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I RESENTED IN M E M ri R V ' ■
ANNIE NELSON BAiLEY. Iti6<)-V-'
R SON THOMAS A, B A 1 1- I-' '■' , ' -' V . ' ■-
^ . /iU^ (1^
K
A SERIES
BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX,"
AND OTHERS.
Messrs. Harper & Brothers beg to announce
that they have completed arrangements with the
Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman," for the pub-
lication, at short intervals, of a Series of Books
specially prepared for Girls — girls of all ages
between eight and eighteen. The Volumes will
be beautifully printed, and handsomely and uni-
formly bound in Cloth extra, with Illustrations
after original designs by Frolich, Sydney Hall, and
other artists. They will be admirably suited for
Families and School and Birthday Presents.
ADDRESS.
I am told every where of the great want there is" of Girls'
Books. For boys and little children there are plenty, but for"
growing-up girls, the mothers of the next generation, almost
none ; none, at least, that can give them, at their most im-
Books for Girls,
pressible age, a true impression of what life is and what it
may be made.
People seem to think that " any body " can write for the
young ; whereas there are few kinds of writing more difficult.
It requires, first, that utmost art, ars celare artem ; next, quick
sympathy, large experience, and exceeding caution. Yet all
these at times fail, for lack of some mysterious key to that
most mysterious piece of God's handiwork — an opening hu-
man soul.
I have written books for twenty-four years ; books which
— I say it not in vanity, but in solenm, thankful pride — have
been read half over the world, and translated into most Eu-
ropean languages. Yet it is less as an author than as a wom-
an and a mother that I rest my claim to edit this Series ; to
choose the sort of books that ought to be written for girls,
and sometimes to write them.
I leave myself the widest range of selection, both as to sub-
jects and authors ; merely saying that the books will set forth
the opinions of no clique — I belong to none ; nor will they
advocate any special theological creed — I believe only in
Christianity. Indeed, there will be as little " preaching " in
them as possible ; for the wisest sermon is usually a silent
one — example. But they will be, morally and artistically,
the best books I can find, and will contain the experience of
the best women of all countries, used for the benefit of the
generation to come.
As for me, I was once a girl myself, and I have a little girl
of my own. I think both mothers and girls may trust me
that, I will do my best.
THE AUTHOR OF ''JOHN HALIFAX:'
Books for Girls,
1. LITTLE SUNSHINE'S HOLIDAY. A
Picture from Life. By the Author of " John Halifax,
Gentleman." With Illustrations by Frolich. i6mo,
Cloth, 90 cents.
"Little Sunshine's Holiday" is a very charming picture from life,
representing, as it does, the experiences and observations of a little girl
who is taken out to enjoy a holiday trip. The lanj^uage is simple, and
the style such as the young will delight in. — N. Y. Tifttes.
This is the first volume of a series of books intended for girls. Miss
Mulock has been appointed editor, and a better selection could not have
been made, her pure taste, hearty, earnest, sympathetic nature, and large
experience especially qualifying her for the work of addressing the rising
female generation. Very appropriately she leads off the series with a
story of her own, which will especially interest the younger portion of
the clientele in whose behalf the publishers have projected their enter-
prise. " Little Sunshine " is a bright, lovable, and quite human child of
some three years, who is taken by her parents on a holiday trip of a
month. What she saw and what she did, the pleasure her parents pro-
vided for her, how she enjoyed them, and how she repaid their fond care,
Miss Mulock narrates in a simple, lively fashion that can not but prove
irresistible with the little ones, while the story, whether read to or by
them, will leave a good impression. The book is issued in handsome
style, rendering it peculiarly suitable for gift purposes. — Philadelphia
Inquirer.
Will certainly afford delight to all who love children, and many a
mother will find in the sweet little heroine, with her yellow hair and
winning ways, a portraiture of her own sunny child. — N. Y. Evening
Post.
The narrative is related in a style of flowing sweetness, and the ad-
ventures of the tiny heroine a£ford a perpetual store of interest and
amusement. — N. Y. Tribune.
An exquisite little story, written by a woman who has studied well and
carefully that wonderful piece of God's handiwork, an opening human
soul. No woman now living is perhaps so well fitted to fulfill the plan
and supply what has long been felt to be a real want — a good, pure,
sensible library for girls of all ages. — Christian Union.
2. THE COUSIN FROM INDIA. ByGEORv;-
lANA M. Craik. Illustrated. i6mo, Cloth, 90 cents.
The story is one of absorbing interest, and the lesson it teaches is one
of the greatest importance, and which is probably better taught by ex-
ample — real, or in lifelike iiction — than by an^ amount and degree of
direct \xisXx\xii^\ox\.~ E xaminer and Chronicle.
Books for Girls,
Lively, natural, pure, and good in its teachings, and to be commended
to the httle readers in all our family circles. — Sunday-School Times.
** The Cousin from India " by turns is amusing and tender, moving
the reader to laughter and to tears. The neat and demure-looking damsel
who has come to live with her cousins soon proves herself mischievous
and naughty, wild and deceitful : but the influences of her new home,
and of loving Davie in particular, make their impression upon a heart
which is not altogether hard, and before the story has ended Effie has
begun a better life. The book will be a favorite with girls and boys
alike. — Congregationalist,
Is the story of a little girl, wild, untaught, and lawless, who makes an
irruption into a family of quiet, well-bred children ; and the consequent
commotions that ensue provoke alternately to laughter and tears.
Sweet, sufifering little Davie's influence over the half-savage cousin is
delightfully drawn, and in all the range of children's literature it would
be hard to find any thing more touchiugly beautiful than the story of the
long weeks of illness and death. Throughout the whole volume there is
a comprehension of and sympathy with child thought and feeling that
are almost as rare out of books as they are in. We wish that every little
girl of nine or ten, and every mother of such little girl, might have the
chance of reading thi^book. — Advance.
'• The Cousin from India " is a very interesting story of a pretematu-
rally clever and wicked little minx, who made her appearance in the
quiet i&mily of her good aunt to make mischief and trouble, and in the
long run to get converted from her wicked ways by the suffering and
death of one of her little play-fellows, and to be put in the way of becom-
ing a good and thoughtful as well as brilliant girl af^er all. The story
is exceedingly well contrived, the character of the mischievous Effie
being drawn with unusual skill. — N. Y. Times.
The story of the untaught, neglected, but clever little Indian child who
is thrown so suddenly into a well-regulated, happy Christian home is
very fascinatingly told. Indeed, to girls of ten years old and upward,
we should think it irresistible. Like the rest of this series, it is well
worthy of a place beside those tender and true stories which have made
this author a household benefactor. — Christian Union.
3, TWENTY YEARS AGO. From the Journal
of a Girl in her Teens. Edited by the Author of " John
Halifax, Gentleman." Illustrated. i6mo, Cloth, 90 cts.
yi^ir** Harper & Brothers will send either of the ^bove works by
nutil, postage prepaid, to any part of the United
States, on receipt of qio cents.
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;. ' ".
TWENTY YEARS AGO.
FROM THE
Sonxnal of a (Sl^irl in l)er S^ens.
EDITED BY THE
AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN."
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1872.
■ •
THE PKEFACE
— Which will be only a few words.
This book is — as it purports to be — the Ixmd
fide Journal of a girl in her teens, kept by her
during a short residence in Paris twenty years
ago. It was put into my hands "just to amuse
me," and I found it so interesting that I suggest-
ed its being recopied, with any alteration of
names or disguise of incidents that was thought
advisable, and sent back to me, subject to what-
ever editorial excisions I might deem necessary.
This was done ; but my task has been light,
for little was required. A few sentences con-
densed or transposed, an explanatory line added
here and there, and the general supervision of
a practiced author over a work originally " not
meant for publication" — this was all. I have
let the girl speak for herself I have not even
modified her passionate political opinions ; they
are true to girl-nature and a part of herself.
Neither have I omitted those portions of her
Journal which describe the gay Paris life in
which she mingled, the people she met therein,
their sentiments and her own, on love, mar-
riage, and otter subjects usually tabooed in
10 THE PREFACE.
girls' books. Why? Girls will think of
these things — ay, and talk of them too. Is it
not better that both their thoughts and their
conversation should be guided so as to regard
these mysteries, which each must soon find
out for herself, earnestly, purely, sacredly? I
believe so ; and therefore I have left the book
just as I found it. It tells no story — it points
no moral : it is simply a picture of a young
girl's life, painted by herself, in what most girls
will recognize as natural colors — as fresh now
as then. If a little too vivid, too brilliant, they
are still natural. Do not all thing looks bright-
er and larger than reality, in our teens?
There is a good deal of French introduced,
for which I make no apology. Any young
reader who finds this a difficulty — why, the
sooner she takes her grammar and dictionary
in hand and conquers it, the better.
And so I give this girl's Journal to other
girls, believing that it will do them no harm,
but good, and only wishing that one day they
may all be able to look back twenty years
with as little need to be ashamed of their old
selves as she who calls herself -Bea^nce Walford.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGX
A Pakibian Soibee 13
CHAPTER II.
The Coup d'^at 60
CHAPTER III.
M. L£ Professeur 87
CHAPTER IV.
M. feuLE 104
CHAPTER V.
The Jour de l*An ^. 122
CHAPTER VI.
In the Faubourg St. Germain 183
CHAPTER VII.
Balls 164
CHAPTER VIII.
Paris in April 186
13 CONTENTS.
CHAPTER IX.
PAOK
The Luxembourg and the Conciergerte :i01
CHAPTER X.
Paris in Mat 211
CHAPTER XI.
A French Country House 229
CHAPTER Xn.
A French Village 268
CHAPTER XIII.
Friends and F^tes 283
CHAPTER XIV.
Autumn Days 314
CHAPTER XV.
Sibyl's Lot — ^and Mine 346
TWENTY YEARS AGO.
CHAPTER I.
A PARISIAN SOIREE.
MORE than twenty years ago I, Beatrice
Walford, paid my first visit to Paris. I
was very young, fresh, and ardent; open-eyed,
open-eared, eager to enjoy ; prone to admire,
and not unwilling to criticise. I started, to be
sure, with a great contempt for the French
character, believing that the men were mon-
keys, and not to be trusted; the women vix-
ens, and given up to dress. This was all the
mental provision I had made for my two years'
residence among them. I came to the coun-
try almost in that state of innocence which
finds it astonishing that the natives of France
should speak French: I left it -as little of a
Frenchwoman as could be expected from the
stubborn British individuality ; but . I lived
there after the great law of French existence
— I amused myself as much as I could. It
14 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
seemed an idle life, but Fate will let no life be
idle. I walked carelessly among scenes and
characters as though they had been but pic-
ture-galleries, and they turned into earnest stud-
ies. And now, looking back, as across a gulf of
endless separation, my present existence — on
which they have not left the smallest outward
trace — seems yet filled with the foreign, famil-
iar faces; the strange, soon beloved tongues;
with the curious histories learned, the romances
watched to their sweet or sad conclusion I
My first single emotion was one of delight
at the radiant world in which I found myself.
I was on a visit to a sister who, some six years
before, had married a French gentleman of the
petite noblessej had become a widow, and, hav-
ing lived a good deal in Paris, preferred still
to reside there, but was very glad to have me,
as she said, to give a little liveliness to her
^* iriste home." I did not myself think it at all
triste when I arrived. It was in that bright
bit of Paris, the Avenue des Champs ]filys6es,
making one of a line of elegant houses, all glit-
tering in their bright white stone, with their
moulded and gilded fa9ades on each side of
those broad, sunny walks, and their double av-
enue of trees. And then my sister^s small,
pretty aptartment opened on me like a tiny
A PARISIAN SOIREE. 15
fairy palace, as, entering the antechamber, I
heard the gay piano sounding, and peeped into
the bright drawing-room within, a little shrine
played on by the sunshine, gay and fragrant
with flowers. And, like the nymph of flowers
and fragrance herself, came forth my graceful
sister to kiss and smile on me. Then, when
the first vague happy greetings were over, she
made me sit by the fire, and, throwing herself*
back in a low chair by my side (her favorite
pretty attitude), played with her little baby, a
red-aud-white darling with two dancing sap-
phires of eyes. We were soon laughing to-
gether, for she was excitable and easily amused,
and, though older by some years, more of a
child than I.
The dear Sibyl ! I never could describe her,
she was such a delicate blending of counter-
elements. The admiring Frenchman, monsieur
or ouvrzevy would pronounce her in the streets
a blonde angelique^ and I have known a lecture
or concert room fill, as she entered, with a gen-
eral murmur of pleasure, followed by the loud-
ly whispered word Anglaise, And English
certainly, refined and idealized to almost an
exceptional creation, was that white nymph-like
figure, with transparent complexion. and gold-
en-brown hair, and a kind of. celestial sweet-
16 TWENTY YEABS AGO.
ness in her eyes and still smile. But beyond
that charm I do not know that Sibyl was par-
ticularly British ; perhaps, indeed, she seemed
most so to a foreigner, as she seemed most
French to a compatriot. But to me there was
in her a life and play, a subtle archness, a for-
eign grace in dress, manner, and speech, that
seemed to have been kindled in a warmer,
more exciting atmosphere than oura Perhaps
she was something of a coquette, but I did not
mind that
"Why, Sibyl," I said, as I leaned out on the
light iron gnllage of the balcony, ** it seems to
me that one can see all Paris without stirring
from one's place. All the world appears gath-
ered into a picture before these windows for
our amusement. From that bronze fountain,
with its silvery jet and foam-halo, in the Place
down there, to the Arc de Triomphe cut out
in the blue air, it is a picture in a dream."
" There goes the president," said Sibyl ; and
I looked, though the name was not then much
of a spell (for this was just before December
2, 1851). I saw a low-hung cdlMie with four
horses, valets and postilions in livery of green
and gold, and leaning back in it, with folded
arms, a slight, inanimate-looking man, of clayey
or rather leathery complexion, who, with wood-
A PAItmiAN SOIREE. 17
en, immovable face, touched his hat now and
then to the scant greetings of the passers-by.
This was twenty years ago. Then to me,
as to the rest of that unforeseeing world, all
was enjoyment — the enjoyment of eyes always
pleased and never satiated. Our day was
given, as were many after-days, to walking
through this brilliant modern Paris, admiring
her in her ordered and stately grace; then
plunging into the ancient gloom and squalor
of the older city, entering grand buildings, the
shrines of past ages, hearing divine thunders
and angelic voices in churches; then, at one
step, plunging again into a torrent of human
life, where the quick French nature seems to
run like a light sound of laughter or music by
our side. Sometimes we formed a party to
dejeuner or dine in some shining, sumptuous
cafiS; and then it was time to return. Our
first walk home, in a frosty brilliant afternoon,
was by the south terrace of the Tuileries, end-
ing in a broad esplanade, below which lay
spread out at our feet the whole fair Place
de la Concorde. There on one side stood the
Madeleine, with its beautiful encircling colon-
nade, seeming to look across the granite obelisk
and sparkling fountains of the Place to salute
the pillared front of the Chamber of Depu-
B
18 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
ties, on tlie other side the river. The last sun-
shine rested on the upper part, and turned the
wreathing frieze and cornice to gold. In a
side-view we caught a lovely bit of the Seine
— a glimpse of rosy water, with a suspension
bridge's aerial arch flying lightly across it. It
was as if a majestic city square, with all its
marble architecture and sculpture, should sud-
denly open upon us from amidst stately woods
— all clear and brightly calm in its framing of
a wintry crystal atmosphere and a burning
sunset.
It was always a pleasure to come back to
our own street, with its regular clean white
houses, its row of windows d deux battants on
the upper stories, all opening down to the
floor upon light balconies of prettily carved
and gilt iron-work, the white and green per-
siennes thrown back against the walls, showing
the muslin curtains within, and all shining as
nothing in London ever shines. We approach
our own house; the great double doors fly
open at a touch of the bell and by the pull of
a string, and before us appears a large, hand-
some court, with two or three glass doors at
the end — one into the concierge^ s lodge, the
others opening on the great common staircase.
Within is another large court, built round by
A PARISIAN SOIREE, 19
the four sides of the house. The outer court
is adorned with flowers in boxes, dahlias, ole-
anders, and orange - trees ; a marble Venus
stands at the foot of the staircase. As we pass
the conderge^s lodge I see through the glass
door the comfortable-looking room, lighted
with fire and candle, and that grim, respectable
old dragon and his wife reclining at their ease
in fauteuils placed opposite each other. In the
lodge or the court is sometimes to be seen that
prime French favorite, a superb Cyprus cat,
with waving, plumy exuberance of fur. But
when I inquire after him I am so often stern-
ly told "Monsieur se prom^ne," that I have
given up this dissipated gentleman as scarcely
a respectable acquaintance.
Then comes, the wide staircase, up whose
smooth, well- waxed parqueted steps we trip so
easily. But stop, I must learn to walk de-
murely, at least when I ai?i alone ; for I am
told by Sibyl's careful bonne, who watches
over my morals, that on such occasions, "les
demoiselles" must not run up stairs; they
must go "la tSte 61ev^," and leisurely, to
show they are not ashamed to be seen. I
must be careful, too, short-sighted as I am, to
see- the concierge, and to bow to him, for he is a
man of lofty politeness, whose good manners I
20 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
ought at least to try to imitate ; and, as Ga-
brielle says, nothing is so necessary to " de-
moiselles," nothing so carefully taught them
in France, as a gracious and amiable deport-
ment. So up we pass, only bowed to by some
stranger-focatoVe, should he pass at the same
time, each landing-place exhibiting the safely
locked door of some elegant asylum in which
a family may be dwelling, joyous yet quiet,
as much " at home " as in an English country
cottage. We reach our own : Sibyl and I
each take possession of a deliciously elastic
caiLseicsey all soft and rich with crimson velvet,
see our own pleased, tired faces in many a
gilded mirror, and discuss the incidents of the
day.
" Now, you little barbarian," said Sibyl, a
few days after my arrival, " I must take you
into society this evening. Very often I have
two or three friends who drop in, in a quiet
way ; but to-night we must go to Madame.
Gibbs's."
"Who is Madame Gibbs?" I asked.
"Oh, she is a queer little body — a French-
woman married to an Englishman, who piques
herself on being quite English, though you
won't think so. Her society is very mixed,
but the party will just suit you as a beginning, *
A PAmaiAN SOIREE. ^1
being quiet, yet very amusiDg. How do you
think you shall like it, from the specimens
you have seen to-day ?"
" I must confess," I said, "I am not yet rec-
onciled to black beards and mustaches, cigars,
strange dresses, and prolonged stares. In fact,
I long to kill every man I meet. But this
you will say is illiberal."
" It seems so to me," said Sibyl, candidly ;
"but then I have been some years learning
toleration. You know there are two things a
Frenctman can never help using — his eyes
and his tongue. As that dear M. Lamourette
once said to me when, being younger, I ob-
jected a little to the staring process, no imper-
tinence is intended ; it is only an artless, spon-
taneous tribute to one's charms. ^Un homme
naif et ingemc comme moi^ as he was pleased to
say, * can't help expressing his feelings.' But
I have since grown so hardened and corrupted
that when the more serious flmile asked me
how I ventured to walk out alone, lest I
should hear disagreeable things, I answered,
with the innocence of fifteen, that what I
heard was, to me, not disagreeable! But I
don't wonder that you, Beatrice, are still per-
plexed by hearing various conjectures as to
your nationality, and candid information about
23 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
your * type,' your hair, and your complexion.
Wait for this evening's experience. French-
men in the street and Frenchmen in the sahn
are very different. At any rate, don't utter
these opinions of yours before Hermine, since,
though she may very possibly think the same
herself, she may also betray you to her coun-
trymen."
Speak of the sun and you see its rays.
Just as Sibyl ceased the door opened, and in
came two ladies — an elder and a younger.
The latter caught at once my beauty-loving
eyes. They were Madame de Fleury — Sibyl's
stepmother-in-law, who lived in the same ho-
tel on a lower floor — and her young daugh-
ter Hermine, with whom I instantly made ac-
quaintance. What a brilliant little French
sylph she was, as she half tripped, half glided
into the room, moving quickly and decidedly,
her small, trim figure having just that happy
degree of compression which gives slightness
without stiffness I Her face I thought at first
hard; young and fresh as it was, it had a me-
tallic sharpness and clearness the very reverse
of the soft, dreamy, veiled charm of youthful
English beauty. She wore a smile — wore, I
say advisedly, for she might have put it on
with her dress — not soft or timid, but full of
A PARISIAN SOIREK 23
a gay, brilliant, conquering sweetness all its
own.
Hermine was very gracious to me. Had
she met me in the street as a stranger, she
would most likely have njeasured me with the
eye of quick, unsparing criticism, which in a
moment takes in the whole figure and dress of
a person, in which not a spot, a wrinkle, or a
fold, if out of the fashion, escapes observation ;
then might have turned away with that slight
derisive smile so singularly suited to discon-
cert or provoke an Englishwoman. But now
perhaps Hermine satisfied herself in that glance
that my pretensions were not very formidable,
my gown and bonnet having been obviously
not made in Paris. Graceful and self-pos-
sessed, she came up and made her " felicita-
tions " in a tone of affectionate interest, and
with her light, ringing, singing voice, and that
air, so delicately empressS, which attracts, flat-
ters, and caresses to the highest degree. A
pretty Frenchwoman who means to please
knows how to manage the briefest meeting, the
slightest chance-intercourse, especially with the
other sex, be it only a handing from a voiture,
a making way for her in the street, acknowl-
edged by a bow, a smile, a " Merci, monsieur."
She can turn it all into a little sentimental pas-
24 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
sage, by means of that charming manner they
seem all to have, more or less, from the high-
bred young countess to the poor fruit-woman
at her stall. Some see harm in this : I, Bea-
trice Walford, never could. Is a peach less
sweet for having a soft velvety cheek outside Z
— that is, when it is a sound peach, as peaches
should be.
Hermine and I exchanged a few light sen-
tences, I making in haste crude efforts to rival
her manners, to smooth and refine my phrases
into correct works of art, instead of trusting
only to my downright sansfaqon English good-
will, which felt quite put to shame by her ex-
quisitely-polished conventionalities. But, alas !
we spoke in a language of which not one word
would come straight to my tongue when I
wanted it. To my relief, Sibyl soon inter-
posed, saying that it was time to dress for Ma-
dame Gibbs's. We withdrew together, leaving
Hermine and her mother, who were already
attired and prepared to accompany u& •
"Just tell me a little about these soirSes,'*^ I
asked of my sister. " You know I have lived
so long in a lonely corner of Cumberland that
I feel giddy at this sudden plunge into Paris
life, and may disgrace you with my blunders."
"Oh, the French are so indulgent," said
A PARISIAN SOIREE. 25
Sibyl ; " they regard a foreigner's first crudities
just as pretty, ^'g^wan^ novelties; to the new-
ly-arrived all things are forgiven. True, it
will not do to depend too long on this claim to
indulgence ; want of tact is regarded as a mor-
tal sin, and we can be mechant enough when
the first charm of novelty has worn ofil But
I will tell you the sort of thing it will be. One
evening in every week a lady receives com-
pany, and her acquaintance, if once they have
had an invitation, are expected always to come
on that particular evening. However, they
come or not as they like ; the party is large
or small as may happen ; they dress as they
please; they enter and depart with no cere-
mony beyond that of greeting their hostess;
they stay long if they find it amusing, or only
a few minutes if it is not so, or if they want to
go elsewhere. The same people get a habit
of frequenting the same places; mutual ac-
quaintances have also their evenings ; so that
one often becomes intimate with a person whose
family or even name one scarcely knows, and
perhaps scarcely sees by daylight. There is
no efibrt, no gine. People here meet to talk,
and do it with all their hearts. There is al-
ways the pleasant expectation of seeing again
any body who has begun to interest one, and
26 TWENTY TJSAHS AGO.
the certainty of finding new faces and of
watching foreign and amusing ways."
" Well, I shall like that, if only I need not
talk a word for at least the first three even-
ings."
So said I, not knowing my fate, or rather
not knowing myself.
Sibyl told me she should name no one be-
forehand — it was much more amusing to find
people out for one's self—" Except ;6mile de
Fleury, who is a sort of relation ; he is Her-
mine's cousin, has lately left the ;6cole Poly-
technique, and is in the army. That is all."
Our carriage rumbles and jumbles along the
execrable pavements of the aristocratic Fau-
bourg St. Germain, which is also the literary
quarter, the colleges being chiefly there ; and
in this class of society lay our present ac-
quaintance.
We stop at a large, old, dingy -looking house
in the Eue de I'Universit^, once the handsome
hotel of some " grand seigneur." Its various
full-grown etages are now filled with artists,
students, litterateurs. The porte-cochere is open ;
we drive into the open paved court, where
carriages are already standing. Three flights
of stairs lead to the appartement of Madame
Gibbs ; we are ushered into a nice little ante-
A PARISIAN SOIBEM. 37
room, where an open stove or brazier, with its
white marble top, diffuses a delicious warmth,
in compensation for the starry, frozen bitterness
without Two smiling maidens take charge
of the ladies' mantles, cachemires, capotes^ and
all the rich winter wrappings that hide till then
the still prettier winter dress below. The light
chorus of voices from inside reaches the an-
techamber where we stand, and in a few mo-
ments we are among them.
Madame Gibbs had just recommenced her
weekly soirees. These were of a kind very fre-
quent among the lettered, artistic, professional,
and generally not too rich nor exclusively
fashionable circles in Paris ; consequently very
mixed, easy, and agreeable. There was no
show, expense, or elaborate hospitality of any
kind ; the majority of the guests, having long
been in the habit of attending, were as much
at home there as by their own firesides. Be-
sides this regular and natural reunion of inti-
mates, Madame Gibbs, being a brisk and vigor-
ous society-lover, was at some pains to flavor
it with a spicy ingredient or two — a new ar-
rival, a foreign celebrity, a queer character, a
known talker, who either became permanently
added to her set, or just lighted it up for the
winter, or perhaps only the evening, like a
38 TWENTY YEAES AGO.
passing meteor. As yet the season for gaye-
ties, for balls and f^ies^ had not begun, the full
flood of strangers had not poured in ; there-
fore these soirees had more of a quiet, do-
mestic character ; the parqueted dancing-room
was not yet used, except perhaps impromptu.
The ladies' dresses were only demi-toilets ; the
young ones rejoiced still in their fresh, clear
colors — pink, and white, and blue — unfaded by
a long Paris campaign ; there were plenty of
happy, idle men, the Chamber of Deputies not
having yet opened, nor the college lectures
begun.
The rooms, though not large, were pretty
well arranged for reception, well furnished,
and well lighted. They consisted of two sa-
lons, just of the right sociable size and shape,
each warm and cheerful, with a sparkling
wood fire in each, and couches and fauieuik
scattered around in most inviting groups.
The rooms are gradually filling, but the full
choir of conversation is not begun. People
stand, flit about unfixedly, exchange a word
here and ther^; presently those who wish to
meet find each other out, choose their places,
and slip into a happy groove of talk, either in
a duet or a group of three or four, changing
as people leave or join it. Ere long the sa-
A PARISIAN SOIREE, 29
Ion seems to present nothing but a crowd of
black -bearded, mustached men, and of white
gloves waving eagerly through the room, with
tongues incessantly going between talk and
laughter. All are voluble, easy, self-possess-
ed, and seem in high enjoyment, except here
and there arises an insular form like a column
above the rest, blonde-headed, reddish-whis-
kered, good-looking, heavy — either silent or
speaking quietly, perhaps with an air of g^ne^
and with looks and attitudes any thing but
at ease. " English !" say I to myself at once.
Besides these, there are bearded artists, pro-
fessors with hrgnonsj a few militaires^ some se-
rious-looking Italian exiles, some half-unna-
tionalized travellers, citizens of all worlds, and
many of them queer ones ; some suspected Jes-
uits, with smooth smiles, softly joining every
lively group of talkers, listening and seeming
as lively as any. Here and there is a stray
grand seigneur of the old school, known by his
more quiet and polished manners, generally a
zealous Catholic, devot perhaps without moral-
ity, and a chivalrous Legitimist, doomed thus
to elbow Red Eepublicans of the most emanci-
pated type. Finally, as large an element as
any are English girls ; often hahiiuees of Paris,
but English all over in look, speech, and dress ;
30 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
and, in their fresh beauty and joyous simplici-
ty, great favorites with these cai/^^ie- loving
gentlemen. French demoiselles make a very
thin sprinkling, and, when they do appear, it
must be owned their countrymen neglect them
a little.
There sits a knot of downright English
maidens — a bouquet of two or three of these
Northern lilies or island roses — and every now
and then a sprightly-looking Frenchman slides
up to them, hat in hand, and, with a smile,
makes a couple of bows — the first at a dis-
tance, reverential ; the second nearer, empress^
(for, however intimate, hands are seldom shak-
en) ; and, after a most polite inquiry as to the
health of the young lady he has singled out,
which must be answered, as he will repeat it
till it is, he opens at once an animated flirta-
tion. The mixture of gay raillery with com-
pliment only implied, the appearance of inter-
est, the pretty turns of speech, showing just
enough consciousness of their respective sexes,
and not too much, the readiness to listen as
well as talk, and the open-hearted, confiding
frankness with which he communicates his
feelings, his cares, or his sorrows — all this
strikes the young English mind as very un-
English indeed.
A PARISIAN SOIREE, tl
The favorite first topic is a laughing raillery
of mademoiselle on her prejuges atroces against
his nation, which he either playfully depre-
cates or exaggeratedly confirms; and mean-
while the English girl, if she be new and in-
experienced, looks on the Frenchman with a
mixture of doubt, suspicion, and curiosity; he
is a mystery of which she finds the study far
from disagreeable. Theoretically she has a
horror of him as something wicked, worthless,
dangerous ; yet, while drawn on by him to ex-
press this, she finds her real, actual feelings to
be surprise, amusement, and, above all, that
delicious sense of gently gratified vanity. For
the benefit of such-like innocent English girls,
I may observe that this way of talking and
style of manners is with a Frenchman a mere
matter of course, and means very little in-
deed. Of course my initiation into French so-
ciety was somewhat on this wise ; but I missed
a good many of the favorite personalities, from
the fact of my not being precisely the blonde et
caThdide Anglaise which is stereotyped in their
imagination. Yet, though! was not in person
of the peculiar English type (to use their pet
phrase), I soon discovered that I was to them
most abundantly britannique in character and
manihre dHUre, I could after a while perceive,
9B TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
not indistinctly, that I was somewhat of a fa-
vorite ; but I owed this chiefly to Sibyl's ex-
treme popularity. There would come up to
me one Frenchman after another, either led by
Madame Gibbs or by the strong spirit within,
to inquire in tender tones if I was not la soeur
de cette charmante Madame de Fkury; and very
good they were to endure all my sins of gram-
mar and absurdities of pronunciation for her
sake.
So I sat and watched, when I could, Sibyl's
.delicate gayety in her light passages of talk
with divers kinds of people, her pretty caress-
ing attentions to her female friends, her man-
ners so carelessly serene to the gentlemen,
young and old, who hovered round her. I had^
as I said, my share of introductions — for some-
times it was a quick desultory succession of
indiflferent persons. I scarcely caught a name;
I hardly knew one face from another ; all was
equally strange — an Englishman often wild
and bearded like a foreigner,, a foreigner some-
times speaking excellent English.
Before long; there came up to Sibyl a young
man, who at once detached himself, to my
eyes, from that crowd of men, all so like one
another, and whom she named as M. fimila
He had decidedly a military air ; but the first
A PARISIAN SOIREE. 33
thing that struck me was his superiority in
height, figure, carriage, and style of face to al-
most all the other young men. He was from
the north-east of France, and a tinge of Frank-
ish blood may have modified his Celtic linea.-
ments. There was in them an indefinable
charm far beyond handsomeness, for he was
not handsome. But the changing play of his
mobile features, his fresh coloring, the rich
chestnut of his hair and silky mustache, made
him certainly not ugly. He approached Sibyl
quietly, with an air of homage almost timid, yet
very sweet ; then, on being introduced, bowed
and addressed me with a kind of gentle for-
mality ; but there was never any gaucherie. A
Frenchman presents himself well, and stands
or sits straight and at rest — all but his gesticu-
lating hands ; his bow and smile bespeak one
who knows he can sustain his part In the
case of M. ;6mile, the gentleness with which
he entered into conversation formed a kind of
shelter from the exuberant and even noisy vi-
vacity of the others ; and I soon found myself
pleasantly floating along a stream of meta-
physical, critical, sentimental, and other dis-
course with the young soldier. He talked
well, like most other Frenchmen ; but, though
his smile was ready and sweet, and his re-
C
34 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
marks often playful, he yet seemed to me sub-
dued in comparison with the others, so I took
occasion of a break in our conversation to ask
my sister if the young oflicer's heart had been
blighted. .
" No, I. think not," said Sibyl. " The state
of his country and his own want of hope of ris-
ing tend to depress him ; but you will often
find him lively enough."
This was sufficient, when M. [fimile, with his
own quiet perseverance, again found a place by
Sibyl and me, to make me begin to talk poli-
tics. I asked him how he liked his present
ruler. He shrugged his shoulders d la Fran-
gaise, " You think him only better than an-
archy?" I persisted, with English directness.
"I am in his service ; I must not speak ill
of him."
I begged pardon for my indiscreet question,
and was politely forgiven. Indeed, a dogged
reserve was not in M. Smile's character, at least
towards one in whom he began to place a friend-
ly confidence; and he ere long betrayed feel-
ings which made me say, "I am charmed to find
you really a Eepublican."
"You are the first that ever doubted it,"
replied he, in a gentle, injured tone.
Still farther emboldened, I affirmed, " If T
A PARISIAN SOIREE. 85
were in your place I should tlirow my hrevet to
the four winds."
He appreciated the sentiment, but pleaded
the necessity of a profession, the chance and
hope of serving his country in some way or
other, which a present surrender of his position
would forever destroy, alleging reasons which
I felt to be valid, but would not allow. I stood
to my text, affirmed with easy heroism, " H
n'est pas ndcessaire de vivre," and so on, till he
was reduced to a smiling protesting, " Mais vrai-
ment, mademoiselle ;" then broke off, wonder-
ing at such " enthousiasme exalte ;" he had no
idea he should find an Anglaise so democratic,
etc. I liked to see him as he stood smiling
down from his tall height, under his dark silk-
en mustache — a pleased, amused, half-embar-
rassed smile — crossing and uncrossing his arms
in a light and gentle style of his own, as he en-
tered his protest against my exaltaticm.
Though liking him, I was a little displeased
with M. !6mile for what appeared an absence
of heroic consistency, a temporizing submission
to circumstances ; but I did him wrong.
It was perhaps fortunate for our nascent
friendship that at this juncture there approach-
ed a gentleman whom I did not know, a com-
plete contrast to the quiet, thoughtful, low-
36 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
voiced young officer. This person had been
fluttering about, or rather had poised in his er-
ratic flight a moment near us, and then, waiting
for no introduction, plunged into the conversa-
tion, wnich from that moment he seized up, car-
ried on, and almost engrossed, with a torrent
of esprit^ fun, laughter, and animation of look,
tone, and gesture that I despair of describing.
To say that he was amusing is little ; I was
never in my life so amused before. To say
that he was extremely noisy is also strict jus-
tice ; and when, attracted by the flood of talk
and outbreaks of laughter from our group, oth-
er gentlemen from time to time joined in, till it
consisted of five, six, or even seven at once, con-
tributing their quota to the excitement, I felt
myself at last in a bewildering fever of amuse-
ment, surprise, and exertion.
Sibyl at first gave me some aid, but she was
called away by Madame Gibbs, and, left to my-
self, I, unfortunate foreigner ! found my diffi-
culty in speaking become ten times greater.
But this mattered nothing ; the flattering po-
liteness, the inexhaustible brilliancy, and the
electrical good-humor of the unknown, covered
and overpowered all encircled by these vehe-
ment talkers. I could not and did not think
of escaping, and nothing but my own final de-
A PAMISIAN SOIREE. 37
parture put an end to the game, which seemed
so agreeable to these gentlemen, of astonishing
the poor Anglmse, L must say that they were
extremely well bred, and the quickness and
courtesy with which the brilliant stranger list-
ened to, understood, helped out, and replied to
my very English French were perfectly charm-
ing.
As for recording one tenth of what he said,
it would be impossible, nor, without the tone
and manner, would it seem much worth re-
cording; I can only collect some few stray
drops from this Niagara of talk. I was at first
(of course) rallied on my supposed prejudices
against the French, and confirmed in them by
the assurance that they were bavards, frivolous,
foolish, and unreflective. Nothing could be
more amusing than the way they ran. them-
selves down, appealing constantly, in seductive
tones, to "mademoiselle," for whose edification
these tirades were uttered. They talked about
national cruelty ; their ferocity, especially that
of the nlilitary, was admitted without a dissen-
tient voice ; but some one pronounced the cru-
elties of the English worse, because they were
committed in cold blood, while the French
were hurried away by passionate excitement.
Finallv. of all the excesses of all the most sav-
38 TWENTY YEAMS AGO.
age soldiery, those committed by the Austrians
were said to be pre-eminent.
Then the gentle M. ilfimile was rallied on the
ferocity he had brought from one short cam-
paign in Algdrie ; but, to allay the horror I
might be entertaining of him, I was assured
that he was the most humane of all, and that
he had not "^gorg^ plus d'une douzaine de
femmes, ni mang^ plus de quatre enfants."
M. flmile then told composedly some stories
of murderous adventure and horrible massa-
cre in Algdrie; but when he tried to allay
the effect by some touches of interesting inci-
dent or picturesque description, he was un-
mercifully laughed at by his friend, who bade
me believe nothing he said, for that "M. Toffi-
cier" was "romanesque, un pen sentimental
m6me." " A defect from which you are quite
free," I thought to myself It was great fun
to see this lively man teasing his friend, and
then consoling him with a patronizing, caress-
ing good-nature which the tall young militaire
took with his usual quiet serenity. IVom for-
eign, they came to domestic cruelties, which
they told apparently with great gusto. "Voi-
la, mademoiselle, encore le tigre I" was the de-
lighted wind-up. .
Having thus lighted on politics, we pursued
A PARISIAN SOIMEE. 39
the theme with something more of earnestness
than before ; and then my new friend, by cer-
tain oratorical poses, betrayed himself as one
accustomed to the tribune and to public speak-
ing. All Frenchmen, I observe, who are in
the habit of this make a point, when inter-
rupted for but two minutes, of following
Lamartine's celebrated example, and standing
with their arms folded in an attitude of august
calm. My friend's natural majesty was not
much, but he did what he could. A pensive
Italian joined the group; the sprightly pro-
fessor — ^for so far I had made out what he was
— instantly turned his fire of raillery on him,
said something with much emphiasis about " le
roi Bomba," and then, turning again to me,
observed, "We have one comfort left; as long
as the Neapolitans exist we can not be called
the last of. nations" — which hit the grave
young democratical litth^aieur took very well.
Then he gayly quoted the president's late-
reported saying, "H faut supprimer TAngle-
terre," and asked me how I liked it. "Let
him try !" I answered, scornfully, adding that
it was very ungrateful of Louis Napoleon to
the country which had sheltered him so long.
This remark was politely approved of, and
when I was threatened with being detained
40 TWENTY "YEAJiS AGO.
prisoner at Paris in case of an English war,
and answered " Je resterai volontiers," smiles
and bows acknowledged my reciprocal polite-
ness. When, on being asked my political
opinions, I confessed to the reddest of Bed
Eepublicanism, adding " that I was ready to
mount a barricade," M. le Professeur, with an
air of chivalrous devotion, declared his deter-
mination to mount behind me. A general
shout of laughter informed him of his mistake,
and it was in vain that he earnestly strove to
improve it ; he got nothing but the credit of
his first assertion.
In the midst of the discussion my sister
came to call me away. She was attended by
a new Frenchman, whom she formally pre-
sented to me, naming each to each as she did
so. My name seemed to interest the audience,
for the French gentlemen suspended their
storm of discourse to let the small soft Chris-
tian name in Sibyl's sweet accents slip in, and
fill up the tiny interval. I bowed and van-
ished, the last-named gentleman accompany-
ing Sibyl and me to our carriage.
And who, then, was this clever, impetuous
talker, who had given me my first idea of
French esprit? Why, he was the man most
recherche in all that society ; still young, but
A PARISIAN aOIREE. 41
known as a charming talker, and a brilliant,
rising man of letters — the pleasant and popu-
lar Professor Achille Lamourette. After-ac-
quaintance presented him in new lights; at
present I rightly held him intensely agreeable.
In appearance he was far more the French-
man of one's imagination than M. flmile or
any one else that I had seen — a lithe figure,
electric movements, a whirlwind of gesticula-
tion, an eye of restless light, smooth chin and
slight mustache, features young but expression
old, a face of lightning-like play, but strongly
marked with those sensitive lines that betray
a most nervous temperament, and speak also
of days of sedentary, studious toil, a mercurial
nature bowed down to drudgery, but always
striving to escape, and compensating itself by
brief, eager flashes of more vivid life.
I have said that there were few French la-
dies present; nevertheless, I did make ac-
quaintance with one whom I think I shall like
better than Hermine. In the first place, she
had expressed a great desire to know English
young ladies ; in the next, though she sat by
her mother's side, she was not totally eclipsed
in the ma^ternal shadow, but spoke for herself
in a decided manner, as one accustomed to
some independence. It is true she was about
42 TWENTY TJEARJS AGO.
•
twenty-three. At first I thought her older,
for her face was one of those which at first
sight are dingy and heavy, but when animated^
lighted up, and especially in full dress and at
happy moments, become really beautiful. It
was a grand, melancholy face, with severe Eo-
man features, ample brow, and large black
eyes ; there were in it traces of physical, and
I thought suppressed mental, suffering. Her
whole manner had a -gracious self-respect, be-
speaking her, what I believe she was, an hon-
est, high-principled girl.
She was Eulalie E^nand, daughter of a
wealthy Protestant banker. She had been
carefully brought up, was well-informed, and
had much sense — of the dry, positive kind,
perhaps, and attended by sufiicient confidence
in herself; but she thought clearly, and spoke
readily aiid well. She paid me some stately
and gracious compliments on my poor French,
expressed a desire of farther acquaintance, and
a willingness to give me any information I
might wish for. We fell into conversation,
which turned by chance on the early marriages
of French girls, about which I asked her maoy
questions. She confirmed all my. previous
ideas, but added, with a proud calm, " There
are exceptions ; I am one, and I do not regret
A PARISIAN SOLREE. 43
it." I afterwards learned that she had formed
and kept the romantic resolution never to
marry unless she could do it d VAnglmse — that
is, for love.
But all this while I have said nothing of
Hermine. Well, there was nothing to say.
She sat at her mother's side, demure, like a
kitten that may be playing madly next mo-
ment. She looked quite a child, and a very
pretty one, though dressed in a quiet-colored
silk morning -dress. Gentlemen came up to
her mother, but addressed not a word to her ;
which was all exquisitely correct, of course.
While watching her I saw her suddenly be-
come ten times demurer; the only reason I
could assign for this was the approach of an
elderly gentleman, the same who was last pre-
sented to me, and who escorted us home, Her-
mine and her mother accompanying us. He
was a specimen of a very different class from
most of those around us, and in three points
he certainly had the advantage. He used no
furious gesticulations ; he had no fierce, disor-
derly profusion of hair over lips and chin; and
he did not breathe garlic and tobacco. He
was, in fact, a rather elderly aristocrat, and of
manners as aristocratically perfect as any I
ever saw — not particularly sincere, nor con-
44 TWENTY TEAMS AOO.
veying any idea of genuine amiability, but
simple, yet finished, easy, and agreeable. I
honored what I saw as a last relic of what I
am told is dying out in Paris — the manners of
the anden rigime. A tranquil bow, a low even
tone, and an immediate but very quiet flow of
conversation — conversation, it must be owned,
much in the same style as his younger rivals
— that is, seasoned with compliments, raillery,
and all the implements from the arsenals of
flirtation which he may have used with suc-
cess some twenty years ago, more, as I thought,
to keep up still a character for galanterie than
from any other feeling. I rather wished he
had not that twinkling gray eye, nor that
somewhat slippery smile. Still, I would have
attentively studied this new zoological speci-
men ; but I was so very, very — tired, was it?
— and I was greatly relieved when, after bow-
ing to me, and gracefully kissing SibyFs and
Hermine's hands. Monsieur le Comte took his
leave.
" Well," said Sibyl, laughing at my exhaust-
ed expression of countenance, "these soiries
present a new tableau every time ; but the best
of all was to-night. You, the shy, rustic En-
glish girl, who can't speak a word of French,
chattering away the whole evening with half a
A PARISIAN SOIREE, 45
dozen of the most colloquial Frenchmen, and
looking the most desperately amused of them
all! Tell me, now, what do you think of
them?"
" They are very amusing," I said, succinctly.
" Yes," put in Hermine, with a slight laugh ;
" and still more so, I should think, if you take
for granted all that my countrymen say to you.
They take a little advantage of you as a for-
eigner, j ust pour s^amuser,^'^
" I think that very likely," I replied, though
at the moment I was at loss for the particular
allusion and the meaning of that slight tone
of pique. I presently remembered that M. le
Comte had, in a paroxysm of politeness, in-
formed me that the very name Anglmse had to
a Frenchman a mysterious charm, a spell, call-
ing up an image of ideal perfection. This, no
doubt, was provoking to a young Franqaise
quite conscious of her charms. When Sibyl
soon after enlightened me still farther by the
private information that an alliance was on the
tapis between M. le Comte and Mdlle. Her-
mine, and that in a short time th^y would
probably be declared Jianc&s^ I comprehended
better still.
Left alone, my sister and I fell into the usu-
al English strain of comment on the French
46 TWENTY YEARS AOO.
marriage system, and wondered at, deplored,
and abused it in general, while I grieved over
Hermine's case in particular, though assured
by Sibyl that Hermine would not be unhappy,
as she had never expected any thing better.
It was strange to have thus early before my
eyes a veritable, living instance of those ma-
riages de convenance which I had always heard
of, but never quite realized. Here was a girl
like myself — with a heart, I supposed, made
by nature like mine, and, I was sure, charms
enough to have a right to love and be loved, if
any of us had — affianced, without any will of
her own, to a man nearly twice her age.
