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Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume I (of II)

by Charles Lever · English · Gutenberg #33216 · 400,310 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume I (of II)

Author: Charles Lever


        
Release date: July 21, 2010 [eBook #33216]
                Most recently updated: September 3, 2016

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIARY AND NOTES OF HORACE TEMPLETON, ESQ. VOLUME I (OF II) ***




Produced by David Widger





DIARY AND NOTES OF HORACE TEMPLETON, Esq.

VOL. I.


DIARY AND NOTES HORACE TEMPLETON, Esq.

LATE SECRETARY OF LEGATION AT-----.

By Charles James Lever,

Author Of “Harry Lorrequer,” “Knight Of Gwynne,” Etc. Etc.

In Two Volumes. Vol. I.

Second Edition.

London: Chapman And Hall, 186 Strand.




HORACE TEMPLETON.



CHAPTER I.

_Hôtel des Princes, Paris_.

It is a strange thing to begin a “Log” when the voyage is nigh ended!
A voyage without chart or compass has it been: and now is land in
sight--the land of the weary and heart-tired!

Here am I, at the Hôtel des Princes, _en route_ for Italy, whither my
doctors have sentenced me! What a sad record would be preserved to the
world if travellers were but to fill up, with good faith, the police
formula at each stage of the journey, which asks, “the object of the
tour!” How terribly often should we read the two short words--“To Die.”
 With what sorrowful interest would one gaze at the letters formed by a
trembling hand; and yet how many would have to write them! Truly, the
old Italian adage, “_Vedere Napole es poi morire_” has gained a new
signification; and, unhappily, a far more real one.

This same practice of physicians, of sending their patients to linger
out the last hours of life in a foreign land, is, to my thinking, by
no means so reprehensible as the generality of people make out. It is
a theme, however, on which so many commonplaces can be strung, that
common-place people, who, above all others, love their own eloquence,
never weary of it. Away from his children--from his favourite
haunts--from the doctors that understood his case--from his comfortable
house--from the family apothecary,--such are the changes they ring; and
if dying were to be done often, there would be much reason in all this.
But it is not so; this same change occurs but once, and its approach
brings with it a new train of thoughts and feelings from all that we
have ever felt before. In that twilight hour of life, objects that have
escaped our vision in the blaze of noon-day become clear and distinct;
and, even to the least reflecting of minds, an increased power of
perception and judgment is accorded--the _viaticum_ for the coming
journey!

I remember being greatly affected by the stories in the “Diary of a
Physician,” when first I read them: they were powerfully written--and
_so real!_ Now this is the very quality they want: they are altogether
unreal.

Terrific and heart-stirring as the death-bed scenes are, they are not
true to nature: the vice and the virtue are alike exaggerated. Few, very
few persons can bring themselves by an effort to believe that they are
dying--easy as it seems, often as we talk of it, frequent as the very
expression becomes in a colloquialism, it is still a most difficult
process; but once thoroughly felt, there is an engrossing power, in the
thought that excludes all others.’

At times, indeed, Hope will triumph for a brief interval, and “tell of
bright days to come.” Hope! the glorious phantom that we follow up the
Rhine--through the deep glens of the Tyrol, and over the Alps!--Only
content to die when we have lost it!

There are men to whom the truth, however shocking, is always
revealed--to whom the Lawyer says, “You have no case,” and the Physician
confesses, “You have no constitution.” Happily or unhappily--I will not
deny it may be both--I am one of these. Of the three doctors summoned
to consult on my health, one spoke confidently and cheeringly; he even
assumed that kind of professional jocularity that would imply, “the
patient is making too much of it.” The second, more reserved from
temperament, and graver, counselled caution and great care--hinted at
the danger of the malady--coupling his fears with the hopes he derived
from the prospect of climate. The third (he was younger than either of
the others, and of inferior repute,) closed the door after them, and
resumed his seat.

I waited for some time expecting him to speak, but he sat in silence,
and seemingly in deep thought. “And you, my dear doctor,” said I at
length, “are you equally confident as your learned colleagues? Will the
air of Italy----?” He lifted up his eyes as I got so far, and their
expression I shall not readily forget--so softly tender, so full of
compassionate pity, did they beam. Never did a look convey more of
sorrowing regret, nor more of blank despair. I hesitated---on _his_
account I feared to finish what I had begun; but, as if replying to the
expression of his glance, I added, “But still you advise me to go? You
counsel the journey, at least?”

He blushed deeply before he could answer. He felt ashamed that he had
failed in one great requisite of his art. I hastened to relieve him, by
saying with a joyous air, “Well, I will go. I like the notion myself;
it is at least a truce with physic. It is like drawing a game before one
has completely lost it.”

And so here I am--somewhat wearied and fevered by the unaccustomed
exertion, but less so than I expected.

I sincerely hope it is only the fastidiousness of a sick man, and not
that most insufferable of all affectations--exclusiveness; but I will
own I never disliked the mixed company of a steam-boat so much before.
It is always an unpleasant part of our English travelling-experience,
that little steam trip from our own coast to the French or Belgian
shore. The pleasuring Cockney, only sufferable when sick--the runaway
Bank clerk--the Hamburg Jew--the young lady going to Paris for spring
fashions--the newly-married barrister, with his bit of tawdry finery
from Norwood, silly, simpering, and fidgetty--the Irish landlord, sulky
and familiar by turns; all, even to the _Danseuse_, who, too refined for
such association, sits in her carriage on deck, have a terrible sameness
when seen, as I have done them, something like fifty times; nor can I
suppose their united attractions greatly heightened by the figure of
the pale gentleman, who coughs so incessantly, and whose wan cheek and
colourless eye are seen to such formidable contrast with the bronzed and
resolute face of the courier beside him.

Yet I would far rather think this want of due tolerance for my
travelling companions was a symptom of my malady, than of that truly
English disease--self-importance, I know of nothing that tracks our
steps on the Continent so invariably, nor is there any quality which
earns for us so much ill-will.

It is quite a mistake to suppose that these airs of superiority are only
assumed by persons of a certain rank and fortune--far from it. Every
denizen of Cheapside and the Minories that travels abroad, deems himself
immeasurably above “the foreigner.” Strong in his City estimation, and
charged with the leader in “The Times,” he struts about like an upstart
visiting the servants’ hall, and expecting every possible demonstration
of respect in return for his condescension. Hence the unhappy disparity
between the situation of an Englishman and that of any other native
abroad. Instead of rejoicing at any casualty which presents to him a
chance-meeting with a countryman, he instinctively shrinks from it. He
sees the Frenchman, the Italian, the German, overjoyed at recognition
with some stranger from his own land, while _he_ acknowledges, in such a
contingency, only another reason for guardedness and caution. It is
not that our land is wanting in those sterling qualities which make men
respected and venerated--it is not that we are not, from principle and
practice, both more exacting in all the requisites of good faith, and
more tenacious of truth, than any people of the Continent;--it is simply
that we are the least tolerant to every thing that differs from what we
have at home, that we unscrupulously condemn whatever is un-English;
and, not satisfied with this, we expect foreigners to respect and admire
us for the very censure we pass upon their institutions.

There is, therefore, nothing so compromising to an Englishman abroad as
a countryman; except--_hélas_ that I should say so!--a countrywoman!

Paris is very beautiful in spring. There is something radiant and
gorgeous in the commingled splendour of a great city, with the calmer
beauties of leafy foliage and the sparkling eddies of the bright river.
Better, however, not to dwell longer on this theme, lest my gloomy
thoughts should stray into the dark and crime-trodden alleys of the Bois
de Boulogne, or the still more terrible filets de St. Cloud! How sad
is it when one’s temperament should, as if instinctively, suggest the
mournful view of each object! Rather let me jot down a little incident
of this morning--an event which has set my heart throbbing, and my pulse
fluttering, at a rate that all the Prussic acid I have learned to take
cannot calm down again.

There come now and then moments to the sick man, when to be well and
vigorous he would consent to be poor, unfriended in the world--taking
health alone for his heritage. I felt that half an hour ago--but it is
gone again. And now to my adventure, for, in my unbroken dream of daily
life, it seems such.

I have said I am lodged at the Hôtel des Princes. How different are my
quarters from those I inhabited when first I saw this city! This would
entail a confession, however, and I shall make it some other day. My
salon is No. 21, the first drawing-room to the right as you turn from
the grand staircase, and opening by the three spacious windows on a
balcony overlooking the Rue de Richlieu. It is, indeed, a very splendid
apartment, as much so as immense mirrors, gilding, bronze, and or moulu
can make it. There are soft couches and chairs, and ottomans too, that
would inspire rest, save when the soul itself was restless.

Well. I lounged out after breakfast for a short stroll along the
Boulevards, where the shade of the trees and the well-watered path were
most inviting. Soon wearied--I cannot walk in a crowd--I returned to the
hôtel; slowly toiled up-stairs, waking the echoes with my teasing cough;
and, instead of turning to the right, I went left, taking the wrong
road, as I have so often done in life; and then, mistaking the numerals,
I entered No. 12 instead of No. 21. Who would credit it, that the
misplacement of a unit could prove so singular.

There was one change alone which struck me. I could not find the book
I was reading--a little volume of Auerbach’s village stories of the
Schwartz-Walders. There was, however, another in its place, one
that told of humble life in the provinces--not less truthful and
heart-appealing--but how very unlike! It was Balzac’s story of “Eugénie
Grandet,” the most touching tale I have ever read in any language. I
have read it a hundred times, and ever with renewed delight. Little
troubling myself to think how it came there--for, like an old and valued
friend, its familiar features were always welcome--I began again to read
it.

Whether the result of some peculiar organisation, or the mere
consequence of ill health, I know not, but I have long remarked, that
when a book has taken a strong hold upon me--fascinating my attention
and engaging all my sympathies, I cannot long continue its perusal.
I grow dreary and speculative; losing the thread of the narrative, I
create one for myself, imagining a variety of incidents and scenes quite
foreign to the intention of the writer, and identifying myself usually
with some one personage or other of the story--till the upshot of all
is, I drop off asleep, to awake an hour or so afterwards with a very
tired brain, and a very confused sense of the reality or unreality of my
last waking sensations.

It is, therefore, rather a relief to me, when, as in the present case,
the catastrophe is known to me, and all speculation on the future
denied. Poor Eugénie, how I felt for all your sorrows!--wondrous
spectacle of a heart that could transmute its one absorbing passion into
another, and from love, the fondest and most confiding, beget a pure and
disinterested friendship!

At last the book glided unnoticed from my hand, and I slept. The sofa
where I lay stood in a part of the room where a deep shadow fell from
the closed _jalousies_ of a window, so that any person might easily have
entered or traversed the apartment without noticing me. I slept calmly
and without a stir--my dreaming thoughts full of that poor girl’s love.
How little does any first passion depend upon the excellence of the
object that creates it! How ideal, purely ideal, are those first
emotions of the heart! I knew something of this, too; for, when
young--very young, and very impressionable, with a strong dash of
romance in my nature, that lent its Claude Lorraine tint to all I looked
at, I fell in love. Never was the phrase more fitting. It was no gradual
or even imperceptible declension, but a headlong, reckless plunge; such
as some confident and hardy swimmer, or very often a bold bather, makes
into the water, that all may be quickly over.

I had been appointed _attaché_ at Vienna, where Lord Newington was then
ambassador--a widower with an only daughter. I was very young, fresh
from Woolwich, where I had been studying for the Artillery service, when
the death of a distant relative, who but a year before had refused to
see me, put me in possession of a very large fortune. My guardian, Lord
Elderton, an old _diplomate_, at once removed me from Woolwich, and,
after a short sojourn at his house near Windsor, I was introduced into
what Foreign-office people technically denominate “The Line,” and what
they stoutly uphold as the only career for a gentleman.

I must some day or other jot down a few recollections of my life at
Gortham, Lord Elderton’s seat, where, with Grotius and Puffendorf of a
morning, and old Sir Robert Adams and Lord Hailiebury of an evening, I
was believed to be inhaling the very atmosphere of learned diplomacy.
Tiresome old gentlemen, whose thoughts stood fast at the time of Fox and
Pitt, and, like a clock that went down in the night, steadily pointed to
an hour long bygone. How wearied I was of discussions as to whether the
King of Prussia would declare war, or the Emperor of Austria make peace!
whether we should give up Malta, and lose Hanover! Pitt must, indeed,
have been a man of “dark counsels,” for, whether he wished for an
alliance with France or not was a nightly topic of debate, without a
chance of agreement.

All these discussions, far from tending to excite my ardour for the
career, served to make me dread it, as the most tiresome of all possible
pursuits. The light gossip, too, over which they regaled themselves with
such excellent relish, was insupportably dull. Who could care for the
pointless repartees of defunct Grand Dukes, or the meaningless caprices
of long-buried Archduchesses?

If, then, I was glad to escape from Gortham and its weary company, I had
formed no very sanguine expectations of pleasure at Vienna.

I saw very little of the Continent in this my first journey. I was
consigned to the charge of a cabinet messenger, who had orders to
deliver me “safe” at Vienna. Poor M’Kaye, slight as I was, he left me
very little of the small _coupé_ we travelled in. He weighed something
more than twenty stone, a heaving mass of fat and fretting: the great
misery of his life being that Washington Irving had held him up to
European ridicule, for he was the original “Stout Gentleman” whose heavy
perambulations overhead suggested that inimitable sketch.

We arrived at Vienna some hours after dark, and after speedily
traversing the narrow and winding streets of the capital, drew up within
the _porte-cochère_ of the English embassy. There was a grand ball
at the embassy--a sovereign’s birth-day, or a coronation, I forget
which--but I can well remember the dazzling splendour of the grand
staircase, a blaze of wax-lights, and glittering with the brilliant
lustre of jewelled dresses and gorgeous uniforms; but, perhaps, even
more struck by the frequent announcement of names which were familiar
to me as almost historical personages--the Ester-hazies, the
Schwarzenbergs, and the Lichtensteins, when suddenly, with almost
a shock, I heard my own untitled name called aloud, “Mr. Horace
Templeton.” It is, I believe, a very old gentry name, and has maintained
a fair repute for some half-dozen centuries; but, I own, it clinked
somewhat meagre on the ear amid the high-sounding syllables of Austrian
nobility.

I stood within the doorway of the grand salon, almost stunned by the
sudden transition from the dark monotony of a night-journey to the
noonday blaze of splendour before me, when a gentle tap from a bouquet
on my arm aroused me, and a very silvery voice, in accents every one of
which sank into my heart, bade me welcome to Vienna. It was Lady Blanche
Newington that spoke--the most lovely creature that ever beauty and
station combined to form. Fascinations like hers were new to me: she
mingled gentleness of manner with a spiritual liveliness, that seemed
ever ready to say the right thing at the right moment. The ease with
which, in different languages, she addressed the various individuals
of the company, employing all the little delicate forms of those
conventionalities French and Italian so abound in, and through all, an
unobtrusive solicitude to please, that was most captivating.

My whole occupation that night was to steal after her unobserved, and
gaze with delight at traits of manner that my ardent imagination had
already elevated into graces of mind. I was very much in love--so much
so that, ere a few weeks went over, iny brother attachés saw it, and
tormented me unceasingly on the subject. Nay, they went further: they
actually told Lady Blanche herself, so that I dreaded to meet her, not
knowing how she might treat my presumption. I fancied all manner of
changes in her bearing towards me--reserve, coldness, perhaps disdain.
Nothing of the kind! She was only more familiar and cordial than ever.
Had I known more of the world, or of the feminine part of it, I should
have read this differently: as it was, it overwhelmed me with delight.
There was a frankness in her tone towards me, too; for, now, she
discussed the temper and character of our mutual acquaintances, and with
a shrewdness of criticism strange in one so young. At last we came
to talk of a certain Count de Favancourt, the secretary of the French
embassy; and as I mentioned his name she said, somewhat abruptly,

“I half suspect you don’t like the Count?”

“Who could?” replied I, eagerly; “is he not a ‘_Fat?_’”--using that
precious monosyllable by which his countrymen designate a certain class
of pretenders.

She laughed, and I went on, not sorry to have an opportunity of
severity on one for whom I had conceived an especial hatred--indeed,
not altogether without cause, since he had, on more than one occasion,
marked the difference of our official rank in a manner sufficiently
pointed to be offensive;

and yet, the rigid etiquette observable to another embassy forbade all
notice of whatever could be passed over.

Like a very young man, I did not bound my criticism on the Count by
what I saw and observed in his manner, but extended it to every possible
deduction I could draw from his air and bearing; winding up all by a
very broadly-hinted doubt that those ferocious whiskers and that deep
baritone were any thing but a lion’s skin over a very craven heart.

The last words were scarcely uttered, when a servant announced the Count
de Favancourt. There is something, to a young person at least--I fancy I
should not mind it now--so overwhelming on the sudden appearance of any
one on whom the conversation has taken a turn of severity, that I arose
confused and uneasy--I believe I blushed; at all events, I perceived
that Lady Blanche remarked my discomfiture, and her eyes glanced on
me with an expression I never observed before. As for the Count, he
advanced and made his deep reverence without ever noticing me, nor, even
while taking his seat, once shewed any consciousness of my presence.

Burning with indignation that I could scarce repress, I turned towards
a table, and affected to occupy myself tossing over the prints and
drawings that lay about--my maddened thoughts rendered still more
insufferable from fancying that Lady Blanche and the Count seemed on far
better and more intimate footing than I had ever known them before.

Some other visitors being announced, I took the occasion to retire
unobserved, and had just reached the landing of the stairs when I heard
a foot behind me. I turned--it was Favancourt. For the first time in my
life, I perceived a smile upon his countenance--an expression, I own,
that became it even less than his habitual stern scowl.

“You have done me the honour, sir,” said he, “to make some observations
on my manner, which, I regret to learn, has not acquired your favourable
opinion. Now, I have a strong sense of the _inconvenance_ of any thing
like a rupture of amicable relations between the embassy I have the
honour to serve and that to which you belong. It is, then, exceedingly
unpleasant for me to notice your remarks--it is impossible for me to let
them pass unnoticed.”

