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All intercourse was completely gladiatorial, not for display, but for defence. Everlasting badinage on every subject and on everybody was the order of each day; and as success was to the full as much quizzed as failure, any exhibition of vanity or self-gratulation met a heavy retribution. Woe unto him whose romance went through three editions in a fortnight, or whom the audience called for at the conclusion of his drama!
As for the fairer portion of our guild, being for the most part ostracized in general society, they bore a grudge against their sex, and affected a thousand airs of mannishness. Some always dressed in male attire; many sported little moustaches and chin-tufts, rode man-fashion in the Bois de Boulogne, fought duels; and all smoked. Like other converts, they went farther in their faith than the old believers, and talked Communism, Socialism, and Saint Simonianism, with a freedom that rose high above all the little prejudices ordinary life fosters.
If great crimes, such as shock the world by their enormity, were quite unknown among us, all the vices practicable within the Law and the Code Napoléon were widely popular; and the worst of it all was, none seemed to have the remotest conception that he was not the beau-ideal of morality. The simple fact was, we assumed a very low standard of right, and chose to walk even under that.
With Paris and all its varied forms of life I soon became perfectly familiar, – not merely that city which occupies the Faubourg St. Honoré, or St. Germain, not the Paris of the Boulevards or the Palais-Royal only, but with Quartier St. Denis, the Batignolles, the Cité, and the Pays Latin. I knew every dialect, from the slang of fashion to the conventional language of its lowest populace. I heard every rumor, from the cabinet of the Minister down to the latest gossip of the “Coulisses:” what the world said and thought, in each of its varying and dissimilar sections; how each political move was judged; what was the public feeling for this or that measure; how the “many-headed” were satisfied or dissatisfied, whether with the measures of the Ministry, or the legs of the new danseuse; and thus I became the very perfection of a feuilletoniste. There is but one secret in this species of literature, – the ever-watchful observation of the public; and when it is considered that this is a Parisian public, the task is not quite so easy as some would deem it. This watchfulness, and a certain hardihood that never shrinks from any theme, however sacred to the conventional reserves of the general world, are all the requisites.
I have said it was a most amusing life; and if eternal excitement, if the onward rush of new emotions, the never-ceasing flow of stimulating thoughts, could have sufficed for happiness, I might have been, and ought to have been, contented. Still, the whole was unreal. Not only was the world we had made for ourselves unreal, but all our judgments, all our speculations, our hopes, fears, anticipations, our very likings and dislikings! Our antipathies were mock, and what we denounced with all the pretended seriousness of heartfelt conviction in one journal, we not unfrequently pronounced to be a heaven-sent blessing in another. Bravos of the pen, we had no other principle than our pay, and were utterly indifferent at whom we struck, even though the blow should prove fatal. That we should become sceptical on every subject; that we should cease to bestow credence on anything, believing that all around was false, hypocritical, and unreal as ourselves, was natural enough; but this frame of mind bears its own weighty retribution, and not even the miserable victim of superstitious fear dreads solitude like him whose mind demands the constant stimulant of intercourse, the torrent of new ideas, that whirls him along, unreflecting and unthinking.
It will be easily seen that all my narrative of myself met but little faith in such company. They unhesitatingly rejected the whole story of my wealth; and my future restoration to rank and riches used to be employed as a kind of synonym for the Greek calends. The worst of all this was, their disbelief infected even me, and I gradually began to look upon myself as an impostor. My hope – the guide-star that cheered me in many a dark and gloomy period – began to wane, and I felt that ere long all those aspirations which had spirited me on in life would lie cold and dead within me, and that my horizon, would extend no further than where each daily sun sunk to rest. To show any discontent with my walk, to evince in the slightest degree any misgivings that we of “La petite Presse” did not give laws to taste, morals, jurisprudence, and legislation, would have been high treason. To imply a doubt that we held in our hands, not alone the destinies of Paris, but of Europe, – of all civilization, – would have been a rank and outrageous heresy. Like the priest, the journalist can never unfrock himself. The mark of the ink, more tenacious than the blood on Lady Macbeth’s fingers, will “never out.” What, then, could I do? For, wearied of my calling, I yearned for a little truth, for a new glimpse of reality, however short and fleeting.
