I Met With An Adventure In My Journey From St Quentin To Compiegne, Which,
Had It Happened A Hundred Years Ago In France, Would Have Alarmed Me Much
For My Personal Safety.
It was as follows.
I had taken my place at St
Quentin to go to Paris; but all the diligences being filled, the bureau
expedited a caleche to convey me as far as Compiegne, there to meet the
Paris diligence at nine the next morning. It was a very dark cold night,
and snowed very hard.
Between eleven and twelve o'clock at night, half way between St Quentin and
Compiegne, the axle tree of the carriage broke; we were at least two miles
from any village one way and three the other; but a lone house was close to
the spot where the accident happened. We had, therefore, the choice of
going forward or backward, the postillion and myself helping the carriage
on with our hands, or to take refuge at the lone house till dawn of day. I
preferred the latter; we knocked several times at the door of the lone
house, but the owner refused to admit us, saying that he was sure we were
gens de mauvaise vie, and that he would shoot us if we did not go away.
The postillion and I then determined on retrograding two miles, the
distance of the nearest village, and remaining there till morning. We
arrived there with no small difficulty and labour, for it snowed very fast
and heavily, and it required a good deal of bodily exertion to push on the
carriage. Arrived at the village, we knocked at the door of a small
cottage, the owner of which sold some brandy. He received me very civilly,
gave me some eggs and bacon for supper, and a very fair bed.
The next morning, after having the axle tree repaired, we proceeded on our
journey to Compiegne. I suffered much from the cold during this adventure,
and did not sleep well, having fallen into a train of thought which
prevented me from so doing; and I could not help bringing to my
recollection the adventure of Raymond in the forest near Strassburg, in the
romance of The Monk. Nothing worthy of note occurred during the rest of
the journey; but this adventure obliged me to remain one day at Compiegne
to wait for the next diligence.
PARIS, April 8th, 1816.
I delivered my letters to the Wardle family and am very much pleased with
them. I meet a very agreeable society at their house. Col Wardle is quite a
republican and very rigid in his principles.[60] His daughter is a young
lady of first rate talents and has already distinguished herself by some
poetical compositions. I met at their house Mrs Wallis, the sister of Sir
R. Wilson.[61] She is an enthusiastic Napoleonist, and wears at times a
tricolored scarf and a gold chain with a medal of Napoleon's head attached
to it; this head she sometimes, to amuse herself, compels the old emigrants
she meets with in society to kiss.
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