CHAPTER XX.

_Sunday, July 22d._--This is the first time I have been sufficiently settled and quiet to sit down to write since the evening of the 17th, my last at Colombes--dear Colombes! The intervening space has not been passed in idleness. On the morning of the 18th I was fully occupied in giving over my troop and stores to Major Wilmot, who takes possession also of my charming apartment, and Mademoiselle Ernestine gets a new neighbour. After an earlier dinner than usual, Hitchins accompanied me to St Denis; my servants and horses started in the morning. At St Denis I could gain no immediate and distinct information. Some of Ross’s non-commissioned officers whom I met with said they thought the troop must have halted in Stain. I shuddered at the very name of the place; it was the worst I had anticipated. As Hitchins knew the desolation of Stain, and the utter impossibility of my giving him a bed, even if I could get one myself, he took his leave, and I proceeded thitherward alone. It was with a heavy heart that I traversed the once rich crops of grain, now trodden into mud by having been the bivouac of our troops, and still heavier that I rode through the dismal street of the ruined village. I soon met some of the gunners, who confirmed my worst fears--viz., that the troop actually was stationed here. The officers were living and messing in a house close to the church, and opposite the _grille_ of the great chateau; and thither I repaired, and found them accordingly sitting at their wine. My servants had been here some time, and had taken possession of the Petit chateau, already mentioned. The house I found my officers in belongs to the Sœurs de la Charité. I was sensibly struck on entering it at the contrast with my villa at Colombes; mean, gloomy, dirty, and scarce an article of furniture in it, and what there was, of the poorest description. To counterbalance all this, it is the only house in the place (at least so they thought then) that has any glass in the windows, and how it escaped is extraordinary. They were seated in a dismal room, very low, and having a very disagreeable odour, overpowering even that of the dinner, in which the flavour of onions predominated. After introducing myself, and drinking a glass or two of wine, as the daylight began to fail I set off to inspect my new quarters. The appearance of this in its best days would not have been pleasing after Colombes; but now, forlorn, deserted, plundered! The handsome furniture which had once adorned it, mutilated and torn to pieces, was yet fresh when last I saw it; the fragments retained their paint or gilding, the mahogany its varnish; the tatters of silk fringe and curtains, scattered over the lawns and walks, or hanging from the branches in the shrubberies, yet retained their colour in all its freshness: now, after having been drenched by rain, and bleached in the sun and wind, all remains of former beauty were gone--all associations with splendour and magnificence vanished; they conveyed to the mind no feeling but that of squalidness and wretchedness. Amidst all this I entered the house. There things looked even worse. The winds of heaven had freely coursed through the paneless windows, the rain had inundated the floors, decay had already commenced, and the place looked as if it had been years deserted. Chilly, comfortless, and wretched, the floors still covered with fragments of glass, which, crunching under one’s feet, added not a little to the misery of the scene, still further enhanced by a most gloomy evening, and the dismal sound of the wind through the branches foretelling a stormy night. At length, after wandering from room to room, always finding one worse than the last, the approaching darkness obliged me to decide quickly, so I pitched upon a large one, with a recess for a bed, where I could at least be at some distance from the windows. My men had already made themselves tolerably comfortable in the stable, and I now summoned all hands to make me so too. Brooms were speedily made by stripping the branches from some acacias or laburnums in the courtyard, and all the rubbish and broken glass swept out of the window; candles were procured from the mess, my bed made in the recess upon a bedstead, nearly sound--the place began to look a little better, and I a little more cheerful. Though not so luxuriously, yet I slept as soundly as ever at Colombes, _malgré_ the forlorn feeling that crept over me as I fell into unconsciousness at the idea of being the only person in the great rambling mansion, with doors and windows all open, and admittance free to whomsoever might come.

