Part 21

Whoever was in Paris during the Hundred Days must have seen the old guard of Napoleon. Such a body of soldiers (all appearing as if cast in the same mould) I believe never was collected! Their Herculean vigour, more than the height of their persons, was remarkable; and their dark, deep-furrowed visages, (enveloped in mustaches and surmounted by the bear’s skin of their lofty caps, glittering with ornaments,) combined, together with their arms, their clothes, and more particularly their steadiness, to exhibit to me the most perfect model of real soldiers. Their looks, though the very emblem of gravity and determination, were totally devoid of ferocity; and I could fancy the grenadiers of the old guard to be _heroes_, uniting the qualities of fidelity, of valour, and of generosity: their whole appearance indeed was most attractive.

The cavalry had dismounted, and were sitting around on the steps and parapets of the edifice, mostly employed in sharpening their sabres with small hones; and the whole seemed to me as if actuated only by an ardent wish to proceed to action. One officer asked me in English, rather more freely than the rest, if I knew the British commander (Lord Wellington)? I said I did.—“Well,” replied he, “we shall have a brush with him before _quinze jours_ are over!” and turned away with an expression strongly indicative of contempt. I believe Lord Wellington did not quite anticipate the short time that would be given him by his opponents. My observations and introductions were however at length interrupted by the first cannon, which announced that the emperor had commenced his passage from the Tuileries. All was in immediate bustle; the drums beat, the trumpets sounded, the deputies and officials flocked into their halls, the cuirassiers were mounted, the old guard and grenadiers in line, the officers at their stations;—and in less than five minutes the mingled and motley crowd was arranged in order so regular and so silently assumed, that it was almost impossible to suppose they had ever been in confusion. The different bands struck up: they had received orders respecting the airs that should be played as the emperor approached, which they began to practise; and the whole scene, almost in a moment, wore an aspect entirely new.

The firing of cannon continued: the emperor had advanced along the quays, and passed over that very spot where the last French monarch had, twenty years before, been immolated by his subjects. The word enthusiasm, strong as its meaning is generally held to be in France, failed, on this occasion, to express _as much_ as the military seemed to feel. The citizens who thronged around did not, it is true, appear to partake in this sentiment to any thing like a corresponding extent. Whether it was that they felt it not, or that they were conscious of acting only a subordinate part in the pageant, (which unquestionably bore too much of a military character,) I do not know.

I proceeded without delay to the stairs which led to my _loge_, as noted on my admission ticket. This _loge_, however, it turned out to be no easy matter to find. My heart began to sink; I inquired of every body; some did not understand, others looked contemptuously; nobody would pay the least attention to my solicitations. Thus I seemed likely, after all, to lose the benefit of my exertions. Meanwhile, every new discharge of cannon seemed as if announcing, not only the emperor’s approach, but my seclusion from the chamber; and I was getting fast into a state of angry hopelessness when an officer of the guard, who saw that I was a foreigner, addressed me in English. I explained to him my embarrassments and fears, and showed him my ticket. He told me I was on the wrong side, and was so good as to send a soldier with me to the door of the box. I rapped, and was instantly admitted. There were two rows of chairs, and accommodation for three persons to stand behind. I was one of the latter; and it was impossible to be better situated for hearing and seeing every thing. My _loge_ exactly faced the throne; and in the next sat the emperor’s mother, and all the females, with their attendants. I knew nobody: I saw no English there: there was one person in full-dress, who was said to be _un chevalier Ecosse_, and who having distinguished himself and announced his nation by making an abominable noise about something or other, was very properly sent out. We sat in silent expectation of the emperor’s arrival, which was to be announced by the cessation of the repeated salutes of artillery. The moments were counted: the peers and deputies were seated in their places, all in full-dress—the former occupying the front benches, and the deputies ranged behind them. Servants of the chamber, in the most splendid liveries that can be conceived, were seen busy at all the side doors: the front door was underneath our _loge_; it was therefore impossible for me to see the effect of the first appearance of the emperor, who at length, followed by a numerous retinue, crossed the chamber—not majestically, but with rather hurried steps: having slightly raised his hat, he seated himself abruptly on the throne, and wrapping himself in his purple cloak, sat silent.

The scene was altogether most interesting; but there was no time for contemplation. The whole assembly immediately rose; and if a judgment might be formed from the outward expression of their feelings, it would be inferred that Napoleon was enthroned in the heart of almost every peer and deputy who that day received him. A loud, continued, and unanimous burst of enthusiastic congratulation proceeded from every quarter: it echoed throughout the whole chamber, and had all the attributes of sincerity. One circumstance I particularly remarked: the old cry of “_Vive_ l’Empereur,” was discontinued, and, as if the spectators’ hearts were too full to utter more, they limited themselves to a single word,—“_l’Empereur! l’Empereur!_” alone bursting from the whole assembly. I found afterwards that there was a meaning in this: inasmuch as the ceremony was not a mere greeting—it was an _inauguration_ of the emperor. It was this solemnity which in fact _recreated_ his title after his formal abdication, and the assembly thus noted the distinction.