Full of these thoughts, I repaired one morning to the Trou-aux-Bois, where fortunately I found my friend Paul alone, – at least, except three secretaries, to whom he was dictating by turns, he had no one with him! “Wait till I have finished this ‘Attack of Wolves on a Caravan,’” said he, “and the ‘Death of Jules de Tavanne by Poison,’ and I ‘m your man. Meanwhile, step into my study; there are masses of newspapers and letters which you can read freely.”
He did not detain me long. Apparently the wolves were weak, and soon beaten off, and the poison was strong, and soon did its work; for he joined me in less than half an hour.
My explanation was listened to patiently, and, what surprised me more, without astonishment. He saw nothing exaggerated or high-flown in the difficulties I started, and even went the length of confessing that many of my objections had occurred to his own mind. “But then,” said he, “what is to be done? If you turn soldier, are you always certain that you will concur in the justice of the cause for which you fight? Become a lawyer, and is not half your life passed in arraigning the right and defending the wrong? Try medicine; and where will be your ‘practice’ if you only prescribe for the really afflicted, and do not indulge the caprices and foster the complainings of the ‘malade imaginaire ‘? As an apothecary, you would vend poisons; as an architect, you would devise jails and penitentiaries; and so to the end of the chapter. Optimism is just as impracticable as it is dangerous. Accept the world as you find it, not because it is the best, but because it is the only policy; and, above all, be slow in changing a career where you have met with success. The best proof that it suits you is, that the public think so.”
Being determined on my course, I now affected a desire to see life in some other form, and observe mankind under some other aspect. To this he assented freely, and, after a few moments’ discussion, suddenly bethought him of a letter he had received that very morning. “You remember the Duc de St. Cloud, whom you met at dinner the first day you spent here?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, he was, as you are aware, ordered off to Africa, to take a high military command a few days after, and has not since returned to France. This day I have received a letter from him, asking me to recommend some one among my literary acquaintances to fill the office of his private secretary. You are exactly the man for the appointment. The duties are light, the pay liberal, the position agreeable in every way; and, in fact, for one who desires to see something of the world which the Boulevard du Gent and the Café de Paris cannot show him, the opportunity is first rate.”
The proposal overjoyed me! Had I been called on to invent a post for myself, this was exactly the thing I should have fancied. A campaign against the Arabs; the novelty of country, people, and events; a life of adventure, with a prince for my companion, – these were the very crowning desires of my ambition.
“I ‘ll write about it this very day: there will be a mail for Algiers made up this evening, and not a moment shall be lost in making the application.”
I could not express one half my gratitude for this opportune kindness; and when I again turned my steps toward Paris, my heart had regained the buoyant elasticity which had so often lifted me above all the troubled waves of life.
CHAPTER XXXII. MOI ET MON PRINCE
In less than a fortnight after the interview I have just recorded, I received a letter from De Minérale, enclosing another, addressed to himself, and whose royal seal at once proclaimed the writer. De Minérale’s was only a few lines, thus: —
“Dear C, – I forward you the ‘Duke’s’ reply to my note, bywhich you will see that we have been in time, and fortunateenough to secure your appointment. Lose not a moment infulfilling the instructions contained in it, and dine withme to-day at the ‘Frères,’ at seven.
“Yours,
“P. deM.
”The Duke’s epistle, almost equally brief, was to the effect:
“Headquarters, Oran.
“My Dear De Minérale, – Of course I remember perfectly ourfriend the ‘Quatorzième,’ whose lucubrations in the journalsI have since been much amused with. In some respects hewould suit me well, being a fellow of high animal spirits, great readiness, and, if I mistake not, well fitted for therough usage of a campaign. But it strikes me that if hisposition be such as you represent it, the exchange would beanything but profitable. This is a land of few pleasures andno luxuries. Tell him that we never see truffles, thatchampagne is only a tradition, and, except Moorish damsels, who never show us more of their faces than a pair of eyes, – darting fire and anger, – we have no beauties. Yet if, despite all these drawbacks, he be still willing to tempthis fortune, and trust to ‘a razzia’ for the rest, let himcall on Count du Verguoble, at the ‘Ministère de la Guerre,’where he will find everything in readiness for hisappointment.“Should he desire it, he can also receive his commission inmy own regiment, the 13th Chasseurs-à-cheval; and as he willnot be called on for duty, he might as well accept anappointment that will at least give him forage for hishorses and some other advantages.
