Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume II

In the handsomest part of the Chaussée d’Antin, surrounded on every side by the splendid palaces and gorgeous mansions of the wealthiest inhabitants of Paris, stands a small, isolated, modest edifice, more like a Roman villa than the house of some northern capital, in the midst of a park; one of those pleasure-grounds which the French – Heaven knows why – designate as “Jardin Anglais.” The outer gate opens on the Rue Chantereine, and here to this hour you may trace, among the time-worn and dilapidated ornaments, some remnants of the strange figures which once decorated the pediment: weapons of various ages and countries, grouped together with sphinxes and Egyptian emblems; the faint outlines of pyramids, the peaceful-looking ibis, are there, among the helmets and cuirasses, the massive swords and the death-dealing arms of our modern warfare. In the midst of all, the number 52 stands encircled with a little garland of leaves; but even they are scarce distinguishable now, and the number itself requires the aid of faith to detect it.

Within, the place speaks of neglect and decay; the shrubs are broken and uncared-for; the parterres are weed-grown; a few marble pedestals rise amid the rank grass, to mark where statues once stood, but no other trace of them remains: the very fountain itself is fissured and broken, and the water has worn its channel along the herbage, and ripples on its wayward course unrestrained. The villa is almost a ruin, the sashes have fallen in in many places; the roof, too, has given way, and fragments of the mirrors which once decorated the walls lie strewn upon the floor with pieces of rare marble. Wherever the eye turns, some emblem of the taste of its former occupant meets you. Some fresco, Stained with damp, and green with mildew; some rustic bench, beneath a spreading tree, where the view opens more boldly; but all are decayed. The inlaid floors are rotting; the stuccoed ceilings, the richly-carved architraves, fall in fragments as your footsteps move; and the doomed walls themselves seem scarce able to resist the rude blast whose wailing cadence steals along them.

Oh, how tenfold more powerfully are the memories of the dead preserved by the scenes they habited while in life, than by the tombs and epitaphs that cover their ashes! How do the lessons of one speak home to the heart, calling up again, before the mind’s eye, the very images themselves! not investing them with attributes our reason coldly rejects.

I know not the reason that this villa has been suffered thus to lapse into utter ruin, in the richest quarter of so splendid a city. I believe some long-contested litigation had its share in the causes. My present business is rather with its past fortunes; and to them I will now return.

It was on a cold dark morning of November, in the year 1799, that the street we have just mentioned, then called the Rue de la Victoire, became crowded with equipages and horsemen; cavalcades of generals and their staffs, in full uniform, arrived and were admitted within the massive gateway, before which, now, groups of curious and inquiring gazers were assembled, questioning and guessing as to the unusual spectacle. The number of led horses that paraded the street, the long lines of carriages on either side, nearly filled the way; still there reigned a strange, unaccountable stillness, among the crowd, who, as if appalled by the very mystery of the scene, repressed their ordinary tumult, and waited anxiously to watch the result.

Among the most interested spectators were the inhabitants of the neighbouring houses, who saw, for the first time in their lives, their quiet quarter the scene of such excitement. Every window was filled with faces, all turned towards that portal which so seldom was seen to open in general; for they who dwelt there had been more remarkable for the retirement and privacy of their habits than for aught else.

At each arrival the crowd separated to permit the equipage to approach the gate; and then might be heard the low murmur – for it was no louder – of “Ha! that’s Lasalle. See the mark of the sabre wound on his cheek!” Or, “Here comes Angereau! You’d never think that handsome fellow, with the soft eye, could be such a tiger.” “Place there! place for Colonel Savary!” “Ah, dark Savary! we all know him.”

Stirring as was the scene without, it was far inferior to the excitement that prevailed within the walls. There, every path and avenue that led to the villa were thronged with military men, walking or standing together in groups, conversing eagerly, and with anxious looks, but cautiously withal, and as though half fearing to be overheard.

Through the windows of the villa might be seen servants passing and repassing in haste, arranging the preparations for a magnificent déjeûné– for on that morning the generals of division and the principal military men in Paris were invited to breakfast with one of their most distinguished companions – General Buonaparte.