Meanwhile Napoleon sat apparently unmoved: he occasionally touched his hat, but spake not. I stood immediately in front of, and looking down on, the throne; and being in the back row, could use my opera-glass without observation. Napoleon was at that moment, all circumstances considered, the most interesting personage in existence. His dress, although very rich, was scarcely royal: he was not, as a king should be by prescription, covered with jewels: he had no crown, and wore the same dress exactly as he afterward did on his visit to the Champ de Mars; namely, a black Spanish hat, fastened up in front with a diamond loop and button; heavy plumes of ostrich feathers, which hung nodding over his forehead; and rather a short but very full cloak of purple velvet, embroidered with golden bees. The dimensions of his person were thus concealed; but his stature, which had attained about the middle height, seemed lower on account of his square-built form and his high, ungraceful shoulders: he was, in fact, by no means a majestic figure. I watched his eye; it was that of a hawk, and struck me as being peculiarly brilliant. Without moving his head, or a single muscle of his countenance, his eye was every where, and seemed omniscient: an almost imperceptible transition moved it from place to place, as if by magic; and it was fixed steadily upon one object before a spectator could observe its withdrawal from another.

Yet even at this moment, powerful as was the spell in which Napoleon’s presence bound the spectator, my attention was drawn aside by another object which seemed to me to afford much scope for contemplation: this was the emperor’s mother. I stood, as I have already said, in the next _loge_ of the gallery to that occupied by the imperial family. The dutiful and affectionate regard of Napoleon to his mother is universally authenticated: and as his nature was not framed either to form or perpetuate mere attachments of course, it was natural to conclude that this lady’s character had something about it _worthy_ of affection. I was therefore curious to trace, as far as possible, the impressions made upon her by the passing scene.

Madame Mère (as she was then called) was a very fine old lady, apparently about sixty, but looking strong and in good health. She was not, and I believe never had been, a beauty; but was, nevertheless, well-looking, and possessed a cheerful, _comfortable_ countenance. I liked her appearance: it was plain and unassuming, and I set my mind to the task of scrutinising her probable sensations on that important day.

Let us for a moment consider the situation of that mother, who, whilst in an humble sphere of life, and struggling with many difficulties, had born, nursed, and reared a son, who, at an early age, and solely by his own superior talents, became ruler of one of the fairest portions of the civilised creation; to whom kings and princes crouched and submitted, and transferred their territories and their subjects, at his will and pleasure; to whom the whole world, except England, had cringed; whom one great emperor had flattered and fawned on, handing over to him a favourite daughter even whilst the conqueror’s true wife was still living; and whom the same bewildered emperor had afterwards assisted in rousing all Europe to overthrow; thus dethroning his daughter, disinheriting his grandson, and exposing himself to the contempt and derision of the universe,—only that he might have the gratification of enslaving six millions of the Italian people! The mother of Napoleon had seen all this; and had, no doubt, felt bitterly that reverse of fortune whereby her son had been expelled and driven into exile, after his long dream of grandeur and almost resistless influence. What then must be the sensations of that mother at the scene we are describing! when she beheld the same son again hailed emperor of the French, restored to power and to his friends by the universal assent of a great nation, and the firm attachment of victorious armies! He remounted his throne before her eyes once more, and, without the shedding of one drop of blood, was again called to exercise those functions of royalty from which he had been a few months before excluded.

It was under these impressions that I eagerly watched the countenance of that delighted lady: but her features did not appear to me sufficiently marked to give full scope to the indication of her feeling. I could judge, in fact, nothing from any other feature except her eye, to which, when I could catch it, I looked for information. At first I could see only her profile; but as she frequently turned round, her emotions were from time to time obvious: a tear occasionally moistened her cheek, but it evidently proceeded from a happy rather than a painful feeling—it was the tear of parental ecstasy. I could perceive no lofty sensations of gratified ambition; no towering pride; no vain and empty arrogance, as she viewed underneath her the peers and representatives of her son’s dominions. In fact, I could perceive nothing in the deportment of Madame Mère that was not calculated to excite respect for her as a woman, and admiration of her as the person who had brought into the world a man for many years the most successful of his species.