My gloominess had construed the sighing of the wind among the foliage into a presage of rain and storm. Neither came; and the next morning I was awakened by the sun streaming full in my face, the carol of birds innumerable, and the soft, balmy, yet fresh air of a most lovely morning. As our mess-breakfast was not very early, I jumped up determined on a thorough examination of the whole village, in hopes of finding something better than the Petit chateau. After looking into several, all equally miserable, I found the one where I ought to have begun, the only one habitable. It was only across the road, shut in by high walls, overtopped by acacias. This house had escaped the observation of others as it had mine; and, strange to say, had scarcely been visited by the spoiler. All the windows were perfect, and the only injury visible on the premises was the breaking to pieces of a number of paltry plaster Cupidons and their pedestals, that had erst disfigured the garden. I took possession immediately, and here I sit in my cabinet about to give a description of it. The house is tall and narrow--four storeys counting the ground-floor to the front, and three towards the garden, which is higher than the court. The ground-floor consists of stables, wood-houses, &c., opening on this court, which is planted with acacias and shut in from the village by a high wall with great close gates. On the next (or garden ground-floor), is the only decent-sized room in the whole house: all the rest are divided into those useless little cabinets of which the French seem so fond, many of them with glass doors. All the rooms have the abominable brick or tile floors so common here: however, all the windows are sound, which is the grand object. I have chosen the floor above the garden--that is, third from the court--where I have a narrow slip, with glass door at one end and window at the other, the view from which certainly does not rival that at Colombes, for it is bounded by the four high walls of my garden; another piece, with a recess in it, serves me for a bedroom, and into these two I have collected all the furniture remaining in the house, which is but little, and that of the meanest description--a few clumsy, old-fashioned chairs, and a table or two. One of the former is a curious article: the seat lifts up, and behold a _bidet_; the top of the thick back has two or three little boxes in it for holding soap or what not. My three domestics occupy the floor below me, and are next the animals. The garden, which rises in a gentle slope from the house, is a long narrow strip, neatly laid out and abundantly stocked with flowers, vegetables, and fine fruit--particularly grapes, plums, and peaches, &c. The whole is the property of two old maids, Les Demoiselles Delcambre, Marchandes des Modes, who, on the approach of the Allies, removed all the furniture worth removal, and left the place in charge of an old Flemish servant--a virgin, like themselves. Mademoiselle Rose, as she is called in the village (and I should have mentioned that most, if not all, the peasantry have returned, and that only the chateaux and country seats of the citizens remain unoccupied)--Mademoiselle Rose is a character. Strong in the confidence of her want of charms, she is said to have remained faithful to her charge,[19] even when the Prussians entered and plundered the village, and thereby, the villagers assure me, saved her mistress’s property when all else was destroyed. A short, squat figure, clad in coarse black frieze, a face of the ugliest, set off by a pair of black mustaches fit for a hussar, which gives her a fierce and masculine aspect, like the dragon of the Hesperides, for she performs the part of watching the fruit most unremittingly. The moment I enter the garden she skulks after me; and on looking about I am sure to detect her ugly phiz watching my movements from behind some bush, not presuming, however, to interfere. More than once I have noticed the sudden disappearance of fruit from some particular tree; and William tells me that Mademoiselle Rose strips the trees at night and sends the fruit to Paris. I should suspect my own people, only that they would not take it in such quantities. This, however, is not of any great consequence, since we have several other well-stocked gardens in the village from whence to help ones self without trespassing on those attached to the officers’ houses, which are, of course, considered as private property. There are, _par exemple_, the chateau belonging to Jerome Buonaparte; the Petit chateau to M. Domer, who, I believe, is something in the Admiralty; another large handsome chateau, with very extensive, well-kept gardens, to Admiral le Comte Rosilly; a very pretty villa, garden, &c., the property of some rich shopkeeper; and several little boxes of minor importance. The village itself may be said to consist of two streets, short, and neither of them continuous. It is situated on a dead flat, consequently has no other beauty to boast of than what it derives from the foliage of the trees in the grounds of the chateaux, &c. The fields about it are corn and vines--principally the latter, I think.

It was at first certainly rather a nuisance changing from Colombes, though I have already got pretty well accustomed to the new situation. The difference was not only in the style of my lodging, beauty of the surrounding country, &c. &c., but also most particularly in our living. Instead of the comfortable, well-served table, and excellent wine of M. Ferdinand, and the new milk, nice fresh butter, and new-laid eggs--produce of my dairy and poultry-yard--here we daily sit down to miserably-cooked soup and _bouilli_, made of ration-beef, and a bad steak of the same, served in ill-cleaned tin (canteen) dishes. Vegetables, to be sure, we have in abundance. Then for wine, we have some very poor stuff, which Ambrose (my surgeon) bought somewhere in Paris, and, from not understanding French, got cheated. At home here I have managed to get up a breakfast, though a poor one; the bread is so abominably sour, and the butter so cheesy. Nor have I been able to dispose of my time in the same agreeable manner as at Colombes; for between the constant attention my wretched troop requires, and the plague of the villagers, I have but little left for amusement. The former of these, the troop, I have quieted a little, by giving one of them a severe flogging; but its disorganised state may be guessed at, when it is known that the payment (contrary to our regulations) is in the hands of the sergeant-major, and that my predecessor, poor Bean, died in debt to this man at least £300. Of course everything was winked at.