Since his return from Egypt, Buonaparte had been living a life of apparent privacy and estrangement from all public affairs. The circumstances under which he had quitted the army under his command – the unauthorised mode of his entry into France, without recall, without even permission – had caused his friends considerable uneasiness on his behalf, and nothing short of the unobtrusive and simple habits he maintained had probably saved him from being called on to account for his conduct.

They, however, who themselves were pursuing the career of ambition, were better satisfied to see him thus, than hazard any thing by so bold an expedient. They believed that he was only great at the head of his legions; and they felt a triumphant pleasure at the obscurity into which the victor of Lodi and the Pyramids had fallen when measured with themselves. They witnessed, then, with sincere satisfaction, the seeming indolence of his present life. They watched him in those soirées which Madame Buonaparte gave, enjoying his repose with such thorough delight – those delightful evenings, the most brilliant for all that wit, intellect, and beauty can bestow; which Talleyrand and Sieyes, Fouché, Carnot, Lemercier, and a host of others frequented; and they dreamed that his hour of ambition was over, and that he had fallen into the inglorious indolence of the retired soldier.

While the greater number of the guests strolled listlessly through the little park, a small group sat in the vestibule of the villa, whose looks of impatience were ever turned towards the door from which their host was expected to enter. One of those was a tall, slight man, with a high but narrow forehead, dark eyes, deeply buried in his head, and overshadowed by long, heavy lashes; his face was pale, and evinced evident signs of uneasiness, as he listened, without ever speaking, to those about him. This was General Moreau. He was dressed in the uniform of a General of the day: the broad-skirted embroidered coat, the half-boot, the embroidered tricolour scarf, and a chapeau with a deep feather trimming – a simple, but a handsome costume, and which well became his well-formed figure. Beside him sat a large, powerfully-built man, whose long black hair, descending in loose curls on his neck and back, as well as the jet-black brilliancy of his eye and deep olive complexion, bespoke a native of the South. Though his dress was like Moreau’s, there was a careless jauntiness in his air, and a reckless “abandon” in his manner, that gave the costume a character totally different. The very negligence of his scarf-knot was a type of himself; and his thickly-uttered French, interspersed here and there with Italian phrases, shewed that Murat cared little to cull his words. At his left was a hard-featured, stern-looking man, in the uniform of the Dragoons – this was Andreossy; and opposite, and leaning on a sofa, was General Lannes. He was pale and sickly; he had risen from a bed of illness to be present, and lay with half-closed lids, neither noticing nor taking interest in what went on about him.

At the window stood Marmont, conversing with a slight but handsome youth, in the uniform of the Chasseurs. Eugène Beauharnois was then but twenty-two, but even at that early age displayed the soldier-like ardour which so eminently distinguished him in after-life.

At length the door of the salon opened, and Buonaparte, dressed in the style of the period, appeared; his cheeks were sunk and thin; his hair, long, flat, and silky, hung straight down at either side of his pale and handsome face, in which now one faint tinge of colour marked either cheek. He saluted the rest with a warm shake of the hand, and then stooping down, said to Murat: —

“But Bernadotte – where is he?”

“Yonder,” said Murat, carelessly pointing to a group outside the terrace, where a tall, fine-looking man, dressed in plain clothes, and without any indication of the soldier in his costume, stood in the midst of a knot of officers.

“Ha! General,” said Napoleon, advancing towards him; “you are not in uniform. How comes this?”

“I am not on service,” was the cold reply.

“No, but you soon shall be,” said Buonaparte, with an effort at cordiality of manner.

“I do not anticipate it,” rejoined Bernadotte, with an expression at once firm and menacing.

Buonaparte drew him to one side gently, and while he placed his arm within his, spoke to him with eagerness and energy for several minutes; but a cold shake of the head, without one word in reply, was all that he could obtain.

“What!” exclaimed Buonaparte, aloud, so that even the others heard him – “what! are you not convinced of it? Will not this Directory annihilate the Revolution? have we a moment to lose? The Council of Ancients are met to appoint me Commander-in-chief of the Army; – go, put on your uniform, and join me at once.”

“I will not join a rebellion,” was the insolent reply.

Buonaparte shrunk back and dropped his arm, then rallying in a moment, added, —

“‘Tis well; you’ll at least remain here until the decree of the Council is issued.”

