THE Boulogne steamer was to start at half-past seven in the morning; the weather was anything but favourable, as rain was falling in torrents, and a thick fog coming on. T. G. and myself were ready to start, when a sad adventure occurred—my pocket-book, containing the best part of my cash and my official letters, was not to be found.[5] As I recollected having put it safely in the side pocket of my great coat before leaving the Adelaide Hotel, I feared that during the journey (owing to the fatigues of the day I had slept some time in the train) it might have been abstracted from my pocket.

After hunting in vain all about the room, I informed Mr. Giovanni and Mr. Brydes, the landlord of the hotel, of my loss, and those gentlemen immediately instituted inquiries. The news was soon known all through the hotel, and the crier was ordered to go round the town. I also dispatched T. G. to London, to make inquiries at the station and the hotel, lest by chance I had taken it out during my short visit at the London Bridge house, where I had been surrounded by a number of friends. While making a last search in the room, by accident I shook the heavy wooden frame of the bed, from which everything had been removed—bedding, beds, and all, but without success—to my astonishment and delight, I heard something fall. It was my lost pocket-book. I had thrown my great coat over me in the night (the weather being cold), and the book had worked its way out, and got between the frame of the bedstead and the wall. Upon this discovery I immediately telegraphed for T. G. to return, in these words: “Stop a gentleman of colour—it’s all right.”

On the arrival of the train at Tonbridge, the cry of “Stop the gentleman of colour” was loudly shouted along the station. “All right, all right,” cried T. G.; “here I am.” He immediately jumped into the special down train, and arrived time enough to save the steamer.

The quid pro quo of passengers as well as railway employÉs was, that the thief had been captured, and it served him right. I heard afterwards this was the exclamation of many at the time.

T. G.’s devotion was certainly not repaid, but, when explained at the hotel, the incident caused great mirth. This was our first tribulation, which, though unpleasant, had the merit of being the first germ of excitement.

The same morning, in a rough sea and heavy rain, we sailed for Boulogne-sur-Mer. The steamer was very much crowded with Crimean passengers, and almost every one paid the usual nautical debt to Neptune, looking more or less uninteresting. The beauty of the female part of the passengers had faded, and nothing but pale, livid faces remained, in place of the blooming, peach-like countenances. A very thick fog came on, and the speed of the steamer was of course checked. We progressed slowly through the opaque atmosphere and heavy rain. After we had made all the signals required, the steam-whistle was heard, and we found ourselves going ahead towards the round tower on the right hand side of the port, the sight of which seemed to astonish the crew of the vessel, and more so one of the passengers, an old gentleman, who exclaimed, “We are in the same position as the Amphitrite, which was wrecked in 1833, when above two hundred souls perished. A fisherman named Pierre HÉnin distinguished himself so greatly on that occasion, that he was decorated by both countries—France and England.”

I observed, that the sea must have been about three times as rough at that time, and it was to be hoped, in case of danger, we should meet with several Pierre HÉnins. However, by backing for about twenty minutes, and the fog clearing off by degrees, we arrived safely, but too late for the train. The jetty was rather crowded for that time of the year. Our delay and the fog had rendered our passage interesting—rather more so than pleasant. My intention was to take the first train, when, on reaching the jetty, who should I perceive but my friend M. LÉon, the Emperor’s first valet-de-chambre, one of the persons that have been longest employed about his Majesty’s person, having been with him above sixteen years. He is much esteemed by his imperial master, none but himself approaching his person while in his private apartment. It is M. LÉon who sleeps before the door of his illustrious master’s chamber while travelling, as the Mamelouk Roustan did before that of Napoleon the First. “Hollo!” he exclaimed, “are you here, my dear friend?”

“Yes, I am. What brings you here at this season? And where is his Majesty?” said I.

“You may depend upon it,” he replied, “that if the Emperor were not here, I should not be at Boulogne; but we have only come for a few days. The Emperor is going to attend a review to-morrow. I hear you are going to the Crimea.”

“Yes, I am.”

“So we saw by the newspapers, and the Emperor was much pleased to hear it, and expressed his satisfaction by no doubt thinking it was an excellent idea for you to be sent over there. When do you start?”