The villagers (unlike those of Colombes, who have never been disturbed), after being scared from their dwellings by our advance, have returned to them, only to find everything ruined and destroyed. Of course they are not in charity with us, and full of complaining. This is all brought to me by the Maire, who pays me a regular visit every morning, and frequently in the evening also, waylaying me, besides, whenever I go from home. The Duke’s system of discipline is well known, and these people seem disposed to take every advantage of it, fair and unfair. One complains of our occupying his house and stables, another of his field being mowed, another of something else, and so on. It is inconceivable that a conquered people, and a people whose armies have shown no forbearance in foreign countries, should thus dare lift up their voice and complain that the conqueror disturbs them, and puts them to some inconvenience. So it is! If I attended to one half the complaints brought before me, we should soon be turned out of the place altogether. The very morning after my arrival, M. Bonnemain (Maire, &c.) called, and was introduced--a dry, thin, old man, rather above the middle height, in a suit of rusty-brown clothes, snuff-box in one hand eternally, and the other gesticulating in aid of his drawling voice and interminable oratory. After the introductory bow, he commenced by welcoming me to Stain, eulogised the village and villagers, expressed his satisfaction at my appointment, having already heard of my high character as an officer; under the command _d’un tel_ Monsieur, everything must go on in the happiest manner possible. Then followed butter, thickly laid on, after which he cautiously and dexterously introduced his business, no doubt guessing that, having placed me on so elevated a pinnacle, I should be more cautious of a fall. “Mais, Monsieur le Commandant,” he continued, “nous sommes des pauvres malheureux, pour nous tout est perdu--tout abimé, &c.;” and so he went on expressing his confidence in the justice of M. le Commandant, and that he would not oppress the poor. Then followed a long--very long--story about a worthy industrious man, with a large family, whose house was occupied by our men, and stables by our horses, and a request that I might have the goodness to relieve this unfortunate family from so oppressive a burden. He had not reckoned without his host: Monsieur le Commandant swallowed some, at least, of the dose; was softened; the quartermaster is called, and orders given that the detachment should be removed from the farm in question. Monsieur le Maire is still more profuse in bows and compliments, amidst which he retired, to my great satisfaction, for I was tired of him. The next day Monsieur le Maire again appeared, and in similar manner pleaded the cause of another excellent _malheureux_, whose crop of oats our people were cutting. Again he was successful; but as Monsieur le Commissary-General had begged us to supply ourselves in this manner from the fields, I requested Monsieur le Maire to point out how we might do so with the least possible injury to the inhabitants. He did so, and I gave the necessary orders for confining our foraging parties to the fields indicated, and to avoid unnecessary waste. Again Monsieur Bonnemain is announced; but this time he came accompanied by a genteel but rather important-looking personage, just arrived in a handsome cabriolet, whom Monsieur le Maire introduces as the postmaster of St Denis. They are somebody these postmasters. An exordium of a most complimentary character ushered in, as usual, a complaint, or rather a protest, against our cutting this gentleman’s oats. Monsieur le Maître des Postes condescended (and he made the condescension evident) to inform me that he farmed the land in question at an exorbitant rent; that the produce was absolutely requisite to enable him to fulfil his contract with Government; that he should suffer much inconvenience from our depredations; and that, the public business of the Government being thus obstructed (with a most ominous shrug and extension of both hands), it was impossible to answer for the consequences. Hereupon the great man, with an air of perfect indifference, turned his back on me, and began asking trifling questions of some villagers who had flocked in to witness the negotiation. My answer was very brief: “Monsieur le Maire had himself designated the fields we were to cut.” (Here a most portentous glance was shot by Monsieur le Maître at Monsieur le Maire.) “That if the public suffered in the business of posting, it was of infinitely less consequence than that any part of the British army should become inefficient for want of forage. As, in the present case, somebody must suffer, it were better that the burden should fall on those best able to afford it.” Monsieur le Maître then shifted his ground somewhat, complaining of the waste committed by our foragers, who, he said, trampled down more than they cut. I promised this, if found to be the case, should be remedied, for our own sakes; and, at his request, that one particular non-commissioned officer should superintend the foraging. Monsieur, finding he could get no more, bade me adieu with more politeness than he had condescended to use on our first meeting, mounted his cabriolet amidst bows of the assembled peasantry, and drove off. This fellow’s opposition has not been without consequences. My villagers have become more bold, and even begin to draw up petitions to the Duke. Some of these have already been sent to me, with an intimation that I must not oppress the inhabitants unless it be unavoidable. This happens to be the case--therefore I have taken no notice of them.

