Arthur O'Leary: His Wanderings And Ponderings In Many Lands

So does everything suffer a ‘sea-change.’ The modiste, whose pretty cap with its gay ribbons was itself an advertisement of her wares, has taken to a close bonnet and a woollen shawl – a metamorphosis as complete as is the misshapen mass of cloaks and mud-boots of the agile danseuse, who flitted between earth and air a few moments before. Even the doctor – and what a study is the doctor of a watering-place! – even he has laid by his smiles and his soft speeches, folded up in the same drawer with his black coat for the winter. He has not thrown physic to the dogs, because he is fond of sporting, and would not injure the poor beasts, but he has given it an au revoir; and as grouse come in with autumn, and black-cock in November, so does he feel chalybeates are in season on the first of May. Exchanging his cane for a Manton, and his mild whisper for a dog-whistle, he takes to the pursuit of the lower animals, leaving men for the warmer months.

All this disconcerts one. You hate to be present at those déménagements, where the curtains are coming down, and the carpet is being taken up; where they are nailing canvas across pictures, and storing books into pantries. These smaller revolutions are all very detestable, and you gladly escape into some quiet and retired spot, and wait till the fussing be over. So felt I. Had I come a month later, this place would have suited me perfectly, but this process of human moulting is horrible to witness; and so, say I once more, En route.

Like a Dutchman who took a run of three miles to jump over a hill, and then sat down tired at the foot of it, I flurried myself so completely in canvassing all the possible places I might, could, would, should, or ought to pass the winter in, that I actually took a fortnight to recover my energies before I could set out.

Meanwhile I had made a close friendship with a dyspeptic countryman of mine, who went about the Continent with a small portmanteau and a very large medicine-chest, chasing health from Naples to Paris, and from Aix-la-Chapelle to Wildbad, firmly persuaded that every country had only one month in the year at most wherein it were safe to live there – Spa being the appropriate place to pass the October. He cared nothing for the ordinary topics that engross the attention of mankind; kings might be dethroned and dynasties demolished; states might revolt and subjects be rebellious – all he wanted to know was, not what changes were made in the code but in the pharmacopoeia. The liberty of the Press was a matter of indifference to him; he cared little for what men might say, but a great deal for what it was safe to swallow, and looked upon the inventor of blue-pill as the greatest benefactor of mankind. He had the analysis of every well and spring in Germany at his fingers’ end, and could tell you the temperature and atomic proportions like his alphabet. But his great system was a kind of reciprocity treaty between health and sickness, by which a man could commit any species of gluttony he pleased when he knew the peculiar antagonist principle. And thus he ate – I was going to say like a shark, but let me not in my ignorance calumniate the fish; for I know not if anything that ever swam could eat a soup with a custard pudding, followed by beef and beetroot, stewed mackerel and treacle, pickled oysters and preserved cherries, roast hare and cucumber, venison, salad, prunes, hashed mutton, omelettes, pastry, and finally, to wind up with effect, a sturgeon baked with brandy-peaches in his abdomen – a thing to make a cook weep and a German blessed. Such was my poor friend, Mr. Bartholomew Cater, the most thin, spare, emaciated, and miserable-looking man that ever sipped at Schwalbach or shivered at Kissingen.

To permit these extravagances in diet, however, he had concocted a code of reprisals, consisting of the various mineral waters of Germany and the poisonous metals of modern pharmacy; and having established the fact that ‘bitter wasser’ and ‘Carlsbad,’ the ‘Powon’ and ‘Pilnitz,’ combined with blue-pill, were the natural enemies of all things eatable, he swallowed these freely, and then left the matter to the rebellious ingredients – pretty much as the English used to govern Ireland in times gone by: set both parties by the ears, and wait the result in peace, well aware that a slight derangement of the balance, from time to time, would keep the contest in motion. Such was the state policy of Mr. Cater, and I can only say that his constitution survived it, though that of Ireland seems to suffer grievously from the experiment.

