A portion of the Luxembourg was devoted to the reception of the compagnie d'Élite for whom a household on the most liberal scale was provided, a splendid table maintained, and all that wealth and the taste of a voluptuous age could suggest, procured, to make their life one of daily magnificence and pleasure. Daru himself, the especial favorite of the Emperor, took the head of the table each day, to which generally some of the ministers were invited; while the “Moniteur” of every morning chronicled the festivities, giving Éclat to the most minute circumstance, and making Paris re-echo to the glories of him of whose fame they were but the messengers. The most costly equipages, saddle-horses of great price, grooms in gorgeous liveries, all that could attract notice and admiration, were put in requisition; while ceremonies of pomp went forward day by day, and the deputation received in state the congratulatory visits of different departments of the Government.

While thus this homage was paid to the semblance of Napoleon's glory, his progress through Germany was one grand triumphal procession. One day we read of his arrival at Munich, whither the Empress had gone to meet him. There he was welcomed with the most frantic enthusiasm: he had restored to them their army almost without loss, and covered with laurels; he had elevated their elector to a throne; while he cemented the friendship between the two nations by the marriage of EugÈne Beauharnais with the Princess of Bavaria. Another account would tell us of sixteen thousand Russian prisoners on their way to France, accompanied by two thousand cannon taken from the Austrians. All that could excite national enthusiasm and gratify national vanity was detailed by the Government press, and popular excitement raised to a higher pitch than in the wildest periods of the Revolution.

Hourly was his arrival looked forward to with anxiety and impatience. FÊtes on the most splendid scale of magnificence were in preparation, and the public bodies of Paris held meetings to concert measures for his triumphal reception. At last a telegraphic despatch announced his arrival at Strasburg. He crossed the Rhine at the very place where, exactly one hundred days before, he passed over on his march against the Austrians; one hundred days of such glory as not even his career had equalled,—Ulm and Austerlitz, vanquished Russia, and ruined Austria the trophies of this brief space! Never had his genius shone with greater splendor; never had Fortune shown herself 'more the companion of his destiny.

Each hour was now counted, and every thought turned to the day when he might be expected to arrive; and on the 24th came the intelligence that the Emperor was approaching Paris. He had halted part of a day at Nancy to review some regiments of cavalry, and now might be expected in less than twenty-four hours. The next morning all Paris awoke at an early hour; when what was the surprise and disappointment to see the great flag floating from the pavilion of the Tuileries! His Majesty had arrived during the night, when, at once sending for the Minister of Finance, he proceeded, without taking a moment's repose, to examine into the dreadful crisis which threatened the Bank of France and the very existence of the Government.

At eleven, the Council of State were assembled at the Tuileries; and at twelve, a proclamation, dispersed through Paris, announced that M. Molien was appointed minister, and M. Marbois was dismissed from his office. The rapidity of these changes, and the avoidance of all public homage by the Emperor, threw for several days a cast of gloom over the whole city; which was soon dissipated by the reappearance of Napoleon, and the publication of that celebrated report by M. Champagny in which the glories of France—her victories, her acquisitions in wealth, territory, and influence—were recited in terms whose adulation it would be now difficult to digest.

From that moment the festivities of Paris commenced, and with a splendor unsurpassed by any period of the Empire. It was the Augustan era of Napoleon's life in all that concerned the fine arts; for literature, unhappily, did not flourish at any time beneath his reign. GÉrard and Gros, David, Ingres, and Isabey committed to canvas the glories of the German campaigns; and the capitulation of Ulm, the taking of Vienna, the passage of the Danube, and the field of Austerlitz still live in the genius of these great painters.

The Opera, too, under the direction of Gimerosa, had attained to an unwonted excellence; while Spontini and Boieldieu, in their separate walks, gave origin to the school so distinctly that of the Comic Opera. Still, the voluptuous tastes of the day prevailed above all; and the ballet, and the strange conceptions of Nicolo, a Maltese composer,—in which music, dancing, romance, and scenery all figured,—were the passion of the time.