He made a pause at these words, and so long that I felt bound to speak,
and, in a voice that passion had rendered slightly tremulous, said,

“Am I to receive this, sir, in the light of a rebuke? because, as yet,
I only perceive it conveys the expression of your own regret that you
cannot demand an explanation I am most ready to afford you.

“My demand is somewhat different, sir, but, I trust, will be as readily
accorded. It is this: that you resign your position as _attaché_ to
this embassy, and leave Vienna at once. There is no necessity that any
unfavourable notice of this affair should follow you to another mission,
or to England.”

“Stop, sir, I beg of you: I cannot be answerable for my temper, if you
persist to outrage it. While you may press me to acknowledge that,
while half an hour ago I only deemed you a ‘Fat,’ I now account you an
imbecile.’”

“Enough!” said the Count, passing down the stairs before me.

When I reached my lodgings, I found a “friend” from him, who arranged
a speedy meeting. We fought that same evening, behind the Prater, and I
received his ball in my shoulder--mine, pierced his hat. I was recalled
before my wound permitted me to leave my bed. The day I left Vienna,
Lady Blanche was married to Count Favancourt!

Some fourteen years had elapsed since that event and the time in which
I now lay sleeping on the sofa; and yet, after all that long
interval--with all its scenes of varied interests, its stormy passions,
its hopes, its failures, its successes--the image of Blanche was before
my mind’s eye, as brightly, joyously fair, as on the evening I first
beheld her. I had forgotten all, that time and worldly knowledge had
taught me, that, of all her attractions, her beauty only was real--that
the graceful elegance of her bearing was only manner--that her
gentleness was manner--her winning softness and delicacy mere
manner--that all the fair endowments that seemed the rich promise of
a gifted mind, united to a nature so bounteously endowed, were mere
manner. She was _spirituelle_, lively, animated, and brilliant--all,
from nothing but manner. To this knowledge I did not come without many a
severe lesson. The teaching has been perfect, however, and made me
what I am! Alas! how is it that mere gilding can look so like solid
gold--nay, be made to cover more graceful tracery, and forms more purely
elegant, than the real metal?

I have said that I slept; and, as I lay, dreams came over me--dreams of
that long-past time, when the few shadows that fell over my path in life
were rather spots where, like the traveller on a sunny road, one halts
to breathe awhile, and taste in the cool shade the balmy influence of
repose. I thought of Blanche, too, as first I had seen her, and when
first she taught my heart to feel the ecstasy of loving, breathing into
my nature high hopes and longings, and making of life itself an ideal of
delight and happiness. And, as I dreamed, there stole over my senses
a faint, thrilling memory of that young joy my heart had known, and a
feeling like that of health and ardent buoyancy, which for years long I
had not experienced. _Her_ voice, tremulous with feeling, vibrating
in all the passionate expression of an Italian song, was in my ears--I
could hear the words--my very heart throbbed to their soft syllables as
she sung the lines of Metastasio,--

     “E tu, qui sa si te
     Ti sovrerai  di  me.”

I started--there she was before me, bending over the harp, whose cords
still trembled with the dying sounds; the same Blanche I had known and
loved, but slightly changed indeed: more beautiful perhaps in womanhood
than as a girl. Her long and silky hair fell over her white wrist and
taper hand in loose and careless tresses, for she had taken off her
bonnet, which lay on the floor beside her; her attitude was that of
weariness--nay, there was a sigh! Good Heavens! is she weeping? My book
fell to the ground; she started up, and, in a voice not louder than a
whisper, exclaimed, “Mr. Templeton!”

“Blanche!--Lady Blanche!” cried I, as my head swam round in a strange
confusion, and a dim and misty vapour danced before my eyes.

“Is this a visit, Mr. Templeton?” said she, with that soft smile I had
loved so well; “am I to take this surprise for a visit?”

“I really--I cannot understand--I thought--I was certain that I was in
my own apartment. I believed I was in Paris, in the Hôtel des Princes.”

“Yes, and most correct were all your imaginings; only that at this
moment you are _chez moi_--this is our apartment, No. 12.”

“Oh, forgive me, I beg, Lady Blanche!--the similarity of the rooms, the
inattentive habit of an invalid, has led to this mistake.”

“I heard you had been ill,” said she, in an accent full of melting
tenderness; while taking a seat on a sofa, by a look rather than an
actual gesture she motioned me to sit beside her: “you are much paler
than you used to be.”

“I have been ill,” said I, struggling to repress emotion and a fit of
coughing together.

“It is that dreadful life of England, depend upon it,” said she eagerly;
“that fearful career of high excitement and dissipation combined--the
fatigues of parliament--the cares and anxieties of party--the tremendous
exertions for success--the torturing dread of failure. Why didn’t you
remain in diplomacy?”

“It looked so very like idling,” said I, laughingly, and endeavouring to
assume something of her own easy tone.

“So it is. But what better can one have, after all?” said she, with a
faint sigh.

“When they are happy,” added I, stealing a glance at her beneath my
eyelids. She turned away, however, before I had succeeded, and I could
merely mark that her breathing was quick and hurried.

“I hope you have no grudge towards Favancourt?” said she hastily, and
with a manner that shewed how difficult it was to disguise agitation.
“He would be delighted to see you again! He is always talking of your
success in the House, and often prophesies the most brilliant
advancement for you.”

“I have outlived resentment,” said I, in a low whisper: “would that I
could add, other feelings were as easily forgotten.”

Not at once catching my meaning, she turned her full and lustrous eyes
upon me, and then suddenly aware of my words, or reading the explanation
in my own looks, she blushed deeply, and after a pause said,

“And what are your plans now? do you remain here some time?”

“No, I am trying to reach Italy. It has become as classic to die there
nowadays, as once it was to live in that fair land.”

“Italy!” interrupted she, blushing still deeper. “Favancourt is now
asking for a mission there--Naples is vacant.”

This time I succeeded in catching her eyes, but she hastily withdrew
them, and we were both silent.

“Have you been to the Opera yet?” said she, with a voice full of all its
habitual softness.

“You forget,” said I, smiling, “that I am an invalid: besides, I only
arrived here last night.”

“Oh, I am sure that much will not fatigue you. The Duc de Blancard has
given us his box while we stay here, and we shall always have a place
for you; and I pray you to come; if not for the music, for my sake,” she
added hastily: “for I own nothing can be possibly more stupid than
our nightly visitors. I hear of nothing but ministerial intrigue, the
tactics of the _centre droit_ and the opposition, with a little very
tiresome gossip of the Tuileries; and Favancourt thinks himself
political, when he is only prosy. Now, I long for a little real
chit-chat about London and our own people. _Apropos_, what became of
Lady Frances Gunnington? did she really marry the young cornet of
dragoons and sail for India?”

“The saddest is to be told: he was killed in the Punjaub, and she is now
coming home a widow.”

“How very sad!--was she as pretty as they said?--handsomer than Lucy Fox
I have heard!”

“I almost think so.”

“That is great praise from you, if there be any truth in _on dits_. Had
not you a kind of tenderness in that quarter?”

“Me!”

“Nay, don’t affect surprise: we heard the story at Florence, and a very
funny story it was: that Lucy insisted upon it, if you didn’t propose
for her, that she would for you, since she was determined to be
mistress of a certain black Arabian that you had; and that you, fearing
consequences, sent her the horse, and so compromised the affair.”

“How very absurd!”

“But is it not true? Can you deny having made a present of the steed?”

“She did me the honour to accept of a pony, but the attenuating
circumstances are all purely imaginary.”

“_Si non vero e ben trovato_.--It was exactly what she would do!”

“An unfair inference, which I feel bound to enter a protest against. If
we were only to charge our acquaintances with what we deem them capable
of----”

“Well, finish, I pray you.”

“I was only about to add, what would become of ourselves?”

“Meaning you and me, for instance?”

I bowed an assent.

“‘_Qui s’excuse, s’accuse_,’ says the adage,” rejoined she gaily: “I
neither do one nor the other. At the same time, let me confess to one
thing of which I am capable, which is, of detesting any one who in this
age of the world affects to give a tone of moralizing to a conversation.
Now I presume you don’t wish this. I will even take it for granted, that
you would rather we were good friends, as we used to be long ago.--Oh
dear, don’t sigh that way!”

“It was you that sighed!”

“Well, I am very sorry for it. It was wrong of _me_, and very wrong of
_you_ to tell me of it. But dear me! is it so late? can it really be
three o’clock?”

“I am a quarter past; but I think we must both be fast. You are going
out?”

“A mere drive in the Champs Elysées, where I shall pay a few visits and
be back to dinner. Will you dine with us?”

“I pray you to excuse me--don’t forget I am a sick man.”

“Well, then, we shall see you at the Opera?”

“I fear not. If I might ask a favour, it would be to take the volume of
Balzac away with me.”

“Oh, to be sure! But we have some others, much newer. You know ‘Le
Recherche de l’Absolu’, already?”

“Yes; but I like ‘Eugénie’ still better. It was an old taste of mine,
and as you quoted a proverb a few moments ago, let me give you another
as trite and as true,--

     ‘On revient toujours.’”

     “‘A ses premières amours,’”

said she, finishing; while with a smile, half playful, half sad, she
turned toward the window, and I retired noiselessly, and without an
adieu.

Heigho! how nervous and irritable I feel! The very sight of that
handsome barouche that has driven from the hôtel, with its beautiful
occupant lying listlessly back among the cushions, has set my heart
a-beating far far too hurriedly. How is it that the laws that govern
material nature are so inoperative in ours, and that a heart that never
felt can make another feel? Heaven knows! It is not love; even my first
passion, perhaps, little merited the name: but now, reading her as
worldliness as taught roe to do-seeing how little relation exists
between attractions and fascinations of the very highest order and any
real sentiment, any true feeling--knowing how “Life” is her idol, how in
that one idea is comprised all that vanity, self-love, false pride, and
passion can form,--how is it that she, whom I recognise thus, that _she_
can move me? There is nothing so like a battle as a sham fight in a
review.




CHAPTER II.

I must leave Paris at once. The weather is intolerably hot; the leaves
that were green ten days ago already are shewing symptoms of the sear
and yellow. Is it in compliment to the august inhabitant of the
palace that the garden is so _empressé_ to turn its coat? Shame on my
ingratitude to say so! for I find that his Majesty has sent me a card
of invitation to dine on Friday next. Another reason for a hurried
departure! Of all moderate endurances, I know of none to compare with a
dinner at the Tuileries. “Stay!--halt!” cries Memory; “I’ll tell you of
one worse again--a dinner at Neuilly!”

The former is sure to include a certain number of distinguished and
remarkable men, who, even under the chill and restraint of a royal
entertainment, venture now and then on some few words that supply the
void where conversation should be. At Neuilly it is strictly a family
party, where, whatever ease may be felt by the illustrious hosts, the
guests have none of it. Juvenal quaintly asks, If that can be a battle
where you strike and I am beaten? so one is tempted to inquire, If that
can be called society where a royal personage talks rapidly for hours,
and the listener must not even look dissent? The King of the French is
unquestionably a great man, but not greater in any thing than in the
complete mystification in which he has succeeded in enveloping his real
character, mingling up together elements so strange, so incongruous,
and seemingly inconsistent, that the actual direction or object of any
political move he has ever made, will always bear a double appreciation.
The haughty monarch is the citizen king; the wily and secret politician,
the most free-spoken and candid of men: the most cautious in an
intrigue, the very rashest in action. How is it possible to divine the
meaning, or guess the wishes, of one whose nature seems so Protean?

His foreign policy is, however, the master-stroke of his genius,--the
cunning game by which he has conciliated the party of popular
institutions and beguiled the friends of absolutism, delighting Tom
Buncombe and winning praise from Nicholas. Like all clever men who are
vain of their cleverness, he has always been fond of employing agents of
inferior capacity, but of unquestionable devotion to his interests. What
small intelligences--to use a phrase more French than English--were
the greater number of the French ministers and secretaries I have met
accredited to foreign courts! I remember Talleyrand’s observation, on
the remark being made, was, “His Majesty always keeps the trumps in
his own hand.” Though, to be sure, he himself was an evidence to the
contrary--a “trump” led boldly out, the first card played!

So well did that subtle politician comprehend the future turn events
must take, that on hearing, at two o’clock in the morning, that his
Royal Highness the Duc d’Orléans had consented to assume the crown, he
exclaimed, “And I am now ambassador at St. James’s!” It must have been
what the Londoners call “good fun” to have lived in the days of the
Empire, when all manner of rapid elevations occurred on every hand. The
_commis_ of yesterday, the special envoy to-day; a week ago a corporal,
and now gazetted an officer, with the cross of the Legion--on the
_grande route_, to become a general. A General, why not a Marshal of
France--ay, or a King?

We have seen something of this kind in Belgium within a few years
back--on a small scale, it is true. What strange ingredients did the
Revolution throw up to the surface! what a mass of noisy, turbulent,
self-opinionated incapables, who, because they had led a rabble at the
Porte de Flandre, thought they could conduct the march of an army!
And the statesmen!--good lack! the miserable penny-a-liners of the
“Indépendant” and the “Lion Beige,” that admirable symbol of the land,
who carries his tail between his legs. The really able, and, I believe,
honest men, were soon overwhelmed by the influence of the priest
party--the vultures who watched the fight from afar, and at last
descended to take all the spoils of the victory.

Wandeweyer and Nothomb are both men of ability, the latter a kind of
Brummagen Thiers, with the same taste for intrigue, the same subtle
subserviency to the head of the state, and, in his heart, the same
cordial antipathy to England. But why dwell on these people? they will
scarce occupy a foot-note in the old “Almanach.”

The diplomatic history of our day, if it ever be written, will present
no very striking displays of high-reaching intellect or devoted
patriotism; the men who were even greatest before the world were really
smallest behind “the fact.” We deemed that Lord Aberdeen and Lord
Palmerston, and Messrs. Guizot and Thiers, and a few more, were either
hurrying us on to war or maintaining an admirable peace. But the whole
thing resolves itself into the work of one man and one mind; neither
very conspicuous, but so intently occupied, so devotedly persevering,
that persistance has actually elevated itself to genius; and falling
happily upon times when mediocrity is sublime, he has contrived to
make his influence felt in every state of Europe. I speak not of Louis
Philippe, but of his son-in-law, King Leopold.

“Let me make the ballads of a nation, and I care not who makes its
laws,” said the great statesman; and in something of the same spirit his
Majesty of Belgium may have said, “Let me make the royal marriages of
Europe, and any one who pleases may choose the ministry.”

_Apropos_ of the Roi Leopold, is it not difficult to understand a
Princess Charlotte falling in love with his good looks? There is no
disputing on this point. The most eminently successful man I ever knew
in ladies’ society was Jack Beauclerc--“Caucasian Jack” we used to call
him at Brookes’s. Everybody knows Jack was no beauty. Heavy beetling
brows, a dark, saturnine, ill-omened expression, was ever on his
features. Nor did his face light up at times, as one occasionally sees
with such men; he was always the same sail misanthropic-looking fellow.
Neither could one call him agreeable--at least I, meeting him very
often, never found him so. But he was of a determined, resolute nature;
one of those men that appear never to turn from any object on which they
have set a strong will. This may have gone very far with ladies, who
very often conceive a kind of esteem for whatever they fear. He said
himself that his secret was, “always using them ill;” and certainly, if
facts could bear out such a theory, one might believe him. Probably no
man ever cultivated these tastes with such assiduity--these, I say, for
play and duelling were also passions with him.

He was _attaché_ to our mission at Naples before he was sixteen, and had
the honour of wounding the old Marquis d’Espagna with the small sword
at the same precocious era. The duel originated after a truly Italian
manner; and as there are at Naples many incorrect reports of it, I
will take the trouble to give the real one. The Marquis was an old man,
married to one of the most beautiful women in Italy. She was a Venetian,
and if my memory serves me right, a Guillardini by birth. She married
him at eighteen to escape a convent, he being the richest noble under
the rank of the blood royal at Naples. Very unlike the majority of
Italian husbands, the Marquis was excessively jealous, would not permit
the most innocent freedoms of his young and lovely wife, and eventually
secluded himself and--worse still--her from all society, and never
appeared except at a court ball, or some such festivity that there were
no means of avoiding. It was at one of these festivities that the King,
who liked to see his ball-room put forth its fairest aspect, bantered
the Marquis on the rumour that had even reached the ears of royalty,
as to his inordinate jealousy. The Marquis, whose old spirit of
courtiership predominated even as strongly as his jealousy, assured his
Majesty that the worthy people of Naples did him great injustice,
and that, although conscious of the Marquesa’s great beauty and
attractiveness, he had yet too high a sense of the distinguished place
he and his family had always held in the esteem of his sovereign to feel
jealous of any man’s pretension; adding, “If I have not admitted the
conventional addition of a _cavalière servente_ to my household, I would
beg your Majesty to believe it is simply because I have seen no one as
yet worthy to hand la Mar-quesa to her carriage or fold her shawl.”

“Admirably spoken, Marquis!” said the King; “the sentiment is quite
worthy of one who has the best blood of Sicily in his veins. But
remember what an artificial state of society we live in; think of our
conventional usages, and what a shock it gives to public opinion when
one, placed in so exalted a position as you are, so palpably affronts
universal and admitted custom; recollect that your reserve involves a
censure on others, less suspicious, and, we would hope, not less rigidly
honourable men, than yourself.”

“But what would your Majesty counsel?”

“Select a _cavalière_ yourself, as little likely to excite your jealousy
as you please; as little agreeable as possible, if you prefer it: but,
comply at least so far with the world’s prescription, and do not shock
our worthy Neapolitans by appearing to reflect upon them. There, what
say you to that boy yonder? he is only a boy--he has just joined the
English mission here. I’m sure he has formed no tender engagements to
prevent you adopting him, and you will at least seem to conform with the
usages of your neighbours.”

“If your Majesty commands----”

“Nay, Marquis, I but advise.”

