by all, his unaffected demeanour was as likely to strike the passing observer as the rich stores of his intellect would have excited the admiration of a more reflecting one. Such was he who has passed away from amongst us--perhaps the very last name of the eventful era he lived in which shall claim a great place in history!

A singular picture of human vicissitude is presented to us in the aspect of those places, but more particularly of those houses wherein great events have once occurred, but where times’ change have brought new and very different associations. A very few years, in this eventful century we live in, will do this. The wonderful drama of the Empire sufficed to impress upon every city of Europe some great and imposing reminiscence. A small, unpretending little house, beside the ducal park at Weimar, was Napoleon’s resting-place for three days, when the whole world was at his feet! The little salon where his receptions were held at evening--and what receptions were they! the greatest Ministers and the most distinguished Generals of Europe!--scarcely more than an ordinary dressing-room in size, remains to this hour as he left it. One arm-chair, a little larger than the others, stands at the window, which always lay open. A table was placed upon the grass-plot outside, where several maps were laid. The salon itself was too small to admit it, and here from time to time the Emperor repaired, while with eagle glance and abrupt gesture he marked out the future limits of the continental kingdoms, creating and erasing monarchies, fashioning nations and people, in all the proud wilfulness of Omnipotence! And now, while thinking of the Emperor, let me bring to mind another local association.

In the handsomest part of the Chaussée d’Antin, surrounded on every side by the splendid palaces and gorgeous mansions of the wealthiest inhabitants of Paris, stands a small, isolated, modest edifice, more like a Roman villa than the house of some northern capital, in the midst of a park; one of those pleasure-grounds which the French--Heaven knows why--designate as “Jardin Anglais.” The outer gate opens on the Rue Chantereine, and here to this hour you may trace, among the time-worn and dilapidated ornaments, some remnants of the strange figures which once decorated the pediment: weapons of various ages and countries, grouped together with sphinxes and Egyptian emblems; the faint outlines of pyramids, the peaceful-looking ibis, are there, among the helmets and cuirasses, the massive swords and the death-dealing arms of our modern warfare. In the midst of all, the number 52 stands encircled with a little garland of leaves; but even they are scarce distinguishable now, and the number itself requires the aid of faith to detect it.

Within, the place speaks of neglect and decay; the shrubs are broken and uncared-for; the parterres are weed-grown; a few marble pedestals rise amid the rank grass, to mark where statues once stood, but no other trace of them remains: the very fountain itself is fissured and broken, and the water has worn its channel along the herbage, and ripples on its wayward course unrestrained. The villa is almost a ruin, the sashes have fallen in in many places; the roof, too, has given way, and fragments of the mirrors which once decorated the walls lie strewn upon the floor with pieces of rare marble. Wherever the eye turns, some emblem of the taste of its former occupant meets you. Some fresco, Stained with damp, and green with mildew; some rustic bench, beneath a spreading tree, where the view opens more boldly; but all are decayed. The inlaid floors are rotting; the stuccoed ceilings, the richly-carved architraves, fall in fragments as your footsteps move; and the doomed walls themselves seem scarce able to resist the rude blast whose wailing cadence steals along them.

Oh, how tenfold more powerfully are the memories of the dead preserved by the scenes they habited while in life, than by the tombs and epitaphs that cover their ashes! How do the lessons of one speak home to the heart, calling up again, before the mind’s eye, the very images themselves! not investing them with attributes our reason coldly rejects.

I know not the reason that this villa has been suffered thus to lapse into utter ruin, in the richest quarter of so splendid a city. I believe some long-contested litigation had its share in the causes. My present business is rather with its past fortunes; and to them I will now return.

It was on a cold dark morning of November, in the year 1799, that the street we have just mentioned, then called the Rue de la Victoire, became crowded with equipages and horsemen; cavalcades of generals and their staffs, in full uniform, arrived and were admitted within the massive gateway, before which, now, groups of curious and inquiring gazers were assembled, questioning and guessing as to the unusual spectacle. The number of led horses that paraded the street, the long lines of carriages on either side, nearly filled the way; still there reigned a strange, unaccountable stillness, among the crowd, who, as if appalled by the very mystery of the scene, repressed their ordinary tumult, and waited anxiously to watch the result.

Among the most interested spectators were the inhabitants of the neighbouring houses, who saw, for the first time in their lives, their quiet quarter the scene of such excitement. Every window was filled with faces, all turned towards that portal which so seldom was seen to open in general; for they who dwelt there had been more remarkable for the retirement and privacy of their habits than for aught else.

At each arrival the crowd separated to permit the equipage to approach the gate; and then might be heard the low murmur--for it was no louder--of “Ha! that’s Lasalle. See the mark of the sabre wound on his cheek!” Or, “Here comes Angereau! You’d never think that handsome fellow, with the soft eye, could be such a tiger.” “Place there! place for Colonel Savary!” “Ah, dark Savary! we all know him.”

