I can scarcely avoid a smile even yet as I call to mind the awe I felt on entering the splendid shop of Monsieur Crillac,—the fashionable tailor of those days, whose plateglass windows and showy costumes formed the standing point for many a lounger around the corner of the Rue de richelieu and the Boulevard. His saloon, as he somewhat ostentatiously called it, was the rendezvous for the idlers of a fashionable world, who spent their mornings canvassing the last gossip of the city and devising new extravagances in dress. The morning papers, caricatures, prints of fashions, patterns of waistcoats, and new devices for buttons, were scattered over a table, round which, in every attitude of indolence and ease, were stretched some dozen of the exquisites of the period, engaged in that species of half-ennui, half-conversation, that forms a considerable part of the existence of your young men of fashion of every age and every country. Their frock-coats of light cloth, high-collared, and covered with buttons; their bottes à revers reaching only mid-leg, and met there by a tight pantalon collant; their hair studiously brushed back off their foreheads, and worn long, though not in queue behind,—bespoke them as the most accurate types of the mode.
The appearance of a youth in the simple uniform of the Polytechnique, in such a place, seemed to excite universal astonishment. Such a phenomenon apparently had never been witnessed before; and as they turned fully round to stare at me, it was clear they never deemed that any mark of rudeness could be felt by one so humble as I was. Monsieur Crillac himself, who was sipping his glass of eau sucrée, with one arm leaning on the chimney-piece, never deigned to pay me other attention than a half-smile, as, with a voice of most patronizing softness, he lisped out,—
“What can we do for you here, Monsieur?”
Apparently the answer to this question was a matter of interest to the party, who suddenly ceased talking to listen.
“I wish to order a uniform,” said I, summoning up all my resolution not to seem abashed. “This is a tailor's, if I don't mistake?”
“Monsieur is quite correct,” replied the imperturbable proprietor, whose self-satisfied smile became still more insulting, “but perhaps not exactly what you seek for. Gentlemen who wear your cloth seldom visit us.”
“No, Crillac,” interrupted one of the bystanders; “I never heard that you advertised yourself as fashioner to the Polytechnique, or tailor in ordinary to the corps of Pompiers.”
“You are insolent, sir!” said I, turning fiercely round upon the speaker. The words were scarce spoken, when the party sprang to their legs,—some endeavoring to restrain the temper of the young man addressed; others, pressing around, called on me to apologize on the spot for what I had said.
“No, no; let us have his name,—his name,” said three or four in a breath. “De Beauvais will take the punishment into his own hands.”
“Be advised, young gentleman; unsay your words, and go your way,” said an elder one of the party; while he added in a whisper, “De Beauvais has no equal in Paris with the small sword.”
“There is my address,” said I, seizing a pen, and writing on a piece of paper before me.
“Ha!” said De Beauvais, as he threw his eye on the writing; “he has got his grade, it seems: all the better that,—I half shrunk from the ridicule of an affair with a cadet. So you are serious about this?”
“Sir!” said I, all my efforts being barely enough to repress my rising passion.
“Well, well! enough about it. To-morrow morning; the Bois de Boulogne; the rapier. You understand me, I suppose?”
I nodded, and was about to leave the place, when I remembered that in my confusion I had neither asked my antagonist's name nor rank.
“And you, sir,” said I, “may I have the honor to learn who you are?”
“Pardieu, my young friend!” cried one of the others; “The information will not strengthen your nerves. But if you will have it, he is the Marquis de Beauvais, and tolerably well known in that little locality where he expects to meet you to-morrow.”
“Till then, sir,” replied I, touching my cap, as I turned into the street; not, however, before a burst of laughter rang through the party at a witticism of which I was the object, and the latter part of which only could I catch.
It was De Beauvais who spoke: “In which case, Crillac, another artist must take his measure.”
The allusion could not be mistaken, and I confess I did not relish it like the others.
