MY dear old friend the
Due de St. Simon lived to a great age, and died, a hale, hearty old man,
some three or four years ago, and I don’t think it amiss to record here
a passage of his life well deserving his country’s gratitude, and one or
two anecdotes connected with him. In the autumn of 1815 a large portion
of the Prussian army was quartered in Normandy, with the intention of
occupying Cherbourg, then very slenderly garrisoned. Blucher, with his
staff, was at Caen, the headquarters of the French military division
commanded by St. Simon, then a young general of brigade. The Prussians,
on their entry into Caen, demanded that the small force under his orders
should lay down its arms. To such an unprovoked indignity—for this was
in September, long after all hostilities had ceased— the man who had
been Key’s aide-de-camp not only for two years in Spain, where the
gallant Colbert fell by his side, but for several in Germany; who at
Jena had cut his way through the Prussian hussars, carrying his
marshal’s orders, and was reported as dead in consequence of the wounds
there received—refused obedience. But, unwilling that there should be
any resort to force, which would probably have led to bloodshed, the
young general signified his intention of parading his small force at a
certain hour on the Place d’Armes, and then evacuating the town. This he
accordingly did, and directed his troops to proceed to Cherbourg. He had
already passed most of the troops in his division into that place,
together with all disbanded soldiers passing through Caen from the army
of the Loire and different other quarters. Thus, by the time the
Prussians were ready to occupy Cherbourg, it was garrisoned with a good
body of veteran troops, burning with hatred against them more than any
of the Allies. They did not venture to force their way in, finding
discretion the better part of valour. Thus backed, perhaps, a little by
that pressure that saved the bridge of Jena* Cherbourg was preserved
from the Prussians. The task, however, was difficult, for, had any
collision taken place, the French Government would not—possibly could
not— have supported their general.
The Duke de St. Simon,
then a colonel, was the officer who, accompanied by Colonel Cook,
carried to Soult the news of the abdication of Napoleon, in 1814. Soult
discredited, or pretended to discredit, the information, and proceeded
to try St. Simon by a sort of court martial, and General Foy told me
himself he voted for shooting him. Certainly he was sentenced to be
shot; but whether through the kindness of Soult’s staff, or by his
directions, shortly after the sentence was announced to him an
aide-de-camp came into the room, and, asking him if that was his horse
under the window, left it immediately. St. Simon took the hint and made
his escape to Suchet, with whom he had long served in Catalonia, where
he was in safety.
It was either on his way
from or back to Paris on this hazardous expedition, that the envoy and
the ex-emperor on his road to Elba met at a post-house when changing
horses. Napoleon, knowing him well, sent for him. The white cockade was
in his shako, and St. Simon, with the instinct and the breeding of a
thorough gentleman, with something, perhaps, of the galled pride of a
soldier at thus entering his
old emperor’s presence,
under whose leading and victorious eagles lie had marched into many of
the capitals of Europe, tried to keep the new cockade out of sight. “Ah,
vous en avez deja honte!” laughingly remarked Napoleon. St. Simon, who
was as quick and ready a man as ever lived, told me he felt as if
choked, and could not utter a word.
The British public will
probably take little interest in this subject, but these reminiscences
might find their way to France, and show how Englishmen can appreciate
Frenchmen on public grounds. May I be permitted to add that, if such
should be the case—if in that once fair, beautiful Paris, there should
be still living one only that remembers us both—I would wish that one to
know that I could not refrain from striving to pay this humble tribute
to the memory of one with whom I passed some of the happiest days of
youth, and to whose early kindness, wise counsel, and good example I owe
a deep debt of gratitude. |