Dancing was, indeed, the great art of the era. Vestris and TrÉnis were the great names in every salon; and all the extravagant graces and voluptuous groupings of the ballet were introduced into the amusements of society: even the taste in dress was made subordinate to this passion,—the light and floating materials, which mark the figure and display symmetry, replacing the heavier and more costly robes of former times. The reaction to the stern puritanism of the Republican age had set in, and secretly was favored by Napoleon himself; who saw in all this extravagance and abandonment to pleasure the basis of that new social state on which he purposed to found his dynasty.

Never were the entertainments at the Tuileries more costly; never was a greater magnificence displayed in all the ceremonial of state. The marshals of the Empire were enjoined to maintain a style corresponding to their exalted position; and the reports of the police were actually studied respecting such persons as lived in what was deemed a manner unbefitting their means of expense. CambacÉrÈs and FouchÉ, Talleyrand and Murat, all maintained splendid establishments. Their dinners were given twice each week, and their receptions were almost every evening. If the Emperor conferred wealth with a liberal hand, so did he expect to see it freely expended. He knew well the importance of conciliating the affections of the bourgeoisie of Paris; and that by no other means could such an end be accomplished more readily than by a lavish expenditure of money throughout all classes of society. This was alone wanting to efface every trace of the old Republican spirit. The simple habits and uncostly tastes of the Jacobins were at once regarded as meannesses; their frugal and unpretending modes of life pronounced low and vulgar; and many, who could have opposed a stout heart against the current of popular feeling on stronger grounds, yielded to the insinuations and mockeries of their own class, and conformed to tastes which eventually engendered opinions and even principles.

I ask pardon of my reader for digressing from the immediate subject of my own career, to speak of topics which are rather the province of the historian than a mere story-teller like myself; still, I should not be able to present to his view the picture of manners I desired, without thus recalling some features of that time, so pregnant with the fate of Europe and the future destiny of France. And now to return.

Immediately on the Emperor's arrival, the Empress and her suite took their departure for Versailles; from whence it was understood they were not to return before the end of the month, for which time a splendid ball was announced at the Tuileries. Unwilling to detain General d'Auvergne's letter so long, and unable from the position I occupied to obtain leave of absence from Paris, I forwarded the letter to the comtesse, and abandoned the only hope of meeting her once more. The disappointment from this source; the novelty of the circumstances in which I found myself; the fascinations of a world altogether strange to me,—all conspired to confuse and excite me, and I entered into the dissipation of those around me, if not with all their zest, at least with as headlong a resolution to drown all reflection in a life of voluptuous enjoyment.

The only person of my own standing among the compagnie d'Élite was a captain of the Chasseurs of the Guard, who, although but a few years my senior, had seen service in the Italian campaign. By family a Bour-bonist, he joined the revolutionary armies when his relatives fled from France, and slowly won his steps to his present rank. A certain hauteur in his manner with men—an air of distance he always wore—had made him as little liked by them as it usually succeeds in making a man popular with women, to whom the opposite seems at once a compliment. He was a man who had seen much of the world, and in the best society; gifted with the most fascinating address, whenever he pleased to exert it, and singularly good-looking, he was the beau idÉal of the French officer of the highest class.

The Chevalier Duchesne and myself had travelled together for some days without exchanging more than the ordinary civilities of distant acquaintance, when some accident of the road threw us more closely together, and ended by forming an intimacy which, in our Paris life, brought us every hour into each other's society.

Stranger as I was in the capital, to me the acquaintance was a boon of great price. He knew it thoroughly: in the gorgeous and stately salons of the Faubourg; in the guingettes of the Rue St. Denis; in the costly mansion of the modern banker (the new aristocracy of the land); or in the homely mÉnage of the shopkeeper of the Rue St. HonorÉ,—he was equally at home, and by some strange charm had the entrÉe too.