“Your Majesty’s wish is always a command. I feel proud to obey.”

“Then, I am very happy to say I wish it,” said the King, who turned
away, dying to tell the court-party how miserable he had made the old
Marquis.

Such are _débauché_ Kings; the glorious prerogative of power becomes the
mere agent of perverted ingenuity to work mischief and do wrong!

The poor Marquis lost no time to follow out the royal commands, and at
once made acquaintance with Beauclerc--only too happy to be noticed in
such a quarter. I know not whether the lady was much gratified by the
result of this kingly interposition in her favour: some said, Yes, and
that the youth was really gifted and _spirituel_, with a vein of
quiet, caustic humour, most amusing; others--and I half incline to
this notion--pronounced him dull and uninteresting. At all events, the
Marquesa enjoyed the liberty of appearing often in public, and seeing
more of the world than heretofore. She usually visited the San Carlos,
too, twice a week; a great improvement in her daily life, as previously
the Opera was denied her.

Immediately over the Marquesa’s box was the large box, or rather
_salon_, belonging to the club of the Italian _nobili_, who frequented
the theatre far less for the pleasures of the opera and the ballet
than for the more exciting delights of _faro_ and _écarté_; and here,
nightly, were assembled all the most dissipated and spendthrift youth
of a capital, whose very gravest and most exemplary citizens would be
reckoned “light company” any where else.

High play, with all its consequences of passionate outbreaks, ruin,
and duelling, were the pastimes of this ill-fated _loge_; and,
notwithstanding the attractions the box underneath contained, Jack
Beauclerc was far oftener in the second tier than the first. He was,
indeed, a most inveterate gambler; and the few moments which he devoted
to attending the Marquesa to her box, or her carriage, were so many
instants of pregnant impatience till he was back at the play-table.

It was on one evening, when, having lost a very heavy sum, that his turn
came to deal; and, with the superstitious feeling that only a play-man
can understand, he resolved to stake a very large amount upon the
game. The attention of the bystanders--never very deeply engaged by the
_scène_--was now entirely engrossed by the play-table, where Beauclerc
and his adversary were seated at _écarté_. It was that critical moment
when the cards were dealt, but the trump not yet turned, and Beauclerc
sat enjoying, with a gambler’s “malign” delight, the eager anxiety in
the other player’s countenance, when suddenly a voice said,--

“Ha, Beauclerc! the Marquesa is rising--she is about to leave the
theatre.”

“Impossible!” said he; “it is only the second act.”

“It is quite true, though,” rejoined another; “she is putting on her
mantle.”

“Never mind our party, then,” cried Beauclerc’s antagonist; “I will hold
myself ready to play the match out whenever you please.”

“I please it now, then!” said he, with a degree of energy that heavy
losses had, in spite of him, rendered uncontrollable.

“Il Signor Beauclerc!” said a servant, approaching, “the Marquis
d’Espagna desires to see you.”

“Tell him I am engaged--I can’t come,” said Beauclerc, turning up the
trump-card, which he held out triumphantly before his adversary, saying,
“The king!”

At the same instant the old Marquis entered, and, approaching the table,
whispered a few words in his ear. If an adder had pierced him with its
sting, Beauclerc could not have started with a more agonised expression;
and he sprang from the chair and rushed out of the theatre, not by the
door, however, where the Marquesa’s carriage was yet standing, but by a
private passage, which led more easily towards his lodgings.

“What is this piece of news, that all are so amused by?” said the King,
the next morning, as he was rising.

“Your majesty alludes to the Marquis d’Es-pagna, no doubt,” said Count
Villafranca. “He challenged the young English _attaché_ last night, at
the theatre, and they have been out this morning; and, strange to say,
that the Marquis, the very best swordsman we have ever had here, was
disarmed and run through the side by his antagonist.”

“Is the wound dangerous?” said the King, coolly.

“I believe not, your Majesty. Beauclerc has behaved very well since it
happened; he has not left the Marquis for a moment, and has, they say,
asked pardon most humbly for his offence, which was, indeed, a very
gross neglect of the Marchesa no husband could pardon.”

“So I heard,” said the King, yawning. “The Marquis is very tiresome, and
a great bore: but, for all that, he is a man of spirit; and I am glad
he has shewn this young foreigner that Italian honour cannot be outraged
with impunity!”

Such is the true version; and, let people smile as they like at the
theory, I can assure them it is no laughing matter. It is, doubtless,
somewhat strange to our northern ideas of domestic happiness that a
husband should feel called on to punish a want of sufficient attention
to his wife, from the man whom the world regards as her lover. We have
our own ideas on the subject; and, however sensitive we may feel on this
subject, I sincerely hope we shall never push punctilio so far as the
Neapolitans.

Such, without the slightest exaggeration, are the pictures Italy
presents, for more impressive on the minds of our travelling youth than
all that Correggio has touched or Raphael rendered immortal. Will their
contemplation injure us? Shall we become by habit more lenient to vice,
and less averse to its shame? or shall we, as some say, be only more
charitable to others, and less hypocritical ourselves? I sadly fear
that, in losing what many call “our affected prudery,” we lose the best
safeguard of virtue. It was, at the least, the “livery of honour,” and
we shewed ourselves not ashamed to wear it. And yet there are those who
will talk to you--ay, and talk courageously--of the domestic LIFE OP
ITALY!

The remark has been so often made, that by the mere force of repetition
it has become like an acknowledged truth, that, although strangers
are rarely admitted within its precincts, there exists in Italy and
in Italian cities a state of domestic enjoyment to which our boasted
home-life in England must yield the palm. Never was there any more
absurd assertion less propped by fact--never was the “_ignotum_” so
easily taken “_pro beatifico_.”

The domestic life of England has no parallel in any part of Europe,
save, perhaps, in some of the French provinces, where the old “_vie du
château_” presents something similar; but, even there, it rather lingers
like the spirit of a departed time, the relic of bygone associations,
than in the full reign of a strong national taste. In Germany,
notwithstanding the general impression to the contrary, there is
still less of it: the passion for household duties by the woman, the
irresistible charms of beer and tobacco to the men, suggest different
paths; and while she indulges her native fondness for cookery and
counting napkins at home, he, in some wine-garden, dreams away life
in smoke-inspired visions of German regeneration and German unity. In
Italy, however, the points of contact between the members of a family
are still fewer again: the meal-times, that summon around the board the
various individuals of a house, are here unknown; each rises when
he pleases, and takes his cup of coffee or chocolate in solitary
independence--unseen, unknown, and, worse still, unwashed!

The drawing-room, that paradise of English home-existence, has no place
in the life of Italy. The lady of the house is never seen of a morning;
not that the cares of family, the duties of a household, engross
her--not that she is busied with advancing the education of her
children, or improving her own. No: she is simply _en deshabille_. That
is, to be sure, a courteous expression for a toilet that has cost scarce
five minutes to accomplish, and would require more than the indulgence
one concedes to the enervation of climate to forgive.

The master of the family repairs to the café: his whole existence
revolves around certain little tables, with lemonade, sorbets, and
dominoes; his physical wants are, indeed, few, but his intellectual
ones even fewer; he cares little for politics--less for literature; his
thoughts have but one theme--intrigue; and his whole conversation is a
sort of _chronique scandaleuse_ on the city he lives in.

There is a tone of seeming good-nature--an easy, mock charity, in the
way he treats his neighbours’ backslidings--that have often suggested to
strangers favourable impressions as to the kindliness of the people; but
this is as great an error as can be: the real explanation of the fact is
the levity of national feeling, and the little impression that breaches
of morality make upon a society dead to all the higher and better
dictates of virtue--such offences being not capital crimes, but mere
misdemeanours.

The dinner-hour occasionally, but not always, assembles the family to
a meal that in no respect resembles that in more civilised communities.
The periodical return of a certain set of forms--those _convenances_
which inspire, at the same time, regard for others and self-respect--the
admixture of courtesy with cordial enjoyment--have no representatives
around a board where the party assemble, some dusty and heated, others
wrapped up in dressing-gowns--all negligent, inattentive to each other,
and weary of themselves--tired of the long, unbroken morning, which
no occupation lightens, no care beguiles, no duty elevates. The Siesta
follows, evening draws near, and at last the life of Italy dawns--dawns
when the sun is setting! It is the hour of the theatre--the Theatre, the
sole great passion of the nation, the one rallying point for every grade
and class. Thither, now, all repair; and for a brief interval the
silent streets of the city bustle with the life and movement of the
inhabitants, as, on foot or in carriages, they hasten past.

The “business of the _scène_” is the very least among the attractions of
a theatre in Italy. The opera-box is the drawing-room, the only one of
an Italian lady; it is the club-room of the men. Whist and faro,
ombre and piquet, dispute the interest with the _prima donna_ or the
_danseuse_ in one box; while in another the fair occupant turns from the
ardent devotion of stage-passion to listen to the not less impassioned,
but as unreal, protestation of her admirer beside her.

That the drama, as such, is not the attraction, it is sufficient to
say that the same piece is often played forty, fifty, sometimes seventy
nights in succession, and yet the boxes lose few, if any, of their
occupants. Night after night the same faces reappear, as regularly as
the actors; the same groupings are formed, the selfsame smiles go round;
and were it not that no trait of _ennui_ is discernible, you would say
that levity had met its own punishment in the dreariness of monotony.
These boxes seldom pass out of the same family; from generation to
generation they descend with the family mansion, and are as much a
part of the domestic property of a house as the rooms of the residence.
Furnished and lighted up according to the taste and at the discretion
of the owner, they present to eyes only habituated to our theatres the
strangest variety, and even discordance, of aspect: some, brilliant in
wax-light and gorgeous in decoration, glitter with the jewelled dresses
of the gay company; others, mysteriously sombre, shew the shadowy
outlines of an almost shrouded group, dimly visible in the distance.

The theatre is the very spirit and essence of life in Italy. To the
merchant it is the Bourse; it is the club to the gambler, the _café_ to
the lounger, the drawing-room and the boudoir to the lady. But where is
the domestic life?




CHAPTER III.

Another note from Favancourt, asking me to dine and meet Alfred de
Vigny, whose “Cinque Mars” I praised so highly. Be it so; I am curious
to see a Frenchman who has preferred the high esteem of the best critics
of his country, to the noisy popularity such men as Sue and Dumas write
for.

De Vigny is a French Washington Irving, with more genius, higher taste,
but not that heartfelt appreciation of tranquil, peaceful life, that the
American possesses. As episode, his little’tale, the “Canne de Jonc,” is
one of the most affecting I ever read. From the outset you feel that the
catastrophe must be sad, yet there is nothing harassing or wearying in
the suspense. The cloud of evil, not bigger than a man’s hand at first,
spreads gradually till it spans the heavens from east to west, and night
falls solemn and dark, but without storm or hurricane.

I scarcely anticipate that such a writer can be a brilliant converser.
The best gauge I have ever found of an authors agreeability, is in the
amount of dialogue he throws into his books. Wherever narrative, pure
narrative, predominates, and the reflective tone prevails, the author
will be, perhaps necessarily, more disposed to silence. But he who
writes dialogue well, must be himself a talker. Take Scott, for
instance; the very character of his dialogue scenes was the type of his
own social powers: a strong and nervous common sense; a high chivalry,
that brooked nothing low or mean; a profound veneration for antiquity;
an innate sense of the humorous, ran through his manner in the world, as
they display themselves in his works.

See Sheridan, too, he talked the School for Scandal all his life;
whereas Goldsmith was a dull man in company. Taking this criterion,
Alfred de Vigny will be quiet, reserved, and thoughtful; pointed,
perhaps, but not brilliant. _Apropos_ of this talking talent, what has
become of it? French _causerie_, of which one hears so much, was no more
to be compared to the racy flow of English table-talk, some forty
years back, than a group of artificial flowers is fit to compete with
a bouquet of richly scented dew-spangled buds, freshly plucked from the
garden.

Lord Brougham is our best man now, the readiest--a great quality--and,
strange as it may sound to those who know him not, the best-natured,
with anecdote enough to point a moral, but no storyteller; using his
wit as a skilful cook does lemon-juice--to flavour but not to sour the
_plat_.

Painters and anglers, I have remarked, are always silent, thoughtful
men. Of course I would not include under this judgment such as portrait
and miniature painters, who are about, as a class, the most tiresome and
loquacious twaddlers that our unhappy globe suffers under. Wilkie must
have been a real blessing to any man sentenced to sit for his picture:
he never asked questions, seldom indeed did he answer them; he had
nothing of that vulgar trick of calling up an expression in his sitter;
provided the man staid awake, he was able always to catch the traits of
feature, and, when he needed it, evoke the _prevailing_ character of
the individual’s expression by a chance word or two. Lawrence was really
agreeable--so, at least, I have always heard, for he was before my day;
but I suspect it was that officious agreeability of the artist, the
smartness that lies in wait for a smile or the sparkle of the eye, that
he may transmit it to the panel.

The great miniature painter of our day is really a specimen of a
miniature intelligence--the most incessant little driveller of worse
than nothings: the small gossip that is swept down the back-stairs of a
palace, the flat commonplaces of great people, are his stock-in-trade:
the only value of such contributions to history is, that they must be
true. None but kings could be so tiresome! I remember once sitting to
this gentleman, when only just recovering from an illness, and when
possibly I endured his forced and forty-horse power of small talk with
less than ordinary patience. He had painted nearly every crowned head
in Europe--kings, kaisers, archdukes, and grand-duchesses in every
principality, from the boundless tracts of the Czar’s possessions, to
those states which emulate the small green turf deposited in a bird’s
cage. Dear me! how wearisome it was to hear him recount the ordinary
traits that marked the life of great people, as if the greatest Tory of
us all ever thought Kings and Queens were anything but men and women!

I listened, as though in a long distressing dream, to narratives of how
the Prince de Joinville, so terribly eager to burn our dockyards and
destroy our marine, could be playful as a lamb in his nursery with the
children. How Louis Philippe held the little Count de Paris fast in
his chair till his portrait was taken. (Will he be able to seat him so
securely on the throne of France?) How the Emperor of Austria, with
a simplicity of a great mind and a very large head, always thought he
could sit behind the artist and watch the progress of his own picture!
I listened, I say, till my ears tingled and my head swam, and in that
moment there was not a “bounty man” from Kentucky or Ohio that held
royalty more cheaply than myself. Just at this very nick my servant
came to whisper me, that an agent for Messrs. Lorch, Rath; et Co., the
wine-merchants of Frankfort, had called, by my desire, to take an order
for some hock. Delighted at the interruption, I ordered he should be
admitted, and the next moment a very tall pretentious-looking German,
with a tremendously frogged and Brandenburged coat, and the most
extensive beard and moustaches, entered, and with all the ceremonial of
his native land saluted us both, three times over.

I received him with the most impressive and respectable politeness, and
seemed, at least, only to resume my seat after his expressed permission.
The artist, who understood nothing of German, watched all our
proceedings with a “miniature eye,” and at last whispered gently, “Who
is he?”

“Heavens!” said I, in a low tone, “don’t you know?--he is the Crown
Prince of Hanover!”

The words were not uttered when my little friend let fall his palette
and sprang off his chair, shocked at the very thought of his being
seated in such presence. The German turned towards him one of those
profoundly austere glances that only a foreign bagman or an American
tragedian can compass, and took no further notice of him.

The interview over, I accompanied him to the antechamber, and then took
my leave, to the horror of Sir C-----, who asked me at least twenty
times, “why I did not go down to the door?”

“Oh, we are old friends,” said I; “I knew him at Gottingen a dozen years
ago, and we never stand on any ceremony together.” My fiction, miserable
as it was, served me from further anecdotes of royalty, since what
private history of kings could astonish the man on such terms of
familiarity with the Crown Prince of Hanover?

Talking of Hanover, and _apropos_ of “humbugs,” reminds me of a
circumstance that amused me at the time it occurred. Soon after the
present King of Hanover ascended the throne, the Orangemen of Ireland,
who had long been vain of their princely Grand Master, had sufficient
influence on the old corporation of Dublin to carry a motion that a
deputation should be despatched to Hanover, to convey to the foot of the
throne the sincere and respectful gratulations of the mayor, aldermen,
and livery of Dublin on the auspicious advent of his Majesty to the
crown of that kingdom. The debate was a warm one, but the majority which
carried the measure large; and, now, nothing remained but to name the
happy individuals who should form the deputation, and then ascertain in
what part of the globe Hanover lay, and how it should be come at.

Nothing but the cares of state and the important considerations of duty,
could prevent the mayor himself accepting this proud task: the sheriffs,
however, were free. Their office was a sinecure, and they accordingly
were appointed, with a sufficient suite, fully capable of representing
to advantage, abroad, the wealth, splendour, and intelligence of the
“ancient and loyal corporation.”

One of the sheriffs, and the chief member of the mission, was, if I
remember aright, a Mr. Timothy Brien; the name of the “lesser bear” I
have forgotten. Tim was, however, the spokesman, whenever speaking was
available; and when it was not, it was he that made the most significant
signs.

I was at the period a very young _attaché_ of the mission at Hanover;
our secretary, Melmond, being _chargé d’affaires_ in the absence of our
chief, Melmond was confined to bed by a feverish attack, and the duties
of the mission, limited to signing a passport or two once a-month, or
some such form, were performed by me. Despatches were never sent. The
Foreign Office told us, if we had any thing to say, to wait for the
Russian courier passing through, but not to worry them about anything.
I therefore had an easy post, and enjoyed all the dignities of office
without its cares. If I had only had the pay, I could have asked nothing
better.

It was, then, of a fine morning in May that Count Beulwitz, the Minister
for Foreign Affairs, was announced, and the same moment entered my
apartment. I was, I own it, not a little fluttered and flattered by this
mark of recognition on the part of a minister, and resolved to play my
part as deputy assistant _chargé d’affaires_ to my very utmost.

“I come, Mr. Templeton,” said the minister, in a voice not quite free
from agitation, “to ask your counsel on a question of considerable
nicety; and as Mr. Melmond is still unable to attend to duty, you must
excuse me if I ask you to bestow the very gravest attention upon the
point.”