_July 25th._--Yesterday our army (British only) was reviewed by their Imperial and Royal Majesties. I marched early, as the line was to be formed by 9 o’clock. After passing through St Denis, we took the great road to the right by St Ouen, and came on the Neuilly road just above the village, where we formed, being on the left of the whole, except the 18-pounder brigades. Ross and Bull’s troops were on my right. We had a long and tedious wait; and as the day was very hot, it was no small treat to discover that an apothecary hard by had some excellent raspberry vinegar, which, I think, we exhausted. At length the approach of the sovereigns was announced, and they came preceded and followed by a most numerous and brilliant _cortège_, in which figured, perhaps, some of almost every arm of every army in Europe. It was a splendid and most interesting sight. First came the Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia, in their respective green and blue uniforms, riding together--the former, as usual, all smiles; the latter taciturn and melancholy. A little in their rear followed the Austrian Emperor, in a white uniform, turned up with red, but quite plain--a thin, dried-up, thread-paper of a man, not of the most distinguished bearing; his lean brown visage, however, bore an expression of kindness and _bonhommie_, which folk say his true character in no way belies. They passed along, scanning our people with evident interest and curiosity; and in passing me (as they did to every commanding officer), pulled off their hats, and saluted me with most gracious smiles. I wonder if they do the same to their own. Until yesterday I had not seen any British infantry under arms since the evening the troops from America arrived at Garges, and, in the mean time, have constantly seen corps of foreign infantry. These are all uncommonly well dressed in new clothes, smartly made, setting the men off to the greatest advantage--add to which their _coiffure_ of high broad-topped shakos, or enormous caps of bear-skin. Our infantry--indeed, our whole army--appeared at the review in the same clothes in which they had marched, slept, and fought for months. The colour had faded to a dusky brick-dust hue; their coats, originally not very smartly made, had acquired by constant wearing that loose easy set so characteristic of old clothes, comfortable to the wearer, but not calculated to add grace to his appearance. _Pour surcroit de laideur_, their cap is perhaps the meanest, ugliest thing ever invented. From all these causes it arose that our infantry appeared to the utmost disadvantage--dirty, shabby, mean, and very small. Some such impression was, I fear, made on the sovereigns, for a report has reached us this morning, that they remarked to the Duke what very small men the English were. “Ay,” replied our noble chief, “they are small; but your Majesties will find none who fight so well.” I wonder if this is true. However small our men and mean their appearance, yet it was evident that they were objects of intense interest, from the immense time and close scrutiny of the inspection. At length they finished, and, taking their stand in the Place Louis Quinze, we marched past in column of division. The crowd assembled to witness this exceeded anything I had ever before seen. Not only were the people packed as thick as they could stand in the area itself, but the buildings of the Garde Meuble, the ramparts of the Tuileries, even the roof of the Hotel Bourbon over the river, were all crowded--windows, roofs, and every cornice that could hold human beings. After passing, we took our route along the Rue Royale, Boulevard and Rue Poissonnière, starting off at a good trot, and got home about 6 o’clock. In St Denis I met Captain Gaffon and the little doctor of the Brunswick Hussars, neither of whom I had seen since we were in barracks together at Woodbridge. The meeting really seemed to please them, as they had heard I was killed at Waterloo. It seems somebody is determined I did or ought to have died. One of our people told me the other day, that the day after the battle a staff-officer had shown him my name in a list as dangerously wounded. And during the retreat of the 17th, whilst I was with the cavalry at Jemappes, one of the Blues who overtook my troop on the road told them that I was killed, for he had himself seen me cut down by a French dragoon--_Cependant me voici!_

_July 30th._--More trouble, more complaints. Another memorial to the Duke from my subjects, complaining of cutting their oats. This I have very easily disposed of; but lo! here is a more formidable adversary to deal with--no less than M. le Marquis de Livry, _rentier_ or _propriétaire_ of the gambling _salons_ in the Palais Royal, and, as such, a man of immense influence. He has property in this commune, and a _bergerie_ in the village, where he keeps a flock of merinos. The sheep being absent when the troop arrived, the _bergerie_ was converted into a stable; but having lately returned, under their shepherd, part of the building has been appropriated to their use. The shepherd, a perfect Sancho Panza in person, not content with this, has ever since been intriguing to obtain entire possession. I have been fairly pestered to death about this _bergerie_. Almost daily M. le Maire and M. le Berger and M. le Marquis de Livry make their appearance at my quarters, or intercept me in the street to tell me the same story over again, and to get the same answer. Finding his perseverance useless, M. le Berger (no doubt assisted by M. le Maire) draws up a very moving petition to the Duke, which M. de Livry takes care shall be presented under proper auspices, and behold the consequence: A positive order from his Grace to evacuate forthwith the premises of the Marquis de Livry, and _to put up our horses elsewhere in the best manner we can; that is, respect the rich man’s property and oppress doubly the poor_--for we must divide the forty horses hitherto stabled in the _bergerie_ among the poor villagers, who already have more than is good for them. The Duke of Wellington’s ideas of discipline, &c., are rigid--his mode of administering it summary; but he is frequently led into acts of the grossest injustice. A notorious instance of this I am now suffering under, and one that makes the _bergerie_ business a mere flea-bite. Only a few days ago, whilst sitting after dinner at our little mess, an officer of the mounted staff corps (_gendarmerie Anglaise_) was announced. He regretted being the bearer of disagreeable orders, &c. &c., but Colonel Scovell, commandant of the mounted staff corps, had directed him to show me the paper, which he produced, and to inform me that his Grace had ordered it should be immediately complied with. Further, that the Duke was excessively angry, and had expressed himself very harshly on the subject; therefore Colonel Scovell recommended me to make no remonstrance, as he could not foresee what might be the consequence. The paper was a petition from a certain M. Fauigny (an Italian), setting forth, I think, that he is proprietor of the Grand chateau which has been miserably plundered; but more particularly that the English troops now quartered in the village have stripped the lead off the roofs, from the baths, water-pipes, &c. &c., and sold it. This is, as nearly as I remember, the petition. A note written with a pencil by the Duke himself on the margin was too brief and pithy not to be remembered, and here it is, _verbatim_: “Colonel Scovell will find out whose troop this is, and they shall pay.--W.” I was thunderstruck at the complaint and the decision--the one so unfounded, the other so cruelly unjust. I signed an acknowledgment of having seen the order; and the officer took his leave, recommending me to try and compromise with M. Fauigny, who stated the damage at about 7000 or 8000 francs. Upon inquiry of M. Bonnemain, he asserts that this M. Fauigny is the agent of Jerome Buonaparte, to whom the chateau actually belongs, as we were told by the Prussians who plundered it.

