Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 667
The milor had answered gravely that there was no power on earth that could save Frederick Scheffauer, Baron de Frèjus, since he would stretch no hand to save himself. And it was to be doubted whether, even if he disclosed the secret places in which his wealth was hidden and excused their debts to all his debtors amongst the Ultras — whether even then they would spare his life. He knew, for one thing, too much about them — but even without that there was their cold longing to take human life. And again, even at that, the financier had his vanities that would support him into the tumbril and beyond. He was determined to leave his vast fortune to his wife.
Her defection from him had mortally wounded his pride; his rejoinder was to burden her with a wealth that he knew her to scorn. She might refuse to handle it — but even at that he had so arranged matters that no one else could. He had faithful servants, and a certain probity is a necessary property amongst financiers. His moneys were in stocks in England, Austria, the Americas, Holland — in places where the Ultras could not get their fingers on them, for the Fusstossers, the Rothschilds, the van Burens and the rest could, as holders, be certain to be faithful to their trusts — even though it was a Fusstosser whose evidence was mainly responsible for bringing him to the salad basket. They were glad to be rid of his competition; but they could not afford to betray his trust in places where French law did not run and the émigrés were despised.
So no one could release the fortune of Frèjus but his wife; and even if she went into a convent and delivered the fortune to her order it must be her act and her volition. So he was as stubborn as his persecutors and upon the whole enjoyed life more. For, as he said, life consists in emptying so many hundreds of bottles of sillery or hermitage; consuming so many oysters, truffles and kegs of caviare. Normally you did not consume all that you might like to for fear of shortening your life, but if your life was to be shortened you could condense all those pleasures into as short a time as was given you.... On the other hand the Ultras had to fear that, as soon as he was dead, the bills they had given him years before might be presented by the respectful but perfectly remorseless Fusstossers, Rothschilds and the rest. So they were on the horns of a dilemma and had finally consented to the respite sine die that with perfect nonchalance Assheton Smith had demanded, first of the King’s First Minister, Decazes, and then of Louis himself.
They had hastened straight from the Duke’s to the Tuileries where, finding Lord Castlereagh with the Comte Decazes, the English lord had introduced the milor straight into the presence of the sovereign. For some reason or other the King was padding slowly up and down a corridor which contained at one end a day-bed, some chairs and a desk, and which was lighted by candle-sconces at rare intervals on the walls.
Mr. Smith said subsequently that this was because the sovereign was crowded out of his palace by the émigrés, who claimed rooms under the protocol in the Tuileries; but that did not seem very reasonable to Gatti, who presumed that the sovereign there took his exercise. They stood in any case at one end of the corridor in a group until the sovereign approached, which he did very slowly, shuffling his feet.
Louis le Désiré was in truth a mountain of flesh, dressed in blue with white silk stockings and with a star on either breast. But, if he was obese, he appeared in no way either obtuse or ungracious. He was pleased to remark upon the hat that he presumed the milor as the arbiter of ton intended to make his subjects wear. He then fixed his rather piercing glance on Gatti, whom the milor announced as a poor suppliant to his Majesty and pensioner of his own, recounting the cripple’s exploit at the battle of Mont St. Jean and begging for his reinstatement in his military rank — for, at that date — in October — Gatti had been ordered to consider himself quite simply drummed out of the army. The King asked the Comte Decazes, a debonair and agreeable young man, to inquire into the case of Gatti.
That Gatti was pleased at this presentation of himself as a petitioner to a king who irresistibly reminded him of a ram, with his high nose, his grey waved hair, and his receding forehead — that Gatti was pleased could not be alleged. He nevertheless had acceded to the milor’s manœuvre, which was, in effect, a sort of blackmail. “Here,” in effect the milor seemed to say to such Royalists as they came across, “here is the soldier who has performed a feat such as has made France famous to the stars. Will you leave it to me — you Frenchmen! — to me a stranger and an enemy, to relieve his misfortune and assuage his sufferings?”
