Dross | Page 2

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 proceeding 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
chuckled 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 semblance of a piano, snugly housed in one of
Messrs. Erard's cases, while my servant engaged in pleasant converse

on the quay the bailiff who had been set to watch for me: this, while
they were actually slinging me on board. The picture of the 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
apoplectic 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
creditors the slip was a thing of the past; for those were rapid days, and
I no laggard, 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 rivet 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 founder!
Who would have dared to prophesy fifty years earlier that a second
Emperor should some day sit upon the throne of France? Who would
have ventured to foretell that this capricious people, loathing as they
did in 1815 the name of Buonaparte, should one day choose by
universal suffrage another of that family to rule over them?
Few of those assembled in the great tomb were of devout enough mind
to take much heed of the service now proceeding at the altar, where the
priest droned and the incense rose in slow clouds towards the dome.
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 lining
the aisle 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 jumble of prince and pauper, friend and foe,
patriot and adventurer. And the face that drew my gaze oftenest was

one as still and illegible 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-possessed 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 unprecedented splendour was to close the festive
celebration. There is no lighter heart than that which beats within the
narrow waistcoat of the little Parisian bourgeois, 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 déjeûner.
"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!"
And I shouted as loud as any. Whatever