They who took their tone in politics from the public journals of France must have been somewhat puzzled at the new and unexpected turn of the papers in Government influence at the period I now speak of. The tremendous attacks against the “perfide Albion,” which constituted the staple of the leading articles in the “Moniteur,” were gradually discontinued; the great body of the people were separated from the “tyrannical domination of an insolent aristocracy;” an occasional eulogy would appear, too, upon the “native good sense and right feeling of John Bull” when not led captive by appeals to his passions and prejudices; and at last a wish more boldly expressed that the two countries, whose mission it should be to disseminate civilization over the earth, could so far understand their real interest as to become “fast friends, instead of dangerous enemies.”

The accession of the Whigs to power in England was the cause of this sudden revolution. The Emperor, when First Consul, had learned to know and admire Charles Fox,—sentiments of mutual esteem had grown up between them,—and it seemed now as if his elevation to power were the only thing wanting to establish friendly relations between the two countries.

How far the French Emperor presumed on Fox's liberalism,—and the strong bias to party inducing him to adopt such a line of policy as would run directly counter to that of his predecessors in office, and thus dispose the nation to more amicable views towards France,—certain it is that he miscalculated considerably when he built upon any want of true English feeling on the part of that minister, or any tendency to weaken, by unjust concessions, the proud attitude England had assumed at the commencement and maintained throughout the entire Continental war.

A mere accident led to a renewal of negotiations between the two countries. A villain, calling himself Guillet de la GrevilliÈre, had the audacity to propose to the English minister the assassination of Napoleon, and to offer himself for the deed. He had hired a house at Passy, and made every preparation for the execution of his foul scheme. To denounce this wretch to the French minister of foreign affairs, Talleyrand, was the first step of Fox. This led to a reply, in which Talleyrand reported, word for word, a conversation that passed between the Emperor and himself, and wherein expressions of the kindest nature were employed by Napoleon with regard to Fox, and many flattering allusions to the times of their former intimacy; the whole concluding with the expression of an ardent desire for a good understanding and a “lasting peace between two nations designed by nature to esteem each other.”

Although the whole scheme of the assassination was a police stratagem devised by FouchÉ to test the honor and good faith of the English minister, the result was eagerly seized on as a basis for new negotiations; and from that hour the temperate language of the French papers evinced a new policy towards England. The insolent allusions of journalists, the satirical squibs of party writers, the caricatures of the English eccentricity, were suppressed at once; and by that magic influence which Napoleon wielded, the whole tone of public feeling seemed altered as regarded England and Englishmen. From the leaders in the “Moniteur” to the shop windows of the Palace an Anglomania prevailed; and the idea was thrown out that the two nations had divided the world between them,—the sea being the empire of the British, the land that of Frenchmen. Commissioners were appointed on both sides: at first Lord Yarmouth, and then Lord Lauderdale, by England; General Clarke and M. Champagny, on the part of France. Lord Yarmouth, at that time a dÉtenu at Verdun, was selected by Talleyrand to proceed to England, and learn the precise basis on which an amicable negotiation could be founded.

Scarcely was the interchange of correspondence made public, when the new tone of feeling and acting towards England displayed itself in every circle and every salon. If a proof were wanting how thoroughly the despotism of Napoleon had penetrated into the very core of society, here was a striking one: not only were many of the dÉtenus liberated and sent back to England, but were fÊted and entertained at the various towns they stopped at on their way, and every expedient practised to make them satisfied with the treatment they had received on the soil of France. An English guest was deemed an irresistible attraction at a dinner party, and the most absurd attempts at imitation of English habits, dress, and language were introduced into society as the last “mode,” and extolled as the very pinnacle of fashionable excellence.

It would be easy for me here to cite some strange instances of this new taste; but I already feel that I have wandered from my own path, and owe an apology to my reader for invading precincts which scarce become me. Yet may I observe here,—and the explanation will serve once for all,—I have been more anxious in this “true history” to preserve some passing record of the changeful features of an eventful period in Europe, than merely to chronicle personal adventures, which, although not devoid of vicissitudes, are still so insignificant in the great events by which they were surrounded. The Consulate, the Empire, and the Restoration were three great tableaux, differing in their groupings and color, but each part of one mighty whole,—links in the great chain, and evidencing the changeful aspect of a nation crouching beneath tyranny, or dwindling under imbecility and dotage.

I have said the English were the vogue in Paris; and so they were, but especially in those salons which reflected the influence of the Court, and where the tone of the Tuileries was revered as law. Every member of the Government, or all who were even remotely connected with it, at once adopted the reigning mode; and to be À l'Anglaise became now as much the type of fashion as ever it had been directly the opposite. Only such as were in the confidence of FouchÉ and his schemes knew how hollow all this display of friendly feeling was, or how ready the Government held themselves to assume their former attitude of defiance when circumstances should render it advisable.