That done and being asked his next errand, the milor coolly desired the respite for the Baron de Frèjus, but that was a matter as to which the King had no personal views. He asked Lord Castlereagh — a lean, harassed and mournful nobleman with a great nose and enormous eyes — if he saw any reason why the milor should not be obliged, and bade Assheton Smith put that matter to the Comte Decazes, by whose judgment he was content to be guided. He said to Mr. Smith:
“You see, sir, how we are guided in all things by the methods of your constitution — how we consult our ministers, who, it is to be hoped, will bear any unpopularity that shall result from those deliberations.”
At that his Majesty, raising his brows, said that he understood Mr. Assheton Smith was the richest commoner in the United Kingdom.
“Why, your Majesty,” Mr. Smith said, “I have reason to believe myself the richest man, peer, commoner or prince of the blood in the British dominions. The King may own more land as king, but as a private man I own far more and the King has, alas, no control of so much as a square rod of his possessions. The insufficiency of the Prince Regent’s means to meet his Royal Highness’s necessities are too well known.”
“Why, then,” the King said, “you must, milor, be one of the richest men the world has ever seen and could buy us and our poor palace many and many a time over!” Mr. Smith, stiffly but precisely, set one knee on the ground, bending the other.
“Sire,” he said, “I would willingly give a large share of my wealth for a stroke or two of your Majesty’s pen on this paper or parchment that I present to you” — holding up a document that he had drawn from his bosom.
“That again,” the King said with a little animation, drawing both his white hands back, “that again is matter for the Comte Decazes.” He added: “And my lord Castlereagh has his say in the matter. You perceive, milor, that your errand was not unforeseen.”
At that Gatti shuffled off with himself for a pace or two, but not so far but that he could hear Mr. Assheton Smith’s resonant voice say:
“Sire, your Majesty is reported as having said that the man for whom I petition you did you more harm by letting himself be taken than by his action on the 13th of March last past. If your Majesty now frees him shall not your Majesty negative the ill that was so done?”
His Majesty said: “Nay, an ill so easily negatived had been no ill!”
They talked, their heads — except the King’s — in a bunch, and Gatti could not hear what they said. The King his hands behind his back, took a short turn, reapproached them, took another short turn and again came back, his agitation being evident in his pendulous cheeks and heavy eyes.
He said once: “C’est ça! C’est ça!” to the Marquis of Castlereagh and then rubbed his hands with an expression of slyness, and the conclave continued.
“In short,” the milor said at last in a high tone, “if I bring you — or if the Comte Decazes should receive — a communication from the Tsar asking for clemency to the hero of Borodino....”
“Sir,” the Comte Decazes answered in the same high tone, “if you or anyone can procure that, it will very materially alter the situation.”
The King then retired to the day-bed at the far end of the corridor and called Gatti to him as he sat, panting, his legs far apart, Gatti slipping and skating with his crutch and his stick, more than ever like a dishevelled bat in the dim light of the candles.
It was curious to him to stand in the presence of this potentate, he having been for so long the familiar of a greater. It was impossible to deny a certain quality of kingship to this immense being. He addressed Felice as a large, rather jocund bachelor might address a child — and that Gatti should not resent this was at least some proof of majesty. He began by asking Gatti what exactly he had done: Mr. Assheton Smith with the hyperbole that became him in presenting a petitioner had said that Gatti had almost reversed the fates of the battle of Waterloo.
“That is nonsense, Sire,” Gatti had said. “If the guns had not been taken the battle would not have been lost. All that I did was, after they had been taken, to prevent, in some sort, for a short time their being used against Marshal Ney’s and Marshal Kellermann’s retreating....”
The King said: “You were known by another name... as di... di... Do not prompt me!... di Vivario — as Gatti di Vivario. I never forget a face, seldom a name!”
“It is the royal gift, Sire,” Felice said. “I was the Colonel-Count dei Gatti di Vivario before they drummed me out of the army!”
The King slightly raised his fat white hands from his fat cream-coloured thighs.
