I
was then lodging with a Madame Tissand, on the Place du Sablon, and I
occasionally chatted with my hostess on the critical posture of affairs.
Every Frenchwoman loves politics, and Madame Tissand, who was deeply
interested in the subject, continually assured me of her complete
devotion to the English.--"Ces maudits Francois!" cried she one day,
with almost terrific energy, when speaking of Napoleon's army. "If they
should dare come to Brussels, I will tear their eyes out!"--"Oh, aunt!"
sighed her pretty niece; "remember that Louis is a conscript!"--"Silence,
Annette. I hate even my son, since he is fighting against the brave
English!"--This was accompanied with a bow to me; but I own that I
thought Annette's love far more interesting than Madame's Anglicism.
On the 3rd of June, I went to see ten thousand troops reviewed by the
Dukes of Wellington and Brunswick. Imagination cannot picture any thing
finer than the _ensemble_ of this scene. The splendid uniforms of the
English, Scotch, and Hanoverians, contrasted strongly with the gloomy
black of the Brunswick Hussars, whose veneration for the memory of their
old Duke, could be only be equalled by their devotion to his son. The
firm step of the Highlanders seemed irresistible; and as they moved in
solid masses, they appeared prepared to sweep away every thing that
opposed them. In short, I was delighted with the cleanliness, military
order, and excellent appointments of the men generally, and I was
particularly struck with the handsome features of the Duke of Brunswick,
whose fine, manly figure, as he galloped across the field, quite
realized my _beau ideal_ of a warrior.
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