Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

CHAPTER LVI. ST. DENIS

We were both suddenly awakened from a sound sleep in the calèche by the loud cracking of the postillion’s whip, the sounds of street noises, and the increased rattle of the wheels over the unequal pavement. We started up just as, turning round in his saddle and pointing with his long whip to either side of him, the fellow called out —

‘Paris, Messieurs, Paris! This is Faubourg St. Denis; there before you lies the Rue St. Denis. Sacristi! the streets are as crowded as at noonday.’

By this time we had rubbed the sleep from our eyelids and looked about us, and truly the scene before us was one to excite all our astonishment. The Quartier St. Denis was then in the occupation of the Austrian troops, who were not only billeted in the houses, but bivouacked in the open streets – their horses picketed in long files along the pavé, the men asleep around their watch-fires, or burnishing arms and accoutrements beside them. The white-clad cuirassier from the Danube, the active and sinewy Hungarian, the tall and swarthy Croat were all there, mixed up among groups of peasant girls coming in to market with fowls and eggs. Carts of forage and waggons full of all manner of provisions were surrounded by groups of soldiers and country-people, trading amicably with one another as though the circumstances which had brought them together were among the ordinary events of commerce.

Threading our way slowly through these, we came upon the Jager encampment, their dark-green uniform and brown carbines giving that air of sombre to their appearance so striking after the steel-clad cuirassier and the bright helmets of the dragoons. Farther on, around a fountain, were a body of dismounted dragoons, their tall colbacks and scarlet trousers bespeaking them Polish lancers; their small but beautifully formed white horses pawed the ground, and splashed the water round them, till the dust and foam rose high above them. But the strangest of all were the tall, gigantic figures, who, stretched alongside of their horses, slept in the very middle of the wide street. Lifting their heads lazily for a moment, they gazed on us as we passed, and then lay down again to sleep. Their red beards hung in masses far down upon their breasts, and their loose trousers of a reddish dye but half concealed boots of undressed skin. Their tall lances were piled around them; but these were not wanting to prove that the savage, fierce-looking figures before us were the Cossacks of the Don, thus come for many a hundred mile to avenge the slaughter of Borodino and the burning of Moscow. As we penetrated farther into the city, the mixture of nation and costume became still more remarkable. The erect and soldierlike figure of the Prussian; the loose, wild-eyed Tartar; the brown-clad Russian, with russet beard and curved sabre; the stalwart Highlander, with nodding plume and waving tartan; the Bashkir, with naked scimitar; the gorgeous hussar of Hungary; the tall and manly form of the English guardsman – all passed and repassed before us, adding, by the babel of discordant sound, to the wild confusion of the scene.

It was a strange sight to see the savage soldier from the steppes of Russia, the dark-eyed, heavy-browed Gallician, the yellow-haired Saxon, the rude native of the Caucasus, who had thus given themselves a rendezvous in the very heart of European civilisation, wandering about – now stopping to admire some magnificent palace, now gazing with greedy wonder at the rich display of some jeweller, or the costly and splendid dresses which were exhibited in the shop windows; while here and there were gathered groups of men whose looks of undisguised hate and malignity were bent unceasingly upon the moving mass. Their bourgeois dress could not conceal that they were the old soldiers of the Empire – the men of Wagram, of Austerlitz, of Jena, and of Wilna – who now witnessed within their own capital the awful retribution of their own triumphant aggressions.

As the morning advanced the crowds increased, and as we approached the Place du Carrousel, regiments poured in from every street to the morning parade. Among these the Russian garde– the Bonnets d’or– were conspicuous for the splendour of their costume and the soldierlike precision of their movements, the clash of their brass cymbals and the wild strains of their martial music adding indescribably to their singular appearance. As the infantry drew up in line, we stopped to regard them, when from the Place Louis Quinze the clear notes of a military band rang out a quick step, and the Twenty-eighth British marched in to the air of ‘The Young May Moon.’ O’Grady’s excitement could endure no longer. He jumped up in the calèche, and, waving his hat above his head, gave a cheer that rang through the long corridor beneath the Louvre. The Irish regiment caught up the cry, and a yell as wild as ever rose above the din of battle shook the air. A Cossack picket then cantering up suddenly halted, and, leaning down upon their horses’ manes, seemed to listen; then dashing spurs into their horses’ flanks they made the circuit of the Place at full gallop, while their ‘Hurra!’ burst forth with all the wild vehemence of their savage nature.