“Am I, then, a prisoner?” said Bernadotte, with a loud voice.

“No, no; there is no question of that kind: but pledge me your honour to undertake nothing adverse to me in this affair.”

“As a mere citizen, I will not do so,” replied the other; “but if I am ordered by a sufficient authority, I warn you.”

“What do you mean, then, as a mere citizen!”

“That I will not go forth into the streets, to stir up the populace; nor into the barracks, to harangue the soldiers.”

“Enough; I am satisfied. As for myself, I only desire to rescue the Republic; that done, I shall retire to Malmaison, and live peaceably.”

A smile of a doubtful, but sardonic character, passed over Bernadotte’s features as he heard these words, while he turned coldly away, and walked towards the gate. “What, Augureau! thou here?” said he, as he passed along, and with a contemptuous shrug he moved forward, and soon gained the street. And truly, it seemed strange that he, the fiercest of the Jacobins, the General who made his army assemble in clubs and knots to deliberate during the campaign of Italy, that he should now lend himself to uphold the power of Buonaparte!

Meanwhile, the salons were crowded in every part, party succeeding party at the tables; where, amid the clattering of the breakfast and the clinking of glasses, the conversation swelled into a loud and continued din. Fouché, Berthier, and Talleyrand, were also to be seen, distinguishable by their dress, among the military uniforms; and here now might be heard the mingled doubts and fears, the hopes and dreads of each, as to the coming events; and many watched the pale, care-worn face of Bourienne, the secretary of Buonaparte, as if to read in his features the chances of success; while the General himself went from room to room, chatting confidentially with each in turn, recapitulating as he went the phrase, “The country is in danger!” and exhorting all to be patient, and wait calmly for the decision of the Council, which could not, now, be long of coming.

As they were still at table, M. Carnet, the deputation of the Council, entered, and delivered into Buonaparte’s hands the sealed packet, from which he announced to the assembly that the legislative bodies had been removed to St. Cloud, to avoid the interruption of popular clamour, and that he, General Buonaparte, was named Commander-in-chief of the Army, and intrusted with the execution of the decree.

This first step had been effected by the skilful agency of Sieyes and Roger Ducos, who spent the whole of the preceding night in issuing the summonses for a meeting of the Council to such as they knew to be friendly to the cause they advocated. All the others received theirs too late; forty-two only were present at the meeting, and by that fragment of the Council the decree was passed.

When Buonaparte had read the document to the end, he looked around him on the fierce, determined faces, bronzed and seared in many a battle-field, and said, “My brothers in arms, will you stand by me here?”

“We will! we will!” shouted they, with one roar of enthusiasm.

“And thou, Lefebvre, did I hear thy voice there?”

“Yes, General; to the death I’m yours.”

Buonaparte unbuckled the sabre he wore at his side, and placing it in Lefebvre’s hands, said, “I wore this at the Pyramids; it is a fitting present from one soldier to another. Now, then, to horse!”

The splendid cortège moved along the grassy alleys to the gate, outside which, now, three regiments of cavalry and three battalions of the 17th were drawn up. Never was a Sovereign, in all his pride of power, surrounded with a more gorgeous staff. The conquerors of Italy, Germany, and Egypt, the greatest warriors of Europe, were there grouped around him – whose glorious star, even then, shone bright above him.

Scarcely had Buonaparte issued forth into the street than, raising his hat above his head, he called aloud, “Vive la République!” The troops caught up the cry, and the air rang with the wild cheers.

At the head of this force, surrounded by the Generals, he rode slowly along towards the Tuileries, at the entrance to the gardens of which stood Carnet, dressed in his robe of senator-in-waiting, to receive him. Four Colonels, his aides-de-camp, marched in front of Buonaparte, as he entered the Hall of the Ancients – his walk was slow and measured, and his air studiously respectful.

The decree being read, General Buonaparte replied in a few broken phrases, expressive of his sense of the confidence reposed in him: the words came with difficulty, and he spoke like one abashed and confused. He was no longer in front of his armed legions, whose war-worn looks inspired the burning eloquence of the camp – those flashing images, those daring flights, suited not the cold assembly, in whose presence he now stood – and he was ill at ease and disconcerted. It was only, at length, when turning to the Generals who pressed on after him, he addressed the following words, that his confidence in himself came back, and that he felt himself once more, —

“This is the Republic we desire to have – and this we shall have; for it is the wish of those who now stand around me.”

