Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume I

“So much the worse for you,” said Brissole, gaily; “I’ve tried it for five years, and will try it no longer. I was vaudevillist, journalist, novelist, feuilletonist – I was the glory of the Odéon – the prop of the ‘Moniteur’ – the hope of the ‘Siècle’ – and look at me – ”

“And thou?” said the fashionable, addressing him called Chopard.

“I have just had a little opera damned at Lyons, and have come up to try what can be done here.”

“Poor devil!” exclaimed Brissole, shrugging his shoulders; then, turning abruptly towards the other, he said, “And what is thy luck? for, so far as externals go, thou seemest to have done better.”

“Ay, Jerome,” chimed in Chopard, “tell us, how hast thou fared? – thou wert ever a fortunate fellow.”

“Pretty well,” said he, laughing. “I’ve just come from St. Cloud – they’ve made me King of Westphalia!”

“The devil they have!” exclaimed Chopard; “and dost know, par hazard, where thy kingdom lies on the map?”

“Why should he torment himself about that?” said Brissole. “It’s enough to know they have capital hams there.”

“What if we sup together,” said Jerome, “and taste one? I am most anxious to baptize my new Royalty in a glass of wine. Here we are in the Rue Taibout – this is Villaret’s. Come in, gentlemen – I’m the host. Make your minds easy about the future: you, Brissole, I appoint to the office of my Private Secretary. Chopard, you shall be Maître de Chapelle.”

“Agreed,” cried the others gaily; and with a hearty shake of hands was the contract ratified.

Supper was quickly prepared, and, in its splendour and profusion, pronounced, by both the guests, worthy of a king. Villaret could do these things handsomely, and as he was told expense was of no consequence, the entertainment was really magnificent. Nor was the spirit of the guests inferior to the feast. They were brilliant in wit, and overflowing in candour; concealing nothing of their past lives that would amuse or interest, each vied with the other in good stories and ludicrous adventures – all their bygone vicissitudes so pleasantly contrasting with the brilliant future they now saw opening before them. They drank long life and reign to the King of Westphalia in bumpers of foaming champagne.

The pleasant hours flew rapidly past – bright visions of the time to come lending their charm to the happiness, and making their enjoyment seem but the forerunner of many days and nights of festive delight. At last came day-break, and, even by the flickering of reason left, they saw it was time to separate.

“Bring the bill,” said Jerome to the exhausted-looking waiter, who speedily appeared with a small slip of paper ominously marked “eight hundred francs.”

“Diable!” exclaimed Jerome; “that is smart, and I have no money about me. Come, Brissole, this falls among your duties – pay the fellow.”

“Parbleu, then – it comes somewhat too soon. I am not yet installed, and have not got the key of our treasury.”

“No matter – pay it out of thine own funds.”

“But I have none – save this;” and he produced two francs, and some sous in copper.

“Well, then, Chopard must do it.”

“I have not as much as himself,” said Chopard.

“Send the landlord here,” said Jerome; but indeed the command was unnecessary, as that functionary had been an anxious listener at the door to the very singular debate.

“We have forgotten our purses, Villaret,” said Jerome, in the easy tone his last ten hours of royalty suggested; “but we will send your money when we reach home.”

“I have no doubt of it, gentlemen,” said the host, obsequiously; “but it would please me still better to receive it now – particularly as I have not the honour of knowing the distinguished company.”

“The distinguished company is perfectly satisfied to know you: the cuisine was excellent,” hiccupped Brissole.

“And the wine unexceptionable.”

“The champagne might have been a little more frappé,” said Brissole; “the only improvement I could suggest.”

“Perhaps there was a nuance, only a nuance, too much citron in the rognons à la broche, but the filets de sole were perfect.”

“If I had the happiness of knowing ‘Messieurs,’” said Villaret, “I should hope, that at another time I might be more fortunate in pleasing them.”

“Nothing easier,” said Chopard. “I am Maître de Chapelle to the King of Westphalia.”

Villaret bowed low.

“And I am the Private Secretary and Privy Purse of his majesty.”