This lively gentleman was then my companion; indeed, with that cohesive property of your true bore, he was ever beside me, relating some little interesting anecdote of a jaundice or a dropsy, a tertian or a typhus, by which agreeable souvenirs he preserved the memory of Athens or Naples, Rome or Dresden, fresh and unclouded in his mind. Not satisfied, however, with narration, like all enthusiasts he would be proselytising; and whether from the force of his arguments or the weakness of my nature, he found a ready victim in me, insomuch that under his admirable instruction I was already beginning to feel a dislike and disgust to all things edible, with an appetite only grown more ravenous, while my reverence for all springs of unsavoury taste and smell – once, I must confess, at a deplorably low ebb – was gradually becoming more developed. It was only by the accidental discovery that my waistcoat could be made to fit by putting it twice round me, and that my coat was a dependency of which I was scarcely the nucleus, that I really became frightened. ‘What!’ thought I, ‘can this be that Arthur O’Leary whom men jested on his rotundity? Is this me, around whom children ran, as they would about a pillar or a monument, and thought it exercise to circumambulate? Arthur, this will be the death of thee; thou wert a happy man and a fat before thou knewest Kochbrunnens and thermometers; run while it is yet time, and be thankful at least that thou art in racing condition.’

With noiseless step and cautious gesture, I crept downstairs one morning at daybreak. My enemy was still asleep. I heard him muttering as I passed his door; doubtless he was dreaming of some new combination of horrors, some infernal alliance of cucumbers and quinine. I passed on in silence; my very teeth chattered with fear. Happy was I to have them to chatter! another fortnight of his intimacy, and they would have trembled from blue-pill as well as panic! With a heavy sigh I paid my bill, and crossed the street towards the diligence office. One place only remained vacant – it was in the banquette. No matter, thought I, anywhere will do at present.

‘Where is monsieur going? – for there will be a place vacant in the coupé at – ’

‘I have not thought of that yet,’ said I; ‘but when we reach Verviers we ‘ll see.’

‘Allons, then,’ said the conducteur, while he whispered to the clerk of the office a few words I could not catch.

‘You are mistaken, friend,’ said I; ‘it’s not creditors, they are only chalybeates I ‘m running from’; and so we started.

Before I follow out any further my own ramblings, I should like to acquit a debt I owe my reader – if I dare flatter myself that he cares for its discharge – by returning to the story of the poor shepherd of the mountains, and which I cannot more seasonably do than at this place; although the details I am about to relate were furnished to me a great many years after this, and during a visit I paid to Lyons in 1828.

In the Café de la Coupe d’Or, so conspicuous in the Place des Terreaux, where I usually resorted to pass my evenings, and indulge in the cheap luxuries of my coffee and cheroot, I happened to make a bowing acquaintance with a venerable elderly gentleman, who each night resorted there to read the papers, and amuse himself by looking over the chess-players, with which the room was crowded. Some accidental interchange of newspapers led to a recognition, and that again advanced to a few words each time we met – till one evening, chance placed us at the same table, and we chatted away several hours, and parted in the hope, mutually expressed, of renewing our acquaintance at an early period.

I had no difficulty in interrogating the dame du café about my new acquaintance. He was a striking and remarkable-looking personage, tall and military-looking, with an air of grand seigneur, which in a Frenchman is never deceptive; certainly I never saw it successfully assumed by any who had no right to it. He wore his hair en queue, and in his dress evinced, in several trifling matters, an adherence to the habitudes of the old régime – so, at least, I interpreted his lace ruffles and silk stockings, with his broad buckles of brilliants in his shoes. The ribbon of St. Louis, which he wore unostentatiously on his waistcoat, was his only decoration.

‘This is the Vicomte de Berlemont, ancien colonel-en-chef,’ said she, with an accent of pride at the mention of so distinguished a frequenter of the café; ‘he has not missed an evening here for years past.’

A few more words of inquiry elicited from her the information that the vicomte had served in all the wars of the Empire up to the time of the abdication; that on the restoration of the Bourbons he had received his rank in the service from them, and, faithful to their fortunes, had followed Louis XVIII. in exile to Ghent.

‘He has seen a deal of the world, then, madame, it would appear?’

‘That he has, and loves to speak about it too; time was when they reckoned the vicomte among the pleasantest persons in Lyons; but they say he has grown old now, and contracted a habit of repeating his stories. I can’t tell how that may be, but I think him always amiable.’ A delightful word that same ‘amiable’ is! and so thinking, I wished madame good-night, and departed.

