Part 27 (1/2)
he growled, ”very clever fellow.” And then, in short jerky sentences, he told me the whole of the story, asking my opinion as to who was right and who was wrong. I told him frankly that I thought that the young diplomatist was right. ”That's what I think,” he spluttered; ”but you'll admit that it is d----d annoying to be wrong.”
It would be wrong to infer that the marshal, though deficient as a strategist, was the rough-and-ready soldier, indifferent to more cultured pursuits, as so many of his fellow-officers were. He was very fond of certain branches of science, and rarely missed a meeting of the scientific section of the Academie, of which he was a member. What attracted him most, however, was astronomy; next to that came entomology and botany. Still, though an enthusiast, and often risking a cold to observe an astral phenomenon, he objected to wasting thousands of pounds for a similar purpose; in fact, when it came to disbursing government money for a scientific or other vaguely defined purpose, his economic tendencies got the better of him. ”I am a very interesting scientific phenomenon myself,” he used to say, ”or, at any rate, I was; and yet no one spent any money to come and see me.”
He was alluding to a fact which he often told me himself, and afterwards narrated in his ”memoirs.”
”For a long while, especially from 1818 to 1830, when the weather happened to be very dry and cold, and when I returned to my grateless, humble room, after having spent the day in heated apartments, I was both the spectator and the medium of strange electrical phenomena.
”The moment I had undressed and stood in my s.h.i.+rt, the latter began to crackle and became absolutely luminous, emitting a lot of sparks; the tails stuck together, and remained like that for some time.”
I asked him, on one occasion, whether he had ever communicated all this to scientific authorities. His answer, though not a direct one to my question, was not only very characteristic of the mental and moral att.i.tude of the soldiers of the Empire towards the Bourbons, but, to a great extent, of the att.i.tude of the Bourbons themselves towards everybody and everything that was not absolutely in accordance with the policy, sociology, and religious tenets of their adherents, whether laymen or priests.
”You must remember, my dear fellow,” he replied, ”the regime under which we lived when I was subject to those electrical manifestations; you must further remember that I had fought at Ligny and at Waterloo, and, though not absolutely put on the retired list in 1815, I and the rest of the Emperor's soldiers were watched, and our most innocent acts construed into so many small attempts at conspiracy. You have not the slightest idea what the police were like under the Restauration, let alone the priesthood. If I couple these two, I am not speaking at random. If I had communicated the things I told you of, to no matter what savant, he would necessarily have published the result of his observations and experiments, and do you know what would have happened? I should have been tried, and perhaps condemned, for witchcraft--yes, for witchcraft,--or else I should have been taken hold of by the priests, not as a scientific phenomenon, but as a religious one, a kind of _stigmatise_. They would have made it out to their satisfaction that I was either half a saint, or a whole devil, and in either case my life would have become a burden to me. Only those who have lived under the Bourbons can form an idea of the terrorizing to which they lent themselves. People may tell you that they were kind and charitable, and this, that, and the other. There never were greater tyrants than they were at heart; and if the Duc d'Angouleme or the Comte de Chambord had come to the throne, France would have sunk to the intellectual level of Spain. I would sooner see the most G.o.dless republic than a return of that state of things, and I need not tell you that I firmly believe that not a sparrow falls to the earth without G.o.d's will. No, I held my tongue about my electrical sensations; if I had not, you would not now be talking to Marshal Vaillant--I should have become a jabbering idiot, if I had lived long enough.” It is the longest speech I have ever heard the marshal make.
The marshal's own rooms were simply crammed with cases full of beetles, b.u.t.terflies, etc. The s.p.a.ce not taken up by these was devoted to herbariums; and in the midst of the most interesting conversation--interesting to the listener especially, for the old soldier was an inexhaustible mine of anecdote--he, the listener, would be invited to look at a bit of withered gra.s.s or a wriggling caterpillar.
After the Franco-Austrian war, there was an addition to the marshal's household--I might say family, for the old man became as fond of Brusca as if she had been a human being. The story went that she had been bequeathed to him at Solferino by her former master, an Austrian general; and the marshal did not deny it. At any rate, he found Brusca sitting by the dying man, and licking the blood oozing from his wounds.