The next morning I had just ordered my horse, and was about to set off for Paris, when William announced a gentleman who wished to see me; and a rather genteel-looking man sailed into my little parlour with an air of _nonchalance_ and easy familiarity quite amusing. My friend seated himself with the utmost coolness, and drawing out his snuffy pocket-handkerchief, displaying it--whilst he spat all about the floor, to my utter disgust, for I had been in the act of finishing my breakfast--informed me with a slight inclination that he was M. Fauigny, and had called to know when it would be convenient to settle this _leaden accompt_. Finding him already acquainted with the Duke’s order, I was obliged to make the best of it and put him off with excuses, which he did not seem to relish, having evidently counted on touching the cash forthwith. However, the man behaved like a gentleman, kept his disappointment to himself, and turning the conversation on general subjects, proved himself a man of very general information and a most agreeable companion. Although he would not partake of my breakfast, he paid a very long visit; and the moment he was gone, I set off also for Paris, and went straight to Sir George Wood’s quarters in the Rue de Richelieu. From Sir George I learned that the affair was much more serious than I had imagined. The Duke is furious about it, and Sir George says my only chance is by evading payment as long as I can, in hopes some favourable opportunity may offer of inducing the Duke to think more leniently on the subject; in the mean time, to make every inquiry into the truth of the statement. Accordingly, we have been at work, and the result is a discovery that M. Fauigny is a villain--has made a false statement to the Duke in hopes of gaining payment from us for what has been actually done by others, but from whom he knew nothing could be recovered. The villagers themselves have informed me how the thing happened, and have denounced one of their own body as the robber, for the lead has in reality been stolen, as set forth in the petition, only not by us.[20] M. Plé is _couvreur_ by trade, and did precisely the same thing last year when the village was occupied by a Russian corps, against which a charge similar to the one against us was brought, but not with the same success. Their General did not condemn his people unheard like the Duke of Wellington. However, having gained this piece of intelligence, I set off to St Denis, and stated the whole affair to the chief of the police, who smiled, and anticipated me by himself mentioning M. Plé as a culprit and an old acquaintance, adding that he would lose no time in sifting the business thoroughly. A _procès verbal_ was drawn up, and I took my departure, well pleased with the politeness and urbanity of the French civil authorities.

Two _gens-d’armes_ were despatched to arrest M. Plé and search his premises. A day or two afterwards, I received a note requesting my attendance at the police the next morning at eleven o’clock. Thither I went, and was met at the door by M. le Chef, who addressed me with a smile and an assurance that the lead was secured. Accordingly in the office stood M. Plé between two sentinels, and on the floor lay several enormous rolls of lead. This was only a part of the plunder, the rest having already been sold. In short, with admirable dexterity and perseverance, they followed up the business, and finally ascertained beyond a doubt that M. Plé was the thief, both now and last year; but although there is some suspicion of collusion between him and M. Fauigny, nothing has been brought out that throws any light on it. I don’t think he seems known to our villagers, as one would suppose the agent ought to be. M. Plé is lodged in some prison in Paris, but I have no idea what eventually will become of him. The exposure of the affair has not in the least altered my position with the Duke of Wellington, for none dare tell him the story; and even Sir Edward Barnes, who kindly undertook it, met with a most ungracious rebuff, as he himself told Sir G. Wood. Meanwhile M. Fauigny continues to pay me an occasional visit. Sometimes I see the scoundrel _par nécessité_, but always keep out of his way if I can. Knowing, as he does, the Duke’s humour, he continues dunning me with most unblushing effrontery for payment.

Were it not for these complaints, and most particularly this horrible affair of the lead, I could be happy enough here. I am getting quite reconciled to my house and to the village, and getting acquainted with the people, who have pretty well put things to rights again. Old Bonnemain I find quite manageable and very useful. Another ally has turned up in the person of the _garde champêtre_, who has at last ventured back and resumed the insignia of office. A very different character this from Petit Jean of Strytem; fat, pursy, stupid, dressed in shabby plain clothes, with a broad embroidered belt over his shoulder, altogether looking like a rat-catcher, for which I at first mistook him.

Moreover, to be completely on a peace-establishment, our village church has been reopened, and mass is now regularly celebrated there. The curé fled with the rest at our approach; but, unlike them, has never returned to his lair, and for some time the church remained closed. The other morning, shaving with the windows open towards the garden, I was astonished at hearing a most stentorian voice chanting in the church, which is not far from my garden-wall; and as nothing does or ought to take place without my knowledge, William was forthwith despatched to ascertain what was going on. In a few minutes he returned accompanied by M. Bonnemain, who, with his usual profusion of bows, commenced a most humble apology for the step he had taken without first obtaining my permission, which, however, he trusted would not on that account be withheld. He had sent to Pierrefitte (a neighbouring village) and engaged M. le Curé, a most worthy and exemplary man, to come over and “faire la messe;” and further, provided it met the approbation of M. le Commandant, and was no disturbance to him, he had engaged M. le Curé to come over every morning. So we have had mass ever since, and my morning shave is regularly accompanied by the bass, nasal chant of M. le Curé performing _l’office_ to about a dozen old women; for, sometimes when I have been earlier and gone in, I have never found any other congregation. Yesterday (Sunday) it was more numerous, for then the girls go; but I am uncharitable enough to believe only to exhibit their finery. Even on that day very few men attended; indeed, throughout, since we entered France, we have found religion at a very low ebb: the churches always thinly attended, and principally by women; the Sabbath observed, if at all, only as a holiday, apparently totally unconnected with any religious idea; shops everywhere open; and agricultural labours, as well as every other kind, going on as usual, unless people choose to rest and make a holiday of it.