The next evening I lay in wait for the old colonel, and was flattered to see that he was taking equal pains to discover me. We retired to a little table, ordered our coffee, and chatted away till midnight. Such was the commencement, such the course, of one of the pleasantest intimacies I ever formed.

The vicomte was unquestionably the most agreeable specimen of his nation I had ever met – easy and unaffected in his manner, having seen much, and observed shrewdly; not much skilled in book-learning, but deeply read in mankind. His views of politics were of that unexaggerated character which are so often found correct; while of his foresight I can give no higher token than that he then predicted to me the events of the year 1830, only erring as to the time, which he deemed might not be so far distant. The Empire, however, and Napoleon were his favourite topics. Bourbonist as he was, the splendour of France in 1810 and 1811, the greatness of the mighty man whose genius then ruled its destinies, had captivated his imagination, and he would talk for hours over the events of Parisian life at that period, and the more brilliant incidents of the campaigns.

It was in one of our conversations, prolonged beyond the usual time, in discussing the characters of those immediately about the person of the Emperor, that I felt somewhat struck by the remark he made, that, while ‘Napoleon did meet unquestionably many instances of deep ingratitude from those whom he had covered with honours and heaped with favours, nothing ever equalled the attachment the officers of the army generally bore to his person, and the devotion they felt for his glory and his honour. It was not a sentiment,’ he said, ‘it was a religious belief among the young men of my day that the Emperor could do no wrong. What you assume in your country by courtesy, we believed de facto. So many times had events, seeming most disastrous, turned out pregnant with advantage and success, that a dilemma was rather a subject of amusing speculation amongst us than a matter of doubt and despondency. There came a terrible reverse to all this, however,’ continued he, as his voice fell to a lower and sadder key; ‘a fearful lesson was in store for us. Poor Aubuisson – ’

‘Aubuisson!’ said I, starting; ‘was that the name you mentioned?’

‘Yes,’ said he, in amazement; ‘have you heard the story, then?’

‘No,’ said I, ‘I know of no story; it was the name alone struck me. Was it not one of that name who was mentioned in one of Bonaparte’s despatches from Egypt?’

‘To be sure it was, and the same man too; he was the first in the trenches at Alexandria; he carried off a Mameluke chief his prisoner at the battle of the Pyramids.’

‘What manner of man was he?’

‘A powerful fellow, one of the largest of his regiment, and they were a Grenadier battalion; he had black hair and black moustache, which he wore long and drooping, in Egyptian fashion.’

‘The same, the very same!’ cried I, carried away by my excitement.

‘What do you mean?’ said the colonel; ‘you’ve never seen him, surely; he died at Charenton the same year Waterloo was fought.’

‘No such thing,’ said I, feeling convinced that Lazare was the person. ‘I saw him alive much later’; and with that I related the story I have told my reader, detailing minutely every little particular which might serve to confirm my impression of the identity.

‘No, no,’ said the vicomte, shaking his head, ‘you must be mistaken; Aubuisson was a patient at Charenton for ten years, when he died. The circumstances you mention are certainly both curious and strange, but I cannot think they have any connection with the fortunes of poor Lazare; at all events, if you like to hear the story, come home with me, and I ‘ll tell it; the café is about to close now, and we must leave.’

I gladly accepted the offer, for whatever doubts he had concerning Lazare’s identity with Aubuisson, my convictions were complete, and I longed to hear the solution of a mystery over which I had pondered many a day of march and many a sleepless night.

I could scarcely contain my impatience during supper. The thought of Lazare absorbed everything in my mind, and I fancied the old colonel’s appetite knew no bounds when the meal had lasted about a quarter of an hour. At last having finished, and devised his modest glass of weak wine and water, he began the story, of which I present the leading features to my readers, omitting, of course, those little occasional digressions and reflections by which the narrator himself accompanied his tale.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE RETREAT FROM LEIPSIC

‘The third day of the disastrous battle of Leipsic was drawing to a close, as the armies of the coalition made one terrible and fierce attack, in concert, against the Imperial forces. Never was anything before heard like the deafening thunder, as three hundred guns of heavy artillery opened their fire at once from end to end of the line, and three hundred thousand men advanced, wildly cheering, to the attack.