Brusca was not much to look at, and you might safely have defied a committee of the most eminent authorities on canine breeds to determine hers, but she was very intelligent, and of a most affectionate disposition. Nevertheless, she was always more or less distant with civilians: it took me many years to worm myself into her good graces, and I am almost certain that I was the only _pekin_ thus favoured. The very word made her p.r.i.c.k up her ears, show her teeth, and straighten her tail as far as she could. For the appendage did not lend itself readily to the effort; it was in texture like that of a colley or Pomeranian, and twisted like that of a pug. Curiously enough, her objection to civilians did not extend to the female portion, but the sight of a blouse drove her frantic with rage. On such occasions, she had to be chained up. As a rule, however, Brusca's manifestations, whether of pleasure or the reverse, were uttered in a minor key and unaccompanied by any change of position on her part. She mostly lay at the marshal's feet, if she was not perched on the back of his chair, for Brusca was not a large dog. She accompanied the marshal in his walks and drives, she sat by his side at table, she slept on a rug at the foot of his bed.
Now and then she took a gentle stroll through the apartment, carefully examining the dried plants and beetles. But one day, or rather one evening, there was a complete change in her behaviour: it was at one of the marshal's receptions, on the occasion of Emperor Francis-Joseph's visit to Paris. Some of the officers of his Majesty's suite had been invited, and at the sight of the, to her, once familiar uniforms her delight knew no bounds. She was standing at the top of the landing when she caught sight of them, and all those present thought for a moment that the creature was going mad. As a matter of course, Brusca was not allowed to come into the reception-rooms, but on that night there was no keeping her out. Locked up in the marshal's bedroom, she made the place ring with her barks and yells, and they had to let her out. With one bound she was in the drawing-rooms, and for three hours she did not leave the side of the Austrian officers. When they took their departure, Brusca was perfectly ready, nay eager, to abandon her home and her fond master for their sake, and had to be forcibly prevented from doing so. The marshal did not know whether to cry or to laugh, but in the end he felt ready to forgive Brusca for her contemplated desertion of him in favour of her countrymen. Some one who objected to the term got the snub direct. ”Je maintiens ce que j'ai dit, compatriotes; et je serais rudement fier d'avoir une compatriote comme elle.”
If possible, Brusca from that moment rose in the marshal's estimation; she was a perfect paragon. ”Cette chienne n'a pas seulement toutes les qualites de son genre, elle n'a meme pas les vices de son s.e.xe. Elle m'aime tellement bien qu'elle ne veut etre distraite par aucun autre amour. Elle vit dans le plus rigoureux celibat. La malheureuse,” he said every now and then, ”elle a failli se compromettre.”
In spite of the marshal's boast about Brusca's morals, he was one day compelled to admit a faux pas on her part, and for some weeks the ”vet”
had an anxious time for it. ”Elle a mal tourne, mais que voulez-vous, je ne vais pas l'abandonner.” And when the crisis was over: ”Son incartade ne lui a pas porte bonheur. Esperons que la lecon lui profitera.”
Brusca had her portrait painted by the ”Michael-Angelo of dogs,” Jadin, and when it was finished the visitors were given an opportunity of admiring it in the drawing-room, where it was on view for several consecutive Tuesdays. After that, a great many of the marshal's familiars, supposed to be capable of doing justice to Brusca's character in verse, were appealed to, to write her panegyric, but though several Academicians tried their hands, their lucubrations were not deemed worthy to be inscribed on the frame of Brusca's portrait, albeit that one or two--the first in Greek--were engrossed on vellum, and adorned the drawing-room table. The effusion that did eventually adorn the frame was by an anonymous author--it was shrewdly suspected that it was by the marshal himself, and ran as follows:--
”Si je suis pres de lui, c'est que je le merite.
Revez mon sort brilliant; revez, ambitieux!
Du bien de mon maitre en ami je profite, J'aimerais son pain noir s'il etait malheureux.”
Another peculiarity of Marshal Vaillant was never to accept a letter not prepaid or insufficiently paid. The rule was so strictly enforced, both in his private and official capacity, that many a valuable report was ruthlessly refused, and had to be traced afterwards through the various post-offices of Europe.
