Travels in France during the years 1814-1815 by Patrick Fraser Tytler (beach read book .txt) 📖

Tuesday, the 28th.—This morning, at three, I left my party, and took a very light gig, determined (as the news were getting daily worse, and the road full of English hurrying to Bourdeaux), to post it from Agen. I was attended by a friend. By paying the post-boys double hires, we got on very fast, and although, from their advanced age and infirmities, the generality of French conveyances will not suffer themselves to be hurried beyond their ordinary pace, this was no time to make any such allowances. We accordingly hurried on, and after having broke down four times, we arrived at Bourdeaux at six in the evening, a distance of more than a hundred miles; and were delighted to see the white flag still displayed from all the public buildings. The country from Agen to Bourdeaux is the richest I have seen in France, chiefly laid out in vines, dressed with much more care than any we have yet seen; many fields also of fine wheat, and some meadows of grass pasture. Every thing is much further advanced than in Languedoc, even allowing for the advance in the days we have passed in travelling. Barley not only in the ear, but some fields even yellowing. Bourdeaux is a noble town, though not so fine, I think, as Marseilles. We arrived just in time: a few hours later, and I should have found no passage.

Wednesday morning, the 29th.—I have settled for the last accommodations to be had, viz. a small cabin in a brig, for which I pay L.130. The owner, like every other owner, is full of great promises; but in these cases, I make it a rule to believe only one half. Bourdeaux shews the most determined loyalty; but, alas! there are troops of the line in the town, and in the fort of Blaye. Instead of sending these troops away, and guarding the town by the national guards, they content themselves with giving dinners to each other, and making the drunken soldiers cry, "Vive le Roi!" In England, every thing is done by a dinner; perhaps they are imitating the English: but dinners will not do in this case; decided measures must be taken, or Bourdeaux will fall, in spite of its loyalty, and the noise it makes. The journal published here, of which I have secured most of the numbers, from Napoleon's landing to this day, is full of enthusiastic addresses:—The general commanding the troops to the national guards,—the national guards to the troops,—the mayor to his constituents,—the constituents to the mayor;—all this is well, but it will do nothing. Although every thing is yet quiet, I am determined to hurry our departure, for I do not think there is a doubt of the issue. Since I entered Bourdeaux, I have always thought it would yield on the first attack.

Thursday, the 30th.—Things look very ill. The fort of Blaye has hoisted the tri-coloured flag. Thank heaven our vessel passed it to-day; we should otherwise probably have been fired upon. We go to Poillac, where we are to embark by land, as a party of English, who attempted to go by water, were stopt and made prisoners. The town of Bourdeaux is in a dead calm; the sounds of loyalty have ceased, and a mysterious silence reigns throughout the streets: I am sure all is not well. Suddenly after all this silence, there has been a most rapid transition to sentiments of the most devoted loyalty. This has been occasioned by a great entertainment given by the national guards to the troops of the line; so that I am afraid that although these regular soldiers of the regular army, when elated with wine, choose to be devoted loyalists, their political sentiments may undergo many different changes upon their return to sobriety. At present, the shout of Vive le Roi, from the different troops of the line and national guards which are patroling the streets, is loud and reiterated. Napoleon has sent to-day his addresses and declarations to Bourdeaux, but the couriers have been imprisoned, and the civil authorities have sworn to continue faithful to their King. This loyalty will be immediately put to the test, for Clausel is advancing to the walls. The Dutchess d'Angouleme passed through the streets, and visited the casernes of the troops: Indeed her exertions are incessant. To her addresses the people are enthusiastic in their replies, but the troops continue, as I expected, sullen and silent; they answered, that they would not forget their duty to her, as far as not injuring her. I trust that she passed our hotel this evening for the last time, and that she has left Bourdeaux for England. Every individual in this city, the troops excepted, appears to hate and detest Napoleon as cordially as he detests them. They expect immediate destruction if he takes the town. Their commerce must be ruined; yet there is no exertion—nothing but noise. Vive le Roi is in every heart, but they are overawed by the troops; it costs nothing. Subscriptions, however, for arming the militia, go on slowly. They seem always to keep a sharp eye to their pockets, although, as far as shouting and bellowing is required, they are willing to levy any contribution on their lungs. The French are indeed miserably poor, but they are also miserably avaricious. There is nothing even approaching to national spirit; yet their prudence sometimes gets the better even of their economy. One instance, which I witnessed to-day, will shew the way in which a Frenchman acts in times like these: I was in a shop when one of the noblesse entered, bearing a subscription paper. He addressed the shopkeeper, saying, that he begged for his subscription, as he knew he was a royalist. I never subscribe my name in times like these, said the cautious Frenchman, but I will give you some money. The gentleman entreated, urging, that respectable subscriptions, more than money, were wanted; but all in vain. The shopkeeper paid his ten shillings, saying, he would always be the first to support his King.