I assumed the most Talleyrand of looks, and he went on.

“This morning there has arrived here in four carriages, with great
pomp and state, a special mission, sent from Ireland to convey the
congratulations of the government on his Majesty’s accession to the
throne. Now we have always believed and understood that Ireland was a
part of the British empire, living under the same monarchy and the same
laws. If so, how can this mission be accredited? It would be a very
serious thing for us to recognise the partition of the British empire,
or the separation of an integral portion, without due thought and
consideration.

“It would be also a very bold step to refuse the advances of a state that
deputes such a mission as this appears to be. Do your despatches
from England give any clue by which we may guide our steps in this
difficulty? have you heard latterly what are the exact relations
existing between England and Ireland? You are aware that his Majesty is
at Berlin, and Barring and Von der Decken, who know England so well, are
both with him?”

I nodded assent, and, after a second’s silence, a strong temptation to
quiz the Minister crossed my mind; and without even a guess at what
this mysterious deputation might mean, I gravely hinted that our last
accounts from Ireland were of the most serious nature. It was certainly
true that kingdom had been conquered by the English and subjected to the
crown of England, but there were the most well-founded reasons to fear
that the arrangement had not the element of a permanence. The descendant
of the ancient sovereigns of the land was a man of bold and energetic
and adventurous character; he was a prince of the house of O’Connell,
of which, doubtless, his Excellency had heard. There was no saying what
events might have occurred to favour his ambitious views, and whether
England might not have found the advantage of restoring a troublesome
land to its ancient dynasty.

“How does the present mission present itself--how accredited?”

“From the court of Dublin, with the great seal, so far as I can
understand the representation, for none of the embassy speak French.”

“That sounds very formal and regular,” said I, with deep gravity.

“So I think it, too,” said his Excellency, who really was impressed by
the state-coach of Sheriff Timothy and three footmen in bag-wigs.
“At any rate,” said he, “we must decide at once, and there can be no
hesitation about the matter. I suppose we must give them an audience of
the Crown Prince, and then let all rest till his Majesty returns, which
he will do on Friday next.”

Without compromising myself by any assent, I looked as if he had spoken
very wisely, and his Excellency departed.

That same afternoon two state-carriages of the court, with servants
in dress livery, drew up at the Hof von London, the hôtel where the
deputation had taken up their quarters, and a _Maréchal de Cour_
alighted to inform the “Irish ambassador” that his Royal Highness the
Crown Prince would receive their homage in the absence of the King.
The intimation, more conveyed by pantomime than oral intelligence, was
replied to by an equivalent telegraph; but the sheriffs, in all their
gala, soon took their places in the carriage and set out for the palace.

Their reception was most flattering; enough to say, they had the honour
to address and be replied to by one of the most courteous princes of
Europe. An invitation to dinner, the usual civility to a newly arrived
mission, ensued, and the Irish embassy, overwhelmed with the brilliant
success of their journey, returned to the hôtel in a state of exaltation
that bordered on ecstasy.

Their corporation address, formidable by its portentous parchment and
official seal, had puzzled the Foreign Office in no ordinary way, and
was actually under their weighty consideration the following day, when
the King most unexpectedly made his _entreé_ into the capital. King
Ernest heard with some amazement, not unmingled by disbelief, that an
Irish diplomatic body had actually arrived at his court, and immediately
demanded to see their credentials. There is no need to recount the
terrible outbreak of temper which his Majesty displayed on discovering
the mistake of his ministers. The chances are, indeed, that, had he
called himself Pacha instead of King, he would have sentenced the Irish
ambassador and his whole following to be hanged like onions on the one
string. As it was, he could scarcely control his passion; and whatever
the triumphant pleasures of the day before, when a dinner-card for the
palace was conveyed by an aide-de-camp to the hotel, the “second Epistle
to Timothy” was a very awful contrast to its predecessor. The hapless
deputation, however, got leave to return unmolested, and betook
themselves to their homeward journey, the chief of the mission by
no means so well satisfied of his success in the part of the “Irish
Ambassador.”

Now to dress for dinner. I wish I had said “No” to this same invitation.

Nothing is pleasanter when one is in health and spirits than a _petit
diner_; nothing is more distressing when one is weak, low, and dejected.
At a large party there is always a means of lying _perdu_, and neither
taking any share in the cookery or the conversation. At a small table
one must eat, drink, and be merry, though the _plat_ be your doom and
the talk be your destruction. There is no help for it; there is no
playing “supernumerary” in farce with four characters.

Is it yet too late to send an apology?--it still wants a quarter of
six, and six is the hour. I really cannot endure the fatigue and the
exhaustion.

Holland, besides, told me that any excitement would be prejudicial. Here
goes, then, for my excuse.... So! I’m glad I’ve done it. I feel myself
once more free to lie at ease on this ottoman and dream away the hours
undisturbed.

“Holloa! what’s this, Legrelle?” “De la part de Madame la Comtesse, sir.
How provoking!--how monstrously provoking! She writes me, ‘You really
must come. I will not order dinner till I see you.--Yours, &c. B.
de F------.’ What a bore! and what an absurd way to incur an attack of
illness! There’s nothing for it, however, but submission; and to-morrow,
if I’m able, I’ll leave Paris.

“Legrelle, don’t forget to order horses for tomorrow at twelve.”

“What route does monsieur take?”

“Avignon--no, Strasbourg--Couilly, I think, is the first post. I should
like to see Munich once more, or, at least, its gallery. The city is
a poor thing, worthy of its people, and, I was going to say--no matter
what! Germany, in any case, for the summer, as I am sentenced to die
in Italy. I feel I am taking what the Irish call ‘a long day’ in not
crossing the Alps till late in autumn!”

How many places there are which one has been near enough to have visited
and somehow always neglected to see! and what a longing, craving wish to
behold them comes over the heart at such a time as this? What, then, is
“this time,” that I speak it thus?

*****

How late it is! De Vigny was very agreeable, combining in his manner
a great deal of the refinement of a highly cultivated mind, with
the shrewd perception of a keen observer of the world. He is a
_Légitimiste_, I take it, without any hope of his party. This, after
all, is the sad political creed of all who adhere to the “elder branch.”
 Their devotion is indeed great, for it wars against conviction. But
where can an honest man find footing in France nowadays? Has not Louis
Philippe violated in succession every pledge by which he had bound
himself? Can such an example of falsehood so highly placed be without
its influence on the nation? Can men cry “Shame!” on the Minister, when
they witness the turpitude of the Monarch?

But what hope does any other party offer?--None. Henri Cinque, a Bourbon
of the _vieille roche_, gentle, soft-hearted, sensual, and selfish, who,
if he returned to France to-morrow, would never believe that the long
interval since the Three Days had been any thing but an accident; and
would not bring himself to credit the possibility that the succession
had been ever endangered.

I believe, after all, one should be as lenient in their judgment of
men’s change of fealty in France as they are indulgent to the capricious
fancies of a spoiled beauty. The nation, like a coquette, had every
thing its own way. The cold austerities of principle had yielded to the
changeful fortunes of success for so many years, that men very naturally
began to feel that instability and uncertainty were the normal state
of things, and that to hold fast one set of opinions was like casting
anchor in a stream when we desired to be carried along by the current.
Who are they who have risen in France since the time of the Great
Revolution? Are they the consistent politicians, the men of one
unvarying, unaltered faith? or are they the expediency makers, the men
of emergencies and crises, yielding, as they would phrase it, to “the
enlightened temper of the times”--the Talleyrands, the Soults, the
Guizots of the day?--not to speak of one higher than them all, but not
more conspicuous for his elevation than for the subserviency that has
placed him there.

Poor Chateaubriand! the man who never varied, the man that was humblest
before his rightful sovereign, and prouder than the proudest Marshal in
presence of the Emperor, how completely forgotten is he--standing like
some ruined sign-post to point the way over a road no longer travelled!
A more complete revolution was never worked in the social condition of
a great kingdom than has taken place in France since the time of the
Emperor. The glorious career of conquering armies had invested the
soldier’s life with a species of chivalry, that brought back the old
days of feudalism again. Now, it is the _bourgeoisie_ are uppermost.
Trade and money-getting, railroads and mines, have seized hold of the
nation’s heart; and where the _bâton_ of a Maréchal was once the most
coveted of all earthly distinctions, a good bargain on the Bourse, or a
successful transaction in scrip, are now the highest triumphs. The very
telegraph, whose giant limbs only swayed to speak of victories, now
beckons to an expectant crowd the rates of exchange from London to
Livorno, and with a far greater certainty of stirring the spirits it
addresses.

I fell into all this moody reflection from thinking of an incident--I
might almost call it story--I remembered hearing from an old cuirassier
officer some years ago. I was passing through the north of France,
and stopped to dine at Sedan, where a French cavalry regiment, three
thousand strong, were quartered. Some repairs that were necessary to
my carriage detained me till the next day; and as I strolled along
the shady boulevards in the evening, I met an old soldier-like person,
beside whom I dined at the table-d’hôte. He was the very type of a
_chef-d’escadron_ of the Empire, and such he really proved to be.

After a short preamble of the ordinary commonplaces, we began to talk
of the service in which he lived, and I confess it was with a feeling of
surprise I heard him say that the old soldiers of the Empire had met but
little favour from the new dynasty; and I could not help observing
that this was not the impression made upon us in England, but that we
inclined to think it was the especial policy of the present reign to
conciliate the affections of the nation by a graceful acknowledgment of
those so instrumental to its glory.

“Is not Soult as high, or rather, is he not far higher, in the favour of
his sovereign, Louis Philippe, than ever he was in that of the Emperor?
Is not Moncey a man nobly pensioned as Captain of the Invalides?”

“All true! But where are the hundreds--I had almost said thousands, but
that death has been so busy in these tranquil times with those it had
spared in more eventful days--where are they, the old soldiers, who
served in inferior grades, the men whose promotions for the hard
fighting at Montereau and Chalons needed but a few days more of
prosperity to have confirmed, but who saw their best hopes decline as
the sun of the Emperor’s glory descended?

“What rewards were given even to many of the more distinguished, but
whose principles were known to be little in accordance with the new
order of things? What of Pajol, who captured a Dutch fleet with his
cavalry squadrons;--ay! charged the three-deckers as they lay ice-locked
in the Scheldt, dismounted half of his force and boarded them, as in a
sea-fight? Poor Pajol! he died the other day, at eighty-three or four,
followed to the grave by the comrades he had fought and marched beside,
but with no honours to his memory from the King or his government. No,
sir, believe me, the present people never liked the Buonapartists; the
sad contrasts presented by all their attempts at military renown with
those glorious spectacles of the Empire were little flattering to them.”

“Then you evidently think Soult and some others owe their present
favour, less to the eminence of their services than to the plasticity of
their principles?”

“Who ever thought Soult a great general?” said he, abruptly answering my
question by this transition. “A great military organizer, certainly--the
best head for the administration of an army, or the Emperor’s staff--but
nothing more. His capacity as a tactician was always third rate.”

I could not help acknowledging that such was the opinion of our own
great captain, who has avowed that he regarded Massena as the most
accomplished and scientific general to whom he was ever opposed.

“And Massena’s daughter,” cried the veteran indignantly, “lives now
in the humblest poverty--the wife of a very poor man, who cultivates a
little garden near Brussels, where _femmes de chambre_ are sent to buy
bouquets for their mistresses! The daughter of a _Maréchal de France_,
a title once that Kings loved to add to their royalty, as men love to
ennoble station by evidences of high personal desert!”

“How little fidelity, however, did these men shew to him who had made
them thus great! how numerous were the desertions!--how rapid too!”

“Yes, there was an epidemic of treason at that time in France, just as
you have seen at different epochs, here, other epidemics prevail: in
the Revolution the passion was for the guillotine; then came the lust of
military glory--that suited us best, and lasted longest; we indulged
in it for twenty years: then succeeded that terrible revulsion, and
men hastened to prove how false-hearted they could be. Then came the
Restoration--and the passion was to be Catholic; and now we have another
order of things, whose worst feature is, that there is no prevailing
creed. Men live for the day and the hour. The King’s health--the state
of Spain--a bad harvest--an awkward dispute between the commander of
our squadron in the Pacific with some of your admirals,--anything may
overturn the balance, and our whole political and social condition may
have to be built up once more.”

“The great remedy against this uncertainty is out of your power,” said
I: “you abolished the claims of Sovereignty on the permanent affection
of the people, and now you begin to feel the want of ‘Loyalty.’”

“Our kings had ceased to merit the respect of the nation when they lost
it.”

“Say, rather, you revenged upon them the faults and vices of their more
depraved, but bolder, ancestors. You made the timid Louis XVI. pay for
the hardy Louis XIV. Had that unhappy monarch but been like the Emperor,
his court might have displayed all the excesses of the regency twice
told, and you had never declared against them.”

“That may be true; but you evidently do not--I doubt, indeed, if any
but a Frenchman and a soldier can--feel the nature of our attachment
to the Emperor. It was something in which personal interest partook a
large part, and the hope of future advancement, _through him_, bore its
share. The army regarded him thus, and never forgave him perfectly,
for preferring to be an Emperor rather than a General. Now, the very
desertions you have lately alluded to, would probably never have
occurred if the leader had not merged into the monarch.

“There was a fascination, a spirit of infatuating ecstasy, in serving
one whose steps had so often led to glory, that filled a man’s
entire heart. One learned to feel, that the rays of his own splendid
achievements shed a lustre on all around him and each had his portion
of undying fame. This feeling, as it became general, grew into a kind
of superstition, and even to a man’s own conscience it served to excuse
many grave errors, and some direct breaches of true faith.”

“Then, probably, you regard Ney’s conduct in this light?” said I.

“I know it was of this nature,” replied he, vehemently. “Ney, like many
others, meant to be faithful to the Bourbons when he took the command.
He had no thought of treachery in his mind; he believed he was marching
against an enemy until he actually saw the Emperor, and then----”

“I find this somewhat difficult to understand,” said I, dubiously.
“Ney’s new allegiance was no hasty step, but one maturely and well
considered. He had weighed in his mind various eventualities, and
doubtless among the number the possibility of the Emperor’s return. That
the mere sight of that low cocked-hat and the _redingote gris_ could
have at once served to overturn a sworn fealty and a plighted word---”

“Have you time to listen to a short story?” interrupted the old dragoon,
with a degree of emotion in his manner that bespoke a deeper interest
than I suspected in the subject of our conversation.

“Willingly,” said I. “Will you come and sup with me at my hôtel, and we
can continue a theme in which I feel much interest?”

“Nay; with your permission, we will sit down here--on the ramparts.
I never sup: like an old campaigner, I only make one meal a-day, and
mention the circumstance to excuse my performance at the table d’hôte:
and here, if you do not dislike it, we will take our places under this
lime-tree.”

I at once acceded to this proposal, and he began thus:--




CHAPTER IV.

You are, perhaps, aware, that in no part of France was the cause of
the exiled family sustained with more perseverance and courage than
Auvergne. The nobles, who, from generation to generation, had lived
as seigneurs on their estates, equally remote from the attractions and
advantages of a court, still preserved their devotion to the Bourbons
as a part of religious faith; nor ever did the evening mass of a château
conclude without its heartfelt prayer for the repose of that “Saint
Roi” Louis XVI., and for the blessing of heaven on him, his rightful
successor, now a wanderer and an exile.

In one of these antique châteaux, whose dilapidated battlements and
shattered walls shewed that other enemies than mere time had been
employed against it, lived an old Count de Vitry: so old was he, that
he could remember the time he had been a page at the court of Louis XV.,
and could tell many strange tales of the Regency, and the characters who
flourished at that time.

His family consisted of two grandchildren, both of them orphans of
his two sons. One had fallen in La Vendée; the other, sentenced to
banishment by the Directory, had died on the passage out to Guadaloupe.
The children were nearly of the same age--the boy a few months older
than the girl--and regarded each other as brother and sister.

It is little to be wondered at if these children imbibed from the very
cradle a horror of that system and of those men which had left them
fatherless and almost friendless, destitute of rank, station, and
fortune, and a proportionate attachment to those who, if they had been
suffered to reign, would have preserved them in the enjoyment of all
their time-honoured privileges and possessions.

If the members of the executive government were then remembered among
the catalogue of persons accursed and to be hated, the names of the
royal family were repeated among those saintly personages to whom honour
and praise were rendered. The venerable Père Duclos, to whom their
education was confided, certainly neglected no available means of
instilling these two opposite principles of belief; and if Alfred de
Vitry and Blanche were not impressed with this truth, it could not
be laid to the charge of this single-hearted teacher; every trait and
feature that could deform and disgrace humanity being attributed to one,
and all the graces and ennobling virtues of the race associated with the
name of the other. The more striking and impressive to make the lesson,
the Père was accustomed to read a comment on the various events then
occurring at Paris, and on the campaigns of the Republican army in
Italy; dwelling, with pardonable condemnation, on the insults offered to
the Church and all who adhered to its holy cause.

These appeals were made with peculiar force to Alfred, who was destined
for an ecclesiastic, that being the only career which the old Count and
his chaplain could satisfy themselves as offering any hope of safety;
and now that the family possessions were all confiscated, and a
mere remnant of the estate remaining, there was no use in hoping to
perpetuate a name which must sink into poverty and obscurity. Blanche
was also to become a member of a religious order in Italy, if, happily,
even in that sacred land, the privileges of the Church were destined to
escape.

The good Père, whose intentions were unalloyed by one thought unworthy
of an angel, made the mistake that great zeal not unfrequently
commits--he proved too much; he painted the Revolutionary party in
colours so terrible, that no possible reality could sustain the truth of
the portraiture. It is true, the early days of the Revolution warranted
all he did or could say; but the party had changed greatly since that,
or, rather, a new and a very differently minded class had succeeded.
Marat, Danton, and Robespierre had no resemblance with Sieyes, Carnot,
and Buonaparte. The simple-minded priest, however, recognised no
distinction: he thought that, as the stream issued from a tainted
source, the current could never become purer by flowing; and he
delighted, with all the enthusiasm of a _dévote_, to exaggerate the
evil traits of those whose exploits of heroism might have dazzled and
fascinated unthinking understandings.