‘Wearied, worn out, and exhausted, the French army held their ground, like men prepared to die before their Emperor, but never desert him, when the fearful intelligence was brought to Napoleon that in three days the army had fired ninety-five thousand cannon-balls; that the reserve ammunition was entirely consumed, and but sixteen thousand cannon-balls remained, barely sufficient to maintain the fire two hours longer! What was to be done? No resources lay nearer than Magdeburg or Erfurt. To the latter place the Emperor at once decided on retiring, and at seven o’clock the order was given for the artillery waggons and baggage to pass the defile of Lindenau, and retreat over the Elster, the same order being transmitted to the cavalry and the other corps of the army. The defile was a long and difficult one, extending for two leagues, and traversing several bridges. To accomplish the retreat in safety, Napoleon was counselled to hold the allies in check by a strong force of artillery, and then set fire to the faubourg; but the conduct of the Saxon troops, however deserving of his anger, could not warrant a punishment so fearful on the monarch of that country, who, through every change of fortune, had stood steady in his friendship. He rejected the course at once, and determined on retreating as best he might.

‘The movement was then begun at once, and every avenue that led to the faubourg of Lindenau was crowded by troops of all arms, eagerly pressing onward – a fearful scene of confusion and dismay, for it was a beaten army that fled, and one which until now never had thoroughly felt the horrors of defeat. From seven until nine the columns came on at a quick step, the cavalry at a trot; defiling along the narrow gorge of lindenau, they passed a mill at the roadside, where at a window stood one with arms crossed and head bent upon his bosom. He gazed steadfastly at the long train beneath, but never noticed the salutes of the general officers as they passed along. It was the Emperor himself, pale and care-worn, his low chapeau pressed down far on his brows, and his uniform splashed and travel-stained. For over an hour he stood thus silent and motionless; then throwing himself upon a bed he slept. Yes; amid all the terrible events of that disastrous retreat, when the foundations of the mighty empire he had created were crumbling beneath him, when the great army he had so often led to victory was defiling beaten before him, he laid his wearied head upon a pillow and slept!

‘A terrible cannonade, the fire of seventy large guns brought to bear upon the ramparts, shook the very earth, and at length awoke Napoleon, who through all the din and clamour had slept soundly and tranquilly.

‘“What is it, Duroc?” said he, raising himself upon one arm, and looking up.

‘“It is Swartzenberg’s attack, sire, on the rampart of Halle.”

‘“Ha! so near?” said he, springing up and approaching the window, from which the bright flashes of the artillery were each moment discernible in the dark sky. At the same moment an aide-de-camp galloped up, and dismounted at the door; in another minute he was in the room.

‘The Saxon troops, left by the Emperor as a guard of honour and protection to the unhappy monarch, had opened a fire on the retreating columns, and a fearful confusion was the result. The Emperor spoke not a word. Macdonald’s corps and Poniatowskf s division were still in Leipsic; but already they had commenced their retiring movement on Lindenau. Lauriston’s brigade was also rapidly approaching the bridge over the Elster, to which now the men were hurrying madly, intent alone on flight. The bridge – the only one by which the troops could pass – had been mined, and committed to the charge of Colonel Montfort of the Engineers, with directions to blow it up when the enemy appeared, and thus gain time for the baggage to retreat.

‘As the aide-de-camp stood awaiting Napoleon’s orders in reply to a few lines written in pencil by the Duke of Tarento, another staff-officer arrived, breathless, to say that the allies had carried the rampart, and were already in Leipsic. Napoleon became deadly pale; then, with a motion of his hand, he signed to the officer to withdraw.

‘“Duroc,” said he, when they were alone, “where is Nansouty?”

‘“With the eighth corps, sire. They have passed an hour since.”

‘“Who commands the picket without?”

‘“Aubuisson, sire.”

‘“Send him to me, and leave us alone.”

‘In a few moments Colonel Aubuisson entered. His arm was in a sling from a sabre-wound he had received the morning before, but which did not prevent his remaining on duty. The stout soldier seemed as unconcerned and fearless in that dreadful moment as though it were a day of gala manoeuvres, and not one of disaster and defeat.

‘“Aubuisson,” said the Emperor, “you were with us at Alexandria?”

‘“I was, sire,” said he, as a deeper tinge coloured his bronzed features.

‘“The first in the rampart – I remember it well,” said Napoleon; “the ordre du jour commemorates the deed. It was at Moscow you gained the cross, I believe?” continued he, after a slight pause.