Stirring as was the scene without, it was far inferior to the excitement that prevailed within the walls. There, every path and avenue that led to the villa were thronged with military men, walking or standing together in groups, conversing eagerly, and with anxious looks, but cautiously withal, and as though half fearing to be overheard.

Through the windows of the villa might be seen servants passing and repassing in haste, arranging the preparations for a magnificent _déjeûné_--for on that morning the generals of division and the principal military men in Paris were invited to breakfast with one of their most distinguished companions--General Buonaparte.

Since his return from Egypt, Buonaparte had been living a life of apparent privacy and estrangement from all public affairs. The circumstances under which he had quitted the army under his command--the unauthorised mode of his entry into France, without recall, without even permission--had caused his friends considerable uneasiness on his behalf, and nothing short of the unobtrusive and simple habits he maintained had probably saved him from being called on to account for his conduct.

They, however, who themselves were pursuing the career of ambition, were better satisfied to see him thus, than hazard any thing by so bold an expedient. They believed that he was only great at the head of his legions; and they felt a triumphant pleasure at the obscurity into which the victor of Lodi and the Pyramids had fallen when measured with themselves. They witnessed, then, with sincere satisfaction, the seeming indolence of his present life. They watched him in those _soirées_ which Madame Buonaparte gave, enjoying his repose with such thorough delight--those delightful evenings, the most brilliant for all that wit, intellect, and beauty can bestow; which Talleyrand and Sieyes, Fouché, Carnot, Lemercier, and a host of others frequented; and they dreamed that his hour of ambition was over, and that he had fallen into the inglorious indolence of the retired soldier.

While the greater number of the guests strolled listlessly through the little park, a small group sat in the vestibule of the villa, whose looks of impatience were ever turned towards the door from which their host was expected to enter. One of those was a tall, slight man, with a high but narrow forehead, dark eyes, deeply buried in his head, and overshadowed by long, heavy lashes; his face was pale, and evinced evident signs of uneasiness, as he listened, without ever speaking, to those about him. This was General Moreau. He was dressed in the uniform of a General of the day: the broad-skirted embroidered coat, the half-boot, the embroidered tricolour scarf, and a chapeau with a deep feather trimming--a simple, but a handsome costume, and which well became his well-formed figure. Beside him sat a large, powerfully-built man, whose long black hair, descending in loose curls on his neck and back, as well as the jet-black brilliancy of his eye and deep olive complexion, bespoke a native of the South. Though his dress was like Moreau’s, there was a careless jauntiness in his air, and a reckless “_abandon_” in his manner, that gave the costume a character totally different. The very negligence of his scarf-knot was a type of himself; and his thickly-uttered French, interspersed here and there with Italian phrases, shewed that Murat cared little to cull his words. At his left was a hard-featured, stern-looking man, in the uniform of the Dragoons--this was Andreossy; and opposite, and leaning on a sofa, was General Lannes. He was pale and sickly; he had risen from a bed of illness to be present, and lay with half-closed lids, neither noticing nor taking interest in what went on about him.

At the window stood Marmont, conversing with a slight but handsome youth, in the uniform of the Chasseurs. Eugène Beauharnois was then but twenty-two, but even at that early age displayed the soldier-like ardour which so eminently distinguished him in after-life.

At length the door of the salon opened, and Buonaparte, dressed in the style of the period, appeared; his cheeks were sunk and thin; his hair, long, flat, and silky, hung straight down at either side of his pale and handsome face, in which now one faint tinge of colour marked either cheek. He saluted the rest with a warm shake of the hand, and then stooping down, said to Murat:--

“But Bernadotte--where is he?”

“Yonder,” said Murat, carelessly pointing to a group outside the terrace, where a tall, fine-looking man, dressed in plain clothes, and without any indication of the soldier in his costume, stood in the midst of a knot of officers.

“Ha! General,” said Napoleon, advancing towards him; “you are not in uniform. How comes this?”

“I am not on service,” was the cold reply.

“No, but you soon shall be,” said Buonaparte, with an effort at cordiality of manner.

“I do not anticipate it,” rejoined Bernadotte, with an expression at once firm and menacing.

Buonaparte drew him to one side gently, and while he placed his arm within his, spoke to him with eagerness and energy for several minutes; but a cold shake of the head, without one word in reply, was all that he could obtain.

“What!” exclaimed Buonaparte, aloud, so that even the others heard him--“what! are you not convinced of it? Will not this Directory annihilate the Revolution? have we a moment to lose? The Council of Ancients are met to appoint me Commander-in-chief of the Army;--go, put on your uniform, and join me at once.”

“I will not join a rebellion,” was the insolent reply.

Buonaparte shrunk back and dropped his arm, then rallying in a moment, added,--

“‘Tis well; you’ll at least remain here until the decree of the Council is issued.”

“Am I, then, a prisoner?” said Bernadotte, with a loud voice.

“No, no; there is no question of that kind: but pledge me your honour to undertake nothing adverse to me in this affair.”