“Send me all the new things that are out, and tell me whatyou and Alphonse are doing. ‘Mes amitiés’ to our fairfriend in the Rue Ponchaule, and the like – indiscriminately – to all the others.
“Yours affectionately,
M. dk St. C.
“You call him ‘Le Comte de Creganne,’ and so I have writtenit for the Minister: is this right?”
I read and re-read the letter till I knew every sentence of it by heart; and then, dressing myself with a degree of care the importance of the occasion suggested, I drove off for the Minister’s office. It was not the hour of his usual reception; but on sending in my name, which I did as Le Comte de Creganne, I was at once admitted.
His Excellency was all smiles and affability, praised his Royal Highness’s selection of a name so greatly honored in literature, and paid me many flattering compliments on my writings, – which, by the way, he confounded with those of half-a-dozen others; and then, after a variety of civil speeches, gently diverged into a modest inquiry as to my native country, rank, and fortune. “We live in days, mon cher Comte,” said he, laughing, “in which high capacity and talent happily take precedence of mere lineage; but still, an illustrious personage has always insisted upon the necessity of those immediately about the person of the princes being of noble families. I am quite aware that you can fulfil every condition of the kind, and only desire such information as may satisfy his Majesty.”
I replied by relating the capture of my property at Malaga, which, among other things, contained all the title-deeds of my estates, and the patent of my nobility. “These alone,” said I, producing the banker’s letters addressed to me as Condé de Cregano, “are all that remain to me now to remind me of my former standing; and although, as born a British subject, I might at once apply to my minister to substantiate my claims, the unhappy events of Ireland which enlisted my family in the ranks of her patriots have made us exiles, – proscribed exiles forever.”
This explanation went further than my previous one. The old French antipathy to England found sympathy for Irish rebellion at once; and after a very brief discussion, my appointment was filled up, and I was named Private Secretary to the Duc de St. Cloud, and Lieutenant in the 13th Regiment of Chasseurs-à-cheval.
A new career had now opened before me, and it was one of all others the most to my choice. The war in Africa had become by that time a kind of crusade; it was the only field where Frenchmen could win fame and honor in arms, and the military fever of the nation was at its height. Into this enthusiasm I threw myself ardently; nor did it need the stimulation derived from a new and most becoming uniform to make me fancy myself a very Bayard in chivalry.
A truly busy week was spent by me in preparations for departure: as I had to be presented at a private audience of the Court, to wait upon various high official personages, to receive instructions on many points, and, lastly, to preside at a parting dinner which I was to give to my literary brethren, before retiring from the guild forever.
Last dinners and leave-takings are generally sad affairs; this of mine was, however, an exception: it was a perfect orgie of wild and enthusiastic gayety. All the beauty which the theatres and the “artiste” class generally could boast, was united with the brilliancy and convivial excellence of the cleverest men in Paris, – the professional sayers of smart things, the ready-witted ones, whose epigrams were sufficient to smash a cabinet, or laugh down a new treaty; and all in high spirits, since what promoted me, also left a vacancy in the corps that gave many others a step in the ranks of letters.
What speeches were made in my honor, what toasts, prefaced by all the exaggeration of praise that would have been fulsome, save for the lurking diablerie of fun that every now and then burst forth in the midst of them! And then there were odes, and sonnets, and songs, in which my future achievements were pictured in a vein half-flattering, half-satirical, – that peculiar eau sucré, with a squeeze of lemon, that only a Frenchman knows how to concoct!