I should, I fear, have fallen very low in the estimate of my companions and associates could the real state of my heart at that moment have been laid open to them. It was, I freely own, one of great depression. But an hour ago, and life was opening before me with many a bright and cheerful hope; and now in an instant was my fortune clouded. Let me not be misunderstood: among the rules of the Polytechnique, duelling was strictly forbidden; and although numerous transgressions occurred, so determined was the head of the Government to put down the practice, that the individuals thus erring were either reduced in rank or their promotion stopped for a considerable period, while the personal displeasure of Greneral Bonaparte rarely failed to show itself with reference to them. Now, it was clear to me that some unknown friend, some secret well-wisher, had interested himself in my humble fate,—that I owed my newly acquired rank to his kindness and good offices. What, then, might I not be forfeiting by this unhappy rencontre? Was it not more than likely that such an instance of misconduct, the very day of my promotion, might determine the whole tenor of my future career? What misrepresentation might not gain currency about my conduct? These were sad reflections indeed, and every moment but increased them.
When I reached the college, I called on one of my friends; but not finding him in his quarters, I wrote a few lines, begging he would come over to me the moment he returned. This done, I sat down alone to think over my adventure, and devise if I could some means to prevent its publicity, or if not that, its being garbled and misstated. Hour after hour rolled past—my wandering thoughts took no note of time—and the deep-tolled bell of the Polytechnique struck eight before I was aware the day was nearly over. Nine was the hour mentioned on my card of invitation: it flashed suddenly on me. What was to be done? I had no uniform save that of the ecole. Such a costume in such a place would, I feared, be considered too ridiculous; yet to absent myself altogether was impossible. Never was I in such a dilemma. All my endeavors to rescue myself were fruitless; and at last, worn out with the conflict of my doubts and fears, I stepped into the fiacre and set out for the Palace.
As my humble carriage slackened its pace to a walk on approaching the Place Carousel, I for the first time perceived that the open space around was thronged with equipages, moving slowly along in line towards the gate of the Palace. A picket of dragoons was drawn up at the great archway, and mounted gendarmes rode up and down to preserve order in the crowd. Before me stretched the long facade of the Tuileries, now lighted up in its entire extent; the rich hangings and costly furniture could be seen even where I was.
What a sinking sense of shame overwhelmed me as I thought of my humble position amid that mighty concourse of all that was great and illustrious in France! and how I shrunk within myself as I thought of the poor scholar of the Polytechnique—for such my dress, proclaimed me—mixing with the most distinguished diplomatists and generals of Europe! The rebuke I had met with from my colonel in the morning was still fresh in my recollection, and I dreaded something like a repetition of it.
“Oh, why had I not known that this was a grand reception?” was the ever-rising thought of my mind. My card of invitation said a soiree,—even that I might have dared: but here was a regular levée! Already I was near enough to hear the names announced at the foot of the grand staircase, where ambassadors, senators, ministers of state, and officers of the highest rank succeeded each other in quick succession. My carriage stood now next but two. I was near enough to see the last arrival hand his card to the huissier in waiting, and hear his title called out, “Le Ministre de la Guerre,” when the person in the carriage before me cried to his coachman, “To the left,—the Pa villon de Flore;” and at the same moment the carriage turned from the line, and drove rapidly towards a distant wing of the Palace.
“Move up! move up!” shouted a dragoon. “Or are you for the soiree de Madame?”
“Yes, yes!” said I, hastily, as I heard his question.
“Follow that carriage, then,” said he, pointing with his sabre; and in a moment we left the dense file, and followed the sounds of the retiring wheels towards a dark corner of the Palace, where a single lamp over a gate was the only light to guide us.
Never shall I forget the sense of relief I felt as I lay back in the carriage, and listened to the hum and din of the vast crowd growing each moment fainter. “Thank Heaven,” said I, “it's no levee!” Scarce half a dozen equipages stood around the door as we drove up, and a single dragoon was the guard of honor.
“Whom shall I announce, sir?” said a huissier in black, whose manner was as deferential as though my appearance bespoke an ambassador. I gave my name, and followed him up a wide stair, where the deep velvet carpet left no footfall audible. A large bronze candelabra, supporting a blaze of waxlights, diffused a light like day on every side. The doors opened before us as if by magic, and I found myself in an antechamber, where the huissier, repeating my name to another in waiting, retired. Passing through this, we entered a small drawing-room, in which sat two persons engaged at a chess table, but who never looked up or noticed us as we proceeded. At last the two wings of a wide folding door were thrown open, and my name was announced in a low but audible voice.