“Almost directly,” I replied.

“Stay here to-night. I will tell the Emperor you are here. Come and sup with me this evening.”

“Thank you, I will.” We then parted; I sending some of my attendants on to Paris. The implacable douaniers then commenced their perilous sport; and although, thanks to a friend of mine, I had an official passport from the French Embassy, signed by Count Walewski, two of my boxes containing my Shilling Cookery Books were confiscated till the next morning, but eventually allowed to pass free of duty, but not of trouble, and would have been the cause of my losing a day for nothing, had it not been that we were too late for the train. At ten minutes to seven o’clock, through a very heavy rain and a brisk gale, we arrived at the “Grand HÔtel du Pavilion,” which had just been finished, and was inhabited for the first time. This hotel is situated about five hundred yards from the Etablissement des Bains, at the foot of the bank, on the right hand side of that establishment. Any person who has visited Boulogne must be acquainted with the spot. It is rather remarkable that soon after the arrival of the Emperor—in fact, he only just had time to dress after his journey—an avalanche of earth fell from the top of the bank, shaking the very foundations of the hotel. At the back of the house the earth reached higher than the second floor, breaking the windows. Some of the dÉbris actually fell into the Emperor’s dressing-room, only a few minutes after he had left it. The slip of earth was supposed to have been caused by the melting of the snow, which had lain there for some time, as well as the rain, which had been pouring down, night and day, for a week.

My friend was just sitting down to supper, when I joined them, it being then eight o’clock, heure militaire, punctuality being the motto in every department in the imperial household. Having introduced my secretary, T. G., the conversation turned upon the avalanche, then upon the grand repas de corps, as it is called in France, or military banquet, given that evening to the generals and officers of the Camp de Boulogne. But the most important part of the conversation was upon the contemplated departure of Napoleon for the East. He was to travel from Paris to Marseilles incog., with but very few of his suite. “Everything,” said M. LÉon, “is packed and ready, and we may start at an hour’s notice. Your friend Benoit has already sent his batterie de cuisine, and a quantity of preserved provisions.” (M. Benoit is the Emperor’s chef de cuisine.)[6]

Whilst we were conversing, a footman entered, in a state of anxiety and excitement, and exclaimed—“There is not a single cigar, and the Emperor has asked for some.”

“Very well,” said the maÎtre d’hÔtel, “go and buy some.” In about half an hour he returned with a square box, three parts full of various kinds of cigars, which he had no doubt purchased at all the nearest grocers’ shops, clearing out their stock of French Havana cigars.

“Couldn’t you get better ones than these?” said the maÎtre d’hÔtel.

“No doubt I could, but not near.”

“Then, take them up.” He despatched another servant to the Rue de l’Ecu for a box of good ones, which arrived too late. Owing to a most unexpected circumstance, the company only had the opportunity of partaking of a few of them, for they scarcely had time to light cigars, when a telegraphic dispatch arrived. My friend M. LÉon told one of the attendants to go and see if his Majesty had left the banqueting-room, and if he was in his cabinet. While this was passing, I took the dispatch in my hand, and by way of a joke, said to him, “As France and England are now allied, and have the same policy, I have here an official English Government letter, which, if you like, I will exchange for your dispatch.”

“It might be done,” said he, laughing; “but, upon consideration, the Emperor would very likely prefer his own.” The servant returned, and informed him that the Emperor was still at table. The dispatch remained about ten minutes longer near M. LÉon, when they came and apprised him that Napoleon was in his cabinet. M. LÉon went up with the dispatch, and in a few minutes returned, saying to me, “Do you know what the contents of the letter you wished to exchange for yours were?”

“Certainly not,” I replied.

“The contents are, that the Emperor Nicholas is dead.” Every one was thunderstruck by the unexpected announcement, and we could hardly believe it. “If you come up quickly, you will hear the Emperor himself announce it to the company in the banqueting-room.”

