Under a glorious sky, in the year 1869, Paris gathered to rejoice in the centenary of the birth of the First Napoleon. A gathering1 this of mushroom nobility, soldiery and diplomacy2, to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the greatest mushroom that ever sprang to life in the hotbed of internecine3 strife4.
"Adventurers all," said John Turner, the great Paris banker, with whom I was in the Church of the Invalides; "and yonder," he added, indicating the Third Napoleon, "is the cleverest."
We had pushed our way into the gorgeous church, and now rubbed elbows with some that wore epaulettes on peaceful shoulders. There were ladies present, too. Did not the fair beings contribute to the rise and fall of that marvellous Second Empire? Representatives of almost every European power paid homage5 that day to the memory of a little Corsican officer of artillery6.[2]
As for me, I went from motives7 of curiosity, as, no doubt, went many others, if indeed all had so good a call. In my neighbourhood, for instance, stood a stout8 gentleman in court uniform, who wept aloud whenever the organ permitted his grief to be audible.
"Who is that?" I inquired of my companion.
"A Legitimist, who would perhaps accept a Napoleonic post," replied John Turner, in his stout and simple way.
"And is he weeping because the man who was born a hundred years ago is dead?"
"No! He is weeping because that man's nephew may perchance note his emotion."
One could never tell how dense9 or how acute John Turner really was. His round, fat face was always immobile and fleshy—no wrinkle, no movement of lip or eyelid10, ever gave the cue to his inmost thought. He was always good-natured and indifferent—a middle-aged11 bachelor who had found life not hollow, but full—of food.
Nature having given me long legs (wherewith to give the slip to my responsibilities, and also to the bailiffs, as many of my female relatives have enjoyed saying), I could look over the heads of the majority of people present, and so saw the Emperor Napoleon III for the first time in my life. The mind is, after all, a smaller thing than those who deny[3] the existence of that which is beyond their comprehension would have us believe. At that moment I forgot to think of all that lay behind those dull, extinguished eyes. I forgot that this was a maker12 of history, and one who will be placed by chroniclers, writing in the calm of the twentieth century, only second to his greater uncle among remarkable13 Frenchmen, and merely wondered whether Napoleon III perceived the somewhat obtrusive15 emotion of my neighbour in the court uniform.
But a keener observer than myself could scarce have discerned the information on the still, pale features of the Emperor, who, indeed, in his implacability always reminded me more of my own countrymen than of the French. The service was proceeding16 with that cunning rise and fall of voice and music which, I take it, has won not a few emotional souls back to the Mother Church. Suddenly John Turner chuckled17 in a way that fat people have.
"Laughing at your d—d piano-case," he explained.
I had told him shortly before how I had boarded the Calais boat at Dover in the form and semblance18 of a piano, snugly19 housed in one of Messrs. Erard's cases, while my servant engaged in pleasant converse20 on the quay21 the bailiff who had been set to watch for me: this, while they were actually slinging22 me on board. The picture of the[4] surprise of my fellow-passengers when Loomer gravely unscrewed me and I emerged from my travelling-carriage in mid-channel had pleased John Turner vastly. Indeed, he told the story to the end of his days, and even brought that end within hail at times by an over-indulgence in apoplectic23 mirth. He chuckled at it now in the midst of this solemn service. But I, more easily moved perhaps by outward show and pomp, could only think of our surroundings. The excitement of giving my creditors24 the slip was a thing of the past; for those were rapid days, and I no laggard25, as many took care to tell me, on the heel of the flying moment.
The ceremony in which we were taking part was indeed strange enough to rivet26 the attention of any who witnessed it—strange, I take it, as any historical scene of a century that saw the rise and fall of Napoleon I. Strange beyond belief, that this dynasty should arise from ashes as cold as those that Europe heaped on St. Helena's dead, to celebrate the birth of its founder27!