Villaret bowed again – a slight smile of very peculiar omen flitting across his cunning features, while, turning hastily, he whispered a word in the ear of the waiter. “And this gentleman here?” said he, looking at Jerome, who, with his legs resting on a chair, was coolly awaiting the termination of the explanation. “And this gentleman, if I might make so bold, what office does he hold in his Majesty’s service?”

“I am the King of Westphalia!” said Jerome.

“Just as I suspected. François,” said the landlord insolently, “go fetch the gendarmes.”

“No, no, parbleu!” said Jerome, springing up in alarm; “no gendarmes, no police. Here, take my watch – that is surely worth more than your bill? When I reach home I’ll send the money.”

The landlord, more than ever convinced that his suspicions were well grounded, took the watch, which was a very handsome one, and suffered them to depart in peace.

They had not been gone many minutes when, on examining the watch, the landlord perceived that it bore the emblematic “N” of the Emperor within the case, and at once suspecting that it had been stolen from some member of the imperial household, he hurried off in terror to communicate his fears to the commissary of police. This functionary no sooner saw it that he hastened to Fouché, the minister, who, making himself acquainted with the whole details, immediately hurried off to the Tuileries and laid it all before the Emperor. The watch had been a present from Napoleon to Jerome; but this was but a small part of the cause of indignation. The derogation from dignity, the sacrifice of the regard due to his station, were crimes of a very different order; and, summoned to the imperial presence, the new-made king was made to hear, in terms of reproachful sarcasm, a lesson in his craft that few could impart with such cutting severity.

As for the Maître de Chapelle and the Secretary, an agent of the police waited on each before they were well awake, with strict injunctions to them to maintain a perfect secrecy on the whole affair; and while guaranteeing them an annual pension in their new offices, assuring them that the slightest indiscretion as to the mystery would involve their ruin and their exile from France for ever.

It was years before the landlord learned the real secret of the adventure, and, in commemoration of it, called his house “Le Café du Roi,” a circumstance which the Government never noticed, for the campaign of Russia and the events of 1812-13 left little time to attend to matters of this calibre.

The Café du Roi is now a shop where artificial flowers are sold; as nearly like nature perhaps, or more so, than poor Jerome’s royalty resembled the real article.

CHAPTER VII

Baden-Baden. It is like a dream to me now to think of that long, dusty road from Paris, with its rattling pavement, its noisy postilions, shouting ostlers, bowing landlords, dirty waiters, garlic diet, and hard beds; and here I sit by my open window, with a bright river beneath my feet, the song of birds on every side, a richly wooded mountain in front, and at the foot a winding road, which ever and anon gives glimpses of some passing equipage, bright in all the butterfly glitter of female dress, or, mayhap, resounding with merry laughter and sweet-voiced mirth. How brilliant is every thing! – the cloudless sky, the sparkling water, the emerald grass, the foliage in every tint of beauty, the orange-trees and the cactus along the terraces, where lounging parties come and go; and then the measured step of princely equipages, in all the panoply of tasteful wealth! Truly, Vice wears its holiday suit in Baden, and the fairness of this lovely valley seems to throw a softened light over a scene where, as in a sea, the stormy waves of every bad passion are warring.

When, in all the buoyant glow of youth and health, I remembered feeling shocked, as I strolled through the promenade at Carlsbad, at the sight of so many painful objects of sickness and suffering; the eager, almost agonising, expressions of hoping convalescence; the lustreless stare of those past hope; the changeful looks of accompanying friends, who seemed to read the fate of some dear one in the compassionate pity of those who passed, were all sights that threw a chill, like death, over the warm current of my blood. Yet never did this feeling convey the same intense horror and disgust that I felt last night as I walked through the Cursaal.