In looking back at this journal (if so we may term what is written by fits and starts, as an otherwise idle day occurs), I find omitted altogether the review of the Prussian army, which took place some days ago in the Place Louis Quinze as usual, only in this case the line was formed along the Boulevard, and the column entered the place by the Rue Royale. I have neglected this so long, that I remember few particulars of the review. The troops looked well, their equipment appeared good, the men young, active, and well drilled, countenances full of animation, and apparently proud of being soldiers; cavalry well mounted, and the cuirassiers wore black cuirasses, instead of polished ones like the French. The crowd was as great as when we were reviewed, and the ground was kept by a parcel of wild-looking Cossacks in blue frocks and very shabby-looking horses and appointments--_voilà tout!_ But there was one occurrence at that review that I shall never forget. The Cossacks were under an old chieftain, evidently of high rank, whom I understood to be no less a person than their Hettman Platov, besides whom several Russian general officers rode about giving directions to the Cossacks.

It was with some difficulty that I made my way through the crowd and gained a front place, not far from the _debouchement_ of the Rue Royale. The only military man near me was a proud-looking Russian officer, who, from his large epaulettes and numerous decorations, I took to be a man of some consequence, and, from the sidelong glances at my plain and rather shabby pelisse, somewhat annoyed at my near neighbourhood. We were, however, knee to knee, and, _bongré malgré_, destined to keep company, for the throng was too dense to admit of changing place; and so, as it fluctuated backward and forward, we were forced to advance or retire like files of the same squadron. The Cossacks were very actively employed with their long lances keeping us all back, but still the crowd continually pushed us forward until we were sometimes almost in the ranks of the advancing column. At length, tired of his ineffectual attempts at restraining us within bounds, the Cossack who was our immediate sentry made an angry complaint to one of the general officers, and, from pointing our way, evidently particularised me and my neighbour. The general, flying into a passion, first looked thunder and lightning at us, and then, cane in air, rushed to the charge. It will readily be imagined that the ferocious gestures meant to drive us from the field only roused my John Bullism, and caused me to assume an air of defiance. Not so my superb neighbour; on him it had full effect. He looked intimidated, reined back his horse, and, turning, endeavoured to push through the crowd and make his escape, leaving me to bear the brunt of the attack. The general, however, knew his game; so, passing me with a scowl which I smiled at, and a grumble which I did not understand, he pursued my friend with uplifted cane, which every moment I expected to see descend on his back. The scene was the most degrading I had ever witnessed--an officer in full uniform, his breast covered with decorations, actually bending low on his horse’s neck and making a back to receive a caning, whilst with upturned face his looks seemed abjectly craving mercy. I wonder what the French thought of it. I blushed for the cloth, and most sincerely congratulated myself on being an Englishman. The chase continued until the discomfited hero was fairly driven from the field, when his bully returned fuming and chafing and looking very fierce, and apparently very much vexed at the insolent indifference with which I purposely surveyed him.

Being on the subject of reviews, I may as well note here one that took place yesterday, which I have just heard of, but did not see. It seems that we have been the _rara aves_ of the day ever since our review. The rapidity of our movements, close-wheeling, perfection of our equipment, &c. &c., excited universal astonishment and admiration. The consequence of this was an application to the Duke for a closer inspection, which he most magnanimously granted, and ordered Ross’s troop out for that purpose. They paraded in the fields near Clichy. The reviewers, I understand, were _maréchaux de France_; but there was also a great concourse of officers of all nations. After the manœuvres the troop was dismounted, and a most deliberate inspection of ammunition, and even of the men’s kits, appointments, shoeing, construction of carriages, &c. &c., took place. I believe they were equally astonished and pleased with what they saw, and, as there were several among them taking notes, have no doubt that we shall soon see improvements introduced into the Continental artillery.