The salon into which I now entered was a large and splendidly-furnished apartment, whose light, tempered by a species of abat-jour, gave a kind of soft mysterious effect to everything about, and made even the figures, as they sat in little groups, appear something almost dramatic in their character. The conversation, too, was maintained in a half-subdued tone,—a gentle murmur of voices, that, mingling with the swell of music in another and distant apartment, and the plash of a small fountain in a vase of goldfish in the room itself, made a strange but most pleasing assemblage of sounds. Even in the momentary glance which, on entering, I threw around me, I perceived that no studied etiquette or courtly stateliness prevailed. The guests were disposed in every attitude of lounging ease and careless abandon; and it was plain to see that all or nearly all about were intimates of the place.
As the door closed behind me, I stood half uncertain how to proceed. Unhappily, I knew little of the habitudes of the great world, and every step I took was a matter of difficulty.
“I think you will find Madame Bonaparte in that room,” said a middle-aged and handsome man, whose mild voice and gentle smile did much to set me at my ease. “But perhaps you don't know her.”
I muttered something I meant to be a negative, to which he immediately replied,—
“Then let me present you. There is no ceremony here, and I shall be your groom of the chambers. But here she is. Madame la Consulesse, this young gentleman desires to make his respects.”
“Ha! our friend of the Polytechnique,—Monsieur Burke, is it not?”
“Yes, Madame,” said I, bowing low, and blushing deeply as I recognized, in the splendidly-attired and beautiful person before me, the lady who so kindly held the water to my lips the day of my accident at the school.
“Why, they told me you were promoted,—a hussar, I think.”
“Yes, Madame; but—but—”
“You are too fond of old associations to part from them easily,” said she, laughing. “Come here, Stephanie, and see a miracle of manhood, that could resist all the clinquant of a hussar for the simple costume of the É cole Militaire. Monsieur de Custine, this is my young friend of whom I told you the other day.”
The gentleman, the same who had so kindly noticed me, bowed politely.
“And now I must leave you together, for I see they are teasing poor Madame Lefebvre.” And with a smile she passed on into a small boudoir, from which the sounds of merry laughter were proceeding.
“You don't know any one here?” said Monsieur de Custine, as he motioned me to a place beside him on a sofa. “Nor is there any very remarkable person here to point out to you this evening. The First Consul's levée absorbs all the celebrities; but by and by they will drop in to pay their respects, and you 'll see them all. The handsome woman yonder with her fan before her is Madame Beauharnais Lavalette, and the good-looking young fellow in the staff uniform is Monsieur de Melcy, a stepson of General Rapp.”
“And the large handsome man with the embroidered coat who passed through so hurriedly?”
“Yes, he is somebody,—that's Decrès, the Ministre de la Marine; he is gone to the levee. And there, next the door, with his eyes cast down and his hands folded, that is the Abbé Maynal, one of the most 'spirituel' men of the day. But I suppose you 'd much rather look at the beauties of the Court than hear long stories about literature and politics. And there is the gem of loveliness among them.”
I turned my eyes as he spoke, and close beside me, engaged in an eager conversation with an old lady, stood a young and most beautiful girl. Her long hair, through which, in the then mode, violets were wreathed and interwoven, descended in rich masses of curl over a neck white as marble. The corsage of her dress, which, in imitation of Greek costume, was made low, displayed her well-rounded shoulders to the greatest advantage; and though rather below than above the middle size, there was a dignity and grace in the air of her figure, and a certain elegance about her slightest movements, that was most fascinating.
“And the 'Rose de Provence,'—how is she this evening?” said my companion, rising suddenly, and presenting himself with a smile before her.
“Ah! you here. Monsieur de Custine? we thought you had been at Nancy.”
The accent, the tone of voice in which she said these few words, sent a thrill through me; and as I looked again, I recognized the young lady who stood at Madame Bonaparte's side on the memorable day of my fall. Perhaps my astonishment made me start; for she turned round towards me, and with a soft and most charming smile saluted me,
“How they are laughing in that room!” said she, turning towards her other companions. “Monsieur de Custine has deserted his dear friend this evening, and left her to her unassisted defence.”
“Ma foi,” replied he, “I got ill rewarded for my advocacy. It was only last week, when I helped her out through one of her blunders in grammar she called me a 'ganache' for my pains.”