During one of my most triumphant moments, when two of the very prettiest actresses of the “Odéon” were placing a laurel crown upon my brow, a cabinet-messenger was announced, and presented me with an order to repair at once to the Tuileries with my official letter of appointment, as his Majesty, by some accident, had forgotten to append to it his signature. Apologizing to my worthy friends for a brief absence, which they assured me should be devoted to expatiating on those virtues of my character which my presence interdicted them from enlarging upon, I arose, and left the room. It was necessary to arrange the disorder of my dress and appearance, and I made a hurried dressing, bathing my temples in cold water, and composing myself, so far as might be, into a condition fit to meet the eyes of royalty, – two of my friends accompanying me the while, and lending their assistance to my toilet. They at length pronounced me perfect, and I drove off.
Although already past midnight, the King, with several members of the royal family, were seated at tea: two of the ministers, a few general officers, and a foreign ambassador being of the party.
Into this circle, in which there was nothing to inspire awe, save the actual rank of the illustrious personages themselves, I was now introduced by the Minister of War. “Le Comte de Creganne, please your Majesty,” said he, twice, ere the King heard him.
“Ah, very true,” said the King, turning round, and, with a smile of most cordial expression, adding, “My dear Count, it seems I had forgotten to sign your appointment, – a mistake that might have caused you some inconvenience and delay at Algiers. Pray let me amend this piece of forgetfulness.”
I bowed respectfully, and deposited before him the great square envelope, with the huge official seal annexed, that contained my nomination.
“The Princess de Verneuil will be happy to give you some tea, Count,” said the King, motioning me to sit down; and I obeyed, while my heart, beating violently at my side, almost overpowered me with emotion. Only to think of it! – the son of an Irish peasant seated at the family tea-table of a great sovereign, and the princess herself, the daughter of a king, pouring out his tea!
If nothing short of the most consummate effrontery can maintain a cool, unaffected indifference in presence of royalty, there is another frame of mind, indicative of ease and self-possession, perfectly compatible with a kingly presence; and this is altogether dependent on the manner and tone of the sovereign himself. The King – I have heard it was his usual manner – was as free from any assumption of superiority as would be any private gentleman under his own roof; his conversation was maintained in a tone of perfect familiarity with all around him, and even when differing in opinion with any one, there was a degree of almost deference in the way he insinuated his own views.
On this occasion he directed nearly all his attention to myself, and made Ireland the subject, asking a vast variety of questions, chiefly regarding the condition of the peasantry, their modes of life, habits of thinking, education, and future prospects. I saw that my statements were all new to him, that he was not prepared for much that I told him, and he very soon avowed it by saying, “These, I must own, are not the opinions I have usually heard from your countrymen, Count; but I conclude that the opportunities of travel, and the liberalism of thought which intercourse with foreign countries begets, may lead you to take views not quite in accordance with mere stay-at-home politicians.” I could have given him another and more accurate explanation of the difference. It was the first and only time that his Majesty had conversed with the son of a peasant, – one, himself born and bred beneath the thatch of a cabin, and who had felt the very emotions which others merely draw from their imaginations. As it grew late, his Majesty arose, and the Ministers one by one retired, leaving me the only stranger present. “Now, Count, I must not detain you longer; you leave Paris early to-morrow morning, and I should have remembered how large a portion of your night I have monopolized. This paper, – where is it?”
I at once took up the envelope, and drew forth a document; but conceive my horror when I discerned that it was a piece of verse, – a droll song upon my new dignity that one of my villanous companions had stuffed into the envelope in place of my official letter of appointment. Crushing it in my hand, I pulled out another. Worse again! It was the bill-of-fare of our dinner at Very’s, where “entrées” and “hors-d’ouvres, salmis and macédoines,” figured in imposing array. One document still remained, and I drew it out; but as his Majesty’s eyes were this time bent upon me, I had not a moment to see what might be its contents, – indeed, I half suspected the King saw my indecision; and, determining to put a bold face on the matter, I doubled down a blank piece of the paper, and placed it for his Majesty. Apparently his thoughts were wandering in some other direction, for he took up the pen abstractedly, and wrote the words, “Approved by us,” with his name in a routine sort of way that showed he gave no attention to the act whatever.