“There are those,” he said, “who are more royalist than the King. We shall see what we can do to remedy that inadroitness!”
Gatti made a feint at a bow, ducking his chin over his crutch. He said he asked no more than to remain as he was, for he was in no condition to serve his Majesty.
“My friend,” the King said, “we have shown that we were familiar with — or if not familiar with your name, at least not oblivious of it — and familiar with your exploit, which was such as to make every true Frenchman blush with pleasure at the recital. You shall find that your King is no less a Frenchman in that particular than the meanest of his subjects that salutes you as you walk the boulevards!”
He hesitated for a moment, moving his hands at random and muttering: “M’m, m’m, m’m!” Then he said:
“We have borrowed from our friends the English their constitution which ensures that a king may only act through his ministers; so, as we do not know how that constitution works, we do not know how we may reward you. But be sure that your face will not be forgotten by us, nor your valour.”
Gatti made another convulsive movement towards a bow. The King, rolling his elephantine bulk to one side first, then to the other on the velvet cushion on which he sat, held the back of his cold, gouty hand to the other’s lips.
“Mon colonel,” he said, “or if you prefer it, Monsieur le Comte, you are the first subject to receive whose salute we have almost stood up.... Bid the milor convey your wishes to us through the fitting channel. Be sure we shall not be niggardly!”
... Till then, in effect, they had been niggardly enough, having conferred on him a fortnight ago no more than the honorary rank of Colonel-Inspector with no pay attached. But the milor bade him be patient; he assured him that the King had not forgotten him, that he himself, the milor, was unsleeping in his service, and that shortly he should have a post that should astonish him. The milor was then engaged in negotiations with the Comte Decazes as to which Gatti himself was in ignorance. So the Corsican was content to wait, though indeed he asked nothing of the ruling powers and if he could have had the capital with which to start his café would have been content altogether. The milor however, urged him to patience. The capital for a café, he said, was a small thing and Gatti might be certain of it ten times over — though whether the city of Paris would ultimately suit him as a locality, the milor was doubtful. He suggested either Corte in his native island or the still further atmosphere of Buenos Aires — of which however he knew nothing.
Of the mysterious powers of Mr. Smith, Gatti had evidence enough to make him very content to wait. For in the case of the young George Feilding Mr. Smith had showed himself not only powerful but perspicacious. It had been a fact that during nearly the whole of the incarceration and trial of the young man the milor had had for him, in his coat pocket, a free pardon signed by his Royal Highness the Prince Regent. It was accompanied, it is true, by a cool letter from an intimate of Mr. Smith’s, called Howard, who was about the person of the Prince at Carleton House.
Mr. Howard said that to calm the natural anxieties of Mr. Smith as to the fate of his young friend the pardon was enclosed in the packet that brought the letter. But his Royal Highness the Duke of York was anxious that the document should not be used unless a condemnation resulted from the court martial and that the young Feilding — who was surely sufficiently rewarded in that during his absence with Boney the natural course of seniority and regimental vacancies had brought him his captaincy! — the young Feilding should be kept from access to his regimental comrades. There was no doubt, Mr. Howard said, that amongst the junior officers of certain regiments of the Army of Occupation a strong movement existed for the rescue by force of arms of Ney. And, with all due respect for Mr. Smith’s belief in the spotless integrity of Captain Feilding, Carleton House and the Horse Guards, he could not but feel that if such a conspiracy existed amongst hot-blooded young devils, Captain Feilding was the very person to become its nucleus. They were anxious to oblige Mr. Assheton Smith to the extent of reason but they would prefer him not to upset the junior ranks of the forces through the activities of his admirable protégé. Moreover it would be to Feilding’s advantage to clear himself by trial if he could. Mr. Howard added that, as to Mr. Smith’s friend the financier, authority was ready to acquiesce in his respite, but Mr. Howard begged Mr. Smith to understand that if any ultimate loss resulted to Mr. Smith’s friends in England, from the highest to the lowest — why, from the highest to the lowest, from the purlieus of Carleton House to the stables of Windsor, Mr. Smith might await a very considerable unpopularity and might in the end have to recoup.