From observation of this interesting lady I was called off by the scene which followed. After the emperor had been awhile seated, (his brothers and the public functionaries around him, as expressed in a printed programme,) the oath was administered to the peers and deputies individually, so that each was distinctly marked by name; and what I considered most fortunate was, that a French gentleman, who sat immediately before me (I believe some public officer), was assiduous in giving the two ladies who accompanied him, not only the name of each peer or deputy, as he took the oath, but also some description of him. I took advantage of this incident, and in a little tablet copied down the names of such as I had heard spoken of as remarkable persons, and particularly the generals and marshals.

Their manner of administering and taking the oath was very different from ours.[45] The French had, from the period of the revolution, very justly conceived that an oath of any description would not be one atom more binding on the party if taken upon a book than if trust were reposed in their mere word of honour. On the present occasion, each person, as his name was called over, arose, and holding out his right arm to its extent, (the palm of the hand uppermost,) deliberately pronounced, “_Je jure fidélité à l’Empereur, et obédience à la Constitution_.” The reader will easily believe that it was a source of the utmost interest to watch the countenances of these dignitaries of France while they were engaged in performing this important ceremonial. My physiognomical observation was kept fully on the stretch, and was never, before or since, so sated with materials to work on. The emperor, meanwhile, sat almost immovable. He did not appear exhilarated: indeed, on the other hand, I think he was indisposed. His breast heaved at times very perceptibly; an involuntary convulsed motion agitated his lip; but never did I see an eye more indefatigable and penetrating! As each man’s name was called, and the oath administered, its regard was fixed upon the individual; and nothing could be more curious to the spectator than to transfer his gaze alternately from the party taking the oath to the emperor himself. Some of the peers and deputies Napoleon’s eye passed over with scarcely a look; while others he regarded as though disposed to penetrate their very souls, and search there for proofs of a sincerity he considered doubtful. Some seemed to excite a pleasurable, others a painful sensation within him; though this was difficult to recognise, inasmuch as his features seldom, and never more than slightly, changed their expression. The countenances of the members themselves were more easily read, and afforded in many instances good clews whereby, if not the real feelings, at least the _tendency_ of the parties might be deciphered. Some stood boldly up, and loudly, and without hesitation took the oath; while others, in slow, tremulous voices, pledged themselves to what they either never meant, or were not quite certain of their ability to perform; and a few displayed manifest symptoms of repugnance in their manner:—but the scene was of a nature so splendid, so generally interesting, that few persons, except those whose habits had long led them to the study of mankind, or such as might have some especial interest in the result, would have attended to these physiognomical indications, which were of course not suffered in any instance to become prominent.

Footnote 45:

One of the devices to prevent the accumulation of petty larceny, in the court of Common Pleas of Ireland, was very amusing. Lord Norbury’s register, Mr. Peter Jackson, complained grievously to his lordship that he really could not afford to supply the court with Gospels or Prayer-books, as witnesses, after they had taken their oaths, were in the constant habit of stealing _the book_! “Peter,” said Lord Norbury, “if the rascals _read_ the book, it will do them more good than the petty larceny may do them mischief.”—“Read or not read,” urged Peter, “they are rogues, that’s plain. I have tied the book fast, but nevertheless they have contrived to loosen and abstract it.”—“Well, well!” replied my lord, “if they are not afraid of the _cord, hang_ your Gospel _in chains_, and that perhaps, by reminding the fellows of the fate of some of their fathers and grandfathers, may make them behave themselves.” Peter Jackson took the hint: provided a good-looking, well-bound New Testament, which he secured with a strong jack-chain that had evidently done duty, and well, before the _kitchen-fire_, and was made fast to the rail of the jury gallery. Thus, the holy volume being gibbeted, had free scope to swing about and clink as much as it chose, to the great terror of witnesses, and good order of the jurors themselves.

One of the first persons who took the oath was Fouché, Duke of Otranto. I had been in this nobleman’s office on my first arrival in Paris, had marked his countenance, and have already given my judgment of him. He had originally been a monk, (I believe a Jesuit,) and was on all hands admitted to be a man of the utmost talent, but at the same time without moral principle;—a man who, in order to attain his ends, would disregard justice, and set opinion at insolent defiance. But, above all, Fouché’s reigning character was _duplicity_: in that qualification of a statesman he had no rival. Napoleon knew him thoroughly; but, circumstanced as he was, he had (fatally for himself) occasion for such men.