I looked on the bright, graceful little nymph
with a new, painful interest, unable to regard
her as other than a victim. Seeing my com- .
passion still troublesome, Sibyl was at pains to
say all she could for the system, which, as she
observed, suits French people, and has some
pleasant features in it. The romance of love-
making, which with us ends, with them often
begins, at marriage. The husband naturally
conceives, a great interest in the young, timid,
innocent creature thus confided to him, and
takes pains, by tender attentions, to tame the
shy, wild bird, conquer her fears, and win her
heart. Often he succeeds; she loves for the
A PABJSIAN SOntEE. 47
first time warmly, and then, as often, Sibyl
was forced to confess, the love-making ceases.
But the wife adapts herself by degrees to the
change.
"I thinkj"said Sibyl, "Hermine will do as
well as most under the circumstances. She
has great good temper and good sense, and
she is such a' taking little creature that if she
chooses she may hold her husband captive a
long time."
I was silent, but my heart rebelled ; I was
only eighteen, and I, an honest-hearted English
girl, believed in love.
We soon returned to considering the char-
acters and incidents of the evening just past :
Sibyl was of great use in helping me to ar-
range my impressions, in making annotations
and explanations.
" Compared with this," I said, " what a com-
monplace affair is an English evening party I
How little of manners, still less of character,
one would observe there ! What salient fea-
tures, what strongly-marked individuality, what
dramatic grouping of persons and situations I
I came desiring only a niche whence I might
see and hear something as to what a French-
man and his talk might be like, and I find my-
self undergoing a full initiation, seasoned by a
48 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
curious contradictory charm — the piquancy of
utter strangeness and the ease of long famil-
iarity."
I expressed also my surprise at their social
imprudence and unreserve, the freedom of
their strictures on others, their openness about
themselves, and their apparent pleasure in an
answering sincerity.
"My dear," said Sibyl, "Hermine is partly
right in saying that you must not take au pied
de la httre all that you hear. Frenchmen are
such an odd compound — they have such va-
ried motives for what they say: a desire to
please the foreigner, and a love of strong emo-
tions and strong language makes them find
fault with themselves, while their amour-propre
and •quick sense of ridicule causes them to
be severe towards others. Having discover-
ed your English truthfulness, they are much
amused at it — in an imaginative way ; attract-
ed too. But in the long run, ma petite^ you
will find yourself beaten."
" Very likely," I said ; " I feel that I am no
match for them."
But in my heart I vowed boldly and gayly
that I wcmld be a match for them ; that I too
would be only observant and amuised ; that I
would be charmed but for the moment, and no
A PARISIAN SOIREE. 49
more ; that I would fight the charming French-
men cheerfully with their own weapons, anch
return with vivid content to my own honest
English home and English brothers — lovers I
had none.
"Even^ I," continued Sibyl, "who have
known France so much longer, and whom you
think so French, even I think sometimes what
chance have I, or the simple downright En-
glish nature, against this delicate subtlety, this
persiflant criticism and deep arriere-pensee.
They see through us, flatter us, charm us, and
then laugh at and forget us — looking so open
and innocent through it all !"
" Do you include M. ilmile among them ?"
I asked.
"No," Sibyl answered, rather hurriedly.
" Smile's nature is so golden, I think he may
be relied on. Good-night, my child."
And so we went to bed.
D
50 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
CHAPTER 11.
THE COUP d'etat.
THE week that elapsed between my first
and second soir&es at Madame Gibbs's had
some significance for France, if not for myself
It was marked, in fact, by a revolution.
One night Paris went to sleep a free and
tranquil city, with all her plans and purposes,
whether of pleasure or politics, in full flow,
and waked to find herself gagged, invested,
breathless, and motionless. An armed force,
conjured up, as it seemed, like a night enchant-
ment, beautiful-seeming, still and strong, filled
up the city from end to end, girdled every
square, closed up every street — all Paris at
once compressed in one gigantic hand, that
kept down every breast, restrained every move-
ment ; and behind that glittering fence of bay-
onets one man doing what he pleased with a
dumb, prostrate population! Between night
and morning a constitution had been stabbed
dead — a nation's liberties strangled.
But I must tell the story as we learned it,
beginning with a piece of our own domestic
THE COUP D'ETAT. 51
•
history. Just before this our circle had been
enlarged by the advent of our cousin Horace,
a very grave, good, middle-aged man. He
took a room in the same house with us, and
proved a most useful protector and chaperon
in the following days of excitement.
On the morning of Tuesday, December 2,
Horace came in from his early morning walk
with the news that the Champs fllys^es up to
the Place de la Concorde was full of soldiers
— ^five hundred lancers coming in in full trot
— and that it was reported that Changamier
was that morning arrested. Between nine and
ten we went out and learned something more
definite. We passed through the Champs ^ly-
s^es, and saw Place, quays, avenues crammed
with dragoons, leading their horses about among
the trees, and evidently preparing for a perma-
nent station there. In the Faubourg St Ho-
nor^ we found people busy pasting up three
proclamations — one from the pr^fet de police,
two from the president himself — of which the
first was short, giving in a few brief decisive
sentences the facts of the case — that the Na-
tional Assembly was dissolved, universal suf-
frage established, the French people convoked
to vote from the 14th to the 21st following,
the Council of State dissolved, and all Paris
53 TWENTY TEAMS AGO,
and the environs in a state of siege. The sec-
ond appel au peuple was couched in that pecul-
iar style of eloquence that seems so pleasing to
French minds, denouncing the Assembly just
dismissed as a foyer de comphts^ and calling on
the people to assist him — the prince-president
— in forming a new government, of which the
chief points are a chef responsabU named for
ten years (who, he not obscurely hints, is to be
himself), and two asseniblies, the one delibera-
tive, the other legislative, and both elected by
universal suffrage. This he says was the First
Consul's system — this only can save France.
The prdfet's proclamation conjured the "ha-
bitants de Paris " to confide in the man whom
six millions of votes had made their head,
glorified the "grandeur de Facte" he had just
performed, and the " calme imposant et solen-
nel" of which he set them an example, iden-
tified him with the people, and submitted his
conduct to their judgment.
At intervals along the street were posted
triple rows of soldiers of the line ; the porte-
cochire of the iUys^e was open, and we saw in
the court staff- officers mounted and a great
deal of movement to and fro. As we approach-
ed the Place de la Madeleine more and more
signs of military occupation appeared, soldiers
THE COUP D'ETAT. 53
in deeper masses, with bayonets fixed, and the
Place all round the well-known church filled
with, lancg:^, with their lances and waving
pennons displayed, immovable on their horses.
Presently cries of "Vive le g^ndral !" arose, and
we saw a man in generaVs uniform, on a beau-
tiful white horse, followed by ofiicers, ride by
and take off his cocked hat to the salute of
the troops. He was a stout, square man, with
white mustaches, and a face of rather fierce
energy and resolution. It was General Saint-
Arnaud, the minister of war.
The crowd increased, but there was no agi-
tation anywhere. Paris seemed to take cool-
ly enough the midnight trick that had been
played upon her, and stood reading with faint
amusement the placards on the walls that told
her her freedom had been destroyed. While
we were thus engaged, a young mustached
French gentleman (a stranger) addressed us
with great politeness, to assure us that " tout
^tait fini," that there was no danger; and, on
our making some inquiry about the expected
review in the Champs Elysees, added, "Allez
voir, allez voir ; les dames anglaises aiment a
tout voir" — and laughing, with a low bow,- he
left us. By his cheerfulness we concluded
that he was a " Napoleoniste." Even the sol-
54 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
diers laughed and said something encouraging
to us as we passed, but with perfect respect.
Good-humor seemed the order of t^je day. At
the Palais Eoyal, one of the courts was full of
soldiers, peaceably cutting up big loaves and
undeniably fraternizing with the people, at
least as far as laughter, jokes, and a constant
hand-shaking going on through the raUings.
Growing timid, we went home through qui-
et by-streets ; but in the afternoon, having the
company of two friends, curiosity prevailed,
and we went out again. On the Boulevards
we found a deep, dense crowd, especially
before all the great caffe, political clubs, etc.,
a crowd such as I had never seen in Paris
before. Eound Tortoni's there was a perfect
mass, knots of eager politicians of all classes
and in all states of mind; wild excitement
burning in those dark, bearded faces, fiery
eyes, fierce, rapid gesticulation. Impetuous
harangues were poured out by some popular
orator, to whom the others listened as to an
oracle. Oh, what strange groups I saw I what
various types of excited faces 1 Several other
ladies were passing, but all curiosity, all inter-
est, seemed confined to us English ; French-
women moved on rapidly, with ennuyk, looks ;
they had had enough of revolutions.
THE COUP D'ETAT. 66
•
The " Patrie," Louis Napoleon's especial pa-
per, was being noisily sold and eagerly bought
at every step ; we got one. A new proclama-
tion had appeared, an address of the presi-
dent's to the army, with whom he identified
himself as the only upholders of the law and
guardians of public liberty, bade them vote
freely (for him) as citizens, but obey him un-
conditionally as soldiers. He desired them, of
course, to maintain a " calm and imposing at-
titude," reminded them of their former wrongs
from the people, how they had been "vain-
cus" and their " d^sint^ressement h^roique fl6-
tri" by calumny, and now "he wills that the
army shall make itself heard."
A report spread that the immense division
of cavalry stationed in the Champs filys^es
was preparing for movement, drums beating,
dragoons mounting. We flew thither in time
to behold a splendid spectacle ; all these regi-
ments, seven or eight hundred in number,
were mounted and in movement all down that
long space from the Barri^re to the Place de la
Concorde. The eye was filled with a multi-
tudinous unity of splendid forms, a slow-mov-
ing picture, varying, yet compact. Par as one
could see those long avenues were one shining
mass of helmets and cuirasses and sword-belts,
5(> TWFXTY. YEARS AGO.
which flashed back the sun as, from brilliant
mirrors, with a sea of scarlet plumes above,
and below a gay confusion of red and azure.
There they were in three divisions, cuirassiers,
carabineers, and dragoons, filling up the middle
of that wide space to the extent of nearly two
miles, ten or twelve abreast, moving on with
the slow, regular tramp of their horses' feet,
or wheeling all at once lightly, quickly, and
noiselessly round, at the word of command
given by some splendid aid -de -camp as he
dashed alongside the glittering file, while
drums and trumpets and bugles rang from the
band which occupied the centre with their
white horses, plumes, and sword-belts.
Ere long appeared the president; he was
received (of course) with shouts, and rode sev-
eral times up and down alongside the troops
at a swift gallop, with a brilliant staff saluting
as they cheered ; they then slowly defiled off,
to the sound of drums and trumpets, till the
long, long succession of gorgeous figures had
disappeared. It was, though nobody knew
this, the president's last public appearance for
a long while ; between this day of safety, ere
the revolutionary storm had arisen, and the
one when it had sunk to rest with all the
wrecks and ruins it had made, he remained
hidden in well-guarded security.
THE COUP D'ETAT. 57
This magnificent military spectacle I heard
described by Sibyl, but I individually lost it.
Before we entered the Champs ^filysees, I had
become so tired -with over-excitement, that I
chose indiscreetly to go home by myself — a
much more difficult aflfair than we had reck-
oned on, and I was dreadfully frightened. Al-
most every public thoroughfare was closed,
crowds of people were being forced back by
the soldiers, and, as I went along the Eue St.
Honor^, I was four times stopped by cordons
of soldiers with an "Ou allez-vous, madame?"
The answer "Chezmoi" passed me twice; the
third time, after some hesitation and an addi-
tional supplicatiion, I was again allowed to
pass; but the fourth I was repelled by bay-
onets fixed and presented, and firm, though
civil, refusal. So I put myself under the pro-
tection of an old woman near. She too had
been turned back, and was crying with fright,
weariness, and hunger, and she had been out
all day. Nothing could exceed her amaze-
ment at a demoiselle being out alone at such a
time; but we held together, and at last, to our
mutual thankfulness, got home by a sideway.
The history of the Coup d'fitat has been told
by many. I, a girl, shall tell only what I saw
with, my own eyes — without comment, too,
58 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
which is safest ; for, though I was a girl, I felt
like a woman — say rather a man. As I had
told M. fimile, I was the fiercest of Eepublicans.
We went out early on Wednesday morning
to see another review, as we expected, from the
number of soldiers filling the Champs filys^,
a grand scene like that of yesterday. The
cavalry were dismounted, and evidently get-
ting themselves and their horses ready foT in-
spection. The horses stood somewhat irregu-
larly about in the road, their gay housings on;
but they themselves were busy eating the hay
brought from the great carts that stood all
round. The men, some leading their horaes
about, some feeding them, stood some loitering
about, or getting their uniforms iij order, as
was need, for their great boots were splashed,
and they themselves looked cold and jaded,
but inexhaustibly good-humored. There were, *
as before, thousands of carabineers, cuirassiers,
and dragoons, whose shining armor and gay
colors, in the shifting picturesque confusion of
their varied movements through all that far-
extending line, made a most captivating sight.
Desirous not to waste our morning, we ad-
dressed a good-humored-looking young cuiras-
sier who sat idle on a bench by the way -side,
and asked him if the president was to appear,
THE COUP D'ETAT. 59
and when. " In about an hour," he said. So
we determined to walk as far as the Place de
la Concorde, and by the time we were back we
calculated that we might see him riding, with
all his staff, down that long Avenue de Ma-
rigny.
As we walked on, the place had more and
more the appearance of a bivouac. The troops
had evidently spent the night there ; all about
the Cirque and Franconi's were the soldiers'
little bundles neatly done up, bayonets stack-
ed, bolsters, tin canisters, all most carefully ar-
ranged. Stalls containing loaves and bottles
of wine took the place of the usual stalls
of Iruit and confectionery ; and in and out
among the soldiers ran the smart vivandihes,
distributing food from the little green-covered
carts by the way-side, or wine from the caf^s.
They were charming little figures in their fan-
ciful costume of black round hat and feather,
or perhaps a braided military cap, with the
feminine addition of streaming bright ribbons,
and abundance of fancifully plaited or ringlet-
ed hair, black short petticoat, almost a military
frock, tight red trowsers, and sword by the
side. But trim as were their figures, their
faces were not very young, or at all events not
very fresh ; they looked somewhat weather-
00 TWENTY YEAMS AGO.
beaten and soldier-like. But I liked their gay,
frank expression ; and heard "with pleasure that
they mostly bear good characters, and are treat-
ed with great respect by the soldiers.
Still the horses continued eating the hay
which was scattered all over the ground ; the
soldiers still smoked, chatted, danced the polka
in their great splashed boots, to keep them-
selves warm; for, after a drizzling night, it
was a raw, chilly morning, and, though nearly
two hours had elapsed, things were no way
advanced. As we walked slowly home, the
same young cuirassier came up and apologized
with great politeness for having misled us
about the president's appearance. " But," said
he, " we know no more than any one else; we
are waiting like you ; and it is not very amus-
ing either," he added, with a good-humored
laugh.
I asked him where he had spent the night.
"Ici sur la terre," he said, pointing downward,
" with that above us," pointing to the sky, and .
cheerfully owned to being much fatigued. He
was a herculean young fellow, with a black
beard and mustache, through which his voice
came with a mild grufFness ; and, but that he
continued smoking while "mesdames" talked
with him, he had very good manners. He
THE COUP D'ETAT. 61
was, too, a splendid figure, in the high brazen
helmet and crest, the bright cuirass and white
sword-belt, with all the gold tagging and trap-
ping, which much increased his size. He ask-
ed us if we were not acquainted with the pres-
ident, and said, laughingly, " He is not much
to look at: tr^s-petit, comme 9a," holding his
hand a moderate way above the ground, with
a smile that seemed conscious of his own large
proportions; "no taller than you, madame;
blond — ^^pas beau. Not like his uncle."
At last the vast force was in motion ; the
men mounted, and all moved up and down ;
but the president came not ; and we observed
that they all looked jaded and spiritless ; their
fine, handsome faces had a sulky expression,
and they scarcely sat upright on their horses.
Presently we were joined by an acquaintance
— a little, sprightly, brown -faced, gray-mus-
tached man, of French family but English
bringing up, and in the English army. He
told us that there was fighting going on in the
Faubourg St. Antoine, that barricades were up,
and that two deputies who were leading the
people had been shot ; and that there were or-
ders given to shoot any deputy who might be
in any way concerned with the rising. All
the line consequently were there ; fresh regi-
G2 TWENTY TEARS AOO.
ments were constantly pouring into Paris, and
there were now about 100,000 soldiers within
the walls. It was dreadful to contrast this
mere glittering show of war drawn up here in
all its imposing pageantry, and the peaceable,
idle, careless spectators merely staring as they
passed, with the hot, bloody work, the wild and
wicked passions that, if the report were true,
were then foaming forth at the other end of.
Paris.
As we returned home with our friend, he
said, pointing to the cavalry, who still per-
formed the farce of riding up and down, "Look
at those gay fellows; you would not think
that in '48 there was just such a force assem-
bled here, whom we saw in the course of the
day lying about in heaps, dead and wounded,
on the'pavement, or carried into the shops and
private houses, streaming with blood." By
way of a contrast, as we passed a gay cafS in
the Avenue, with its "Commerce de Vins"
conspicuous at the top, its walls painted in red
panelling, and its muslin-curtained glass door,
we saw three officers of the carabineers dis-
mounted and proceeding towards the house.
They turned round to look at us, and we rec-
ognized among them our polite young friend
of the morning. All were comets, as we knew
THE COUP D'ETAT. 63
from the one epaulette on the right shoulder,
and very smart they looked, with their polish-
ed spurs, and swords swinging in their em-
broidered belts. All, too, were in high spirits,
and very frolicsome, especially one fat gentle-
man of thirty and upwards, who cut pirouettes
with great agility, evidently to show off before
as, giving each other the pas as they entered
the open door with grotesque politeness, and
evidently intent on getting extremely tipsy by
way of wiling away the dull hours of duty.
I asked where the president was all this
time — was he at the scene of conflict ? " Oh
no," I was answered ; " he's safe enough at
the filys^e; Mil not come out to-day, depend
on it." This proved true, and for many days
afterwards. In fact, he took care through all
that week to shroud himself in obscurity ; he
never slept at the filys^e, thpugh the appear-
ance of his being there was kept up. It is be-
lieved that he never spent two nights in the
same place. There was, no doubt, mortal ter-
ror within those palace walls; the army was
strongly suspected of a disposition to fraternize
with the people, on whom it was thought they
would assuredly not fire ; and there was cer-
tainly in the soldiers a good-humored, indiffer-
ent bearing, as well as in the people an ab-
64 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
sence of alarm or antipathy which did not
look like much danger of a collision between
them.
Events thickened ; but I tell them only as
they aflfected us. One evening we walked on
to the Faubourg St. Germain, to pay a visit to
a lady — a Republican — whom we found in a
state of furious fermentation, burning with
grief, rage, disgust, and yet a grim satisfaction
at the state of things, as too bad to last, and
fixing her whole soul on the hope of a steady,
organized, legal resistance.
She had just been, she said, to see the wife
of a deputy, and found her and her husband
in a state of frantic joy. The husband said,
"I suppose you are come to congratulate us;
I'm just out of prison." He had, in fact, been
one of the two hundred deputies who were
arrested in the mairie of the Rue Grenelle,
where they had decreed the decheance of the
president.
They had just got the decree registered,
when the Chasseurs de Vincennes surrounded
the house and arrested them. From six in
the morning till ten o'clock at night did that
poor wife (like many others, no doubt) wait
for her husband's return, without receiving a
word of news; and then she went forth to
THE aOUF D'ETAT, 65
seek him. She was a timid, delicate woman,
who had always been most carefully guarded
and cherished ; yet, when asked how she dared
run such a risk, she had said, "No, I feared
nothing. If stopped, I should have said I was
the wife of an imprisoned deputy, and called
on all true Frenchmen to assist me ; and I be-
lieve they would." At length she was direct-
ed to the cavalry barracks at the Quai d'Orsai,
where the prisoners had been temporarily con-
veyed, and just caught a glimpse of her hus-
band. Next day nearly all were set free :
satisfied with having recorded their protest,
they did nothing more. Though in words ten
times more the president's enemies than ever,
they were not on the barricades, nor among the
victims shot or d&porth. Louis Napoleon's
calculations, it appears, were right.
While we were talking, our friend's husband
came in, and reported that there was fight-
ing about the Hotel de Ville, thirty-thousand
insurgents were intrenched behind the hotel,
blockaded by the cavalry, and the Place de
Gr^ve was full of artillery. He said the peo-
ple appeared to be rising to an extent which
reminded him more of the insurrection in 1830
than of any emeute since, but what the issue
would be no one could know. Both the calm,
E
66 TWEltPTY YEARS AGO.
sweet-natured husband and the passionate wife
regarded this state of things as likely to lead
to good ; Louis Napoleon, they said, had now
deeply and hopelessly compromised himself,
and united against him all parties and all the
leading men of the country. It was whisper-
ed that the army would not fight : if one of
the generals — Cavaignac or Lamoricifere —
could but escape, and show himself to the
troops, the matter would be settled in a day.
We were advised to go home by the smaller
streets, which we were glad to do, as the Eues
du Bac and de rUniversit^ were evidently in
an excited state ; knots of people crowded the
narrow trottair, and shoals o( gamins were mov-
ing in one direction. In the Champs fllys^es
we met our cousin, who gave us fearful tid-
ings; the fighting was coming farther and
farther west from the Faubourgs St. Antoine
and St. Martin, where it had first begun : it
had rolled up the Boulevards as far as the Rue
Eichelieu, where barricadeis had been thrown
up. All the troops were gathered in that part
of the town, cannonading and musketry going
on fiercely — a complete and terrible struggle
being acted out in the streets of Paris. Hor-
ace, as a true Englishman — Frenchmen kirow
better than to thrust themselves as mere curi-
TEE COUP D'ETAT, 67
ous spectators into danger — bad got as near
the agitated parts as possible, till be was driven
back by the lancers, who rode down without
scruple all passers-by. The scene of conflict
was chiefly in the Boulevard de Montmartre,
whence he heard the repeated terrible volleys
of musketry, and where the barricades were
forming. Were the people in truth fighting
or not ? had there been, as was reported, shots
fired from the windows ?
In tbe evening my cousin left us for the
reading-room, to ascertain what news the pa-
pers gave. Luckily it was close by, and in a
safe quarter; and we were left in a nervous
agitation, taking every loud slam of a porte-
cocMre down the street for distant cannon.
Then came horses' hoofe down the Champs
ifilys^es, and we learned that a detachment of
dragoons had been dispatched to the scene of
action. We sat still, and shuddered for all
that was passing then.
Just as, about midnight, I was writing to
ray family in England that all was safe and
quiet in our quarter, I was startled by sudden
noises. We hurried to the balcony, and stood
out in the dark night to watch in trembling
suspense for tbeir repetition — dreadful and
hitherto unheard sounds — volleys of musketry
'A
03 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
and discbarges of cannon. How near they
were we knew not; but the insurgent mass
was evidently rolling on into the heart of the
city, and it might be that the conflict was now
laging round the Palais de r]6lys^e itself. If,
I thought, he who, there hidden in his luxuri-
ous abode, was throwing Paris into the horrors
of civil war, were to be driven ignominiously
thence, I could rejoice even in these terrible
sounds.
Three discharges came one after another;
then they stopped, in five or ten minutes to
begin again; and this lasted about an hour.
Again and again we ran into the balcony "to
listen ; with a shuddering, sickening horror we
looked into the dark, still town, pierced here
and there with silent, shining gas-light, and
heard booming on the midnight air that huge
voice of deliberate, unpitying slaughter. They
came in solemn discharges, like slow, separate
syllables of death. I had heard cannon be-
fore, but never at night, never in the heart of
a great city, and never as the voice of murder ;
and I prayed never to hear such sounds again.
In an hour, as I said, all was once more
quiet; but it was long ere I slept; horrible
images of bloodshed and death jostled each
other in my brain.
THE COUP D' ETAT. C9
Next day (Friday) told, more or less dis-
tinctly — for truth was hard to get at in those
days of terror — the tale of Thursday, which I
will here give, confirmed as it was by careful
after-inquiry.*
The spirit of Paris had, as we have said,
been stirred at last. All her hopes seemed to
he in the republican bourgeoisie^ of whom the
deputies belonging to the Mountain were the
leaders. The owvm?-5,' attracted by the prom-
ise of universal suffrage, fancied Louis Napo-
leon's sovereignty to be for their interest, and
would not stir for the classes above them,
whom they hated. The most respectable
members of their class stood aloof, dreading
nothing so much as the rouges^ and any popu-
lar agitation which might bring that now cow-
ering and stifled element to the top, so vivid
was their remembrance of the horrors of June,
1848, to which every one recurred as the cli-
max of all evil. There was also the consider-
ation, what had they to fight for? when they
had overthrown the president, who was there
to replace him? whom could they confide in?
* All this has now become matter of history. Still it
seems well to give it — given, too, as history so seldom Is —
from the observation of an eye-witness, chronicled on the
spot. — Editor.
70 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
what hope was there in the Assemblee or its
knots of selfish, cowardly intriguers ?
But the passionate energy of the Eepublican
agitators began to excite others ; from an ear-
ly hour in the morning there were immense
crowds in the ordinary places of meeting ; and
in the course of the day, as I said, masses of
insurgents formed behind the Hotel de Ville.
There was a tone of fear and vacillation in
Louis Napoleon's proclamations; it was said
that his heart was failing him. The army re-
quired working up to a certain pitch ; their
pay during these three days was doubled, and
wine and food were distributed in abundanca
The agitation went on ; a barricade rrumstre^ as
the newspapers called it, recalling those of '48,
arose in the Eue St. Denis ; there was a stir
in the wealthy and fashionable Boulevard de
Montmartre and the Chaussfe d'Antin, amidst
a class not given to revolutionary movements.
The Government was quietly watching, even
encouraging by secret agents who mixed among
the crowd, and by strange, carefully-circulated
rumors, the assemblages who were thus grad-
ually presenting themselves for the important
collision that was certainly desired ; the troops
were kept carefully withdrawn, looking on, and
waiting till all was complete. At two o'clock
THE COUP D' ETAT. 71
volleys of artillery were heard to proceed from
the barricaded quarters ; the emeutiers were in
possession of the faubourg of St. Denis, which
was evidently in sympathy with them. Those
who defended the barricades were not, it is
true, in number to oppose to any effect such
masses of military ; they were mostly young
men of good bourgeois families, who, desperate
with rage and shame at this public disgrace,
were determined by this deliberate offer of
their lives to kindle the whole population, if
possible ; if not, at any rate to fall in a last
protest.
The troops advanced; the slender groups
that had collected about the barricades were
fired on. These were most gallantly defend-
ed, but after a more or less prolonged resist-
ance all were taken, and by nine o'clock in the
evening the desperate struggle was over. The
heaps of dead were found to consist mainly of
well-dressed young men, with gold chains and
watches, and "yellow gloves," as the official
reports contemptuously said ; the workmen
who were found mingled among them were
classed as "malefactors." One young man,
who fell towards the end of the contest, was M.
Denis Dessoubs, described at first as a depu-
ty, but who proved to be the brother of one,
T2 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
a young " montagnard," then lying ill. Denis
seized his brother's official scarf, and, thus per-
sonating him, rushed to the top of a barricade
in the very face of the troops, and, unarmed
and unprotected, addressed himself to the sol-
diers, crying, " Yive la E^publique I" and* ad-
juring them to join him.
The colonel, seeing his exaltation^ and wish-
ing to spare him, said, "Eetirel" but the young
man answered only, " Vive la E^publique d^
mocratique 1" was fired at by the whole troop,
and fell dead on thie spot. These young men,
whether wisely or not, at least sacrificed them-
selves to a noble object, and morieover they led
others into no risk to which they did not ex-
pose themselves first of all. As for the sol-
diers, an office less heroique (to use the word
liberally bestowed on them by the Govern-
ment) than that of shooting down their fellow-
citizens can scarcely be imagined. Unfortu-
nately, these were the men who had learned
ferocity in Algeria; the Chasseurs de Vin-
cennes were especially noted for that quality.
But something yet was needed, beyond what
the necessary force for dispersing the insur-
gents called for — something to strike sudden,
universal, crushing panic — and it was supplied.
At three o'clock fearful discharges of artillery
THE COUP D'ETAT. 73
were suddenly heard on the Boulevards Bonne
Nouvelle, Montmartre, and des Italiens, where,
as I have said, crowds were collected, but there
were neither barricades nor insurgents. These
sounds, heard in the western quarters shut out
by masses of soldiery, had led to the erroneous
belief that the fighting had extended to the
Bue Richelieu. It was in reality a massacre.
The reports that oozed out next day of soldiers
firing on the unarmed crowds in the streets
and into the houses, were regarded by the ap-
palled hearers as too terrible for belief; and
though even Government reports, with all
their reserves and palliations, confirmed these
tales, the whole horrible truth was long in be-
coming known to the world in general. But
it is known now.
At three o'clock, then, the crowd on these
Boulevards, separated only by a few steps
from the soldiers, were absolutely inoffensive
and peaceable — men^ women, and children con-
versing among themselves or with the soldiers.
All of a sudden a round of musketry is pour-
ed among them ; they start, huddle together,
fall back astonished, struck with fright at the
sight of the corpses dropping around them;
they endeavor to fly, discharge follows dis-
charge, and in a minute the streets present
T4 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
the appearance of a living crowd turned into
heaps of dead and wounded. This was not
all ; the soldiers then fired into the balconies
and windows of those stately houses, where
well-dressed groups were standing; in many
cases the balls penetrated into the rooms ; the
terror-struck inhabitants fled into the back
rooms ; discharges of cannon mingled with the
artillery and battered the walls. Their fury
increasing, though no resistance was oflPered,
the soldiers in many cases rushed into the
houses, and arrested, shot, or bayoneted the
inhabitants.
m
This scene of carnage lasted for twenty min-
utes, when, at length, the firing was stopped
and most of the troops retired ; but the Boule-
vards remained in military occupation, and
given up to a stupefaction of dismay. This
impression quickly spread over the whole of
Paris, and from that time resistance was no
more.
'
Was there any immediate cause for this
strange horror ? Official accounts spoke in a
vague and self-contradictory manner of a shot,
some said several shots, fired from the win-
dows of one or more of the handsomest houses
upon the troops, for which this general attack
on the unarmed throngs and the peaceable
THE COUP D'ETAT. 75
houses was the retaliation. Eye-witnesses
spoke of one or two stray shots heard in some
unknown direction at the head of the column
towards the Porte St. Denis, where the conflict
was actually going on ; this was the whole
cause, or rather pretext, of the massacre. It
was said, and believed, that many of the sol-
diers were intoxicated ; it is certain that they
had had double rations, and were in a very ex-
cited state.
Among the cases talked of at the time, with
grief and pity, were that of an English apothe-
cary, who was merely crossing a street near
Tortoni's, and stopping to speak to an old
man, when both were fired at and fell dead ;
of a librarian, who was shot sitting quietly
with his family ; of a child killed while play-
ing in the street. Twenty-seven corpses were
seen in a heap before the door of the splendid
Hotel Sallandrouze. The official accounts
contained an appalling list of persons, each
" tu^ chez lui."
The Government lists of the slaughtered on
this occasion varied considerably: from the
final one given by the "Moniteur" the num-
ber would seem to have been about two hun-
dred. But there is every reason to suppose
that it was really far beyond this, though the
70 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
full amount of slaughter can never now be
known. The brigades employed in this busi-
ness were commanded by General Canrobert.
After this Louis Napoleon was called by
himself and his admirers the ** Saviour of So-
ciety."
Next day all was tranquil ; it was the hush
of terror. The Champs filys^es was compara-
tively empty of soldiers; there were a few
scattered knots, the remainder of those who
had bivouacked there ; fires at which they
were cooking their dinners were lighted here
and there. Stacks of hay were on the pave-
ment, the horses were drawn off and stationed
among the trees ; but along the other side of
the quays were troops of lancers and cara-
bineers.
Not a single lady was abroad, but numbers
of idle men, especially workmen enjoying a
holiday, and sauntering along with careless,
insolent looks. Sibyl and I were much struck
with the numbers of ill-looking persons out ;
one could almost tremble at these strange sav-
ages in blouses, with their small black caps,
treading fiercely on, as if caring for nobody,
with an intense unmoving stare in their eyes,
as though dreaming of future murders. I nev-
er saw them without saying to myself, "These
THE COUP D'ETAT. 77
are the men who, when revolution gets the
upper hand, will one day drench Paris with
blood." Never .did I behold such a look of
smothered hell-fire — so to speak — as there is
in these French eyes.
Strangely, after all this, comes round the
reception-night of Madame Gibbs. We had
wished to go there to hear more on the ab-
sorbing subject of the day; but our concierge
and servants strongly advised us against it,
as there was no knowing what disturbances
might spring up again. Ill-disposed persons,
they said, were sure to assault people in a
carriage, and took particular pleasure in drag-
ging out the occupants — if ladies, sometimes
with great violence — and using their vehicle
to form the barricades. We could, no doubt,
have found some gentleman to accompany and
protect us ; indeed, my grave English cousin
was tranquilly ready for any act of fool-hardi-
ness. But we did not think ourselves justified
in exposing them to danger in order to protect
us ; so we curbed our wild feminine courage —
as well as curiosity — 9,nd staid at home.
In the course of that day and the next we
learned enough — only too much.
In spite of the reserve produced by alarm,
grief and anxiety could not be quite suppress-
7S TWENTY TEARS AGO.
cd. There were many women among the low-
er classes whose husbands were out, and had
not returned ; our cook and dress-maker were
among these.
A Greek gentleman of high character, whom
we met occasionally, had himself heard the
colonel of a regiment of chasseurs order his
men to fire on any one who should obstruct
their way in the streets, to his horror, for his
own two boys were at a school at the end of
it, and would be returning just as they passed.
In spite of his entreaties, he was not permitted
to go to them, but managed to send a message
by a sergeant to bid the boys keep where they
were till the streets were quiet While he
waited he saw planks being laid along the
streets to soak up and hide the blood.
So all was quiet — and now came out a new
proclamation. The prince-president congratu-
lated Paris on the " fermetd et le d^vouement
in^branlables," whereby he and that brave
army (always, he says, foremost in preserving
order) had defended them from the attacks of
a factious rabble, and restored all good citizens
to peace and security. " Whatever became of
Am, the country was saved ;" and he appeals
to the army to shed no more French blood ; if
they did not wish for him they were to vote
THE COUP D'ETAT. 79
against him — he would gladly retire ; but in
the mean time Paris had shown her unanimous
devotion to him in the way she had combined
to put down these partial and contemptible
seditions.
I collected a heap of these proclamations as
specimens of the style of address most persua-
sive to the French mind. One would scarcely
have imagined a great, intelligent nation, and,
above all, one keenly alive to ridicule, uniting
to compose an4 accept such inflated, vain-glo-
rious, self-contradictory productions as appeals
to their reason and conscience, knowing, as all
did, the source from which they emanated, and
the motives betrayed at every turn by the act-
ors. But all this, alas I seems nothing to the
French ; be the mask as transparent as it will,
let actor and spectator alike know the farce
they are performing, so long as the mask is
worn, so long as the farce imitates something
grand and heroic, they are satisfied. How long
will a great nation contentedly sanction this
glaring contradiction between profession and
practice ? and when will it cease to respond to
intriguers, scape-graces, and imbeciles, who bla-
zon themselves as heroes and men of genius ?
And so the week was over, and all was over
with Paris too — that is, she was quiet. Mur-
80 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
der had stilled her fierce, foaming streets ; in-
stead of the barricades were heaps of corpses ;
and she lay crouched at her master's feet, mak-
ing him omnipotent by seeming to think him so.
Yes, the struggle was over, and we stood
looking on at its ashes, wondering what had
become of the burning anger of which we had
heard ^o much : had a few false proclamations,
a few discharges of musketry, dispersed it iilto
thin air? Alas! it had flamed but in the
hearts of a few ardent young ^ men, and had
been quenched in blood on those hopeless
barricades, where they had stood passionate,
though despairing, solitary marks in the face
of the levelled muskets of a regiment, and had
fallen, trying to kindle the people in a hopeless
cause.
All was over; and — with us strangers — a
dreary, scornful surprise began to take the
place of the strong, sad emotions with which
we had watched those three days, feeling such
deep sympathy for a nation that apparently
could not feel for itself.
On Sunday afternoon we ventured, under
my cousin's escort, to visit the Boulevards, go-
ing as far as the original scene of conflict, the
quartiers St. Denis and St. Martin, a walk of
about fivQ miles. The long, long boulevards
THE COUP D'ETAT. 81
were one sea of heads ; nothing else was to be
seen into the far vista where they descend to
the Porte St Martin, aud then again seem to
mount and be lost in the air. The day after
the conflict the pavement had still been soak-
ed with blood; but all was now clean again,
and the long line of beautiful houses, whose
ground-floors were brilliant shops, and their
upper stories the luxurious abodes of wealth,
were setting forth, below, behind their wide
plate-glass fronts, their glittering jewelry, lace,
and silks, while above paper-stufied windows
or blank empty frames and bullet-dinted walls
told the frightful tale of so few days ago.
It was strange with what lightness and vig-
or Paris
" Opened forth for fresh display
The elastic vanities of yesterday,"
while all these splendid shops, cafds, bankers'
houses, and private hotels stood full of holes
as the most wretched hovels in the most squal-
id streets.
In the wide, handsome Boulevard des Ital-
iens, the first object of interest was the Caf(^ de
Paris, of which, it was said, all the inhabitants
had been killed, not by firing from without,
for the windows were untouched, but by mas-
sacre within.
F
82 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
m
All the houses on the south side, and many
on the north side, were injured ; and more and
more were the raarkg of violence as we ad-
vanced. The most dilapidated of all was the
house from which it was at first falsely assert-
ed that the fatal shot had come — ^the magnifi-
cent Hotel Sallandrouze. In the Boulevard
Montmartre the sight was still more frightful :
round the corner was a tailor's establishment
shattered by cannon ; then a porcelain shop
with ruined door-posts, and shutters closed be-
hind the empty frames, telling of death and
mourning within. At last there was scarce-
ly a house with windows unbroken ; most of
them, with . their five or six stories, were rid-
dled from attic to ground-floor. And these,
be it remembered, were all in the scene, not
of fighting, but of massacre.
The Boulevards de Bonne Nouvelle and
Poissonnifere, where street-fighting had been,
were less injured ; but the Corps de Garde at
the end, standing on the highest point of the
hill that descends to Porte St. Denis, showed
the rough handling of the insurgents, and the
soldiers at the door looked very sulky. . It
stirred my indignation, as we gazed on the
sad sights all round, to behold two soldiers of
the line st9pping to point at one of the most
TKE COUP D'ETAT. 83
ruined houses, and laughing with an air of
triumph.
At the bottom of the descent on the other
side stood the now too renowned gates — the
Porte St. Denis, the very centre and heart of
the desperate struggle of Thursday; a little
beyond is the Porte St. Martin, the space be-
tween the two gates having been filled with in-
surgents. At the door of a shop (a marchande
de modes) stood a pretty young woman mak-
ing up a cap. We spoke to her; she came
forward, working and talking to us on the late
events with a very surprising levity, which
displeased us in spite of her pretty looks and
nice manners.
" Had there been much fighting ?" we asked,
by way of a beginning.
" Oh yes," she said, with a saucy smile ;
" mais nous y sommes habitufe."
The barricade, she said, had extended across
the whole wide road, but it was not wqII
made ; she evidently thought scorn of it com-
pared with those of former Smeutes. She said
there were messieurs leading the people, as was
customary ; they would not rise of themselves
without some such excitement. The troops,
she said, fired into all the windows without
any distinction, if any one looked o^t of them ;
84 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
she had remained hidden in the house all the
time.
I observed, not very reflectively, that I
should have been tempted to look out.
" If you had, you would have been killed,"
she said, laughing.
She would not own to having taken either
part, saying that the best course on all such •
occasions was to remain tranquil. During the
whole conversation, though she was very po-
lite, her laughing manner never ceased, and
we quitted her, trying to find in her " nous y
sommes habitufe " the apology not unneeded.
Next day we went to the cemetery of Pfere
la Chaise; and strange was the cold, dumb
solitude of that place of sleep high over the
blood-stained and agonized city. We asked
our guide, as we gazed from the height at
Mont St Val^rien, whether the generals were
still confined there. He shook his head, and
said, diplomatically, this was not the place for
politics ; it was the only spot where all such
things were shut out. Nevertheless, we asked
where those who fell in the emeute had been
buried, and he pointed to a spot far down, a
portion of ground lately taken in, with rough,
heavy, wet soil, where small white tombstones
looked like pieces of chalk stuck about, and
THE COUP D'ETAT. 85
where ten or twelve bodies had been crowded
in. But the greater part, he said, had been
buried at Montmartre, where all the unclaimed
bodies were conveyed: of the thirty -eight
lately laid there all but three had been rec-
ognized. The chef des barricades had been
brought by his friends to P^re la Chaise, and
buried as a martyr. He told us also of a Pol-
ish count who had joined the rouges and fallen
in the struggle. All this he said in English,
for fear of being overheard.
AH this time arrests were occurring almost
daily, till the prisons were crowded with their
inmates, and banishments and deportations fol-
lowed in shoals: two thousand were, on one
occasion, sent to Algeria. It may be imagined
how often in those days social meetings were
turned to scenes of sorrow. One could scarce-
ly meet a French acquaintance who had not
his tale to tell of dearest friends just seized,
without warning, perhaps at night, and shipped
off, unseen, untried, to deadly climates for cap-
tivity or life-long exile.
But these things were done in silence and
spoken of in whispers. After the first blank
terror a discreet reserve and sullen indifference
seemed to prevail. This mixture of fear and
apathy struck me so much that, discoursing on
86 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
it to our very clever and spirited bonne^ Con-
stance, I permitted myself to say something
about Mchete, Instantly her French blood
was up, and she told me that an English de-
moiselle knew nothing about it, and that it was
extraordinary to find people of education so
borjies, and that the poor had a much juster
notions of things ; that we believed all we had
heard in the salons, which was told us out of
persiflage, and for our belief, in which we were
afterwards laughed at. When she grew cool-
er, she allowed that there was not much to be
said for Louis Napoleon, whom she professed
not to love pour sa personne; but it was still
that terrible bugbear, les rouges, les rouges.
Truly, by their own showing, the French are
in a pitiable condition. Can it then be that a
great, proud, brave nation has no alternative
between putting its neck under a usurper's
heel or giving its throat to a gang of monsters?
What a sight, that of a whole people crawling
to Louis Napoleon's feet, and piteously crying,
"Take our liberties; only protect us from
these dreadful routes, who are coming to seize
our money and cut our throats !"
M. LJS PR0FE8SEUR. 87
CHAPTEE in.
M. LE PROFESSEUB.
WELL, the short and sharp struggle was
over ; Paris was trampled in the dust,
and her liberties were no more. But still she
must meet and talk about her humiliation, if
about nothing else. And we too went out,
though only among those with whom we sym-
pathized. We sought Madame Gibbs's demo-
cratic salons, prepared to meet men who, we
were told, felt with varied agonies of rage,
grief, and shame, that France had now lost her
place among the nations. As I entered I
thought especially of M. Lamourette, who, I
had heard, was in such deep dejection as to
go about ashamed of being a Frenchman, and
wishing himself un Anglais, As I well knew
my friend's particular feelings about my coun-
trymen, I did full justice to this expression of
humiliation.
The rooms were crowded, but as soon as I
entered I recognized the voice of the sorrow-
ing patriot ; I knew him at once by the loud-
ness of his hilarity. He was there beside a
S8 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
fair, quiet young lady, who stood statue-like, in
graceful calm, presiding at the tea-table, him-
self pouring out words and gesticulation fast as
shot, and evidently doing the intensely agree-
able. The aspect of the whole party, indeed,
was not other than that of men, I am glad
to say, in excellent health and spirita To be
sure, whenever we talked politics, the same
strain would be renewed ; produced, as I
thought, by the mortifying consciousness that
they ought to have prevented the coup d'etat^
and had not done so. Formerly I had thought
that keen sense of public deterioration a hope-
ful sign. I knew not what to say of it now ;
I wanted deeds, not words.
But here comes the facetious professor, slid-
ing up to me glass in eye, with a couple of
bows, and the sprightly inquiry, " Eh bien, ma-
demoiselle, gardez-vous toujours vos pr^juges
atroces — etes-vous convertie k nous?" and I
must prepare myself not tpv sympathetic polit-
ical bewailings, but for a hurricane of wit and
fun. So I plunged at once into warfare ; and
in a little while he turned to a very clever-
looking philosophical Frenchman, "who came
up for a moment to listen, with " I can not
persuade mademoiselle that we are not ser-
pents." " Tandis que nous ne sorames que des
M. LE PB0FE8SEUR. 89
cjolombes," is the rejoinder, with the meekest
air possible.
Presently M. Lamourette put the trying ques-
tion — the question of questions — " Did I think
the French resembled monkeys ?" He would
have an answer, he repeated, and urged the
question. Driven into a corner, my politeness
or my French failed me, or some demon im-
pelled me to a caricature of sincerity ; I said,
" Tin peu." It was very stupid of me, and I
felt it so, when I saw his joyous expression
change to a grave, even chagrined one. He
went on to attack Englishwomen (almost seri-
ously) as cruel and unfeeling. "As savages,"
he said, "wore suspended to their waists the
heads of their enemies, so did the Englishwom-
en take people's hearts, and hang them up as
trophies." He took his revenge ; an English-
woman's masculine beau-ideal, he asserted, was
a tambouT-majeur (none of my French friends,
I may observe, measured five feet seven) ; and
who, with true insular brutishness, showed his
devotion to the woman he loved by trampling
her under foot on all occasions.
After cohtradicting him moderately, I then,
to soothe his injured feelings, allowed the
French to be amiable, infinitely agreeable, full
of talent.
90 TWENTY YEAMB AGO.
" Yes, yes, we understand all that," he inter-
rupted, in tones of exaggerated humility, " gra-
cieux, mais singes encore."
Unfortunate confession of mine I when will
it be forgotten?
At last I took courage and said, "It sur-
prises me to see you all so gay and enjoues af-
ter having just gone through such frightful
experiences."
" Distinguons, mademoiselle," was his an-
swer, in true French and professional style.
"Je vais vous expliquer cela." On the sur-
face, no doubt, and in the excitement of a sa-
lon, we seem gay. But, were you to pass in
the street the same men whom you have just
seen laughing in a salon, you would meet one
face more sombre, ferocious, and conspirator-
looking than another, and when you came to
the gloomiest of all, that would be mine.