Alfred was about sixteen, when one evening, nigh sunset, a peasant
approached the Château in eager haste to say that a party of soldiers
were coming up the little road which led towards the house, instead of
turning off, as they usually did, to the village of Puy de Dôme, half a
league further down the valley.

Père Duclos, who assumed absolute authority over the household since
the old Count had fallen into a state of childlike dotage, hastened to
provide himself with the writ of exemption from billet the Directory had
conferred on the château--an _amende_ for the terrible misfortunes of
the ruined family--and advanced to meet the party, the leading files of
which were already in sight.

Nothing could less have suggested the lawless depredators of
the Republic than the little column that now drew near. Four
chasseurs-à-pied led the van, their clothes ragged and torn, their shoes
actually in ribbons; one had his arm in a sling, and another carried
his shako on his back, as his head was bound up in a handkerchief, whose
blood-stained folds shewed the marks of a severe sabre-cut. Behind them
came a litter, or, rather, a cart with a canvass awning, in which lay
the wounded body of their officer; the rear consisting of about fourteen
others, under the command of a sergeant.

They halted and formed as the old Père approached them, and the
sergeant, stepping to the front, carried his hand to his cap in military
salute; and then, without waiting for the priest to speak, he began
a very civil, almost an humble, apology, for the liberty of their
intrusion.

“We are,” said he, “an invalid party, _en route_ for Paris, with an
officer who was severely wounded at the bridge of Lodi.” And here
he lowered his voice to a whisper: “The poor lieutenant’s case being
hopeless, and his constant wish--his prayer,--being to see his mother
before he dies, we are pushing on for her Château, which is near St.
Jean de Luc, I hear.”

Perhaps the mention of the word Château--the claim of one whose rank was
even thus vaguely hinted at--had nearly an equal influence on the Père
with the duties of humanity. Certain is it he laid less stress than
he might have done on the writ of exemption, and blandly said that the
out-offices of the Château should be at their disposal for the night;
apologising if late events had not left its inhabitants in better
circumstances to succour the unfortunate.

“We ask very little, Père,” said the sergeant, respectfully--“some
straw to sleep on, some rye-bread and a little water for supper; and
to-morrow, ere sunrise, you shall see the last of us.”

The humility of the request, rendered even more humble by the manner in
which it was conveyed, did not fail to strike the Père Duclos, who
began to wonder what reverses had overtaken the “Blues” (the name
the Republicans were called), that they were become thus civil and
respectful; nor could he be brought to believe the account the sergeant
gave of a glorious victory at the Ada, nor credit a syllable of the
bulletin which, in letters half-a-foot long, proclaimed the splendid
achievement.

A little pavilion in the garden was devoted to the reception of the
wounded lieutenant, and the soldiers bivouacked in the farm-buildings,
and some even in the open air, for it was the vintage-time, and
the weather delightful. There was nothing of outrage or disturbance
committed by the men; not even any unusual noise disturbed the peaceful
quiet of the old Château; and, except that a lamp burned all night in
the garden-pavilion, nothing denoted the presence of strangers.

Before day broke the men were mustered in the court of the Château; and
the sergeant, having seen that his party were all regularly equipped for
the march, demanded to speak a few words to the Père Duclos. The Père,
who was from his window watching these signs of approaching departure
with some anxiety, hastily descended on hearing the request.

“We are about to march, reverend father,” said the sergeant, saluting,
“all of us, save one--our poor lieutenant; his next billet will be for
another, and, we hope, a better place.”

“Is he dead?” asked the Père, eagerly.

“Not yet, father; but the event cannot now be far off. He raved all
through the night, and this morning the fever has left him, but without
strength, and evidently going fast. To take him along with us would be
inhuman, were it even possible--to delay would be against my orders; so
that nothing else is to be done than leave him among those who would be
kind to his last hours, and minister to the wants of a death-bed.”

The Père, albeit very far from gratified by his charge, promised to do
all in his power; and the sergeant, having commanded a “present arms” to
the Château, wheeled right-about and departed.

For some days the prediction of the sergeant seemed to threaten its
accomplishment at every hour. The sick man, reduced to the very lowest
stage of debility, appeared at moments as if struggling for a last
breath; but by degrees these paroxysms grew less frequent and less
violent: he slept, too, at intervals, and awoke seemingly refreshed; and
thus between the benefits derived from tranquillity and rest, a mild and
genial air, and his own youth, his recovery became at length assured,
accompanied, however, by a degree of feebleness that made the least
effort impossible, and even the utterance of a few words a matter of
great pain and difficulty.

If, during the most sad and distressing periods of the sick bed, the
Père indirectly endeavoured to inspire Alfred’s mind with a horror of a
soldier’s life--depicting, by the force of the terrible example before
him, the wretchedness of one who fell a victim to its ambition--so did
he take especial care, as convalescence began to dawn, to forbid the
youth from ever approaching the pavilion, or holding any intercourse
with its occupant. That part of the garden was strictly interdicted to
him, and the very mention of the lieutenant at last forbidden, or only
alluded to when invoking a Christian blessing upon enemies.

In this way matters continued till the end of autumn, when the Père, who
had long been anxiously awaiting the hour when the sick man should take
his leave, had one morning set off for the town to make arrangements for
his departure, and order post-horses to be ready on the following day.

It was a calm and mellow day of autumn, and Alfred, who had at first
determined to set out on a fishing excursion, without any reason,
changed his mind, and sauntered into the garden. Loitering listlessly
for some time, from walk to walk, he was at length returning to the
Château, when he beheld, seated under the shade of a walnut-tree, a
young man, whose pale and languid look at once bespoke the invalid, even
had not the fact been proclaimed by his dress, the uniform of a _Lander
rouge_.

Mindful of the Father’s precept, and fully impressed with an obedience
never violated, the youth was turning hastily away, when the wounded man
slowly arose from his seat, and removing his cap, made a salute of deep
and most respectful meaning.

Alfred returned it, and stood irresolute. The eyes of the sick man, full
of an expression of mild and thankful beaming, were on him. What should
he do? to retire without speaking would be a rudeness, even a cruelty:
beside, what possible harm could there be in a few words of friendly
greeting with one so long their guest? Ere he could resolve the point,
the wounded officer was slowly advancing towards him, still uncovered,
and in an attitude betokening a most respectful gratitude.

“I pray you will permit me, Mons. le Comte,” said he, “to express my
heartfelt thanks for the hospitality and kindness of your treatment.
I feared that I should leave this without the occasion of saying how
grateful I feel for the remnant of life your care has been the means of
preserving.”

Alfred tried to answer: but a dread of his disobedience and its
consequences, and a strange sense of admiration for the stranger, whose
manner and appearance had deeply impressed him, made him silent.

“I see,” said the lieutenant smiling, “that you are indisposed to
receive an acknowledgment for what you set such small store by--a
kindness to a mere ‘soldier of the Republic;’ but when you wear a sword
yourself, Mons. le Comte, as you will doubtless one of these days----”

“No,” said Alfred, hastily interrupting him, “never! I shall never wear
one.”

“How, never! What can you mean?”

“That I shall never be a soldier,” said Alfred. “I am to be a priest.”

“A priest! You, Mons. le Comte de Vitry, of the best blood of
Auvergne--you, a monk!”

“I did not say a monk,” said Alfred, proudly; “there are other ranks
among churchmen. I have heard tell of Prince-bishops and Cardinals.”

“And if one were to begin life at the age they usually take leave of it,
such a career might not be held so cheaply; but for a young man of good
birth and blood, with a heart to feel proudly, and a hand to wield a
weapon--no, no, this were a shame not to be thought of.”

Stung alike by the severity of the sarcasm, and animated by the old
spirit of the Père’s teaching, Alfred hastily answered:--

“And if men of rank and station no longer carry arms as their
forefathers did, with whom lies the blame? Why do they now bend to adopt
a path that in former days was only trodden by the weak-hearted and the
timid? Because they would not draw the sword in a cause they abhor,
and for a faction they despised; neither would they shed their blood to
assure the triumph of a rabble.”

“Nor would I,” interposed the lieutenant, while a slight flush coloured
his cheek. “The cause in which I perilled life was that of France, my
country. You may safely trust, that the nation capable of such conquests
will neither be disgraced by bad rulers, nor dishonoured by cowardly
ones.”

“I have no faith in Republicans,” said Alfred, scornfully.

“Because they were not born to a title, perhaps! But do you know how
many of those who now carry victory into foreign lands belong to this
same class that includes all your sympathy?--prouder, far prouder, that
they sustain the honour of France against her enemies than that
they carry the blazon of a marquis or the coronet of a duke on their
escutcheon? You look incredulous! Nay, I speak no more than what I well
know: for instance, the humble lieutenant who now addresses you can
claim rank as high and ancient as your own. You have heard of the
Liancourts?”

“Le Duc de Liancourt?”

“Yes; I am, or rather I was, the Duc de Liancourt,” said the lieutenant,
with an almost imperceptible struggle: “my present rank is
Sous-Lieutenant of the Third Lancers. Now listen to me calmly for a few
moments, and I hope to shew you, that in a country where a dreadful
social earthquake has uprooted every foundation of rank, and strewed the
ground with the ruins of every thing like prescription, it is nobler and
better to shew that nobility could enter the lists, unaided by its
prestige, and win the palm, among those who vainly boasted themselves
better and braver. This we have done, not by assuming the monk’s cowl
and the friar’s cord, but by carrying the knapsack and the musket; not
by shirking the struggle, but by confronting it. Where is the taunt now
against the nobility of France? whose names figure oftenest in the lists
of killed and wounded? whose lot is it most frequently to mount first to
the assault or the breach? No, no, take to the alb and the surplice if
your vocation prompt it, but do not assume to say that no other road is
open to a Frenchman because his heart is warmed by noble blood.”

If Alfred was at first shocked by hearing assertions so opposed to all
the precepts of his venerated tutor, he was soon ashamed of offering
opposition to one so far more capable than himself of forming a just
judgment on the question, while he felt, inwardly, the inequality of the
cause for which he would do battle against--that glorious and triumphant
one of which the young officer assumed the championship.

Besides, De Liancourt’s history was his own; he had been bred up with
convictions precisely like his, and might, had he followed out the path
intended for him, been a priest at the very hour that he led a charge at
Lodi.

“I was saved by an accident,” said he. “In the march of Berthault’s
division through Chalons, a little drummer-boy fell off a waggon when
asleep, and was wounded by a wheel passing over him: they brought him to
our château, where we nursed and tended him till he grew well. The Curé,
wishing to snatch him as a brand saved from the burning, adopted him,
and made him an acolyte; and so he remained till one Sunday morning,
when the ‘Chasseurs gris’ marched through the town during mass. Pierre
stole out to see the soldiers; he heard a march he had often listened to
before; he saw the little drummers stepping out gaily in front; worse,
too, _they_ saw him, and one called out to his comrades, ‘Regarde donc
le Prêtre; ce petit drôle là--c’est un Prêtre.’

“‘Du tout,’ cried he; tearing off his white robe, and throwing it behind
him, ‘Je suis tambour comme toi,’ and snatching the drum, he beat his
‘Ran tap-plan’ so vigorously and so well, that the drum-major patted him
on the head and cheek, and away marched Pierre at the head of the troop,
leaving Chalons, and Curé, and all behind him, without a thought or a
pang.

“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.

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.

“One word, your Excellency,” cried Jules, in a voice collected and firm,
but still of an almost imploring sound.

“Not now--at another time,” said the Minister, as he took some papers
from his secretary.

“But one word, Sir--I crave no more,” repeated Jules.

“See to that man, Delpierre,” said the Minister to his secretary;
but Jules, passing hastily forward, came close to the Minister, and
whispered in his ear, “_M. le Ministre, je suis Octave_,” the name under
which the “Siècle” articles appeared. A few words followed, and Jules
was ordered to follow the Minister to his cabinet. The article of the
“Siècle” did appear the next day, but miserably inefficient in point of
ability; and so false in fact-, that the refutation was overwhelming.
The “Moniteur” had a complete triumph, only to be exceeded by that
of the Minister’s own in the Chamber. The Council of Ministers was in
ecstasy, and Jules de Russigny, who arrived in Paris by the mail from
Orleans--for thither he was despatched, to make a more suitable entry
into the great world--was installed as a clerk in the office of the
Finance Minister, with very reasonable hopes of future advancement. Such
was the fortune of him who was one, and, I repeat it, the pleasantest of
our _convives_.

This is the age of smart men--not of high intelligences. The race is
not for the thoroughbred, but the clever hackney, always “ready for his
work,” and if seldom pre-eminent, never a dead failure.

Of my own brief experience, all the first-rate men, without exception,
have broke down. All the moderates--the “clever fellows”--have carried
the day. Now I could pick out from my contemporaries, at school and
university, some half-dozen brilliant, really great capacities, quite
lost--some, shipwrecked on the first venture in life--some, disheartened
and disgusted, have retired early from the contest, to live unheard
of and die brokenhearted. But the smart men! What crowds of them come
before my mind in high employ--some at home, some abroad, some waxing
rich by tens of thousands, some running high up the ambitious road of
honours and titles! There is something in inordinate self-esteem that
buoys up this kind of man. It is the only enthusiasm he is capable of
feeling---but it serves as well as the “real article.”

For the mere adventurer, the man of ready wit and a fearless
temperament, politics offer the best road to fortune. The abilities that
would have secured a mere mediocrity of position in some profession
will here win their way upwards. The desultory character of reading and
acquirements, so fatal to men chained to a single pursuit, is eminently
favourable to him who must talk about every thing, with, at least, the
appearance of knowledge; while the very scantiness of his store suggests
a recklessness that has great success in the world.

In England we have but one high road to eminence--Parliament.
Literature, whose rewards are so great in France, with us only leads
to intimacy with the “Trade” and a name in “the Row.” It is true,
Parliamentary reputation is of slow growth, and dependent on many
circumstances totally remote from the capacity and attainments of
him who seeks it. Are you the son of a great name in the Lords, the
representative of an immense estate, or of great commercial wealth? are
you high in the esteem of Corn men or Cotton men? are you a magnate of
Railroads, or is your word law in the City? then your way is open
and your path easy. Without these, or some one of them, you must be a
segment of some leading man’s party’.

My own little experience of Parliament--about the very briefest any man
can recall--presents little pleasurable in the retrospect. Lord Collyton
was one of my Christchurch acquaintances, and at his invitation I spent
the autumn of 18-- at his father, the Duke of Wrexington’s.

The house was full of company, and, like an English house in such
circumstances, the most delightful _séjour_ imaginable. Every second day
or so brought a relay of new arrivals, either from town or some other
country-house full of the small-talk of the last visit,--all that
strange but most amusing farrago which we designate by the humble title
of “gossip,” but which, so far as I can judge, is worth ten thousand
times more than the boasted _causerie_ of France, and the perpetual
effort at smartness so much aimed at by our polite neighbours.

The guests were numerous, and presented specimens of almost every
peculiarity observable in Englishmen of a certain class. We had great
lords and high court functionaries, deep in the mysteries of Buckingham
House and Windsor; a sprinkling of distinguished foreigners; ministers,
and secretaries of embassy; some parliamentary leaders, men great on the
Treasury benches or strong on the Opposition. Beauties there were too,
past, present, and some, coming; a fair share of the notorieties of
fashion, and the last winner of the Derby, with--let me not forget
him--a Quarterly Reviewer. This last gentleman came with the Marquis
of Deepdene, and was, with the exception of a certain pertinacity of
manner, a very agreeable person.

Although previously unknown to the host, he had come down “special”
 under the protection of his friend Lord Deepdene, hoping to secure his
grace’s interest in the borough of Collyton, at that time vacant. He was
a man of very high attainments, had been an _optime_ at Cambridge, was
a distinguished essayist, and his party had conceived the very greatest
expectations of his success in Parliament. Of the world, or at least
that portion of it that moves upon Tournay carpets, amid Vandykes and
Velasquez, with sideboards of gold and lamps of silver, he had not
seen much, and learned still less; and it was plain to see that, in
the confidence of his own strong head, he was proof against either
the seductions of fashion or the sneers of those who might attempt to
criticise his breeding.

Before he was twenty-four hours in the house he had corrected his grace
in an historical statement, caught up the B---- of D---- in a blunder
of prosody, detected a sapphire in Lady Dollington’s suite of yellow
diamonds, and exposed an error of Lord Sloperton’s in his pedigree
of Brown Menelaus. It is needless to say he was almost universally
detested, for of those he had suffered to pass free, none knew how soon
his own time might arrive. His patron was miserable; he saw nothing but
failure where he looked for triumph. The very acquirements he had built
upon for success were become a terror to every one, and “the odious Mr.
Kitely” became a proverb. His political opponents chuckled over the “bad
tone” of such men in general; the stupid ones gloried over the fall of
a clever man; and the malignant part of the household threw out broad
hints that he was a mere adventurer, and they should not wonder if
actually---- an Irishman! Indeed, he had been heard to say “entirely”
 twice upon the same evening in conversation, and suspicion had almost
become a certainty.

It was towards the end of my first week, as I was one day dressing for
dinner, Lord Collyton came hastily into my room, exclaiming, “By Jove,
Templeton! Mr. Kitely has done the thing at last, as he would say
himself, entirely.”

“How do you mean? what has he done?” “You know my father is excessively
vain of his landscape-gardening, and the prodigious improvements which
he has made in this same demesne around us. Well, compassionating some
one whom Kitely was mangling, ‘more suo’ in an argument, he took
that gentleman out for a walk, and, with a conscious pride in his own
achievements, led him towards the Swiss cottage beside the waterfall.