I entered a bookseller's shop, and asked for the political writings of the day. The man looked me cautiously in the face, and said he had none of them. I happened to see one on the table, and asked him for it, telling him that I was an Englishman, and wished to carry them with me; he then bid me step in, and from hidden corners of the inner-shop, he produced the whole mass of pamphlets.—All this denotes that a change is immediately expected.

This last night has been passed as might be expected, owing to the circumstances in which we were placed, in much agitation. Clausel is every moment advancing up the town. Every thing is in confusion. The troops declare they will not fire a shot. The national guards are wavering and undecided, and this moment (five in the morning) our coachman has knocked at our door to tell us that we cannot remain another moment safe in the town.

Friday, the 31st.—We set off accordingly at sunrise, before any one was abroad in the street. Our coachman reported, that General Clausel had reached the gates, and that the national guard had been beat off. We have arrived, therefore, at the most critical moment, and may be grateful that we have escaped. The road between Bourdeaux and Poillac is very bad. Arrived at the inn at half way, we met with the Marquis de Valsuzenai, prefect of the town, who confirmed the bad news: We learnt from him, that at three in the morning of the 30th, the town had capitulated without a shot having been fired. Two men were killed by a mistake of the soldiers firing, upon their own officers; a miserable resistance! But it could not be otherwise, as no militia could long stand against regulars. Still I expected tumults in the streets—rising among the inhabitants—weeping and wailing. But no: the French are unlike any other nation, they have no energy, no principle. Miserable people! We arrived at Poillac just as it grew dark, and owing to the sullen insolence of our coachman, who was a complete revolutionist, and to his hatred for the English, which evinced itself the moment he found that Bourdeaux had capitulated, we found it difficult to get any thing like accommodation. I am happy to add, that this same fellow, meeting another party of English, and beginning to be insolent, an Irish gentleman, with that prompt and decisive justice which characterises his country, by one blow of his fist laid him speechless upon the pavement.

Upon meeting the Prefect of Bourdeaux, between that town and the little sea-port Poillac, in disguise, and hurrying to the shore, he informed us that before leaving the city, he had fallen on his knees before the Dutchess d'Angouleme, to persuade her to embark for England, and had, after much entreaty, succeeded. That before setting out himself, he had sent her post-horses, and most anxiously expected her arrival, although he had doubts whether she would be permitted to leave the town. As we pursued our route, we passed the Chateau Margot. The Marquis, to whom it belonged, was watching on the road with his young daughter; and the moment our carriage came in sight, he rushed up in great agitation, and exclaiming, "Where is the Dutchess? Why does she not come. She must be concealed at my house to-night. There are troops stationed at a league's distance from this to prevent her escape." Then observing the fair complexion of one of the ladies of our party, he cried out, "It is the Dutchess, it is my beloved Princess. Oh! why have you no avant garde; you must not proceed." The poor old man was in a state of extreme agitation, and his daughter weeping. It was a few minutes before we could undeceive him, and his assurances that we should be stopt by the troops on the road, afforded us no very cheering prospect as we proceeded on our journey. No troops, however, appeared, and we arrived safely at Poillac at seven o'clock.

The Dutchess did not appear that night; but early next morning, we were called to the window, by hearing a great bustle in the street. It was occasioned by the arrival of this unfortunate Princess. She had three or four carriages along with her, filled with her attendants, and was escorted by a party of the national guards. Their entry into Poillac formed a very mournful procession; she herself looked deadly pale, although seemingly calm and collected. We saw many of the officers of the national guard crowding round her with tears in their eyes. There was a little chapel close to where we were lodged, and while the other ladies went down to the frigate to prepare for the embarkation, we heard that the Dutchess herself had gone to mass. After we imagined that the service would be nearly concluded, two of the ladies of our party entered the chapel, and placed themselves near to where they knew she would pass. As she came near them, observing that they were English, and much affected, she held out her hand to them; one of them said, "Oh, go to our England, you will be cherished there." "Yes, yes," replied she, "I am now going to your country;" and when they expressed a wish that this storm would be quickly over, and that when she again returned to France it would be for lasting happiness. The Dutchess replied with an expression which was almost cheerful, "Indeed, I hope so." This was the last time that any of us saw her. There was then in her expression a look of sweet and tranquil suffering, which was irresistibly affecting.

We embarked, this morning, Saturday, the 1st, on board the William Sibbald, after a night of troubles. Most fortunately for me, I had not trusted entirely to