" Frenchmen," he continued, now very seri-
ously, "are totally misunderstood. Their so-
ciety-manners are all assumed ; in heart they
are timid, diffident, prone to trust, to be im-
pressed and carried away like children, credu-
lous and innocent, with no strength of will,
and made to be governed."
"In that case," I said, "it is better to be
a Frenchwoman." " C'est vrai, mademoiselle ;
M. LE PBOFESSEUB. 91
in all houses the women reign sovereign, and
t;he men are absolutely passive. There they
laave the good sense to know their nullity;
T3Ut in the world they are always acting a
part, and assuming a character to which they
have no pretensions. One man will play mis-
anthrope, an6ther will try to pass for a heart-
less persifleur^ another for the subtle, unprinci-
pled intriguer and conspirator — whereas they
are incapable of conspiring, not being able to
keep a secret, or to remain in the same mind
for a day together."
But the professor had at this moment an-
other care which, I thought, weighed heavier
on him than the public grief— a course of lec-
tures which he had to deliver at one of the col-
lies. He had just begun it, and was more
troubled in his mind by it than I thought such
a clever man need have been. He had return-
ed unwillingly to his work, having put it off
as long as he could, and, I fancy, occiipied
himself in the interval with any thing but the
appropriate studies. And now he was haunt-
ed by the coming lecture — whether he rode,
or danced, or chatted, it was always in his
head. His only idea of paradise was to live a
whole week without thinking; at present, he
said, he was not an "etre humain" — only a
92 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
machine. He complained of the mass of facts
which he had to read up for a lecture of scarce
an hour's length, which he had no time to di-
gest, and had all in confusion in his head. It
kept him up all the previous night, he .said ;
and in the morning he could not breakfast —
his throat was dried up. " If I could only eat
and sleep," said he, " I might do better."
All this he seemed anxious to explain, to
account for what he feared might be thought
the insufficiency and want of interest of his
lectures, Sibyl had attended one, and he was
evidently fearful that she had not been suffi-
ciently entertained. I said his subject had
been a little dry.
" Oh, but wait," he said ; " I am going to '
lecture on Shakspeare and on les drames <Je
Famour, and then I shall be plus gai et im-
p^tueux."
I told him I was sorry he was to take
Shakspeare for his subject, as I had a convic-
tion it was one no Frenchman could under-
stand.
**Yous verrez! vous verrezi" he answered,
with confidence.
I now discovered in my friend a full share
of what is affirmed of Frenchmen, that, with
the appearance of the happiest self-conceit,
. ^- '
Jf. LE PR0FE8SEUR, 08
they are in reality sensitive, most uncomfort-
ably self-conscious, and afraid of ridicule. He
complained of the additional constraint caused
by the nature of his audience, part of whom
were deTrwiseUes^ before whom he was not per-
mitted to discourse "sur I'amour et la jalousie."
" Not," as he explained, " that I can perceive
that the demoiselles object to it at all, but the
mothers look indignant, and declare that their
daughters know n<jthing, and ought to know
nothing, of such things. Ah, ciel 1 c'est bien
difficile pour un homme modeste et d^licat com-
me moi de se bien comporter dans ces cas-ci."
"Et puis," he went on in tones more injured
still, "there come elderly females with baskets,
who in the middle of the lecture take out of
them a bottle of wine, and bread and cheese,
and eat and drink in my very face just when I
am trying to be most interesting — cela me dd-
range horriblement."
Having relieved himself thus far^ the afflict-
ed professor announced " qu'il fallait se sacri-
fier," and went oflFto waltz and polk with sev-
eral very pretty girls, to whom he surrendered
himself with an admirably got -up air of en-
joyment. I saw him at intervals flitting and
whisking about the room, and, when for the
moment he had no young ladies to talk to,
91 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
playing with his pocket-handkerchief like a
kitten with her tail.
But my part of confidante and consoler to
Madame Gibbs's guests was not yet donee
Two more sufferers engaged my attention — a
struggling artist and a despairing Republican.
The artist was a melancholy genius, interest-
ing as a man of sensitive imagination, and ad-
mirable because, by being steadfastly true to
his own inspiration, he ^condemned himself to
present ill -success and poverty. As for the
Republican, no personal sorrow occupied him,
no garrulous complaint soothed his pain, nor
could any by-play of raillery, polking, or pret-
ty young ladies distract it. / rather sought
him out than he me. A quiet dejection sat
on his countenance, he spoke little and very
low, and seemed afraid to trust himself on the
topic of the day; nor did his gentle nature
deal in any phrases of indignation or despair.
This was not from fear, for he had done much
to compromise himself by continued inter-
course with friends deeply concerned in late
events, and in them his thoughts were now
absorbed — in the fathers of families, who sat
in prison, waiting, unconvicted and untried, to
be shipped off into life-long and solitary exile
— the enfants de famille^ those young men of
M, LE PROFESSEUIt. 95
good bourgeois houses who, stung by a gen-
erous frenzy, had rushed into a struggle they
knew to be vain, and now lay with other mur-
dered bodies in the Cemetery of Montmartre.
There, as he told me, he had spent the last
night among thirty fresh corpses just flung
there, and not yet buried, but covered up to
the necks with earth. Among these ghastly
projecting heads he had .wandered for hours,
sometimes having to kneel on the breast of
one corpse to look into the face of another.
When my friend touched on these danger-
ous topics, he turned from the company and
spoke in under-tones ; for even here there might
be spies. And certainly one neat Frenchman,
of small size, whose name I did not know, was
hovering by the whole time with a most com-
ical air of perking curiosity, dodging behind '
us, and peeping at us over the back of the sofa,
and between ourselves and the chimney-piece.
But I hope no harm will follow to the dear,
pure-hearted, tender-souled man, who, however,
has been in prison two or three times already.
The listener was, perhaps, a fancy Jesuit ; this
is a species of fungus which has lately grown
up very rapidly from the corrupt soil, a spe-
cious tritramontanism being now decidedly
the fashion.
IW TWEXTY TE±R8 AGO.
And now it grew time to depart, but not
before exchanging a word or two more with
M. le Professeur, and promising him and my-
self to attend his next lecture, to try if the
presence of an AngJaise can by any possible
magnetism inspire him with a due appreci-
ation of Shakspeare. Looking anxiously at
Sibvl, he said, when first he saw her in the
audience, he was frightened, knowing madame
to be " un pcu moqueuse," but that her " air
bienveillant" restored his courage; he hoped
^Idlle. Beatrice would be equally merciful.
Certainly, no one would have guessed M.La-
mourette to be thus timid ; but human nature
is a pn>blem.
I kept my promise and attended the lecture,
which, after all this confidence and condolence,
was but decent feeling. Judging from what I
alread}' knew of him, I expected clearness, vi-
vacity, and happy delivery, rather than depth ;
but I liked to go, because I liked the man, and
heaixi general praise of his ability. The lec-
ture was held in the large hall of a public col-
lege, three-fourths of which were filled with
young students, while in front,.just under the
tribune, was a space railed off for lady-hear-
ers, where sat the jeunes files whom he had
described as "rangees tout en face de lui," and
Jf. LE PR0PE8SEUB, 97
across whom he carefully looked " vers les
plus laids des ^tudiants."
Gradually the room filled, yet the lecturer
appeared not; he was called for repeatedly,
but French impatience showed itself at first
only in a playful form ; the students -stamped
in polka time, and cut jokes. Still he was in-
visible, and at last the audience grew turbu-
lent and called fiercely for him. Unhappy
man, he was close within hearing, in his little
den behind the tribune, agonizingly scribbling
the last words of his discourse. Symptoms of
a row appeared, but were stopped by the lec-
turer's at last rushing upon the platform, in a
shy, hurried manner, flushed and fluttered, per-
haps a little angry. He .carried three large
books, and heaps of paper under his arm;
these he dropped on the desk, bowed uncom-
fortably, hid his face in his hands for an in-
stant, wiped and put on his spectacles, in ex-
change for the glass which he sports in private
life, took a violent gulp at the indispensable
eau siLcrie, uttered a faint and humble " Mes-
sieurs," and began.
The first words were an apology for being
late, with a pathetic statement of the number
of lectures he had weekly to prepare, and a sort
of proud-humility appeal to their candor and
G
98 TWENTY TSARS AQO.
indulgence. This pacified " la jeune France,"
who clapped its hands, and then M. Lamou-
rette went into his subject
Before the end of the first sentence all ti-
midity vanished ; he grew fluent, rapid, joy-
ous; if ever he hesitated for a word, it was for
the best word, and the best in a moment was
sure to come. His manner was as easy and
eager as in conversation ; his hands, which by
the way were small, white, and delicate, darted
about everywhere, were clasped, twirled round,
pointed up and down; and his face woried
with the same electric play, till he came to
the conclusion of some vehement passage, and
would then throw himself completely back in
his chair and smik benevolently up at the
ceiling.
As for the matter, it was well enough. Al-
though upon poetical subjects, to my mind it
was neither poetical nor philosophical ; I cer-
tainly received no new lights, but I approved
of the general justness of his opinions, the
clearness with which they were expressed, and
the pleasantries with which they were season-
ed. But when he came to the promised sub-
ject, the test, the touch-stone, Shakspeare, why
then followed — just what I expected — some
minute comparisons with Voltaire, allowing
M, LE FR0FES8EUR, 99
certain little points of superiority in the En-
glish dramatist, of which the most important
was that " his personages never addressed the
audience, but always each other!" (though in
his next lecture he apologized for having too
much "sacrifi^ Voltaire k Tautel de Shaks-
peare"); some patronizing praise of the En-
glish poet's imaginativeness; and some stern
justice dealt to his " d^fauts de gout " —
" m6me vous qui adorez Shakspeare, vous con-
viendrez qu'il est tr^-sauvage," etc.
While I listened, I sat swelling with all the
true English pride and worship of the divini-
ty so witlessly profaned, not indeed with the
ignorant contempt, the stupid sneers, the pe-
dantic abuse of the old school, which one could
but have enjoyed, but with the intended can-
dor, the little, feeble, condescending praise, the
finikin objections, the raengre analysis of a
clever man of the present day, who only —
didn't know what he was talking about! I re-
volved answers, I rounded periods, and point-
ed arguments, which I felt only too certain
would fail me in the hour of need. My one
consolation was, that there sat listening also an
Italian gentleman whom I knew, and who
knew Shakspeare as well as a German could,
and who would, I also knew, when we came
100 TWEXTT TEAB8 AGO.
out, join me in criticism of the lecturer, and
say, as indeed he did with mild scorn, "He
does not understand Shakspeare." And when
reminded that M. Lamourette had stated that
his next lecture would be on a new subject,
answered emphaticiiUj, "So much the bet-
ter."
Let me do M. Lamourette justice ; he took
occasion to quote a well-known passage from
an English writer on English constitutional
liberty, and he did it with a clear ringing voice
and bold emphasis, which pointed its applica-
tion beyond mistake. But again — what hu-
mor had seized him, I know not — he made a
quite unnecessary hit at the poor Anglais in the
application of the word sorcier, which I did not
quite understand, but which his French audi-
ence did, for they laughed rapturously. Then,
looking down at us, he added, " Je demande
pardon a tous les Anglais presents," at which
his English audience laughed as heartily, to
show that the pardon was given. The allu-
sion was afterwards carefully explained to me
by Hermine (who, I think, enjoyed it) as refer-
ring to the noted ugliness of Englishmen — a
fact which I thought required confirmation,
but I would not dispute on matters of taste,
and only smiled at my friend's rancor against
M, LE PBOFESSEUM. 101
"les Anglais" — "pas les Anglaises," as he
had once, with a deep bow, explained to me.
In the course of the lecture a dark cloud
came over the lecturer's brow; he hesitated,
stopped, fixed a jealous, upbraiding eye on a
very retired corner of the room, then went on
in sharp, exasperated tones, rasping out his
words with superfluous emphasis. I looked
too, and with difficulty discovered in a recess,
quite in the shade, M. fimile, his hat drawn
over his brows — I could not see his face, but
the professor had, or had divined its secret —
he was asleep I It seems some official duty oc-
casionally obliges the militaire to be present at
his friend's lecture, and on this occasion, feel-
ing the approach of a natural infirmity, he
tried hard to screen himself; but that sensi-
tive gentleman, short-sighted as he was, had
found him out. "What ! go to this lecture and
— sleep ! It was too much ! Certainly my
friend the professor is a most thin-skinned in-
dividual, though not, I fancy, at all difficult to
manage by one who understands him. This I
begin to do, having discovered the ease with
which he is mortified ; his vivid, yet artless
jealousy of other men ; his suspiciousness,
which causes him to look unhappy if a word
of English is spoken before him, and, if a laugh
ice ru'/;.V7i' yjuhs ago..
m
or smile accompanv it, to inquire anxiously,
" Ai-je dit quelque chose de ridicule ?"
So, when next I met him en soiree, I deter-
mined to be friendly and conciliating; and
tirst I said polite things as to the interest of
his lecture. lie recurred with animation to
his passage from Burke, and asked what I
thought of the translation.
** It was verj- good, monsieur, and you gave
it with great spirit ; but your lectures will be
suppressed if you make any more such quota-
tions.*'
Uo looked intensely pleased at this, and
said, **0h, pour cela, that must be as it may; I
have no fear, moi ;'' and he went on triumph-
antly, "In my opening lecture this year, I took
care to say as follows: *0n the subject of
politics, messieurs, you have already heard my
opinions, and I have changed none of them
since we met last/ Well, if for such state-
ments I am to be destitue of my office, I can
bear it."
I honored the brave little man, and began
quite mildly on the Shakspeare subject In-
deed, it did not much signify what line I took,
for M. Lamourette proved himself perfectly
good-humored, very witty, and utterly invin-
cible. Still, it was trying when another gen-
M. LE PROFESSEUIi. 103
tleman came up — one of whose intellect I
thought highly, and who generally agreed
with me most respectfully and admiringly —
and who now tranquilly put. forward several
of the worst French heresies on the subject,
which, however, were the more pardonable in
him, as he did not understand one word of
English.
I l9oked helplessly round for my Italian
lilteraieur. How gladly would I, an English-
woman, have put the cause of the English poet
into the hands of an Italian, to be defended in
French I But he was not there. So I suc-
cumbed by changing the subject, and M. La-
mourette, smiling, paid me the very finest of
fine compliments, thereby proving that he
thought me utterly vanquished.
104 TWEXTY YEAMS AGO.
CHAPTER IV.
M. EMILE.
I PERCEIVE that in my account of this
last soiree I have not mentioned the young
miUtaire. In truth, being detained by profes-
sional business, he came late, and for but ten
minutes ; but he escorted Sibyl and me home.
There had been that day some fine govern-
ment ceremonies, in which of course the sol-
diers had played a conspicuous part. I asked
M. fimile if he had been at the Tuileries, where
the principal show took place. "No," he
said, with a dry tone of disdain; "I was
obliged to be on duty at first at Notre-Dame,
but nothing obliged me to be at the Tuileries."
Nothing can exceed the contemptuous in-
difference shown by all the Frenchmen I have
met for the grand f^tes and reviews with which
they have of late been surfeited. This, no
doubt, is to be expected of professing Repub-
licans or Legitimists ; but even in the streets
and among the common crowds I have seen
little curiosity. It seems as if even the French
mind can not always be fed through the eyes,
M, EMILE. 105
that there are wrongs too fresh and too deep
to be healed with showers of comfits, that the
spectacle forced upon them by a bayonet's
point can be but moderately enjoyed, and that
the command " Eat, drink, and be merry, or to-
morrow you die," is not one to stimulate even
a Paris populace to a very hearty appetite.
But to. return to M. fimile. Though we
miss him sometimes at the soirees^ we see a
good deal of him at other times, as in the char-
acter of Hermine's cousin he has free entry to
us. Having discovered Sibyl's taste for harm-
less amusement, like a good genius, he is al-
ways coming with some agreeable suggestion
or other. Schemes of pleasure always follow
his appearance ; I can not say how they spring
up. There is no formal arrangement, but his
entrance, his presence, seem to let in a soft sun-
shine, in which bright fancies and smiling
schemes bud and bloom spontaneously, every
thing organizing itself smoothly and complete-
ly, as by light touches of an invisible hand.
In no way does French inventiveness show
mor| gracefully than in these delicate adorn-
ments of daily life.
Little as I yet know of M. Jfimile, I believe
with Sibyl that he is to be trusted, and I look
on him as a specimen of the best class of " In,
IWi nVL'yTY YLAHS AOO.
jeune France " — a class in which the fine quali-
ties that made France's former greatness Qtill
exist, and which, if its manhood be but true to
its youth, may yet regenerate the nation. Of
this class it has always struck me that young
Bellot (the heroic sailor who sought for Frank-
lin's grave and found his own) was a type, per-
haps exceptionally perfect The golden trait
is a generous, a chivalrous enthusiasm of feel-
ing, giving to temperament and tendencies an
almost ideal beauty.
Such an one does £mile de Fleury appear
to me ; a youth of a country family, brought
up among domestic union and kindliness, and
then, still fresh and pure, and ardent to excel,
transferred to Paris, where he devotes himself
to the studies of his profession, firmly confid-
ing in his power of forcing his way from its
lowly beginnings up to its most radiant heights.
As frankly as he imparts all this, does he also
display the more child-like parts of his charac-
ter, unchecked, as an English youth might be,
by a dread of the words " novice " or " egotist"
He speaks of his home in the South, of family
meetings, of moonlight rambles in the forests
around his native place, prolonged amidst
songs and tinkling of guitars; he talks even
of the little brothers and sisters, or of the elder
M. EMILK 107
sister who, young and beautiful, chose to be-
come a nun, and whom, when she sickens and
grows feeble under too zealous austerities, he
visits daily in her Paris convent with an un-
failing gift of flowers. In deeper tones he
confides to you all about his mother — how she
was made up of a " bon sens exquis et d'une
ang^ique douceur." How perfect a womanly
picture do these two combined traits suggest !
As for his religion, he is a liberal Catholic,
with more of devout feeling than of formular-
ized creed. "As far as doctrines go," he says,
" I could make you in half an hour as good a
Catholic as I am." . Yet, then recalling the
ffites of his childhood, the walks to church by
his mother's side, the music and flowers, and
her tender prayers, he would avow himself
"Catholique depuis les racines des cheveux
jusqu'aux plantes des pieds." Equally does
he glow in speaking of episodes in his youth
of wild and stern life, long months spent in
solitude, perhaps in hardship, among mount-
ains, but glorified by the hope of distinction,
and softened by the delight of natural beauty,
on which he will dwell with touches of the
poet. He loves alike the sapins on the mount-
ain, the hleuets in the corn-field, the balmy roses
of a garden-bower, with a love which makes
108 TWEXTT TFAJiii AGO.
him sometimes impatient of a life shackled by
rigid official duties. Stung, too, by the strag-
gling contradiction between an ambition to rise
in his profession and aversion to a connection
with despotic government, the young brow
will furrow, and the words escape in a sharp
sigh, ^^Oh, mon ind^pendance 1 qui me la
rendra?" A minute afterwards (these French
are such strange beings) a perverse fit may
seize him, and with a kind of pleasant sour-
ness he will debiter much gloomy misanthro-
py and cynicism; he will denigrer all these
charms, rail at romance, and try obstinately to
seem blase and insensible — nay, will almost
persuade you to believe him, so prettily does
he act it.
Indeed, some temporary gloom may well be
excused to a young man, mature in thought
beyond his years, under his present circum-
stances. Just wakened to real life from those
shining visions and aspirations, at a period of
peculiar darkness and discouragement to all
good patriots — at the moment, too, of expe-
riencing life's first and worst loss, a dearly
loved mother's death — it is no wonder if he
sometimes fancies himself disenchanted for life.
But, no I that fine organization and fervid na-
ture have heart and hope in them yet; though
if. EMLLE. 109
whether they will survive when youth's fair
illusions are really gone, amidst the azote of
that social and political atmosphere, may be
sorrowfully doubted. From instances that I
have seen, I could paint him as he rrvay be a
dozen years hence, when the work of desUlu-
stonnement is complete. He is already con-
scious that he is not what he was, and can
philosophize, half coldly, half lightly, on the
change, although the fine natural qualities
shed even yet a kind of half-painful lustre
over the ruins. He feels a secret contempt for
others, fostering in him a cynical pride not
founded on any real self esteem ; the generous
trust, the enthusiastic self-devotion, are no
more; he may continue benevolent in action,
but has ceased to be kindly in thought. With
probity and independence at the core, he be-
comes subtle and tortuous in his social rela-
tions, his feelings run no longer straight on-
ward in the daylight. He takes a sombre
pleasure in defying scrutiny, misleading friend-
ly conjecture, disappointing nascent confidence,
and leaving an injpression of something much
bitterer and harder than he really ia
Yet even from such a fall I believe he might
recover; should some great cause call aloud
for heroic self-sacrifice, all his best nature
110 TW£XTY TEARS AGO,
would spring up, crying in answer to that
trumpet-voice, "Here I am — ^send me." But
if, instead of that stirring anguish and passion
and strife, this deadly torpor of a debasing tyr-
anny should deepen and strengthen over the
nation, till its best hearts and brains yield to
the hopeless spell — ah, what will he then be?
Gladly do I return from such a fancy pic-
ture to the reality of the young, generous,
amiable ifimile as he is. At present, whatever
mask he may choose to wear is but a transpar-
ent one, and we two — Sibyl especially — ^know
always how in a moment to make it drop com-
pletely off. We have fortunately taught him,
too, that Englishwomen can bear — nay, can
welcome — truth, even when it is not sweet as
flattery ; and he takes pleasure in speaking it
to us. He will kindly warn me of social blun-
ders; and when either of us — I through want
of readiness, or Sibyl from her careless dislike
to trouble — make slips in French, in accent, in
idiom, or grammar, such as cause some cheer-
ful misunderstanding, or some engaging or per-
haps embarrassing mistake, M. ifimile will laugh
at us freely, with fearless smile, and saucy,
sparkling eye. "I could make a dictionary
of the words you invent, mademoiselle," he
once said.
Jf. EMILE. Ill
And when, on his granting that the particu-
lar word I had coined was wanted, I said, " Je
vous en fais cadeau," he answered, " I thank
you; I shall value it so highly that I shall
take care never to use it."
But when invited to make mistakes in re-
• turn, he is far too fin to give us this advantage,
pleading total ignorance of English, even to its
alphabet.
This fondness of the Frenchman for support-
ing a rdle in social intercourse is very marked.
If he is brave, honorable, enthusiastic, he en-
joys his own fine qualities as much as any one
can ; without broadly making himself sa person-
nage de rornan, he yet lets you conceive that
.impression of him, and takes care to suppress
any thing that may disturb it. Yet even these
little artifices are part of the real naturalness,
and please me accordingly. For, in spite of
his instinct (rather than habit) of accommo-
dating himself to his companion, so impres-
sionable, so eagerly unreserved is he, that truth
will often come out brusquely, or, as he him-
self says, "brutalement"
And then, too, the French dearly like ex-
citement in conversation — it is a game which
they play with all their hearts — so that contra-
diction, raillery, even a little anger, will come
112 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
to add zest, and entertain the stranger who is
on the look-out for national or individual traits.
It is true-, one does not always keep cool one's
self — one grows eager, emphatic, words come
with an ardent yet hesitating eloquence, the
heart beats, the cheeks glow, and one becomes
frank and brusque too — and then, a pleased
laugh, a quietly -bantering comment, or a bit of
delicate criticism, tells one that the Frenchman,
in his turn, is making his reflections and com-
posing his theory.
There is a piquancy in this intercourse like
that of two hostile armies who, during some
brief armistice, enter each other's camps, min-
gle gayly, and make friendship even out of
the grim warfare which has brought them thus
together.
In the course of my acquaintance with M.
Lamourette, he published a volume of mem-
oirs, on which I knew him to have expended
a good deal of thought and research, and
which, of course, I sometimes made the theme
of my conversation with him. With a delight-
ful simplicity he assured me that he was per-
' fectly indifferent to its success. " Praise," he
said, " only vexes me, and I would rather the
work was not noticed at all. When it was
read aloud in the Academic, and a vote of ap-
M, EMILE. 118
proval passed upon it, I could hardly persuade
myself to open the report that announced it to
me. Maintenant, quant a ce livre, je n'y pense
jamais."
I took all this gravely and respectfully. I
knew the professor was a blighted, jaded, sa-
tiated being; in England, perhaps, we might
have hinted that he was an enfante gdte; but I
chose to take him as he represented himself.
When, a day or two after, he came to us en
soirSe, his book was lying on a little table, and
I saw his quick eye drawn and fixed as by
magnetism on it.
"What a pity," I said, "that you were not
here sooner I A literary gentleman, interested
in the subject you wrote of, has been here,"
and I named the gentleman, who was a writer
of repute. " He saw the book, and asked ques-
tions about it ; and I dare say would have
liked to talk to you on the subject."
For the rest of the evening, and for some
days aflber, my friend could not get that gentle-
man out of his head. I mentioned a slight
critical remark that had been made on the
work, and I saw him from time to time ap-
proach and takie up the book, ask what " ce
monsieur " had said, and recur to the subject,
while I smiled internally with tender pleasure
H
lU T\V£yTT T£AIi8 AGO.
at his innocent inconsistency. For indeed, my
dear professor, you are really very thin-skin-
ned, and the mask of indifference does not sit
well on vou. You are like a child — while
pleased, while amused, and to a certain extent
flattered, no one can be more gay, good-hu-
mored, and engaging than you are ; but let the
required sweet aliment be withdrawn, or the im-
mediate prospect of gratification be in another
direction, or greater amusement to be found
elsewhere, and you can, I suspect, become ill-
mannered, even ill-bred, to a degree the com-
posed Englishman could not be guilty of
These charming French are mostly egotists
— the word must be used, but it is no very
branding one — and they would not be quite so
charming if they were not For in the good
natures this egotism flatters the egotism of
others by an intelligent sympathy and a quick
sensibility to all the small details of feeling.
It gives the power of studying the souls of
others alike with fellow feeling and the feel-
ings of an artist
Certainly they are superlative conversers. I
know not how to describe it; I can only re-
call having been held hour by hour, uncon-
scious whether I talked or not, scarcely won-
dering at the ease with which all kinds of
M. EMILE. 115
material were melted together in the stream of
that multifarious talk, aware only of a sharp,
crisp, piquant scent and flavor of delightful
novelty. Never had I been so unreserved or
heard such unreserved utterance before — all
was new, yet all seemed quite natural, and suit-
ed to the long-felt wants and vague concep-
tions of one's own mind. It was a web of feel-
ing and reasoning, just light enough for con-
versation, across which anecdotes or illustra-
tions were darted like sparkles and jets of
light; or, still more interesting, a flow of rec-
ollections out of a varied life, stories tragic
and comic, bits of deeply-felt autobiography,
with touches of thought — melancholy, sarcas-
tic, or philosophic — and many an interruption
of ingenious turn or piquant reply. Wherever
he wills, the Frenchman leads you ; no path so
deep and sinuous, no wood-shade so wild and
dim, but you follow undoubtingly. In the met-
aphysics of the heart no one surpasses him;
no such philosophic sentimentalist, no such
soul-analyzer and connoisseur of the passions
as he. And into the trying, tempting maze he
draws you unawares, luring you on with ever
and anon some glancing sun-streak of allusion
to his own experience. I often have read (in
novels especially) of this kind of conversation.
116 TWENTY TEAB8 AGO.
but never realized it till I beard it from a dev-
er and sympathetic Frenchman. I know not
how much art there was in all this — if art it
was, it was perfect as nature.
Of course, with all this charm, there were
certain things which had a great tendency to
provoke the Britannic mind, or, if it were in a
proper state, to amuse it They arose mostly
from the all but impossibility to the French
mind of understanding foreign nations and
foreign languages, or looking at any thing
from other than a French point of view.
That French ignorance on English subjects
continued to me a daily source of astonish-
ment, just as it was in the first bloom and
dawn of my perception thereof It might be
mortifying, were it not, as I believe, just as
crasse on every foreign subject. It may be
our English mistakes on things French are
equally stupendous to their eyes ; still I think
we, at any rate, know a little better what
views they hold on subjects differently related
by the two nations, and so escape that naivdi
of ignorance which they display.
There are topics which, for the sake of one's
serenity of mind, it is good to avoid. What
were my feelings when the candid, intelligent,
well-informed M. ^fimile made the (as I after-
M, EMILE, 117
wards found) common assertion that the En-
glish were beaten at Waterloo I When, with a
vehemence which almost prevented any satis-
factory reasoning on the subject, I combated
this stupefying statement, nothing could ex-
ceed the mild condescension of the smile and
tone with which I was kindly informed that
"it was permitted to a demoiselle to be not
very an fait upon military matters."
Why is it that all technicalities and facts
fail one just at such times? and why does the
French language, in which a hundred times be-
fore one has been pert and pugnacious enough,
fail as well ? But let it pass ; we have no bus^
iness to boast of Waterloo, no more right to be
proud of it than the French of a gallantly -sus-
tained defeat. It was a miserable thing that it
had to be fought at all, and if it still stands as
a barrier against the perfect friendship of two
brave nations, I could rather be sorry for it.
Another time, Jfimile insisted that England
had made a good thing of the war with Na-
poleon, her whole object in it having, indeed,
been to increase her possessions; and when
humbly entreated to say what possessions she
had gained by it, he promptly answered, " Ja-
maica." When, however^ with vehemence be-
yond strict courtesy, we complained of these
118 TWEXTY TEARS AGO.
" queer French notions," 'most disarming was
the candid reply, " C'est trop vrai ; we are but
moderately informed about other nations, and
England is, perhaps, not the one which we un-
derstand best"
But enough of these irritating and foolish
topics, which had better never arise between
French and English, each of whom, of course,
can but look on that side of the shield whose
glittering metal is next to their eyes. The
habit of reading in history only what tells best
for our national pride will never be conquered
while national feeling has a root in our hearts;
but I hold that with strangers the modest or
well-bred man will no more vaunt his country
than he will his family or himself.
Still, leaving party questions aside, it is curi-
ous how shamefully, how grotesquely inaccu-
rate they often are in their statement of facts,
even when there is no object to be gained by-
it, and when one would have thought it much
easier to be accurate. In history or biography
their preference of fancy to fact, their disregard
of dates, their disfigurements of names and ti-
tles — here Michelet, Lamartine, Sainte-Beuve,
rise up before me as first-class oflFenders — is
something past speaking of. These mistakes
do not come from want of imagination ; there
M. EMJLE, 119
is but too much of that quality in the rapidity
"with which half-impressions are seized on and
>«rorked up ; they are run away with by a the-
ory, and generalize to a wonderful extent; and
then their national conceit satisfies them that
tibey are quite right, and seeks no more infor-
mation to correct first ideas. Nor with them
is it, as with the Irish, produced by confusion
of head ; they are quick and exact, hgiques in
their mode of reasoning, pellucidly clear — nay,
mathematically precise — in their forms of ex-
pression; there are no muddled half-concep-
tions in the fire and crystal of the French
brain. Nor is it from any incapacity for pa-
tient, continued application ; this can be most
eminently exercised when results can be ob-
tained no other way.
Is it then symptomatic of the often imputed
French insincerity? and is that charge a just
one ? I can not yet say. I suppose while hu-
man nature is human nature, the masses as
well as individuals will find some object for
whose sake they think it worth while to sacri-
fice truth, or, as I have heard it philosophical-
ly defined, " to postpone the recognition of the
fact to the exigencies of the moment.;" and
to the vain, sensitive French nature "effect"
seems that powerful temptation. This tend-
120 TWrXTY YEARS AGO.
onoy glares on us fiom the proclamations on
their walls, from the language of the Senate,
the Bar, the Academy, and the Pulpit, from
the pages of their public journals and their
most "standard" histories. To produce an
"eflfect" they will employ false coloring, will
suppress and add, and, if that effect be a clap-
trap grand sentiment or a piece of showy patri-
otism, will confess to it even with pride. Many
a piquant instance of this is full and fresh in
my memory at this moment, but I will not en-
large farther on a fact generally acknowledged.
But, as to personal and social insincerity, I
think we are apt to be unjust to the French,
from not understanding their manners as well
as they do themselves. They are not neces-
sarily untruthful in their expressions of liking
or interest, only we must not expect the feeling
to last Every moment is with them taken up
with vivid interests — in succession; for they
are too strong to be simultaneous. There is
not room for all at once, and, as they say
themselves, "la vie de Paris est d^vorante."
The amiable French manner is also mislead-
ing; because that is universal, and because
generous, unselfish goodness is not universal
with them any more than in England, we
hastily conclude that fine show, as we call it,
to be always pretense.
Jf. EMILE, 121
Still, were one to judge from certain small
traits, one would conclude that the French
standard of honor was not quite so high as our
own. "Petits mensonges," or "white lies,"
are things they are not a bit ashamed of;
" mensonge " is not the least an impolite an-
swer to even a lady's assertion; listening at a
door, and panegyrizing one's own book in a
public journal, are proceedings I have heard
avowed by a most estimable gentleman ; and
conventional politeness is carried so far that
it scarcely deceive^ What with us is mere
honesty, is with them hrutalite^ for which one
gains no sort of credit
I feel as if I ought to apologize for the de-
cisive tone and rapid generalization exhibited
in this critique on a nation whom I know, after
all, but in glimpses. As a stranger and for-
eigner, I dwelt chiefly in the outworks of
French society. But then they are a people
whose life is so much external that the stran-
ger may see and learn much without going
farther than those outworks. And if I can
not myself pronounce a judgment, I am at
least very qualified to report their own ; for
hardly a day passed that some French man or
woman did not treat me to an opinion or as-
sertion about themselves.
laa TWENTY yeajrs ago.
CHAPTER V.
THE JOUR DE l'aN.
WELL, the elections are finished. Those
of Paris were over in one day ; those of
the country took five or six days. The result
is of course the same in both, and Louis Napo-
leon is confirmed by more than seven millions
against about six hundred thousand. Nothing
could exceed the quiet with which it all took
place; no one could guess that the votes of
a nation were being given. The abstentions
were so numerous, that, had they been added
to the nons^ the ouis would have been out-
voted.
So France has secured her ten years' dicta-
tor ; and all joy to her on her choice. The
news has been received with a kind of sulky
indifference ; no guns firing, no illuminations;
and meanwhile arrests continue, societies are
suppressed, espionnage is diligently practiced,
military law of the severest kind reigns in the
provinces, and Paris sets to her task of usher-
ing gayly in the new year with what skill she
ma v.
THE JOUR BE L'AJSr. 128
The Boulevards, as usual, are turned into a
fair, with a succession of stalls full of articles
for etrennes; but there are great fears about
their sale, the money-market is in so anxious a
state. Terrible scenes, Sibyl tells me, are wont
to be exhibited on the Boulevards at this time,
children wanting all the splendid things with-
out exception that they see there — crying
loudly for them — rolling on the ground.
But there is to be a greater show on New-
year's-day, for the president is then to be pro-
claimed, not for ten years, but for life, at No-
tre-Dame, with great pomp, but, as is expected,
not too great enthusiasm. Meanwhile, I am
making trial of Paris in winter; and as for
four-fifths of the year she deserves to be paint-
ed en beau in colors of gold and azure, we may
pardon her uncommon disagreeableness for this
fifth. Certainly she is very dreary when giv-
en up to incessant rain, and when our sources
of amusement are restricted to what we can
see from the windows of her at her dingiest —
sloppy pavements and streaming spouts, a few
busy women lifting their dresses in the uncom-
promising manner of all true Paristennes in*
rain and dirt, a few soldiers in gray cloaks, all
the scanty world under umbrellas, and gloom
and dreariness everywhere.
VM TWEXTY YEAES AGO.
If, weary of in-doors, we steal out at some
tolerable interval, the result is not enjoyment.
The streets are now a bed of thick rich mud,
and there is little to choose between the
greasy, slippery trottoir and the pavS, with
pools formed round every stone. The cross-
ings are almost impassable, the water from
spouts and projections drips on one as one
creeps along the narrow bit of trottoir close to
the wall, shrinking from the carts and omni-
buses, whose huge wheels almost touch the
windows, as they plough through and splash
up the mud. The Place de la Concorde, with
its extent of swimming asphalt, is a lake of
mire; the Seine runs turbid, thick, and dull
green under its now misty bridges, in fine
weather so glitteringly aerial; the public build-
ings look grim and desponding, and seem to
wear mourning. Ah, fair Paris I how like you
are — in these two phases — to some beau-
ty first seen in her f^te-days, all smiling and
charming, made up of graces and good-humor,
and the same beauty wearing a shabby dress-
ing-gown and a sulky face, in a disorderly bed-
room at home I
Paris is rather less intolerable when the
weather is only windy and cold. Sibyl and I
then persist in our English habit of walking
THE JOXm DE VAN, 125
forth in the Champs !6lys^es — not merely in
the dress -promenades of the afternoon, but in
the early morning, when one meets few but
some determined men, who, cloaked, furred,
and hooded up, with all the careful and gro-
tesque contrivances of the Parisian winter toi-
let, glare on us with double energy from their
forests of beard and hair.
There goes a hat blown suddenly from the
Pont de la Concorde into the river ; the young
owner laughs a little ruefully as it disappears,
and passes on his way bare-headed with a
merry-faced grisette. There goes another I the
sleety wind, blowing sharp as a thousand nee-
dles across the Place, has driven it far on, but
it is picked up and restored, and the picker-up,
as he passes on, observes to us, confidingly, in
a discontented tone, " II a bien peu me dire
merci." Seel there is an old woman timidly
descending some steps from one of the Tuile-
ries terraces ; a young man in a blouse walking
some way behind runs on, gives her his hand,
helps her carefully down, and leaves her with
a bow.
I shall not soon forget that winter's day
(New - year's - day, 1852) when I went to wit-
ness the inauguration of the Saviour of Socie-
ty (now self-named for life) in a mixed relig-
I'X TWLWTY YEAHii AGO,
ious and political service at Notre-Dame. I
went with one companion, the best I could
have wished for, and one whose feelings on
the subject of the great show were, I knew,
the same as mine. We went out with some
degree of excitement as to what we should
see : it was a remarkable day, at any rate ; it
might be made one not to be forgotten by
some pistol-shot which should point the moral
of the pageant, and settle accounts with the
chief actor — a thing which some at least
thought not impossible.
It was a day of thickest fog ; there was, too,
a damp, poisonous, cruel chill; the mist was in-
cessantly drizzling, and condensing to ice-drops
upon us ; the wind cut like a sword-edge, and
my hands were stung with intolerable cold.
At the Place de la Concorde the fountains
were frozen ; the naiads, covered with icides,
were shivering in their winter bath ; the wood
walks around the Tuileries were a mystery ;
the only things distinctly seen being the troops
crossing our path, dragoons, chasseurs^ and the
line. When the mist cleared a little, the trees
appeared completely clad in a foliage of white
frost-work, full and graceful as their former
mantle of green ; all down the avenue they
exhibited this snowy fancy garniture. As we
THE JOUR DE L'AN, 127
passed the Suspension Bridge, we saw between
its planks the dull, deep, smooth green of the
river, and pieces of ice came drifting down the
still stream. The poplars and willows along
the river-side were in stiff white spikes, or
hung with white beads, the boughs looking
like so many silver strings, while the iron and
bronze gates and railings were all powdered
with pearla
When we entered the lU by the Petit Pont,
we found the entrance to the Place de Notre-
Dame choked up with a crowd of commisy
blouses^ gamins^ so that we could not even get
a sight of the soldiers filling the Place. But
my friend, with calm reliance on the chivalry
of French soldiers, assured me that if we could
squeeze near enough to be seen by them we
should be sure to be let into the square. And
so it happened ; and on the perron of the Hotel
Dieu, opposite the west front of Notre-Dame,
we stood and commanded the whole scene.
The mist w^ still so intense that the three
splendid portals opposite us, the great rose-
window, and the round-arched galleries, stood
out as if from a gray blank. The Place was
full of soldiers only, every inlet carefully
guarded. A bustle of preparation began ;
now and then the people carelessly cried, " II
138 TWUXTr YEAB8 AOO,
vienti" and criticisms, sometimes disparaging,
were exchanged on the " £lu du Ciel."
At length the great bells of Notre-Dame be-
gan to rhig and then came a clash of military
music, but the loud tolling sound swelled over
trumpets and drums. Then there rushed upon
the scene a splendid troop of lancers, suddenly
springing out of the mist, all borne forward at
one proud bound, like so many strong waves
heaving one after another. On they came,
three or four abreast, their lances held up tall
and straight, the flags quivering with one
slight thrill together — then seemed to vanish
again. In reality they wheeled round to the
other side of the Place. Then arms were pre-
sented, the dragoons raised their long, terrible
broadswords — and then, almost invisible, came
the president's carriage, closely invested by a
double ring of lancers, "joliment escort^," as
the people said — safe enough from any possi-
bility of a shot
So came the hero of the scene; he was
dressed in a general's uniform, and bowed his
cocked hat, not out of, but inside, the closed
windows. It was well that the drums beat
their loudest to drown the vivats that should
have been uttered, but were not The front
rank of soldiers only shouted, and that with no
THM JOUR DE VAN, 129
accordant faces. Six civilian hats were taken
off (I counted them), and three voices cheered ;
as on other occasions, there was no enthusiasm
that was not paid for. The new-made absolute
ruler vanished into Notre-Dame, and we were
left to moralize over this rather appropriate
climax to the whole thing — Louis Napoleon
inaugurated in a fog.
For a cold hour we waited, and admired the
front of the cathedral hung with banners, the
endless crowd of carved angels, saints, and pa-
triarchs looking from the three beautiful por-
tals in calm, sad scorn at that insolent blazon-
ry, and on the gay central scroll whereon, in
huge, . triumphant, gilded figures, glared the
well-known number 7,000,000! The world
without amused itself as well as it could ; the
dragoons dismounted, danced and "skylarked "
in their big boots; the officers gossiped with
each other and arranged their long, flowing
plumes. The infantry chatted with the crowd,
lighted cigars from their neighbors, helped old
women up the steps with a polite " Madame,
permettez ;" then, all feeling extremely cold,
a simultaneous stamp went through the line,
and the people took it up in good time.
The crowd meanwhile continued its small
comments: "Ce n'est pas aujourd'hui le so
I
180 TWENTY TEAMS AGO,
leil d' Austerlitz," said one ; another, express-
ing the then common feeling that our premier
was the general advocate of freedom, observed,
" Mais Lord Palmerston n'est pas mort, Dieu
merci !" They did not imagine that he had al-
ready claimed a kindred spirit in the " prince-
president," and appreciated the successful coup
d'etat
At last the doors re-opened, again bells toll-
ed and drums beat, again that fine troop of
lancers swept by ; the dragoons jumped to
their saddles, their swords ringing as they did
so, and galloped into position. The Elected
of Heaven reappeared, in the same safe state
as before, and vanished — as he had come — in
a mist.
When all was over, the world outside want-
ed to get into Notre-Dame, which at first they
were permitted to do ; but the sergents-de-viUe^
who were in an exceedingly bad humor, turn-
ed savage, and, growling forth prohibitions in
every form, thrust us violently out Judging
by' their faces, they ought, as my friend ob-
served, to have been hanged long ago. They
looked like men conscious of having taken
part in a failure, and disposed to revenge it on
the passive populace. We heard nothing save
that the religious ceremony had taken place,
THE JOUR DE L'AN, 181
the maires of the several arrondissements ap-
plauding loudly.
On the Suspension Bridge we stopped to
buy a mSdaillon of Louis Napoleon from peo-
ple selling saucerfuls of a plated and gilt, faith-
less and flattering likeness. Also a programme
of the day's doings, a rudely -printed half-sheet,
with a very coarse portrait of the president in
the middle, over his head a representation of
the Holy Ghost as a dove, the Saviour on the
cross on one side, and the Almighty himself
on the other — all, as it were, in a family-party
together! The programme was conceived in
terms to match ; and, to add interest to the oc-
casion, a wonderful, almost miraculous discov-
ery was announced — made in the course of
repairs to the cathedral porch — of documents
hid in a pillar, of so primeval a date as the
reign of Louis XV. I
As we returned home along the quays, we
met the special correspondent of one of the
London papers, who somehow had failed to be
at his post in time, and asked us for an account
of the day. He told us two facts: one, that
the president, in his reception at the Tuileries
last night, had in his speech kindly promised
the people " a constitution in accordance with
their democratic instincts;" the other, that
183 TWENTY TEAB8 AGO.
there was a new decree ordering the arrest of
any one who talked politics in the streets, to
be handed over, not to the regular courts, but
to the police — that is, to summary punishment,
without examination or appeal.
We reached home at last, the bitter cold and
mortal fatigue of the three hours* walking and
standing being almost forgqtten in our friend's
fascinating conversation. And as I lay that
evening on the sofa, quite worn out with fa-
tigue, I went months back in thought. Who
would have told that I — long shut up amidst
the deep quiet of my secluded English home
— should on this day be witnessing the instal-
lation of the new Napoleon, having for my com-
panion — oh, what good-fortune for a hero-wor-
shipping girl ! — a poet I thus living through a
chapter of history with — I will not name him
— but he is now the greatest English poet of
our day.
V
m THE FAUBOURQ ST. GERMAIN, 183
CHAPTER VI.
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN.
AFTER all these literary and republican
soiries, I had a glimpse of the Parisian
aristocratic world. In some things it was very
unlike the world in which I had lived many
months; which fact I discovered in the very
first party of the kind which Sibyl and I at-
tended, soon after the coup d^etat.
"We had left salons filled with wrath, de-
spair, and tumult, mutiny as of the Titans
against the new Jove ; I found here dwellers
on the Olympian heights of indifference, meet-
ing in an atmosphere of Elysian calm. The
first person who greeted me was M. le Due
de Montorgueil, a proud aristocrat in grain,
though he affected to be much besides. He
assumed devotion, patronized literature, was
something of a visionary philosopher, who
spun fine theories about virtue, justice, and lib-
erty, about which he loved to harangue. I
spoke to him with a heart full of what I had
seen and heard, only pitying beforehand what
he must feel even more deeply than I.
184 TWENTY YEAKIS AGO,
An air of grand-seigneur msoueiarvce and a
thin strident laugh put all " heroics " to flight
I asked him if he had voted (it was during the
elections). He said, carelessly, " Non ; je me
suis abstenu."
"Why?" was my surprised inquiry.
" Because I know of no right that they have
to impose a vote on me."
And then, professing an easy belief that the
Eepublic was still to be (he, though an aristo-
crat all over, was yet a sort of theoretic fancy
Republican), and passing by Louis Napoleon
with the lightest and calmest disdain, he pro-
ceeded to descant on some book of elegant
philosophy which was just then the vogue.