Seven times out of ten the marshal, when travelling by himself, missed his train. This would lead one to infer that he was unpunctual; on the contrary, he was the spirit of punctuality. Unfortunately, he over-did the thing. He generally reached the station half an hour or three-quarters before the time, seated himself down in a corner, dozed off, and did not wake up until it was too late. The marshal was a native of Dyon; and at Nuits, situated between the former town and Beaune, there lived a middle-aged spinster cousin whom he often went to visit.
He nearly always returned by the last train to Dyon, where he had his quarters at the Hotel de la Cloche; and although often in the midst of a pleasant family party, insisted upon leaving long before it was necessary. As a matter of course, the station was in semi-darkness--for Nuits is not a large place--and the booking-office was not open. One night, it being very warm, he stretched himself leisurely on a gra.s.s plot, instead of on the hard seat, and there he was found at six in the morning; several trains had come and gone, but no one had dared to wake him. ”Mais, monsieur le marechal, on aurait cru vous manquer de respect en vous eveillant. Apres tout, vous n'etes pas tout le monde, il y des distinctions,” said the stationmaster apologetically. ”La mort et le sommeil, monsieur,” was the answer, ”font table rase de toute distinction.” It was a French version of our ”Death levels all:” the marshal was fond of paraphrasing quotations, especially from the English, of which he had a very fair knowledge, having translated some military works many years before. However, from that day forth, instructions were given to take no heed of his rank, and to awaken him like any other mortal, rather than have him miss his train.
In fact, the marshal did not like to be constantly reminded of his rank; if anything, he was rather proud of his very humble origin, and, instead of hiding his pedigree like a good many parvenus, he took delight in publis.h.i.+ng it. I have seen a letter of his to some one who inquired on the subject, not from sheer curiosity. ”My grandfather was a silkmercer in a small way on the place St. Vincent, at Dyon. His father had been a coppersmith. I am unable to trace back further than that; my quarters of n.o.bility stop there. Let me add, at the same time, that there is no more silly proverb than the one 'Like father like son.' My father died poor, and respected by every one. I do not believe that he had a single enemy.
His friends called him Christ, he was so good and kind to everybody. I am not the least like him. He was short and slim, I am rather tall and stout; he was gentle, and people say that I am abrupt and harsh. In short, he had as many virtues as I am supposed to have faults, and I am afraid the world is not at all mistaken in that respect.”
I, who knew him as well as most people, am afraid that the world was very much mistaken. As a matter of course, the old soldier had many faults, but his good qualities far outweighed the latter. He was modest to a degree, and the flatteries to which men in his position are naturally exposed produced not the slightest effect upon him. When in an amiable mood, he used to cut them short with a ”Oui, oui; le marechal Vaillant est un grand homme, il n'y a pas de doute; tout le monde est d'accord sur ce chapitre la, donc, n'en parlons plus.” When not in an amiable mood, he showed them the door, saying, ”Monsieur, si je suis aussi grand homme que vous le dites, je suis trop grand pour m'occuper de vos pet.i.tes affaires. J'ai l'honneur de vous saluer.”
He was fond of his native town, one of whose streets bore or still bears his name, though, according to all authorities, it never smelt sweet by whatsoever appellation it went. But he objected to being lionized, so he never stayed with the prefect, the maire, or the general commanding the district, and simply took up his quarters at the hotel, insisting on being treated like any other visitor. The maire respected his wishes; the population did not, which was a sore point with the marshal.
Nevertheless, when, in 1858, during their Exhibition, they wanted him to distribute the prizes, he consented to do so, on condition that his reception should be of the simplest. The Dyonnais promised, and to a certain extent kept their word. Next morning the prefect, accompanied by the authorities, fetched him in his carriage. The ceremony was to take place in the park itself, and at the entrance was posted General Picard, accompanied by his staff, and at the head of several battalions. The moment the marshal set foot to the ground, the general saluted, the drums rolled, and the bands played. The marshal felt wroth, and at the conclusion of the distribution sent for the general, whom, not to mince matters, he roundly bullied.
General Picard did not interrupt him. ”Have you finished, monsieur le marechal?” he asked at last.