Paris, and the country for leagues round, form one immense garrison. The Prussians have their headquarters at St Cloud, where Prince Blucher occupies the palace. Their army occupies all the country west of Paris--Versailles, Sêvres, Bellevue, &c., and round to the southward as far as Charenton. In Paris they occupy the arsenal, and at first had a bivouac of infantry in the Place du Carrousel, and of light cavalry in the Champs Elysées, both of which have since been withdrawn and sent somewhere into quarters. They also had infantry in bivouac in the Jardin du Luxembourg, Place Royale. I do not know whether they are withdrawn yet or not. Our headquarters are at the Elysée Bourbon; and our cantonments, commencing at Suresnes, extend along both banks of the Seine to Argenteuil and St Germain en Laye, all round the north side of Paris to the heights of Belleville. The greater part of our cavalry is, I believe, on the left bank of the Seine. The Life Guards, Blues, &c., are at Nanterre, Rueil, &c.; hussars at Suresnes, Puteaux, &c., and Gardiner’s (Sir Robert) troop of horse-artillery. This last is, I think, quartered on the Duc de Feltre (Clerk). The 12th, and another light dragoon regiment, at Courbevoie, in the fine barracks. Infantry at Anières, Villeneuve, and Genevilliers. Colombes--my old troop, Bull’s, and M’Donald’s. Bezons--the rocket-troop. Neuilly--two troops of Hanoverian horse-artillery. St Ouen--Brunswick cavalry and infantry; some in the village, some in bivouac. Epinay--pontoon-train. Pierrefitte--waggon-train. St Denis--commissariat magazines, &c., two regiments of English infantry (64th one of them), a brigade of 18-pounders, and Sir H. Ross’s troop[21] of horse-artillery. Malmaison--cavalry headquarters. I think there are cavalry at Marly, St Germain en Laye, &c. &c. Stain--my troop;[21] communication kept open by the bridge of Neuilly, and pontoon-bridges at Argenteuil and Anières. Clichy, Courcelles, and Villiers--the fifth division, partly in camp, partly in quarters. Bois de Boulogne--infantry, encamped. Passy--English artillery. Rue Poissonnière--a regiment of English infantry in the barrack. La Chapelle--Hanoverian dragoons and a brigade of 18-pounders. Montmartre--English infantry. Clignancour--21st Regiment of do. Faubourg de Montmartre--English infantry. Faubourg de Clichy--Rifles. Chaussée d’Antin--Foot Guards. Vertus, or Aubervilliers--English infantry and Major Morrison’s 9-pounder brigade. Gonesse--English infantry and artillery. Chenevrière--do. do. do. Luzarches, and along the line of road to Chantilly--Belgic contingent. Dugny--Staff corps. Garges, Arnouville, &c.--Nassau troops. Headquarters of our artillery, Rue de Richelieu. Belleville and the neighbourhood is occupied by Russian infantry. Abattoirs de Montmartre (the barrack at)--a regiment of cuirassiers, in white, with black cuirasses; I think they are Russian--not sure. Faubourg St Denis--Austrian or Hungarian infantry. The Emperor of Austria lives on the Boulevard (I think des Italiens). The Emperor of Russia and King of Prussia I know not where; but the Hetman Platoff (as well as our Colonel Sir A. Fraser) lives at the Hotel du Nord, Rue de Richelieu, where his guard of wild-looking Cossacks, with their little shabby horses picketed in the court, furnish gape-seed for the _badauds_, a crowd of whom are continually at the gate. It is a singular spectacle to see the public places in town all doubly guarded--a French and an English or Prussian sentry. When I ride into Paris by the Barrière de Clichy, as I generally do (that way being so much pleasanter than passing through La Chapelle and Faubourg St Denis), I am at once amused and interested at seeing the two sentries soberly pacing backward and forward, opposite each other, one on each side of the street. As I draw near they simultaneously front and pay the usual compliment (there is something piquant in receiving a salute from a French soldier), each after his own fashion. There they stand; on the one side a tall handsome fellow, with a fair face and prim shopkeeper-like air, with his high fur cap and trim uniform, almost speck and span new; the other, a shorter but more sturdy figure, bronzed visage, and jacket of brick-dust red, marked in various places with bivouac stains, and faded from exposure to sun and rain, but with arms and accoutrements in far better order than those of his smart neighbour. On first taking possession of Paris, the Prussians posted one or two field-pieces at each of the bridges, with a guard of infantry. These guns were kept constantly loaded, and slow-match lighted. Latterly they have been withdrawn; but we still have guards at every public building--such as the Louvre, Palais Royal, &c. These are generally English.

Yesterday I made a most interesting excursion over all the scene of last year’s battles,--the plain of St Denis, Vertus, the heights of Belleville, Montmartre, &c. Independent of historical associations, these heights are extremely interesting, from the fine commanding views they afford; but particularly in a geological point of view. Rising abruptly to the height of some hundred feet from the (almost level) Plain de St Denis, their appearance is very remarkable as we approach by the great northern road to La Chapelle, almost everywhere terminating in lofty white precipices of gypsum (or sulphate of lime)--hence called plaster of Paris. Montmartre appears once to have been a continuation of the heights of Belleville, from the similarity of the gypsum cliffs opposite to each other. It is now isolated, and, with its precipitous terminations and crest covered with windmills, forms a very remarkable object from the plain below. These windmills are principally on the end over Clichy; towards the other is the celebrated telegraph--known by fame to all Europe--whence were transmitted at various periods orders for the invasion of Italy, Austria, Russia, Prussia, and Belgium, and by which Paris was so often roused to the boiling-point of vanity when it brought intelligence of Jena, Wagram, &c. But _revenons à nos moutons_. The heights are separated by a narrow gorge, in which, under the cliffs of Montmartre, is a small hillock[22] (Mamelon), crowned by three windmills, which appears to have been formed by detritus from above. The dome of St Genevieve seen through this gorge gave us the first notice of the French capital the evening we arrived at Garges.