The plan of "abstention" is that which
most of the grands seigneurs (especially the
Legitimists) have followed; it is a protest
which the system of ballot renders impercepti-
ble, and which only helps to swell the presi-
dent's majority.
I almost fancied — strong Legitimist as the
marquis was — that he was not wholly discon-
tented with the event that had put an extin-
guisher on "ces gueux de E^publicains," as,
with a good-humored, quiet intensity of scorn,
he called them. He denied the cruelties of
which Paris yet bore the crimson tokens, say-
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 185
ing politely that the worst stories were im-
possible, for that no Frenchman could hurt a
"woman or a child, hoped that these little inci-
dents would not frighten me away from Paris,
and altogether appeared as if all this had noth-
ing to do with him. As the room began to
fill, and Sibyl, Hermine, and I drew our chairs
together to make room for the new-comers,
Sibyl said, in her thoughtless way, "Nous
faisons une barricade."
"Ah," answered the gallant aristocrat, "s'il
y avait sur les barricades de tels petits ob-
jets, tout le monde s'empresserait de les at-
taquef."
This is one way, certainly, of taking the
doom of one's nation.
But I will pass from those first dark winter
days, when, after a brief spasm, France ac-
cepted her fate. The months passed on, and
she was bearing it as well as she might, sur-
prised, perhaps, to find how bearable it was ;
and now spring and summer were smiling on
the renewed Paris gayeties. There was a
grand hotel in the Faubourg St. Germain
which we occasionally frequented, one of those
which distinguish the Eues Grenelle, Varenne,
St. Dominique, amidst the choked mass of
houses, and narrow, gloomy lanes which com-
136 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
pose that quarter of learned institutions, quaint
antiquities, and hideous squalors.
See, there it is ! one of those solemn, state-
ly old hotels, with its great arched doors rich-
ly carved, the spandrels filled up with fretted
iron-work, the columns surmounted by stone
Cupids, or figures in bronze, the grand solid
balconies, with their mouldering rich stone or-
naments. Through the porte-cockh-e appears a
stately court, full of orange-trees and flower-
beds ; while a low stone wall lets us see the
large garden belonging to it, crowding togeth-
er its masses of foliage, while a profusion of
white-blossomed acacia boughs hangs over the
wall, so that the street is scented like a wood-
land grove. This particular hotel belonged to
Madame de Mailly, an aged grande dame, who
owned the whole house, though she occupied
only the ground-floor. She loved to collect
what she considered a select society, so of
course we feel flattered at being included. I
believe we owed this distinction originally to
Monsieur le Comte, Sibyl's -quiet, indolent
adorer, for, in spite of the match on the tapis
with Hermine, one can see whose society he
finds the most agreeable.
Madame de Mailly had bad health, occa-
sional bad spirits, which, in speaking to us, she
• IN THE FATJBOUUQ ST. QEBMAIN. 137
cjalled, by way of accommodating herself to
our English ideas, "le spleen" — a malady
which the- French still firmly believe to be
paramount among us — a lofty manner, and a
great deal of benevolence, as well as a love of
patronizing genius after a crotchety fashion of
her own. This latter taste varied our herd of
beatified immortals (I mean sleepy legitimist
aristocrats) with a few notorieties, who were a
great deal more amusing to me. As for ma-
dame's own opinions — political, social, or re-
ligious — all that belonged to her as an old
aristocrabe^ royaliste, and devote — a " vieille de la
vieille" — I will say nothing. I will not ex-
pose* the inevitable results of that elegant ex-
ile from the world, that conservative trance of
existence, that tender and touching nursing of
old illusions and clinging to an impossible
state of things. I will not surprise nor amuse
my readers with any of the bitiseSj of which
some chance report, straying beyond the ring-
fence of that unspeakably respectable fau-
bourg, so much delights all the othera
I will only say that they were for the most
part graceful, kindly, engaging people, though,
with the exception of this genius-patronizing
grande dame, the ladies were mostly inaccessi-
ble. The grands seigneurs one met every now
138 TWJSNTY YEAM8 AGO,
and then at mixed soirSes, but their wives
prided themselves on having exclusive socie-
ties. It is probable that the gentlemen had
chosen best, and went wherever they found
themselves best amused. When one of these
stray lambs, such as M. de Montorgueil or M.
de T , came forth to browse a while on the
grassy patches of our wild democratic com-
mon, I used to follow them back in reverent
fancy to the solemn, ineffable beatitude and
repose of their own regal stalls and rich park-
pastures, and wonder how it was with them
there.
This May evening of which I am going to
speak, we walked, as we not unfrequently did,
to the house of Madame de Mailly. It was a
dark, sultry, stormy evening ; the purple sky
closed .the dense, dark walls round the spires
and domes of Paris, massing them all into one
blot; sudden lightnings showed us the Pal-
ace of the Corps L^gislatif, across the bridge
on which the blind flute-player continued his
year-long serenade.
We arrived : the antichambre was full of hats
and great -coats; yet, on entering the great
drawing-room, a dimly -lighted, empty, silent
space met our view ; all the visitors appeared
to have been mysteriously swallowed up. The
m THE PAUBOUJRQ ST, QEMMAIN, 189
<3rawing-rooin windows were all open; we
looked into the dark garden ; a sudden purple
lightning-flash sculptured, as it were, in a mo-
ment a group of people sitting on chairs and
<x)uches under the lime-trees, on the grass.
'We are lost for an instant in the twilight as-
semblage, but the stately figure of our hostess
raises itself aloft from the couch on which it is
her habit to recline, and solemnly greets her
guests. There are but a few, after all ; the
soiree is not begun. Madame is enjoying a lit-
tle quiet intellectual talk with her gentlemen
intimates.
There is the editor of an intensely orthodox
and legitimist journal, fiery in its hatred of
England, infantine in its devout credulity ; he
himself is gay, audacious, unscrupulous, at once
good-humored and deliberately insulting — ar-
rogant par cdlcul, reckless and insulting also
on system. One sees and hears in him in five
minutes the dashing, brilliant, wholly untrust-
worthy Ultramontanist.
There, again, is a melancholy, superstitious
devotee, physically strong and daring, mental-
ly a cramped, timid, blinded slave; at the
Church's bidding he dares all dangers and
endures all hardships, yet covers from society,
under a shy mask, his secret ardor. He is not.
140 TWENTY YS±R8 AOO.
like the first, a flint-stone with sparkles on its
surface, but a granite rock with fire at its core.
And there is a third divot^ of another type ;
on the smooth, fair features plays a stereo-
typed smile ; of those placid eyes one can nev-
er tell whether the expression be craft or niai-
serie; he pours forth banalitis, and laughs with
a false air of enjoyment So bland, quiet^ and
watchful is he, that sometimes I suspect him of
being not only a covert Jesuit, but a spy : he
has been heard, I am told, to utter liberal opin-
ions. His general line is conversion ; he was
introduce'd to me as a great theological doctor;
but I think my faith can stand his arguments,
just as well as my feelings can resist the com-
monplace galanteries (not much sillier) with
which he interlards them.
Suddenly Madame de Mailly says, in rather
an awakened tone, as if sure of giving pleasure,
" Mdlle. Beatrice, M. le Due ;" and I am aware
of a figure, seen but in outline, bowing to me
straight formal bows, with that punctilious,
solicitous air which accompanies French fine
breeding. For a moment I try to remember
who, of all the titles that haunt this salon, it
may be ; till another opportune lightning-flash
reveals more clearly the small, bowing figure,
attired in nankeen trowsers, after the manner
m THE FAVBOWRQ ST. GERMAIN. 141
of French summer-simplicity. Straightway I
recall M. de Montorgueil, whom I had met
several times at diflferent houses, but of whom
some months' interment in his chateau of
ProvenCe had caused me wholly to forget the
existence. Now, he was one to whom I had
a very fine apd perfect antipathy. He was
of the vieiUe noblesse and the old school, and,
while much superior in mere finish of manner
to those of a newer class, was yet much less
prepossessing. He devoted himself, of course,'
in society to the young ladies, but, though sin-
gle and pertinacious in his purpose, was never
obtrusive, and would sit in well-bred patience
till he had an opportunity. He was fond of
intellectual and literary subjects ; he express-
ed himself easily and clearly; this was, as he
said, because he thought clearly — in fine, he
was a capital instructor in French conversa-
tion. But I soon felt that his good manners
were merely the accident of his station, a les-
son taught so early that it was now a habit
quite unconnected with himself; and that his
intellectual tendencies were not much more
Teal. He added to this a sham Bepublican-
ism and sham devotion, each a mere brain-be-
lief ingrafted on a cold egdiste disposition, pre-
ceded, I imagine, by a youth and middle age
143 TWENTY YEARS AGO,
of Parisian license (though, probably, always
of a cautious, cold-hearted, imaginative sort),
and all pervaded by a something of petty com-
monplace suiting well with a sharp, clear, but
borne understanding. He professed to have be-
gun by believing nothing, but to have known
in his youth the sufferings which result from
ardent passions, which drove him to religion.
I observe, by the way, that in French litera-
ture the revolt of youthful minds from estab-
lished theological dogmas is always represent-
ed as the accompaniment and result of a vi-
cious life, skepticism, in short, meaning immo-
rality ; whereas in England it happens that the
young men most disposed to question or throw
off orthodox beliefs are generally as strict and
pure in their morals as they are daring in their
speculations.
The form of piety which M. le Due had em-
braced was a most extreme Eoman Catholi-
cism ; he went every day to mass, though he
said he found it penibk, and sought much to
convert young ladies ; but his outward mani-
festations did not much recommend his creed
or the kind of piety which he talked by heart
He had, too, a sort of pedantic sentimentality ;
he said other nations might likcj but the French
only could love. He spoke of the passions of
m THE FAUBOUJtO ST. GEBMAIN. 143
-the heart and of the head, and how that the
Iforthern nations had neither, but lived most-
ly " par I'estomac ;" with him I suspected pas-
sions and affections existed only in that small
portion of the brain which communicates with
the tongue. He harangued against manages
de convenance, and advocated conjugal love ; he
meant to write a book on the subject, and so
went about among his acquaintances collect-
ing facts to illustrate the baneful effects of
loveless marriages; for which, I suppose, he
was only looked upon as an unpardonable old
gossip. In the mean while, he lived with his
wife on terms of the most orthodox indiffer-
ence.- Madame la Duchesse never appeared;
she remained at the chateau from April to
December, while he was amusing himself in
Paris, and, if she was asked after, he always an-
swered only, " Madame est souffrante." Once,
when he was describing to me the rural de-
lights of his chateau-life, I took the opportuni-
ty of asking him, "Have you any children?"
and receiving an answer in the negative, said
"it was a pity." "Non," he answered, very
decidedly. " Ce n'est pas dommage, je ne les
ddsire pas ; les enfants me d^rangeraient dans
mon travail."
Having given all this long description, to
144 TWENTY TEAB8 AGO,
show why I had that disinclination towards
M. le Due, I can only conjecture that it was
on account of that same antipathy that I felt
driven, as by an uncontrollable necessity, to
show that gentleman more friendliness than I
felt for him or wished him to believe in. He
was in amazingly good spirits at his return to
his beloved Paris, though he had flourished in
the country; a something of bucolic joviality
was added to his tint and dimensions.
Not quite recovered from the first confusion
of having quite forgotten him, I held out my
hand, which, by-the-bye, is a very particular
mark of favor here. It was taken with a
murmur of delight, and held so long that I
began to wonder when I should have it back
again.
Having nothing else in particular to say, I
observed, " My sister and I were speaking of
you to-day, and wondering when you would
reappear." This was true, but I did not add
that we had expressed our perfect resignation
at his absence, and had straightway wholly for-
gotten him again. I felt a little ashamed when
he answered, in much delight, "Ah, vous avez
pens^ ^ moi ? H y a done de la sympathie en-
tre nous? Que c^est touchant!"
He had been busy, he told me, in organiz-
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 145
ing on his estate a girls' school, of which it was
evident he was extremely proud.
"What was the school - mistress ?" I in-
quired.
"La perfection!" he answered, with anima-
tion; "une religieuse, si jolie, si gracieuse;"
and here the Frenchman of the world shone
out to the extinction of the philosophical devot
Jl thousand compliments on the kind interest
1 took in his poor humble attempts to do good
followed.
Ere long, as soft-falling rain-drops had fol-
lowed the lightning, we all took refuge in-
doors ; the small circle gathered together, and
our hostess remained invisible in the depths
of a profound arm-chair, where she was wont
to hold equally or still profounder discourse
with some pet savant or artist whom she had
called to her side. By-and-by the circle widen-
ed, and guest after guest dropped in, till the
large room was full of feathers and white
necks, and full floating dresses, and gentlemen
standing up, black and tall, or circulating from
one radiant group to another.
I asked one of my friends — the orthodox
journalist I mentioned before (whom I shall
call M. Jules) — why there was so much more
splendid an assemblage than usual : there
K
146 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
must have been especial invitations for this
evening.
" You are right," he said ; " we are to have
a treat — the debut of a lady who is going upon
the stage. As a journalist, I am infinitely in-
terested in rising talent ; I am always prophe-
sying its splendid development, but I don't see
much of it after the first year. This lady is to
declamer some scenes of tragedy and comedy.
Mon Dieu! the tragedy and comedy will bci
doubly supplied, for you must know she is an
especial ^o%ee of maddme our hostess; conse-
quently, all the other protegees and clients are
jealous of her, some for her beauty, some for
her talents. Moreover, there is here a dame
who boasts to be quite as clever in her way,
and of quite as much social influence as our
hostess, but they hate each other — like dear
friends — and I suspect there will be a party
got up against this unfortunate Ermengarde.
You know an unestablished talent of this kind
is very easily run down, and I expect the or-
deal here will be as severe as on the boards of
the Frangais or the Gymnase. Pour moi, I am
her friend, and have engaged to do my best for
her ; I am to lead the applause, and we are to
arrange the pit so as to get a good body of
claqueurs. I shall place you, mademoiselle, be-
IN THE FAUBOXmO ST. GJERMAIN, 147
^ide me; you must take your cue from me, and
^-J)plaud fervently. Think," he was pleased to
^xdd, " you will be doing it for a lady, young,
l:>eautiful, and gifted as yourself, who, hav-
ing sank into poverty, is obliged to earn her
'bread."
Young — beautiful — gifted! I was so used
to French compliments now that I only smiled
— unoflfended and unmoved. "Who is Er-
mengarde ?" I asked.
"She is the wife of a public official once
highly favored and esteemed, now ruined by
enemies and a fatal combination of circum-
stances ; this generous and devoted woman is
resolved to raise him again to his natural and
just position. You will admire and be inter-
ested in her, I know ; vous avez le coeur bon
et sensible, a heart which does homage to
goodness and talent, and which will not be
rendered cold and hostile by charms which
you need not fear, but which are almost nec-
essary to her success in the path she has
chosen."
In spite of all this fine sentimentality and
superb flattery, I was puzzled by the expres-
sion of my friend's eye, which bordered on
the comic; but I knew he was one who sel-
dom chose to be perfectly serious, and I deter-
148 TWENTY YEAB8 AGO.
mined to reserve my opinion till I saw and
had learned something of the fair Ermengarde.
In the mean while, till she should appear, I
amused myself with watching the various per-
sonages in the room, which I could do the
more easily as most of them were as yet un-
known to me.
It was a sufficiently varied assemblage ; rank
and talent had joined their forcea There is
a fine French poet, a sweet English poetess —
there is the opponent of Ermengarde and of
her patroness, as yet unsuspicious of the coun-
ter - manoeuvres preparing against her, and
looking supreme satisfaction at herself and
supreme scorn of all but the small clique
which she kept under her command. This
same opponent was none other than Madame
de Fleury — Hermine's mother. She was a
woman of a small, elegant figure, and a fSaoe
whose irregular, queerly twisted features had
an odd but pleasant effect in good-humor,
though they were more quickly transformed
to actual ugliness by an unamiable emotion
than any I ever saw. Their most characteris-
tic expression was a compound of conceit^ arro-
gance, and intense malice ; but her manners,
whenever that familiar domon of spite was not
uppermost, were gay, witty, and flatteringly
IN THE FAUBOURO 8T, GERMAIN, 149
polite. Hermine had a kind of delicate resem-
blance to her mother ; her bright young face
exhibited some of the same traits, but in her
they looked attractive.
In the same group were two or. three other
young ladies, friends of Hermine^ with their
gorgeous mammas. One of these girls was a
superb beauty, though not of a kind to inter-
est one long, as her charm was simply that of
lines and colors. Intensely black eyes and
hair, pencilled dark arched eyebrows, set off
by a dazzling carmine complexion and the
rich red flowers she wore on her head, with a
ruby ribbon passed under the glossy front
bands, gave that most un-English effect of
beauty which is the best kind that one sees
here, and of which the only expressions ad-
mitted of are a rapid coquettish play, a regal
smile, or a hard, imperious pride.
I did not much admire the manners of
these young ladies, least of all those of the
beauty, who was called Laure, and who seemed
full of vain self-consciousness. They laughed
loud, made a noise, moved their chairs, tossed
their heads, shook their dresses, tapped their
mothers, borrowed fans, and seemed trying to
attract notice. I do not think they could
have been la crime de la crime — they must
150 TWENTY TEABS AGO,
have been wealthy aspirantes. Several young
men certainly approached near Mademoiselle
Laure, but — strangely enough, though I sup-
pose most correctly French — talked entirely
to her handsome mamma, who seemed well
inclined to keep them, while her daughter
amused herself by looking a little scornful.
However, as Hermine and the others were
meantime talking and laughing most gayly
with me, the lofty Laure bent forward, and
said, "AUez-vous beaucoup dans le monde,
mademoiselle?" Presently we found our-
selves discussing the great subject of the day,
the empress-elect, whom Mademoiselle Laure
began describing to me with great animation
and minuteness, though it soon appeared that
there was no particular good-will felt towards
her. The young ladies, especially the beauty,
betrayed a sense of insult that a foreigner had
been chosen for that place of honor. I did
not intrude on them my eccentric English
view of its being rather a place of dishonor.
They cordially agreed to my conjecture that
they considered themselves every bit as wor-
thy of empress-ship as Mademoiselle de Mon-
tijo, made game of parts of the Emperor'B
matrimonial speech, and were altogether rath-
er lofty and scornful about it I presently
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 151
^thered that the fair Laure, though of noble
Legitimist family, would have no objec-
n to figure in the plebeian court firom which
^fiBtmily prejudice as yet excluded her.
While we were still talking, I was again
stddressed by M. de Montorgueil, who had left
rne promising to return — a promise I could
Have excused his not keeping. He was won-
derfully smitten with the charms of Mademoi-
selle Laure, and inquired of me, aside, who was
"bliat "belle personne?" was she French? for
slie was of the Spanish, at least of the meridio-
'nal type.
I said, I thought pure French ; still he per-
Bisted she must have Spanish blood in her.
So I turned to her, and put the question di-
rect. She laughed, and said " Yes ; her moth-
er was a Spaniard, and her father was of the
south of France, and she herself by birth a
Marseillaise." When I conveyed this back to
M. le Due, he began praising her grace and
beauty in detail. " Look," says he, " how sup-
ple she is ; look at her wrists and hands as she
plays her fan ; none but a Spaniard has that
graceful pliancy."
Of course I agreed, as it was all uttered in
a voice which I was convinced was meant to
meet her ear, as it could hardly help doing,
153 TWENTY YEAM8 AGO,
and seemed to have done, by the graciousness
of her adieux to me when her party took leave
shortly after.
But I must not look only at handsome
women, especially just now when the very
handsomest man I ever saw is close by, mak-
ing his way to Sibyl's side, and next moment
bowing to me. . He too is of the south, but his
style is far softer and more ideal. His imperi-
ally tall figure, the superb curl and blackness
of his mustache and hair, the straight pale fea-
tures, the suppressed ardor of his large black
eyes, the languid haughty grace of his manner,
his twenty-two years, his title of marquis— do.
not all these things make the very hero of a
French romance ? I don't know if he is, or
wishes to be one ; I can discern that he is ac-
customed to conquer, and to believe himself
irresistible, and I think I can read underneath
all an intense self-worshipping pride, and that
cold calmness against which passion may break
its heart in vain. He is " trying it on" now
with Sibyl ; I wonder if he thinks he has suc-
ceeded. I can't fancy any man having so con-
ceited an idea ; with all that innocent sweet-
ness, there is something so puzzling, so almost
hopeless in her. A word can touch and inter-
lest her ; a frank, cordial manner delights her,
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 15i{
and all the folds of reserve drop aside ; but
power over her heart, her soul, no one seems
to have, except her child and myself. She can
no more be caught and detained than a bird
that lights for a moment on a blossomed
spray ; and all she does is so utterly, uncon-
sciously unpremeditated, one wonders what
delicate instinct so frequently guides her right ;
but one scarcely wonders that every one seems
to take up the protection of one who will not
protect herself.
Suddenly symptoms of distraction and amuse-
ment appear in the expectant circles. Differ-
ent groups pause in their talk, look sideways,
struggle with suppressed smiles, with undenia-
ble laughter. The cool, clever journalist, who
was at that moment arguing some subtle theo-
logical point with me, suddenly parenthesized
in the very core of the argument, and in pre-
cisely the same tone, "Look at that man, he
comes from the Tuileries ;" and then he went
on unmoved as before.
I looked, and beheld a little man enter, look-
ing like a wizen and bedizened ape. He was
a man I knew as perhaps the most curiously
ugly of my acquaintance, but had difficulty in
recognizing under his present metamorphosis ;
though the fine uniform, with epaulettes, gold
164 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
braid, little sword, and Legion of Honor ribr
bon, made his frog-like figure, his stiff black
wig, his immense green spectacles, and huge
mouth, look more of a caricature than ever.
The secret was that he had just received
an oflSice — a place, I think, in some new coun-
cil the great ruler had chosen to create, and,
knowing the weakness of man's heart, had ap-
pended thereto a gay costume. As it was,
many had had the unaccommodating folly to
resist the offer of this distinction even as an
insult ; but M. Ledindon was not one of these,
and so one who ought only to have been a
crack-brained savant was turned into a poli-
tician — and here he was among us, an Impe-
rialist, an enemy, a spy I " Let us take no no-
tice of him — he wants to be admired," said one
sensible, tranquil man. So we continued talk-
ing as usual, not very freely perhaps (no one
did so- in those days), but still, not suppressing
any side hit, disdainful tone, or cynical smile,
from regard to the neighborhood of one who
had just been breathing semi-imperial air.
The effects. produced by this remarkable ap-
parition were various. One queer, plain-spoken,
impetuous lady, stopped in what she was say-
ing by seeing her companion's eye fixed else-
where, turned sharp round, beheld that pre-
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. QEHMAIN. 155
posterous vision, gave a rapid stare, exclaimed
in a jerk, "Mon Dieu I" — then, turning abrupt-
ly round and choking down her emotion, re-
sumed her talk with only a fiercer and more
vigorous vivacity. I suffered much from a
violent desire to laugh, which my companion's
perfectly unmoved face made me conceive it
my duty to suppress. He inquired gravely
what I saw remarkable about that gentleman,
and seemed so wholly unconscious of any rid-
icule attaching to him that I had to relieve
myself by commenting on the ugliness of the
uniform. ** Oui," said he, demurely, " mais la
personne Tembellit, Vous paraissez beaucoup
occup^ de ce monsieur," he observed, and po-
litely, but quite unfoundedly, added, " Et lui
aussi, il parait beaucoup occup^ de vous." I
envied some gentlemen who, retired on a sofii
and screened from observation, indulged them-
selves in the refreshment of unrestrained
laughter.
All this while never was ball-room beauty
sending her first thrill of admiration through
a crowd more utterly satisfied than this little
monster. To one who had the cold-blooded
malice to congratulate him (it was my cynical
journalist, who wished, I suppose, to crown
my admiration) he spoke modestly of "ce
156 TWENTY TSARS AGO.
compliment qu'on m'a fait," described with
reverent gusto the brilliant soiree he had just
left, and the mild and gracious majesty of S.
A. B., and, in short, perfumed that free atmos-
phere with the incense of a court
It was a very different apparition that came
next. A young and handsome woman enter-
ed, leaning on the arm of an elderly man, a
thin, pale, bent figure. " Voil4 Ermengardel"
was gently buzzed around. I looked atten-
tively at both — I scarcely knew which of the
pair struck me most.
The husband (whose misfortunes were im-
puted to misdoing) was, in face, features, and
expression, colorless and unmarked, yet not
from original stupidity, but as if worn out by
years of trouble and struggle ; the stamp might
once have been strong, but constant attrition
had half effaced it. When I knew his history,
I did not wonder at the look. It was the air
of one who, tossed about on the sea of life,
shipwrecked often, battered and bruised, had
lost all standing-place, and, floating uncertain*
ly about, clung here and there, and only hum-
bly sought leave to rest, awhile, to use the mo-
mentary shelter and support ere he was wash-
ed off again to trust to chance whether to sink
or swim. With this look as of an unrecog-
IN THE FAUBOUBQ ST, OERMAJN, 157
^ized vagrant in society he attended his wife,
^hose youth and bolder spirit pushed her for-
ward • to something more like a distinctive
placa Yet in her, too, I perceived a lurking
uneasiness arming itself in haughty defiance,
and stinging her to desperate resolve. Cer-
tainly, when she entered she was pale and
nervous, and very quiet : I saw that she ex-
pected hostility, and pitied her.
As for what I thought of her, I could not
for some time make up my mind. "How
handsome! how disagreeable! yet how very
striking!" were my successive impressiona
Ermengarde is a splendid - looking creature,
but she is (for me) too strongly of the French
actress type — and yet what strength, what
deep-rooted individuality, what stern and con-
centrated will, may be read there !
That that strength failed for a moment, and
the proud face and figure looked almost timid-
ly shrinking before the assembly where she
felt she had no place, made her touching in
my eyes. Otherwise, I might have more cold-
ly admired the severe outline of face, the strong
black arch of the almost meeting eyebrows,
close over her magnificent eyes (great orbs
full of a dark radiance), the strong nose and
full voluptuous mouth, the great rolls of shin-
158 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
ing black hair wound round and round her
head under a coronet of black velvet and lace,
the figure full, firm, and noble, robed in a rich
amber silk, cut very low on the shoulders,
which, with the face at present so pale, looked
as if carved in yellow ivory.
I half suspected our hostess of an eccentric
wish to see a little drawing-room warfare. I
believe it was only her wonted indolent pas-
siveness ; but certainly she did not manage as
she might have done. Many in the room
were her enemies, and those who sympathized
with her were not in a position to help her.
She took refuge beside an English lady to
whom she had just been introduced, a lady at
once good and gifted. It was the best place
in the room, though the contrast was great be-
tween the grand, stormy, prononcie -looking
French actress, and the small, quiet, but pure,
sweet, and saintly-looking little English poet-
ess, who spoke to her with gentle kindness.
The troubled face grew calm, the half-bitter,
half-humbled look began to melt away.
Things, moreover, began to improve for her.
The benevolent had been properly primed, the
groups were arranged on the right plan, my
friend M. Jules was to make the signal for the
applause, and the gentleman who was to give
IN THE PAUBOURQ ST. GERMAIN. 159
'kier the ripUque in the scenes she was about
tio declamer entered at last. This was a most
^xcelle^^t, soft-hearted old gentleman of high
rank and illustrious lineage, who was, in fact,
Ermengarde's chief patron, and at whose en-
trance she smiled with a look of relief and
hope. The good old soul took his stand
against the wall, arrayed in black velvet shorts,
a pair of thick silver-rimmed spectacles over
his broad nose, book in hand, full of honhxymie^
but of no dignity.
A grand Kussian princess was to be ike
great judge of the performance : she sat in an
arm-chair opposite the actress, looking pomp-
ous and critical. Sibyl and I sat at the end
of a sofa a few paces from Ermengarde, curi-
ous and even anxious, but very passive and
modest, as became strangers and foreigners.
Just opposite me was a large mirror, in which
I could watch not only the countenance of the
actress, but all the by-play of the various spec-
tators. Madame de Fleury retreated instantly
to a distant part of the room, where she gath-
ered her own clique around her, and began
operations by yawning and looking another
way. The .handsome marquis stood towering
in the background, arms folded, eyes burning-
jy riveted on the performer the whole time
160 TWENTY TEAB8 AGO,
with a sombre expression that left no doubt of
his intense admiration. He seemed to forget
for the moment that he too might be looked
at, and dropped the soft sentimental mask
from a face that then seemed to me to betoken
the pride and passions of a tyrant.
The shyest man in the room, a great trav-
eller, had contrived, as shy men so often do,
to get into the very most conspicuous position,
the empty central space between mirror and
fire-place, where Ermengarde was to perform.
But suddenly awaking, with a look of dismay,
to a sense of his position, he started up and
cowered into a place on the sofa by Sibyl and
me, and there felUnto a deep, gloomy abstrac-
tion, which rendered him unconscious of the
whole performance.
The lady stepped forth, her paleness chang-
ing into a deep crimson, and began to " de-
claim," first from "Ph^dre," to whose scenes
of deep, lurid, guilty pathos her rich voice
and passionate tones, as well as the rapid,
sweeping, stormy movements of her fine fig-
ure, and the meteoric flashes of her glorious
fiery eyes, certainly did justice. Then came
the usual stage tricks, the starting forward, the
rushing back, the cowering about the stage,
the striking of forehead and heart, and espe-
IN THE FAUBOUMO ST. QEBMAIN, 161
cially the stretching forth of the arm and the
quivering of the forefinger; and when these
x-eached their height there came from the
IFrench part of her audience a momentary ap-
2)lause. But I, who had my own deep, pre-
cjonceived ideas bf what was the proper acting,
s,nd who had once in my life seen it realized,
jfelt chilled by what might "be very suitable to
IFrench and violent organizations, and pleas-
"ing to kindred eyes. I was full of benevo-
lence, but unable to say that my idea of
•' Fhddre " was in the least realized. If I was
passive, however, others were not ; for, at one
of the most impassioned parts, I saw one or
"two persons of the clique referred to turn
9way, not to hide, but to exhibit, a laugh. Er-
jnengarde's husband, who had fluttered about
in nervous suspense all the time, when it was
over glided from group to group, watching
timidly the expression of every face, and,
'wherever he thought he discerned symptoms
of good- will, pausing in the hope of a compli-
ment I pitied the poor humbled man, who
lad once had no need to hold the hat for his
^fe's earnings.
The second specimen was from the " Misan-
thrope." C^lim^ne is a very French character,
and she did it, after the French style, exceed-
162 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
ingly well ; she gave the part a new and ef-
fective coloring, derived, no doubt, from her
own personal sensations. Under the saucy
smile, the* artificial graces, the brilliant gayety,
there lurked something of scornful bitterness^
like the proud, rankling sense' of wrong; and
one passage especially, where the saucy co-
quette retorts on her jealous detractors, she
gave with such gusto and spirit, such haughty
smiles, and such triumphantly blazing eyes,
that the audience fairly broke into a buzz of
pleasure. The good old duke, who had splut-
tered away the different parts of young lover
and censorious prude, and every now and then-
good - naturedly interrupted himself to cry,
"Bravo! charmant! tr^s-bien 1" looked really
delighted now, and the hostile party corre-
spondingly sulky. But, after all, it was a pain-
ful exhibition, and I was glad when the scene,
with its by -play of real life and under-mean-
ing, was over, and Ermengarde, complimented
by our hostess and led back to her seat by the
paternal duke, closed it, amidst pallors and
flushings, and agitated breath, with a far more
natural and gratified smile than had yet risen
to her lips. .
A short time after this she appeared at the
Th^tre Frangais, and, to my surprise, found
r
m THIS FAUBOURG ST. QEBMAIN. 163
one of her bitterest critics in the very gentle-
man who had appealed to my "coeur bon et
sensible " to help to champion her against en-
"vious detractors. Madame de Fleury won a
't^riumph. How she achieved it I know not;
"but there was so much love and hate continu-
Sillj lost and won in these smiling salons, that
JC need not have wondered at any change.
TZThe French vanity, at one time so amiable,
<2onfiding, loving, and chivalrous, can at others
Toe rabid, cruel, and bitterly ungenerous; and
^^i^th this powerful lever, no doubt, she had
"'^?7orked. Or was he perhaps all the while an
nemy in the guise of an admirer?
104 TWENTY TJfAJSS AGa
CHAPTER Vn.
BALLa
AS the season advanced we varied the prose
of Paris society with some of its ppetry,
and quitted the mere terra firma of such par-
ties as I have just described for the aerial re-
gion of the soiree dansante. Talking glided
into dancing, high silk dresses melted into
ethereal muslins and tariatans, and the agree-
able middle-aged men vanished before a crop
of half-grown, slender-mustached, small young
men, chiefly pupils of the ficole Polytechnique,
who danced demurely, as is the French fash-
ion, discoursed with their partners discreetly
and politely, and, laboring under a conviction
that all the most charming of their young lady
acquaintances were deeply in love with them,
made ingenuous confidences on that head to
elder men, to be cynically laughed at in conse-
quence.
All this was entertaining, no doubt^ and then
perhaps the rooms were better, the dancing
more graceful, and the dresses, if not t&e faces,
prettier than in ordinary London ball-rooms.
BALLS. 165
But a ball is not the scene where national
character is best displayed ; besides, I went to
no public ones. These latter had at that time
a political character by which the humblest
individual in it could not exempt himself from
being influenced, and we had no wish to emu-
late the forty devoted English whose names
appeared in the papers a few days after the
coup cCitat as having "dined at the Elys^e."
So my sense of honor kept me away from the
most superb of balls given by the prdfet of
the Seine to the prince-president at the Hotel
de Ville.
It is true I went to see the building a few
days after; and when I found myself in the
saUe de bal, alas I I, a girl in my teens, could
not help thinking with envy of the happy
groups who had had a chance of exhibiting
their gay dresses and joyous spirits, their grace
and their dancing in this Aladdin's Palace.
How grand 'must have been the long galops
through each lofty space between the triple
rows of arches and fluted and gilded columns,
under a ceiling all blazing with pictures and
chandeliers that were so many festoons of pend-
ulous gold, dropped with rainbows, between
walls all painted with airy, fanciful arabesques,
with mirrors that glittered back a hundred
166 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
nymphs for one, every inch of the whole a
crowded paradise of rich color and enjoyment I
Ah I what Olympian flirtations, of what super-
seraphic grace and refinement, should have
been held in that hall of halls I A vision of
De Mornays, Persignys, Princess Mathildes,
and a leathery -looking, dead-eyed Idol whom
these obsequious phantoms encircled, dispersed
that first fair dream.
Private balls I did sometimes, however, at-
tend, but I will describe only one of them, as
having been rather more distinctive than the
others. It was a Greek ball, given by a Greek
princess, and the company, except a veryfew
Englishwomen and Frenchmen, were wholly
Greek and Wallachian. How did we all come
together ? and how did we manage to mix so
easily and so agreeably ? As I recall this, and
other such scenes, there rises in an instant be-
fore my sight, like rosy morning clouds in the
wide sky, a crowd of young, beauteous heads
of many races, princesses by birth or by beau-
ty, some dark-haired, radiant and royal from
the South, some angels of the North, blonde
and ethereal, with the gold crown of their
Saxon hair. And the men, with all their sep-
arate spells of genius, high birth, or wild, in-
tense individuality, bringing from all parts of
BALLS. 1G7
the world all kinds of histories and destinies,
each solitary among crowds, yet naost of them
drawn to other new-found existences, and
some passionately striving to draw those ex-
istences to themselves, putting forth temporary
tendrils and winning transient power.
At one of these romantic evenings, I saw the
meeting of two wild, bearded men — half En-
glishmen, who had been over half the world,
and were now pursuing art and literature in
an interval of their adventurous lives. I knew
both well, but, though they accidentally met
^hile each conversing with me, it was as
strangers, till one suddenly exclaimed, " Did I
not meet you six years ago in a slave-market
at Bagdad?"
This produced inquiry and final assent.
" Will you allow me to press your hand ?" re-
sumed the first, in his strange, solemn way and
foreign phrasa The second slowly produced
that member from his waistcoat-pocket, it was
shaken, and then they began talking of beau-
tiful Circassian slaves whom they had seen.
I did not think the second man liked the first
one. A young Italian joined the group, and,
the conversation turning on love, the first,
in his strange, vehement, labored tones, pro-
nounced. "Non v' h schiavo cosi sprezzabile
168 TWENTY TEAMS AGO,
come un uomo che ama." I listened and
thought, " Tour history is nevertheless in those
words."
A few weeks after, and this man, on whose
brow, if ever on any, was written a birth-curse,
and whose perplexed destiny must, it seemed
to me, evolve finally in disaster, lay assassin-
ated on a public staircase. The other return-
ed to distant and savage regions, and has nev-
er since been heard of There was a mystery
in all this ; but it is not I who may unravel it
It was biit one of many facts whereby I learn-
ed that this bright, white-palaced Babylon of
Paris was built over naphtha lakes, from whose
boiling mass escaped from time to time lurid
exhalations even through the smooth pave-
ment our sandals trod so lightly.
However, no gloom of this kind shadowed
the lively picturesque Greek ball I began to
speak of As we entered the house in the
Kue Varenne, we heard quadrilles going on
merrily ; an old Greek, with a very big head
and a most romantic name, who acted as a
sort of friend, agent, and major-domo to the
princess, advanced to meet us. His propor-
tions were colossal, and did not prepare me for
the next apparition, that of the princess, a lit-
tle dwarfish woman, with a round smiling face,
BALLS. 169
quick sparkling eyes, and a bird-like vivacity
of gesture, well suited to the soft mouse-color-
ed silk that trimly encased her tiny form. She
leS us to a seat, holding us by the hand, with
many kind words and affectionate attentions,
which I supposed to be Greek, because they
seemed to me neither French nor English.
She took us through the four rooms prepared
for dancing and supper; in the middle and
largest room a ring of ladies gradually formed,
sitting formally all round it on benches.
Then stepped or, rather, skipped forward,
her daughter, amusingly like her mother, only
smaller and nimbler still. There was no pos-
sible guessing of her age ; she was a perfect
pigmy, with manners that you might regard
either as the formed and conscious ease of
womanhood, or the familiar vivacity of a child.
She was all over kindly life and good-humor,
a sparkling little thing with bright eyes like
her mother, the prettiest, most caressingly at-
tentive manners, and an air of irrepressible
happiness. She did the honors as no English
girl would or could have done ; she came fly-
ing across the room, seeing me standing chair-
less at the other end of it, to bring me to her
and seat me by her side. Then she entered
into bright, laughing conversation, her words
170 TWEXTY YEAMU AGO.
running into each other like the gay chatter-
ing notes of a bird. "How long have you
been in Paris? How can you have learned
so soon to talk such good French? I am
studying it too ; I have been four months en
pension to learn it ; I must try to be good and
industrious like you."
Then she pointed out to me her mother's
sister, another princess, and a very splendid-
looking woman, her daughter, whom my little
friend perfectly adored, and eagerly asked if I
did not admire her too. She was not new to
me ; I had met her and her mother at Madame
de Mailly's, and been much attracted by the
girl. She was a slight young creature, sitting
alone at a table, turning over a book, apparent-
ly quite content with her isolation, quite inac-
cessible to any gentleman who might approach
her, but not unwilling, when occasion arose, to
flavor society with her own strong individuality.
I thought she might be a character worth
studying, judging first by \\i2X piquanie rather
than pretty face, by the coal-black, rippling
hair, drawn tightly from the square temples,
yet protesting by its crisp curl against that
constraint, by the small, pointed features, with
their indifferent smile, and the slight yet strong
and elastic form, round which fitted closely
BALLK 171
the square-cut body of her scarlet plaid dress.
I fancied that there was under her girlish re-
serve and simplicity a nature firm, self-concen-
trated, even proud, almost fierce — a nature as
yet half known to herself, coiled up, like some
. wild animal, in some shady recess of that sun-
ny girl-life. I thought she must have inherit-
ed her father's character, for just of that stuff
should a patriot insurgent be made, and he
was one of those who had won Greece's liber-
ties. I learned afterwards that Mademoiselle
H^6ne had a brother who, though a pupil in
the ficole Polytechnique, had chosen, like an
ill-considered young foreigner as he was, to be
at the top of a barricade during the two fear-
ful days, and that she had hardly been kept by
force from rushing out, in the passion of her
sisterly affection, to join her brother there.
She was of Athenian race, born in Constan-
tinople, brought up in Kussia, living in Paris,
.yet Greek all over; and when she spoke of
her classic studies (she was then in Sophocles),
it was in a tone of more thorough interest than
she had used about any thing else. Wishing
to try how national she was, I asked her how
she liked her king (Otho). "Our king?"
she answered, with a quiet laugh ; " we have
none yet; that will come by-and-b^f."
IW TWENTY YEARS AGO.
None of the Paris fine gentlemen seemed to
suit the fair H^l^ne; she constantly turned
away with an air of shy pride, very piquant
and very hopeless. She danced a litUe, it is
true, but it was silently and carelessly, with
the air of a mere looker-on. I only saw once
a look of animated observation ; it was on the
entrance of M. Ledindon, whose appearance in
a new costume I related in a former chapter.
He observed on it to me afterwards with some
surprise: "Do you know that as I passed
Mademoiselle H^l^ne, she laughed, and point-
ed me out to her mother. I don't know what
she could have noticed in me; peut-Stre," he
added, reflectively, passing his hand across the
stiff, straight hairs of a most palpable and un-
deniable black wig, "peut-^tre mes cheveux
dtaient un peu d^rangfe."
M. Ledindon is, I am assured, on the look-
out for a wife, and has been so these twenty
years; she must be young, handsome, and,
most especially, rich, and English ; and " chose
remarquable," as he himself says, he has not
got her yet.
But I am forgetting the ball-room — that
bit of Greece in a Paris frame-work. It was
filled with Greeks, those who were not pure
Hellenes being Wallachians, Moldavians, and
BALLS. 173
Hungarians — handsome barbarians disguised
in civilized attire, with tall forms, straight
noses, and strong curly beards, like statues
of antique heroes. All round the room sat a
circle of dark-eyed classic girls, clustering like
so many bouquets of pinks, blue and white, and
modest as daughters of Britain, in all ^he po-
etry of their floating, girlish robes, contrasted
A?\^ith their statuesque Greek faces. The gen-
tlemen grouped themselves in the centre and
in the ante-rooms, talked merrily, and played
good-humoredly with various sprightly, well--
Ibehaved juvenile Hellenes ; and a strange mu-
sical language was heard from every group ;
the sound as of grand old Homeric hexame-
ters kept ringing past me, just like a clear
stream running over pebbles. But never did
the speakers approach any of us forbidden
blossoms of beauty till the music struck up.
Then one by one they timidly drew nigh the
charmed ring, each picked out a girl, danced
silently with her, and, dancing done, as silent-
ly restored her to the same place. In spite of
this chilling ceremonial, the Homeric heroes
went through waltz, polka, schottische, ma-
zurka, and redowa with vehement glee rather
than grace ; the girls seconding them in inno-
cent-looking, soft, decorous enjoyment.
174 TWEXTY YEABS AGO,
But all was not in keeping; there, in the
midst of these fine-looking Greeks, with their
honest, hearty, simple ways, stood la jeune
France, cold, keen-eyed, and sneering. And I
must confess there were specimens of barba-
rian eccentricity, uncouth form, and grotesque
physiognomy, which fairly provoked the ridi-
cule of the one or two malicious Parisians
present. Especially contemptuous was M.
Lamourette, who found himself there in one
of his most capricious and petulant humors.
I do not know why he had come at all, unless
he was really a little jealous as well as con-
temptuous; or, perhaps, from having lately
had a great deal of hard work to do, his
nerves and temper had got into a state of ir-
ritation which he found a certain savage pleas-
ure in expressing. In this mood of vivacious
sourness he was quite as amusing as in his for-
mer brilliant good-humor; but, perhaps, less
likeable. No doubt it was " aggravating " to
see two or three charming girls whom he con-
sidered his exclusive property engrossed by
Messieurs les Sauvages. He professed, indeed,
entire indifference, and when one and another
came up to claim these elegant creatures, he
resorted to me in the intervals of my dancing,
and, throwing himself in a chair by my side.
BALLS, 175
'with his usual nonchalant vivacity, professed
that now he need not sacrifice himself any
longer, he need not talk nor trouble himself
about all these gens, and might resign himself
to his only object of desire, " de ne rien faire."
But I knew better, and was not at all sur-
prised when he instantly began to abuse one
Unfortunate Wallachian gentleman in specta-
cles, who, with an air of ineffably imbecile be-
atitude, was dancing with the Princess H^l^ne.
** Can you imagine," he asked, **how a man
oan succeed in making himself so absurd? —
3Vf on Dieu 1" he added, seriously^while follow-
ing him with his eyes, as if subdued with as-
"tonishment, "c'est d'un ridicule fabuleux; a
B^renchman, Dieu merci ! could not achieve it
"vvith his utmost efforts!"
I might have had my own ideas as to what
St Frenchman could achieve, but I remained
passive while he pursued his unconscious vic-
tdm with arrows of malice ; and then another,
"who, he declared, made on him the effect of
51 hanneton, because he was dancing with our
hostess's daughter. He pronounced this nice
little thing a ^^ coquette effrinee, who promised
"but did not fulfill," because in her universal
impulsive good-nature she had sometimes said
*'Yes" to more claimants for her hand than
178 TWENTY TEARS AOO.
she could possibly gratify. Thus he went on
till a third, in a naval uniform, with sharp dog-
like features and an intensely red face, came
to carry me off; and when I returned to my
place, the abuse was transferred to him, or
rather to me, for the improper encouragement
I had given him. "Were I your brother," he
said, with solemn energy, "I should feel it my
duty to prevent you from dancing with him."
"If you could," laughed I. "But why,
when it amuses me ?"
"Bon I bon!" he said, with severe dignity;
"n'en parlong plus. I am sorry that your
taste is not more correct; voila tout No
doubt I make myself enemies by my plain
speaking, but I can't help it. Truth is my
weakness ; I must speak truth or not at all ;
c'est 1^ ma manifere," and here he threw him-
self still more back in his chair, as if overpow-
ered at this view of his own singular excel-
lence. Somewhat piqued by my not exhibit-
ing the same emotion, "Au reste," he said;
" if I have enemies, I don't care ; their dis-
pleasure does not affect me. All I wish is to
please myself," which latter assertion I believed
to be perfectly true.