“How very ungrateful! You that have been interpreter to her, her tutor for the entire winter, without whom she could neither have obtained an ice nor a glass of water!”
“So is it; but you are all ungrateful. But I think I had better go and pay my respects to her. Pray, come along with me.”
I followed the party into a small room fitted up like a tent, where, amid some half-dozen persons assembled around like an audience, sat a large, florid, and good-looking person, her costume of scarlet velvet, turban, and robe adding to the flushed and high-colored expression of her features. She was talking in a loud voice, and with an accent of such patois as I should much more naturally have expected in a remote faubourg than in the gilded salons of the Tuileries. She had been relating some anecdotes of military life, which came within her own experience; and evidently amused her auditory as much by her manner as the matter of her narrative.
“Oui, parbleu,” said she, drawing a long breath, “I was only the wife of a sergeant in the 'Gardes Françaises' in those days; but they were pleasant times, and the men one used to see were men indeed. They were not as much laced in gold, nor had not so much finery on their jackets; but they were bold, bronzed, manly fellows. You 'd not see such a poor, miserable little fellow as De Custine there, in a whole demi-brigade.” When the laugh this speech caused, and in which her own merry voice joined, subsided, she continued; “Where will you find, now, anything like the Twenty-second of the line? Pioche was in that. Poor Pioche! I tied up his jaw in Egypt when it was smashed by a bullet. I remember, too, when the regiment came back, your husband, the General, reviewed them in the court below, and poor Pioche was quite offended at not being noticed. 'We were good friends,' quoth he, 'at Mount Tabor, but he forgets all that now; that 's what comes of a rise in the world. “Le Petit Caporal” was humble enough once, I warrant him; but now he can't remember me.' Well, they were ordered to march past in line; and there was Pioche, with his great dark eyes fixed on the General, and his big black beard flowing down to his waist. But no, he never noticed him no more than the tambour that beat the rappel. He could bear it no longer; his head was twisting with impatience and chagrin; and he sprang out of the lines, and seizing a brass gun,—a pièce de quatre,—he mounted it like a fusee to his shoulder, and marched past, calling out, 'Tu'—he always tu'toied him—' tu te rappelles maintenant, n'est-ce pas, petit?'”
No one enjoyed this little story more than Madame Bonaparte herself, who laughed for several minutes after it was over. Story after story did she pour forth in this way; most of them, however, had their merit in some personality or other, which, while recognized by the rest, had no attraction for me. There was in all she said the easy self-complacency of a kind-hearted but vulgar woman, vain of her husband, proud of his services, and perfectly indifferent to the habits and usages of a society 'whose manners she gave herself no trouble to imitate, nor of whose ridicule was she in the least afraid.
I sauntered from the room alone, to wander through the other apartments, where objects of art and curiosities of every kind were profusely scattered. The marbles of Greece and Rome, the strange carvings of Egypt, the rich vases of Sevres were there, amid cabinet pictures of the rarest and most costly kind. Those delicious landscapes of the time of Louis the Fifteenth, where every charm of nature and art was conveyed upon the canvas: the cool arbors of Versailles, with their terraced promenades and hissing fountains,—the subjects which Vanloo loved to paint, and which that voluptuous Court loved to contemplate,—the long alleys of shady green, where gay groups were strolling in the mellow softness of an autumn sunset; those proud dames whose sweeping garments brushed the velvet turf, and at whose sides, uncovered, walked the chivalry of France,—how did they live again in the bright pencil of Moucheron! and how did they carry one in fancy to the great days of the Monarchy! Strange place for them, too,—the boudoir of her whose husband had uprooted the ancient dynasty they commemorated, had erased from the list of kings that proudest of all the royal stocks in Europe. Was it the narrow-minded glory of the Usurper, that loved to look upon the greatness he had humbled, that brought them there? or was it rather the wellspring of that proud hope just rising in his heart, that he was to be successor of those great kings whose history formed the annals of Europe itself?