The cries of “Vive la République!” burst from the officers at once, as they waved their chapeaux in the air, mingled with louder shouts of “Vive le Général!”

If the great events of the day were now over with the Council, they had only begun with Buonaparte.

“Whither now, General?” said Lefebvre, as he rode to his side.

“To the guillotine, I suppose,” said Andreossy, with a look of sarcasm.

“We shall see that,” was the cold answer of Buonaparte, while he gave the word to push forward to the Luxembourg.

This was but the prologue, and now began the great drama, the greatest, whether for its interest or its actors – that ever the world has been called to witness.

We all know the sequel, if sequel that can be called which our own days would imply is but the prologue of the piece!

CHAPTER XI. Villa Scalviati, near Florence

I have had a night of ghostly dreams and horrors; the imagination of Monk Lewis, or, worse, of Hoffman himself, never conceived any thing so diabolical. H., who visited me last evening, by way of interesting me related the incidents of a dreadful murder enacted in the very room I slept in. There was a reality given to the narrative by the presence of the scene itself – the ancient hangings still on the walls – the antique chairs and cabinets standing, as they had done, when the deed of blood took place; but, more than all, by the marble bust of the murderess herself: for it was a woman, singularly beautiful, young, and of the highest rank, who enacted it. The story is this: —

The Villa, which originally was in possession of the Medici family, and subsequently of the Strozzi’s, was afterwards purchased by Count Juliano, one of the most distinguished of the Florentine nobility.

With every personal advantage – youth, high station, and immense wealth, he was married to one his equal in every respect, and might thus have seemed an exception to the lot of humanity, his life realising, as it were, every possible element of happiness. Still he was not happy; amid all the voluptuous enjoyments of a life passed in successive pleasures, the clouded brow and drooping eye told that some secret sorrow preyed upon him, and that his gay doublet in all its bravery covered a sad and sorrowing heart. His depression was generally attributed to the fact that, although now married three years, no child had been born to their union, or any likelihood that he should leave an heir to his great name and fortune. Not even to his nearest friends, however, did any confession admit this cause of sorrow; nor to the Countess, when herself lamenting over her childless lot, did he seem to shew any participation in the grief.

The love of solitude, the desire to escape from all society, and pass hours, almost days, alone in a tower, the only admittance to which was by a stair from his own chamber, had now grown upon him to that extent, that his absence was regarded as a common occurrence by the guests of the castle, nor even excited a passing notice from any one. If others ceased to speculate on the Count’s sorrow, and the daily aversion he exhibited to mixing with the world, the Countess grew more and more eager to discover the source. All her blandishments to win his secret from him were, however, in vain; vague answers, evasive replies, or direct refusals to be interrogated, were all that she met with, and the subject was at length abandoned, – at least by these means.

Accident, however, disclosed what all her artifice had failed in – the key of the secret passage to the tower, and which the Count never entrusted to any one, fell from his pocket one day, when riding from the door; the Countess eagerly seized it, and guessing at once to what it belonged, hastened to the Count’s chamber.

The surmise was soon found to be correct; in a few moments she had entered the winding stairs, passing up which, she reached a small octagon chamber at the summit of the tower. Scarcely had her eager eyes been thrown around the room, when they fell upon a little bed, almost concealed beneath a heavy canopy of silk, gorgeously embroidered with the Count’s armorial bearings. Drawing rudely aside the hangings, she beheld the sleeping figure of a little boy, who, even in his infantine features, recalled the handsome traits of her husband’s face. The child started and awoke with the noise, and looking wildly up, cried out, “Papa;” and then suddenly changing his utterance, said, “Mamma.” Almost immediately, however, discovering his error, he searched with anxious eyes around the chamber for those he was wont to see beside him.

“Who are you?” said the Countess, in a voice that trembled with the most terrible conflict of terror and jealousy, excited to the verge of madness. “Who are you?”

“Il Conte Juliano,” said the child, haughtily; and shewing at the same time a little medallion of gold embroidered on his coat, and displaying the family arms of the Julianos.