To pass from the mellow moonlight, dappling the pathway among the trees and kissing the rippling stream, from the calm, mild air of a summer’s night, when every leaf lay sleeping and none save the nightingale kept watch, into the glare and glitter of a gilded saloon, is somewhat trying to the jarred nerves of sickness. But what was it to the sight of that dense crowd around the play-table, where avarice, greed of gain, recklessness, and despair are mingled, giving, even to faces of manly vigour and openness, expressions of low cunning and vulgar meaning? There is a terrible sameness in the gambler’s look, a blending of slavish terror with a resolution to brave the worst, almost demoniacal in its fierceness. I knew most of the persons present; I need not say, not personally, but from having seen them before at various other similar places. Many were professed gamblers, men who starved and suffered for the enjoyment of that one passion, living on the smallest gain, and never venturing a stake beyond what daily life demanded; haggard, sad, wretched-looking creatures they were, the abject poverty of their dress and appearance vouching that this métier was not a prosperous one. Others farmed out their talents, and played for those who were novices. These men have a singular existence; they exact a mere per-centage on the winning, and are in great request among elderly ladies, whose passion for play is modified by the fears of its vicissitudes. Then there were the usual sprinkling of young men, not habitually gamblers, but always glad to have the opportunity of tempting Fortune, with here and there some old votary of the “table” satisfied to witness the changeful temper of the game without risking a stake.

Into many vices men are led by observing the apparent happiness and pleasure of others who indulge in them. Not so with regard to play. No man ever became a gambler from this delusion, there being no such terrible warning against the passion as the very looks of its votaries.

But it is not in such a low tripot of vice I care to linger. It was a ball-night, and I turned with a sense of relief from the aspect of sordid, vulgar iniquity, to gaze on its more polished brother (quore, sister?) in the salle de danse.

Here there was a large – I might almost call it a brilliant – company assembled: a less exclusive assemblage cannot be conceived; five francs and clean gloves being the only qualification needed. The guests were as varied, too, in nation as in rank. About equal numbers of German and French, several Russians, and a large proportion of English, with, here and there, a bilious-looking American, or a very dubious Marquis from beyond the Alps. Many of the men I knew to be swindlers and blacklegs of the very lowest stamp; some others I recognised as persons of the highest station in my own country. Of the lady part of the company the disparities were even greater.

There was, it is true, a species of sifting process discernible, by which the various individuals fell among those of their own order; but though this was practicable enough where conversation and grouping were concerned, it was scarcely attainable in other circumstances, and thus, the Mazurka and the Polka assembled ingredients that should never have been placed in close propinquity.

The demoralising influence of such reunions upon the daughters of our own land need not be insisted upon. Purity of mind and simplicity of character are no safeguard against the scenes which, in all the propriety of decorum, are ever occurring. And how terribly rapid are the downward steps when the first bloom and blush of modesty have faded! It demands but a very indifferent power of observation to distinguish the English girl for the first time abroad from her who has made repeated visits to foreign watering-places; while even among those who have been habituated to the great world at home, and passed the ordeal of London seasons, there is yet much to learn in the way of cool and self-possessed effrontery, from the habits of Baden and its brethren.

I was dreadfully shocked last night by meeting one I had not seen for many years before. How changed from what I knew her once! – what a terrible change! When first I saw her, it was during a visit I made to her mother’s house in Wales; her brother was an Oxford friend, and brought me down with him for the shooting season to Merionethshire. Poor fellow! he died of consumption at two-and-twenty, and left all he possessed – a handsome estate – to his only sister. Hence all her misery! Had she remained comparatively portionless, rich only in her beauty and the graces of a manner that was fascination itself, she might now have been the happy wife of some worthy Englishman – one whose station is a trust held on the tenure of his rectitude and honour; for such is public feeling in our country, and such is it never elsewhere.

She was then about eighteen or nineteen, and the very ideal of what an English girl at that age should be. On a mind highly stored and amply cultivated, no unworthy or depreciating influence had yet descended; freedom of thought, freshness almost childish, had given her an animation and buoyancy only subdued by the chastening modesty of coming womanhood. Enthusiastic in all her pursuits, for they were graceful and elevating, her mind had all the simplicity of the child with the refinement of the highest culture; and, like those who are brought up in narrow circles, her affections for a few spread themselves out in the varied forms that are often scattered and diffused over the wider surface of the world. Thus her brother was not merely the great object of her affection and pride, but he was the companion of her rides and walks, the confidant of all her secret feelings, the store in which she laid up her newly acquired knowledge, or drew, at will, for more. With him she read and studied; delighted by the same pursuits, their natures blended into one harmonious corde, which no variance or dissonance ever troubled.