Yet even Fouché I really think was, on this day, off his guard. He was at the time, there can be little doubt, in actual communication with some of Napoleon’s enemies; and he certainly appeared, whether or no from “compunctious visitings of conscience,” to be ill at his ease. I kept my eye much on him; and it was quite obvious to me that some powerful train of feeling was working within his breast. On his name being called, there was nothing either bold, frank, or steady in his appearance or demeanour. He held out his hand not much higher than his hip, and, in a tone of voice languid, if not faltering, swore to a fidelity which he was determined, should he find it convenient, to renounce. I really think (and my eye and glass were full upon him) that Fouché, at the moment, _felt_ his own treachery: a slight hectic passed over his temples, and his tongue seemed to cleave to his mouth. I cannot account for my impression further than this, but from that instant I set down the man as a traitor! Napoleon for the first time turned his head as Fouché tendered his allegiance. I could perceive no marked expression in the emperor’s countenance, which remained placid and steady; but I could not help thinking that even that complacent regard (which certainly indicated no confidence, if it was free from agitation) seemed to say, “I know you!” The ceremony proceeded; and after awhile the name was called of a person whom I had before seen—Count Thibaudeau. The contrast between this gentleman and Fouché was very remarkable. He stood up quickly, and with great firmness stepped a little forward, and held his arm _higher_ than his shoulder:—“_Je jure_,” exclaimed Count Thibaudeau, “_Je jure_,” repeating the words with emphasis, “_fidélité_ à MON Empereur et obédience à la Constitution!” I watched Napoleon’s look: it was still serene, but a ray of gratification was not absent, and shot rapidly across his features.—The business at length terminated. I treasured up in my mind the impressions made upon it that day, and in very few of my forebodings was I eventually mistaken.

The inauguration of the emperor was now complete, and the reflection was extremely solemn, that all the powers of Europe were armed to overthrow the business of that morning. Neither peace nor truce was to be made with Napoleon, who was, on his part, about to try the strength of France alone against a union of inveterate and inexorable foes. He was now about to inform his assembled legislators of this decision, and to make a declaration that should at once rouse the French people generally, and instil into the legislature a portion of his own energy.

I was all expectation;—the critical moment arrived: the occasion—the place—the subject, and more especially the effect expected to be produced—all combined in leading me to anticipate some speech more impressive than any I had ever heard.

The emperor rose from his throne rather quickly, raised his hat for a moment, and looked round him with a glance which, though probably meant to imply confidence, had to me the expression of _scrutiny_. Having done this, he re-seated himself, and commenced his speech. In language it was well adapted to the French soldiery; as a proclamation it might be considered admirable; but to a _legislative_ assembly, it seemed to me (perhaps erroneously) ill adapted. I did expect, at all events, that it would be pronounced with that energy which was indicative of the speaker’s character; but miserably was I disappointed! Napoleon read it distinctly, but, to my mind, utterly without effect: there was no adequate ardour—no emphasis—no modulation of voice—no action, to enforce the sentiment. The delivery was monotonous and unimpressive; nor can I yet conceive how it was possible such a man could pronounce such a speech without evincing that warmth of feeling which the words, as well as the great subject itself, (to say nothing of his own situation,) were calculated to inspire. The French in general read extremely ill; and Napoleon’s style of elocution was a very humble specimen even of theirs. He ran the sentences into each other: in short, seemed to view the whole thing as a mere matter of course, and to be anxious to _get through_ it. It put me more in mind of a solicitor reading a marriage-settlement than any thing else. Here and there, indeed, he appeared somewhat touched by the text, and most probably _he himself_ felt it all; but he certainly expressed nothing in a manner that could make _others_ feel it. The concluding words of the speech—“_This is the moment to conquer or to perish_,” though pronounced by Napoleon with little more energy than the preceding parts, (much as if he had been saying, “And your petitioner will ever pray,”) yet made a strong and visible impression upon the entire auditory. Two or three of the deputies, I observed, by (to all appearance) an involuntary movement, put their hands on their sword-hilts, and whispered those who sat next them; and among the military officers who were in the assembly there was evidently a very gallant feeling. I cast my eye at this moment on Fouché: he was looking upon the ground, seemingly in contemplation, and moved not a muscle.

At the conclusion of his speech Napoleon, whose languid manner had considerably damped my previous excitement, immediately descended from the throne, and, in the same state and amidst redoubled applauses, returned to the palace to make preparations for meeting his parliaments, and carrying into sudden execution what I have since heard denominated by English generals the finest military manœuvre of his whole life. Two things seem to be universally admitted: that the first object of that train of movements, namely the surprise and division of the allied troops, was completely successful; and that its second object—the defeat of those troops in a general engagement, was so near its accomplishment, that its failure may almost be regarded as miraculous.

I returned home full of reflection. I soon recounted all my impressions (particularly with respect to Fouché and Napoleon) to my family and two or three friends who dined with us. I did not hesitate to speak frankly my opinion of the game playing by the Duke of Otranto; nor did any long period elapse before my predictions were verified.

PROMULGATION OF THE CONSTITUTION.