" Then, monsieur, you frankly avow your-
self an egotist ?"
x
BALLS, 177
" Sans doute, we are all egotists ; but there
are different ways of pleasing one's self — the
best is by pleasing others, and I shall be satis-
fied if I attain that degree of enjoyment with
those I care for."
In spite of this, I wondered a little at the
turn M. Lamourette's egotism had taken ; I
scarcely knew then how violently jealous a
i^renchman is of another man.
I continued amusing myself with the brill-
iant scene around until it was time to depart.
And then the small demoiselle came, with her
still smaller brother, to beg us, to entreat, al-
most to force us to stay. Finding it in vain,
she accompanied us to the door with a thou-
sand gentillesses, and the boy cloaked us with
much gravity and care. After many adieux
and au revoirs^ she declared she must "em-
brasser " me, and stood on tiptoe to give me
the prettiest little kiss in the world. I won-
der on how many of her some hundred guests
the good little thing found it necessary to be-
stow the same cordialities. At any rate, it was
a pleasant and artless way of doing the hon-
ors, and I know some ladies who would be
none the worse for taking a hint from it.
' When I returned, I told Sibyl, who had not
accompanied me, about M. Lamourette's un-
M
178 TWENTY TEAMS AGO,
usual petulance. She laughed a little saucily,
and only said, " We need not puzzle ourselves
about it, for I don't think we shall see much
more of him." In effect, he disappeared from
our usual parties, and it was two or three
months ere we met him again. When he re-
appeared he totally ignored Sibyl and me, and
devoted himself ostentatiously to Madame de
Fleury, who had chosen to make public her
disagreement with my sister, and to set up an
obvious rivalry with her. Our friend [femile
told us, with a kind of pitying condescension,
that " ces professeurs " were a class apart, who
had not good manners, and must not be too
harshly judged. But my own observation
helped me to the chief cause of the professor's
vagaries. He had always had a fluttering,
ostentatious admiration for Sibyl, which she
received with the gayest indifference, knowing
well in how little danger all these grandes pas-
sions involved the susceptible French heart.
But one day M. Lamourette was pleased to- be
more serious, and risked a rejection, which,
though very kindly given, wounded at once
his love and his self-love very considerably.
The* consequence was that he returned to Ma-
dame de Fleury's clique (to which he original-
ly belonged) with a tolerable dose of bitterness
BALLS. 179
against his stony-hearted idol — my sister. I
don't think it was a deeply rancorous feeling,
for at heart he was hon enfant^ after all. But
Madame de Fleury had no notion of wasting
so much precious resentment; so she petted
and nursed his angry confidences till he had
committed himself to a breach with Sibyl, and
an alliance with her venomous little stepmoth-
er-in-law. I was, of course, included in the
ban, and from that time, I dare say, as long as
he remembered us, he ridiculed with bis coun-
trywomen " ces deux b^gueules anglaises."
I have said enough, I think, to show that
these soirees were not composed of a society
of seraphs, or held in a garden of Eden, I be-
came gradually aware that my first bright im-
pressions of '* the world " required modifying.
"Tenir un* salon" is a great mystery, an im-
portant science in Paris, and it has been laid
down as an axiom that the prestige of a salon
lasts only two years; for some undefinable
cause it then declines, the best people leave it,
and all the mistress's exertions will not get it
up again. !For, eminently sociable as the
Frenchman is, this curiously organized being
is as capable of ennui as any Englishman of
them all, but he shines in the candid and petu-
lant vivacity with which he expresses the same.
180 TWENTY TEARS AGO,
His light spirit and nervous sensitiveness are
soon liable to depression ; a thing pleases him
heartily, it is true, but not for long; it must be
unfamiliar enough to allow him to idealize it.
And then both hosts and guests have hu-
man hearts and prides and vanities, which, if
they do not rasp the surface, still strongly af-
fect the springs that work beneath it. It looks
such a light, easy, pretty play; people come
and go, and nothing seems smoother ; but ah I
the cares and pains of the hostess, the continu-
al beating-up for new recruits, the trapping of
lions, the interference and tyranny of favorites,
the putting down and driving out of some and
the courting of others, the secret jealousies and
hostilities of the smiling demoiselles^ the perfect
insight, the calm, critical, I should rather say
pleased and sarcastic, observation of the lynx-
eyed men on it all I If even a half-initiated
stranger could see these things, what must be
the wearisome experiences of the hackneyed
habitue !
On these private jealousies I will not dwell
much, but I may observe that they came more
across my notice from the fact that Sibyl, a
half-foreigner and undeniably more charming
than many of the natives, was a good deal ex-
posed to them. I •was often anxious, pained,
BALLS. 181
and indignant for her; but she winged her
way delicately through all the mazes, the ad-*
miration, and at times the love, the envy and
misrepresentation that threatened to entangle
her way. She went past adoring glances and
hands stretched out, half violence, half prayer,
like a bird of Paradise safe in its charmed
flight, or like a dove, which, with all its way-
ward, rapid flutterings, yet settles down on
some light spray at last, so softly as not to
loosen one petal even from a fading rose. To
speak less poetically, she had a true, warm,
home-loving heart of her own, and her joy in
having me, her only sister, with her at last,
gave her such a strength of security and indif-
ference as made her, I almost thought, blind to
what was going on around her.
I don't know how to describe the feeling
which animated Madame de Fleury, whom I
have described as something of a fairy-demon.
She was, I believe, keenly jealous of Sibyl ;
the root of this jealousy was the fact that M. le
Comte {now JiancS to her daughter) had begun
by admiring my sister, and this was embittered
by numberless other little triumphs of poor
Sibyl's, of which she had been unconscious, or
only pleased as a child may be with its own
success. The mechancete exhibited in conse-
183 TWENTY YEAM8 AOO,
quence was of a thoroughly French character,
such as in its slighter forms is the light malice
born of a vain heart, an acute brain, and a gay
temper, relieving the tastelessness of perfect
amiability, and deeping out amidst serious ten-
derness, even sublime devotion. It does not
violate, though it checkers, friendship, and it
at least refines the coarseness of enmity. Ma-
dame de Fleury was much too well-bred to
exhibit enmity in its broader form ; and as for
Hermine, happy, admired, f^ted little creature
as she was, her vanity generally bore her along
comfortably, and only permitted occasional bou-
deries and child-like impertinence.
Hermine had certainly some occasional justi-
fication for resentment, as far as regarded her
cousin fimile, with whom she liked very much
to flirt in a cousinly way, but who had a way of
expressing his admiration of the Anglaises in
phrases which seemed negatively to imply a
want of those particularly admired qualities on
the part of his countrywomen. One day, after
he had left the room, and finished a panegyric
on the fearless independence of Englishwomen,
which he thought guarded them better than
the most careful surveillance, Hermine ex-
claimed, rather petulantly, "My cousin may
say what he likes ; I can not contradict him,
BALLS. 183
for I know nothing about it. Je suis toute in-
nocente," she added, with a most artless air ;
" je ne sais rien que je ne puisse dire."
And oflF she ran to play battledoor with her
little brother, while Sibyl assured me that
there was nothing at all really of the child
about her. It is true Hermine was kept un-
der that strict discipline the tendency of which
is to produce either a characterless doll or a
corrupted slave. But the French character,
keen, intense, and vigorous, will burn like
smothered fire under a coating of restraint
which would stifle any other ; and Hermine,
who possessed a full share of the esjmt of her
race and sex, while patiently and cheerfully
awaiting her day of development, was a very
finished little being, on whose thorough exact-
ness, harmony, and grace the eye and the mind
could find pleasure in dwelling.
It is not wonderful that she should now and
then pay back her countrymen's strictures
with a hit at us. Sometimes she would pat-
ronize us and tell us we looked almost " Pari-
sieane ;" then, when a wicked fit was on her,
she would jump up and imitate our style of
walking and talking — not very exactly, I
thought, though enough so to send both her
mother and herself into fits of laughter. Her-
3ixne irai^ fiZ^ rersuiiLSiiL Hke most French-
Tpznifzru :£ ier :wi. ir.zz'r^ sapesvcmtj in out-
7X71 TTarrrrera. wiicli eLiizi I used to let pass
iae:aKsa*c. jc :a£^ ;is jfaec cot to damage oar
sroaracter ir rciixateas. or Imng forward a
3t*v pf-xf ?c -TOT itclonble insolar deficiency.
SostoeSv I *cicii^as well esoogli of my own
vX«iacr7TrT::ai«?c ccl ^ry^r^r groonds. to be will-
ia;i X" I*ec Fr^acinrocKxi ciberish in peace thdr
itsle sccuil zLcrr.
Eirgliisa izd Fr^ccti giri hare probably a
scrcng claa^rTjsec: clance. in ^ite of national
vrJ5e!vncv?& Bocc* no docbc are ^ignorant
arvi f-tvclccs ejicci:h.~ 3s Mr. Bennett says in
*- Prrue ind Pr^f i-iice** — that is^Yerr nndeyel-
opei jLsd cbsocio. Li ^e English girl there
ii^ C!K%?^\'- a naturalnessw which, in a shy nation
like oarsw oifben sires her manners a timid awk-
wmrUness; an abmpc staceritr, a something of
ec^dness. bat which in the higher natures often
eseapies in the shy expression of some deep
Idling or idea, unconscious of its depth, com-
insr sofUv and doabtfullv from the bottom of
the heart or mind, some high conception^ rich
in its rery Tagueness* simply expressed, yet
wise in its simpleness^ in which we discern the
twilight that will brighten more and more to
the perfect day.
BALLS. 185
But such as these are no doubt exceptional ;
SIS exceptional, perhaps, is the perfect type of
the Frenchwoman, who to the brilliant grace
and fascinating sweetness so universal among
them adds the tenderness of soul, the refine-
ment of feeling and intelligence, the delicate
yet kindly penetration, and the playful loving-
ness, which make up a whole as near the ideal
woman as any I have ever seen. That such
Frenchwomen exist — charming alike without
and within — ^I not only suspect, I know. God
bless them! They are enough to^ ennoble a
whole race.
186 TWENTY TEARS AGO,
CHAPTER Vin.
PARIS IN APRIL.
THE bright days of Paris are begun, and
she looks like a young beauty dressed
and decked out to receive the homage of a
thousand lovers. Hitherto I have spoken only
of salons and soirees^ yet there was an outdoor
and daylight life equally bewitching.
It is a blue, sunshiny April afternoon, and
Sibyl and I look out from our lofty traisihne on
the bright city all alive and awake. Below us
lie the Champs filys^es, with their ever-passing
swarms like ants covering the shining pave-
jnent between the avenues of trees. . How gay,
open, and fresh every thing looked, from the
Arc de Triomphe to the Eond Point I little
was visible save wide, smooth, shady avenues,
broad pavement, circling trees, and blue skies.
There is Franconi's just before us, in a perfect
bosquet; the chestnut -trees all round it, now
dotted with soft, green buds, will in a month
conceal it in a perfect veil of foliage. All the
groups that pass below look neat and cheerful,
move lightly and alertly, all are talking, smil-
PARIS JN APRIL. 187
ing, and bowing to each other, and wear that
look of being so consciously hien mis that only
the French rejoice in.
On the ground-floor of our house is a shop,
where a great steam-engine constructs gauffres
and plamrs (a sort of light, crisp patisserie) all
day long. On the bright pavement in front
chairs are placed, where well-dressed family-
groups sit and enjoy their cakes. How these
French love to be out-of-doors ! There enters
a couple of ladies ; it is my new friend, Mdlle.
Aur^lie, and her mother, come to make their
luncheon of gauffres; she looks handsome,
well -dressed, and quietly resolute as usual,
when making her courses en ville, . Consider-
ing that at eight o'clock in the morning they
had their cup of coffee and brioche, at eleven
their dejeuner cL la fourchette, and will at six
have their substantial dinner, and that they are
now revelling in cakes, I think these French
ladies, at least, need not deride the English for
the number and solidity of their meals. Per-
haps they will call — for the French, when they
become intimate, make it a point of friendship
never to pass your door without coming in ;
and a hcmne causerie with Mademoiselle Aur^-
lie is always welcome.
Sibyl is now busy arranging bunches of Par-
188 TWENTY TEARS AOO.
ma violets, which M. Jfimilp has just brought
her, in spite of my protest against the imperial
flower. "Violets were created long before
Louis Napoleon," says ifimile. "And we won't
let him have every good thing to himselij"
adds Sibyl. This settled, we go forth to enjoy
more of this pleasant life. Close outside is a
dense, unmoving ring, which has stood there
all the afternoon, composed of workmen, wom-
en, and children, and those childish, idle sol-
diers of the line, with their short figures and
boyish faces, around the ever -new, ever -de-
lightful feats of some juggler, or tumbler, or
dancing dog.
What varieties of human life there are in
this promenade, becoming daily more crowd-
ed, the charming Champs !lfilys6es! They ex-
tend from the honest hourgeoise^ in large cap,
coarse stuff gown, thick apron and immense
pockets, accompanied by a clean, prim child,
the countrywoman with her yellow-and-red-
striped handkerchief round her head, the shab-
by, bearded men in blue blouses, and Eepub-
licans in conical caps, young and wicked-look-
ing, to the handsome, staring dandies of all na-
tions, old Orientals in a perfect robe of snow-
white beard, soldiers, soldiers everywhere, and
numbers of small, white, curly dogs held to-
PAMIS IN APRIL. 189
gether in a leash, or following elegant women
in all kinds of soft,* beautiful velvets and furs.
And the flower- w6men ! they beset our way
with fragrant snares ; they offer, smiling and
confidently (for well they know Sibyl's weak-
ness), and with coaxing phrases and terms of
endearment, lovely bouquets of violets and
moss-roses. And there is the neat bonne^ and
children in enchanting little dresses, white hat
and feather, braided white frock, and muff of
snowy fur, as often as not talking English with
their nurses.
The most remarkable among these street fig-
ures are, perhaps, the meridionavx^ a race apart,
which one soon learns to distinguish, who are
very tall, often very handsome, in a dark, lurid
style, with hard features, and physiognomies
full of fierce fire. I almost shrink from those
volcanic-looking men of the South.
We passed through the Place de la Con-
corde, and entered among the groves of the
Tuileries gardens. Here spring was coming
on fast^ the white marble gods and goddesses,*
heroes, centaurs, fauns, and nymphs began to
be enshrined, each in its own leafy bower. I
looked back, and dazzling in sky and sunshine
appeared the stately Place, with its guardian
giant of an obelisk, strange talismanic-looking
IW TWENTY TEAJR8 400.
columns towering in the middle; While the
aerial-looking Arch of Triumph closed up the
distance, like a dream, cut out in crystal,
through which you see the pure azure back-
ground of sky. It looks like a vision, only
that it never melts away.
And now we are in the Tuileries gardens,
formal parterres, full of lilac-trees, that now
are covered with purplish-brown clusters : one
day more, and these buds will be hundreds of
full pink fragrant flowers. As I approach the
palace, I see a Municipal Guard, his back turn-
ed to me, with a broad yellow stripe across it,
his bayonet fixed, his sword by his side, stand-
ing stoek-3till, and looking immovably up at
the gn?at stone lion on the right feide of the
entrance arch, with its foot on the globe and
a look of imbecile sweetness. What does he
think of it? He has seen it a thousand times
already.
In a day or two there was a special excite-
ment — the fete of Longchamps was to take
place. This is the fete which the Parisians
keep with the most pious ardor for three days
of the " Semaine Sainte," its height being on
Good-Friday. This "Semaine Sainte" is in-
deed a whirl of excitement, slightly differing
in form, but not in nature, from the usual Paris
PARES IN APRIL. 191
dissipation. Every day there is the perfection
of church- music and church -oratory in the
morning, and balls, operas, and theatres in the
evening — and on Good-Friday especially there
is first High Mass, last a Benedicite — and Long-
champs between. This name is derived from
a habit of the Paris heau monde, of a century
or so ago, of repairing to a little chapel of that
name in the Bois de Boulogne to perform their
devotions. These devotions now consist in a
continual promenade up and down the Champs
^felys^es in full dress, exhibiting new fashions
and superb equipages. The worship contin-
ues, but it is transferred from God to Mam-
mon.
The weather was beautiful ; under the splen-
did sun and warm air the chestnut-trees rushed
into preternatural bud and leaf, and all Paris
swarmed over the sunny asphalt like so many
spring butterflies. On each of these three
days, at four o'clock, a stream of carriages be-
gins to roll along the wide thoroughfare of the
Champs filys^es ; on the side are pedestrians,
chiefly consisting of eye-glassed, bearded, and
mustached men of all nations; and on the
edge of the walk stand chairs for the more de-
termined and indolent fldneurs in the broad
sunshine between the two torrents of foot-pas-
193 TWENTY TEABS AGO,
scngcrs and carriages. In those dazzling car-
riages are high-dressed women, glittering like
rainbows ; between them caracole young men
on horseback.
There among the pedestrians goes an Italian
prince whom we know, walking in his usual
style, his hrgnon in his eye, his chin supported
by his stick held upright, his looks fixed on
the skies in solemn vacancy. He neither sees
nor wishes to see any one, for he comes from
his usual afternoon visit to a French lady
whom he admires; and one can judge by his
air of solem^ beatitude or listless gloom wheth-
er he has been admitted or not. In the pres-
ent case he is evidently unwilling to efface the
image in his mind by the sight of any meaner
mortal.
Soon we fall in with a pale, light- haired
young Englishman, somewhat a man of fash-
ion, with an air half slangy, half military, who
has lately broken a few bones in a steeple-
chase, and who, while waiting for his horse to
join the sublime procession, condescends in a
light quizzing tone to point out to us some of
the most distinguished belles in the carriages.
These we find (for the Second Empire has
introduced many novelties in the way of les
moeurs) are for the most part actresses of the
PAIUS m AFRIL. 193
Palais Eoyal and such -like dashing dames,
and, I must own, they looked their character.
There in that low, light coupe, cushioned in its
rich silk lining, thrown back on soft cushions,
look at that young, graceful form, the rainbow
parasol over the fairy bonnet, the face, of which
one catches a side-view, dazzlingly handsome,
with its strongly crSpe bands of black hair, its
carmine brilliancy, and those dark eyes, with
their sidelong, subtle, languishing glance, and
lurking shut-up smile, and that mouth with its
small, full, lovely lips. She sparkles all over
with esprit, esjn^krie, suppressed indications
of angry passions, all armed in a bold, triumph-
ant, scornful grace; or she wears perhaps a
mask of demure reserve. But the hard, bold
forehead, whence all the freshness of youth
has been rubbed off, tells a truer tale. There
was much food for compassionate melancholy
in all this.
Our informant, perceiving his horse at last
awaiting him, mounted, beginning to light and
smoke his cigar before he had left us, which
caused Sibyl involuntarily to exclaim, " What
a snob I" The rest of the time we were joined
by M. ifimile, whose refined and clever conver-
sation quite drew away my attention from the
restless, yet monotonous scene before us. He
N
IW TWENTY YEARS AGO.
began by telling us that his official duties re-
quired from him every four weeks an attend-
ance which kept him a close prisoner. "In
truth, I am at the mercy of the changes of the
moon."
" It is the type of your nation," said L
"Comme Mademoiselle Beatrice, nous fait la
guerre !" he answered, with a smile of entire
pleasure.
We talked a little of the passing scene,
we compared French and English beauty, we
agreed as to the metallic clearness and sharp-
ness of the French physiognomy, "des traits
d^licats et durs, comme leur caract^re." • In a
mild denigrant tone he criticised the prominent
foibles of his countrywomen. "Nevertheless,"
he said, " French women have more heart than
French men. Some — perhaps the majority —
have none at all ; but those who have never
love by halves. The result," he added, in
lower and graver tones, " is almost always de-
plorable."
Then he turned as from a painful theme to
the more welcome one of English women, who
were contrasted on the same points with the
French. First came their droiture of expres-
sion, the naivete of their manners and conver-
sation. It is true, this droiture often puzzles,
PAMIS IN APRIL. 195
and this ndiveiA amuses ; but in his heart, phi-
losopher or no, the Frenchman considers Ixi co-
quetterie a necessary feminine attribute, and the
English simplicity and earnestness please him,
as a fresher, and therefore more piquant, form
of that coquetterie (I do not attempt to trans-
late the word, for "coquetry" no way repre-
sents it). Then, warming into poetic feeling,
M.fimile dwelt on the intellectual affection, the
elevated purity, and the serene calm of us En-
glishwomen, adding, "It is angelic, as your
fair hair and blue eyes," turning, as he spoke,
to Sibyl, who certainly corresponded to his
picture, but who only laughed at his idealizing
eloquence..
It is the truth, as I believe, that most of this
fine ideal was drawn from the fact that we
abused the present ruler, took in "L'Avenir
du Peuple " (a Republican journal quickly suf-
focated), and knew two or three languages;
that was enough for a clever sentimental
French generalizer.
In spite of ourselves, our talk wandered to
deeper and sadder topics, and I saw, with pity,
yet with pleasure, that our friend felt, as a
high-minded man must feel, what I hesitated
to call the political and social degradation of
his nation. His face changed, his voice sank
196 TWENTY TEAB8 AGO,
and deepened as he uttered a few bitter^
broken sentencea By way of excuse, I said,
" I can not imagine how a brave and proud
nation like yours could submit to such abase-
ment."
" There is the misfortune," he answered ;
"we have not pride enough. We are not
proud, we are vain ; and there is a vast differ-
ence between these two qualities."
Sibyl gravely, but rather maliciously, told
him of an engraving she had that day seen in
a print-shop, entitled, "La Cl^mence du Pr^
sident," illustrating an incident at a review
the day befora It represented a young lady
kneeling to Louis Napoleon, with a petition
for her condemned brother; he bows stiffly,
and — hands the petition over to an aid-de-
camp ! M. l^mile was silent for a moment ;
then he muttered, " What an abomination 1 I
should like to make sure of it"
One was, indeed, disposed to wonder at the
slough of humiliation (and no one who was not
then in Paris can tell how deep it was) through
which a fiery and powerful nation had permit-
ted itself to be dragged, to repose at last under
the hefel of an armed tyranny. But day by
day we received sad proofs of so vast a want
of pure public feeling, especially in the public
PARIS IN APRIL. 197
men, that one was at last obliged to cease won-
dering. Nevertheless, one can not quite de-
spair for France when there are yet such men
as ifimile in it — men whose warm heart and
vivid imagination unite with a clear head and
straightforward sense of duty. Perhaps one
xegrets that these men have not protested still
more by acts ; but I do not know the difficul-
ties, and can not judge. I do know those who
have quietly barred forever- all advance in their
professional career by a vote against the Coup
d'lfetat; others who, in a public chair, when the
Empire had just set down its triumphant foot,
distinctly renewed their confession of faith ;
and others, who abandoned their sole means of
livelihood rather than condescend even to an
acquiescent silence, and went forth impover-
ished exiles to foreign lands.
In spite, then, of a general want of moral
courage, a too exclusive devotion to gain, and
to that order and tranquillity which insures
gain, a hlas& indiflference, as of men just recov-
ered from a fever-fit, to the abused terms of
law and liberty, whence sprang, I suppose,
that " Oui " of seven millions — in spite of all, I
would fain do justice to the saving trait! of the
French character — a chivalry of feeling re-
sulting from that • exquisite sensibility which
108 TWESTY YKAMS AGO.
makes their souls respond, like a finely-strung
instrument, to every beautiful touch; this gives
a captivating charm to their generosity, a ro-
mance to their friendship, a touching sweet-
ness to their love.
Thus we conversed — with only occasional
interludes, such as a piece of rudeness from a
French lady, who refused to move an inch to
relieve Sibyl from a painful pressure, where-
on we were warned never to ask a favor of a
French lady in a public place — till we went
home, and !lfimile took leave of us to begin his
week of invisibility, adding, in pathetic tones,
" Pity the poor prisoner."
And so, I reflected, on quitting Longchamps,
to be where the monde congregates, to exhibit
new dresses and criticise one's neighbors, to
lounge for hours together on a fine day in the
open air, perfectly idle, eyes and tongue in full
play, amidst dust, heat, and enormous noise —
this is life for a Parisian. We, being there in
the character of philosophical observers, were
not open to our own criticism. .
This being, however, nearly all the philoso-
phy I could extract from this famous scene, I
went to a very different one — vespers in No-
tre-Dame ; one of those scenes where the Ro-
man Catholic religion wooes us through heart
PAHIiS IN APRIL. 199
arid senses with every devotional luxury. The
organ, out of which seas of triumphant music
rolled, then died suddenly, that one lovely ten-
or might fill the silence and make all forgot-
ten save itself, then joined in again, with gasp-
ing fragments and tremulous sighs, till all ran,
twisted, melted together into one cry of rap-
ture; the vision of fifty white -robed female
forms gliding all round the church, behind the
Virgin's silken banner, like a dream of nuns ;
the procession of the Host, with its tall tapers
and its tinkling bell ; then the picture of the
rich altar, flower-garlanded and forested with a
hundred lights, and on the altar-steps all those
priestly forms then knelt, as in a picture, in
robes of black and white and gold - embroid-
ered crimson, the only movement being the
censer swung now and then slowly on higt,
and filling the church with clouds of rich per-
fume. The delicious choral singing, that in-
spired me with profound sadness like the pip-
longed prayer of the despairing, ever more
and more earnest, and ever in vain! Then
the deepening twilight, in which all seemed to
float off" into air ; then one grand crash of mu-
sic, at which the procession swept out by a
side-door, the altar -lights were extinguished,
and half the church left in a divine darkness.
dOO TWENTY YEARS AGO.
We went borne; and I could but bope tHat
tbe worsbippers believed in it all, and tbat
eacb movement, eacb genuflexion, eacb lifting
of tbe Host, was to tbem a sacred act. To me,
wbo believe in a spiritual, not a material De-
ity, tbe wbole appeared tbeatrical and pagan,
in spite of an effect tbat I could not but feel,
of wbicb balf was upon tbe senses, balf upon
tbe imaginative emotiona
THE LUXEMBOUMO, 201
CHAPTER IX.
THE LUXEMBOURG AND THE CONCIIRQERIE.
I HAVE already mentioned the Comte de
T , one of Sibyl's most frequent visit-
ors, though his projected marriage with Her-
mine, it was expected, would soon take place.
Of the latter lady and her mother I have said
little, because we saw little. Their circle of so-
ciety was very different from ours ; their days
were spent in the grand monde and in the in-
cessant exertions of what is called pleasure.
For this sort of life Sibyl had neither health
nor inclination ; she loved to be amused, but
in a quiet way, and preferred a small circle of
chosen and agreeable friends to indiscriminate
gayety on a large scale.
This easy mode of intercourse seemed very
agreeable, too, to many of her acquaintances,
among others to the Comte de T , whose ^
intimacy permitted him to pursue it without
(I suppose) endangering his interests with
Hermine, who on her part seemed perfectly
content with his business-like courtship of
herself.
.\»J TWL\\Ty YEAJiH AGO.
He is said to be one of the last of the good
talkers of Paris, and certainly is an excellent
specimen of the manners of the old school,
lie has not even "fine" manners — they are too
calm and unobtrusive for that; he is only
very agreeable ; rather plain, with a quiet arch
twinkle in his eye, and a voice of the laziest
enjoyment. One afternoon he came to us,
bringing two bunches of roses and a proposal
of a visit to the Luxembourg gardens— and
the lilacs there — and the Conciergeria It
was rather before the time of lilac-blossom; but
perhaps, with an aristocratical magnificence
worihv of Louis XIY.'s time, M. de T-r —
thought he could control nature by way of a
(jahifitcnc to (^v? dames, and so it was arranged.
Ilermine was included in the party, and he
was content and I ver}- much amused.
Sibyl was not over-well that day, and Her-
raine, for some reason, slightly out of humor,
but neither difficulty could interrupt the even
and happy flow of M. de T 's spirits nor
stop his conversation, which he dealt out pret-
ty equally to all three. His " hommage aux
dames,'' which is expressed in pleasantry tem-
pered by respect, is of a thorough, genuine,
unremitted kind, unlike that of many modern
young men, an efibrt of flirtation with one in-
THE LUXEMBOURG. 208
dividual, or for a single soirie; his devotion
extended to all women, and lasted all his life.
We arrived at the Conciergerie, and the
greffier showed us over it. To my surprise,
M. de T had never had the curiosity to
visit it before, and scarcely even knew the
present use of it, which is for the detention of
those awaiting trial. These gay grands seign-
eurs have a very narrow worid of interest;
still it surprised me in M. de T , because
he is supposed to be an intense Legitimist;
however, I don't think he troubles himself
much who rules in Paris, or honors Louis Na-
poleon with more than a quiet joke or a little
domestic scandal.
. We entered by that gloomy old archway
where the prisoners of the Terror passei on
tumbrils to the guillotine, and thence came
into the Salle, old as Jhe time of Louis IX.,
dark and cold, the ceiling supported by im-
mense massive ribs, the walls of mediaeval
strength and thickness. Then we went into
the cell of Marie Antoinette, a spot which
touched me profoundly, and impressed even
M. de T- with the solemn feeling of its
melancholy and, for him, humiliating associa-
tions.
The room has been much altered ; but low.
304 TWENTY TEABS AGO.
dark, dreary it still is, only twelve feet by ten,
yet curtained oflF into two divisions, one of
which just held the poor queen's bed ; the oth-
er contained her guards, who never quitted her
day or night, or lost sight of her, save at her
toilet. A sorrowful picture at the end shows
us the poor forlorn woman, who has ceased to
struggle, ceased almost to feel, perhaps even
to pray, sitting on her low pallet just beneath
the small iron-barred hole high in the wall,
which supplied the place of a window. Two
more pictures represent the parting with her
friends and the last confession. An altar has
been raised with a monumental inscription,
which M. de T read through with silent
devotion ; on it stands the crucifix which
Maift Antoinette always used. It is easy,
and in some sense just, to talk of the crimes
and follies of the old r^ime and the necessity
of destroying it, of the righteous vengeance
of an oppressed people, and the glorious fruit
of the great Revolution, and easy to say that
the sufferings of a queen are not to be -pitied
more than those of a working- woman ; but
human nature, while not hardened, has in it
sympathetic emotions which will be touched
more keenly in proportion as the individual
case of suffering is brought more vividly be-
THE LXIXEMBOURO. 205
fore us, and will feel how that suffering is en-
hanced by a sense of sudden and utter /aZZ. It
ivill, too, distinguish between the guilt of those
who were but what they were born to, neces-
sarily unable to shake off the prejudices they
had been cradled in, and all unknowing how
to meet the new, strange circumstances, a
world in chaos, wildly raging against them,
and those deliberate malefactors who, for their
own selfish purposes, turn disorder into car-
nage and slavery. Nor will the calmer judg-
ment — in the long, unnecessary system of ig-
noble persecution and horrible vengeance in-
flicted on powerless victims — see any thing to
the credit of the heroes of the Eevolution and
their loudly proclaimed principles of freedom,
patriotism, and brotherhood.
Sibyl, who had vainly struggled against ill-
ness all day, became so faint that we were
obliged to leave the place and seek fresh air.
The \\YQ\ygreffieT asked "if the impressions of
the place were too much for madame," saying
that this often happened when people visited
it for the first time. As we passed out, we
took a look at the room where criminals sen-
tenced to death were placed the night before
their execution. Oh me I it was a dreadful
place! so stony cold, so black, so pitilessly
206 TWENTY YEAMS AGO.
Strong, SO utterly forlorn ! Even M. de T
shuddered, and said it was " assombrissant."
Then to the Luxembourg gardens, where
we all strolled up and down the terrace, now
shady with trees, sat on a bench beneath them,
looked at the lilac-trees (the blossoms were so
disobliging as to remain yet buds), and enjoy-
ed the smiling, shining day. But certainly it
did not much signify where we were or what
we saw ; for M. le Comte came there evident-
ly to talk and fascinate us, not to let us see
any thing. He pointed to the Hall of the
Luxembourg, and gave us his reminiscences
of the conflicts of June in '48, all in such a
genuine Faubourg St. Germain manner that I
had a double enjoyment.
" There," he said, " we had to sleep all night
on beds of straw. I was one of the National
Guard, and was called out with about a hun-
dred more to protect the palace from the insur-
gents. It was on the fourth night, and there
was still a dense mass roaring all round, from
the Pantheon to the Hotel de Ville. We
heard cannonading and musketry going on all
night, and knew, though it was too dark to
see, that there was a ferocious multitude out-
side thirsting for our blood, who might massa-
cre us in the dark, before we could even see
THE LUXEMBOURG. 207
them : it was not a pleasant idea." But he
shrugged his shoulders much more, and dwelt
with much greater sensibility on the personal
discomforts than on the horrors and dangers
of that bivouac-night.
"At last," said he, "at about three o'clock
in the morning, we were called out on a sud-
den alarm — the insurgents were going to at-
'tack us. We were hurried out into the court,
formed hastily, oi«dered to load ; as for me, I
tnew nothing about that business, and I don't
"believe many of my companions did, although
some of them had been twenty years in the
INational Guard. I found myself, therefore,
xnucb embarrassed by the order to load with
cartridge. I turned to my next neighbor, and
asked if by any chance he knew how to load.
* Yes,' said he. * Then will you be so obliging
SIS to load mine for me?' *With the greatest
pleasure,' he replied. And oh how relieved I
"wasl But no doubt we were more dangerous
to our friends than to our enemies. There we
stood drawn up in the dark, on a cold, wet
night, no moon, no lamps, nothing but the pale
stars overhead, expecting every instant to en-
gage. But after some hours' waiting we were
told- that the barricade was taken, and that we
were no longer required. We were very glad
208 TWENTY TEAMS AOO.
to get home, putting, no doubt, the just value
on our services."
He then described the aspect of Paris when
he walked out next morning, the boulevards
a perfect solitude, the houses in ruins, in some
of the more distant streets, where the fighting
had been fiercest, the blood flowing like water.
He described the furious passions of both par-
ties, the horrid, demoniac aspect of the insur-
gents, the remorseless rage. of those who got
the better, in which all justice, all generosity,
all pity, seemed flung to the winds. " Never-
theless," said he, " I believe I was the chief
means of saving one man's life. He had fired
at an officer of the National Guard and wound-
ed his man ; he was instantly seized, dragged
into the Luxembourg gardens, and numberless
furious voices demanded his instant death. I
put up my lorgnon and was interested by his
appearance. He was a very tall young man,
with a mass of waving hair, black beard and
mustache, and a pale, stern, determined face ;
he was not an ouvrier; he wore a black coat,
very threadbare, and shabby trowsers ; he was
probably an artist of enthusiastic Republican
principles. I thought it a pity that he should
be killed, and I made them a speech. I told *
them that they were now excited ; that what
THE LUXEMBOUBG. 209
they felt now they would not feel a month, a
^eek, a day hence ; that it was a shocking
thing to kill a man in a state of excitement,
^hich resembled intoxication, and left no time
for the operation of reason ; that, after all, he
lad not committed murder, that he had only
wounded a man, and that death was too dread-
ful a penalty for this. Enfin que sais-je? J'ai
dit tant de belles choses. About half a dozen
persons agreed with me, and joined in trying
to save the man; the passions of the others
. then turned against us, and we were for a
labile in some danger. Meanwhile the young
man stood in the midst, towering head and
shoulders above the rest, and looking down on
us with calm indifference, as if all this was not
bis affair at all. At last we got him into an-
other room, where we locked him up, and by
this respite finally saved him. I believe he
was afterwards tried, but certainly not put to
death — probably transported."
Having told all- this little episode (which by-
the-bye did him much credit) in a well-bred,
indifferent way, M. de T , in precisely the
same manner, glided into his favorite quiet
badinage, chiefly addressed to Mademoiselle
Beatrice as the krangire^ mixed with disserta-
tions on love and matrimony as practiced in
310 TWENTY YEAB8 AGO,
England and France. Having put down two
of the ladies at their own door, he accompanied
the third to a house some way farther on, po-
litely observing that he only wished it was far-
ther still, and proposing first to take a turn or
two in the Champs ^filys^es, which, as it was
then most gayly crowded and we were in a
common fiacre^ was a courageous proposition
on the part of M. le Comte, and such as would
scarcely have been made by an English man
of fashion. The young lady, doubting how fer
the public promenade in the cab with a grand
seigneur would please Us rrwe.urs in a French
point of view, declined, and so ended our day.
PARIS IN MAT. 211
CHAPTER X.
PARISINMAY.
WE have now a succession of blue, dry,
burning days, which fill the Champs
filys^es with dust and gay crowds ; a haze of
heat rests on the air, the bridges, the domes
and steeples on the other side. The fountains
send light silver clouds into the turquoise air;
organs, dancing dogs, tumblers, and Punch
abound; the limonadiers go about with their
tinkling bell, the lemonade or sherbet-making
machine strapped to their backs and the metal
drinking - vessels in front. The crowds of
chairs under the trees are filled by lounging
newspaper readers ; the little tables are set in
front of the wine-shops, with wine, coffee, lem-
onade, and ginger-beer thereon.*
One May -day I well remember. It had
been sunny, hot, sultry, and we had kept with-
in doors, purposing to pay a quiet, pleasant
evening visit at the end, and finish with a
moonlight stroll in the Bois de Boulogne.
But the still, glaring day gave signs of ending
in storm ; the hot sky drew over itself a veil
213 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
of thick gray cloud, then came slowly down
great, ponderous, silent drops of rain. I look-
ed into the court, which began to wake up to
its evening life ; it was a large and handsome
quadrangle inclosed by regular buildings.
On the side opposite us the rez-de-chaussee con-
sisted of stables and coach-houses ; above were
the low, wide, entresol windows ; then three
stages of handsome appartements^ and the attic
windows at the top with flower-pots on the
ledges, and canary-cages, covered each with a
cool green leaf from the sun. All the neat
Yfh\iQ persiennes are flung bact and the
windows open ; sounds of life are constantly
heard. On the rez-de-chaussee, in one part bill-
iards have been going on for hours; some-
times musical bells or glasses tinkle their pret-
ty tunes. Towards the evening,* screaming
voices, laughter, and singing announce revels
of no refined sort as going on on the lower
story ; while in the handsome rooms above, the
folding windows thrown wide open display a
cheerful blaze of lamps and a bright little par-
ty clustered at dinner.
Yes, in this house, as in all others, the hu-
man history, chapter by chapter, is being read,
low or loud, listened to or not, as it may be.
All are strangers to each other, and yet here
PARIS IN MA T. 213
and there stray words of that history sound
startlingly across our path. On the floor be-
low us resides a due, of ancient lineage, and of
overflowing wealth ; he has a wife, a daughter
by a first marriage, and a son by the second.
The day we entered a domestic fete was going
on ; it was the daughter's wedding-day. Her
husband, strange to say, was her own choice,
she being of age, of independent mind and in-
dependent fortune. He was a baron, an excel-
lent young man, and with a good property,
but the match was not splendid enough for her
haughty father, and he would not honor it
with his sanction or his presence. So he staid
at Eome, where he, has long resided without
his wife.
A few, a very few carriages assembled in
the court as the wedding-party set forth. We
saw the bride come forth with her stepmother
and the two take their place together. The
stepmother looked young and kind and good ;
the bride was more striking than pretty, a pale,
calm face, with an expression in it of courage
and will — perhaps not unneeded. She w^
magnificently dressed, but greatly scandalized
the French female spectators by her scarlet
and gold-embroidered scarf; she was at once
concluded " original e." There was 'no splen-
314 TWENTY TEAMS AGO,
dor of any kind, and the wedding was pro-
nounced a "triste aflfaire;" but I hope the brave
young woman, who thus followed the dictates
of her heart and reason, found her happiness in
that chateau of hers jin Normandy whither she
was going to reside witb her bridegroom.
The next little occurrence that brought the
ducal family before us was a very peaceful
one. We had, by word of mouth, instructed
our clever cuisinikre how to make a true En-
glish plum-pudding ; she had turned out one
success, and was making another. The fame
of it (the spiritual perfume, as it were) had
spread through the hotel, and one morning I
found in our kitchen the ^piart/emT/ie de cham,"
bre of Madame la Duchesse, for whom her mis-
tress had begged permission to watch the
growth of the foreign wonder. We sent a
porjbion of the result to the lady, to satisfy her
as to its merits.
And now another kind of solemnity has
taken place there. I was wakened at mid-
night by shriek upon shriek rising from be-
low ; they were the cries of the duchess over
the dead body of her son. He was her only
child, and the heir of all that wealth and that
historic title; a boy of nineteen, gentle and
amiable, bis mother's darling, and, I fear, like
PARIS IN MA Y, 315
most such high-born darlings, too little watch-
ed or controlled in the rapid rush of his Paris-
ian life. He had become consumptive, and a
galloping decline had in a month brought all
his bloom of youth to the grave. The poor
mother at the moment of his death was in -her
own room ; pfa hearing the news, she tore her-
self wildly from those who would have held
her, and, leaving a fragment of her dress in
their hands, flew like a mad woman to the
corpse. And the father? He was at Eome?
he had not chosen to come when recalled on
account of his son's illness, and now they tele-
graphed to him the news of death.
Next day, on descending into the court to
go out, we saw there the hearse waiting to be
taken out. The drap Tnortuaire — a white one,
to signify that the dead was unmarried, with
his initial "C" embroidered on it — hung all
over the porte-cochere^ so that we should have
had to lift it up to pass out We were warned
not to do so till the bier was removed, or
we should be considered ridiculed, A priest
prayed kneeling by the bier, and in the after-
noon we- saw the funeral procession moving
away ; among the mourners walking after the
poor boy's bier we recognized our old friend
M. de Montorgueil.
ai6 TWENTY YEAMS AGO.
We strolled one day, a little before sunset,
into the Tuileries gardens. The chestnut-trees,
like palaces all magnificent with flowers, were
illuminated by the sun into so much shimmer-
ing, twinkling, green and gold drapery, while
behind, arch after arch of foliage looked like
pieces cut out of rich green velvet. The fount-
ain of the large reservoir in the middle was in
full play, and the great column of spray, with
its waving arch, was all colored from clear sil-
ver into bright smoke. The drops, as they
fell off from the curve, shivered into sparkling
gems, like stars struck off from a haze of light.
All the windows of the long Tuileries front
were dipped in fire by the setting sun oppo-
site, the Arch of Triumph stood out before the
orange west with the' sunset molten on its fairy
architecture, while the moon was just lifting her
foam-white crescent over the shining curves of
the Seine.
" Let us go and call on Madame E^naud,"
said Sibyl. " Aur^Iie will like to walk in the
Tuileries gardens with us, all the more that it
is not often that she gets out without that
good mother of hers." Horace .{omv. grave
English cousin, who was then with us) made
no objection, and we went to the Rue d' Agues-
seau, where Madame de Renaud received us
PARIS IN MA Y. • 317
kindly, but told us poor Aurdlie was too ill to
go out. She had been ailing some time, she
did not know why. At last Aurdlie came in
to us, but she was terribly changed. That
spiritless melancholy was very unlike her us-
ual ready, decided, almost-superbly patronizing
manner; and there was an increased but va-
rying brilliancy in her usually pale complex-
ion, which reminds one that she is, as I fear,
pulmonique. What ails poor Aur^lie? I
know nothing of her secrets, but I have no-
ticed lately a troubled look in her large black
eyes, which, joined to her serious, unyouthful
manner, seems to me — a girl in my teens — to
tell the story of a heart that has felt warmly
and suffered much. Horace admires her, I
know; they seem to have a sort of silent un-
derstanding with each other, for he is too shy
and too unversed in French to enter on much
conversation ; but he manages to talk with his
eyes, and she, with her grand, gracious manner,
knows how to draw him out. There is noth-
ing whatever on her part but a sort of patron-
izing kindness, quite consistent with a heart
already occupied ; on his, I suspect, there is
something more.
Aurdlie was at length induced to accom-
pany us into the Tuileries gardens. The sun
218 t TWEl^TY YEAMS AGO.
had set, and we sat chiefly on a retired stone
bench in the mingled shade of beech and
chestnut. In those stately groves and walks,
now darkening with twilight, there was a
sumptuous gloom, a languid, luxurious beau-
ty, which defied expression, but which, if it
found melancholy in the heart, was sure to
deepen it. Sentimental themes were danger-
ous ; so we tried some of those fruitful topics
which form ready battle-fields between French
and English, and found how safe and pleas-
ant those fearful materials of eternal political
bitterness, those vexed, burning questions of
statesmen, become when handled with the
cheerful superficiality of friendly young men
and women.
Aurdlie is very decided in the expression of
her opinions, and amused me by her confident
assertions, and even contradictions, about ways
and manners in England, where she has never
been. We talked of what at that moment waF
almost the only "household word" — "UncL
Tom's Cabin." She boldly avowed herself a
advocate of negro slavery, alleging that all tl:
English supposed philanthropic exertions f
its abolition were simply dictated by a desi
to ruin Qidr colonies. But then she turn
smilingly to Horace, who was looking duml
PAMia IN JdAT. 219
and dreadfully scandalized at her assertions,
and confessed that they were made with a de-
liberate intention to " faire naitre une guerre "
between us. I have observed that the tone of
the French feeling is very much below that of
the English on this subject ;* they seem never
to have forgiven the revolt of the blacks in
San Domingo. Toussaint is with them not a
hero to be admired, but an ignorant barbarian
to be laughed at.
" There is one thing," said Aur^ie suddenly
to me, when Sibyl and Horace were otherwise
occupied, "in which I give you all advantage;
it is in the position of your young women with
regard to love and matrimony. The English
marry always for love, and not for money — is
it not so?"
I did not like t© disenchant my French friend
of this fair belief, or I might have answered,
"Not always." But it happens often enough
to justify the theory, that at any rate an En-
glishman is supposed to marry for love; so
that, even if he does select a lady for her for-
tune, he pays her the compliment of seeming
to seek her for herself.
* This was written before the civil war in America, when
the '^ domestic institution " became suddenly such a favorite
with the English press and "genteel" society.
^30 TWENTY YEAMS AOO.
I talked about the engagement of a young
lady of my acquaintance, in which I felt ami-
ably interested. " She tells me M. de H. loves
her," I said, and was proceeding with some ro-
mantic statement, when Mdlle. Aur^lie inter-
rupted me by throwing herself back in her
seat with a fit of laughter, as she exclaimed,
"All these are pretty conies which nobody be-
lieves; every body knows that there is no
love whatever in these sort of marriages. It
is simply an affair of business; Mdlle. Ga-
brielle has 30, 000. francs, and M. de H. noth-
ing — consequently it is the utmost simplicity
to believe that the desire of her fortune was
not the predominant feeling."