“As a mere citizen, I will not do so,” replied the other; “but if I am ordered by a sufficient authority, I warn you.”

“What do you mean, then, as a mere citizen!”

“That I will not go forth into the streets, to stir up the populace; nor into the barracks, to harangue the soldiers.”

“Enough; I am satisfied. As for myself, I only desire to rescue the Republic; that done, I shall retire to Malmaison, and live peaceably.”

A smile of a doubtful, but sardonic character, passed over Bernadotte’s features as he heard these words, while he turned coldly away, and walked towards the gate. “What, Augureau! thou here?” said he, as he passed along, and with a contemptuous shrug he moved forward, and soon gained the street. And truly, it seemed strange that he, the fiercest of the Jacobins, the General who made his army assemble in clubs and knots to deliberate during the campaign of Italy, that he should now lend himself to uphold the power of Buonaparte!

Meanwhile, the salons were crowded in every part, party succeeding party at the tables; where, amid the clattering of the breakfast and the clinking of glasses, the conversation swelled into a loud and continued din. Fouché, Berthier, and Talleyrand, were also to be seen, distinguishable by their dress, among the military uniforms; and here now might be heard the mingled doubts and fears, the hopes and dreads of each, as to the coming events; and many watched the pale, care-worn face of Bourienne, the secretary of Buonaparte, as if to read in his features the chances of success; while the General himself went from room to room, chatting confidentially with each in turn, recapitulating as he went the phrase, “The country is in danger!” and exhorting all to be patient, and wait calmly for the decision of the Council, which could not, now, be long of coming.

As they were still at table, M. Carnet, the deputation of the Council, entered, and delivered into Buonaparte’s hands the sealed packet, from which he announced to the assembly that the legislative bodies had been removed to St. Cloud, to avoid the interruption of popular clamour, and that he, General Buonaparte, was named Commander-in-chief of the Army, and intrusted with the execution of the decree.

This first step had been effected by the skilful agency of Sieyes and Roger Ducos, who spent the whole of the preceding night in issuing the summonses for a meeting of the Council to such as they knew to be friendly to the cause they advocated. All the others received theirs too late; forty-two only were present at the meeting, and by that fragment of the Council the decree was passed.

When Buonaparte had read the document to the end, he looked around him on the fierce, determined faces, bronzed and seared in many a battle-field, and said, “My brothers in arms, will you stand by me here?”

“We will! we will!” shouted they, with one roar of enthusiasm.

“And thou, Lefebvre, did I hear thy voice there?”

“Yes, General; to the death I’m yours.”

Buonaparte unbuckled the sabre he wore at his side, and placing it in Lefebvre’s hands, said, “I wore this at the Pyramids; it is a fitting present from one soldier to another. Now, then, to horse!”

The splendid _cortège_ moved along the grassy alleys to the gate, outside which, now, three regiments of cavalry and three battalions of the 17th were drawn up. Never was a Sovereign, in all his pride of power, surrounded with a more gorgeous staff. The conquerors of Italy, Germany, and Egypt, the greatest warriors of Europe, were there grouped around him--whose glorious star, even then, shone bright above him.

Scarcely had Buonaparte issued forth into the street than, raising his hat above his head, he called aloud, “_Vive la République!_” The troops caught up the cry, and the air rang with the wild cheers.

At the head of this force, surrounded by the Generals, he rode slowly along towards the Tuileries, at the entrance to the gardens of which stood Carnet, dressed in his robe of senator-in-waiting, to receive him. Four Colonels, his aides-de-camp, marched in front of Buonaparte, as he entered the Hall of the Ancients--his walk was slow and measured, and his air studiously respectful.

The decree being read, General Buonaparte replied in a few broken phrases, expressive of his sense of the confidence reposed in him: the words came with difficulty, and he spoke like one abashed and confused. He was no longer in front of his armed legions, whose war-worn looks inspired the burning eloquence of the camp--those flashing images, those daring flights, suited not the cold assembly, in whose presence he now stood--and he was ill at ease and disconcerted. It was only, at length, when turning to the Generals who pressed on after him, he addressed the following words, that his confidence in himself came back, and that he felt himself once more,--

“This is the Republic we desire to have--and this we shall have; for it is the wish of those who now stand around me.”

The cries of “_Vive la République!_” burst from the officers at once, as they waved their _chapeaux_ in the air, mingled with louder shouts of “_Vive le Général!_”

If the great events of the day were now over with the Council, they had only begun with Buonaparte.

“Whither now, General?” said Lefebvre, as he rode to his side.

“To the guillotine, I suppose,” said Andreossy, with a look of sarcasm.

“We shall see that,” was the cold answer of Buonaparte, while he gave the word to push forward to the Luxembourg.

This was but the prologue, and now began the great drama, the greatest, whether for its interest or its actors--that ever the world has been called to witness.

We all know the sequel, if sequel that can be called which our own days would imply is but the prologue of the piece!