His death, although long and gradually anticipated, nearly brought her to the grave. The terrible nature of the malady, so often inherent in the same family, gave cause for the most anxious fears on her account, and her mother, herself almost brokenhearted, took her abroad, hoping by the mildness of a southern climate and change of scene to arrest the progress of the fell disease.

In this she was successful; bodily health was indeed secured. But might it not have been better that she had wasted slowly away, to sleep at last beneath the yews of her own ancient churchyard, than live and become what she has done?

Some years after this event I was, although at the time only an attaché of the mission, acting as Charge d’affaires at Naples, during the absence of the minister and the secretary. I was sitting one morning reading in my garden, when my servant announced the visit of an Italian gentleman, il Signor Salvatori. The name was familiar to me, as belonging to a man who had long been employed as a Spy of the Austrian government, and, indeed, was formerly entrusted in a secret capacity by Lord W. Bentinck in Sicily – a clever, designing, daring rascal, who obtained his information no one knew how; and although we had always our suspicions that he might be “selling” us, as well as the French, we never actually traced any distinct act of treachery to his door. He possessed a considerable skill in languages, was very highly informed on many popular topics, and, I have been told, was a musician of no mean powers of performance. These and similar social qualities were, however, never displayed by him in any part of his intercourse with us, although we had often heard of their existence.

As I never felt any peculiar pleasure in the relations which office compels with men of his stamp, I received him somewhat coldly, and asked, without much circumlocution, the reason of his visit.

He replied, with his habitual smile of self-possession, that his present duty at “the Mission” was not a business-call, but concerned a matter purely personal; – in fact, “with his Excellency’s permission, he desired to get married.”

Not stopping him on the score of his investing me with a title to which, no one knew better than himself, I had no pretensions, I quietly assured him that his relation with “the Mission” did not, in any way, necessitate his asking for such a permission – that, however secret and mysterious the nature of his communications, they were still beyond the pale of affairs personally private.

He suffered me to continue my explanation, somewhat scornful as it was, to the end, and then calmly said, —

“Your Excellency will pardon my intrusion, when I inform you that the marriage should take place here, at ‘the Mission,’ as the lady is an English woman.”

Whether it was the fact itself, or his manner of delivering it, that outraged me, I cannot now remember; but I do recollect giving expression to a sentiment of surprise and anger not exactly suitable.

He merely smiled, and said nothing.

“Very well, M. Salvatori,” said I, corrected by the quietude of his manner; “what is your day?”

“Wednesday, if your Excellency pleases.”

“Wednesday be it, and at eight o’clock.”

“As your Excellency desires,” said he, bowing and retiring.

It had never occurred to me to ask for any information about the happy fair one; indeed, if I had given a thought at all to the matter, it would have been that she was of the rank of a femme-de-chambre, or, at least, some unhappy children’s governess, glad to exchange one mode of tyranny for another. As he was leaving the room, however, some sense of remorse, perhaps, at the brusquerie I had shewn towards him, suggested the question, “Who might the lady be?”

“Mademoiselle Graham.”

“Ah! a very good name, indeed,” said I; and so, with a word or two of common-place, I bade him good-by.

The Wednesday morning arrived, and two carriages drove into the court of “the Mission:” out of one sprung Signor Salvatori and a very bearded gentleman, who accompanied him as his friend; from the other alighted, first, an elderly lady, whose dress was a mixture of wedding finery and widow’s mourning; then came a very elegant-looking girl, veiled from head to foot, followed by her maid; and, lastly, the chaplain to “the Mission.”

They were some minutes too early, and I equally behind my time; but I dressed hastily, and descended to the salon, where M. Salvatori received me with a very gracious expression of his self-satisfaction. Passing him by, I advanced to address a few words to the old lady, who had risen from her seat; when, stepping back, I exclaimed,

“Mrs. Graham – my old friend, Mrs. Graham! Is this possible?”