I was startled, and betrayed it.
" Nonsense ! You must look on these things
from a different point of view in France," said
Aur^lie. Then she went on to recapitulate
the history of various love affairs — if the word
can be so used — among our acquaintance, and
described how more than one charming French-
man, whom we knew, was coquetting with
some charming girl or other, paying her de-
voted attentions perhaps for a whole year;
in love, yes, very much in love — up to any
amount save that of breaking his h^art or of-
fering his hand. • And, then, presently it will
PARIS m MAT. 321
be another young lady, also lovely and ineligi-
ble, till, when he has exhausted all the pleas-
ures of this butterfly career, he makes, calmly
and leisurely, a mercenary match. French-
men generally marry late. "They love," as
one of them sentimentally said to me, "to
gather first all the flowers of life."
When I expressed my wonder at the really
cold hearts that these professedly enthusiastic
Frenchmen must have to carry on this system,
she again dismissed the remark with a cool,
contemptuous laugh.
"/ do not mean to yield to it," she observed
at length. " I will at least have du goik for
the person I marry."
"Taste is not enough," ventured I; "you
ought to love the man."
" Oh, as for that," she returned, in a cold,
calm tone, which I nevertheless fancied much
at variance with her expression, "I can dis-
pense with a grande passion ; it causes nothing
but unhappiness. I suppose once in life such
a thing is inevitable ; but once is enough."
" But you must not think," she added, pres-
ently, " that all marriages in France are these
cold, mercenary afiairs. There are, especially
in the country, such things as matches origin-
ating in an affection which begins in youth
:.>a3 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
and lasts till age. My own father and mother
were instances of this ; they were Protestants
of the south of France, and had loved each
other all their lives. But Paris is not the
place in which to look for any thing good,"
Then, rising suddenly from her seat to resume
our promenade, she said, in a brief energetic
tone, " Les hommes de Paris sont d^testables."
Horace escorted Mdlle. Aur61ie home; and
Sibyl and I, turning back to our own quarters,
were joined by a friend, a tall French artist of
daring cleverness, a jolly, good-humored, sans-
soudant character, with plenty of amusing, slap-
dash conversation. He was the professed and
determined adorer of most of the agreeable
women he knew, and, whether successful or
not, contrived to keep his spirits up, and paint
away energetically all the time. He was tall
and vigorous in form, with keen iron-gray eyes
and a determined mouth. Horace called him
an "old file;" and, with all his good-humor, I
suspect there was something of hard iron, as
well as of keen, biting steel, in him.
Scarcely had we entered than a ring at the
door -bell announced another guest, and in
came M. de Montorgueil, with his precise fig-
ure, neat gray head, silvery imperial, and thin,
(ilear, sharp voice. With some doubts as to
PAMI8 IN MAT. 228
French proprieties, I introduced our guests to
each other. I had no doubt then that M. le
Due (who, by-the-bye, is a professed Eepublic-
an) considered the artist as too much canaille
for his acquaintance. Misled, perhaps, by the
introducer's pronunciation, M. Madier mistook
the name.
" Monsieur is the Due de M ."
" Non, monsieur, De Montorgueil," was the
cold, dry answer, and hot a word more did he
vouchsafe him. M. de Montorgueil then pre-
sented me with a copy of a work of his, which
is to convert me to Eomanism and to his po-
litical dreams. He was also occupied in im-
proving his acquaintance with a fair young
English friend of ours whom he has once met
at our house. " Ces vieux grands seigneurs,"
says a shrewd old lady friend of ours, " passent
la vie £l papillonner autour des demoiselles."
" She is very spirituelle," he said ; this, from
a Frenchman, means "she is very pretty."
"Would her family consider it a breach of
etiquette if he were to call ? He did not know
English usages; he referred himself to us."
He was assured that he might call, which he
did, inquiring of Horace, whom he met at the
door, if "eZfe," without any other distinguish-
ing mark, was at home, and, finding that she
234 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
was not, and that they were just leaving Paris,
conveyed to her "les adieux du coeur."
After settling these important matters, our
patrician visitor departed, and the artist con-
soled himself by abusing him in a hearty,
cheerful way. Meanwhile, it was such a beau-
tiful summer night that we went forth once
again to see the fairy capital in its last,
strangest, most bewitching phase. The artist
walked forth with us; he was in a would-be
sentimental mood, about as comical as the
"jolly " style more usual to him, which, as it
was, broke out from time to time. He rallied,
complimented, joked, and laughed aloud; then,
heaving a huge sigh, would smite his chest
and say, "Ah, pauvre n^re 1" and protest that
he was " malheureux comme une pierre." I
suppose one of his numerous affaires de cosur
was in an unprosperous stage.
Paris was changed now ; where by day was
a great crowded city, all seemed dark with
forest ; the Place de la Concorde was marked
only by its guardian giant of an obelisk, dim
and tall in the centre, while figures like phan-
toms crossed over its vast smooth field of pave-
ment turned by the moonlight to snow. The
fountains in the Tuileries gardens rose against
the solid black marble of the night air in soft
PARIS IN MAT, 205
clouds of magical foam, aud fell again on each
side like liquid lace, like a watery bride-veil.
Those myriad lights in the great square began
their fantastic manj^-figured dance above, be-
yond, and across each other ; then gathered, as
it were, and shot forth along the Champs !l6ly-
s^es in double glittering lines that suddenly
seamed to converge and close in a bright point
at the Arch of Triumph. Along the river
glittered a file of stars, reflected like a succes-
sion of pillared arches, of lighted-up houses in
the water, whose dark bosom appeared actually
expanding into a lake. Look still — the banks
appear receding from each other — the bounds
melt suddenly away as the basin of water
spreads. It*is a moving picture, a Fata Mor-
gana.
The city grew yet more joyous as night
came on, and now the cafes chantants came into
play. These are small gay tribunes painted
white and gilded, placed close to the cafds,
among the trees, where public singers began
early in the evening; and sang on half the
night long. Strange, sparkling world of Par-
is, where the voice of pleasure ceases not day
or night, and every thing is tricked out like a
pilgeant or plaything 1
As we strayed slowly along we stopped to
P
226 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
listen to a clear and powerM warbling poured
out on the soft summer night The singers
are young women, aspirantes probably for a
role at the opera, and making themselves
known the while on a stage nearer by many
steps to their original position in lifa One or
two sat in evening dress on the steps of the
tribune, waiting; they fingered their ringlets,
arranged their ribbons, tossed their bouquets,
and flung side glances into the crowd, where
the givers of these bouquets probably stood.
Soon one rose to sing, a girl in a white mus-
lin dress with a broad, rose-colored sash ; her
voice was sweet and well-trained, her face
young and pretty, and there was a smile on
her lips. Was it fancy, or that irifetinct of dis-
cernment that comes sometimes like an inspira-
tion, that saw in those violet eyes and on that
pale, passionate face deep shadows of despair,
and wild, wandering lights of something -yet
worse, that saw the fixed smile become a sneer
of scorn at the world and at herself, who each
knew each other only too well ? Perhaps her
thoughts glanced from the time when, an in-
nocent peasant-child, she ran by her mother's
side to join her companions at the FSte-Dieu,
and, for the first time, with them flung flowers
before the curd going to mass, looking first to
PARTS IN MAT. 227
m
see how the others did it — ^to the future day
when she might be lounging in a gay calhhe
among the brilliant groups of Longchamps —
and which picture would seem to her the
wildest illusion ?
But when she finished, when the wild, sad
notes were over, she sat down, settling her
dress, and shaking her flounces with a vain
and jaunty air, then glanced a bold glance at
the audience, said something to one of her
companions, and smiled.
Then slipped out on the steps a lanky lit-
tle girl, with long, bare arms, short frock, and
springy feet; she treats us to a prematurely
pert and practiced look, sings saucily a low,
comic song, and pantomimes at the audience.
What an actress she will be in time I I have
surely seen her twin -sister as the child -hero-
ine of "La Maman Sablonneur." The profits
of the concern are made by the consomma-
turns which are expected from those who have
taken their seats, and of which the tariflf is
handed round to them.
We walked on to enjoy one last, most per-
fect picture, from the high platform opposite
the Bridge of Jena, with the Champ de Mars
below us. There it lay at our feet, a dream-
Paris, an illuminated world, all bright in the
228 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
darkness, the Seine curling like a milk-white
serpent between its dazzling banks, the clus-
ters of lights that marked out places, avenues,
public buildings, the bridges like so many
pathways of stars, the domes and spires pierc-
ing sombre through the blue night air.
I mused, as we re-entered, on the chiaroscuro
of this strange Paris, how inextricably bound
with every one of its witcheries was a sting,
a pang, a suspicion of something one shrank
from. Is it so, then, that the bright veil of
this Parisian life is a gay curtain so painted
with joyous scenes and figures as to look solid,
but the moment you stop to regard it, in spite
of its waving play, you perceive that it is
full of holes and tatters, underneath which are
darkness and corruption, which once discover-
ed, you see no more the splendor, only the holes
and tatters, and the dismal reality behind ?
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 229
CHAPTER XL
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE.
IT may be guessed from my last words that
, we were not very sorry when the time
came at which all Paris turns out and spends
in the country as much of its summer as it can
resign itself to wasting in that way. We, for
our parts, were heartily glad to be out of the
noise, heat, and glare of that excited and ex-
citing world ; but it did not suit us to move
very far. However, we forbore to imitate the
generality of our friends, who could not pre-
vail on themselves to go farther than the Lac
d'Enghien and Montmorenci, and, establishing
themselves in a colony in some gay hotel or
boarding-house, lead a life as much like that
of their dear Paris as possible ; their exercise
confined to promenades in the garden and very
moderate picnics; their amusements to dan-
cing, singing, and perpetual gossip and flirta-
tion. Thus they spend their time of genteel
exile, and hasten gladly back again when fash-
ion permits. Some, no doubt, there are who
go to watering-places, or even as far as the
230 TWENTY TEAB8 AGO.
Pyrenees, to the Eaux Chaudes, or Luchon, but
mostly aiming to combine society and amuse*
ment with health.
No, we really wished to bury ourselves in
the country, and we did it. We spent six
months in a quiet village and a secluded coun-
try-house, which, although only a feyr miles be-
yond Versailles, was so little visited or known
of, that a dweller there asked us how we came
to find out \his pays perdu.
The house, called Les Eosiers, stands in a
tiny hamlet of the same name; the village
proper lies in the valley below. Our house,
approached at the front by the small rude
street, stands on a height, encircled with woods,
green prairies, and orchards, where the eye
steals through all the near greenness into
charming vistas of more distant rock, or dell,
or forest.
We enter through a great shabby wooden
gate in a stone wall, amidst the barking of
dogs, and are charmed at once with our new
domain. We find ourselves in a large walled
garden or court, half smothered in trees; a
large unshaven lawn in the centre, with a
group of noble walnut-trees on it ; all around
a gravel -walk edged with orange -trees and
oleanders in full blossom, the inclosing walls
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 831
overgrown with vines and other straggling
fruit-trees ; all down one side a set of offices
which are nothing but picturesque rubbish, a
long, low, uneven line of crumbling stone cot-
tages, one of which is inhabited by the garden-
er, who is also concierge, with his wife and hiaf
little soh and daughter.
Through all this we reach the house — once
an old convent of the Bernardines — ^built all
of stone, constructed for strength and warmth,
as one sees by the thickness of the walls, the
solid beams, and the double doors, though, in
the usual French style, all is clumsily put to-
gether and ill .secured. But the long, low, fa-
9ade of white stone that presents itself across
the waving grass and walnut-boughs, and all
the green picturesque confusion, how charming
it is, with its tiled roofj stained green and yel-
low with moss ; its wide upper windows with
their white persiennes; the ground-floor win-
dows, long and large, with their great wooden
whitewashed shutters flung back against the
wall, opening on the gravel- walks, and the or-
ange-trees in rows ! On the other, the north
side, is a still wilder, greener garden, one scene
of rural confusion, full of limes, catalpas, aca-
cias, laburnums, a wilderness of blossoming fo-
liage, and a very kingdom of song-birds. We
232 TWENTY TEAMS AOO.
descend, by a succession of slopes, through
paths almost hidden in the 'thickets of lilac,
syringa, and honey-suckle, down mossy stone
steps, through a little open gate in a low wall
masked by copses of Spanish chestnut and
hornbeam, till at last, passing through a gap
in a hawthorn hedge, we quit these romantic
grounds, and find ourselves at the top of an
orchard or prairie, descending among its scat-
tered fruit-trees into the valley basin below,
where, across meadow -ranges, lies half seen the
village with its tiny river, while the red, wood-
covered rocks spring up, a sudden boundary,
on the other side.
The orchard is inclosed on three sides by
low walls, dividing it from rich, luxuriant,
grassy, flowery prairies ; on the w'est an aque-
duct rises, at the end of the valley, out of a
thick background mass of forests towards Bue
and Yiroflay, with tempting paths winding
through it, all delicious for summer loitering.
This orchard slope will become dear to us,
I foresee, with its thick woods, and smiling
meadows all ready for the mower, the air
echoing with happy sounds, the cuckoo's soft
voice breathing out every minute from the
copses around, bees humming their self-con-
gratulations among the clover, yellow trefoil.
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 388
large ox-eyed daisies, poligulas pink and blue,
blue salvias, and other flowers new to us, which
enamel the slope, and all fragrant with the
balmy blossom of the trees. All here is still,
though about the premises those shrill French
tongues are forever going, in accompaniment
to their cheerful domestic activity.
But for the house itself, of which we have
taken the rez-de-chaussie: it is large, straggling,
and airy, full of doors and windows, and with
numberless rooms. The large hall, drawing-
room, and dining-room are very pleasant ; the
glass doors of the hall and the large windows
at each end of the drawing-room let us see
into both gardens filled with waving trees;
the stone benches just outside the windows
are our favorite seat.
We took, as I said, the rez-de-chaussie and
the premwr^ the latter containing five charm-
ing bedrooms. Our party consisted of Sibyl
and myself, SibyFs baby-girl, with her English
nurse, and our excellent bonne, Honorine ; also
of Cousin Horace, who was to be a frequent
guest. The rest of the house — a cross-piece
running out from the main body, and a hex-
agonal conical-topped tower in the middle —
was either not tenanted, or only transiently,
by a few passing lodgers, or by the propriitaire
384 TWENTY YEARS AGO,
and his wife, who came down from Paris from
time to time to look after their aflEairs. As
for the society of this deeply secluded neigh-
borhood, there was a rich banker's fine bouse
and grounds a mile or so off, but the family
were never there ; there was a chanping fami-
ly of quiet people, half French, half Swiss, in
the little village ; the cur^ whose brother was
the village tailor ; and a world of peasantry,
small farmers, almost all more or less land-hold-
ers, masons, etc. But of these, though highly
amusing people, whose various histories were
a source of constant interest, I am not now
going to speak. My present business is only
with the little world within the country house.
A few days of intense quiet Sibyl and I .en-
joyed at the beginning, when, the first little
troubles of installment over, under the energet-
ic management of Honorine, we could wander
from abine to shade among leaves and birds
and all dream-like things, or occupy the seat
under the walnut-tree at the top of the prairie,
with our feet in the long grass, our eyes fixed
on that little green bit out of the great pas-
toral spread out around us, our talk on sad
sweet things with which that scene, till then so
strange, will henceforth be iiiextricably inter-
twined. For we had come to a piassage in our
A FRENCH COUNTEY HOUSE. 335
lives which would necessarily leave bitter-sweet
memories through years to come ; and yet we
traversed it half-blind, understanding the pres-
ent scarcely better than the future.
But Saturday morning brings too soon our
proprietaires from Paris for a few days: we
see them from the garden on their walk from
the little cabaret below ("Au Bon Coin"),
where the omnibus stops, then coming reso-
lutely up the orchard -slope, followed by a
maid, bag and baggage, and very soon the
premises are resounding for some hours with
the thin screaming voice of the lady, which at
a distance is almost like a child's treble, and
with the soft, oily, coaxing under-tones of the
gentleman.
Monsieur and Madame Churlier claim to be
gentry, and to have fallen from a better posi-
tion through losses in one of the revolutions.
It is amazing what use is made of some one or
other of the revolutions by every one whose
present appearance js not brilliant The fa-
ther of M. Charlier was, we are told, one of
Napoleon's generals, and he himself has been
in Algeria, and was connected with the army
by some office in the commissariat, till some
unfortunate sottise^ as we heard it called, rela-
ting to money affairs, caused his temporary
288 TWENTY YEARS AGO,
water. The ladies, with a bad Parisian air,
more frequently English and American than
French, in gay dresses, and with very little
youth or beauty, saunter about under their
fine parasols, sometimes sing, and mingle in
noisy flirtation their bold shrill voices with
the coarse, deep masculine tones. They have
tried hard to make acquaintance with us, and,
being constantly repulsed, now take their re-
venge by staring at us and intcj our rooms as
they pass, repeating our names and talking of
us as if we were wild animals. At six o'clock
they repair to their dinner au second^ or in the
orangerie^ a queer bit of building in the grounds,
occasionally let to tenants; after which they
return to the gardens, and sit on chairs on the
lawn just under our windows, all jumbled to-
gether, smoking and talking in the beautiful
moonlight half the night, till, to our great joy,
we hear a tumultuous interchange of "Bon-
soir, mesdames," and six or seven loud En-
glish good-nights, and they stream off their
separate ways.
After this deluge of doubtful gentility, it is
a decided relief to see an honest blouse, or a
woman in great clattering satots and handker-
chief-coiffure go by, the gardener or workmen
in their shirt-sleeves, whistling innocently, Zoe
A JFRENCH- CO UNTR T HO USE. 237
coquetry still hanging about her. She trips
actively about, singing in a cracked voice, with
much would-be childish vivacity. Her face is
generally pleasant and good-humored, but we
have reason to know that it can in a moment
look quite otherwise ; and in the sprightly in-
fantine voice there is a sharp intonation which
may easily rise into a virago-like scream. Ho-
norine, with the usual spirit of French servants,
entered at one* and the same time into posses-
sion of her new premises and a fierce war with
madame, even before the latter had had time
to do any thing wrong. We, however, take
care to have no quarrel.
But the most objectionable part of these
people is the train of friends, or lodgers in
their pension at Paris, male and female, low
English or lawless French, which generally
follows them, and for a short period quite
spoils the sweetness of our summer retreat.
Forthwith the lawn is taken possession of, and
the lovely garden filled with boisterous talk
and laughter. The gentlemen slink about
with cigars, in straw hats and white linen
coats and trowsejs — very cool and comfort-
able, no doubt; their mode of whiling away the
bright afternoon is stripping the cherry-trees
without permission, and drinking brandy and
388 TWENTY YEAB8 AOO.
water. The ladies, with a bad Parisian air,
more frequently English and American than
French, in gay dresses, and with very little
youth or beauty, saunter about under their
fine parasols, sometimes sing, and mingle in
noisy flirtation their bold shrill voices with
the coarse, deep masculine tones. They have
tried hard to make acquaintance with us, and,
being constantly repulsed, now take their re-
venge by staring at us and int<4 our rooms as
they pass, repeating our names and talking of
us as if we were wild animala At six o'clock
they repair to their dinner au second^ or in the
orangerie, a queer bit of building in the grounds,
occasionally let to tenants; after which they
return to the gardens, and sit on chairs on the
lawn just under our windows, all jumbled to-
gether, smoking and talking in the beautiful
moonlight half the night, till, to our great joy,
we hear a tumultuous interchange of "Bon-
soir, mesdames," and six or seven loud En-
glish good-nights, and they stream off their
separate ways.
After this deluge of doubtful gentility, it is
a decided relief to see an honest blouse, or a
woman in great clattering satots and handker-
chief-coiffure go by, the gardener or workmen
in their shirt-sleeves, whistling innocently. Zee
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE, 339
i\Le jardinihe^ always busy, or our own nice,
clean, quiet honne Honorine, in her pink cot-
ton Sunday gown, stopping to give us some
confidential asides. I feel then in congenial
society.
But I propose to describe a day in this
French country house when it is in its normal
and unexcited state, with only a few hcataires
besides ourselves. We, the only family who
t)bserve country hours, have just finished our
eight o'clock breakfast in the large, sunny, un-
furnished dining-room, and sit in the low, wide
window-seat, watching the busy little world of
Les Kosiers beginning its summer-day career.
• The sun is shining over the south garden or
/ court; on the broad gravel -walk before the
house kittens and puppies are tumbling about
in full play, lying in ambush behind the green
box of the biggest orange-tree, or jumping up
to the stone bench where Sibyl and I have
taken up our work to enjoy the mignonnette-
scented air and the brightness all round, and
the gambols of dear little May under her
nurse's care. The long row of stone buildings
on one side begins with the gardener's cottage
and ends in the basse cour^ where the poultry
run, a square stone -walled tank, hidden in
trees, the rose-acacia drooping over it its long
240 TWENTY TEARS AGO,
pink -blossomed boughs, and the porte-cochkre^
a great, high, wooden gate, fixed in two thick
stone props, whose projections are hollowed
out into dog-kennels, and studded with that
mysterious assortment of bolts, beams, bars,
and great clumsy locks that French mechan-
ism delights in. Every thing is in disrepair,
and betrays the tale of our proprietaire's diffi-
culties. He is a rash, sanguine man, who, not
content with his pension in Paris, chose five
years ago to go and purchase this place, un-
known to his shrewder wife, and to her great
disgust absorb all the gains of that more pros-
perous business in this unlucky bargain.
There passes out to the kitchen-garden the
meek little gardener's wife, with her small fig-
ure and quiet, pensive faca She seems to con-
cern herself with nothing but her duties, and
to keep apart from the busy, tattling, quarrel-
ling world around. Or again, with a great
straw hat perched on the top of her wren-like
figure, she is on a ladder gathering orange-
blossoms for that odious traffic in orange-
flower water that Madame Charlier delights
in. Then there is the gardener in shirt-
sleeves and bare feet, who cries to the sitters
in the window, "Prenez garde de I'eau, mes-
dames I je vais arroser les arbres !" and up
A FRENCH COUNTRY MOUSE, 241
goes one of two big pitchers, and down on a
great orange -tree descends the splashing* cas-
cade. Very pretty did these seventy orange-
trees look, ranged round in their boxes, their
bright leaves glittering with the sun and the
dripping water.
One by one, or in twos, the various lodgers
appear and exchange good-humored bows or
bonjours with each other ; but after that they
pursue their occupations apart. The proprii-
iaire is the first of all on foot, with his round,
mustached face, and features insignificant to
nullity, his thick neck, and characteristic walk,
as of a man with much to do, beset with cares
and perplexities, yet trying to aflfect the degagS
air of a do-nothing gentleman. He holds con-
ference with gardener or master-mason, whom
he can not pay, or curiously counts his wall-
fruit, his peaches and grapes secured in' great
bags, to be sure that his various lodgers, to
whom he is willing to sell them at something
beyond the market price, have not secured
them at a much cheaper rate. "Julie! tu as
touchy mes p&hes !" is a frequent discourteous
affirmation. And truly such an accident is
not impossible, as one feels on beholding that
giddy young couple who bound into the gar-
den, Jules and Julie — cousins, I believe, though
Q
388 TWENTY TEAB8 AGO.
water. The ladies, with a bad Parisian air,
more frequently English and American than
French, in gay dresses, and with very little
youth or beauty, saunter about under their
fine parasols, sometimes sing, and mingle in
noisy flirtation their bold shrill voices with
the coarse, deep masculine tones. They have
tried hard to make acquaintance with us, and,
being constantly repulsed, now take their re-
venge by staring at us and int<4 our rooms as
they pass, repeating our names and talking of
us as if we were wild animala At six o'clock
they repair to their dinner au second^ or in the
orangerie^ a queer bit of building in the grounds,
occasionally let to tenants; after which they
return to the gardens, and sit on chairs on the
lawn just under our windows, all jumbled to-
gether, smoking and talking in the beautiful
moonlight half the night, till, to our great joy,
we hear a tumultuous interchange of "Bon-
soir, mesdames," and six or- seven loud En-
glish good-nights, and they stream off their
separate ways.
After this deluge of doubtful gentility, it is
a decided relief to see an honest blouse, or a
woman in great clattering satots and handker-
chief-coiffure go by, the gardener or workmen
in their shirt-sleeves, whistling innocently. Zee
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE, 339
\he jardiniere^ always busy, or our own nice,
clean, quiet honne Honorine, in her pink cot-
ton Sunday gown, stopping to give us some
confidential asides. I feel then in congenial
society.
But I propose to describe a day in this
French country house when it is in its normal
and unexcited state, with only a few hcataires
besides ourselves. We, the only family who
t)bserve country hours, have just finished our
eight o'clock breakfast in the large, sunny, un-
furnished dining-room, and sit in the low, wide
window-seat, watching the busy little world of
Les Rosiers beginning its summer-day career.
• The sun is shining over the south garden or
/ court; on the broad gravel -walk before the
house kittens and puppies are tumbling about
in full play, lying in ambush behind the green
box of the biggest orange-tree, or jumping up
to the stone bench where Sibyl and I have
taken up our work to enjoy the mignonnette-
scented air and the brightness all round, and
the gambols of dear little May under her
nurse's care. The long row of stone buildings
on one side begins with the gardener's cottage
and ends in the basse cour^ where the poultry
run, a square stone -walled tank, hidden in
trees, the rose-acacia drooping over it its long
288 TWENTY TEAB8 AGO,
water. The ladies, with a bad Parisian air,
more frequently English and American than
French, in gay dresses, and with very little
youth or beauty, saunter about under their
fine parasols, sometimes sing, and mingle in
noisy flirtation their bold shrill voices with
the coarse, deep masculine tones. They have
tried hard to make acquaintance with us, and,
being constantly repulsed, now take their re-
venge by staring at us and int(j our rooms as
they pass, repeating our names and talking of
us as if we were wild animala At six o'clock
they repair to their dinner au second^ or in the
orangerie^ a queer bit of building in the grounds,
occasionally let to tenants; after which they
return to the gardens, and sit on chairs on the
lawn just under our windows, all jumbled to-
gether, smoking and talking in the beautiful
moonlight half the night, till, to our great joy,
we hear a tumultuous interchange of "Bon-
soir, mesdames," and six or seven loud En-
glish good-nights, and they stream off their
separate ways.
After this deluge of doubtful gentility, it is
a decided relief to see an honest blouse, or a
woman in great clattering satots and handker-
chief-coiffure go by, the gardener or workmen
in their shirt-sleeves, whistling innocently. Zee
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 339
the yarc?^V^^ere, always busy, or our own nice,
clean, quiet bonne Honorine, in her pink cot-
ton Sunday gown, stopping to give us some
confidential asides. I feel then in congenial
society.
But I propose to describe a day in this
French country house when it is in its normal
and unexcited state, with only a few locataires
besides ourselves. We, the only family who
t)bserve country hours, have just finished our
eight o'clock breakfast in the large, sunny, un-
furnished dining-room, and sit in the low, wide
window-seat, watching the busy little world of
Les Rosiers beginning its summer-day career.
The sun is shining over the south garden or
/ court; on the broad gravel -walk before the
house kittens and puppies are tumbling about
in full play, lying in ambush behind the green
box of the biggest orange-tree, or jumping up
to the stone bench where Sibyl and I have
taken up our work to enjoy the mignonnette-
scented air and the brightness all round, and
the gambols of dear little May under her
nurse's care. The long row of stone buildings
on one side begins with the gardener's cottage
and ends in the basse cour^ where the poultry
run, a square stone -walled tank, hidden in
trees, the rose-acacia drooping over it its long
246 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
plain to us ; I suggested that probably he had
been waked from sleep. " Qu'est-ce que 9a me
fait?" she said, scornfully; '4t's his business;
il est pay^ pour cela." Hearing these words
from the garden, the gardener broke in, bawl-
ing from the distance with angry loquacity;
and then these two French spitfires went on
shooting out their abuse like discharges of ar-
tillery, their words racing after each other as
fast as they could go. We tried to moderate ;
the gardener said, " It's a hard thing for a man
who has worked all day to be called up when
he has just gone to bed."
" We have called you up sometimes, have
we not?" said Sibyl, in her gentle tones.
" Oh madame, pour vous et mademoiselle,
volontiers ; mais pour une domestique — non !"
He did not see the want of logic involved in
the distinction ; and we let the affair go, wish-
ing that Honorine were not one of those ex-
cellent but dangerous servants who, serving
us with zeal, take care that no one else shall
do so.
Presently M. Charlier saunters down to his
present grand business — a construction, or new
building, on the north side, at the end of one
of the terrace- walks, which is to contain a sdUe-
d-manger, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. Why
A FRENCH COUNTRY EOUBE. 247
he is doing this it is difficult to say, seeing that
he can hardly let what he has, and is too poor
to pay his workmen ; but I suppose the fever
of building or the dream of speculation has
seized him. The materials are furnished by
the old crumbling stone wall which ran along
the upper side of the terrace — a strange, slov-
enly mode of building, and one can hardly fan-
cy that a house made of these old stones, so
roughly put together, will stand ; but that is
his affair.
The first part of the process — clearing the
ground for the new building — presented a live-
ly scen^. All the young population were at
work, or rather at play, there — that is, doing
the ouvriers' business for pure amusement.
The three boys — and even the young Julie —
were busy digging and shovelling spadefuls of
earth into the wheelbarrow, which M. Charlier
wheeled away. Soon the wall rose, the floor-
ing was begun, and some of the beams were
already fixed ; and here, amidst this skeleton
frame-work, M. Charlier, in a gorgeous blue
dressing - gown, generally took his station.
Passing underneath, we see his feet solemnly
depending over our heads from among the
beams ; we look up, and behold his broad fig-
ure perched there in profound silence and im-
348 TWENTY YEARS AGO, ,
mobility ; and so it remains for half the day.
One of the elder boys is generally there besi'de
him, in the character of a deeply interested
amateur. The planks cover the pathway, and
intercept our progress down by the mossy stone
steps to the prairie ; but the workmen are al-
ways polite, and show us where to step, en-
couraging us with a " VoiE, mademoiselle, un
beau chemin : vous pouvez passer, vous sautez
bien."
One of the workmen is Hippolyte Langlois,
the young handsome mason, of whom I shall
have more to say, whose attentions seem so
equally divided between our Honorine and the
young, blooming, smiling honne of our friends
in the village. It is true, he takes advantage
of this close neighborhood to pay many a visit
to our kitchen-window ; but then it is also true
that, in the absence of her employers, the pret-
ty Louise spends much of her time helping her
friend Honorine. So it is still an open ques-
tion which is preferred.
But the life of Les Eosiers does not go on
energetically under this increasing heat. It is
one of those grave, burning days that march
flamingly, relentlessly by, one after another,
like a succession of Eastern tyrants, till life,
soul, body, seem to expire under the weight
A FRENCH COUNTMY HOUSE. 349
of heat that each pitiless hour piles upon it.
Our usually restless neighbors are quiet, most
of them shut up during the burning weather in
the orangerie like bottled wasps. How those
builders can go on as they do, carrying long
planks of newly-sawn wood, making their ham-
mers ring on falling pieces of stone, shouting
to each other every minute, " Leopold ! Mau-
rice! Hippolytel" with their untiring labor,
and still more untiring clatter of talk, is some-
thing unfathomable.
In the afternoon, as Sibyl arid I sat in the
hall, seeking half a degree less heat, there pass-
ed by, and looked in, the maitre'maq(m^ the
father of the admired Hippolyte, a broad,
rough-looking old fellow, in the usual shirt
and blue trowsers, all splashed with lime and
mortar. He stopped, gave the usual " bon-
jour," and asked whether we would like to
buy a "jolie propri^tS" that he had to sell.
We made some civil reply, and he strode into
the hall, seated himself on a chair by us, and,
quite undisconcerted by his elementary cos-
tume, entered into loud and voluble conversa-
tion. The subject was a detailed and profuse
eulogy of this house, to be had, with one " ar-
pent de terre" and fifteen rooms, for three
thousand francs. He invited us to come and
250 TWAWTY YEARS AGO.
see it on Sunday evening, praising every
thing, and appealing to me at every turn with
**N'est-ce pas, mademoiselle? vous I'avez vu ?"
a broad grin on his great red face, as he re-
peated the same words twenty times over, in-
terspersing it all with "Vous aurez quelque
chose de bien, allez ! Madame, je vous pro-
mets une maison superbe. Je puis dire que
vous aurez le corps de bStiment le plus joli du
monde. Vous aurez tout ce que vous voudrez,
et ga ne sera pas une grande coutance pour
vous." He then went on enthusiastically to
describe its perfections — its two pits and its
cistern, where water never lacked— how sum-
mer and winter a gardener close by would sup-
ply us with vegetables — and ended by implor-
ing us to go and see it " Mademoiselle Hono-
rine ira avec vous, et vous montrera la maison
— n'est-ce pas, mademoiselle ?" turning to her.
He moved off to the Hall-door several times,
but as often returned to repeat the same words ;
and finally, on an inquiry of Sibyl's as to the
progress of the " bStiments en bas," he answer-
ed mysteriously, " Qa est commenc^ madame,
mais 9a n'avance pas." And then, resuming
his chair, but moving it confidentially closer,
and lowering his voice to a whisper, he con-
tinued, "M. Oharlier et moi, nous.ne sommea
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. • 351
pas d'accord. Je ne veux pas continuer de
bStir k ce prix; il ne me paye pas assez, et
nous sommes m^contents tons! II ne me
donne que trois francs le jour — ^oui, madame,
rien que cela ! et si je suis a la t^te de tons les
ma§ons comme de raison, si j'ai k les trouver,
les faire travailler, leur payer leurs gages, il
me faut plus. J'attends k lui parler. Dites
done," to Zo^*, who passed by, " M. Charlier,
est-il en haut ou en bas ?" At last he fairly
took his departure, to our considerable relief,
and Honorine instantly assured us that she did
not think the house would do at all, that all
the repairs it would cost would certainly raise
the rent, and she suggested our buying this
place instead — a tempting vision to those
whose hearts yearn after this quiet loveliness,
and this land of many hopes and dreams.
These republican manners (indeed this so-
cial equality is the only trace of republican
liberty left in France) do not displease us at
all, for the people are always civil and respect-
ful to us, simply* as ladies, not as people richer,
or grander than themselves.
At length the cool evening draws on, and is
spent variously by our various parties. For
myself, on going down to the prairie to seek
for my. sister, I met M. and Madame Charlier
252 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
sauntering arm-in-arm : after years of quarrel-
ling, they occasionally enact the part of lovers.
They were both in high good-humor, especial-
ly monsieur, who took me to task, and asked
me why I did not run, and especially why I
did not go and play with the young ladies at
the orangeries, who, as they said, were very gen-
ttlleSj and whose agreeable society would give
me all thg spirits I wanted. I made some
civil excuse, and observed of one of them — a
young English girl — that I should not have
thought her English, her air was so altogether
French.
"Ah ! to be French is what every one aims
at," replied M. Charlier; and then, supposing
me to share in this universal passion, he add-
ed, "You, too, mademoiselle, might have a
French air if you would ; but the way to ac-
quire it is to have abandon, not to think of
your dignity, but to associate with other young
people ; that is to be French. For me, I amuse
myself also with young persons and children.
I run, I laugh with them. People say, *Ahl
see that gentleman, he is mad ;' but I do not
care."
All this was said by himself, and acquiesced
in by madame with such determined affability,
and such bland facetiousness, that I replied, as
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 268
well as I could, in the same vein, and, though
I could not promise any great amendment, we
parted good friends.
Perhaps one- cause of this apparent harmo-
ny in monsieur and madame is that their re-
spective mothers are this evening come down.
Honorine, who knows every thing about every-
body, draws rather a "spicy" picture of these
two ladies. Apparently, by a curious law of
nature, the mother of our imperious, energetic
landlady is a gentle, passive old body, who has
never done any thing in her life, not even nee-
dle-work, and who yields to every one ; while
the mother of the meek, smooth-spokett hus-
band is a most domineering dame, who sadly
tyrannizes over the poor, mild old lady, her as-
sumed superiority being founded on her great-
er wealth. It seems that in her early days
Madame Charlier the elder was very poor;
that her husband, who had risen to a colonel's
rank, was killed gallantly defending an unten-
able position, for which, after his death, he was
made a general, and his widow is at ease on her
pension. She has one other son, who has mar-
ried a millionnaire's daughter, with whom this
mother-in-law is forever quarrelling, because
she will live in the drudging style to which she
in the days of her youth was accustomed.
354 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
This grim old lady passed us, and certainly
she resembles nothing so much as an old bull-
terrier as she stumps by, short and puflfy, her
features stiffened and screwed up, and her
voice at its softest a growl. However, she
was gracious to me, to whom she seems to
have taken a fancy, and taking hold of my
hair — long ringlets are an unspeakable mys-
tery to the French mind — said in playful
irony, "Dites-moi, ils sont tr^-commodes, ces
grands boucles I"
The other old lady we also made acquaint-
ance with : as. we sat in our window, watching
the games of the young people in the dim gar-
den, there waddled up to us the " contrary of
the terrier," as Sibyl characterized the good-
humored one of the two mesdames mh'es, and,
sitting down on the stone bench outside, en-
tered into conversation with us. Apropos of
some remark that I incidentally made, she lec-
tured me, obviously with a purpose, on the
propriety and advantage of being sociable in
the country — how that young people ought to
"courir,jouer, danser k la ronde" — how there
ought to be no pride nor exclusiveness, but
perfect equality — -how we ought not to consid-
er whether our neighbors are richer or poorer
than ourselves, but join in their amusements,
A FRENCH COVNTBY HOUSE, 265
and be all cheerful together — how, when she
was young, she sang and danced, laughed and
enjoyed herself. And, indeed, when I looked
at her face, with features still beautiful at sev-
enty-five, I can well imagine her youth, even
amidst poverty, to have been gay and bright
enough to fulfill a Frenchwoman's notion of
happiness. Why the good lady does us the
honor to hint, in apparent reference to us, at
the pride of wealth, I do not know, unless our
reserve, the fact of our being English, and our
having taken both the rez-de-chaussee and the
premier have given us that reputation.
In spite of all these reasonable admonitions,
we let a tumultuous game of cache-cache fill the
dusky, shady garden without our help. For
the most part, the two pale, grave young girls,
Eulalie and Julie, wandered about with the
little Jules, finding their own amusement in. a
quiet way; perhaps seated with the good-na-
tured homely old grandmother in the moon-
light, on a bench, or crouching together like
young birds in some shadowy corner. And
there they remain, to roam the garden as long
as they like, and go to bed as late as they
please, wasting, in consequence, these beautiful
summer mornings in bed till eight o'clock.
As for the older ones, we find that on those
266 TWENTY TEARS AGO,
social occasions when the Paris pensionnodres
are down here they retire to the billiard-house,
and " m^nent," as a peasant expressed it, " une
vie terrible." He, being up late in a prairie
tending a sick cow, heard a "tapage furieux
de messieurs et de dames," who all of them
"smoked like dragoons," drank, and laughed
till midnight. This being confided to Hono-
rine as the proceedings of her maitres, drew
from her an emphatic disclaimer of having
any thing to do with that establishment.
When all is quiet in our neighborhood we
steal through the garden into the prairie, to
gaze at the relics of the sunset, which still
glows orange over the aqueduct, and bathes
that end of the valley in a rain of gold light,
the arches standing out from a sea of glowing
vapor which makes them too look unreal.
And then, as we stand on this meadow-slope,
where there is always a cool fresh whisper of
wind to revive us after the sultry heat, we see
the lovely valley melting away through soft
shades of grayness; and then, turning to re-
ascend, we behold at the top before us, niched
in the arch of two tall trees, one pure gold
star. But wait, and we shall see the moon
slowly rise behind the trees that border the
field to the east, till she mounts over their
A FUENCH country souse. 257
tops, and throws silver fretwork across the
gray slope, and turns the wall on the other
side to a glittering wliite, when the aqueduct,
as if newly created of snowy marble, starts
up phantom-like from its basement of trees.
Look to the vale, where the poplars, the red
rock, and the houses make no longer a molten
mass together, but slowly and softly detach
their separate forms, and stand out in a new
and delicate relief. And then, to enjoy this,
we creep into our favorite, warm, still verdant
nook, and ask each other if we wish to return
to England.
Once more, let us wind up with a look
into the court, now all stillness, embalmed by
orange fragrance, with the bright mpon look-
ing through the great walnut-trees. We look
at our house-front : there is our drawing-room
lamp in the rez-de-cliaussee^ a shaded light in
Sibyl's nursery on the premier^ another in one
of the small rooms in the second, where Ma-
dame L^onini and her sons dwell, and Hono-
rine's candle, in her high tower-room behind
and above ; these appear but as a few scatter-
ed sparks amidst a general sleepy dusk. And
so, as Les Eosiers seems to have fallen asleep,
we will wish it a peaceful good-night.
E
258 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
CHAPTER XII.
A FRENCH VILLAGE.
IN this village, which belonged to Les Eo-
siers, or Les Eosiers to the village — which
you will — we gradually became quite at home.
At first our chief link of communieation was
Honorine, who, with great spirit and corre-
sponding success, has fitted herself for her posi-
tion here, and is an invaluable help to us. An
excellent servant, faultlessly punctual, of mem-
ory never-failing, excellent alike at bargaining
and cooking, quiet and regular in all her ways,
there is no domestic like Honorine. Her sub-
jects of interest are limited, but on those in
which she knows her strength she is abundant-
ly positive. Besides procuring us the good-
will of many of these worthy villagers, she
provokes occasional breezes with ofiicials, and
even sometimes with ouTproprietaires; however,
these serve to vary the monotony of existence.
Like a true Parisian (though Picard-bom),
she has great contempt for country manners
and intelligence, especially for the specimens
here. She complains of their way of talking,
A FRENCH VILLAGE. 259
which is certainly rugged and unintelligible,
and says, " On a ici la gorge tr^s-forte." Apro-
pos of a very neat green checked gown of
hers that we were admiring, she told us that
as she went into the village the people by the
way laughed at. her, and told her it was a
gown to go to the Carnival in. This we sup-
posed was rather a compliment ; but she as-
sured us that it was in allusion to the rags and
tatters which at that time are carried about
for sale, and that such allusions were always
meant for insolence. She said she had mads
no answer, for they would not have under-
stood her, " tant ces gens du pays sont b^tes."
She could have said, "C'est trop bon, monsieur,
pour aller au Carnaval avec vous. Mais k
quoi cela servirait-il ? They would only have
replied with some new insolence."
"It is," she added, "que les gens du pays
n'aiment que les couleurs voyantes, les robes
^carlates et tout ce qu'il y a de plus gai ; quant
aux couleurs de Paris qui sont plus distin-
gufe, ils les trouvent mesquines. Et c'est le
m6me pour les figures, ils n'aiment pas les
teints pSles, ils les admirent quand ils sont
rouges comme les pavots."
One day I found iu the kitchen a tall, very
handsome man, dressed like a gentleman, evi-
260 TWEHfTY TEARS AGO.
dently intensely conscious of his attractions,
talking in a mincing dovjcereux tone, and ap-
parently bringing his Adonis-ship to aid in
his bargaining. He came to propose selling
us butter, represented himself as k proprieixiire^
and talked a great deal about his grounds,
his horse, and himself. Honorine, who enter-
tained a hearty contempt for him, took him
off afterwards for our satisfaction, mimicked
the niais air and soft, drawling tone of his ad-
dress. "Bonjour, mademoiselle. Est-ce que
madame veut du beurre ou autre chose 1 J'ai
de bon beurre, d'ex-cel-lent beurre ;" and then,
said Honorine, disdainfully, he went on about
his "six arpents de terre, sa maison et son^jar-
din, qui ^taient magnifiques." What did that
signify? she said. " What was the good of so
many words, when he only came to talk about
himself?" I asked, was he a farmer? " No,"
she said, "il n'a achet^ une vache que pour
s'amuser." She described his manneft as "bas-
ses," his " fagon de parler grasse, comme s'il
avait du beurre ou du bouillon dans la gorge ;"
and, in spite of his " air pieux talk, as if he
were saying his prayers," she pronounced him
to have the look of an intrigant^ such as in
Paris enter one's house on some pretext and
carry off the spoons.
A FRENCH VILLAGE. 261
She was one day very indignant because M.
Charlier had given to the concierge a message
for us, which she, more delicate, did not like
to deliver, viz., that we were to gather no more
flowers, in spite of his first spontaneous prom-
ise, but be content with two very common
bouquets once a week. She declared this
" trds-petit, tr^-plat — si c'^tait k moi, ce serait
passable, mais donner de tels ordres ^ des
dames et demoiselles, les traiter comme des
enfants dans la rue — viol^ ce qu'ils sont, ces
gens — c'est ce que je n'ai jamais su ailleurs."
A slight difference one day took place with
madame la propri^taire, on occasion of her send-
ing some people, without any warning, to take
away the piano from our drawing-room, a com-
mission which the good-natured gardener and
workmen executed very unwillingly. 'The
postman was so interested that he stopped
twice as he passed the window, to look in and
repeat, " Quelle m^chancet^ !" I remonstrated
a little, not very wisely, as she was perfectly
"dans son droit;" but, behold I the tigress
started up in a moment, the French claws
were out like lightning, the eyes flashed fire,
and the voice was raised to a perfect peacock's
scream of angry self-justification. Seeing her
in this excited state, I said little or nothing.
^62 TWENTY YEAM8 AGO.
and turned quietly away, she bawling after
me, "Personne ne m'apprendra les usages!"
All this was uttered on the stairs, and was
audible all through ^the house, so unmanage-
able was the lady's enthusiasm. Soon after,
we heard her raging to her husband, her wrath
being now turned on Honorine, who had ex-
pressed her opinion the most decidedly of all,
and who now heard her say, "Attends un peu,
pendant que j 'arrange Honorine dans la cui-
sine." The latter, like a true French game-
hen, was not a bit dismayed by the prospect,
but prepared herself, with great glee and spir-
it, for an equal combat. Taking my sister
aside, she rehearsed to her what she meant to
say, with the most animated gestures and a
perfect theatrical effect, waving her arms and
throwing worlds of emphasis into her voice*
The whole was in a style of polite and cutting
irony, and wound up with a sharp hit in the
way of allusion to her guests, with the words,
" une maison si peu respectable." It was
amusing to see Honorine, who is ordinarily a
quiet and peaceable person enough, so trans-
formed. However, the great fight did not
come off; for madame had thought better of
it, and in a few hours came to our window, the
smiling, courteous little Frenchwoman once
A FRENCH VILLAGE. 2C3
more, to explain and apologize for what she
called her " vivacity Franjaise."
