They who remember the excited state of England on the rupture of the peace of Amiens; the spirit of military ardor that animated every class and condition of life; the national hatred, carried to the highest pitch by the instigations and attack of a violent press,—can yet form but an imperfect notion of the mad enthusiasm that prevailed in France on the same occasion. The very fact that there was no determinate and precise cause of quarrel added to the exasperation on both sides. It was less like the warfare of two great nations, than the personal animosity of two high-spirited and passionate individuals, who, having interchanged words of insult, resolve on the sword as the only arbiter between them. All that the long rivalry of centuries, national dislike, jealousy in every form, and ridicule in a thousand shapes could suggest, were added to the already existing hate, and gave to the coming contest a character of blackest venom.

In England, the tyrannic rule of Bonaparte gave deep offence to all true lovers of liberty, and gave rise to fears of what the condition of their own country would become should he continue to increase his power by conquest. In France, the rapid rise to honor and wealth the career of arms so singularly favored, made partisans of war in every quarter of the kingdom. The peaceful arts were but mean pursuits compared with that royal road to rank and riches,—the field of battle; and their self-interest lent its share in forming the spirit of hostility, which wanted no element of hatred to make it perfect.

Paris,—where so lately nothing was heard save the roll of splendid equipages, the din of that gay world whose business is amusement; where amid gilded salons the voluptuous habits of the Consulate mixed with the less courtly but scarce less costly display of military splendor,—became now like a vast camp. Regiments poured in daily, to resume their march the next morning; the dull rumble of ammunition wagons and caissons, the warlike clank of mounted cavalry, awoke the citizens at daybreak; the pickets of hussar corps and the dusty and travel-stained infantry soldiers filled the streets at nightfall. Yet through all, the mad gayety of this excited nation prevailed. The cafÉs were Crowded with eager and delighted faces; the tables spread in the open air were occupied by groups whose merry voices and ready laughter attested that war was the pastime of the people, and the very note of preparation a tocsin of joy and festivity. The walls were placarded with inflammatory addresses to the patriotism and spirit of France. The papers teemed with artful and cleverly written explanations of the rupture with England; in which every complaint against that country was magnified, and every argument put forward to prove the peaceful desires of that nation whose present enthusiasm for war was an unhappy commentary on the assertion. The good faith of France was extolled; the moderation of the First Consul dwelt upon; and the treachery of that “perfidious Albion, that respected not the faith of treaties,” was displayed in such irrefragable clearness, that the humblest citizen thought the cause his own, and felt the coming contest the ordeal of his own honor.

All the souvenirs of the former wars were invoked to give spirit to the approaching struggle, and they were sufficiently numerous to let no week pass over without at least one eventful victory to commemorate. Now it was Kellerman's cuirassiers, whose laurel-wreathed helmets reminded the passing stranger that on that day eight years they tore through the dense ranks of the Austrians, and sabred the gunners at the very guns. Now it was the Polish regiments, the steel-clad lancers, who paraded before the Tuileries in memory of the proud day they marched through Montebello with that awful sentence on their banners, “Venice exists no longer!” Here were corps of infantry, intermingled with dragoons, pledging each other as they passed along; while the names of Castiglione, Bassano, and Roveredo rang througl the motley crowd. The very children, “les enfants de troupe,” seemed filled with the warlike enthusiasm of their fathers; and each battalion, as it moved past, stepped to the encouraging shouts of thousands who gazed with envious admiration on the heroes of their country.

Never did the pent-up feelings of a nation find vent in such a universal torrent of warlike fervor as now filled the land. The clank of the sabre was the music that charmed the popular ear; and the “coquette vivandiÉre,” as she tripped along the gravel avenued of the Tuileries gardens, was as much an object of admiration as the most splendidly attired beauty of the Faubourg St. Germain. The whole tone of society assumed the feature of the political emergency. The theatres only represented such pieces as bore upon the ancient renown of the nation in arms,—its victories and conquests; the artists painted no other subjects; and the literature of the period appealed to few other sympathies than are found in the rude manners of the guardroom or around the watchfires of the bivouac. Pegault Lebrun was the popular author of the day; and his works are even now no mean indication of the current tastes and opinions of the period.

The predictions too hastily made by the English journals, that the influence of Bonaparte in France could not survive the rupture of that peace which had excited so much enthusiasm, were met by a burst of national unanimity that soon dispelled the delusive hope. Never was there a greater error than to suppose that any prospect of commercial prosperity, any vista of wealth and riches, could compensate to Frenchmen for the intoxication of that glory in which they lived as in an orgy. Too many banners floated from the deep aisles of the Invalides—too many cannon, the spoils of the Italian and German wars, bristled on the rampart—not to recall the memory of those fÊte days when a bulletin threw the entire city into a frenzy of joy. The Louvre and the Luxembourg, too, were filled with the treasures of conquered States; and these are not the guarantees of a long peace.

Such! in brief, was the state of Paris when the declaration of war by Great Britain once more called the nation to arms. Every regiment was at once ordered to make up its full complement to the war standard, and the furnaces were employed in forging shot and casting cannon throughout the length and breadth of France. The cavalry corps were stationed about St. Omer and CompiÈgne, where a rich corn country supplied forage in abundance. Among the rest, the order came for the huitiÈme to march: one squadron only was to remain behind, chosen to execute le service des dÉpÊches from St. Cloud and Versailles to Paris; and to this I belonged.