“Oh, Caroline, it is Mr. Templeton!” said she; while her daughter, drawing her veil still closer over her face, trembled dreadfully. Meanwhile Mrs. Graham had seized my hand with cordial warmth, and pressed it in all the earnestness of friendship. Her joy – and it was very evident it was such – was little participated in by her son-in-law elect, who stood, pale and conscience-stricken, in a distant part of the room.

“I must entreat these gentlemen’s permission to speak a few words here alone, as these ladies are very old friends I have not seen for some years.”

“I would humbly suggest to your Excellency that, as the ceremony still waits – ”

“I wish it, Marquis,” said Mrs. Graham, in a tone half-command, half-entreaty; and, with a deep bow of submission, Salvatori and his friend withdrew, accompanied by the chaplain.

“The title by which you have just addressed that person, Mrs. Graham,” said I, in a voice trembling from agitation, “shews me how you have been duped and deceived by him, and in what total ignorance you are as to his real character.”

“Oh, Mr. Templeton!” broke in her daughter, now speaking for the first time, and in accents I shall never forget, such was their heart-thrilling earnestness, – “Oh, sir, this does indeed exceed the license of even old friendship! We are well aware how the Marquis of Salvatori has suffered from persecution; but we little expected to have found you among the number of his enemies.”

“You do me great wrong, Miss Graham,” said I, eagerly; “in nothing greater than supposing me capable of being the enemy of such a man as this. Unworthy as the sentiment is, it at least implies a sense of equality. Now, are you certain of what this person is? are you aware in what capacity he has been employed by our government, and by that of other countries?”

“We know that the Marquis has been engaged in secret missions,” said Miss Graham, proudly.

“Your reply, brief as it is, conveys two errors, Miss Graham. He is not a Marquis; little as the title often implies in Italy, he has no right to it. He asked Lord William Bentinck to let him call himself Marquis, and so to address him, as a means of frequenting circles where important information was accessible. Lord William said, ‘Call yourself what you please – Grand Duke, if you like it – I am no dispenser of such designations.’ The gentleman was modest; – he stopped at Marquis. As to his diplomatic functions, we have a short and expressive word for them; – he was and is, a Spy!”

Not heeding the scornful reception of the daughter, I turned towards Mrs. Graham, and, with all the power I possessed, urged her, at least, to defer this fatal step; – that she was about to bestow her child upon a man of notoriously degraded character, and one whose assumption of rank and position was disregarded and despised in the very humblest circles. The mother wept bitterly; at one moment, turning to dissuade her daughter from her rashness, at the next, appealing to me against what she called my unjust prejudices against the Marquis. Miss Graham scornfully refused to vouchsafe me even a word.

I confess more than once my temper prompted me to abandon the enterprise, and suffer wilfulness to reap its own bitter harvest; but then, my better feelings prevailed, and old memories of my poor friend Graham again enlisted me in defence of his sister.

Of no avail was it that I followed these worthier promptings. It seemed as if the man had thrown a spell over these two unhappy women, one, being perfectly enthralled, the other, nearly so, by the artful fascinations of his manner; and yet he was neither young, handsome, rich, nor of high lineage. On the contrary, the man was at least fifty-three or four, a perfect monster of ugliness, with an ex-pression of sardonic sycophancy actually demoniac.

If I were not relating “a fact” – one of which I can answer, that many now living can entirely corroborate – I would hesitate about dwelling on a case where improbabilities are so strong, and where I have nothing to offer like an explanation of them. Wilkes has long since convinced the world how little good looks are concerned in winning a woman’s heart, and how, indeed, a very considerable share of ugliness can be counterbalanced by captivations of manner and personal agreeability. But, judging from the portraits – even Hogarth’s fearful sketch – Wilkes was handsome compared to Salvatori; and in point of reputation, low as it was, the Libeller and the Satirist was still better than the Spy.

To go back again: I argued, I entreated, begged, threatened, and denounced. I went further; – I actually transgressed the limits of official authority, and refused to sanction the ceremony – a threat which, I soon remembered, I dare not sustain. But, do what, say what, I would, they were equally resolute and determined; and nothing was left for me but to recall M. Salvatori and his friend, and suffer the affair to proceed.