“Come with me, then, and, see your father’s castle,” said the Countess; and she lifted him from the bed, and led him down the steps of the steep stairs into, her husband’s chamber.

It was the custom of the period, that the lady, no matter how exalted her rank, should with her own hands arrange the linen which composed her husband’s toilet, and this service was never permitted to be discharged by any less exalted member of the household. When the Count returned, toward night-fall, he hastened to his room – an invitation, or command, to dine at the Court that day compelling him to dress with all speed. He asked for the Countess as he passed up the stairs, but paid no attention to the reply, for as he entered his chamber he found she had already performed the accustomed office, and that the silver basket, with its snow-white contents, lay ready to his hand. With eager haste he proceeded to dress, and took up the embroidered shirt before him. When, horror of horrors! there lay beneath it the head of his child, severed from the body, still warm and bleeding – the dark eyes glaring as if with but half-extinguished life, the lips parted as if yet breathing! One cry of shrill and shrieking madness was heard through every vaulted chamber of that vast castle; the echoes were still ringing with it as the maddened father tore wildly from chamber to chamber in search of the murderess. She had quitted the castle on horseback two hours before. Mounting his swiftest horse he followed her from castle to castle; the dreadful chase continued through the night and the next day; a few hours of terrible slumber refreshed him again to pursue her; and thus he wandered over the Apennines and the vast plain beyond them, days, weeks, months long, till in a wild conflict of his baffled vengeance and insanity he died! She was never heard of more!

Such is the horrid story of the chamber in which I sit; her bust, that of a lovely and gentle girl, fast entering into womanhood, is now before me; the forehead and the brows are singularly fine; the mouth alone reveals any thing of the terrible nature within; the lips are firm and compressed – the under one drawn slightly – very slightly – backward. The head itself is low, and, for the comfort of phrenologists, sadly deficient in “veneration.” The whole character of the face is, however, beautiful, and of a classic order. It is horrible to connect the identity with a tale of blood.

With this terrible tragedy still dwelling on my mind, and the features of her who enacted it, I fell asleep. The room in which I lay had witnessed the deed. The low portal in the corner, concealed behind the arras, led to the stairs of the tower; the deep window in the massive wall looked out upon the swelling landscape over which she fled, and he, in mad fury, pursued her: these, were enough to seize and hold the mind, and, blending the actual with the past, to make up a vision of palpable reality. Oftentimes did I start from sleep. Now, it was the fancy of a foot upon the tower stair; now, a child’s fairy step upon the terrace overhead; now, I heard, in imagination, the one, wild, fearful cry, uttered as if the reeling senses could endure no more! At last I found it better to rise and sit by the window, so overwrought and excited had my brain become. Day was breaking, not in the cold grey of a northern dawn, but in a rich glow of violet-coloured light, which, warmer on the mountain-tops, gradually merged into a faint pinkish hue upon the lesser hills, and became still fainter in the valleys and over the city itself. A light, gauzy mist, tracked out in the air the course of the Arno; but so frail was this curtain, that the sun’s rays were already rending and scattering its fragments, giving through the breaches bright peeps of villas, churches, and villages on the mountain sides: the great dome, too, rose up in solemn grandeur; and the tall tower of Santa Croce stood, sentinel like, over the sleeping city. Already the low sounds of labour, awakening to its daily call, were heard; the distant rumbling of the heavy waggon, the crashing noise of branches, as the olive-trees beside the road brushed against the lumbering teams; and, further off, the cheering voices of the boatmen, whose fast barks were hurrying along the rapid Arno; – all pleasant sounds, for they spoke of life and movement, of active minds and labouring hands, the only bulwarks against the corroding thoughts that eat into the sluggish soul of indolence.

For this fair scene – these fresh and balmy odours – this brilliant blending of blue sky and rosy earth, I could unsay all that I have said of Florence, and own, that it is beautiful! I could wish to sit here many mornings to come, and enjoy this prospect as now I do. Vain thought! as if I could follow my mind to the contemplation of the fair scene, and so rove away in fancy to all that I have dreamed of, have loved and cared for, have trusted and been deceived in!

