Memoirs | Page 9

allowing himself to be
murdered on the 10th of August, sooner than give up the flag which
was intrusted to his loyal care, a very small canvas, carefully mended
up. That fragment is the principal figure in Leopold Robert's first
picture, and his masterpiece, L'IMPROVISATEUR, which used to
hang in the billiard-room at Neuilly. Either a salvage man, or a looter
of enlightened taste, cut it out with a penknife, in the midst of the
conflagration, and it is the only thing that was saved.
But let me come back to my story.
In my father's sitting-room at Neuilly, and the billiard-room more
especially, with the doors on the terrace open, the evenings used to be
spent, in a circle of neighbours, friends, and habitual visitors.
These evenings had such a decisive influence on my future destiny that
I cannot do otherwise than speak of them.
That billiard-room is before me now, with the pictures that adorned it,
all of them masterpieces--L'Improvisateur, by Leopold Robert; La
Feeme du Brigand, by Schnetz, Faust and Marguerite, by Ary Scheffer;
Venice, by Ziegler--hanging round.
I see the most frequent guests too. First two abbes, whose names--the
Abbe de Saint-Phar and the Abbe de Saint-Albin--were a significant
inheritance due to the frailty of their great-grandparents many years
before the Revolution And yet another abbe, with powdered side curls,
L'Abbe de Labordere, a former Grand Vicar of Frejus' who somehow or
other, I know not how, had become mayor of Neuilly. Then there was
the Marechal de Gouvion de Saint-Cyr, our near neighbour, who
always had a circle round him; and admirals too, the Comte de Sercey,
with his pigtail--an Indian veteran, Admiral Villaumetz; and generals
and officers besides, whose stories of their campaigns used to fill us
with enthusiasm. Amongst the generals who were friends of the family
there was General Drouot, who was very fond of me, and would take
me on his knee and tell me stories. I had seen Horace Vernet's picture,

La Bataille de Hanau, which represents Drouot on foot amongst his
guns, just as the Bavarian Cuirassiers are charging through them. That
had been quite enough to fire my ardour, and I wanted to be an
artilleryman too. Just about the same time, my father was presented
with a twelve- pounder howitzer by the Vincennes artillery, and
Colonel de Caraman came to try it with us. We fired shots in the park,
at the rising ground near Villiers, and my military enthusiasm was
wrought up to the highest pitch. I tormented my mother till she had an
artillery uniform made for me, and when I had it on my back I thought
my fortune was made. After having been taken to the fair at Neuilly,
and seeing the non- commissioned officers of the Regiment of the
Guard quartered at Courbevoie dancing with the pretty laundresses
belonging to the village, I tried hard to force my sisters to join me in
imitating the particular style of dance I had seen them perform. I have
heard it said that my choregraphic performance was fairly successful,
but there my fancy for the military career ended. General Drouot went
back to Nancy; I did not see him again, and I soon fell under other and
more lasting influences.
Among my father's aides-de-camp there was a young cavalry
lieutenant- colonel, the Comte d'Houdetot, who had begun life as a
midshipman. He was a very clever man, and one of the most delightful
story-tellers imaginable. By birth a creole, from the Mauritius, he and
his family had happened to come back to Europe on board the corvette
La Regeneree, commanded by that same Admiral Villaumetz, our
neighbour and constant visitor in the billiard-room. At the time of the
voyage D'Houdetot was a baby in arms, and in an action between the
Regeneree and the English, at the Loos Islands, his wet nurse was cut
in two by a round shot, which gave rise to a saying of his, "I have more
right to promotion than anybody. Lots of people have had horses killed
under them, but I'm the only man in the French army that ever had a
woman killed under him."
Mutually attracted by this common memory, the former middy and the
old admiral used to spend their evenings relating their adventures to
each other and their stories, which had begun by interesting, ended by
fascinating me. It was worth while to hear D'Houdetot tell about the

battle of Trafalgar, at which he had been present as a midshipman on
board the Algesiras, commanded by his uncle Admiral Magon, how, as
he lay on the poop, with both his legs broken by the bursting of a shell,
he saw his uncle the admiral receive his death-blow, at the very
moment when, wounded already, and his hat