It was all I could do! To avoid any indecent show of haste in enclosing the paper within the envelope, my hand trembled so that I could scarcely accomplish it. When I had replaced it in my pocket, I felt like a drowning man at the moment he touches land.
The King dismissed me with many flattering speeches, and I returned to Very’s, where my friends were still at table. Resolved not to gratify the triumph of their malice, I affected to have discovered the trick in time to remedy it, and to replace my appointment in its enclosure. Of course the possibility of what might have occurred gave rise to many a droll fancy and absurd conceit, and I plainly saw how very little compunction there would have been for my disaster if a ludicrous scene had ensued between the king and myself.
We separated now, with all the testimonies of sincere affection, – some of my fair friends even wept; and our parting had all the parade and about the same amount of sincerity as a scene in a drama. Paul alone showed any real feeling: he liked me probably because he had served me, – a stronger bond of affection than many people are aware of. “Tell me one thing, Creganne,” cried he, as he shook my hand for the last time, – “we are perhaps never to meet again, life has so many vicissitudes, – tell me frankly, then, if your Mexican history, your riches and gems and gold, your diamonds, your rubies, your doubloons, and your moidores, are not all a humbug, together with your imprisonment in Malaga, and all its consequences?”
“True, every word of it,” said I, impressively.
“Come, come, now, your secret is safe with me. Be open and above-board; say honestly that the whole was a ‘get up.’ I promise you fairly that, if you do, I ‘ll have a higher value for your talents at an episode than I now place upon your lost wealth and your countship to boot.”
“I’m sorry for it,” replied I; “there are few men whose esteem I set more store by. If I could oblige you by becoming a cheat, my regard for you might possibly overmaster my better judgment; but, unhappily, I am what I represent myself, and what I trust one day yet to convince you.” With this we parted. As the diligence drove away, I could see Paul still standing in the same place, evidently unable to resolve the difficult problem of my veraciousness.
And now I am approaching a chapter of my history whose adventures and chances are alone a story in themselves. The varied fortunes of a campaign in a strange land, with strange enemies, new scenes and climate, of course were not without incidents to diversify and interest them; and although I could probably select more passages of curious adventure from this than from any other portion of my life, I am forced to pass by all in silence; and for these reasons: first, the narrative would lead me to a greater length than I have any right to presume upon in this history, or to believe that my reader would be a willing party to; and, secondly, the recital would entail the acquaintance with a vast variety of characters, not one of whom ever again occurred to me in life, and of whom, when I quitted Africa, their very names never were heard by me more. And here I may be pardoned for saying that I have been sadly constrained, in these my Confessions, to avoid, upon the one hand, any mention of those persons who merely exercised a passing influence on my fortunes, and yet to show by what agencies of personal acquaintanceship my character became formed and moulded. In a novel, the world would seem to consist of only the very characters introduced, or, rather, the characters serve as abstractions to represent certain qualities and passions of mankind; but in real life is this the case? Nay, is it not precisely the reverse? Do not the chance intimacies we form in the steamboat or the diligence very frequently leave deep and lasting impressions behind them? Are not phrases remembered, and words treasured up as axioms, that we have heard passingly from those we are never to see again? Of how many of our strongest convictions the origin was mere accident, – ideas dropped like those seeds of distant plants that are borne for thousands of miles upon the wind, and let fall in some far-away land to take root and fructify? And are these the agencies to be omitted when a man would give a “confession” to the world? Why are the letters of an individual his best biography, save as recording his judgment upon passing events or people, with whom, in all likelihood, he has little subsequent connection? But enough of this; I have said sufficient for apology to those who see the difficulty of the case. To those who do not, I have been prolix without being profitable.