Among those who speedily took up the tone of the Imperial counsels, the salons of the HÔtel Glichy were conspicuous. English habits, as regarded table equipage; English servants; even to English cookery did French politeness extend its complaisance; and many of the commonest habitudes and least cultivated tastes were imported as the daily observances of fashionable people outremer.

In this headlong Anglomania, my English birth and family (I say English, because abroad the petty distinctions of Irishman or Scotchman are not attended to) marked me out for peculiar attention in society; and although my education and residence in France had well-nigh rubbed off all or the greater part of my national peculiarities, yet the flatterers of the day found abundant traits to admire in what they recognized as my John Bull characteristics. And in this way, a blunder in French, a mistake in grammar, or a false accentuation became actually a succÈs de salon. Though I could not help smiling at the absurdity of a vogue whose violence alone indicated its unlikeliness to last, yet I had sufficient of the spirit of my adopted country to benefit by it while it did exist, and never spent a single day out of company.

At the HÔtel Clichy I was a constant guest; and while with Mademoiselle de Lacostellerie my acquaintance made little progress, with the countess I became a special favorite,—she honoring me so far as to take me into her secret counsels, and tell me all the little nothings which FouchÉ usually disseminated as state secrets, and circulated twice or thrice a week throughout Paris. From him, too, she learned the names of the various English who each day arrived in Paris from Verdun, and thus contrived to have a succession of those favored guests at her dinner and evening parties.

During all this time, as I have said, my intimacy with mademoiselle advanced but slowly, and certainly showed slight prospect of verifying the prophecy of Duchesne at parting. Her manner had, indeed, lost its cold and haughty tone; but in lieu of it there was a flippant, half impertinent, moqueur spirit, which, however easily turned to advantage by a man of the world like the chevalier, was terribly disconcerting to a less forward and less enterprising person like myself. Dobretski still continued an invalid; and although she never mentioned his name nor alluded to him in any instance, I could see that she suspected I knew something more of his illness and the cause of it than I had ever confessed. It matters little what the subject of it be, let a secret once exist between a young man and a young woman,—let there be the tacit understanding that they mutually know of something of which others are in ignorance,—and from that moment a species of intelligence is established between them of the most dangerous kind. They may not be disposed to like each other; there may be attachments elsewhere; there may be a hundred reasons why love should not enter into the case; yet will there be a conscious sense of this hidden link which binds them; strangely at variance with their ordinary regard for each other, eternally mingling in all their intercourse, and suggesting modes of acting and thinking at variance with the true tenor of the acquaintanceship.

Such, then, was my position at the HÔtel Clichy, at which I was almost daily a visitor or a guest, in the morning, to hear the chit-chat of the day,—the changes talked of in the administration, the intended plans of the Emperor, or the last modes in dress introduced by the Empress, whose taste in costume and extravagant habits were much more popular with the tradespeople than with Napoleon.

An illness of a few days' duration had confined me to the Luxembourg, and unhappily deprived me of the Court ball, for which I had received my invitation several weeks before. It seemed as if my fate forbade any chance of my ever seeing her once more whose presence in Paris was the great hope I held out to myself when coming. Already a rumor was afloat that several officers had received orders to join their regiments; and now I began to fear lest I should leave the capital without meeting her, and was thinking of some plan by which I could attain that object, when a note arrived from Mademoiselle de Lacostellerie, written with more than her usual cordiality, and inviting me to dinner on the following day with a very small party, but when I should meet one of my oldest friends.

I thought of every one in turn who could be meant under the designation, but without ever satisfying my mind that I had hit upon the right one. Tascher it could not be, for the very last accounts I had seen from Germany spoke of him as with his regiment. My curiosity was sufficiently excited to make me accept the invitation; and, true to time, I found myself at the HÔtel Clichy at the hour appointed.

On entering the salon, I discovered that I was alone. None of the guests had as yet arrived, nor had the ladies of the house made their appearance; and I lounged about the splendid drawing-room, where every appliance of luxury was multiplied: pictures, vases, statues, and bronzes abounded,—for the apartment had all the ample proportions of a gallery,—battle scenes from the great «vents of the Italian and Egyptian campaigns; busts of celebrated generals and portraits of several of the marshals, from the pencils of Gerard and David. But more than all was I struck by one picture: it was a likeness of Pauline herself, in the costume of a Spanish peasant. Never had artist caught more of the character of his subject than in that brilliant sketch,—for it was no more. The proud tone of the expression; the large, full eye, beaming a bright defiance; the haughty curl of the lip; the determined air of the figure, as she stood one foot in advance, and the arms hanging easily on either side,—all conveyed an impression of high resolve and proud determination quite her own.