‘We shall get into some precious scrape with all this,’ said O’Grady, as, overcome with laughing, he fell back into the calèche.

Such was my own opinion; so telling the postillion to turn short into the next street we hurried away unperceived, and drove with all the speed we could muster for the Rue St. Honoré. The Hôtel de la Paix fortunately had room for us; and ordering our breakfasts we adjourned to dress, each resolving to make the most of his few hours at Paris.

I had just reached the breakfast-room, and was conning over the morning papers, when O’Grady entered in full uniform, his face radiant with pleasure, and the same easy, jaunty swagger in his walk as on the first day I met him.

‘When do you expect to have your audience, Phil?’ said I.

‘I have had it, my boy. It’s all over, finished, completed. Never was anything so successful I talked over the old Adjutant in such a strain, that, instead of dreaming about a court-martial on us, the worthy man is seriously bent on our obtaining compensation for the loss of the drag. He looked somewhat serious as I entered; but when once I made him laugh, the game was my own. I wish you had seen him wiping his dear old eyes as I described the covey of gendarmes taking the air. However, the main point is, the regiment is to be moved up to Paris, the commissaire is to receive a reprimand, our claim for some ten thousand francs is to be considered, and I am to dine with the Adjutant to-day and tell the story after dinner.’

‘Do you know, Phil, I have a theory that an Irishman never begins to prosper but just at the moment that any one else would surely be ruined.’

‘Don’t make a theory of it, Jack, for it may turn out unlucky. But the practice is pretty much what you represent it. Fortune never treats people so well as when they don’t care a fig about her. She’s exactly like a lady patroness – confoundedly impertinent if you’ll bear it, but all smiles if you won’t. Have you ever met Tom Burke – “Burke of Ours,” as they call him, I believe, in half the regiments in the service?’

‘No, never.’

‘Well, the loss is yours. Tom’s a fine fellow in his way; and if you could get him to tell you his story – or rather one of his stories, for his life is a succession of them – perhaps you would find that this same theory of yours has some foundation. Well pick him up one of these days, and I’ll introduce you. But now, Jack, I have a piece of news for you. What do you think of it, my lad? – Lady Charlotte Hinton ‘s at Paris.’

‘My mother here? Is it possible?’

‘Yes. Her ladyship resides No. 4 Place Vendôme, opposite the Hôtel de Londres. There’s accuracy for you.’

‘And who is with her? My father?’

‘No. The General is expected in a few days. Lady Julia, I believe, is her only companion.’

There was a kind of reserve suddenly in O’Grady’s manner as he mentioned this name, which made us both pause for a few seconds. At length he broke the awkwardness of the silence by saying, in his usual laughing way —

‘I contrived to pick up all the gossip of Paris in half an hour. The town is full of English – and such English too! The Cossacks are civilised people, of quiet, retiring habits, compared to them. I verily believe the French are more frightened by our conviviality than ever they were by the bayonets of the Allies. I’m dying to hear your lady-mother’s account of everything here.’

‘What say you, then, if you come along with me? I ‘m becoming very impatient to see my people once more. Julia will, I ‘m certain, be very amusing.’

‘Ah, and I have a debt of gratitude in that quarter,’ said O’Grady hesitatingly. ‘Lady Julia was so very kind as to extend her protection to that old villain Corny. I cannot for the life of me understand how she endured him.’

‘As to that,’ said I, ‘Julia has a taste for character; and not even the Chevalier Delany’s eccentricity would pain her. So let’s forward.’

‘Did I tell you that De Vere is here?’ said O’Grady.

‘No; not with my friends, I trust?’

‘On the contrary, I ascertained that he does not visit at Lady Charlotte’s. He is attached to Lord Cathcart’s embassy; he’s very little in society, and rarely to be seen but at the salon, where he plays tremendously high, loses every night, but reappears each day with a replenished pocket. But I intend to know the secret of all this, and of many other matters, ere long. So now let us proceed.’

CHAPTER LVII. PARIS IN 1814

If the strange medley of every nation and costume which we beheld on entering Paris surprised us, how much greater was our astonishment when, having finished a hurried breakfast, we issued forth into the crowded streets! Here were assembled, among the soldiers of every country, visitors from all parts of Europe, attracted by the novel spectacle thus presented to them, and eager to participate in the pleasures of a capital whose rejoicings, so far from being checked by the sad reverse of fortune, were now at the highest pitch; and the city much more resembled the gay resort of an elated people than a town occupied by the troops of conquering enemies. The old soldier of the Empire alone grieved in the midst of this general joy; with the downfall of Napoleon died his every hope. The spirit of conquest, by which for so many years the army had been intoxicated, was annihilated by the one line that signed the treaty of Fontainebleau. Thus among the gay and laughing groups that hurried onward might now and then be seen some veteran of the Old Guard scowling with contemptuous look upon that fickle populace, as eager to celebrate the downfall as ever they had been to greet the glory of their nation.