As I wandered on, captivated in every sense by the charm of what to me was a scene in fairyland, I came suddenly before a picture of Josephine, surrounded by the ladies of her Court. It was by Isabey, and had all the delicate beauty and transparent finish of that delightful painter. Beside it was another portrait by the same artist; and I started back in amazement at the resemblance. Never had color better caught the rich tint of a Southern complexion; the liquid softness of eye, the full and sparkling intelligence of ready wit and bright fancy, all beamed in that lovely face. It needed not the golden letters in the frame which called it “La Rose de Provence.” I sat down before it unconsciously, delighted that I might gaze on such beauty unconstrained. The white hand leaned on a balustrade, and seemed almost as if stretching from the very canvas. I could have knelt and kissed it. That was the very look she wore the hour I saw her first,—it had never left my thoughts day or night. The half-rising blush, the slightly averted head, the mingled look of impatience and kindness,—all were there; and so entranced had I become, that I feared each instant lest the vision would depart, and leave me dark and desolate. The silence of the room was almost unbroken. A distant murmur of voices, the tones of a harp, were all I heard; and I sat, I know not how long, thus wrapped in ecstasy.
A tall screen of Chinese fabric separated the part of the room I occupied from the rest, and left me free to contemplate alone those charms which each moment grew stronger upon me. An hour might perhaps have thus elapsed, when suddenly I heard the sound of voices approaching, but in a different direction from that of the salons. They were raised above the ordinary tone of speaking, and one in particular sounded in a strange accent of mingled passion and sarcasm which I shall never forget. The door of the room was flung open before I could rise from my chair; and two persons entered, neither of whom could I see from my position behind the screen.
“I ask you, again and again, Is the treaty of Amiens a treaty, or is it not?” said a harsh, imperious tone I at once recognized as that of the First Consol, while his voice actually trembled with anger.
“My Lord Whitworth observed, if I mistake not,” replied a measured and soft accent, where a certain courtier-like unction prevailed, “that the withdrawal of the British troops from Malta would follow, on our making a similar step as regards our forces in Switzerland and Piedmont.”
“What right have they to make such a condition? They never complained of the occupation of Switzerland at the time of the treaty. I will not hear of such a stipulation. I tell you. Monsieur de Talleyrand, I 'd rather see the English in the Faubourg St. Antoine than in the Island of Malta. Why should we treat with England as a Continental power? Of India, if she will; and as to Egypt, I told my lord that sooner or later it must belong to France.”
“A frankness he has reason to be thankful for,” observed M. de Talleyrand, in a voice of sarcastic slyness.
“Que voulez-vous?” replied Bonaparte, in a raised tone. “They want a war, and they shall have it. What matter the cause?—such treaties of peace as these had better be covered with black crape.” Then dropping his voice to a half-whisper, he added: “You must see him to-morrow; explain how the attacks of the English press have irritated me; how deeply wounded I must feel at such a license permitted under the very eyes of a friendly government,—plots against my life encouraged, assassination countenanced! Repeat, that Sebastiani's mission to Egypt is merely commercial; that although prepared for war, our wish, the wish of France, is peace; that the armaments in Holland are destined for the Colonies. Show yourself disposed to treat, but not to make advances. Reject the word ultimatum, if he employ it; the phrase implies a parley between a superior and an inferior. This is no longer the France that remembers an English commissary at Dunkirk. If he do not use the word, then remark on its absence; say, these are not times for longer anxiety,—that we must know, at last, to what we are to look; tell him the Bourbons are not still on the throne here; let him feel with whom he has to deal.”
“And if he demand his passport,” gravely observed Talleyrand, “you can be in the country for a day; at Plombiferes,—at St. Cloud.”
A low, subdued laugh followed these words, and they walked forward towards the salons, still conversing, but in a whispered tone.
A cold perspiration broke over my face and forehead, the drops fell heavily down my cheek, as I sat an unwilling listener of this eventful dialogue. That the fate of Europe was in the balance I knew full well; and ardently as I longed for war, the dreadful picture that rose before me damped much of my ardor; while a sense of my personal danger, if discovered where I was, made me tremble from head to foot. It was, then, with a sinking spirit, that I retraced my steps towards the salons, not knowing if my absence had not been remarked and commented on. How little was I versed in such society, where each came and went as it pleased him,—where the most brilliant beauty, the most spiritual conversationalist, left no gap by absence,—and where such as I were no more noticed than the statues that held the waxlights!