“Kitely was pleased with every thing; the timber is really well grown,
and he praised it; the view is fine, and he said so. Even of the
_chalet_ he condescended a few words of approval, as a feature in the
scene. The waterfall, however, he would not praise; it might foam, and
splash, and whirl as it would; in vain it threw its tiny spray aloft,
and hissed beneath the rocks below; he never wasted even a word upon it.

“You’d scarce fancy, Mr. Kitely,” said my father, whose patience was
sorely tried; “you’d scarce fancy that river you see there was only a
mill-stream.”

“I’d scarcely think of calling that mill-stream a river, my lord,” was
the reply.

“Hence the borough of Collyton is still open, and I have come, by his
grace’s request, to say that if you desire to enter Parliament it is
very much at your service.”

This was my introduction to the House.

My parliamentary life was, as I have said, a brief one, but not without
its triumphs. I was long enough a member to have excited the ardent
hopes of my friends, and make my name a thing quoted in the lists of
party.

Had I remained, I was to have spoken second to the address on the
opening of the new session. There was, I own, a most intoxicating sense
of pleasure in the first success. The moment in which, fatigued and
almost overpowered, I sank into a chair at Bellamy’s, with some twenty
around me, congratulating, praising, flattering, and foretelling, was
worth living for; and yet, perhaps, in that same instant of triumph were
sown the seeds of my malady. I was greatly heated; I had excited myself
beyond my strength, and spoken for two hours--to myself it seemed
scarce twenty minutes; and then, with open cravat and vest, I sat in the
current of air between a door and window, drinking in delicious draughts
of iced water and flattery. I went home with a slight cough, and
something strange, like an obstruction to full breathing, in my chest.
Brodie, who saw me next day, I suppose, guessed the whole mischief;
for these men look far a-head, and, like sailors, they see storm and
hurricane in the cloud not bigger than a man’s hand.

I often regret--I shall continue to do, perhaps, still oftener--that I
did not die in the harness. To quit the field for sake of life, and not
secure it after all, was paltry policy. But what could I do? a severe
and contested election would have killed me, and for Collyton it was
impossible I could continue to sit.

Irish politics would seem the rock a-head of every man in the House.
On these unhappy questions all are shipwrecked: the Premier loses
party--Party loses confidence--members displease constituents, and
_protégés_ offend their patrons. Such was my own case: the Duke who
owned the borough of Collyton, resolved on making a great stand and show
of his influence in both Houses. All his followers, myself among the
number, were summoned to a conference, when the tactic of attack should
be adopted, and each assigned his fitting part. To me was allotted the
office of replying to the first speaker of the Treasury Bench--a post of
honour and of danger, and only distasteful because impossible: the fact
was, that my own opinions were completely with the Government on the
subject in dispute, and consequently at open variance with those of
my own friends. This I declared at once, endeavouring to shew why
my judgment had so inclined, and what arguments I believed to be
unanswerable.

Instead of replying to my reasons, or convincing me of their
inefficiency, my colleagues only ap-pealed to the “necessity of
union”--the imperative call of party--and “the impossibility,” as they
termed it, “of betraying the Duke.”

I immediately resolved to resign my seat, and accept the Chiltern
Hundreds. To this there was a unanimous cry of dissent, one and all
pronouncing that such a step would damage them more even than my
fiercest opposition. The Duke sat still and said nothing. Somewhat
offended at this, I made a personal appeal to him resolving by the tone
of his reply to guide my future conduct. He was too old a politician
to give me any clue to his sentiments, shrouding his meaning in vague
phrases of compliment to my talents, and his perfect confidence that,
however my judgment inclined, I should be able to shew sufficient
reasons for my opinion. I went home baffled, worried, and ill. I sent
for Brodie. “You cannot speak on the coming question,” said he; “there
is a great threat of haemorrhage from the lungs--you must have rest and
quiet. Keep beyond the reach of excitement for a few weeks--don’t even
read the newspapers. Go over to Spa--there you can be quite alone.”

I took the advice, and without one word of adieu to any one--without
even leaving any clue to my hiding-place, I left London. Spa was as
quiet and retired as Brodie described it. A little valley shut in
among hills, that a Cockney would have called mountains; a clear little
trout-stream, and some shady alleys to stroll among, being all I wanted.
Would that I could have brought there the tranquil spirit to enjoy them!
But my mind was far from at ease. The conflict between a sense of duty
and a direct obligation, raged continually within me. What I owed to
my own conscience, and what I owed to my patron, were at variance, and
never did the sturdiest Radical detest the system of Nomination Boroughs
as I did at this moment. Each day, too, I regretted that I had not done
this or that--taken some line different from what I adopted, and at
least openly braved the criticism that I felt I had fled from.

To deny me all access to newspapers was a measure but ill calculated to
allay the fever of my mind. Expectation and imagination were at work,
speculating on every possible turn of events, and every likely and
unlikely version of my own conduct. The first two days over, all my
impatience returned, and I would have given life itself to be once again
back “in my place,” to assert my opinions, and stand or fall by my own
defence of my motives.

About a week after my arrival I was sitting under the shade of some
trees, at the end of the long avenue that forms the approach to the
town, when I became suddenly aware that, at a short distance off, an
Englishman was reading aloud to his friend the report of the last debate
on the “Irish Question.” My attention was fettered at once; spell bound,
I sat listening to the words of one of the speakers on the ministerial
side, using the very arguments I had myself discovered, and calling down
the cheers of the House as he proceeded. A sarcastic allusion to my own
absence, and a hackneyed quotation from Horace as to my desertion, were
interrupted by loud laughter, and the reader laying down the newspaper,
said,--

“Can this be the Duke of Wrexington’s Templeton that is here alluded
to?”

“Yes. He wrote a paper on this subject in the last ‘Quarterly,’ but the
Duke would not permit of his taking the same side in the House, and so
he affected illness they say, and came abroad.”

“The usual fortune of your _protégé_ members--they have the pleasant
alternative of inconsistency or ingratitude. Why didn’t he resign his
seat?”

“It is mere coquetry with Peel. They told me at Brookes’s that he
wanted a mission abroad, and would ‘throw over’ the Duke at the first
opportunity. Now Peel gives nothing for nothing. For open apostasy
he will pay, and pay liberally; but for mere defalcation, he’ll give
nothing.”

“Templeton has outwitted himself, then; besides that, he has no standing
in the House to play the game alone.”

“A smart fellow, too, but no guidance. If he had been deep, he must have
seen that old Wrexington only gave him the borough till Collyton was of
age to come in. It was meant for Kitely, but he refused the conditions.
‘I cannot be a tenant-at-will, my lord,’ said he; and so they took
Templeton.”

I could bear no more. How I reached my inn I cannot remember. A severe
fit of coughing overtook me as I ascended the stairs, and a small vessel
gave way--a bad symptom, I believed; but the doctor of the place, whom
my servant soon brought to my bedside, applied leeches, and I was better
a few hours after.

The first use I made of strength was to write a brief note to the Duke,
resigning the borough. The next post brought me his reply, full of
compliment and assurance of esteem, accepting my resignation, and
acknowledging his full concurrence in the reasons I had given for my
step. The division was against him; and he half-jestingly remarked, it
might have been otherwise if I had fought on his side.

The letter was civil throughout, but in that style that shews a tone of
careless ease had been adopted to simulate frankness. I had had enough
of his Grace, and of politics too!




CHAPTER VI.

So, all is settled!--I leave Paris to-morrow. I hate leave-takings, even
where common acquaintanceship only is concerned. I shall just write a
few lines to the Favancourts, with the volume of Balzac--happily I know
no one else here--and then for the road!

Why this haste to set out, I cannot even tell to myself. I know, I feel,
I shall never pass this way again; I have that sense of regret a last
look at even indifferent objects suggests, and yet I would be “en route”
 There are places and scenes I wish to see before I go hence, and I feel
that my hours are numbered.

And now for a moonlight stroll through Paris! Already the din and tumult
is subsiding--the many-voiced multitude that throngs the streets long
after the roll of equipage and the clattering hoofs of horses have
ceased. How peacefully the long shadows are sleeping in the garden of
the Tuileries! and how clearly sounds the measured tread of the sentinel
beneath the deep arch of the palace!

Not a light twinkles along that vast façade, save in that distant
pavilion, where a single star seems glistening--it is the apartment of
the King, “The cares of Agamemnon never sleep;” and royalty is scarce
more fortunate now than in the days of Homer.

Louis Philippe has a task not less arduous than had Napoleon to found a
dynasty. There is little prestige any longer in the name of Bourbon; and
the members of his family, brave and high-spirited though they be, are
scarcely of the stuff to stand the storm that is brewing for them.

As for the Emperor, the incapacity of his brothers was a weight upon his
shoulders all through life. His family contributed more to his fall than
is generally believed: it was a never-ending struggle he had to
maintain against the childish vanity and extravagance of Josephine,
the wrongheadedness of Joseph, the simple credulity of Louis, and
the fatuous insufficiency of Jerome and Lucien. All, more good than
otherwise, were manifestly unsuited to the places they occupied in life,
and were continually mingling up the associations and habits of their
small identities with the great requirements of newly acquired station.

Napoleon created the Empire--the vast drama was his own. However he
might please to represent royalty, however he might like to ally the
splendours of a throne with the glories of a great captain, it was
all his own doing. But how miserably deficient were the others in that
faculty of adaptation that made him “de pair” with every dynasty of
Europe!

Into these thoughts I was led by finding myself standing in the Rue
Taibout, opposite the house which was once celebrated as the _Café du
Roi_--a name which it bore for many years under the Empire, and, in
consequence, was held in high esteem by certain worthy _Légitimistes_,
who little knew that the “King” was only a pretender, and, so far from
being his sainted majesty Louis Dix-huit, was merely Jerome Buonaparte,
king of Westphalia.

The name originated thus:--One warm evening in autumn, a young man,
somewhat over-dressed in the then “_mode_” with a very considerable
border of pinkish silk stocking seen above the margin of his low boots
“_à revers_” and a most inordinate amount of coat-collar, lounged along
the Boulevard Italiens, occasionally ogling the passers-by, but, oftener
still, throwing an admiring glance at himself, as the splendid windows
of plate-glass reflected back his figure. His whole air and mien
exhibited the careless _insouciance_ of one with whom the world went
easily, asking little from him of exertion, less still of forethought.

He had just reached the angle of the Rue Vi-vienne, and was about to
turn, when two persons advanced towards him, whose very different style
of dress and appearance bespoke very different treatment at the hands of
Fortune. They were both young, and, although palpably men of a certain
rank and condition, were equally what is called out-at-elbows; hats that
exhibited long intimacy with rain and wind, shoes of very questionable
colour, coats suspiciously buttoned about the throat, being all signs of
circumstances that were far from flourishing.

“Ah, Chopard, is’t thou?” said the fashionably dressed man, advancing
with open hand to each, and speaking in the “tu” of intimate friendship,
“And thou, too, Brissole, how goes it? What an age since we have met!
Art long in Paris?”

“About two hours,” said the first. “Just as I stepped out of the Place
des Victoires I met our old friend here; and, strange enough, now
we have come upon _you_; three old schoolfellows thus assembled at a
hazard!”

“A minute later, and we should have missed each other,” said Brissole.
“I was about to take my place in the _malle_ for Nancy.”

“To leave Paris?” exclaimed both the others.

“Even so--to leave Paris! I’ve had enough of it.”

“Come, what do you mean by this?” said Cho-pard; “it sounds very like
discouragement to me, who have come up here with all manner of notions
of fortune, wealth, and honours.”

“So much the worse for you,” said Brissole, gaily; “I’ve tried it for
five years, and will try it no longer. I was vaudevillist, journalist,
novelist, feuilletonist--I was the glory of the Odéon--the prop of the
‘Moniteur’--the hope of the ‘Siècle’--and look at me----”

“And thou?” said the fashionable, addressing him called Chopard.

“I have just had a little opera damned at Lyons, and have come up to try
what can be done here.”

“Poor devil!” exclaimed Brissole, shrugging his shoulders; then, turning
abruptly towards the other, he said, “And what is thy luck? for, so far
as externals go, thou seemest to have done better.”

“Ay, Jerome,” chimed in Chopard, “tell us, how hast thou fared?--thou
wert ever a fortunate fellow.”

“Pretty well,” said he, laughing. “I’ve just come from St.
Cloud--they’ve made me King of Westphalia!”

“The devil they have!” exclaimed Chopard; “and dost know, _par hazard_,
where thy kingdom lies on the map?”

“Why should he torment himself about that?” said Brissole. “It’s enough
to know they have capital hams there.”

“What if we sup together,” said Jerome, “and taste one? I am most
anxious to baptize my new Royalty in a glass of wine. Here we are in the
Rue Taibout--this is Villaret’s. Come in, gentlemen--I’m the host. Make
your minds easy about the future: you, Brissole, I appoint to the office
of my Private Secretary. Chopard, you shall be _Maître de Chapelle_.”

“Agreed,” cried the others gaily; and with a hearty shake of hands was
the contract ratified.

Supper was quickly prepared, and, in its splendour and profusion,
pronounced, by both the guests, worthy of a king. Villaret could
do these things handsomely, and as he was told expense was of no
consequence, the entertainment was really magnificent. Nor was the
spirit of the guests inferior to the feast. They were brilliant in wit,
and overflowing in candour; concealing nothing of their past lives that
would amuse or interest, each vied with the other in good stories
and ludicrous adventures--all their bygone vicissitudes so pleasantly
contrasting with the brilliant future they now saw opening before them.
They drank long life and reign to the King of Westphalia in bumpers of
foaming champagne.

The pleasant hours flew rapidly past--bright visions of the time to come
lending their charm to the happiness, and making their enjoyment seem
but the forerunner of many days and nights of festive delight. At last
came day-break, and, even by the flickering of reason left, they saw it
was time to separate.

“Bring the bill,” said Jerome to the exhausted-looking waiter, who
speedily appeared with a small slip of paper ominously marked “eight
hundred francs.”

“_Diable!_” exclaimed Jerome; “that is smart, and I have no money about
me. Come, Brissole, this falls among your duties--pay the fellow.”

“_Parbleu_, then--it comes somewhat too soon. I am not yet installed,
and have not got the key of our treasury.”

“No matter--pay it out of thine own funds.”

“But I have none--save this;” and he produced two francs, and some sous
in copper.

“Well, then, Chopard must do it.”

“I have not as much as himself,” said Chopard.

“Send the landlord here,” said Jerome; but indeed the command was
unnecessary, as that functionary had been an anxious listener at the
door to the very singular debate.

“We have forgotten our purses, Villaret,” said Jerome, in the easy tone
his last ten hours of royalty suggested; “but we will send your money
when we reach home.”

“I have no doubt of it, gentlemen,” said the host, obsequiously; “but it
would please me still better to receive it now--particularly as I have
not the honour of knowing the distinguished company.”

“The distinguished company is perfectly satisfied to know you: the
_cuisine_ was excellent,” hiccupped Brissole.

“And the wine unexceptionable.”

“The champagne might have been a little more _frappé_,” said Brissole;
“the only improvement I could suggest.”

“Perhaps there was a _nuance_, only a _nuance_, too much citron in the
_rognons à la broche_, but the _filets de sole_ were perfect.”

“If I had the happiness of knowing ‘_Messieurs_,’” said Villaret, “I
should hope, that at another time I might be more fortunate in pleasing
them.”

“Nothing easier,” said Chopard. “I am _Maître de Chapelle_ to the King
of Westphalia.”

Villaret bowed low.

“And I am the Private Secretary and Privy Purse of his majesty.”

Villaret bowed again--a slight smile of very peculiar omen flitting
across his cunning features, while, turning hastily, he whispered a word
in the ear of the waiter. “And this gentleman here?” said he, looking at
Jerome, who, with his legs resting on a chair, was coolly awaiting the
termination of the explanation. “And this gentleman, if I might make so
bold, what office does he hold in his Majesty’s service?”

“I am the King of Westphalia!” said Jerome.

“Just as I suspected. François,” said the landlord insolently, “go fetch
the gendarmes.”

“No, no, _parbleu!_” said Jerome, springing up in alarm; “no gendarmes,
no police. Here, take my watch--that is surely worth more than your
bill? When I reach home I’ll send the money.”

The landlord, more than ever convinced that his suspicions were well
grounded, took the watch, which was a very handsome one, and suffered
them to depart in peace.

They had not been gone many minutes when, on examining the watch, the
landlord perceived that it bore the emblematic “N” of the Emperor within
the case, and at once suspecting that it had been stolen from
some member of the imperial household, he hurried off in terror to
communicate his fears to the commissary of police. This functionary
no sooner saw it that he hastened to Fouché, the minister, who, making
himself acquainted with the whole details, immediately hurried off to
the Tuileries and laid it all before the Emperor. The watch had been a
present from Napoleon to Jerome; but this was but a small part of the
cause of indignation. The derogation from dignity, the sacrifice of the
regard due to his station, were crimes of a very different order; and,
summoned to the imperial presence, the new-made king was made to hear,
in terms of reproachful sarcasm, a lesson in his craft that few could
impart with such cutting severity.

As for the _Maître de Chapelle_ and the Secretary, an agent of
the police waited on each before they were well awake, with strict
injunctions to them to maintain a perfect secrecy on the whole affair;
and while guaranteeing them an annual pension in their new offices,
assuring them that the slightest indiscretion as to the mystery would
involve their ruin and their exile from France for ever.

It was years before the landlord learned the real secret of the
adventure, and, in commemoration of it, called his house “Le Café
du Roi,” a circumstance which the Government never noticed, for the
campaign of Russia and the events of 1812-13 left little time to attend
to matters of this calibre.

The Café du Roi is now a shop where artificial flowers are sold; as
nearly like nature perhaps, or more so, than poor Jerome’s royalty
resembled the real article.




CHAPTER VII.