Mr. Howard added a final postscript to the effect that the whole land lamented Mr. Smith’s arbitrary absence from the mastership of the Quorn. His deputy Mr. Feilding, Sen., made an admirable substitute but his language to the field had latterly been such as scorched the very eyelids of their mounts and they sighed for the more elegant vituperations of Mr. Smith.... Mr. Feilding, in fact, seemed to have more than one shot in his locker, bee in his bonnet, or what you would. He had positively fought a fighting chimney-sweep for alleged riding down the hounds — which the chimney-sweep had been much too good of a sportsman really to do.
From the Tuileries, Mr. Smith and Gatti had gone to the Hotel Monchelu, which, being not only next to the Tsar’s quarters at the Elysée but next also to the house that Mr. Smith had hired, they had had some opportunity to repair Mr. Smith’s attire. For, though the more battered his companion appeared, the better it suited the book of Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith himself would be consumed with concern if a very little dust settled on so much as the easily brushed revers of his coat.
And they had been driving in a monstrously high chaise-and-four ever since early that morning, having been to see Marshal Blücher amongst the drearily destroyed apple trees and furniture of the gardens and salons where the Prussians were quartered at St. Cloud.
The visit to the Marshal, if it had helped them little, had done no harm to the cause of the other Marshal in the Conciergerie.... Very old and not even yet recovered from his exertions in the Waterloo Campaign, the Prussian commander-in-chief had proved singularly benevolent and huskily courteous; but his French was weak and the French of the generals surrounded by whom he chose to receive the milor, was weaker still. They had no English there and such German as Gatti knew he had learned in South Germany whilst billeted in one or other farmhouse, and as it was almost entirely dialect of the Rhine, he was nearly incomprehensible to the Prussians though he understood them fairly well.
The Marshal was in white with the scarlet ribbon of an order like a cravat about his neck. He was about to pay a visit to the Austrian Headquarters and, out of courtesy, had adopted the uniform of the Kaiseliks. He sat stockily behind a table, clasping and unclasping his ancient hands and saying: Yes... no!... Yes... no!... Discipline was a very necessary thing, the betrayal of one’s colours a very dreadful one. Humanity also had its claims. Military valour was to be esteemed. Professional soldiers were more humane to each other, even though enemies, than civilians. For himself he wished well to any skilful swordsman — beau sabreur. But these things were out of his hands. He himself would neither advocate nor obstruct the pardon of the Prince de la Moskwa.
He asked Mr. Assheton Smith a great many questions, and with some animation, as to the breeding of his stallions and the breeds of his hounds. He understood that the hounds of the Quorn Hunt were longer-legged than those of the Pytchley and other packs because they were bred from moorland packs who had to be longer-legged for stepping over the heather. Did Mr. Smith, in fact, wear scarlet at the head of his hounds? That was famous! And blew a horn! So...
Mr. Smith was of opinion that the Marshal had been coached in those questions by members of his staff so that he might have some topic of conversation as a compliment to the milor.
The whole affair resolved itself more and more clearly into a matter of high politics. This Gatti was reluctant to credit, for he was of a type of mind that does not easily believe that such a thing as high politics exists. Mankind itself he had been taught by the learned Warenovius to believe was in large part imbecile and diplomatists the more imbecile part of mankind. But gradually in this affair a pattern began to manifest itself to him.
In the affair of Marshal Ney neither humanity nor an esteem for valour, neither regard for public opinion nor even any esteem for military discipline, played any marked part — at any rate in any of the participants save the Tsar Alexander. It resolved itself into a duel between the Duke of Wellington and Lord Castlereagh on the one part and Prince Metternich on the other, the one side finding it necessary to have a strong France in Europe, the other seeking to weaken the Bourbons and so the country. And it was taken as a rule of the game that, if Ney was pardoned, the cause of at any rate Louis XVIII must be irretrievably injured.