Of Africa, then, I must not speak. Three years of its burning sun and parched soil – the life of bivouac and battle – had done the work of ten upon my constitution and appearance. I was bronzed almost to a Moorish tint; a few straggling hairs of gray showed themselves in my dark beard and moustache; while emergencies and hazards of different kinds had imparted a sterner character to my features, that little resembled the careless gayety of my earlier days. In addition to this, I was wounded: a sabre cut received in defending the Prince from an attack of Arab horsemen had severed the muscles of my right arm; and although encouraged to believe that I should yet recover its use, I was for the time, at least, totally disabled, and as incompetent to wield a sword as a pen. A very flattering mention of me in “general orders,” my name recorded in a despatch, and the ribbon of the “Legion,” well rewarded me for these mishaps; and now, as a season of peace intervened, I was about to return to France with the rank of “Chef d’Escadron” and the fame of a distinguished officer. As the Prince, my master, was to make a tour in the provinces before his return to Paris, permission was given me to visit Italy, whither the physician advised me to repair to recruit my strength, before adventuring upon the trials of a more northern climate. The “Duc” overwhelmed me with kind protestations at parting, and gave me a letter to the French Minister at Naples, especially commending me to his friendship, and speaking of my services in terms that my modesty cannot permit me to repeat. Thus was Fortune once more my friend; and could I have but obliterated all memory of the past, and of those fatal riches, – the brief enjoyment of which had given an impulse to all my desires, – I might now have been well contented. High character as a soldier, a certain rank in the service, and the friendship of a Royal Prince, were not trifling advantages to one who had often sued destiny with success, even “in forma pauperis;” still, the “great game” I should have played, as the man of large fortune, was never out of my thoughts, and in secret I resolved to return to Mexico, and, as the phrase has it, “look after my affairs.”
This determination grew more fixed the longer I considered it; and here I may remark that the document to which the King had appended his signature and approval was a statement of my claims on Spain, drawn up by myself, – one of those hundred representations which I made, in idle hours, to while away time and amuse hope. If I was well aware that the signature was obtained by a mere accident, and without knowledge of the contents, I was not deterred from speculating as to what useful purpose it might be employed, – scruples of conscience being of all things in the world those I best knew how to dispose of.
On reaching Naples I discovered that the Envoy to whom my letter was addressed had just been recalled, and in his place a young Secretary of Embassy was officiating, – one of those admirably dressed and inimitably gloved young gentlemen whom France despatches to foreign countries as representatives of her skill in neckcloths and waistcoats, and her incomparable superiority in lacquered leather. Monsieur de Bussenaç was a veritable type of Paris dandyism, – vain, empty, and conceited, with considerable smartness in conversation, and unquestionable personal courage; his life was passed in abusing England and affecting the most ludicrous imitation of all that was English, – in dress, equipage, and livery.
Although my name was not unknown to him, he received me with the condescending courtesy the diplomatist usually assumes in his intercourse with the soldier: protested his regret that the gay season was over, that Naples was thinning every day, that he hardly knew where, or to whom, to present me.
I assured him that pleasure was not among the ambitions of an invalid like myself; but, next to the care of my health, one of my objects in Naples was to press a claim upon the Spanish Government, to which the residence of a Spanish Minister of high rank at that court gave a favorable opportunity; and with this preface I gave a brief history of my loss and imprisonment. The young Chargé d’Affaires looked horridly bored by my story, of which, it was clear, he only heard a very small part; and when I concluded, he made a few notes of my statement, and promised to see the Spanish Ambassador upon it that very day.
I believe that my experience is not a singular one; but from the moment that I announced myself as a person claiming the aid of the “Mission,” the doors of the Embassy were hermetically sealed against me. If I called, “His Excellency” (everything is Excellency to an embassy porter) was either in conference with a colleague, or replying to a despatch, or with the court. If I wrote, my answer was always a polite acknowledgment of my note, and no more. Even when we met passingly in the street, his salute was cold and markedly distant; so that I began to suspect that either he had heard something to my disadvantage among his colleagues, or that he had received some hint respecting me.
I knew if I were to address the Duc de St. Cloud on the subject, that my essenced friend would at once receive a check, and possibly a heavy reprimand; but I was too proud to descend to this, and resolved to right myself without calling in the aid of others. With this intention, I repaired one day to the Mission, and having waited for some time, till I saw a person leave the cabinet, from whom I learned that the Envoy was at home, I advanced to the door. “Out, sir,” said the porter, barring the way. I pushed him aside, with the air of one who was not to be trifled with, and, opening the door, walked in.