Nothing more strikingly marked the incongruous host that filled the city than the different guards of honour which were mounted at the several hotels where officers and generals of distinction resided. At this time the regulation was not established which prevailed somewhat later, and gave to the different armies of the Allies the duty of mounting all the guards in rotation. Thus at one door might be seen the tall cuirassier of Austria, his white cloak falling in heavy folds over the flank and haunches of his coal-black horse, looking like some Templar of old; at another the plumed bonnet of a Highlander fluttered in the breeze, as some hardy mountaineer paced to and fro, his grey eye and stern look unmoved by the eager and prying gaze of the crowd that stopped to look upon so strange and singular a costume. Here was the impatient schimmel of some Hungarian hussar pawing the ground with restless eagerness, as his gay dolman slashed with gold glittered in the sun. The Jager from Bohemia, the deadly marksman with the long rifle, the savage Tartar of the Ukraine devouring his meal on his guard, and turning his dark suspicious eye around him, lest every passer-by might mean some treachery – all denoted that some representative of their country dwelt within; while every now and then the clank of a musket would be heard, as a heavy porte cochere opened to permit the passage of an equipage, as strange and as characteristic as the guard himself. Here would issue the heavy waggon of some German prince, with emblazoned panels and scarlet hammer-doth, the horses as fat and lethargic as the smoking and moustached figure they were drawing; there was a low drosky of a Russian, three horses abreast, their harness tinkling with brass bells as the spirited animals plunged and curvetted along. The quiet and elegant-looking phaeton of English build, with its perfection of appointment, rolled along with its deep woody sound beside the quaint, old-fashioned calèche of Northern Germany, above whose cumbrous side-panels only the heads of the passengers were visible. Nor were the horsemen less dissimilar; the stately Prussian, with his heel à plomb beneath his elbow; the Cossack, with short stirrups, crouched upon his horse’s mane; the English horse artilleryman powdering along with massive accoutrements and gigantic steed; the Polish light cavalry soldier, standing high in his stirrups, and turning his restless eye on every side – all were subjects for our curiosity and wonder.

The novelty of the spectacle seemed, however, to have greatly worn off for the Parisians, who rarely noticed the strange and uncouth figures that every moment passed before their eyes, and now talked away as unconcernedly amid the scene of tumult and confusion as though nothing new or remarkable was going on about them – their very indifference and insouciance one of the strangest sights we witnessed.

Our progress, which at the first was a slow one, ceased entirely at the corner of the palace, where a considerable crowd was now collected. Although we asked of the bystanders, no one could tell what was going forward; but the incessant roars of laughter showed that something droll or ridiculous had occurred. O’Grady, whose taste in such matters would suffer no denial, elbowed his way through the mob, I following as well as I was able. When we reached the first rank of the spectators, we certainly needed no explanation of the circumstances to make us join in the mirth about us.

It was a single combat of a very remarkable description. A tall Cossack, with a long red beard now waving wildly on every side, was endeavouring to recover his mutcka cap from a little decrepit old fellow, from whom he had stolen a basket of eggs. The eggs were all broken on the ground; and the little man danced among them like an infuriated fiend, flourishing a stick all the while in the most fearful fashion. The Cossack, whose hand at every moment sought the naked knife that was stuck in his girdle, was obliged to relinquish his weapon by the groans of the mob, who unequivocally showed that they would not permit foul play, and being thus unarmed, could make nothing of an adversary whose contemptible appearance caused all the ridicule of the scene. Meanwhile the little fellow, his clothes in rags, and his head surmounted by a red Cossack mutcka, capered about like nothing human, uttering the most frightful sounds of rage and passion; at length, in a paroxysm of fury, he dealt the tall Cossack a rap on the temples which made him reel again. Scarcely had the blow descended, when, stung by the insult and the jeers of the mob, the enraged savage grasped his knife; with one spring he pounced upon the little man; but as he did so a strong hand from behind seized him by the collar, and with one tremendous jerk hurled him back upon the crowd, where he fell stunned and senseless.