‘“I never obtained it, sire,” replied Aubuisson, with a struggle to repress some disappointment in his tone.

‘“How, never obtained it! – you, Aubuisson, an ancient brave of the Pyramids! Come, come, there has been a mistake somewhere; we must look to this. Meanwhile, General Aubuisson, take mine.”

‘With that he detached his cordon from the breast of his uniform, and fastened it on the coat of the astonished officer, who could only mutter the words, “Sire, sire!” in reply.

‘“Now, then, for a service you must render me, and speedily, too,” said Napoleon, as he laid his hand on the general’s shoulder.

‘The Emperor whispered for some seconds in his ear, then looked at him fixedly in the face. “What!” cried he, “do you hesitate?”

‘“Hesitate, sire!” said Aubuisson, starting back. “Never! If your Majesty had ordered me to the mouth of a mortar – but I wish to know – ”

‘Napoleon did not permit him to conclude, but drawing him closer, whispered again a few words in his ear. “And, mark me,” said he, aloud, as he finished, “mark me, Aubuisson! silence – pas un mot? silence à la mort!”

‘“A la mort, sire!” repeated the general, while at the same moment Duroc hurried into the room, and cried out —

‘“They are advancing towards the Elster; Macdonald’s rear-guard is engaged – ”

‘A motion of Napoleon’s hand towards the door and a look at Aubuisson was the only notice he took of the intelligence, and the officer was gone.

‘While Duroc continued to detail the disastrous events the last arrived news had announced, the Emperor approached the window, which was still open, and looked out. All was in darkness towards that part of the city near the defile. The attack was on the distant rampart, near which the sky was red and lurid. Still, it was towards that dark and gloomy part that Napoleon’s eyes were turned, and not in the direction where the fight was still raging. Peering into the dense blackness, he stood without speaking, when suddenly a bright gleam of light shot up from the gloom, and then came three tremendous reports, so rapidly, one after the other, as almost to seem like one. The same instant a blaze of fire flashed upwards towards the sky, and glittering fragments of burning timber were hurled into the air. Napoleon covered his eyes with his hand, and leaned against the side of the window.

‘“It is the bridge over the Elster!” cried Duroc, in a voice half wild with passion. “They’ve blown up the bridge before Macdonald’s division have crossed.”

‘“Impossible!” said the Emperor. “Go see quickly, Duroc, what has happened.”

‘But before the general could leave the room, a wounded officer rushed in, his clothes covered with the marks of recent fire.

‘“The Sappers, sire! the Sappers – ”

‘“What of them?” said the Emperor.

‘“They’ve blown up the bridge, and the fourth corps are still in Leipsic.”

‘The next moment Napoleon was on his horse, surrounded by his staff, and galloping furiously towards the river.

‘Never was a scene more awful than that which now presented itself there. Hundreds of men had thrown themselves headlong into the rapid river, where masses of burning timber were falling on every side; horse and foot all mixed up in fearful confusion struggled madly in the stream, mingling their cries with the shouts of those who came on from behind, and who discovered for the first time that the retreat was cut off. The Duke of Tarento crossed, holding by his horse’s mane. Lauriston had nearly reached the bank, when he sank to rise no more; and Poniatowski, the chivalrous Pole, the last hope of his nation, was seen for an instant struggling with the waves, and then disappeared for ever.

‘Twenty thousand men, sixty great guns, and above two hundred waggons were thus left in the power of the enemy. Few who sought refuge in flight ever reached the opposite bank, and for miles down, the shores of the Elster were marked by the bodies of French soldiers, who thus met their death on that fearful night.

‘Among the disasters of this terrible retreat was the fate of Reynier, of whom no tidings could be had; nor was it known whether he died in battle, or fell a prisoner into the hands of the enemy. He was the personal friend of the Emperor, who in his loss deplored not only the brave and valorous soldier, but the steady adherent to his fortunes through good and evil. No more striking evidence of the amount of this misfortune can be had than the bulletin of Napoleon himself. That document, usually devoted to the expression of vainglorious and exaggerated descriptions of the triumphs of the army – full of those high-flown narratives by which the glowing imagination of the Emperor conveyed the deeds of his soldiers to the wondering ears of France – was now a record of mournful depression and sad reverse of fortune.