The salons were now crowded: ministers of state, ambassadors, general officers in their splendid uniforms, filled the apartments, in which the din of conversation and the sounds of laughter mingled. Yet, through the air of gayety which reigned throughout,—the tone of light and flippant smartness which prevailed,—I thought I could mark here and there among some of the ministers an appearance of excitement and a look of preoccupation little in unison with the easy intimacy which all seemed to possess. I looked on every side for the First Consul himself, but he was nowhere to be seen. Monsieur Talleyrand, however, remained: I recognized him by his soft and measured accent, as he sat beside Madame Bonaparte, and was relating some story in a low voice, at which she seemed greatly amused. I could not help wondering at the lively and animated character of features, beneath which were concealed the dark secrets of state affairs, the tangled mysteries of political intrigue. To look on him, you would have said, “There sits one whose easy life flows on, unruffled by this world's chances.”
Not so the tall and swarthy man, whose dark mustache hangs far below his chin, and who leans on the chimneypiece yonder; the large veins of his forehead are swollen and knitted, and his deep voice seems to tremble with strong emotion as he speaks.
“Pray, Monsieur, who is that officer yonder?” said I, to a gentleman beside me, and whose shoulder was half turned away.
“That,” said he, raising his glass, “that is Savary, the Minister of Police. And, pardon, you are Mr. Burke,—is 't not so?”
I started as he pronounced my name, and looking fixedly at him, recognized the antagonist with whom I was to measure swords the next morning in the Bois de Boulogne. I colored at the awkwardness of my situation; but he, with more ease and self-possession, resumed,—
“Monsieur, this is, to me at least, a very fortunate meeting. I have called twice, in the hope of seeing you this evening, and am overjoyed now to find you here. I behaved very ill to you this morning; I feel it now, I almost felt it at the time. If you will accept my apology for what has occurred, I make it most freely. My character is in no need of an affair to make me known as a man of courage; yours, there can be no doubt of. May I hope you agree with me? I see you hesitate: perhaps I anticipate the reason,—you do not know how far you can or ought to receive such an amende?” I nodded, and he continued: “Well, I am rather a practised person in these matters, and I can safely say you may.”
“Be it so, then,” said I, taking the hand he proffered, and shaking it warmly; “I am too young in the world to be my own guide, and I feel you would not deceive me.”
A gratified look, and a renewed pressure of the hand, replied to my speech.
“One favor more,—you must n't refuse me. Let us sup together. My calèche is below; people are already taking their leave here; and, if you have no particular reason for remaining—”
“None; I know no one.”
“Allons, then,” said he, gayly, taking my arm. And I soon found myself descending the marble stairs beside the man I had expected to stand opposed to in deadly conflict a few hours later.
“Beauvilliers,” said the marquis, throwing himself back in his seat, and remaining for some minutes silent.
At last, as if suddenly recollecting that we were strangers to each other, he said, “You know Beauvilliers, of course?”
“No,” replied I, with hesitation; “I really have not any acquaintance.”
“Parbleu,” said he, laughing, “you ought at least to have his friendship. He is the most celebrated restaurateur of this or any other age; no one has carried the great art of the cuisine to a higher perfection, and his cellars are unequalled in Paris. But you shall pronounce for yourself.”
“Unhappily my judgment is of little value. Do you forget that the diet roll of the Polytechnique is a bad school for gastronomy?”
“But a glorious preparation for it,” interrupted he. “How delightful must be the enjoyment to the unsophisticated palate of those first impressions which a carpe à la Chambord, a pheasant truffé, a dish of ortolans à la Provengale, inspire! But here we are. Our party is a small one,—an old préfet of the South, an abbé, a secretary of the Russian embassy, and ourselves.”
This information he gave me as we mounted a narrow and winding stair, dimly lighted by a single lamp. On reaching the landing, however, a waiter stood in readiness to usher us into a small apartment decorated with all the luxury of gold and plate glass, so profusely employed in the interior of all cafés. The guests already mentioned were there, and evidently awaiting our arrival with no small impatience.
“As usual, Henri,” said the old man, whom I guessed to be the préfet,—“as usual, an hour behind your appointment.”
“Forgive him. Monsieur,” said abbé, with a simper. “The fascinations of a Court—”
The grimace the old man made at this last word threw the whole party into a roar of laughter, which only ceased by the marquis presenting me in all form to each of his friends.