I must be up and stirring – my time grows briefer. This hand, whose blue veins stand out like knotted cordage, is fearfully attenuated; another day or two, perhaps, the pen will be too much fatigue; and I have still “Good-by,” to say to many – friends? – ay, the word will serve as well as another. I have letters to write – some to read over once again; some to burn without reading. This kind of occupation – this “setting one’s house in order,” for the last time – is like a rapid survey taken of a whole life, a species of overture, in which fragments of every air of the piece enter, the gay and cheerful succeeded by the sad and plaintive, so fast as almost to blend the tones together; and is not this mingled strain the very chord that sounds through human life?

Here, then, for my letter-box. What have we here? – a letter from the Marquis of D – , when he believed himself high in ministerial favour, and in a position to confer praise or censure: —

“Carlton Club.

“Dear Tempy,

“Your speech was admirable – first-rate; the quotation from Horace, the neatest thing I ever heard; and astonishing, because so palpably unpremeditated. Every one I’ve met is delighted, and all say that, with courage and the resolve to succeed, the prize is your own. I go to Ireland, they say, or Paris. The latter if I can; the former if I must. In either case, will you promise to come with me? The assurance of this would be a very great relief to

“Yours, truly,

“D – .”

What have we pinned to the back of this? Oh, a few lines in pencil from Sir C – S – , received, I see, the same evening.

“Dear T.,

“Sir H – is not pleased with your speech, although he owns it was clever. The levity he disliked, because he will not give D – any pretence for continuing this system of personalities. The bit of Horace had been better omitted; Canning used the same lines once before, and the réchauffée– if it were such – was poor. The Marquis of D – was twice at Downing Street, to say that he had ‘crammed’ you. This, of course, no one believes; but he takes the merit of your speech to himself, and claims high reward in consequence. He asks for an Embassy! This is what Lord L – calls ‘too bad.’ Come over tomorrow before twelve o’clock.

“Believe me yours,

“C – S – .”

Another of the same date: —

“Go in and win, old boy! You’ve made capital running, and for the start too – distanced the knowing ones, and no mistake! The odds are seven to four that you’re in the Cabinet before the Derby day. I’ve taken equal fifties that Tramp wins the Goodwood, and that you’re in – double event. So look out sharp, and don’t baulk “Yours ever,

“Frank Lushington.”

A fourth, tied in the same piece of riband: —

“Wilson Crescent.

“Dear Friend,

“We have just heard of your success. Brilliant and fascinating as it must be, do not forget those who long to share your triumph. Come over here at once. We waited supper till two; and now we are sitting here, watching every carriage, and opening the window at every noise in the street. Come then, and quickly.

“Augusta Beverly.”

And here is the last of the batch: —

“The D – of B – presents his compliments to Mr. Templeton, and begs to inform him that his ancestor was not the Marquis of T – who conducted the negotiations at Malaga;’ neither were ‘thirty thousand pounds voted by the last Parliament to the family by way of secret service for parliamentary support,’ but in compensation for two patent offices abolished – Inspectorship of Gold Mines, and Ordnance Comptrollership. And, lastly, that ‘Infamous speech,’ so pathetically alluded to, was made at a private theatrical meeting at Lord Mudbury’s in Kent, and not ‘on the hustings,’ as Mr. T. has asserted.”

So much for one event, and in itself a trivial one! Who shall say that any act of his life is capable of exciting even an approach to unanimous praise or censure? This speech, which on one side won me the adhesion of some half-dozen clubs, the praise of a large body of the Upper House, the softest words that the “beauty of the season” condescended to utter, brought me, on the other, the coldness of the Minister, the chilling civility of mock admiration, and lost me the friendship – in House of Commons parlance – of the leading member of the Government!

And here is a strange, square-shaped epistle, signed in the corner, “Martin Haverstock.” This rough-looking note was my first step in Diplomacy! I was a very young attaché to the mission at Florence, when, on returning to England through Milan, I was robbed of my trunk, and with it of all the money I possessed for my journey. It was taken by a process very well known in Italy, being cut off from the back of the carriage, not improbably, with the concurrence of the driver. However that might be, I arrived at the “Angelo d’Oro” without a sou. Having ordered a room, I sat down by myself, hungry and penniless, not having a single acquaintance at Milan, nor the slightest idea how to act in the emergency. My very passport was gone, so that I had actually nothing to authenticate my position – not even my name.