However, let us now pass out of the porie-
cochhre^ and find ourselves in that little rude
village street which makes up Les Eosiers. It
is highly picturesque, as the cottages are most-
ly crumbling and tumbling at every corner.
They were almost all built from the ruins of
the hunting chateaux which the noblesse in the
olden days used to occupy here, and ^re of
solid stone, roughly put together, with sloping
thatched roofs, and crumbling stone steps out-
side. Though low, they have a good deal of
extent in the way of odd ins and outs, wings,
gables, pent -houses, yards, and out -houses.
The street ends in a little place, with the
church on one side, the mairie on the other, a
large stone reservoir, and the green gates of a
maison bourgeoise, with its pretty garden, which
holds a family who are to become, though as
yet we know it not, valued friends — ^that of M.
Gerard, a pasteur of. the Protestant Church in
Paris.
The church is a plain little old building,
with a cock for vane. "Venite ad me om-
nes" is written over the porch, and beside it
are a stone Virgin and Child in a niche. The
school-house joins on to it, and next that is a
264 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
little cabaret, with a bush and a small picture
of a party drinking at a table over the door,
and a China rose blooming between the win-
dows, kept by the M6re Dubois. The mairie
is the most imposing building in the village,
but it is only a low cottage with a long white-
washed front, defaced by various old ajffkhes
half torn oflF, such as " Vente du Mobilier de
Madame Veuve," " Adjudication d'une Maison
Bourgeoise, Jardin et Cour," "Le Prefet aux
habitants de Seine-et-Oise. On r^pand k Paris
de fausses nouvelles sur I'^tat de la province ;
on doit r^pandre en province de fausses nou-
velles sur r^tat de Paris. L'^meute est siTppbi-
MEE dans la capitale; toutes les nouvelles des
D^partements sont excellentes." And again,
fresh and conspicuous over all, "Louis Na-
poleon, President de la Edpublique, au Peuple
Frangais," and then that long address of De-
cember 2.
The one or two respectable houses of this
homely little village rejoice in tiled roofs,
whitewashed walls, and persiennes, have little
gardens in front, with vines and sweet peas, a
cherry-tree or so, and vegetables enough for
themselves ; for there are none to be bought
here. Of these hoiises is the curb's, with its
gabled front and four small windows ; nothing
A FRUNCH VILLAGE. 265
can be plainer and poorer, but his garden is
well tended, and I believe he is not poor. HiS
sister has married the village tailor, and his
niece makes our dresses.
From the place a steep lane, embowered in
wild roses, brings you down to the valley, to
the somewhat large but still ipost rural village
nestling in it, with the little cabaret whence
starts the omnibus for Versailles, to the little
stream creeping through, and the aqueduct on
its smooth green ridge. At the other end of
Les Eosiers you descend by apple orchards
and sloping hay-fields, now fragrant with new-
mown grass, to the same vale. Among the
woods in the neighborhood are various farm-
houses called bouillis, and inclosed by a wall.
These in the time of Louis XIV. were all roy-
al property, and occupied by the enfants de la
couvj as they called the Due de Maine, etc.,
who were brought up there in seclusion, and
fed, as was customary, on bouilli: hence the
name.
During the first part of our stay we received
several visits for the day from Paris friends,
but as summer went on almost all departed
for foreign homes and distant tours ; and when
the last went, I thought, "And we shall spend
the next five months in one unchanged scene
266 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
of deep solitude, to behold the summer days
Due after the other rise and set over these
wooded heights and valley-meadows, to hear
the same birds' voices in the same acacia-trees,
to see the same long poplar-shadows in the
field below, to see the same gold sunsets bathe
the red rocks and the arches of the aqueduct,
to have for our daily incidents the same regu-
larly recurring tradesmen— the baker's - girl,
M^lanie, bringing the croissants^ which we have
taught them to make, at eight o'clock; the
postman, in a blue blouse, passing the window
at ten ; the boucher^ the jardinier, exchanging
good-humored words with iis, and sometimes
giving us a bouquet; to hear that regular
school-bell which gives a few solemn strokes
twice or thrice a day ; and to have, by way of
variety, an occasional visit for the day from our
proprietaires, wound up by sarcastic comments
from Honorine on their behavior and alarms
of new hcatairesr Yet such a life in so love-
ly a spot, with an under-current of dream or a
sun -touch of hope to gild its calm surface,
might have much in it for the heart ; and so
we found it.
Never shall I forget those delicious sum-
mer mornings when it was my wont to ram-
ble out before breakfast to enjoy the few cool
A FMENCH VILLAGE. 867
•
hours of the day. The known, familiar land-
scape seemed then changed into a fresh-crea-
ted paradise, bathed in its first gold dew, with
its ethereal elements not yet quite resolved
from a rich confusion of mist, lights, shadows,
and pearly liquidness, into clear and separate
form I I went down through the orchard and
the prairie (I am describing but one of these
many walks), out by a little gate that never
shuts, half hid in thick hedges, into the corner
of a small green lane leading out into the thrae
roads to diflferent villages. I passed along,
and took my way onward to a favorite knoll,
on whose grassy top all was dewy sunshine
and emerald shade, and under whose knot of
tall birch-trees I gazed down on the whole
valley. It slept below, pillowed on woods,
with wreaths of bright, vague mist softly hang-
ing over it, the aqueduct at one end shining
boldly out, in the middle rich meadows, pop-
lar-bounded, the big village looking only like
a few houses pressed together in the centre of
the valley, and a delicate dream of blue dis-
tance between woods and rocks closing up the
prospect. In the flood of pale translucent
turquoise above, that slowly deepened into
solid sapphire, the little snowy spot of moon
still hung, but white and evanescent as a dy-
'3» TWENTY TEARS AOO.
iDg fiice ; there was a soft stir in the air like
the poise of momiDg life.
Bat soands are beginning to wake up
around, like the tinkling of small bells, ring-
ing the world back to life and business — ^the
birds with laughing, whispering, screwing, or
bubbling notes ; the creaking of cart-wheels,
the whetting of scythes ; the voices here and
there of the hay-makers, or of the women and
children watching the cows, secured as usual
by a string. These animals belong to differ-
ent owners, and are generally stall-fed, though
allowed for a few hours in the day to graze
in the field of some richer proprietaire. I talk
to their keepers (they have to be guarded, be-
cause mostly there are no fences or hedges to
French fields) and hear the praises of the beUes
vacfws, and admire the gay groups of the
younger ones that run about pursuing the
more self-willed of the charges over the dewy,
sunny prairie-slopes, while others sit in the
shade eating their breakfast. Eosalie, a poor
folle, kindly treated by all, who fancies she too
is tending cows, is always to be found here,
with wild looks and grotesque attire. As a
proof of her /oZ^'e,. she wears a bonnet, actually
the only one in the village : a strange, sun-
burnt, shapeless thing it is. Kow she stands
A FMENCff VILLAGE, 269
and calls to me, triumphantly waving a thick
leafy sapling-stem like a sceptre.
It is pleasant, as one "takes one's walk
abroad," to exchange friendly words with
these peasantry. An old woman will discuss
flowers with us, and talk of those which are
most "distingufe," and how we remind her of
an English lady who was alone in the pension
last year, and spent all her time in solitary
walks, searching for wild flowers. The old
goat-herd, as I pass down the wide pastures
and look at his two beautiful white goats, the
only objects breaking those shining slopes,
smiles and says, "Vous faites votre promenade
de bonne heure, mademoiselle I" Even the
pretty little boy, of four or five, who sleeps
curled up under a hay-stack, opens his blue
eyes with that sweet, doubtful smile which
takes the heart captive, and warbles out,
" Bonjour, madame !"
On this occasion I explored a new way, and
arrived at a certain cottage, a lonely, aban-
doned, poetic cottage, which stands on its own
knoll of green sward, in its own circle of trees,
and among its own meadows, so charmingly
situated, but so hopelessly forsaken, and to
which there seems no possible access till one
has found a,nd followed the scarcely visible
270 TWENTY TEARS AQO.
track upward, and come close to it. A light
white garden-gate, left neglectedly open, and a
green walk, lead to the cottage ; a superb wal-
nut-tree and Spanish chestnut embower it ; a
vine grows on one of the walls, its neglected
grapes fast ripening. Closed windows, barred
doors, grass-grown court, a blank look, and
signs of growing disrepair, speak of the sixteen
years it has been left thus. It stands so close
on the brow of the hill it looks as if a touch
would push it down into the vale, whose beau-
tiful secrets it seems leaning over to behold.
In a hollow below I once saw a girl tending
two cows — the nymph of the solitude. I ac-
' costed her* She had a sweet little piquante
face, with the usual grave, plaintive expression
of young womanhood here ; her large brown-
black eyes were full of grave, latent passion,
like the eyes of a mulatto ; but her voice had
a clear, young music in it, and her replies were
cheerful. She was fourteen years old; her
name, Louise Mouly; she was servant to M.
Deschamps, a farmer at Les Hosiers, and kept
his two cows here from early morn till night-
fall, her mistress assisting her to tend them in
the morning, and to drive them in at dusk.
Adieu, then, Louise Mouly ; pursue, as yet, in
innocent solitude, your life of pastoral duty;
A FRENCH VILLAOR 271
some day your cows will be left to stray,
while those eyes of still flame talk with other
eyes.
But the sun grows high and hot, and I re-
turn home up the hill through a hay-field, and
by a narrow, romantic, red, stony path, hidden
under the great branching arms of some most
noble marronniers (horse-chestnuts). There,
again, led now by the old man's wife through
clustering honeysuckles, are the white goat
and its beautiful snowy kid, that leaps over
the young shrubs and butts at its mother. I
admire it much, and the old woman concludes
that there were no goats in England. The
good old man (of ninety) apologizes for not
hearing quite well.
As I approached the hamlet I remembered
that I wanted some poppies to complete a
bouquet of wild flowers I was painting; and
seeing some in a corn-field just above the road,
I entered it, and made two steps into the wheat
to secure my spoil. Sudcienly a voice called
'* Mademoiselle !" and up started, as it seemed
from the ground, a white-bearded, stooping old
peasant, who told me that I must not walk in
the corn, that it did a great deal of harm, that
the proprieiaire would be very angry, etc. I
made all sorts of apologies, pointed out that I
272 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
had done no damage, and went my way. In
our own grounds I found the workmen, con-
versing in some excitement about something
or other, and soon learned that the subject of
discourse was that the garde • champStre had
caught mademoiselle in the corn, and was
about to make a proch-verbal about it, and
have her fined. We consulted M. Charlier,
and found, to our surprise, that, instead of be-
ing a mere extortion, the whole proceeding
was perfectly justifiable by law. The garde-
champitre is a sort of public oflEicer, as much
so, he said, as a gendarme^ paid by the com-
munity to guard all their fields ; that a single
step off the path is a trespass, which the garde
is bound to report ; and that it is at the own-
er's choice to exact what sum he thinks prop-
er, or "faire dresser un proofs-verbal" — that
is, lodge a complaint at the Cour de la Justice,
and summon the offender to stand his trial.
Though a suit might have been very amusing,
especially if one Ijad appeared one's self, in-
stead of paying an avocat, yet, as it was not
quite worth the trouble and expense, I con-
sented to pay the amende, M. Charlier prom-
ised to persuade the injured owner to be mod-
erate in his demand, and in due time the garde-
champetre appeared with a dirty bit of paper.
A FRENCH VILLAGE, 273
on which M, B^dard had made an ill- spelt
statement that I owed him fifty sous.
No doubt the excessive rigor with which
property is guarded in France has its justifica-
tion. The land is uninclosed, and the majori-
ty of proprietors ^e poor, depending wholly
on those few acres for their subsistence, so that
injury is very easily done, and would be se-
verely felt. It is against law even to step off
the public path to gather a flower at all in a
field; to pluck a single ear subjects one to
a two-francs fine. So it seems I was quite
"dans mon tort." The same penalties await
the walking in a hay-field before it is mown ;
if, after it is mown, the owner means to get a
second crop off it, he sticks up a bundle of
straw and a piece of wood in one corner. If
this warning is unseen or disregarded, the in-
evitable garde-champ^ire^ and the fine or the
proc^-verbalj follow.
This incident seemed a pleasing excitement
in our small world. M. Charlier, who, I think,
enjoyed it the most, praised the liberality of
the man in not insisting on the proch-verhal,
and told us some little stories of his own suf-
ferings by the law — how that once he had a
horse who got loose from the servant, and ate
some grass by the side of the path, which,
274 TWENTY YEARS AGO. .
however, as M. Charlier saw, it, did not ouce
leave, yet, threatened with a proch, he paid at
once five francs to escape it. Also, how that
one day driving to Versailles he bought a lit-
tle pig by the way, put it for convenience into
his carriage, and drove on into the town.
Thereupon a clamor arose, his carriage was
surrounded, and the octroi duty demanded for
the little grunter; he refused to pay, was
charged with attempting to cheat the law, his
carriage and horse were seized, and he had to
walk home, and pay finally double the price
of his pig.
Having told these cheerful stories, he wound
up by adding, with his oiliest smile — ^probably
by way of revenge for the two or three roses
we have taken from his garden — " Vous voyez,
mademoiselle, ce que c'est que de cueillir ctes
fleurs — les coquelicots content cher — hein?"
and then he laughed playfully.
So I, with* my noble Anglican spirit, said
" I did not imagine people would be so hard
on a demoiselle who did not know the law, and
had done no mischief. A Frangaise would not
be treated so in England ;" whereat he laugh-
ed still more.
Next morning, as I returned from my usual
walk, the gardener cheerfully accosted me
A FRENCH VILLAGE. 275
with " Eh bien, mademoiselle, vous ^tiez done
attrapp^e hier — n'est-ce pas ?"
The cur6, who called soon after, treated the
affair as a mere extortion, and said the man
was a vieux ivrogne^ who only wanted some-
thing to drink — "voil^!" The thing is also
condemned in the village on a chivalrous
point of view, and a message was sent to me
by one of its inhabitants, that he was very
sorry I had been so treated, " pour le credit de
la France," and that he hoped I would come
and gather as many flowfers from his garden
as I liked.
This resulted in a visit from Sibyl and me
to the peasant-proprietor, who is quite a great
man in his way, and is no other than M. Lan-
glois, the master-mason, whom M. Charlier em-
ploys. The visit was originated by Honorine,
who accompanied us; she delights in being
associated with our doings, and is always ea-
ger to take us about and introduce us to her
friends. The house is a solid, picturesque
stone cottage, whose entrance and exterior
would be considered shabby in England,
though the proprietors are rich and have
taken pains to make themselves comfortable ;
but good building, at least good finishing off,
seems a thing unknown in French country-
278 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
life. We entered through a low dark door,
by a passage darker still, then through a low,
large empty room where cider is made, and
emerged into a good-sized garden 'at the back,
with plenty of fruits, vegetables, and nice flow-
ers, and a beautiful view over the valley.
Madame told us with pride that it was kept
up entirely by her son, who, as he worked
with his father on M. Charlier's grounds, had
only an hour or two in the early morning or
the late evening to devote to it The young
man presently appei^red, and blushed his mod-
est pleasure at our praise of his labors, though
only venturing now and then to join with a
word or two in the conversation. He is about
twenty years old, tall and slight, and has a
charming face, with something of the sweet-
ness and modesty of a girl's expression, a fem-
inine gentleness of manner, and withal so
good, true, and simple a look, that one can not
imagine any thing but innocence in the soul
within. I have not unfrequently met this
type among the peasant-boys here, a delicate,
almost Eaffaelesque beauty of feature, with an
equally beautiful expression.
The good woman then showed us over all
her premises; her husband bought the place
sixteen years ago, and they made it, garden
A FRENCH VILLAGE 277
and al], entirely themselves. ' When I asked
her if she was fond of it, she said that to her
there was no such place in the world I They
have, besides, six arpents de terre^ consisting of
a meadow whence they get hay, and which
is full of fine old apple-trees, used for cider.
This they sell in large quantities, and make a
great profit by ; it is the only article of their
produce that they sell. She insisted on our
tasting her cider, which is very goo^
After this we went into the yard, inspecting
the nice clean greniers^ fragrant with hay, and
full of the great wooden vessels, pails, and bar-
rels used for cider-making and other purposes.
Then we went to the cow-house, and admired
a very beautiful creature, cream-colored, some-
thing like an Alderney, but large and vigor-
ous. It was stall-fed, as is the custom here,
being turned out only for an hour or twp in
the day. All these concerns — garden, cider-
press, cow, and farm -yard — are managed by
the indefatigable son, who winds up his. day
with the accounts. The drawing-room (never
used) and the best bedroom were also shown
us ; these were furnished as in the houses of
the gentry, especially the latter, which was in
fact the real sitting-room.
We parted with many mutual politenesses,
278 TW£:iTY TEARS AGO.
and much pleasure ou our parts at this glimpse
of a character unknown in England — the
peasant -proprietor, completely a peasant, yet
wealthy, possessed of all the comforts consist-
ent with his social position, and not aspiring to
more. The good woman herself was dressed
like the hmnbl^i paysanne ; the handkerchief
coiffure^ the loose body quite untrimmed, the
short bed-gown petticoat, blue stockings, and
coarse shogs — all of the plainest cut and tex-
ture, and all, though not unbecoming to youth,
bloom, and a light figure, seemingly made to
show off the advances of age.
One day we performed a very necessary but
rather rare expedition ; we went shopping to
Versailles. We took the omnibus to go there,
and returned walking in the cool of the even-
ing. We went down to the Bon Coin Al-
lardjs, the little cabaret at the bottom of the
lane, to await the small yellow omnibus which,
announced by its horn as it came winding
along the shady road from Montbrun, rattled
up to the cabaret, with its crimson curtain
and its one gray horse, and its good-humored,
good-looking, stammering conducteur. There
stepped in with us another party, who quickly
attracted our notice. It consisted of an elder-
ly gentleman and a pretty, graceful girl of sev-
A FRENCH VILLAGE. 279
enteen, evidently his daughter. Sibyl talked
with the father, I with the young girl, who
strongly took my fancy. How charming she
was in her fresh youth, the fair face and its
happy, serene smile, the neat girlish toilet, of
which the fancy -straw bonnet, coquettishly
lined with pink, set off her. clear colorless com-
plexion, and the bouquet of flowers she held
in her hand. I began admiring it, which at-
tention she took very prettily, and said, smil-
ing, she should tell her Paris friends, to whom
she was bringing it, " qu'on avait admir6 son
bouquet." Among her roses was a York arid
Lancaster rose, of which I told her the English
name, and, presuming on a natural ignorance
of our history, was explaining its origin, when
she at once rejoined, "Oui, la guerre des
Koses." So I guessed, and accurately, too,
that she had been well brought up by careful
and intelligent parents.
Sibyl meanwhile had discovered that these
were our neighbors in the place, the G^rards,
and that they meant to call on us. The fa-
ther, an earnest and conscientious man, and
liberal theologian, was, as I have said, a Prot-
estant clergyman of Paris. Though the little
house here belonged to them, and they come
to it for the summer, so much of their time
280 TWENTY YEABB AGO.
was spent in Paris that our intercourse with
them proved fitful and irregular, though al-
ways pleasant.
We entered Versailles, stopped at the Ave-
nue de la Mairie, and spent two hours shop-
ping in the Eue Satory. It is a great, unat-
tractive place, this Versailles, with its wide,
hard, stony, and sandy thoroughfares, mostly
at faultless right angles with each other; its
glare of white buildings, in which long dull
barracks predominate; its want of life, of well-
dressed people, and carriages — this aspect of
straight uniformity being but little relieved by
the formal avenues of trees which intersect it.
The whole looks like a military town provided
with shops only for the use of the garrison.
There is not in the whole place an object of
interest that I can discover, except the Cha-
teau and the Trianon. It strikes one, too,
how very few people there are in a town built
for 30,000 inhabitants ; all looks dull and
empty and fine. Finally we leave it by the
Eue Chantier, a long, rough, ill-paved, detest-
able street, where one sees nothing but detach-
ed magasins of the least engaging sort — re-
mises, stables, timber-yards, marchandise de vin,
de tahac, etc. — with constant gaps filled by
mere waste places.
A FMENCH VILLAGE, 281
But, once past th^Barri^re, we soon find our-
selves in the forest- way home, which consists
of a pleasant walk of forty minutes through
the Bois de Gouarts, with shade above us all
the way — long vistas before and on each side
of the wider wood-walks cut like green ribbons
through the trees. At first we avoided the
temptation of those narrow paths, that seem
stealing secretly away to some green paradise
that they alone know of; but now that we
have metered the geography of this wood, we
fearlessly follow them, diving up and down'
between banks of fern, moss, and heath, with
many an aromatic dry wood -scent, golden-
broken bits of sunshine, and islands of the li-
lac-blushing west at intervals. Besides, if we
became bewildered, there was, to reassure and
direct us, the ^fitoile — ^a great open grassy cir-
cle in the middle of the forest, from which di-
verge ten green roads like spokes of a wheel,
with the obelisk-like guide-post in the middle,
covered all round with the names of Buc, Bou-
lie, Monteuil, etc. And all the way the black-
caps sang out deliciously, as if proud to have
the woods to themselves, with no real nightin-
gales to moct their imitation, or as if minded
to make their last songs their best. And the
cuckoo, whose pertinacious voice is heard ev-
28S TWE2fTY YJCABS AGO.
QTj day through rain and shine, who began the
first, and has survived the nightingale and all
the brief passionate joys of spring, unchanged
amidst all these changes, goes on with those
two passionless notes of his that seem repeat-
ing " Life is very weary." But patience, poor
dull cuckoo! another year, and better times
will come yet.
FRIENDS AND FETES, 288
CHAPTEE XIII.
FRIENDS AND FETES.
THE Gdrards paid their promised visit, and
thus began an acquaintance which was to
become a happy friendship. The young Lu-
cile accompanied her father on the first call,
and, with her bright face looking out from the
large straw hat and its blue ribbons, resembled
(I must use French words to describe a French
girl) a petite rose des huissons haignee de rosie.
She had charming manners, not at all shy, and
full of vivacity, but fresh and natural as possi-
ble, and marked by a modest grace. Her eyes
and mouth talked in smiles, and her fresh
young voice joined to them the music of lively
words. She brought me a pretty bouquet, be-
cause I had admired the one she had with her
in the omnibus. She looked like one secure
of a happy future, giving as much to hope as
she can spare from a sunny present.
From this time our intercourse became fre-
quent and easy ; we drank tea at each other's
houses, and made acquaintance with an elder
married daughter, who was less of a graceful
284 TWENTY TEAMS AGO,
vision than Lucile, but had plenty of character
and brain. In one of our visits I learned that
M. Gerard had an ardent desire for his daugh-
ter to learn English, and had promised her a
visit to England when she could speak and
understand it tolerably. I gladly offered my
services as instructress, and was accepted ; but
he doubted her fulfilling the conditions: "EUe
6tait trop nigaude."
" EUe en a bien Fair," said Sibyl, laughing
and looking at her ; she confirmed her father's
statement in words, while her speaking face
and beaming eyes laughed an animated con-
tradiction.
From this time forth for many weeks it was
an almost daily pleasure to see the tall, elegant,
girlish form come in at three o'clock through
the south garden, in her white* muslin jacket,
her pretty hat on her head or in her hand,
then enter the drawing-room and stand grace-
ful and womanly while she did the first cere-
monial salutations, being always carefully po-
lite, like a true Franqaise. Then I put up
my painting materials, put on my hat, and we
wandered out to our favorite resort at the top
of the prairie. Here we sat under the great
walnut-tree, and did our lesson most conscien-
tiously, Lucile pleasantly distorting her pretty
FRIENDS AND FETES, . 285
little mouth in the painful task of repeating
our harsh verbs. My system was of a very
easy, accommodating sort ; instead of crushing
my pupil at the outset with grammar, syntax,
and exercises, I took a light, conversational
book, made her read first in English as a
conversation-lesson, then translate it word by
word into French; then I questioned about
the words in each sentence, and when she
went home, with the help of a dictionary she
wrote out the whole lesson in French, and
brought it to me the next day to correct. My
method answered so far that the parents as-
sured me Lucile would never have got on so
well with any one else. I was, indeed, pleased
with her progress. "But wait," I thought;
" this is but the outset, and we are in the
country, and there are no f^tes, no dances, to
disturb her mind; we must not be too san-
guine."
We were very conscientious, as I said, in
doing our lessons, but that left plenty of time
to talk, and plenty of talk accordingly we had ;
my sister often joined us, and we made a mer-
ry trio, spending the time in playful quarrels,
long discussions, curious inquiries about man-
ners and customs, and a good deal of innocent
village commerage. On all these subjects Lu-
286 TWENTY TEAMS A&O,
cile talked with bright intelligence ; she was, I
found, by no means fenced in with that passive
infantine ignorance generally imposed on de-
moiselles of her age. She was, however, very
carefully shielded from harm, her reading
strictly supervised, her society limited and
selected, and, indeed, her whole talking and
thinking was pure as a stream running over
pebbles.
Sometimes Lucile was pleasantly rallied on
various youthful qualities ; once, when she was
rq^ding to us from Dumas's " M^moires," the
following sentence occurred: "Je soupgonne
fort la curieuse de dix-sept ans d'avoir col\6
son visage blond et rose centre la porte pour
entendre la conversation." Sibyl maliciously
interposed, "Take notice, mademoiselle — la
curieuse de dix-sept ans."
" D'abord, madame," she answered, with vi-
vacity, "j'ai 'honneur de vous avertir que
j'avais" hier dix-huit ans, et puis — ^mais oui, je
suis un peu curieuse, U faut Tavouer."
Sometimes I rallied Lucile on her idleness,
my pleasantries being, as may be supposed, of
the most soft and stingless description; but
she would defend herself smartly, and appeal
from n^e to madame, the moderator and medi-
ator, who, as she said, was always anxious that
FMIENDS AND FETES. 387
no one should be hurt, and took care to inter-
pret every thing in her favor. Dear little Lu-
cilel who in good earnest could hurt her?
But certainly Sibyl came nearer to the aimahle
French type than I, who must have presented
a great contrast to that same type, in the true
English girl that I then was, with the timidity
often carried to gaucherie, the anxious self-con-
sciousness, the abrupt sincerity and wild tastes,
the whole earnest, sometimes harsh, sometimes
interesting individuality. Lucile, with all her
artless sweetness, had in her the germ of the
charming finished woman of the world.
After all, I had not been more severe on her
than I had .upon one to whom, during these
village f^tes, our attention had been directed,
as one of the best and steadiest, as well as the
handsomest, young men of the place — Hip-
polyte Langlois, now at work both at the G6-
rards' and our house. She told me how one
day she and her sister, with a great parade of
application, took their chairs and their books
and work out on the lawn, but after an hour
or so*s apparent studiousness all they got by it
was that this young ouvrieT called out in an
innocent manner to his fellow- workmen, "Dites
done, Maurice, n'est-ce pas une belle chose que
la faineantise bien pratiquee?"
288 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
Just now this young village wit is, as I said,
an object of interest to us, on account of the
f(§tes which are beginning at Les Rosiers, and
of which"^ our respective bonnes^ Honorine and
Louise, are the most distinguished ornamenta*
We sympathize warmly with their dresses and
their successes, and, like grave and experi-
enced chaperonnes^ discuss the characters and
fortunes of their admirers.
The fSte, for which all the world is now pre-
paring, is that of St. Eustache, the patron saint
of our little church, and is the most important
in the year except the F6te-Dieu, which took
place in June. There will be a grande messe
in the morning, with a ball in the evening;
our proprietaires have invited a number of
people for that week, and the dignity of the
church proceedings will be enhanced by the
presence of the Archbishop of Chalcedoine —
in what partibus infidelium situated my geog-
raphy books do not inform me, but I conclude
Asia Minor — who is come to stay with M.
le Curd
The said cur^ called one afternoon, his ob-
ject' being to borrow a crimson cushion for use
in the church of monseigneur the archbishop.
The prelate is a Smyrniote by birth, and has
a negro servant whom he bought in the slave-
FRIENDS AND FETES. 989
market of Smyrna, and whose face is marked
with three scars, inflicted by his mother at his
birth, which, it seems, is the fashion of the boys
of the tribe to which he belonged. The cur^
is a meek little man, whose relations are among
the peasantry of the village, his niece having
married the village tailor. We see his small,
straight, black figure from time to time steal-
ing along our garden walks, through the
trees, and sometimes into the house, with the
stealthy quietness of his class. The gliding,
black-robed form looks strange to us Protest-
ants ; but I perfectly acquit this peaceable lit-
tle priest of any designs towards our conver-
sion or destruction. The Sunday before the
f<§te we had a business visit from M. le Bedeau
(beadle), M. le Maire, and M. le Tailleur. Their
object was to collect a new black coat for the
beadle — not before it is wanted, as I can testi-
fy. He came humbly in a blouse, and there-
fore did not present the petition himself, that
being appropriately done by the tailor.
But our chief interest at present is about the
toilet of our Honorine for the evening dance,
which is a grand event in her quiet, contented,
hard-working life. And here we can not help
noticing that a change has gradually been
coming over her. In spite of her Parisian
T
290 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
scorn for the paysans^ there is one blouse
whom I had early noticed as more frequently
than the others passing our drawing-room to
the kitchen on errands that seem to me some-
what frivolous, who stays longer, at parting
repeats more often, and in softer tones, the
" Bonjour, mademoiselle " — a blouse whom, in
short, as Sibyl expresses it, she has found too
blue for her peace. The symptoms are, she
now wears constantly her best dress, and that
lace cap, with its coquette ribbons, for which
she paid six francs; and sometimes, like us,
she has a tea-rose in her band, when, her day's
work done, she wanders about the garden with
the white kitten in her arms. Also I meet
her on the stairs, too deeply preoccupied to
see me, moving without her usual buoyant ac-
tivity ; and when I rally her on her " air s^-
rieux," she can only repeat, hurriedly, " Mais,
mademoiselle ; je pensais." I connect all this
with the secret excitement, veiled in laughter,
with which she told me of " deux messieurs "
in the village who had engaged her as a part-
ner for this f(§te a month beforehand. The
person whom I suspect is of course Hippolyte
Langlois, the peasant-proprietor's son : at any
rate, he is always the person meant when she
speaks casually of " un jeune monsieur," and
FRIENDS AND FETES. 291
is certainly a legitimate object of attraction.
It is proudly told of him that at the conscrip-
tion three years ago he was drawn, and bought
off at the unusally high sum of one thousand
three hundred francs, on account of his supe-
rior physical qualifications; this shows, too,
his value to his family.
Well, we questioned Honorine about her toi-
let, and found she had nothing but an old,
faded, pink cotton gown, and was too econom-
ical to buy another. So we have done our
best to make her helle^ by buying a very pret-
ty gay blue print, that looks like muslin, and
gives her great satisfaction ; and the curb's
niece is set to work at once to make it up.
Likewise I gave her a commission to Versailles
to* get herself small additional items ; she is so
grateful and easily satisfied that it is a pleas-
ure to help her.
The great day of the f<§te began, unfortu-
nately, with pouring rain, much, I fear, to the
detriment of the chateau arrangements {we are
the chateau, I should observe). These, how-
ever, have gone on with great bustle and ener-
gy all the day ; servants, gardeners, workmen,
pass our windows every moment, carrying
down the materials for a grand dinner in the
billiard -house on the second terrace, where,
20e TWESTT TEARS AGO.
fortunatelj for uSj the rerels are to be held.
First, oar great dining-table is borrowed ; then
the UDJostlj seized piano is hauled down
through the soaking rain, and a confusion of
French voices raised to their highest pitch.
From time to time carriages drive in, and dis-
charge ladies in gay dresses, prepared for a
holiday in the country. M. and Madame
Charlier, en grande tenue, equal to the occasion,
and apparently in the highest spirits, pass to
and fro, and civilly ask us to join their party
at tea, which we civilly decline, having a bet-
ter fete in view — that of the villagers in the
Place.
The village, too, is getting on with its prepa-
rations for the grande messe and the f(Ste. The
former was preceded by a procession of chil-
dren, the first sign of which was in the garden-
er's cottage, which, I should mention, has now
new occupants, as our musical and choleric
friend has been dismissed, and a good old
couple with a pretty little son and daughter
installed instead. I looked in, and found the
mother putting the last touches to little Au-
gustine's toilet, as she was to join the proces-
sion. The white garland which was to crown
her was hanging up ; I tried it on for a mo-
ment, which produced a burst of delighted
FRIENDS AND FETES. 293
laughter from all present, even the gardener
joining, as they declared "Mademoiselle va
se marierl" and explained that it was a bridal
wreath. The gardener's wife showed me her
own bridal bouquet of white flowers, and
wreath of orange -buds, kept under a glass
case, and said, "Quand Augustine se mariera,
si le bon Dieu le permette, elle portera une
couronne et un bouquet comme 9a." Then
she began with great animation telling me
about village weddings : the/^fes des noces last
two days ; dancing is kept up till four o'clock
in the morning. She promised to inform me
when next a wedding takes place, that we
may see it.
Meanwhile, Augustine's toilet was finished ;
and very pretty the little thing looked, in her
fresh white frock of cambric muslin, with her
smooth golden-brown hair wreathed with white
flowers, and her little feet in tiny gray boots.
She held in her hand a basket of roses, whicli
her mother was showing her how to fling, as
she would have to do ; and she, first a little
pale with timidity, then blushing as we looked
at her and praised her dress, flew off like a
little bird to the church. I staid a moment
to finish the chat with the jardini^re^ Augus-
tine having joined the party, as well, as the
2W TWENTY TEARS AGO.
little boy Alexandre, in his blouse, still pret-
tier than his sister, who listened with evident
enjoyment to the conversation. They were all
at full laughing and screaming pitch ; the jar-
dinih^e, honest woman ! has a particularly good-
humored unmusical cackle.
I followed to the church with Honorine, and
found the village preparing for the great event
— that is to say, suspending clean sheets on a
line by wooden pegs, just as if it were wash-
ing-day, all along the street. Some of the
sheets had a rose or a bunch of sweet peas
stuck into the middle of them, but that was
all.
We found the little church gayer and pret-
tier than we had expected, with flowers, pic-
tures, candles, and crucifixes, and the little
girls in white seated in order. There stood
the cur^ at. the altar, in his chasuble of crim-
son brocade, with a great gold cross down his
*back ; and the Archbishop of Chalcedoine sat
beside the altar, in his cope of purple watered
silk, with his face darkened by Southern suns,
his gleaming good-humored eyes, his portly
figure, and a fine diamond ring. And there
was the hedeau in the new coat to which we
had contributed our mite.
There was chanting of the howling descrip-
FRIENDS AND^ FETES. 295
tion, a short prdne, and the usual ceremonies,
done more gorgeously in Paris churches, the
young choristers, in red and white costume,
chanting, flinging the censer, ringing the bell,
bearing tapers, which it was pretty to see the
little ones trying in vain to hold upright. At
last the procession moved forth, three priests
carrying the Host, whose crimson canopies
were decked at each corner with paper cut to
look like plumes, the priests' dresses looking
like bedroom curtains cut up into copes and
stoles, and their faces certainly not ideal. A
man in black and white yobes, and spectacles,
performed the chanting in fearful wise. Then
followed the twelve white -robed little girls,
throwing flowers, and I observed little Augus-
tine looking first carefully at the others, to see
how they did it. At one or two stations, or
reposoirs as they are jcalled, the train stopped
and knelt, the white muslins taking care not
to spoil their freshness, and only pretending to
kneel.
At two o'clock came the ceremony of carry-
ing round the gdieau, made of pain benit A
separate one is carried to each house ; but, as
it is merely looked at and paid for, it is, I sup-
pose, only a way of raising contributions for
the Church. The office of carrying round the
396 TWENTY YEAJtS AGO.
cake is eagerly sought for by the young men,
who make a great deal of amusement out of it.
This time the cake, which, in consideration of
our religious scruples, was not blessed before
it was brought to us, was carried by the young
mason in full dress, blushing a great deal, and
Honorine of course stood by us, conscious and
interested.
At half.past eight in the evening Honorine
went to her f(§te, accompanied, at her request,
by us. We could not persuade her to go ear-
lier, as she was determined to finish all her
work for us, and get our tea ready first She
wore her gay blue print, in all its first gloss
and freshness, with short hanging sleeves and
lace cuffs, a nice steel brooch, yellow silk
gloves, a handkerchief which I perfumed for
her witb eau-de-cologne, neat gray brodequins,
and her dark hair beautifully done, with its
plaited coils behind and its smooth braids in
front. We eyed her all over, and agreed that
the right effect had been produced. She look-
ed fresh and well-dressed without being fine,
and her pleased, modest looks were in keep-
ing. Her personal attractions, besides, are
youth, health, a fresh complexion, and anima-
ted eyes.
So we set out for the place where the tent
FlUENDa AND FETES. 297
had been put up. The ground was laid with
planks, benches were set all round, lamps hung
from the ceiling, and some thirty people col-
lected and dancing quadrilles — ^the only dance
practiced by French country people — 'to very
lively airs from a double-bass, cornet-jt-piston,
and violin.
The young mason, who seemed to act as
steward, met us at the entrance ; he was dress-
ed like a gentleman, and so did not look quite
so well as in his blue blouse. He spoke to
Honorine, his long -engaged partner, but her
lateness caused him to be engaged with sev-
eral others already. We found our way to a
bench, and for some time she had to sit still
with us ; I was in pain for her, lest the only
two partners she had secured should fail her,
and all her nice toilet and her happy isxpecta-
tions come to nothing. In time she too began
to look a little anxious, as the dance grew gay-
er and more strenuous, and more people drop-
ped in, but no partner appeared.
In the mean while, I must confess, the dan-
cing was more lively than elegant, the usual
step being a galop, with various attitudes and
additions not recognized in salons, and some-
times breaking into a decided romp. The
women were generally neat, though not pretty
298 TWENTY YEARS AGO,
(even the good-looking ones here so soon grew
hard - favored) ; some were in flounced clear
muslin with sashes, but most in light-colored
indienne and percaline. They were generally
very quiet : a few, who made themselves con-
spicuous, came, I was told, from Paris and Ver-
sailles. The men danced with their hats on
(lest in that mixed assemblage there might be
some unscrupulous characters), in good time,
executing their steps very carefully, and with
great energy, but with an entire absence of
lightness and grace. They rushed, stamped,
kicked, and figured about till the effect was
perfectly grotesque.
At last, to my joy, the long quadrille Was
ended; there was a rest. Another began to
form, and then the tall young Hippolyte ap-
proaches, takes off* his hat, makes a low bow,
and murmurs a few words with the respectful
empressement of French gallantry. He offers
his arm ; Honorine is too shy or too pleased
to say any thing ; but she blushes and smiles,
and is led off, looking modestly happy. And
now I am at leisure to notice the rest, and chat
over balls in general, and this in particular,
with the thre^ Gerard ladies, who have just
come in.
Among the spectators was the archbishop's
FMIENDS^ AND FETES. 299
negro servant, whom the old women of the
village facetiously called M. le Blanc ; he stood
up tall, conspicuously black, and even more
conspicuously ugly. He was very much at
his ease, talking and playing the fine gentle-
man. They offered to introduce him to a
damsel in want of a partner, but he answered
magnificently, " Soyez tranquilles ; je ne veux
pas danser," and continued his discourse. Then
there was a demi'monsieur^ as Lucile with much
disapprobation pronounced him,mustached and
bearded, with a gold chain, full of airs, and
dancing disagreeably — probably a Paris com-
mis-marchand. M. le Tailleur was there, tall
and large, in a gray wide-awake, and gray coat
and trowsers, as his manner is, dancing very
joyously, and a great deal with his pretty lit-
tle wife. I watched to see how Honorine per-
formed, and soon recognized her, looking all
modest, natural reserve, dancing quietly and
well, and no way conspicuous, save for good
behavior. I was amused, in the intervals of
the dances, to see the young men whispering
and flirting, and admiring their partner's bou-
quets, just as they do in salons. But the pret-
tiest sight was that of half a dozen children,
Augustine among them, in the white frocks of
the morning, and their pretty little caps, dan-
300 TWENTY YEARS AGO,
cing in the glee of their heart spontaneous
dances invented by themselves.
Mademoiselle Lucile has, as she owns, the
true French passion for dancing. She was
never regularly taught till last winter, though
her sister and she had learned the polka step
merely from seeing it once danced by bears on
the stage. I complimented her on the distin-
guished grace she must have acquired from
\iQT professeur^ M. TOurs. She has not yet been
to any balls, and indeed at seventeen there is
time before her.
We went away when the room grew hot,
and the dancing furious. Honorine returned
at two o'clock, after an evening of much suc-
cess, having danced four times with the youDg
mason, besides having promised two others for
the next evening, which was to close the fSte.
She highly disapproved of the manners of the
town importations, and said she never went
to 'public balls at Paris because of these mau-
vaises habitudes^ which there could not be es-
caped from.
Some time after the f6te of St. Eustache,
Honorine told us of a hal de noces that was to
take place in the village. The occasion was
the marriage of Mndemoiselle Allard, daughter
to tfie auhergiste of L'fitoile du Nord, to an ar-
FMIENDS AND FBTE8, 801
chitect of Paris. The bride, who has delighted
Honorine and Louise with a special invitation,
is a pretty girl of eighteen ; she has had many
offers, but prefers this one, and has made, we
are told, a regular love-match, that wonder and
joy of all French female hearts. Now came
a toilet anxiety; at a wedding ••ball it is cfe
rigueuT for a demoiselle to wear white muslin.
Honorine is too good a Frenchwoman to think
of violating the convenances; but she has no
white muslin dress, and no time to buy and
make up one. I consulted Mademoiselle G^
rard, and resolved to do what she proposed for
Louise — to lend a muslin skirt for the occa-
sion. Never was offer 4nore welcome, or more
gratefully accepted, Honorine explaining, with
true French tact, that the invitation was a com-
pliment to us^ as they scarcely knew her, and
she wished to do us credit on the occasion.
But, alas ! next day came a letter summon-
ing Honorine to her dying mother in Picardy.
It was dictated by the poor woman, and was
as follows :
" Ma chbre Fillb, — ^Je te souhaite le bon-
jour et en m6me temps pour m'informer de ta
sant^. Quant k moi, il faut me lever k deux
et me coucher £t deux ; voil^ quinze jours que
302 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
cela m'a pris. Ma pauvre fiUe, je suis dans
une triste position. Ma pauvre Honorine, si
tu voulais venir me voir avant de mourir, cela
me ferait un plaisir sensible, surtout, ma pau-
vre fille, je voudrais te voir avant de mourir,
car je suis dans une triste position. Bien h.
te dire pour le moment que des compliments ;
surtout, ma fille, viens, je t'en supplie.
"Josephine Eosier."
So here ended poor Honorine's expected
fSte ; she went off tearful but quiet, thinking
of us, and arranging things for us, even amidst
the hurry of her departure. Lucile candidly
wished that the letter tad come a day later,
that the poor girl might have had her ball
first, especially as Louise, unless she can get
some other companion, will not go. French-
women of all classes are, it appears, exceeding-
ly particular about proper chaperonage.
On coming in from a walk we were invited
by Madame Allard to step in and see the wed-
ding dinner and the bride. The latter was
seated at a little table apart, with the bride-
groom, his friend, and her demoiselle cChonneur,
while at the large table they were singing
songs. She looked pretty in her bridal dress,
as well as extremely frightened.
FRIENDS AND FETES. 303
Honorine came back in a day or two in
mourning, for her mother was dead. She was
mucH subdued, and had lost all vivacity of
manner, but she set to work in her usual in-
defatigable way*
The first subject in our present world in
which she began to express again some inter-
est was poor Z^lie, who had been to me always
an interesting and touching, though rather un-
known, personage. She was the wife of the
ex-gardener, who, having acquired a general
character for drinking, incurring debts, quar-
relling, and giving offense, had been dismissed;
but, as they had for the present no situation,
M. Charlier allowed them to inhabit the little
unused building, called the manege^ at the bot-
tom of the prairie. Most of the young women
about here have a melancholy, suffering ex-
pression, but Z^lie's is that of despondency.
She is a small, delicate figure, with a pale-
brown face; always at work, always quiet,
keeping to herself, smiling gently with that
meek, sad face when spoken to, and answering
in a sweet, low voice, very unlike the usual
tones of her class, and' especially those of her
boisterous husband. When first I saw her I
thought she was one whose lot in life had
been blighted, and Honorine says that she was
dM TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
forced five years ago to marry this man, and
had never been happy since.
I asked if she had loved another ; Hon6rine
did not know, but thought it likely, because
she had once heard her say, " It's a great mis-
fortune to love, because sometimes one does
not marry the person one loves, but picks up
somebody one does not love — and then one
is mxil marieey She looks older than she is,
"A cause," says Honorine, "de ses chagrins."
Heaven forgive me ! but when the other day
her husband fell from the cherry-tree and lay
a moment stunned on the ground, though she
ran up and stood gravely and silently looking
at him, it did cross my mind — ^I knew not why
— ^that it would not be her worst misfortune if
that fall set her free from her wedded state, and
that perhaps she thought so too. Anyhow,
her conduct is irreproachable ; she lives only
for her duties, and one never catches " un mot
plus haut qu'un autre."
Poor thing ! she has no children to console
her ; instead of which she takes great care of
the animals, who are her constant society. The
other day, seeing the door of the cottage where
they then lived open, and no one visible, I
looked in ; it was so beautifully clean, so still,
empty, and peaceful, with the large fire-place.
FRIENDS AND FETES, 805
the neat curtained bed, the clean brick floor,
the few tables and chairs so well arranged.
As I stood admiring, a voice asked me if I
wanted any thing, and there, at the window
behind the door, sat Z^ie working, and there
probably she had been working for hours, in
the only enjoyment which her weary body and
spirit seemed to seek — rest and calm.
Z^ie's sad story dwelt in my mind, and I
went to visit her in her wretched quarters — ^the
manige. This building consisted of a square
stone tower, very ruinous, of which the ground-
floor was a large, dreary, dark room, earthen-
floored, with naked stone walls, and a few
arched grated holes for windowa Here once
was the windlass which, turned by a horse,
conveyed the water from a tank close by up
to the house, but now the over-toiled horse
was dead, and a woman fetched it.