“À table, à table, for Heaven's sake!” cried the préfet, ringing the bell, and bustling about the room with a fidgety impatience.
This was, however, unneeded; for in less than five minutes the supper made its appearance, and we took our places at the board.
The encomiums pronounced as each dish came and went satisfied me that the feast was unexceptionable. As for myself, I ate away, only conscious that I had never been so regaled before, and wondering within me how far ingenuity had been exercised to produce the endless variety that appeared at table. The wine, too, circulated freely; and Champagne, Bordeaux, and Chambertin followed one another in succession, as the different meats indicated the peculiar vintage. In the conversation I could take no part,—it was entirely gastronomic; and no man ever existed more ignorant of the seasons that promised well for truffles, or the state of the atmosphere that threatened acidity to the vines.
“Well, Henri,” said the préfet, when the dessert made its appearance, and the time for concluding the gourmand dissertation seemed arrived,—“well! and what news from the Tuileries?”
“Nothing—absolutely nothing,” said he, carelessly,—“the same people; the same topics; the eternal game of tric-trac with old Madame d'Angerton; Denon tormenting some new victim with a mummy or a map of Egypt; Madame Lefebvre relating camp anecdotes—”
“Ah, she is delightful!” interrupted the prefet.
“So thinks your chief, at least, Askoff,” said De Beauvais, turning to the Russian. “He sat on the sofa beside her for a good hour and a half.”
“Who sat near him on the other side?” slyly asked the other.
“On the other side? I forget: no, I remember it was Monsieur de Talleyrand and Madame Bonaparte. And, now I think of it, he must have overheard what they said.”
“Is it true, then, that Bonaparte insulted the English ambassador at the reception? Askoff heard it as he left the Rue St. Honoré.”
“Perfectly true. The scene was a most outrageous one; and Lord Whitworth retired, declaring to Talleyrand—at least, so they say—that without an apology being made, he would abstain from any future visits at the Tuileries.”
“But what is to come of it?—tell me that. What is to be the result?”
“Pardieu! I know not. A reconciliation to-morrow; an article in the 'Moniteur;' a dinner at the Court; and then another rupture, and another article.”
“Or a war,” said the Russian, looking cautiously about, to see if his opinion met any advocacy.
“What say you to that, mon ami?” said De Beauvais, turning to me. “Glad enough, I suppose, you 'll be to win your epaulettes as colonel.”
“That, too, is on the cards,” said the abbé, sipping his glass quietly. “One can credit anything these times.”
“Even the Catholic religion, Abbé,” said De Beauvais, laughing.
“Or the Restoration,” replied the abbé, with a half-malicious look at the préfet, which seemed greatly to amuse the Russian.
“Or the Restoration!” repeated the préfet, solemnly, after him,—“or the Restoration!” And then filling his glass to the brim, he drained it to the bottom.
“It is a hussar corps you are appointed to?” said De Beauvais, hastily turning towards me, as if anxious to engage my attention.
“Yes; the huitieme,” said I: “do you know them?”
“No; I have few acquaintances in the army.”
“His father, sir,” said the préfet, with a voice of considerable emphasis, “was an old garde du corps in those times when the sword was only worn by gentlemen.”
“So much the worse for the army,” whispered the abbé, in an undertone, that was sufficiently audible to the rest to cause an outbreak of laughter.
“And when,” continued the préfet, undisturbed by the interruption, “birth had its privileges.”
“Among the rest, that of being the first beheaded,” murmured the inexorable abbé.
“Were truffles dear before the Revolution, préfet?” said De Beauvais, with a half-impertinent air of simplicity.
“No, sir; nothing was dear save the King's favor.”
“Which could also be had for paying for,” quoth the abbé.
“The 'Moniteur' of this evening, gentlemen,” said the waiter, entering with the paper, whose publication had been delayed some two hours beyond the usual period.
“Ah, let us see what we have here,” said De Beauvais, opening the journal and reading aloud: “'Greneral Espinasse is appointed to the command of the fourth corps, stationed at Lille; and Major-General Lannes to the fortress of Montreil, vacant by—' No matter,—here it is. 'Does the English government suppose that France is one of her Indian possessions, without the means to declare her wrongs or the power to avenge them? Can they believe that rights are not reciprocal, and that the observance of one contracting party involves nothing on the part of the other?'”
