on that occasion, that he was decorated by both countries—France and England.”
I observed, that the sea must have been about three times as rough at that time, and it was to be hoped, in case of danger, we should meet with several Pierre Hénins. However, by backing for about twenty minutes, and the fog clearing off by degrees, we arrived safely, but too late for the train. The jetty was rather crowded for that time of the year. Our delay and the fog had rendered our passage interesting—rather more so than pleasant. My intention was to take the first train, when, on reaching the jetty, who should I perceive but my friend M. Léon, the Emperor’s first valet-de-chambre, one of the persons that have been longest employed about his Majesty’s person, having been with him above sixteen years. He is much esteemed by his imperial master, none but himself approaching his person while in his private apartment. It is M. Léon who sleeps before the door of his illustrious master’s chamber while travelling, as the Mamelouk Roustan did before that of Napoleon the First. “Hollo!” he exclaimed, “are you here, my dear friend?”
“Yes, I am. What brings you here at this season? And where is his Majesty?” said I.
“You may depend upon it,” he replied, “that if the Emperor were not here, I should not be at Boulogne; but we have only come for a few days. The Emperor is going to attend a review to-morrow. I hear you are going to the Crimea.”
“Yes, I am.”
“So we saw by the newspapers, and the Emperor was much pleased to hear it, and expressed his satisfaction by no doubt thinking it was an excellent idea for you to be sent over there. When do you start?”
“Almost directly,” I replied.
“Stay here to-night. I will tell the Emperor you are here. Come and sup with me this evening.”
“Thank you, I will.” We then parted; I sending some of my attendants on to Paris. The implacable douaniers then commenced their perilous sport; and although, thanks to a friend of mine, I had an official passport from the French Embassy, signed by Count Walewski, two of my boxes containing my Shilling Cookery Books were confiscated till the next morning, but eventually allowed to pass free of duty, but not of trouble, and would have been the cause of my losing a day for nothing, had it not been that we were too late for the train. At ten minutes to seven o’clock, through a very heavy rain and a brisk gale, we arrived at the “Grand Hôtel du Pavilion,” which had just been finished, and was inhabited for the first time. This hotel is situated about five hundred yards from the Etablissement des Bains, at the foot of the bank, on the right hand side of that establishment. Any person who has visited Boulogne must be acquainted with the spot. It is rather remarkable that soon after the arrival of the Emperor—in fact, he only just had time to dress after his journey—an avalanche of earth fell from the top of the bank, shaking the very foundations of the hotel. At the back of the house the earth reached higher than the second floor, breaking the windows. Some of the débris actually fell into the Emperor’s dressing-room, only a few minutes after he had left it. The slip of earth was supposed to have been caused by the melting of the snow, which had lain there for some time, as well as the rain, which had been pouring down, night and day, for a week.
My friend was just sitting down to supper, when I joined them, it being then eight o’clock, heure militaire, punctuality being the motto in every department in the imperial household. Having introduced my secretary, T. G., the conversation turned upon the avalanche, then upon the grand repas de corps, as it is called in France, or military banquet, given that evening to the generals and officers of the Camp de Boulogne. But the most important part of the conversation was upon the contemplated departure of Napoleon for the East. He was to travel from Paris to Marseilles incog., with but very few of his suite. “Everything,” said M. Léon, “is packed and ready, and we may start at an hour’s notice. Your friend Benoit has already sent his batterie de cuisine, and a quantity of preserved provisions.” (M. Benoit is the Emperor’s chef de cuisine.)[6]
Whilst we were conversing, a footman entered, in a state of anxiety and excitement, and exclaimed—“There is not a single cigar, and the Emperor has asked for some.”
“Very well,” said the maître d’hôtel, “go and buy some.” In about half an hour he returned with a square box, three parts full of various kinds of cigars, which he had no doubt purchased at all the nearest grocers’ shops, clearing out their stock of French Havana cigars.
“Couldn’t you get better ones than these?” said the maître d’hôtel.
“No doubt I could, but not near.”
“Then, take them up.” He despatched another servant to the Rue de l’Ecu for a box of good ones, which arrived too late. Owing to a most unexpected circumstance, the company only had the opportunity of partaking of a few of them, for they scarcely had time to light cigars, when a telegraphic dispatch arrived. My friend M. Léon told one of the attendants to go and see if his Majesty had left the banqueting-room, and if he was in his cabinet. While this was passing, I took the dispatch in my hand, and by way of a joke, said to him, “As France and England are now allied, and have the same policy, I have here an official English Government letter, which, if you like, I will exchange for your dispatch.”
“It might be done,” said he, laughing; “but, upon consideration, the Emperor would very likely prefer his own.” The servant returned, and informed him that the Emperor was still at table. The dispatch remained about ten minutes longer near M. Léon, when they came and apprised him that Napoleon was in his cabinet. M. Léon went up with the dispatch, and in a few minutes returned, saying to me, “Do you know what the contents of the letter you wished to exchange for yours were?”
“Certainly not,” I replied.
“The contents are, that the Emperor Nicholas is dead.” Every one was thunderstruck by the unexpected announcement, and we could hardly believe it. “If you come up quickly, you will hear the Emperor himself announce it to the company in the banqueting-room.”
We obeyed, but only arrived in time to hear the last words—“a cessé de vivre.” Special orders were then given that no demonstration should be made, and a low and mournful conversational sound was alone heard amongst those assembled. A few minutes after leaving the imperial palace, a friend and myself were quietly taking our coffee at a celebrated establishment, and in conversation said loud enough to be heard by our neighbours, that certainly the death of the Emperor Nicholas was very likely to change the state of affairs, as the present Emperor, Alexander was, so we had always heard, rather a pacificator. Before we could finish the remark, an elderly gentleman, who was sitting near us, exclaimed, “What do you say? What do you say, sir?—the Emperor Nicholas dead?”
“Yes, sir, he is dead.”
“Go to ——, sir; that’s another Crimean shave, like the taking of Sebastopol.”
“Sir,” I replied, “I can vouch for this not being a shave, and that his Majesty, the Emperor Nicholas the First of Russia, expired yesterday; and what is more, I will lay you a wager of it.”
In a few minutes some jumped upon the chairs and benches, others upon the billiard-table, looking at me, no doubt anxious to see whether I was intoxicated or mad. One gentleman raising his voice, said, “I’ll bet anything this report is not true.”
“Done for a dozen of champagne.”
“I take you, and we will drink your health at your own expense.”
We scarcely had time to deposit our money with the lady who presided at the bar of the establishment