We obeyed, but only arrived in time to hear the last words—“a cessÉ de vivre.” Special orders were then given that no demonstration should be made, and a low and mournful conversational sound was alone heard amongst those assembled. A few minutes after leaving the imperial palace, a friend and myself were quietly taking our coffee at a celebrated establishment, and in conversation said loud enough to be heard by our neighbours, that certainly the death of the Emperor Nicholas was very likely to change the state of affairs, as the present Emperor, Alexander was, so we had always heard, rather a pacificator. Before we could finish the remark, an elderly gentleman, who was sitting near us, exclaimed, “What do you say? What do you say, sir?—the Emperor Nicholas dead?”

“Yes, sir, he is dead.”

“Go to ——, sir; that’s another Crimean shave, like the taking of Sebastopol.”

“Sir,” I replied, “I can vouch for this not being a shave, and that his Majesty, the Emperor Nicholas the First of Russia, expired yesterday; and what is more, I will lay you a wager of it.”

In a few minutes some jumped upon the chairs and benches, others upon the billiard-table, looking at me, no doubt anxious to see whether I was intoxicated or mad. One gentleman raising his voice, said, “I’ll bet anything this report is not true.”

“Done for a dozen of champagne.”

“I take you, and we will drink your health at your own expense.”

We scarcely had time to deposit our money with the lady who presided at the bar of the establishment when mine was again in my pocket. A number of officers who had returned from the banquet entered, and affirmed the truth of what I had stated. Nevertheless, no one could believe it; so I proposed returning my money to the stakeholder till the next morning, and turning the champagne into an early dÉjeuner À la fourchette.

At the custom-house the following morning I was detained, and reached twenty-five minutes behind the time appointed by my friend, and perhaps thereby lost the chance of a short interview with the Emperor, which made me bless the douaniers who were so long at their breakfast, and longer still in clearing my luggage. I found my friend M. LÉon smoking his short pipe at the hotel door, with his hands in his pantalon À la cosaque, a type de troupier well worthy of the past and present empire; so I made sure his Majesty was off.

“Oh, here you are at last—a fine fellow truly, and very punctual indeed! Why, his Majesty has been gone this half-hour. I intimated you were still here, and he would probably have seen you; but mind, if you don’t look sharp, we shall be at Constantinople before you. You are sure to see his Majesty there, for the first thing he will do will be to visit all the hospitals, both French and English.”

“I am very glad to hear you say so, for the loss is on my side; but what can you do when you are in the hands of the authorities; if you recollect, the last time I was here, I fared worse, for I was locked up more than two hours for coming without a passport, fancying myself a true Briton, as they are allowed to land without any.”

“Then you really expect to go?” I again asked.

“Nothing can be more certain, when I tell you that everything is ready for our departure. I much regret missing so excellent an opportunity. When do you leave?”

This afternoon; our places are taken by telegraph at Marseilles through the War Office; and I shall only remain in Paris twenty-four hours, instead of two days, as I had anticipated.

Having related the scene at the cafÉ the previous evening, and invited him to the dejeuner, he declined attending it, on the ground that some unexpected news from Russia might cause his Majesty to return to Paris immediately.

“Do you mean to say,” I exclaimed, “that you had not heard of the Emperor Nicholas being indisposed previous to the arrival of the despatch which announced his death?”

“Oh, yes; we did hear last evening. This was the third dispatch we received yesterday, but we never dreamed of his dying till that one came.”

“Well, many thanks for your kindness, my dear friend; and I hope to see you at Scutari soon. I shall pay you a visit there.”

“Do,” said he; “I understand we shall have one of the Sultan’s palaces on the Bosphorus. Adieu!”

After the dejeuner, and a protracted journey to the Boulogne Camp, my friend and myself took the last train and arrived early in the morning at Paris. My first visit was to the military hospital of the Val de Grace, the Invalides, the HÔtel Dieu, &c. I was politely shown over each establishment by the authorities on duty, and took notes of all the ingredients used for the preparation of the daily diets of both officers and soldiers.

We started the same evening for Lyons, stayed a few hours there, and visited the military hospital at that place, and took the steamer to Avignon. On board we found the Smyrna ladies, about thirty in number, under the orders of Mrs. M. Cooke; there were also many doctors. I had seen them the day previous at the HÔtel des Princes, Rue Richelieu, but had not the slightest knowledge of who or what they were. As the ladies were all dressed in grey, I took them for Quakeresses upon a pilgrimage.