Who would have dared to prophesy28 fifty years earlier that a second Emperor should some day sit upon the throne of France? Who would have ventured to foretell29 that this capricious people, loathing30 as they did in 1815 the name of Buonaparte, should one day choose by universal suffrage31 another of that family to rule over them?[5]
Few of those assembled in the great tomb were of devout32 enough mind to take much heed33 of the service now proceeding at the altar, where the priest droned and the incense34 rose in slow clouds towards the dome35. We all stared at each other freely enough, and in truth the faces of many, not to mention bright uniforms and brilliant names, warranted the abstraction from holy thought and fervour. The old soldiers lining36 the aisle37 had fought, some at Inkerman, some at Solferino, some in Mexico, that land of ill-omen. The generals of all nations, mixing freely in the crowd, bowed grimly enough to each other. They had met before.
It was indeed a strange jumble38 of prince and pauper39, friend and foe40, patriot41 and adventurer. And the face that drew my gaze oftenest was one as still and illegible42 now as it was on the morning of January 11, four years later, when I bowed before it at Chiselhurst.
The Third Napoleon, with eyes that none could read—a quiet, self-possessed43 enigma—passed down the aisle between his ranked soldiers, and the religious part of the day's festivities was over. Paris promised to be en fête while daylight lasted, and at night a display of fireworks of unprecedented44 splendour was to close the festive45 celebration. There is no lighter46 heart than that which beats within the narrow waistcoat of the little Parisian[6] bourgeois47, unless indeed it be that in the trim bodice of madame his wife; and even within the church walls we could hear the sound of merriment in the streets.
When the Emperor had gone we all moved towards the doors of the church, congratulating each other, embracing each other, laughing and weeping all in one breath.
One near to me seized my hand.
"You are English!" he cried.
"I am."
"Then embrace me."
We embraced.
"Waterloo"—he called it Vatterlo—"is forgotten. It is buried in the Crimea," cried this emotional son of Gaul. He was a stout man who had partaken of garlic at déje?ner.
"It is," I answered.
And we embraced again. Then I got away from him. It was gratifying but inexpedient to be an Englishman at that moment, and John Turner, whose clothes were made in Paris, silently denied me and edged away. Others seemed desirous of burying Waterloo also, but I managed the obsequies of that great victory with a shake of the hand.
"Vive l'Empereur!" they cried. "Long live Napoleon!"[7]
And I shouted as loud as any. Whatever one may think, it is always wise to agree with the mob.
On the steps of the church I found John Turner awaiting me.
"Finished embracing your new-found friend?" he asked me, with a shortness which may have been a matter of breath. At all events, it was habitual48 with this well-fed philosopher.
"We were forgetting Waterloo," I answered.
At that moment a merry laugh behind us made me turn. It was not directed towards myself, and was doubtless raised by some incident which had escaped our notice. The mere14 fact that this voice was raised in merriment did not make me wheel round on my heel as if I had been shot. It was the voice itself—some note of sympathy which I seemed to have always known and yet never to have heard until this moment. A strange thing—the reader will think—to happen to a man in his thirties, who had knocked about the world, doing but little good therein, as some are ready and even anxious to relate.
Strange it may be, but it was true. I seemed to have known that voice all my life—and it was only the merry laugh of a heedless girl.
Has any listened to the prattle49 of the schoolroom without hearing at odd moments the tone of some note that is not girlish—the voice of the[8] woman speaking gravely through the chatter50 of the child?
I seemed to hear that note now, and turning, found the owner of the voice within touch of me. She was tall and slim, with a certain fresh immaturity51, which was like the scent52 of the first spring flowers in my own Norfolk woods at home. Flower-like, too, was her face—somewhat long and narrow, with a fair flush on it of youth, health and happiness. The merriest eyes in the world were looking laughingly into the face of an old gentleman at her side, smiling, happy eyes of innocent maidenhood53. And yet here again I saw the woman in the girl. I saw a gracious lady, knowing life, and being yet pure, having learned of good and evil only to remember the good. For the knowledge of evil is like vaccine—it causes disturbance54 only when hidden impurity55 awaits it.
"Come," said John Turner, taking my arm, "no one else wants to forget Waterloo."
I went with him a little. Then I paused.
"Who is the young lady coming down the steps behind us?"
"Old De Clericy and his daughter," he answered. "One of the families that are too old to keep pace with the times."
"WHO IS THE YOUNG LADY COMING DOWN THE STEPS BEHIND
US?" "WHO IS THE YOUNG LADY COMING DOWN THE STEPS BEHIND US?"
[9]
We walked on a little.