The same “sesame” opened to him the coulisse of the Opera and the penetralia of the FranÇais. In fact, he seemed one of those privileged people who are met with occasionally in life in places the most incongruous and with acquaintances the most opposite, yet never carrying the prestige of the one or the other an inch beyond the precincts it belongs to. Had he been wealthy I could have accounted for much of this, for never was there a period when riches more abounded nor when their power was more absolute: but he did not seem so; although in no want of money, his retinue and simple style of living betrayed nothing beyond fair competence. Neither, as far as I could perceive, did he incline to habits of extravagance; on the contrary, he was too apt to connect every display with vulgarity, and condemn in his fastidiousness the gorgeous splendor that characterized the period.

Such, without going further, did Duchesne appear to be, as we took up our quarters at the Luxembourg, and commenced an intimacy which each day served to increase.

“Well, thank Heaven, this vaudeville is over at last!” said he, as he threw himself into a large chair at my fire, and pitched his chapeau, all covered with gold and embroidery, into a far corner of the room.

We had just returned from Notre Dame, where the grand ceremonial of receiving the standards was held by the Senate with all the solemnity of a high mass and the most imposing observances.

“Vaudeville?” said I, turning round rapidly.

“Yes; what else can you call it? What, I ask you, had those poor decrepit senators, those effeminate priests in the costumes of bÉguines, to do with the eagles of a brave but unfortunate army? In what way can you connect that incense and that organ with the smoke of artillery and the crash of mitraille? And, lastly, was it like old Daru himself to stand there, half crouching, beside some wretched half-palsied priest? But I feel heartily ashamed of myself, though I played but the smallest part in the whole drama.”

“Is it thus you can speak of the triumph of our army? the glories—”

“You mistake me much. I only speak of that miserable mockery which converts our hard-won laurels into chap-lets of artificial flowers. These displays are far beneath us, and would only become the victories of some national guard.”

“So, then,” said I, half laughingly, “it is your Republican gorge that rises against all this useless ceremonial?”

“You are the very first ever detected me in that guise,” said he, bursting into a hearty laugh. “But come, I'd wager you agree with me all this while. This was a very contemptible exhibition; and, for my own part, I 'd rather see the colors back again with those poor fellows we chased at Austerlitz, than fluttering in the imbecile hands of dotage and bigotry.”

“Then I must say we differ totally. I like to think of the warlike spirit nourished in a nation by the contemplation of such glorious spoils. I am young enough to remember how the Invalides affected me—”

“When you took your Sunday walk there from the Poly-technique, two and two, with a blue ribbon round your neck for being a good boy during the week. Oh, I know it all; delicious times they were, with their souvenirs of wooden legs and plum-pudding. Happy fellow you must be, if the delusion can last this while!”

“You are determined it shall not continue much longer,” said I, laughing; “that is quite evident.”

“No; on the contrary, I shall be but too happy to be your convert, instead of making you mine. But unfortunately, Sa MajestÉ, Empereur et Roi, has taught me some smart lessons since I gave up mathematics; and I have acquired a smattering of his own policy, which is to look after the substance, and leave the shadow—or the drapeau, if you like it better—to whoever pleases.”

“I confess, however,” said I, “I don't well understand your enthusiasm about war and your indifference about its trophies. To me the associations they suggest are pleasurable beyond anything.”

“I think I remember something of that kind in myself formerly,” said he, musing. “There was a time when the blast of a trumpet, or even the clank of a sabre, used to set my heart thumping. Happily, however, the organ has grown steeled against even more stirring sounds; and I listened to the salute to-day, fired as it was by that imposing body, the artillery of the 'Garde Nationale,' with an equanimity truly wonderful. Apropos, my dear Burke; talk of heroism and self-devotion as you will, but show me anything to compare with the gallantry of those fellows we saw to-day on the Quai Voltaire,—a set of grocers, periwig-makers, umbrella and sausage men, with portly paunches and spectacles,—ramming down charges, sponging, loading, and firing real cannon. On my word of honor, it was fearful.”

“They say his Majesty is very proud indeed of the National Guard of Paris.”