I was leaning over the back of a chair, my eye steadfastly fixed on the painting, when I heard a slight rustling of a dress near me. I turned about: it was mademoiselle herself. Although the light of the apartment was tempered by the closed jalousies, and scarcely more than a mere twilight admitted, I could perceive that she colored and seemed confused as she said,—

“I hope you don't think that picture is a likeness?”

“And yet,” said I, hesitatingly, “there is much that reminds me of you; I mean, I can discover—”

“Say it frankly, sir; you think that saucy look is not from mere fancy. I deemed you a closer observer; but no matter. You have been ill; I trust you are recovered again.”

“Oh, a mere passing indisposition, which unfortunately came at the moment of the Court ball. You were there, of course?”

“Yes; it was there we had the pleasure to meet your friend, the general: but perhaps this is indiscreet on my part; I believe, indeed, I promised to say nothing of him.”

“The general! Do you mean General d'Auvergne?”

“That much I will answer you,—I do not. But ask me no more questions. Your patience will not be submitted to a long trial; he dines with us to-day.”

I made no reply, but began to ponder over in my mind who the general in question could be.

“There! pray do not worry yourself about what a few moments will reveal for you, without any guessing. How strange it is, the intense feeling of curiosity people are afflicted with who themselves have secrets.”

“But I have none, Mademoiselle; at least, none worth the telling.”

“Perhaps,” replied she, saucily. “But here come our guests.”

Several persons entered the salon at this moment, with each of whom I was slightly acquainted; they were either members of the Government or generals on the staff. The countess herself soon after made her appearance; and now we only waited for the individual so distinctively termed “my friend” to complete the party.

“Pauline has kept our secret, I hope,” said the countess to me. “I shall be sadly disappointed if anything mars this surprise.”

“Who can it be?” thought I. “Or is the whole thing some piece of badinage got up at my expense?”

Scarcely had the notion struck me, when a servant flung wide the folding-doors, and announced “le GÉnÉral” somebody, but so mumbled was the word, the nearest thing I could make of it was “Bulletin.” This time, however, my curiosity suffered no long delay; for quickly after the announcement a portly personage in an English uniform entered hastily, and approaching madame, kissed her hand with a most gallant air; then turning to mademoiselle, he performed a similar ceremony. All this time my eyes were riveted upon him, without my being able to make the most remote guess as to who he was.

“Must I introduce you, gentlemen?” said the countess: “Captain Burke.”

“Eh, what! my old friend, my boy Tom! This you, with all that mustache? Delighted to see you,” cried the large unknown, grasping me by the hands, and shaking them with a cordiality I had not known for many a year.

“Really, sir,” said I, “I am but too happy to be recognized; but a most unfortunate memory—”

“Memory, lad! I never forgot anything in life. I remember the doctor shaking the snow off his boots the night I was born; a devilish cold December. We lived at Benhungeramud, in the Himalaya.”

“What!” cried I; “is this Captain Bubbleton, my old and kind friend?”

“General, Tom,—Lieutenant-General Bubbleton, with your leave,” said he, correcting me. “How the boy has grown! I remember him when he was scarce so high.”

“But, my dear captain—”

“General, lieutenant-general—”

“Well, Lieutenant-General,—to what happy chance do we owe the pleasure of seeing you here?”

“War, boy,—the old story. But we shall have time enough to talk over these things; and I see we are detaining the countess.”

So saying, the general gave his arm to madame, and led the way towards the dinner; whither we followed,—I in a state of surprise and astonishment that left me unable to collect my faculties for a considerable time after.

Although the party, with the exception of Bubbleton, were French, he himself, as was his wont, supported nearly the whole of the conversation; and if his French was none of the most accurate, he amply made up in volubility for all accidents of grammar. It appeared that he had been three years at Verdun, a prisoner; though how he came there, whence, and at what exact period, there was no discovering. And now his arrival at Paris was an event equally shrouded in mystery, for no negotiations had been opened for his exchange whatsoever; but he had had the eloquence to persuade the prÉfet that the omission was a mere accident,—some blunder of the War-Office people, which he would rectify on his arrival at Paris. And there he was, though with what prospect of reaching England none but one of his inventive genius could possibly guess. He was brimful of politics, ministerial secrets, state news, and Government intentions, not only as regarded England, but Austria and Russia: and communicated in deep confidence a grand scheme by which the Fox ministry were to immortalize themselves,—which was by giving up Malta to the Bourbons, Louis the Eighteenth to be king, Goza to be a kind of dependency to be governed by a lieutenant-general whom “he would not name;” finishing his glass with an ominous look as he spoke. Thence he wandered on to his repugnance to state, and dislike to any government, function,—illustrating his quiet tastes and simple habits by recounting a career of Oriental luxury in which he described himself as living for years past; every word he spoke, whatever the impression on others, bringing me back most forcibly to my boyish days in the old barrack, where first I met him. Years had but cultivated his talents; his visions were bolder and more daring than ever; while he had chastened down his hurried and excited tone of narrative to a quiet flow of unexaggerated description, which, taking his age and appearance into account, it was difficult to discredit.