"There is a chance for you—wants a secretary," muttered my companion.
"Does he?" I exclaimed, stopping. "Then introduce me."
"Not I."
"Why?"
"Can't introduce a man who came across in a piano-case," he answered, with a laugh, which made me remember that this was a man of station and some standing57 in Paris, while I was but a vagabond and ne'er-do-well.
"Then I'll introduce myself," I said, hastily.
John Turner shrugged58 his broad shoulders and walked on. As for me, I stopped and on the impulse of the moment turned.
Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Clericy were coming slowly towards me, and more than one looked at the fair young girl with a franker admiration59 than I cared about, while she was happily unconscious of it. It would seem that she must lately have left the convent, for the guileless pink and white of that pure life lingered on her face, while her eyes danced with an excitement out of all proportion to the moment. What should she know of Napoleon I, and how rejoice for France when she knew but little of the dark days through which the great general had brought that land?[10]
I edged my way towards them through the crowd without pausing to reflect what I was about to do. I had run away from my creditors, it is true, but was not called upon to work for my living. The Howards had not done much of that, so far as I knew; though many of my ancestors, if one may credit the old portraits at home, had fought for rights, and even wrongs, with considerable spirit and success.
The throng60 was a well-dressed one, and consequently of a cold and evil temper if one worked against it. I succeeded, however, in reaching Monsieur de Clericy and touched his arm. He turned hastily, as one possessing foes61 as well as friends, and showed me a most benevolent62 countenance63, kindly64 and sympathetic even when accosted65 by a total stranger.
"Monsieur de Clericy?" I asked.
"But yes. Am I happy enough to be able to do anything for Monsieur?"
He spoke67 in a high, thin voice that was almost childlike, and a feeling of misgiving68 ran through me that one so young and inexperienced as Mademoiselle de Clericy should be abroad on such a day with no better escort than this old man.
"Pardon my addressing you," I said, "but I[11] hear that you are seeking a secretary. I only ask permission to call at your hotel and apply for the post."
"But, mon grand monsieur," he said with a delightful69 playfulness, spreading out his hands in recognition of my height and east-country bulk, "this is no time to talk of affairs. To-day we are at pleasure."
"Not all, Monsieur; some are busy enough," I replied, handing him my card, which he held close to his eyes, after the manner of one who has never possessed long or keen sight.
"What determination!" he exclaimed, with an old man's tolerance70. "Mon Dieu! these English allies of ours!"
"Well!" he said, after a pause, "if Monsieur honours me with such a request, I shall be in and at your service from ten o'clock to-morrow morning."
He felt in his pocket and handed me a card with courtesy. It was quite refreshing71 to meet such a man in Paris in 1869—so na?ve, so unassuming, so free from that aggressive self-esteem which characterized Frenchmen before the war. Since I had arrived in the capital under the circumstances that amused John Turner so consumedly, I had been tempted72 to raise my fist in the face of every second flaneur I met on the boulevard.
Again I joined my English friend, who was[12] standing where I had left him, looking around him with a stout, good-natured tolerance.
"Well," he asked, "have you got the situation?"
"No; but I am going to call to-morrow morning at ten o'clock and obtain it."
"Umph!" said John Turner; "I did not know you were such a scoundrel."
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1
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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2
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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3
internecine
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| adj.两败俱伤的 | |
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4
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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5
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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6
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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7
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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9
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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10
eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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11
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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12
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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13
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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14
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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15
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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16
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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17
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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19
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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20
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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21
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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22
slinging
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| 抛( sling的现在分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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23
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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24
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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25
laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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26
rivet
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| n.铆钉；vt.铆接，铆牢；集中(目光或注意力) | |
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27
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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28
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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29
foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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30
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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31
suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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32
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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33
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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34
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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35
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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36
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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37
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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38
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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39
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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40
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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41
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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42
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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43
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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44
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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45
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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46
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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47
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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48
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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49
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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50
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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51
immaturity
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| n.不成熟；未充分成长；未成熟；粗糙 | |
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52
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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53
maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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54
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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55
impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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56
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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57
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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58
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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59
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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60
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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61
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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62
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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63
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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64
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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65
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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66
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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67
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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68
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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69
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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70
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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71
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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72
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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