From the evening of Monsieur Gisquet's visit I had never seen or heard of De Beauvais; and at last the hope grew in me that we were to meet no more, when suddenly the thought flashed across my mind: this is what he spoke of,—he promised I should be sent to Versailles! Can it be chance? or is this his doing? These were difficult questions to solve, and gave me far more embarrassment than pleasure. My fear that my acquaintance with him was in the end to involve me in some calamity, was a kind of superstition which I could not combat; and I resolved at once to see my colonel,—with whom, happily, I was now on the best of terms,—and endeavor to exchange with some other officer, any being willing to accept a post so much more agreeable than a mere country quarter, I found the old man busied in the preparations for departure; he was marking out the days of march to the adjutant as I entered.

“Well, Burke,” said he, “you are the fortunate fellow this time; your troop remains behind.”

“It is on that account, sir, I am come. You'll think my request a strange one, but if it be not against rule, would you permit me to exchange my destination with another officer?”

“What,—eh? the boy 's mad! Why, it 's to Versailles you are going.”

“I know, sir; but somehow I'd rather remain with the regiment.”

“This is very strange,—I don't understand it,” said he, leisurely; “come here.” With that he drew me into the recess of a window where we could talk unheard by others. “Burke,” continued he, “I'm not the man to question my young fellows about secrets which they 'd rather keep for themselves; but there is something here more than common. Do you know that in the order it was your squadron was specially marked out—all the officers' names were mentioned, and yours particularly—for Versailles?”

A deadly paleness and a cold chill spread over my face. I tried to say some commonplace, but I could not utter more than the words, “I feared it.” Happily for me he did not hear them, but taking my hand kindly, said,—

“I see it all: some youthful folly or other would make you better pleased to leave Paris just now. Never mind,—stormy times are coming; you 'll have enough on your hands presently. And let me advise you to make the most of your time at Versailles; for if I 'm not mistaken, you 'll see much more of camps than courts for some time to come.”

The rest of that day left me but little time for reflection; but in such short intervals as I could snatch from duty, one thought ever rose to my mind: Can this be De Beauvais's doing? has he had any share, in my present destination,—and with what object? “Well,” said I to myself at last, “these are but foolish fears after all, and may be causeless ones. If I but follow the straight path of my duty, what need I care if the whole world intrigued and plotted around me? And after all, was it not most likely that we should never see each other again?”

The day was just breaking when we left Paris; the bright beams of a May morning's sun were flickering and playing in the rippling river that ran cold and gray beneath. The tall towers of the Tuileries threw their long shadows across the Place Carrousel, where a dragoon regiment was encamped. They were already astir, and some of the men were standing around the fountains with their horses, and others were looking after the saddles and accoutrements in preparation for the march; a half-expiring fire here and there marked where some little party had been sitting together, while the jars and flasks about bespoke a merry evening. A trumpeter sat, statue-like, on his white horse his trumpet resting on his knee,—surveying the whole scene, and as if deferring to the last the wakeful summons that should rouse some of his yet sleeping comrades: I could see thus much as we passed. Our road led along the quay towards the Place Louis the Fifteenth, where an infantry battalion with four guns was picketed. The men were breakfasting and preparing for the route. They were part of the grande armÉe under orders for Boulogne.

We soon traversed the Champs ÉlysÉes, and entered the open country. For some miles it was merely a succession of large cornfields, and here and there a small vineyard, that met the eye on either side: but as we proceeded farther, we were girt in by rich orchards in full blossom, the whole air loaded with perfume; neat cottages peeped from the woody enclosures, the trellised walls covered with honeysuckles and wild roses; the surface, too, was undulating, and waved in every imaginable direction, offering every variety of hill and valley, precipice and plain, in even the smallest space. As yet no peasant was stirring, no smoke curled from a single chimney, and all, save the song of the lark, was silent. It was a peaceful scene, and a strong contrast to that we left behind us, and whatever ambitious yearnings filled my heart as I looked upon the armed ranks of the mailed cuirassiers, I felt a deeper sense of happiness as I strayed along those green alleys through which the sun came slanting sparingly, and where the leaves only stirred as their winged tenants moved among them.

We travelled for some hours through the dark paths of the Bois de Boulogne, and again emerged in a country wild and verdant as before. And thus passed our day; till the setting sun rested on the tall roof of the great Palace, and lit up every window in golden splendor as we entered the town of Versailles.

I could scarce avoid halting as I rode up the wide terrace of the Palace. Never had I felt before the overcoming sense of grandeur which architecture can bestow. The great faÇade in its chaste and simple beauty, stretched away to a distance, where dark lime-trees closed the background, their tall summits only peeping above the lofty terrace in which the chÂteau stands. On that terrace, too, were walking a crowd of persons of the Court, the full-dress costume showing that they had but left the salons to enjoy the cool and refreshing air of the evening. I saw some turn and look after our travel-stained and dusty party, and confess I felt a half sense of shame at our wayworn appearance.

I had not long to suffer such mortification, for ere we marched more than a few minutes, we were joined by a MarÉchal de Logis, who accompanied us to our quarters,—one of the buildings adjoining the Palace,—where we found everything in readiness for our arrival. And there! to my surprise, discovered that a most sumptuous supper awaited me,—a politeness I was utterly a stranger to, not being over-cognizant of the etiquette and privilege which await the officer on guard at a Royal Palace.