Baden-Baden. It is like a dream to me now to think of that long, dusty
road from Paris, with its rattling pavement, its noisy postilions,
shouting ostlers, bowing landlords, dirty waiters, garlic diet, and hard
beds; and here I sit by my open window, with a bright river beneath
my feet, the song of birds on every side, a richly wooded mountain
in front, and at the foot a winding road, which ever and anon gives
glimpses of some passing equipage, bright in all the butterfly glitter
of female dress, or, mayhap, resounding with merry laughter and
sweet-voiced mirth. How brilliant is every thing!--the cloudless sky,
the sparkling water, the emerald grass, the foliage in every tint
of beauty, the orange-trees and the cactus along the terraces, where
lounging parties come and go; and then the measured step of princely
equipages, in all the panoply of tasteful wealth! Truly, Vice wears its
holiday suit in Baden, and the fairness of this lovely valley seems to
throw a softened light over a scene where, as in a sea, the stormy waves
of every bad passion are warring.

When, in all the buoyant glow of youth and health, I remembered feeling
shocked, as I strolled through the promenade at Carlsbad, at the sight
of so many painful objects of sickness and suffering; the eager, almost
agonising, expressions of hoping convalescence; the lustreless stare of
those past hope; the changeful looks of accompanying friends, who seemed
to read the fate of some dear one in the compassionate pity of those who
passed, were all sights that threw a chill, like death, over the warm
current of my blood. Yet never did this feeling convey the same intense
horror and disgust that I felt last night as I walked through the
Cursaal.

To pass from the mellow moonlight, dappling the pathway among the trees
and kissing the rippling stream, from the calm, mild air of a summer’s
night, when every leaf lay sleeping and none save the nightingale kept
watch, into the glare and glitter of a gilded saloon, is somewhat trying
to the jarred nerves of sickness. But what was it to the sight of
that dense crowd around the play-table, where avarice, greed of gain,
recklessness, and despair are mingled, giving, even to faces of manly
vigour and openness, expressions of low cunning and vulgar meaning?
There is a terrible sameness in the gambler’s look, a blending of
slavish terror with a resolution to brave the worst, almost demoniacal
in its fierceness. I knew most of the persons present; I need not
say, not personally, but from having seen them before at various other
similar places. Many were professed gamblers, men who starved and
suffered for the enjoyment of that one passion, living on the smallest
gain, and never venturing a stake beyond what daily life demanded;
haggard, sad, wretched-looking creatures they were, the abject poverty
of their dress and appearance vouching that this _métier_ was not a
prosperous one. Others farmed out their talents, and played for those
who were novices. These men have a singular existence; they exact a
mere per-centage on the winning, and are in great request among
elderly ladies, whose passion for play is modified by the fears of its
vicissitudes. Then there were the usual sprinkling of young men, not
habitually gamblers, but always glad to have the opportunity of tempting
Fortune, with here and there some old votary of the “table” satisfied to
witness the changeful temper of the game without risking a stake.

Into many vices men are led by observing the apparent happiness and
pleasure of others who indulge in them. Not so with regard to play.
No man ever became a gambler from this delusion, there being no such
terrible warning against the passion as the very looks of its votaries.

But it is not in such a low _tripot_ of vice I care to linger. It was
a ball-night, and I turned with a sense of relief from the aspect of
sordid, vulgar iniquity, to gaze on its more polished brother (_quore_,
sister?) in the _salle de danse_.

Here there was a large--I might almost call it a brilliant--company
assembled: a less exclusive assemblage cannot be conceived; five francs
and clean gloves being the only qualification needed. The guests were
as varied, too, in nation as in rank. About equal numbers of German and
French, several Russians, and a large proportion of English, with, here
and there, a bilious-looking American, or a very dubious Marquis from
beyond the Alps. Many of the men I knew to be swindlers and blacklegs
of the very lowest stamp; some others I recognised as persons of the
highest station in my own country. Of the lady part of the company the
disparities were even greater.

There was, it is true, a species of sifting process discernible, by
which the various individuals fell among those of their own order; but
though this was practicable enough where conversation and grouping were
concerned, it was scarcely attainable in other circumstances, and thus,
the Mazurka and the Polka assembled ingredients that should never have
been placed in close propinquity.

The demoralising influence of such _reunions_ upon the daughters of our
own land need not be insisted upon. Purity of mind and simplicity
of character are no safeguard against the scenes which, in all the
propriety of decorum, are ever occurring. And how terribly rapid are the
downward steps when the first bloom and blush of modesty have faded! It
demands but a very indifferent power of observation to distinguish the
English girl for the first time abroad from her who has made repeated
visits to foreign watering-places; while even among those who have been
habituated to the great world at home, and passed the ordeal of
London seasons, there is yet much to learn in the way of cool and
self-possessed effrontery, from the habits of Baden and its brethren.

I was dreadfully shocked last night by meeting one I had not seen
for many years before. How changed from what I knew her once!--what a
terrible change! When first I saw her, it was during a visit I made
to her mother’s house in Wales; her brother was an Oxford friend, and
brought me down with him for the shooting season to Merionethshire.
Poor fellow! he died of consumption at two-and-twenty, and left all he
possessed--a handsome estate--to his only sister. Hence all her misery!
Had she remained comparatively portionless, rich only in her beauty and
the graces of a manner that was fascination itself, she might now have
been the happy wife of some worthy Englishman--one whose station is a
trust held on the tenure of his rectitude and honour; for such is public
feeling in our country, and such is it never elsewhere.

She was then about eighteen or nineteen, and the very ideal of what an
English girl at that age should be. On a mind highly stored and amply
cultivated, no unworthy or depreciating influence had yet descended;
freedom of thought, freshness almost childish, had given her an
animation and buoyancy only subdued by the chastening modesty of coming
womanhood. Enthusiastic in all her pursuits, for they were graceful
and elevating, her mind had all the simplicity of the child with the
refinement of the highest culture; and, like those who are brought up
in narrow circles, her affections for a few spread themselves out in
the varied forms that are often scattered and diffused over the wider
surface of the world. Thus her brother was not merely the great object
of her affection and pride, but he was the companion of her rides and
walks, the confidant of all her secret feelings, the store in which she
laid up her newly acquired knowledge, or drew, at will, for more. With
him she read and studied; delighted by the same pursuits, their natures
blended into one harmonious _corde_, which no variance or dissonance
ever troubled.

His death, although long and gradually anticipated, nearly brought her
to the grave. The terrible nature of the malady, so often inherent in
the same family, gave cause for the most anxious fears on her account,
and her mother, herself almost brokenhearted, took her abroad, hoping
by the mildness of a southern climate and change of scene to arrest the
progress of the fell disease.

In this she was successful; bodily health was indeed secured. But might
it not have been better that she had wasted slowly away, to sleep at
last beneath the yews of her own ancient churchyard, than live and
become what she has done?

Some years after this event I was, although at the time only an
_attaché_ of the mission, acting as _Charge d’affaires_ at Naples,
during the absence of the minister and the secretary. I was sitting one
morning reading in my garden, when my servant announced the visit of an
Italian gentleman, il Signor Salvatori. The name was familiar to me, as
belonging to a man who had long been employed as a Spy of the Austrian
government, and, indeed, was formerly entrusted in a secret capacity
by Lord W. Bentinck in Sicily--a clever, designing, daring rascal, who
obtained his information no one knew how; and although we had always
our suspicions that he might be “selling” us, as well as the French,
we never actually traced any distinct act of treachery to his door. He
possessed a considerable skill in languages, was very highly informed
on many popular topics, and, I have been told, was a musician of no mean
powers of performance. These and similar social qualities were, however,
never displayed by him in any part of his intercourse with us, although
we had often heard of their existence.

As I never felt any peculiar pleasure in the relations which office
compels with men of his stamp, I received him somewhat coldly, and
asked, without much circumlocution, the reason of his visit.

He replied, with his habitual smile of self-possession, that his present
duty at “the Mission” was not a business-call, but concerned a matter
purely personal;--in fact, “with his Excellency’s permission, he desired
to get married.”

Not stopping him on the score of his investing me with a title to which,
no one knew better than himself, I had no pretensions, I quietly
assured him that his relation with “the Mission” did not, in any way,
necessitate his asking for such a permission--that, however secret and
mysterious the nature of his communications, they were still beyond the
pale of affairs personally private.

He suffered me to continue my explanation, somewhat scornful as it was,
to the end, and then calmly said,--

“Your Excellency will pardon my intrusion, when I inform you that the
marriage should take place here, at ‘the Mission,’ as the lady is an
English woman.”

Whether it was the fact itself, or his manner of delivering it, that
outraged me, I cannot now remember; but I do recollect giving expression
to a sentiment of surprise and anger not exactly suitable.

He merely smiled, and said nothing.

“Very well, M. Salvatori,” said I, corrected by the quietude of his
manner; “what is your day?”

“Wednesday, if your Excellency pleases.”

“Wednesday be it, and at eight o’clock.”

“As your Excellency desires,” said he, bowing and retiring.

It had never occurred to me to ask for any information about the happy
fair one; indeed, if I had given a thought at all to the matter, it
would have been that she was of the rank of a _femme-de-chambre_, or, at
least, some unhappy children’s governess, glad to exchange one mode of
tyranny for another. As he was leaving the room, however, some sense of
remorse, perhaps, at the _brusquerie_ I had shewn towards him, suggested
the question, “Who might the lady be?”

“Mademoiselle Graham.”

“Ah! a very good name, indeed,” said I; and so, with a word or two of
common-place, I bade him good-by.

The Wednesday morning arrived, and two carriages drove into the court
of “the Mission:” out of one sprung Signor Salvatori and a very bearded
gentleman, who accompanied him as his friend; from the other alighted,
first, an elderly lady, whose dress was a mixture of wedding finery and
widow’s mourning; then came a very elegant-looking girl, veiled from
head to foot, followed by her maid; and, lastly, the chaplain to “the
Mission.”

They were some minutes too early, and I equally behind my time; but I
dressed hastily, and descended to the salon, where M. Salvatori received
me with a very gracious expression of his self-satisfaction. Passing
him by, I advanced to address a few words to the old lady, who had risen
from her seat; when, stepping back, I exclaimed,

“Mrs. Graham--my old friend, Mrs. Graham! Is this possible?”

“Oh, Caroline, it is Mr. Templeton!” said she; while her daughter,
drawing her veil still closer over her face, trembled dreadfully.
Meanwhile Mrs. Graham had seized my hand with cordial warmth, and
pressed it in all the earnestness of friendship. Her joy--and it was
very evident it was such--was little participated in by her son-in-law
elect, who stood, pale and conscience-stricken, in a distant part of the
room.

“I must entreat these gentlemen’s permission to speak a few words here
alone, as these ladies are very old friends I have not seen for some
years.”

“I would humbly suggest to your Excellency that, as the ceremony still
waits----”

“I wish it, Marquis,” said Mrs. Graham, in a tone half-command,
half-entreaty; and, with a deep bow of submission, Salvatori and his
friend withdrew, accompanied by the chaplain.

“The title by which you have just addressed that person, Mrs. Graham,”
 said I, in a voice trembling from agitation, “shews me how you have been
duped and deceived by him, and in what total ignorance you are as to his
real character.”

“Oh, Mr. Templeton!” broke in her daughter, now speaking for the
first time, and in accents I shall never forget, such was their
heart-thrilling earnestness,--“Oh, sir, this does indeed exceed the
license of even old friendship! We are well aware how the Marquis of
Salvatori has suffered from persecution; but we little expected to have
found _you_ among the number of his enemies.”

“You do me great wrong, Miss Graham,” said I, eagerly; “in nothing
greater than supposing me capable of being the enemy of such a man
as this. Unworthy as the sentiment is, it at least implies a sense of
equality. Now, are you certain of what this person is? are you aware
in what capacity he has been employed by our government, and by that of
other countries?”

“We know that the Marquis has been engaged in secret missions,” said
Miss Graham, proudly.

“Your reply, brief as it is, conveys two errors, Miss Graham. He is not
a Marquis; little as the title often implies in Italy, he has no right
to it. He asked Lord William Bentinck to let him call himself Marquis,
and so to address him, as a means of frequenting circles where important
information was accessible. Lord William said, ‘Call yourself what
you please--Grand Duke, if you like it--I am no dispenser of such
designations.’ The gentleman was modest;--he stopped at Marquis. As
to his diplomatic functions, we have a short and expressive word for
them;--he was and is, a Spy!”

Not heeding the scornful reception of the daughter, I turned towards
Mrs. Graham, and, with all the power I possessed, urged her, at least,
to defer this fatal step;--that she was about to bestow her child upon a
man of notoriously degraded character, and one whose assumption of rank
and position was disregarded and despised in the very humblest circles.
The mother wept bitterly; at one moment, turning to dissuade her
daughter from her rashness, at the next, appealing to me against
what she called my unjust prejudices against the Marquis. Miss Graham
scornfully refused to vouchsafe me even a word.

I confess more than once my temper prompted me to abandon the
enterprise, and suffer wilfulness to reap its own bitter harvest; but
then, my better feelings prevailed, and old memories of my poor friend
Graham again enlisted me in defence of his sister.

Of no avail was it that I followed these worthier promptings. It seemed
as if the man had thrown a spell over these two unhappy women, one,
being perfectly enthralled, the other, nearly so, by the artful
fascinations of his manner; and yet he was neither young, handsome,
rich, nor of high lineage. On the contrary, the man was at least
fifty-three or four, a perfect monster of ugliness, with an ex-pression
of sardonic sycophancy actually demoniac.

If I were not relating “a fact”--one of which I can answer, that many
now living can entirely corroborate--I would hesitate about dwelling on
a case where improbabilities are so strong, and where I have nothing to
offer like an explanation of them. Wilkes has long since convinced the
world how little good looks are concerned in winning a woman’s
heart, and how, indeed, a very considerable share of ugliness can be
counterbalanced by captivations of manner and personal agreeability.
But, judging from the portraits--even Hogarth’s fearful sketch--Wilkes
was handsome compared to Salvatori; and in point of reputation, low as
it was, the Libeller and the Satirist was still better than the Spy.

To go back again: I argued, I entreated, begged, threatened, and
denounced. I went further;--I actually transgressed the limits of
official authority, and refused to sanction the ceremony--a threat
which, I soon remembered, I dare not sustain. But, do what, say what, I
would, they were equally resolute and determined; and nothing was left
for me but to recall M. Salvatori and his friend, and suffer the affair
to proceed.

I do not remember, among the varied incidents of my life, one
whose effect weighed more heavily upon me. Although acquitted by my
conscience, I felt at moments horror-struck at even my share in this
infamy, and would have given any thing that it had never occurred. It
may be believed I was happy to hear that they all left Naples the same
day.

Years rolled over, and I never even heard of them, till one morning,
when waiting along with a diplomatic friend for an interview with the
French Minister for Foreign Affairs, a person hastily passed through the
room, saluting us as he went.

“I have seen that face before,” said I to my friend; “do you know him?”

“To be sure!” said he, smiling; “one must be young in diplomacy not to
know the Mephistophiles of the craft; and I guess why he is here, too:
that fellow is in the pay of the Prince de Capua, but has sold him to
Louis Philippe. The reconciliation with Naples would have been long
since effected but for the King of the French.”

“And his name--this man’s name--what is it?”

“Salvatori.”

“What! the same who married an English girl at Naples?”

“And sold her to the Marquis Brandini for ten thousand sequini. The very
man. But here comes the messenger to say his Excellency will receive
us.”

My friend quitted Paris the moment his interview ended, and I heard no
more.

Last night I saw her in the Cursaal--beautiful, perhaps more beautiful
than ever! At least there was a lofty elegance and a splendour about her
that I never remember in her girlish days; nor was it till she smiled
that I could now believe that the queen-like beauty before me was the
timid, delicate girl I first saw tripping along the narrow path of a
Welsh mountain.

Even from the gossip of Baden I could learn no more about her than that
she was a Sicilian Countess of great wealth, and a widow; that she was
intimately received into the very highest circles--even of royalty--and
constantly was seen driving in the carriage of the Archduchess. It was,
then, possible that I might be mistaken, after all! Great people are not
accessible so easily.

I tried in various quarters to get presented to her--for she shewed not
the slightest sign of having ever met me--but failed every where: they
who knew her did not do so intimately enough to introduce me.

The reminiscences I have just jotted down have made me miserably
feverish and ill; for although I now begin to doubt that I ever saw this
Countess before, the sad story of Caroline Graham is ever present to my
mind--a terrible type of the fortune of many a fair English girl left to
the merciless caprice of a foreign husband!

I am not bigot enough to fancy that happy, eminently happy, marriages do
not exist abroad as well as with us; but I am fully minded to say that
the individuals should be of the same nation, reared in the midst of the
same traditions, imbued with feelings that a common country, language,
and religion bestow.

I know of nothing that presents so pitiable a picture of unhappy
destiny, as a fair and delicately minded English girl the wife of a
foreigner! How I wish to resolve my doubts in this case! for although I
began this memorandum fully persuaded it was Caroline Graham that I had
seen, every line I write increases my uncertainty.




CHAPTER VIII.

It was with a rare audacity that the devil pitched his tent in Baden!
Perhaps, on the whole continent, another spot could not be found so
fully combining, in a small circuit, as many charms of picturesque
scenery; and it was a bold conception to set down vice, in all its
varieties, in the very midst of--in open contrast as it were to--a scene
of peaceful loveliness and beauty.

I do confess myself one of those who like living figures in a landscape.
I like not only those groupings which artists seem to stereotype, so
nearly alike they all are, of seated foreground figures, dark-shadowed
observers of a setting sun, or coolly watering cattle beneath a gushing
fountain. I like not merely the red-kirtled peasant knee-deep in the
river, or the patient fisherman upon his rock; but I have a strong
regard--I mean here, where the scene is Nature’s own, and not on
canvass--a strong regard for those flitting glimpses of the gayer world,
which, in the brightest tints that Fashion sanctions, are caught now,
in some deep dell of the Tyrol, now, on some snow-peaked eminence of a
Swiss glacier, beside the fast-rolling Danube or the sluggish Nile.