“There, there, De Beauvais; don't worry us with that tiresome nonsense.”
“'Or,' continued the marquis, still reading aloud, 'do they presume to say that we shall issue no commercial instructions to our agents abroad lest English susceptibility should be wounded by any prospect of increased advantages to our trade?'”
“Our trade!” echoed the préfet, with a most contemptuous intonation on the word.
“Ah, for those good old times, when there was none!” said the abbé, with such a semblance of honest sincerity as drew an approving smile from the old man.
“Hear this, Préfet,” said De Beauvais: “'From the times of Colbert to the present'—what think you? the allusion right royal, is it not?—'From the times of Colbert our negotiations have been always conducted in this manner.'”
“Sir, I beseech you read no more of that intolerable nonsense.”
“And here,” continued the marquis, “follows a special invocation of the benediction of Heaven on the just efforts which France is called on to make, to repress the insolent aggression of England. Abbé, this concerns you.”
“Of course,” said he, meekly. “I am quite prepared to pray for the party in power; if Heaven but leaves them there, I must conclude they deserve it.”
A doubtful look, as if he but half understood him, was the only reply the old préfet made to this speech; at which the laughter of the others could no longer be repressed, and burst forth most heartily.
“But let us read on. Whose style is this, think you? 'France possessed within her dominion every nation from the North Sea to the Adriatic. And how did she employ her power?—in restoring to Batavia self-government; in giving liberty to Switzerland; and in ceding Venice to Austria, while the troops at the very gates of Vienna are halted and repass the Rhine once more. Are these the evidences of ambition? Are these the signs of that overweening lust of territory with which England dares to reproach us? And if such passions prevailed, what was easier than to have indulged them? Was not Italy our own? Were not Batavia, Switzerland, Portugal, all ours? But no, peace was the desire of the nation; peace at any cost. The colony of St. Domingo, that immense territory, was not conceived a sacrifice too great to secure such a blessing.'”
“Pardieu! De Beauvais, I can bear it no longer.”
“You must let me give you the reverse of the medal. Hear now what England has done.”
“He writes well, at least for the taste of newspaper readers,” said the abbé, musingly; “but still he only understands the pen as he does the sword,—it must be a weapon of attack.”
“Who is the writer, then?” said I, in a half-whisper.
“Who!—can you doubt it?—Bonaparte himself. What other man in France would venture to pronounce so authoritatively on the prospects and the intentions of the nation?”
“Or who,” said the abbé, in his dry manner, “could speak with such accuracy of the 'Illustrious and Magnanimous Chief 'that rules her destinies?”
“It is growing late,” said the préfet, with the air of one who took no pleasure in the conversation, “and I start for Rouen to-morrow morning.”
“Come, come, préfet! one bumper before we part,” said Be Beauvais. “Something has put you out of temper this evening; yet I think I know a toast can restore you to good-humor again.”
The old man lifted his hand with a gesture of caution, while he suddenly directed a look towards me.
“No, no; don't be afraid,” said De Beauvais, laughing; “I think you 'll acquit me of any rashness. Fill up, then; and here let us drink to one in the old palace of the Tuileries who at this moment can bring us back in memory to the most glorious days of our country.”
“Pardieu! that must be the First Consul, I suppose,” whispered the abbé, to the prefet, who dashed his glass with such violence on the table as to smash it in a hundred pieces.
“See what comes of impatience!” cried De Beauvais, laughing. “And now you have not wherewithal to pledge my fair cousin the 'Rose of Provence.'”
“The Rose of Provence!” said each in turn; while, excited by the wine, of which I had drunk freely, and carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, I re-echoed the words in such a tone as drew every eye upon me.
“Ah! you know my cousin, then?” said De Beauvais,—looking at me with a strange mixture of curiosity and astonishment.
“No,” said I; “I have seen her—I saw her this evening at the Palace.”
“Well, I must present you,” said he, smiling good-day naturedly.
Before I could mutter my acknowledgment, the party had risen, and were taking leave of each other for the night.
“I shall see you soon again, Burke,” said De Beauvais, as he pressed my hand warmly; “and now, adieu!”
With that we parted; and I took my way back towards the Polytechnique, my mind full of strange incidents of this the most eventful night in my quiet and monotonous existence.