“Of course he is. Look at them, and just think what must be the enthusiasm of men who will adopt a career so repugnant, not only to their fancy, but their very formation. Remember that he who runs yonder with a twenty-four pounder never handled anything heavier than a wig-block, and that the only charges of the little man beside him have been made in his day-book. By Saint Denis! the dromedary guard we had in Egypt were more at home in their saddles than the squadron who rode beside the archbishop's carriage.”

“It is scarcely fair, after all,” said I, half laughing, “to criticise them so severely; and the more, as I think you had some old acquaintances among them.”

“Ha! you saw that, did you?” said he, smiling. “No, by Jove! I never met them before. But that confrÈrie of soldiers—you understand—soon made us acquainted; and I saw one old fellow speaking to a very pretty girl I guessed to be his daughter, and soon cemented a small friendship with him: here's his card.”

“His card! Why, are you to visit him?”

“Better again; I shall dine there on Monday next. Let us see how he calls himself: 'Hippolyte Pierrot, stay and corset-maker to her Majesty the Empress, No. 22 Rue du Bac,—third floor above the entresol.' Diable! we 're high up. Unfortunately, I am scarcely intimate enough to bring a friend.”

“Oh, make no excuses on that head,” said I, laughing; “I really have no desire to see Monsieur Hippolyte Pierrot's menage. And now, what are your engagements for this evening? Are you for the Opera?”

“I don't well know,” said he, pausing. “Madame Caulaincourt receives, and of course expects to see our gay jackets in her salon any time before or after supper. Then there's the Comtesse de Nevers: I never go there without meeting my tailor; the fellow's a spy of the police, and a confectioner to boot, and he serves the ices, and reports the conversations in the Place VendÔme and that side of the Rue St. HonorÉ,—I couldn't take a glass of lemonade without being dunned. Then, in the Faubourg I must go in plain clothes,—they would not let the 'livery of the Usurper' pass the porter's lodge; besides, they worry one with their enthusiastic joy or grief,—as the last letter from England mentions whether the Comte d'Artois has eaten too many oysters, or found London beer too strong for him.”

“From all which I guess that you are indisposed to stir.”

“I believe that is about the fact. Truth is, Burke, there is only one soirÉe in all Paris I 'd take the trouble to dress for this evening; and, strange enough, it's the only house where I don't know the people. He is a commissary-general, or a 'fournisseur' of some kind or other of the army; always from home, they say; with a wife who was once, and a daughter who is now, exceeding pretty; keeps a splendid house; and, like an honest man, makes restitution of all he can cheat in the campaign by giving good dinners in the capital. His Majesty, at the solicitation of the Empress, I believe, made him a count,—God's mercy it was not a king!—and as they come from Guadaloupe, or Otaheite, no one disputes their right. Besides, this is not a time for such punctilio. This is all I know of them, for unfortunately they settled here since I joined the army.”

“And the name?”

“Oh, a very plausible name, I assure you. Lacostellerie,—Madame la Comtesse de Lacostellerie.”

“By Jove! you remind me I have letters for her,—a circumstance I had totally forgotten, though it was coupled with a commission.”

“A letter! Why, nothing was ever so fortunate. Don't lose a moment; you have just time to leave it, with your card, before dinner. You'll have an invitation for this evening at once.”

“But I have not the slightest wish.”

“No matter, I have; and you shall bring me.”

“You forget,” said I, mimicking his own words, “I am unfortunately not intimate enough.”

“As to that,” replied he, “there is a vast difference between the etiquette Rue du Bac, No. 22, three floors above the entresol, and the gorgeous salons of the HÔtel Clichy, Rue Faubourg St. HonorÉ; ceremony has the advantage in the former by a height of three pair of stairs, not to speak of the entresol.”

“But I don't know the people.”

“Nor I.”

“But how am I to present you?”

“Easily enough,—'Captain Duchesne, Imperial Guard;' or, if you prefer it, I 'll do the honors for you.”

“With all my heart, then,” said I, laughing; and pre-pared to pay the visit in question.