Whether the Frenchmen really gave credit to his revelations, or only from politeness affected to do it at first, I cannot say, but assuredly he put all their courtesy to a rude test by a little anecdote before he left the dinner-room.

While speaking of the memorable siege of Valenciennes in '93, at which one of the French officers was present and in a high command, Bubbleton at once launched forth into some very singular anecdotes of the campaign, where, as he alleged, he also had served.

“We took an officer of one of your infantry regiments prisoner in a sortie one evening,” said the Frenchman. “I commanded the party, and shall never forget the daring intrepidity of his escape. He leaped from the wall into the fosse, a height of thirty feet and upwards. Parbleu! we had not the heart to fire after him, though we saw that after the shock he crawled out upon his hands and feet, and soon afterwards gained strength enough to run. He gave me his pocket-book with his name; I shall not forget it readily,—it was Stopford.”

“Ah, poor Billy! He was my junior lieutenant,” said Bubbleton; “an active fellow, but he never could jump with me. Confound him! he has left me a souvenir also, though a very different kind from yours,—a cramp in the stomach I shall never get rid of.”

As this seemed a somewhat curious legacy from one brother officer to another, we could not help calling on the general for an explanation,—a demand Bubbleton never refused to gratify.

“It happened in this wise,” said he, pushing back his chair as he spoke, and seating himself with the easy attitude of your true story-teller. “The night before the assault—the 24th of July, if my memory serves me right—the sappers were pushing forward the mines with all despatch. Three immense globes were in readiness beneath the walls, and some minor details were only necessary to complete the preparations. The stormers consisted of four British and three German regiments,—my own, the Welsh Fusiliers, being one of the former. We occupied the lines stretching from L'HÉrault to Damies.”

The French officer nodded assent, and Bubbleton resumed.

“The Fusiliers were on the right, and divided into two parties,—an assaulting column and a supporting one; the advanced companies at half cannon-shot from the walls, the others a little farther off. Thus we were, when, about half-past ten, or it might be even eleven o'clock (we were drinking some mulled claret in my quarters), a low, swooping kind of a noise came stealing along the ground. We listened,—it grew stronger and stronger; and then we could hear musket-shot and shouting, and the tramp of men as if running. Out we went; and, by Jove! there we saw the first battalion in full retreat towards the camp. It was a sortie in force from the garrison, which drove in our advanced posts, and took several prisoners. The drums now soon beat to quarters; the men fell in rapidly, and we advanced to meet them,—no pleasant affair, either, let me remark, for the night was pitch dark, and we could not even guess the strength of your force. It was just then that I was running with all my speed to come up with the flank companies, that my cover-sergeant, a cool, old Scotch fellow, shouted out,—

“'Take care, sir! Stoop there, sir! stoop there!'

“But the advice came too late. I could just discern through the gloom something black, hopping and bounding along towards me; now striking the ground, and then rebounding again several feet in the air.

“'Stoop, sir! down!' cried he.

“But before I could throw myself flat, plump it took me here. Over I went, breathless, and deeming all was finished; but, miraculous to say, in a few minutes after I found myself coming to, and except the shock, nothing the worse for the injury.

“'Was that a shell, Sergeant?' said I; 'a spent shell?'

“'Na, sir,' said he, in his own broad way, 'it was naething o' the kind; it was only Lieutenant Stopford's head that was snapped aff up there.'”

“His head!” exclaimed we all of a breath,—“his head!»

“Yes, poor fellow, so it was; a damned hard kind of a bullet-head, too! The blow has left a weakness of the stomach I suppose I shall never recover from; and the occurrence being so singular, I have actually never asked for a pension,—there are people, by Jove! would throw discredit on it.”

This latter observation seemed so perfectly to sum up our own thoughts on the matter that we really had nothing to remark on it; and after a silence of a few seconds, politely relieved by the countess hinting at coffee in the drawing-room, we arose and followed her.