The intermediate part of Montmartre, though not precipitous, descends by a very rapid slope towards the plain. About midway of the descent is the pretty village of Clignancour, the houses of which, having their first floor on a level with the ground behind, command from their windows and balconies a most extensive and pleasing view over the country below, and are delightfully intermingled with shrubberies and gardens. The descent towards Paris is less steep, and is covered all the way with the suburb of Montmartre. The whole summit is enclosed by Buonaparte’s celebrated, but, as it has turned out, useless lines, erected last year for the defence of the metropolis. Of these I need say little, as I know they are surveying by our engineers, who will no doubt give us a detailed account of them--a piece of slavery which I am not at all disposed to engage in. All I can say of them is that, considering the hurried manner in which the work has been done, they are very creditable--that they cover all the ground in front with their fire--and that a tremendous concentration of fire, direct and flanking, commands every important point. They are continued partially across the gorge, the bank of the Canal de l’Ourcq, and fully up the opposite heights of Belleville. They may, however, be easily turned on either flank. The gorge is occupied by the humble and uninteresting suburb of La Chapelle. The heights of Belleville are extremely pretty, being almost covered with a succession of cheerful and sometimes elegant villas, gardens, shrubberies, vineyards, and the village. I envied the Russians such pretty quarters; yet they would be just as well pleased here as there, perhaps. From these heights I got a peep at Vincennes, with its park, chateau, and tower, on which the Lilies of France have at last replaced the Tricolor. The governor (_un vieux moustache_, with one leg) refused for a long time to surrender; and the sovereigns, out of respect for the old man, did not insist; but after a time he grew insolent, and I understand either did or threatened to fire at some officers who went too near his stronghold. This was too much, and preparations were making to reduce him when he was fortunately persuaded to surrender. Having rambled about until I had seen all worth seeing, and got an omelet in one of the _ginguettes_, or whatever they call them, I descended from the heights of Belleville, and crossing the fields (all without hedges here), and the great road to Soissons, made straight for Vertus. As far as the road to Soissons, the number of gardens, with summer-houses perched on one angle of the enclosing wall, thick shrubberies, and the fine umbrageous avenue which the road itself with its quadruple rows of elms presents, made the country interesting in spite of its flatness; but beyond, when one comes on what may more strictly be termed the plain of St Denis, there is no redeeming point--it is a vast extent of monotonous corn-field, unrelieved by tree or shrub, and only broken by the buildings of the village of Vertus and the elevated bank of the Canal de l’Ourcq. The great road to Compiègne, which crosses this plain from La Chapelle to St Denis, once had its trees also; but they were cut down, I think, last year; and the only objects one now sees along this dreary line are a mile (or a league) stone on the left going to town, and a cross or Bon Dieu on the right. Young trees have been planted along part of the line, but at present they are mere sticks. Met Major Morrison in Vertus; his 9-pounder brigade is stationed there, together with a regiment of infantry. By the way, the name of that place is Aubervilliers, or Nôtre Dame des Vertus, but one never hears any more of its name than the last word--so that it is Vertus _par excellence_, and all the rest is superfluity.

I have had a long scribble this morning; so now, having jotted down nearly everything to the present date, I have a right to go and idle a bit with the girls. This is a lounge of which I have as yet said nothing, because I thought it commonplace; hereafter, however, it will be interesting to look back and see as in a picture all that is now transacting--_allons donc!_ Through the middle of our village runs a little sluggish rivulet, very like that at Garges. On the banks of this, every fine day, may be seen assembled the scraggy-necked dames and black-eyed nymphs of the village, all pretty much alike in costume--that is, arms bare, stays loosely laced, and petticoat of _siamoise_, with the eternal blue stockings and wooden shoes; each has her bundle of linen, her heavy bat, and generally a bit of board to kneel on. Here, then, kneeling in a line along the banks of soapy waters, they laugh, chatter, and sing; whilst the bat incessantly goes slap, slap, slap. Just where the street leading to St Denis joins ours, in the centre of the village, a bridge of very humble dimensions spans the stream, on the parapet of which I have established my divan; and thither I repair to smoke my weed and enjoy a little badinage with the fair daughters of Stain--to gain a little information from their wrinkled mothers. Amongst our village maidens there are several exceedingly pretty--some one or two would be beautiful, were not their feminine _delicacy_ (perhaps the word may be used morally as well as physically) much injured by their being constantly employed in the fields, which cannot but make their persons coarse. There is one exception to this, however, in Josephine Chamont, who is really a beautifully-delicate, lady-like girl; but then she does not go to the fields. Angélique, on the contrary, is as fine a woman as ever I saw; she is about twenty--a perfect Juno--tall, erect, with a beautiful countenance and splendid black eyes; she walks like a queen. When our invasion was expected, the women of the commune formed themselves into an amazonian regiment, and Angélique was their sergeant-major.--But I must to the bridge.

M. Fauigny paid me a visit this morning: I did not see him.