I have no sympathy for those who exclaim against the incongruity of pink
parasols and blue reticules in scenes of mild and impressive grandeur.
Methinks it bespeaks but scanty store of self-resources in those who
thus complain, not knowing any thing of the feelings that have prompted
their presence there. No one holds cheaper than I do the traveller who,
under the guidance of his John Murray, sees what is set down for him
through the eyes of the “Hand-book”--mingling up in his addled brain
crude notions of history and antiquarianism with the names of inns and
post-houses--counsels against damp sheets--cheating landlords--scraps
of geology, and a verse of “Childe Harold.” This is detestable: but for
otherwise is the meeting with those whose dress and demeanour tell of
the world of fashion--the intertwined life of dissipation and excess in
solitary unfrequented places. Far from being struck by their inaptitude
and unfitness for such scenes, I willingly fall back upon the thought of
how such people must be impressed by objects so far beyond the range of
daily experience, of objects, whose wondrous meaning speaks to hearts
the most cloyed and jaded, “as never man spoke.” I can luxuriate in
fancying how long-forgotten feelings, old memories of the past, long
buried beneath the load of daily cares, come back fresh and bright under
the influence of associations that recall parer, happier hours. I can
dwell in imagination on the sudden spring made from the stern ordinances
of a world of forms and conventionalities, to that more beautiful and
grander world, whose incense is the odour of wild flowers and whose
music is the falling cataract.

I love to speculate how the statesman, the wily man of forecasting
thought and deep devices, must feel in presence of agencies which make
those of mere man’s contrivance seem poor and contemptible; and how the
fine lady, whose foot knows no harder surface than a velvet carpet, and
whose artificial existence palls by its own voluptuousness, contemplates
a picture of grand and stern sublimity. Disguise it how they will, feign
indifference how they may, such scenes always are felt, and deeply felt!
The most accomplished lounger of St. James’s Street does not puff his
cigar so coolly as he affects to do, nor is that heart all unmoved that
throbs beneath the graceful folds of a rich Cashmere. Now and then some
Brummagem spirit intrudes, who sees in the felling torrent but a wasted
“water-power:” but even he has his own far-reaching thoughts imbued with
a poetry of their own. He sees in these solitudes new cities arise, the
busy haunts of acting heads and hands; he hears in imagination the heavy
bang of the iron hammer, the roar of the furnace, the rush of steam, the
many-voiced multitude called by active labour to new activity of mind;
and perhaps he soars away, in thought, to those far-off wilds of the
new world, whose people, clothed by these looms, are brought thus into
brotherhood with their kindred men.

I, myself, have few sympathies in common with these; but I respect the
feelings that I do not fathom. “_Nihil humani a me alienum puto_.”

What has suggested these thoughts? A little excursion that I made this
evening from the village of Lichtenthal towards the Waterfall, a winding
glen, narrowing as you advance; wilder too, but not less peopled; every
sheltered spot having its own dwelling-place--the picturesque _chalet_,
with its far-stretching eave, and its quaint galleries of carved
wood, its brightly shining windows sparkling between the clustering
vine-leaves, and its frieze of Indian corn hung up beneath the roof to
dry. Leaving the carriage, I followed the bank of the stream--just
such a river as in my boyish days I loved to linger by, and fancy I was
fishing. It was no more than fancy: for although my rod and landing-net
were in most fitting perfection, my hackles and orange bodies, my green
drakes and may-flies, all that could be wished, I was too dreamy and
_destrait_ for “the gentle craft;” and liked Walton better in his
rambling discursions than in his more practical teaching. What a
glorious day for scenery, too! Not one of those scorching, blue sky,
cloudless days, when a general hardness prevails, but a mingled light of
sun and cloud shadow, with misty distances, and dark, deep foregrounds
on the still water, where ever and anon a heavy plash, breaking in
widening circles, told of the speckled trout: save that, no other sound
was heard. All was calm and noiseless, as in some far-off valley of the
Mississippi, a little surging of the water on the rocky shore--a faint
melancholy plash--scarce heard even in the stillness.

I sat thinking, not sadly, but seriously, of the past, and of that
present time that was so soon to add itself to the Past; for the Future,
I felt, by sensations that never deceive, it must be brief! My malady
gained rapidly on me; symptoms, I was told to guard against, had already
shewn themselves, and I knew that the battle was fought and lost.

“It is sad to die at thirty,” saith Balzac, somewhere; and to the
Frenchman of Paris, who feels that death is the cessation of a round of
pleasures and dissipations, whose hold is hourly stronger; who thinks
that life and self-indulgence are synonymous; whose ideal is the
ceaseless round of exciting sensations that spring from every form of
human passion nurtured to excess;--to him, the sleep of the grave is the
solitude and not the repose of the tomb.

To me, almost alone in the world, to die suggests few sorrows or
regrets; without family, without friends, save those the world’s
complaisance calls such; with no direct object for exertion, nothing for
hope or fear to cling to; no ambition that I could nourish, no dream
of greatness or distinction to elevate me above the thought of daily
suffering; life is a mere monotony--and the monotony of _waiting_.

While watching the progress of my malady, seeing day by day the
advancing steps of the disease that never sleeps, I recognise in myself
a strange adaptation in my mind and feelings to the more developed
condition of my illness. At first, my cough irritated and fevered me.
It awoke me if I slept--it worried me as I read; my fast and hurried
breathing, too, exciting the heart’s action, rendered me impatient and
discontented. Now, both these symptoms are in excess, and yet, by habit
and some acquired power of conforming to them, I am scarcely aware of
their existence. I have learned to look on them as my normal, natural
condition. My cough on awaking in the morning--my hectic as night
falls--only tell of the day’s dawn and decline. I fancy that this dreamy
calm, this spirit of submissive waiting that I feel, is dependent on my
infirmity; for how otherwise could I, if strong in mind and body,
endure the thraldom of my present life? The watchful egotism of sickness
demands the mind of sickness.

In the whole phenomena of malady, nothing is more striking than the
accommodation of the mind to the condition of suffering. I remember
once--I was then in all the strength and confidence of youth and
health--discussing this point with a friend, a physician of skill and
eminence, now no more, and was greatly struck by a theory which was
new, at least to me. He regarded every species of disease, from the most
simple to the most complicated, as a sanatory process, an effort--not
always successful, of course--on the part of Nature to restore the
system to its condition of health. He instanced maladies the most
formidable, some of them attended by symptoms of terrible suffering; but
in every case he assumed to shew that they were efforts to oppose the
march of some other species of disorganisation. So far from there being
any taint of Materialism in these views, he deduced from them a most
devout and conscientious belief in a Supreme Power; and instead of
resting upon Contrivance and Design as the great attributes of the
Deity, he went further, and made the Forethought, the Providence of God
for his creatures, the great object of his wonderment and praise. His
argument, if I dare trust my memory, was briefly this: The presence of
a superintending guardian spirit, ever watchful to avert evil from its
charge, is the essential difference which separates every object of
God’s creation from the mere work of man’s hand. The ingenuity that
contrived the mechanism of a steam-engine or a clock, was yet unable to
endow the machinery with latent powers of reparation; secret resources
against accident or decay, treasured up for the hour of necessity, and
not even detectable, if existent, before the emergency that evoked them.
Not so with the objects of creation. _They_ are each and all, according
to various laws, provided with such powers; their operations, whether
from deficient energy or misdirection, constituting what we call
disease. What is dropsy, for instance, save the resolution of an
inflammatory action that would almost inevitably prove fatal? Formidable
as the malady is, it yet affords time for treatment; its march is
comparatively slow and uniform, whereas the disease that originated
it would have caused death, if effusion of fluid had not arrested the
violence of the inflammation.

Take the most simple case--a wounded bloodvessel, a cut finger: by all
the laws of hydraulics, the blood must escape from this small vessel,
and the individual bleed to death as certainly, though not so speedily,
as from the largest artery. But what ensues? after a slight loss
of blood, the vessel contracts--a coagulum forms--the bleeding is
arrested--the coagulum solidifies and forms a cicatrix; and the whole of
these varied processes--a series of strange and wonderful results--will
follow, without any interference of the Will, far less any aid from
the individual himself, being powers inherent in the organisation, and
providentially stored up for emergency.

The blood poured out upon the brain from an apoplectic stroke, must, and
does, prove fatal, save when the _vis medicatrix_ is able to interpose
in time, by encircling the fluid, enclosing it with a _sac_, and
subsequently by absorption removing the extraneous pressure. All these
are vital processes, over which the sufferer has no control--of which he
is not even conscious.

The approach of an abscess to the surface of the body, by a law similar
to that which determines the approach of a plant to the surface of
the earth--the reparation of a fractured bone, by the creation and
disposition of elements not then existing in the body--and many similar
cases, warranted him in assuming that all these processes were exactly
analogous to what we call disease, being disturbances of the animal
economy accompanied by pain; and that disease of every kind was only
a curative effort, occasionally failing from sufficient
energy--occasionally, from the presence of antagonistic agency,--and
occasionally, from our ignorance of its tendency and object.

I feel I have been a lame expositor of my friend’s theory. I have
omitted many of his proofs--some of them the best and strongest. I
have, besides, not adverted to objections which he foresaw and refuted.
Indeed, I fell into the digression without even knowing it, and I leave
it here in the same fashion. I fancy a kind of comfort in the notion
that my malady is, at least, an attempt at restoration. The idea of
decay--of declining slowly away, leaf by leaf, branch by branch--is very
sad; and even this “conceit” is not without its consolation.

And now to wander homewards. How houseless the man is who calls his inn
his home! It was all very well for “Sir John” to say, “I like to take
mine ease in mine inn;” and in his day the thing was practicable. The
little parlour, with its wainscot of walnut-wood and its bright tiles,
all shining in the tempered light through the diamond-paned window; the
neatly spread table, where smoked the pasty of high-seasoned venison,
beside the tall cup of sack or canary; and the buxom landlady herself,
redolent of health, good spirits, and broad jest;--these were all
accessories to that abandonment to repose and quiet so delightful to the
weary-minded. But think of some “Cour de Russie,” some “Angelo d’ Oro,”
 or some “Schwarzen Adler,” all alive with dusty arrivals and frogged
couriers--the very hall a fair, with fifty bells, all ringing; postboys
blowing--whips cracking--champagne corks flying--and a Bable of every
tongue in Europe, making a thorough-bass din that would sour a saint’s
temper!...

I’ll leave at once--I’ll find some quiet little gasthaus in the Tyrol
for a few weeks, till the weather moderates, and it becomes cool enough
to cross the Alps--and die!




CHAPTER IX.

These watering-place doctors have less tact than their _confrères_
elsewhere: their theory is, “the Wells and Amusement;” they never
strain their faculties to comprehend any class but that of hard-worked,
exhausted, men of the world, to whom the regularity of a Bad-ort, and
the simple pleasures it affords, are quite sufficient to relieve the
load of over-taxed minds and bodies. The “distractions” of these places
suit such people well; the freedom of intercourse, which even among our
strait-laced countrymen prevails, is pleasant. My Lord refreshes in
the society of a clever barrister, or an amusing essayist of the
“Quarterly.” The latter puts forth all his agreeability for the
delectation of a grander audience than he ever had at home. But to one
who has seen all these ranks and conditions of men--who finds nothing
new in the _morgue_ of the Marquis, or the last _mot_ of the Bench--it
is somewhat too bad to be told that such intercourse is a part of your
treatment.

My worthy friend Dr. Guckhardt has mistaken me; he fancies my weariness
is the result of solitude, and that my exhaustion is but _ennui_; and,
in consequence, has he gone about on the high roads and public places
inquiring if any one knows Horace Templeton, who is “sick and ill.” And
here is the fruit: a table covered with visiting cards and scented notes
of inquiry. My Lord Tollington--a Lord of the Bedchamber, a dissolute
old fop--very amusing to very young men, but intolerable to all who have
seen anything themselves. Sir Harvey Clifford, a Yorkshire Jesuit,
who travels with a _socius_ from Oscot and a whole library of tracts
controversial. Reginald St. John, a “levanter” from the Oaks. Colonel
Morgan O’Shea, absent without leave for having shot his father-in-law.
Such are among the first I find. But whose writing is this?... I know
the hand well.... Frank Burton, that I knew so well at Oxford! Poor
devil! he joined the 9th Lancers when he came of age, and ran through
every thing he had in the world in three years. He married a Lady Mary
somebody, and lives now on her family. What is his note about?


     “Dear Tempy,

     “I have just heard of your being here, and would have gone
     over to see you, but have sprained my ancle in a hopping-
     match with Kubetskoi--walked into him for two hundred,
     nevertheless. Come and dine with us to-day at the France,
     and we’ll shew you some of the folk here. That old bore,
     Lady Bellingham Blakely, is with us, and gives a pic-nic on
     Saturday at the Waterfall--rare fun for you, who like a
     field-day of regular quizzes! Don’t fail--sharp seven--and
     believe me,

     “Yours,

     “F. B.”


This requires but brief deliberation; and so, my dear Frank, you must
excuse my company, both at dinner and pic-nic. What an ass he must be to
suppose that a man of thirty has got no farther insight into the world,
and knows no more of its inhabitants, than a boy of eighteen! These
“quizzes,” doubtless, had been very amusing to me once--just as I used
to laugh at the “School for Scandal” the first fifty times I saw it;
but now that I have _épuisé les ridicules_--have seen every manner
of absurdity the law of Chancery leaves at large--why hammer out the
impression by repetition?

What is here by way of postscript?

     “Lady B. has made the acquaintance of a certain Sicilian
     Countess, the handsomest woman here, and has engaged her for
     Saturday. If you be the man you used to be, you’ll not fail
     to come.”

*****

     “Dear F----

     “I cannot dine out. I can neither eat, drink, nor talk, nor
     can I support the heat or ‘confaz’ of a dinner; but, if
     permitted, will join your party on Saturday for half an
     hour.

     “Yours truly,

     “H. Templeton.”


Now has curiosity--I have no worthier name to bestow on it--got the
better of all my scruples and dislikes to such an agglomeration as a
pic-nic! Socially I know nothing so bad: the liberty is license, and the
license is an intolerable freedom, where only the underbred are at
ease. _N’importe_--I’ll go; for while I now suspect that I was wrong
in believing the Countess to have been my old acquaintance, Caroline
Graham, I have a strange interest, at least, in seeing how one so like
her, externally, may resemble her in traits of mind and manner. And then
I’ll leave Baden.

I am really impatient to get away. I feel--I suppose there is nothing
unusual in the feeling--that, as I meet acquaintances, I can read in
their looks those expressions of compassion and pity by which the sick
are admonished of their hopeless state; and for the very reason that
I can dare to look it steadily in the face myself, I have a strong
repugnance to its being forcibly placed before me. My greatest wish
to live--if it ever deserved the name of wish--is to see the upshot of
certain changes that time inevitably will bring out. I have watched
the game in some cases so closely, I should like to know who rises the
winner.

What will become of France under a regency? How will the new government
turn the attention of the _mauvaises têtes_, and where will they carry
their arms? What will Austria do, when the Pope shall have given the
taste for free institutions, and the Italians fancy that they are strong
enough for self-government? What America, when the government of her
newly acquired territory must be a military dictation, with a standing
army of great strength? What Ireland, when the landlords, depressed by
an increasing poor-rate, have brought down the gentry to a condition of
mere subsistence, with Romanism hourly assuming a bolder, higher tone,
dictating its terms with the Minister, and treating the Government _de
pair?_

What Prussia, when democracy grows quicker when Constitutional Liberty,
and Freedom of the Press get ahead of the Censor?

For Belgium and Switzerland I have little interest. Priest-ridden and
mob-ridden, they may indulge their taste for domestic quarrel so long as
a general war is remote; let _that_ come, and their small voices will be
lost in the louder din of far different elements.

As for the Peninsula, Spain and Portugal are in as miserable a plight as
free institutions combined with Popery can make them. If Romanism is
to be the religion of the State, let it be allied with Absolutism. The
right to think, read, and speak, are incompatible with the dictates of
a Church that forbids all three. Rome is the type. It is a grand and a
stupendous tyranny. _Gare!_ to those who try to make it a popular rule!

So... I find that all Baden is full of our great picnic! Ours, I say,
for here lies Lady B---- B----‘s respectful compliments, &c, and my own
replication is already delivered. It seems that we have taken the true
way to create popular interest, by trespassing on popular enjoyment. We
have engaged M. Gougon, the _chef_ of the Cursaal; engaged the band who
usually perform before the promenade; engaged all the saddle-horses, and
most of the carriages--in fact, we have enlisted every thing save the
Genius Loci, the hump-backed croupier of the roulette table.

Why we should travel twelve miles or so, out of our way, to bring Baden
with us I cannot so clearly see. Why we cannot be satisfied with vice
without a change of venue I do not understand. But with this I have
nothing to do. Like the Irishman, “I am but a lodger.” Indeed, I believe
my own poor presence was less desired at this _fête_ than that of my
London phaeton and my two black ponies, which, I am told, are very
much admired here--a certain sign that they are not in the most correct
taste. However, I have my revenge. As Hussars, when invited to dine out
at questionable places, always appear in plain clothes, so shall I
come to the rendezvous in a _fiacre_; though, I own, it is very like
obtaining a dinner under false pretences.

Already the little town is a-stir; servants are hastening to and fro;
ominous-looking baskets and hampers are seen to pass and repass;
strange quadrupeds are led by as saddle-horses, their gay headstalls and
splendid saddle-cloths scarce diverting the eye from “groggy” fore-legs
and drawn-up quarters; curiously dressed young gentlemen, queer
combinations of Jockeyism with an Arcadian simplicity, stand in groups
about; and, now and then, a carriage rolls by, and disappears up some
steep street in search of its company.

Ah! there go the Tollingtons! and in a conveniency, too, they’d
scarcely like to be seen with in Hyde Park. What a droll old
rattle-trap! and what a pair of wretched hacks to draw it! After all,
one cannot help avowing that these people, seated there in that most
miserable equipage, where poverty exhibits its most ludicrous of
aspects, even there, they preserve as decisive an air of class and rank
as--as--yes, I have found the exact equivalent--as almost every
foreigner seated in a handsome car

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