I began to ascend the dark, steep, narrow,
broken stairs, to which there seemed no end,
without coming to any thing, till, from the very-
top, I heard Z^lie's voice. She welcomed me
to the shabby loft, turned by her neat arrange-
ment of their furniture into a bedroom ; but
she said that it was very triste all alone there,
that she heard the wind all night, and that it
made her head ache. Her husband is much
U
S06 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
given to staying out all night, and so she is
left to the solitude of her own sad thoughts,
which, unoccupied as she is now, must be ter-
rible. I invited her to come up and sit with
Honorine in the evening, and, seeing a pretty
book on the table, which she said had been
lent her by the young Julie, I determined to
add to her store. She said she was extremely
fond of reading, and had plenty of time for it
now. There was not the least complaining in
her manner ; she seemed to like the visit, and
thanked me much.
To vary to a livelier subject — there was
soon another wedding in the village, which, of
course, Honorine begged us to come and see
with her. It was that of a young man named
Brou, son to our porteuse cCeau, whose sister
has married the village tailor, nephew to the
cur^; the bride is Een^e, nursery-maid in a
bourgeois family of Montbrun, with, as it hap-
pened, no connections at all, being an enfant
trouvee, whose parents had never been discover-
ed. It was not a grand affair, and there were
to be no noces — that is to say, no dinner and
ball.
On arriving at the little Place, we found
that the wedding party were inside the mairte,
getting through the previous civil marriage;
FMLEND8 AND FETES. 807
we waited therefore at the door. There was
a long delay at the mairie^ owing to difficulty
in finding papers, the usual preliminary for-
mula — which makes the civil marriage in Par-
is a very short affair — not having been gone
through. This was owing, not only to provin-
cial awkwardness, but to difficulties made by
the father, who disliked the match, and would
now do nothing to help it — all out of pure me-
chanceie, it was said.
The young man came out and ran off to fetch
some paper or other. " Voyez! il pleure," said
Honorine : " c'est parce que son pfere a fait des
difficult^s ; ce mariage ne s'arrangera pas vite."
He was a gentle, quiet, rather timid-looking
young man, with smooth straight black hair, a
black coat, and a red rose at his button-hole.
We criticised the color of his coat ; the Char-
liers' maid -servant, who had joined us, a fat,
fair, vicious -looking young creature, shutting
one eye languishingly, and munching some-
thing, after her invariable custom, gave her
vote peremptorily for black, as the most distin-
gue. I liked the young man's appearance, but
it seems he is in some disrepute, having re-
fused to pay a wager of five francs which he
had lost to another young man of the village
on the subject of his marriage — a " vrai scan-
808 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
dale," as Honorine remarked. The wager
took place at the f(§te of St Eustache, whither
Een^e the bride had come, and there first made
acquaintance with young Brou.
At last the bridal cortege began. to assemble.
The bridegroom's two sisters, round - faced
country maidens, blooming and smiling, saucy
and coquettish, in white jaconet, blue sashes,
and lace caps, appeared, carrying a banner
with a pictured Virgin upon it; this was for
the bride. Then came the bedeau, in grande
ienuel the new black coat, gay cane, cocked
hat, great steel chain, gold ear-rings embellish-
ing a face of most grotesque ugliness. He car-
ried a banner, inscribed **St Eustache." The
saucy maidens teased him incessantly, criticis-
ing every thing he did, and mocking at him
unniercifully, he opposing to them a face and
manner so ridiculously angry as must have
much encouraged them to go on. They chief-
ly abused the way he carried his banner, man-
aging their own with active rustic grace, and
looking very piquantes in their scornful liveli-
ness and confidence.
And now the wedding party was under way
— bride and bridegroom hand -in -hand with
lifted arms, he taking tender care of the bride's
veil. She was in a white robe, with a long
FRIENDS AND FETES. 309
white veil and wreath of orange-buds, but, oh
grief I she was old for a Frenchwoman — that
is to say, twenty -five, plain and homely, with a
thick figure, a broad face, red, not blushing,
trying to get up an air of becoming bashful-
ness, and looking all the worse for her tight
finery. The bride and bridegroom knelt at
the altar before two great tapers; the rest of
tlie party sat round. There was the gray-
haired maire; one of the sisters, as demoiselle
dChonneur; and, curiously enough, the bride-
groom's father and mother, who have long
been separated, now met, but sat apart. I
knew the father at once by his face and bear-
ing; he sat, at the farther end, not in the circle
round the altar, never once looking at the bri-
dal pair, with a hard, surly, contemptuous face,
that never changed nor smiled. His wife, a
good, hard-working creature, told us once that
he had mange all they had, and driven her out-
of doors by force of his J^es, which had beg-
gared his family. The bride wept much ; the
bridegroom also was moved; the gay sisters
kept on, even there, persecuting the unfortu-
nate hedeau in a sly way — for example, when
he was folding up the canopy which he had
held over the heads of the pair, which they
evidently thought he was doing very badly.
310 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
The service was wonderfully long aud dull,
though the marriage ceremony itself was short;
the priest addressed them as monsieur and
mademoiselle, the ring was given and put on,
and, after nearly two hours' endurance, they
went into the sacristie to finish there, and we
took our departure.
I had wished the bridegroom a fairer and
more winning lady-love, but the history Hono-
rine gave afterwards took off from his attrac-
tiona It seems thair, besides refusing to pay
his wager, he had still more exasperated the
same young man by having " dit de gros pro-
pos au sujet de Mademoiselle Louise" (the G^-
rards' bonne)^ whom he had sneered at as a cook :
" chose ridicule," says Honorine, with much es-
prit de corps, "when all the world knows that
a cuisini^re is much more distingu^e than a
bonne d'enfants, as Een^e had been."
Moreover, he had even had the bad taste
to ridicule Julie's personal appearance, on ac-
count of her embonpoint — and this the other
young man could not stand. So young Brou
was kicked, knocked down, struck on the face,
which latter was so oMme that he was obliged
to keep his bed two days; and all this hap-
pened six days before the wedding, and in the
Place before all the world, so that pritre, maire.
FRIENDS AND FETES. 311
and garde-champitre had to interpose and sepa-
rate the combatants. The victor would have
gone to prison but for his superior position
and character, which influenced people in his
favor.
" It seems," said I, with a wonderful flash of
sagacity, " that this young man is a lover of
Mademoiselle Louise's."
" Justement, mademoiselle; c'est son amou-
reux."
"Qui est-il done?" was the next demand.
Honorine laughed, colored excessively, and
would only reply, "C'est un jeune homme du
village."
" You will not tell me his name ; but I shall
soon learn it."
"C'est possible," she said, laughing and col-
oring still more ; and no doubt was left on my
mind that the champion was the young village
hero, Hippolyte Langlois. I should not have
expected such fiery elans from that gentle,-
smiling face; but where there is so much
brightness and honesty, spirit can not be want-
ing. I suspect young Brou's spite to have
been the fruit of a rejection by the fair Louise.
The young men are of the same trade, but
while Langlois works here under his father,
the master-mason, Brou works for some one
312 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
at Versailles. A beateo bridegroom is not an
imposing figure, and certainly the young man
looked as if conscious of humiliation.
" Did you remark," said Honorine, present-
ly, **how pale M. le Cur^ was? C'est que lui
aussi, il a ^t^ frapp^; un autre jeune homme,
de Montbrun, a dit des b^tises sur cette de-
moiselle (la marine) et, ce qui est pis, sur ses
metres. Alois M. le Cur^ lui a fait une bonne
remontrance ; mais, au lieu de se soumettre, il
a pris M. le Cur^ par le devant de sa soutane
et Ta pouss^ dans I'estomac. Some think,"
continued Honorine, whose bias is evidently
against the bridegroom, the cure^ and their set,
"that it does not become a priest to mix in
quarrels, that his only business is in the church
or the house; for me, I know nothing of it,
but I find it very ill-mannered to strike a priest
like that." Poor little M. le Cur^ ! No doubt
his personal appearance and his humble con-
nections do not inspire much respect, but I am
sorry he should be beaten.
There is to-night a little dance at the M^re
du Bois, but wind and rain deter us, nor is
Honorine eager to go, seeing that the young
mason will not be there. I told her plainly
who I suspected the nameless young man to
be, and she acknowledged it very gayly.
FBJDENDS AND FETES. 813
"So then he is Louise's admirer? But,
Honorine, I thought he was a little yours ?"
"Oh non, mademoiselle, il ne Test pas; je
n'ai jamais eu cette pretention — et que voulez-
vous? Mademoiselle Louise a ^t^ ici deux
ans, et ce n'est pas pour moi, la derni^re- venue,
de lui enlever ses bons amis."
" Mais quelquefois, 9a arrive sans que Ton
s'en doute."
" Oui, mademoiselle, s'il m'aime, je ne puis
pas Pemp&jher, mais je ne ferais rien pour le
detacher d'elle."
All this conversation was evidently highly
pleasing to the girl, so that I remained a little
in doubt as to how matters really stood. I
confess my reason rather resisted the idea that
Honorine had carried it against the much pret-
tier and younger Louise.
Enough for the present of village gossip. I
must return a little to Sibyl and myself.
314 TWENTY YEARS AGO,
CHAPTER XIV.
AUTUMN DAYS.
WE came, as I have ^id, to this summer
nest of Les Rosiers, expecting and in-
tending to find our life very retired, and to de-
pend on our own resources. For, besides that
society, there was next to none around us, and
we were not rich enough to entertain, except
in very moderate degree. The Paris world, at
least our Paris world, was generally flown, to
the Pyrenees, to England, to Switzerland — in
a hundred different directions.
At first, however, especially when Horace
was with us — and a great comfort and aid was
the presence of that good, grave man to us —
our quiet weeks were broken every now and
then by a guest for the day or the night ; and
I, for my part, was very happy. Alone or
with visitors, every day of that new life was
to me like a page of a novel, traced by sum-
mer sunbeams on a green ground, and I won-
dered that Sibyl did not seem to feel as I did.
She who had cared so moderately for Paris
gayeties, who I knew so dearly loved fresh air
AUTUMN DATS. 315
and trees and flowers, why did she seem — not
exactly unhappy, but a little triste and dis-
traite?
Our most frequent guests for the first month
or two were M. ilmile, who, as a near connec-
tion, had a kind of right to come, but whose
military duties necessarily left large intervals
between his visits ; and another, a very differ-
ent person, the handsome Marquis de Cl^ri-
mont, whom I mentioned as an acquaintance
out of the Faubourg St. Germain. In Paris
our intercourse had been very slight, but it
turned out that he had a chateau some ten
miles off, and used consequently to ride over
to us every now and then on some pretext or
other.
I confess ;6mile's visits were much more in-
teresting to me, whatever they were to Sibyl.
It was with agreeable expectation that I used,
from the great walnut-tree at the top of the
prairie, to look out for him entering by the
little gate in the wall, and quickly ascending
through the orchard to our breezy seat. He
brought with him a thousand piquant sensa-
tions : fresh from the world we had forsaken,
and from the strenuous and vivid interests of
a larger and more busy life, he yet threw him-
self intensely into our innocent country do-^
816 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
ings. Our custom was to loiter through the
hot bright hours in the garden, under the
shade of the lime and catalpas, we making use
of him to gather the forbidden roses and jessa-
mines, which he, a privileged favorite, dared
do, without rebuke. Or we rested in the large,
airy drawing-room, wh^n Sibyl would some-
times sing and play, and I paint flowers, and
our guest talk all manner of talk, literary,
philosophic, political ; or simply poetic, friend-
ly, and tender. He had a wonderful store of
tales drawn from real life, from his own or
other people's adventures, mostly, I am bound
to say, of a tragic description, especially those
relating to love. He was a strange character ;
manly as he was, one could talk to him as if
he were a sister. No one made more day-
dreams out of the flowers and sunshine and
songs of the birds than he; and he entered
into all our little fancies and feelings as no
Englishman, unless he were a professed poet
or a very young, dreaming, soft-hearted man,
could do. When the day grew cool our long
rambles began, in the prairies, through the
woods, by the stream in the valleys, and our
sittings on our favorite birch-crowned knoll
from gold sunset to gray twilight. Or we
wandered through the corn-fields, and he gath-
AUTUMN DAYS. 817
ered the flowers, inhaled with delight the odor
of the neighboring pine-groves, and recalled
the days of his childhood.
Then we returned to a late tea, and after
that found ourselves again in, the orange-per-
fumed gardeti, under the moonlight, strolling
through walks and bowers of alternate light
and shade, till, perhaps, it was too late for him
to catch the night train back, and he had to
put up with a little room on the second^ if he
could get it, or a bed at the " fitoile du Nord."
There was in one respect a change. M.
ilmile talked a great deal more to me in par-
ticular. Whether it was that he found Sibyl
inaccessible, I do not know, but she certainly
seemed to avoid him ; at any rate, she devoted
herself mostly to her little May, and left him
quite contentedly to me.
In consequence of this, I suppose, I never
found him so engaging as now. He talks
more seriously and confidentially to me than
he used to do; it is true he also somewhat
patronizes me, and will laughingly call me en-
fant in all the condescending scorn of his six
or seven more years. I feel him justified, for
there is a grave manliness of air and tone of
thought growing upon him, owing, no doubt,
to increased professional responsibility. He
818 TWEJiTY TEARS AGO,
has lately risen — by force of necessity, it
seems, not favor — to a somewhat higher, at
any rate a more active and anxious, official po-
sition ; and the habit of command has certain-
ly come upon him.
Besides patronizing, he also lectures me ; we
are by no means always on silk and velvet
terms ; our weapons of national and personal
warfare are sometimes sufficiently sharp, and
I hear dignified reprimands of my English rai-
deur and prejudice, and hints that, from my
pride and obstinacy, had I been then in heav-
en I should certainly have been one of the an-
gels who fell. Nor is the habitual mild and
quiet manner quite invariable ; he will some-
times abuse the emperor, and even his own
nation, in language of military fervor, and
then beg pardon for his energy, and own that,
though he says such things himself, he should
not like to hear them from a foreigner.
In spite of these occasional vivacities, how-
ever, his habitual bearing is that of a grave,
though subdued, sadness, far more decided than
ever it used to be, which is accounted for by
the state of his country — regarding it, as he
does, as that of final and hopeless degradation
— and of his own professional prospects. Lov-
ing his profession as he does, he continues to
AUTUMN DATS. 819
setve ; but he looks forward to no promotion,
he says, nor does he regret it ; the second of
December had closed his personal and polit-
ical future. Few careers, he observed once,
destined to so early and complete a close, had
opened more promisingly. While still quite
young, he had accepted a commission which
isolated him for two years in a lonely mount-
ain district, making fortifications — a work of
some novelty and difficulty, the bestowal of
which on him had been no slight compliment,
and which it was expected would be followed
by distinction and rapid promotion ; but he
had professional enemies, who had taken ad-
vantage of his two years' absence to do him
mischief; I suppose the weapon made use of
was the Eepublicanism which the young mUi'
taire had always frankly avowed.
In spite of his dash of melancholy, however,
his visits were to me the great pleasure of our
country life, the chief drawback being their
uncertainty, and the frequent prolonged ' ab-
sence caused by his military duties, and his
extreme dislike to ask favors of a superior,
who would very likely refuse merely for the
pleasure of refusing.
Another drawback, to me at least, were the
visits of the handsome marquis. Their motive
820 TWENTY TEAB8 AGO.
was quite obvious : the attraction, began in the
soirees of the Faubourg St. Germain, had deep-
ened, and the determined lady-killer was do-
ing his best to captivate my sister. My prej-
udice against him was such that, knowing his
reputation, and always finding something false
and hollow in his soft tones and sweet, sad
smiles, I could hardly give him credit for sin-
cerity in his suit to Sibyl, or at any rate for
even a purpose of constancy. But I am bound
to say he acted earnestness in a way that might
deceive any one; I thought, too, that Sibyl
was attracted, interested, even touched. In
her slight delicate way she even encouraged
him ; in fact, I began, with infinite dismay, to
surmise that she would in time love him. HoW
could this be ? He was in no way worthy of
her, rank and prestige apart : though his con-
versation had a certain sparkle and charm, his
understanding was certainly narrow arid shal-
low ; and as to his heart, I was very sure that
he had none.
I said to myself that I could not have be-
lieved it of Sibyl. I knew her susceptibility
to personal charms, grace of manner, and pol-
ished and witty conversation ; nor was a brill-
iant social position indifferent to her, though
she was the most disinterested person in the
AUTUMN DATS, 381
world. But all this puzzled me. I longed to
hint a remonstrance, but was fairly afraid of
doing it; nor was I certain that I understood
Sibyl, or read her aright. For with all her
artless, almost child-like, frankness on some
points, there were others *on which her reti-
cence was complete; and love and lovers, as
personal to herself, were among these.
It was most of all annoying when the mar-
quis and ;6mile happened to make their vis-
its together. These two men were obviously
quite unsuitable, and did not like each other.
The marquis — the cr&me de la crime of aristoc-
racy, whose very slight Bourbonism had ac-
commodated itself to the present state of things,
with his calm, high-born pride and self-com-
placence, his elegant epicurism and Lucretian
sangfroid — and ifimile, the flower of young
Eepublicanism, ideally enthusiastic, with his
dreams of devotion to cause and country, his
bitter scorn of those who lived for " inglorious
ease," and the something heroic which lay sup-
pressed, but to be divined, in him — were cer-
tainly not the men to bScome friends. Not to
mention that two Frenchmen, in the society of
ladies whom each strives to please, are seldom
in much charity with each other.
All then used to go on as disagreeably as
X
822 TWENTY TEAB8 AGO,
possible; the young marquis generally en-
grossed the conversation, and M. ifimile was si-
lent and scornful ; unless, as presently became
his usual resort, he conversed apart with me.
Every now and then Lucile was with us on
these occasions, and her bright girlish presence
made a pleasant diversion. I could perceive
that she liked fimile much the better of the
two; indeed she frankly told nie so when we
were, as girls will, discussing the two men. I
had seen once her look of bright young scorn
when the sentimental marquis was dilating on
la coqueiterie as the most truly feminine of all
the feminine attributes, without which a wom-
an could not be complete, which was the spring
of all her charms, and almost all her virtues,
etc. She told me afterwards that she knew
the marquis had been talking "des b^tises,"
but she had not cared to express any opinion
of her own on the subject, though he had more
than once appealed to her, not because she
minded "lui marcher sur les pieds," but be-
cause "la coquetterie" was not a subject for
"les jeunes filles." Of M. fimile she spoke
much more respectfully and admiringly, ob-
serving, very justly, that he had "le regard
doux et pur," and adding that she made no
scruple of praising him to us, because he was
AUTUMN DATS. 323
our "relation" — a very distant one, it must
be owned, seeing that he was only the cousin
to Sibyl's stepsister-in-law.
fimile, meanwhile, as if in contrast with tfre
marquis's graceful sentimentalism, began by
fits to disclose to me glimpses of fiery abysses
in his nature, such as I had not expected, and
which,. though they might not alarm me in an
Englishman, yet in a Frenchman, considering
all that I knew, and more that I did not know,
excited apprehension together with interest.
In discussions on moral and social questions
he would allow too much to passion, almost
justifying even a crime that might be commit-
ted under its influence ; but then he said it
must be such a passion as is rarely known in
life, " qui domine toute la vie," which is felt
but once, and never again. I knew that he
was wrong, and trusted that he was not ex-
pressing his real convictions, the more so that
in calmer moods he expressed himself very dif-
ferently. A profound appreciation 'of the ex-
cellence of purity, of domestic happiness, an
ardent looking to marriage as the goal of his
desires and the completion of his being, and an
intense aversion to the unprincipled laxity of
Parisian society, incliiding a determination to
marry only one who had been brought up to
824 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
regard domestic virtue and aflfection as all in
all, were his leading opinions on the subject.
These were so often and strongly expressed,
Sometimes with earnest strenuousness, some-
times as by an involuntary betrayal, and ac-
corded so well with the habitual -seriousness
and imaginative refinement of his whole char-
acter, that one could not possibly suppose that
in speaking thus he was but suiting his con-
versation to his hearer. I wished I could fully
understand him.
The marquis, who seemed beiit on amusing
us, proposed a good many rides and drives to
explore the neighborhood, in all of which M.
ifimile declined joining. In this manner we
saw the palace of Versailles — a good specimen
of majestic, symmetrical, extensive dullness
outside, a vast, splendid, shining world of halls,
chambers, galleries within; Port Koyal — a
mere handful of ruins in a deep wild dell, the
hills rising like walls and towers to cover the
once sacred spot, where skeletons of old gate-
ways, broken pillars, and a quiet little old
dove-cote alone remain of the ancient convent
and chapel, now replaced by the vine-trellised
walls and thatched roofs of the little farm-
houses and cottages; L*a Chevreuse — an ex-
quisite valley; and Les Granges — the home
AUTUMN DAYS. 325
of those thoughtful and gifted solitaires, whose
chambers are still left just as they were.
In the midst of these pleasure excursions
;6mile vanished from the scene. He was dis-
patched by his superiors on some military sur-
vey in a distant part of the country, and could
not tell us how long it would be, or when we
should see him again.
In our last parting walk he was in a mood
of melancholy which he seemed trying to con-
ceal, or, when he could not do that, to disguise
under fits of gayety. When I asked him if
he would prefer one direction to another for
our walk, he answered spiritlessly, "Here or
anywhere ; all is the same to me ; all's right."
"Or all's wrong?" I asked, half smiling.
" Yes, all wrong," he answered, as spiritless-
ly as before.
" Every thing is wrong with you to-day, I
think," I rejoined.
" Well, perhaps it is," he returned quickly,
and seemed about to add more, but stopped.
He alluded to his professional non-prospects,
and when I suggested his throwing all up, and
leaving France for some more hopeful sphere,
he said, " No, not till my heart is quite broken.
So long as I have a gale, and my sails are
not torn to pieces, I must go on ; there will be
326 TWENTY YEAMS AGO.
time enough afterwards to stagnate in har-
bor."
On my seeming still unsatisfied, he explain-
ed that no profession save that of the army
was open to him, and that were he to give up
his commission, it would be to quit his profes-
sion forever, and lose all hope of ever again
serving his country in future, even under a
government that he should approve of. "Af-
ter all," he said, " I consider myself, as a sol-
dier, in the service of my country, not of the
president; I am known to profess no loyalty
to him, and to be entirely aloof from politics.
Should any iniquitous work be required of
me, I am free to resign, and find, perhaps, in
retirement and literature I'oubli du pass^ et
I'indiflKrence pour J'avenir."
The marquis, on the other hand, continued
his visits at the rate of once or twice a week,
till he, too, was summoned away — by some
call of social pleasure, no doubt. But he ex-
pressed intense regret, and earnestly solicited
leave to renew his visits when this brief period
of enforced exile was over. Sibyl gave it with
her usual careless ease, and I felt I could not
read her feelings at that moment.
But as time passed on, and the expected
month of absence was over, and yet the ardent
A UTUMN DA YS. 337
lover made no sign, I noticed in Sibyl a fever-
ish restlessness quite unlike herself, .and very
painful to see. It made my heart ache, and I
almost wished for a renewal of the visits which
had alarmed and annoyed me before.
Is there a sadder lot than to be condemned
to wait in vain ? How can a man ever inflict
such torture on a woman's heart, if he has but
the merest suspicion that he has gained it?
The momentous visit has been paid, and leaves
her expecting it to be renewed ; she is filled
with memories as yet pleasantly confused, re-
quiring time and quiet to think over. So the
week passes well, and the day of hope comes,
bright, sunshiny, full of promise and dream.
She wakes, feeling her heart fresh and buoy-
ant, she puts on her most becoming toilet, she
adds a flower or two, she arranges the room, she
flutters about winged with pleasant thoughts,
full of subdued smiles.
But he does not come — she is disappointed
and damped ; but it was an accident — a day is
nothing-^ of course he will come to-morrow.
No, he does not, nor the day after ; time comes
and goes, she is kept in suspense from day to
day, till she is surprised to find how many
have passed. Still she finds reasons and ex-
planations, and the longer the delay the better
328 TW£L\TT YEARS AOO.
reasons she finds ; but though she still expects,
the spring, the charm of expectation, is broken.
She wearies of putting on her .pretty dress, of
keeping things to do with him, of treasuring
up things to say to him — things that now seem
mouldering away in a useless heap in her mind;
she could not say them now — they are not liv-
ing, they are dead I Sometimes she will won-
der, chide him in her heart, determine that if
he condes now she will receive him coldly;
but all this resolution is thrown away, and
leaves her so depressed and worn out that she
is much more likely to cry than to practice
that dignified indifference.
And the worst of it is that iie can not now
undo the impression of his long absence ; the
indifference can 'not be explained away. At
first she had consoled herself with thinking of
all the tender things he had said, the tenderer
ones he had implied, the tenderest of all that
he had only looked — and she had felt that he
had loved her. But the longer she has to
think of them, the fewer they appear, the more
doubtful their significance. How very few
and slight they were, after all ! And at last,
from thinking only of how and when she
should repay his love, she has come to think
of him as not her lover at all I
A UTUMN DA YS. 329'
Nervous and weary, she can . not employ
herself; mortified pride and shame and de-
spondency are eating her heart's core. Days
are like years; she is growing old without
him I She looks no longer into her future;
all is blankness and grayness there. And
while she, shut up in a dreary country house,
with no change, no movement, pines for the
sight of one person, he is occupied, amused, in
the world, free to come and see her — and he
never comes.
Some divination told me that this, or some-
thing like this, was passing in Sibyl's secret
soul. For though a widow, her widowhood
had been, I now knew, one of those saddest
griefs of all, a loss which is not a heart-break.
Married at sixteen, and her husband dying
immediately after, little May, a posthumous
child, was the sweetest and almost the only
trace her brief wedded life had left behind.
She loved now — I was sure of it — but she
kept it to herself, and would not let her sad-
ness cloud others. She was still sweet and
kindly as ever, played with her little girl; who
grew and bloomed marvellously in this pure
sweet air, exerted herself to talk cheerfully
with me, and made herself the favorite of the
whole village.
830 TWENTY YEAHS AGO.
Once more ]6mile came to see us, unexpect-
edly, and when we had ceased to look for him,
in the mid-autumn. He staid but a few hours,
and struck me as altogether and strangely
changed. To us personally he was courteous
and gentle as ever, but on all other points a
gloomy and bitter cynicism overwhelmed him.
The state of politics, to which he just once al-
luded with almost fierce despair, and his own
prospects, seemed to have finally conquered
that once bright temperament. He told us of
the hostility of his chef immediat, a man who
had identified himself with the present regime,
and would therefore indulge in the rancor he
had always felt against a proud, not very sub-
missive, and avowedly Eepublican subordinate.
This enmity had reached a point — so he was
privately informed by friends — which threat-
ened him with serious danger ; at the least, his
professional career might be crushed, and him-
self banished into obscurity. But he laughed
scornfully over it all, and said he had by this
time attained to such a fortunate apathy that
if he were to hear that the ruler of the country
were dead (" et Dieu sait," he coolly interject-
ed, "si je Taime") it would not make his pulse
beat quicker. This indifference seemed to ex-
tend to every thing, and I doubted if he any
AUTUMN DATS. 831
longer cared for us. It pained me to see him
so changed ; but Sibyl seemed to notice noth-
ing. I feared it was because her thoughts
were engrossed in the Marquis de Cl^rimont.
When ifimile left, I said, with a faint hope of
extracting something more definite and friend-
ly, "Shall we see you in Paris this winter?"
"Who knows? I do not," he answered,
abruptly.
"But you intend to be there, do you not?"
"I never intend any thing; I do not care
enough about what becomes of me." And so
we parted.
Left to ourselves, there seemed a kind of
barrier between my sister and me. Sibyl's
melancholy did not appear diminished; she
cared for nothing but little May, who, ever
bright, active, and happy, kept up glimpses of
the sunny past. I too was sad, but that was
my own affair ; I told Sibyl nothing about it
I looked anxiously forward to the return to
Paris, which I hoped might rouse her from
her depression. She seemed indifferent to the
prospect
A small incident occurred to vary the still-
ness of our existence. A review of six caval-
ry regiments took place on the plains of Sato-
ry (the first of a long series of famed Napole-
332 TWENTY YEARS AGO.
onic reviews on that spot, till then known to
me only for its profusion of apple-trees), and
the soldiers were billeted for the night over
the neighborhood. M. Charlier's share con-
sisted of three officers and six soldiers, as well
as twelve horses. The garden was soon filled
with a party of horsemen; a young officer
rode up, billet in hand, to the drawing-room,
and addressed my sister in the usual brusque,
word-saving style of his class, which I suppose
originated the epithet cavalier — " Madame, M.
Charlier?"
But the worthy proprietor was gone to Paris,
to escape, I suppose, his compulsory guests;
so they had to arrange with his respected and
grim old mother. The billets de logement had
been made out by the maire; the business was
conducted by the tall bulky marichal des logis^
with his coarse voice and bluff manners. He
complained that there was not room for the
horses ; and the result was all that noise and
length of discussion which the French seem»tp
find indispensable — every body coming up to
join in it.
Then came the question — to them, I imag-
ine, a most important one — their dinner. They
coolly asked for the bill of fare, which they
did not consider satisfactory. The house was
AUTUMN DATS. 888
not provisioned to meet the vast demands of
three herculean young cavalry officers — I sus-
pect the deficiency was intentional — and they
wisely determined to dine at Versailles. I
dare say, too, they felt out of luck at being
assigned quarters where there were no good
fellows nor jolzes dames to bear them company.
We, the only lodgers in the house, kept re-
ligiously to our own apartments, but watched,
at a respectful distance, the stabling of horses,
the doffing and donning of uniforms, the
picketing of lances, the loud, brief calls and
gruff voices of our gallant friends. The little
Victor, the small nephew of our proprietaire,
ran about among them, sharing in their pro-
ceedings with that serious sympathy and sense
of partnership felt by every male animal in
France, of the smallest size, with red coats and
swords. Once or twice we, too, met some dra-
goons riding, and were abruptly asked, " Par-
don, madame — pour aller k St. Marc?" or were
saluted at the door by the three young officers,
who bowed and waved their caps round their
heads with a grave extravagance of courtesy.
They are handsome youths, with brown curl-
ing mustaches and beards, fair fresh faces, and
an appearance of gay, reckless spirita
The last time I had seen any great number
884 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
of French military was at the coup d^etat^
when, before related, several regiments of cav-
alry and the line bivouacked in the Champs
!6lys6es. I must confess, though one is re-
minded by such scenes of the capture of
towns, that these formidable beings were here
very tame and quiet, and seemed not to have
the remotest intention to egorger little Victor,
or insult old madame, called the " terrier."
The evening was spent jollily by the six
privates at dinner in the gardener's cottage;
the officers, I presume, were no less jolly at
Versailles. Honorine, who does not menager
her words, unhesitatingly pronounces all these
militaires "tr^s gourmands." She alone, of
all the bonnes here, has not found it necessary
to hold any intercourse with them. One very
young officer was quartered all alone at the
G^rards', the family being absent, and the
house kept by an old gouvernante and Louise.
The poor boy found it so dull that he went
to bed at six o'clock. Louise, however, was
charmed with his pretty face, pronouncing him
an " amour d'officier," and with his politeness,
for he expressed much regret at inconvenien-
cing them.
At midnight returned our friends from Ver-
sailles in an excess of good spirits. They had
AVTUMN DAYS. 835
to wait long at the door before it was unlock-
ed, and amused themselves with talking to the
kitten and the gardener's wife. They were
not at all tipsy, but simply light-hearted, chat-
tering like children, and laughing at nothing
at all.
Next morning we lost our guests; a soldier
was brushing his officer's uniform all the morn-
ing outside our door, and talking to himself
over^ it ; and finally they rode forth, giving
the last bright look to our quiet bowers, as
their red plumes, polished shakos, the shining
lances and tricolor flags, and the dark-blue uni-
forms, with white sashes and facings, glanced
through the yellowing shrubberies. Little
Victor was appropriately solemn as he looked
his last at those who, in the course of a day
and night, had become his sworn friends ; and
M. Charlier, who had reappeared, in his wide-
awake, with his broad back and shoulders,
flung wide open the porte-cochh-e in a state of
very genuine satisfaction.
In the intervals of such manly pleasures as
these, little Victor condescended to cultivate
me. He came down o.nly a day ago, but, be-
ling no shyer than most French children, ap-
proached our window at once, addressed us on
the subject of the white kitten, furnished his
886 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
name, age, and parentage, and promised to be
an excellent friend of mine. He presently in-
quired what I was going to do, seemed disap-
pointed when I told him that I was going to be
very busy, and finally found himself, to his en-
tire delight, established beside my table, using
my paints upon the men, horses, and houses
I had drawn for him, and making all manner
of wonderful discoveries in the science of col-
or. While busy with the house, he asked me
to "arranger" for him "un petit paysage." I
said I should not have time to do it that morn-
ing, whereon he shrewdly observed, " You can
be doing it now, instead of looking at me, while
I finish the house." Finally the modesty of
true genius came upon him, and he inquired,
doubtfully, " Tout ce que je fais, ce n'est qu'un
barbouillement, n'est-ce.pas?"
Soon after he brought me a paper of pic-
tures containing the history of Punch, which
he read to me very fluently, with various ju-
dicious comments, such as, when I observed,
"You see this wicked Punch would not let
himself be punished, but hanged the bawrreau
instead," "Pourquoi non," he 'asked, "since
the executioner was going to hang Mmf%
" Mais," he observed, finally, with great satis-
faction, " le diable ^tait plus fort que lui." A
AUTUMN DATS, 887
great part of his time he spent in playing with
our little May, of whom he was passionately
fond, and whom he patronized with all the
wisdom of six years.
The young Julie, who used to interest me,
seemed, alas ! being gradually spoiled by her
corrupt elder associates, and had acquired a
bold unchild-like expression in hier once inno-
cent eyes. Her mother, poor woman ! whom
we sometimes met in the prairie on the watch
for her worthless husband's return from Paris,
complained to us that her child was quite
spoiled, that she was all day idling with bad
companions, that her father let her do just as
she pleased, and that she had learned to dis-
regard and disobey her mother. About this
time the whole party left finally for Paris, and
so this group of Bohemians vanished from our
path of life.
Nothing after this occurred save the regular
progress of defacement and decay in all nature
— ^yellowed and bare trees, weeping skies sheet-
ed with dusk clouds, wild howling winds, that
screamed through those ill-secured doors and
windows, and made one lie drearily awake at
night. • I confess I looked anxiously forward
to a return to that bright centre of life, sump-
tuous, sparkling, bewitching Paris. We pur-
Y
888 TWENTY TEAB8 AGO.
posed io be there by the end of November if
we could find ah appartement. The only one,
I suspected, who would not be glad to leave
was Honorine, who led here a very agreeable
life, with plenty of air, exercise, freedom, and
society, especially that of the young mason. It
seemed he had now fairly settled the question
between her and Louise, and that his prefer-
ence was no longer doubtful. Poor Louise
was very unhappy ; her once smiling, bloom-
ing face became dark and sad. " Pauvre fille,"
said Honorine, compassionately, " elle est bien
trouble." But I suppose no unfair arts had
been used to supplant her, as the friendship
continued undiminished, and Louise was as
frequently in Honorine's kitchen as ever, till
she went with her maitres to Paris. Honorine
then wandered pensively about, carrying the
cat as a "petite soci^t^," and owning to feeling
ennuySe.
It appeared that, though the young man had
made no explicit declaration to either, Hono-
rine had the parents in her favor. They con-
stantly invited and encouraged her, and told
her they should much prefer her to Louise as a
daughter-in-law. Perhaps Louise being Swiss
and Protestant had something to do with it;
also, though much the prettier, she was less act-
AUTUMN DATS. 839
ive and laborious than Honorine, and was oft-
en not neatly chausseej which is a point of the
utmost importance to the French inind, high
and low.
What Honorine's secret feelings might be
she had too much feminine finesse to betray.
She went about her work cheerfully and stout-
ly as ever, and seemed completely mistress of
her will and thoughts. Hippolyte, too, was
cautious; on hearing that she was going to
Paris, he only said, " C'est malheureux," and
that he should come and see her. Honorine,
indeed, always maintained "qu'il n'^tait ni
pour elle, ni pour Louise, qu'il ^tait trop riche,
qu'il ne regarderait pas les domestiques," and
that therefore she never thought of him, " au-
cunement ;" even affirming — Heaven pardon
her the falsehood ! — that if she were never to
see him again she would care no more than
the first day she met him. As for his inten-
tions, however, as the conferences were more
frequent and prolonged than ever, I could
only hope that she was deceiving us, and that
he was n8t deceiving her. I should like, I
thought, to see Honorine mistress — in prospect,
at least — of a very pretty homestead, with gar-
den, orchard, meadows, cow, cider-press, a nice
house, charming granaries, well-stocked farm-
340 TWENTY TEARS AGO,
m
yard, and "eveiy thing to make life desir-
able."
A day or two before we left Les Rosiers M.
Charlier came down to go over the inventory
with us, and, we supposed, to fleece us accord-
ingly. Knowing by Paris experience how
keen-eyed and exacting are French proprie-
tairesj we were surprised, on the whole, at his
moderation. At any rate, the affair was court-
eously conducted, which it might not have
been by his sharper wife. Honorine attended,
bristling her feathers, fiercely on the watch
to do battle for us, and full of the most repub-
lican equality in manners and language with
M. Charlier, whom she considered neither Juste
nor raisonnable. In one matter, where she ac-
cused him of having gone back from his prom-
ise, she afterwards mimicked, with great spirit,
the scene which she conceived to have taken
place between him and the " dame k Paris,"
whom she justly regarded as his prompter, and
gave especially her termagant tones and furi-
ous advice. She expressed utter scorn of his
subjugation to his wife; a man,*she says,
should never allow a woman any part in his
affairs, and especially should never break his
promise for a woman. A woman's word, says
she, "c'est frivole, ce n'est rien," but a man's
AUTUMN DAYS. 841
ought always to be sacred. On these subjects
her views certainly differed much from those
of Constance, a former servant of ours — a sen-
sitive creature, of fiery temperament, vehement
convictions, and esprit almost amounting to
genius. She stood up earnestly for her own
sex; and when I repeated to her a French
gentleman's assertion that in every French
household the women governed, she said,
"Very true, and quite right too," and strength-
ened her opinion by historical and political ex-
amples. " Voyez Napoleon," she said ; " did
not all go wrong with him when he divorced
Josephine? And when Madame Adelaide
died, did not Louis Philippe fall into errors
and lose his throne ?"
But I must return to Les Eosiers — only,
however, to leave it, for we set off at last, with
every incident that could unsentimentalize our
parting. A foggy, drizzling, unlovely day hid
from sight all the beauties that winter had
spared to our knolls and dells ; and we had a
good deal of trouble in the demenagement, as
the man who undertook it did not perform it
properly. Hence ensued a farewell scene of
French screaming — the same thing said fifty
times over, only in different accents and with
different gestures, and tempers, to judge from
342 TWENTY YEAJR8 AGO.
appearances, all boiling over to exasperation.
Honorine's withering " C'est ridicule " was
promptly applied ; but at last she "judged the
case, too bad for even that, and stood by in
silence with her arms crossed — the last and
most desperate resource of French sensibility.
The^orfeti5e dleau^ who had been trying to out-
bargain us in the morning, moved by a small
present, testified so much sympathy for us as
also to stand by with her hands under her
apron/ A hint from Honorine about going to
the Tnaire finally brought the voiiurieT to rea-
son, and, fetching a second cart, he took away
the effects and herself, who I hope forbore
from quarrelling with him all the way up to
Paris.
We waited a long while at the " !6toile du
Nord," and might have waited forever, our
driver having no idea of keeping his appoint-
ment. He had gone off instead to St. Cloud,
where there was a concourse of people,
"gone," said Madame Allard, "to fetch Louis
Napoleon to Paris." This suddenly recalled
to us the little insignificant fact that the Em-
pire was to be proclaimed that day. So we
waited for the omnibus, and discoursed with
the jolly old landlady, who was very conver-
sationally disposed, and )^ho, while eating her
AUTUMN DATS. 843
dinner without any discomposure, and with
hearty enjoyment, gave us worlds of gossip on
all possible subjects. I began with inquiries
after her newly -married daughter, who, she
assured us, was perfectly happy, pleased with
Paris, her lodgings, her husband, who was
very good to her, and a fort aimable gargon.
" Je vous as^re, madame," she said, " qu'il
n'est pas possible d'avoir plus de bonheur."
Musing on the varieties of female destiny,
we went on our journey, and in a few hours
were installed in our pleasant bppartement in
the Eue St. Dominique ; and from that time
Les Eosiers, with its green, sunny solitudes, its
woods and gardens, its roses and orange-trees,
was no more to us than a dream.
I may as well here wind up Honorine's ctf-
faire de coeur^ which began like a true ro-
mance,, and ended — ^like a French one. One
day Hippolyte came to see her at Paris, and
brought her flowers. Another day Louise
came, and talked earnestly and gloomily with
her. The next day she told us, with scornful
laughter, that M. Langlois was going to marry
a girl of nineteen, who had a petite proprieie.
From that time I withdrew' all my interest
from the engaging young mason, whom I re-
garded as an utter flirt. But as my regard for
844 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
our good Honorine went on increasing, I was
glad to learn, some time after we had left
Paris, that she was married to a man whom
she described as the "meilleur homme du
monde," and that she had "bien tomb^ dans
son manage."
\
SIBYL'S LOT'-AND MINE. 346
CHAPTEE XV. .
sibyl's lot — AND MINE.
OUE life in Paris this second winter was
just like the last, except that we beheld
the Empire proclaimed and the emperor mar-
ried. I shall not soon forget my momentary
vision of that young girl Eugenie hurrying
along the shining quays to her strange fate,
and to the dangerous palace that beckoned her
onward — a snow-pale bride, from head to foot
white as a lily, with a look of misgiving, even
terror, on her fair face, that suggested she would
fain have driven back again. Well, she was
nothing to us, and we had our own cares and
pleasures, hopes and regrets. One trouble was
that .we now saw and heard nothing of M.
;6mile. He had been relegated, as he expect-
ed, to a garrison town in a remote department,
and, as we did not expect, had ceased to cor-
respond with us.
As for our other friends, some changes were
going on among them. Hermine had married
her elderly comte, and was a leader of Paris
fashion — just the gay, spirituelle, dazzling little
S46 TWENTY TEAMS AQO.
dame that I had anticipated. She kept up
scanty relations with us, whom in truth she
had never been really fond of, having proba-
' bly never quite forgiven her lord's persistent
admiration of Sibyl. Aur^lie ere long fulfill-
ed my half-formed expectation, and is now the
wife of my cousin Horace. I hope she had
for him something more than the liking she
professed to consider sufl&cient in marriage ; at
any rate she is an excellent and attached wife,
and, if perhaps a little condescending, and dis-
posed in a quiet way to manage for them both,
fulfills all her duties as I should have expect-
ed from an upright and high-minded character
like hers. He has a good foreign chaplaincy
in a considerable German town, With a pleas-
ant society.
The Marquis de C16rimont met us in society
now and then, but Sibyl was so decidedly chill-
ing that he could not renew his former possi-
bly homage. He took to flirting with others,
and, I believe, at last with all deliberation made
a mariage cPargent.
And now the time drew near when I must
needs return to my English home. -When at
last I spoke of it decidedly to Sibyl, she sud-
denly burst into tears, and exclaimed, " Bea-
trice, I must go to England with you."
SIBYL'S LOT— AND MINE. 347
A cold trembling seized me ; at first I was
bewildeired — the next moment I understood.
After some fencing in the dark, some broken
words and attempted reserves, she told all her
story. Jfimile had loved her — as she believed
and as she said — intensely, and she had refused
him. This happened just before we left Paris
for Les Eosiers.
I asked her why she had done it?
" Oh, I don't know," she said ; " I thought
him too young, I lielieve ; and then I had al-
ways said so positively that I should never
marry again, certainly not a Frenchman. I
wanted to return to my English life, and to
shake myself free from the Fleury family. I
suppose he had not then quite laid hold of
my heart ; anyhow I refused him ; I believe I
even got angry with him. I had forbidden
him to say any more about it ; and I believe
at Les Eosiers he felt quite hopeless. He cer-
tainly never ventured, even by a look, to be-
tray any feeling — and yet, Beatrice, I was be-
ginning then to be haunted by him."
"But the marquis?" I inquired.
Sibyl colored very painfully, hesitated, and
said, " I tried to divert my thoughts, which
were sometimes too bitter, and I believe in my
pride I wanted to disguis^them from ^fimile,
348 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
•
whom I was almost provoked with for not in
the least trying again to win me. But I could
not go on, and, after !lfimile had gone, I con-
trived without any actual iclaircissement to put
an end to the affair. I was very wrong, I
know, in thus playing false to my heart, and
I knew I deceived others. I saw that you
noticed my sadness after the marquis left, and
mistook the cause. But I knew I had done
him no harm — as for others, I hope not Bea-
trice," she added, after a •pause, "did :6mile
ever make Iqjce to you ?"
" Never !" I earnestly replied.
"Well," she resumed, "that was another
thing — another complication going on at the
same time. I saw him, as I thought, about to
console himself with you, and I tried to be
pleased to think it was all very right, and to
hope that you would like him. But that, too,
I found I could not do; which first showed
me the whole truth — and oh how I cried all
those weary weeks! But I felt piqued, and
only made myself more cold and disagreeable,
and in that one last visit— do you remember
it? — when he was so changed, I almost felt
to dislike him. Oh, Beatrice ! how men and
women do misunderstand and plague each
other !" #
SIBYL'S LOT— AND MINE, . 849
" Can nothing be done?" I asked.
Sibyl shook her head. "It has gone too
far," she said ; " he has made up his mind to
it at last, and I have no right to torment him
any more.".
Yet a kind of opening was given, which I
ventured to avail myself of. Jfimile kept up
some correspondence with our good friends
Aur^ie and her mother, and in a letter of the
latter's I inserted a kind message, which pro-
duced one or two letters from him. In the
last of these he spoke plainly. He used, in
speaking of Sibyl, language of the tenderest,
even the most passionate admiration ; but he
avowed that he had given her up.
"I have loved her, I acknowledge," he said.
"One does not see so beautiful a (hing for
nothing. At once, before one has thought of
loving her, she becomes, for wonder and for
worship, the Venus — what do I say? — the
Madonna of one's imaginings. Henceforth in
one's most aerial dreams, in life's strangest
events, in the world's most exciting commo-
tions, one places in the midst that figure of
divine gayety and grace ; across all storms she
shoots like a lightning-glance; in play or poem
she is the enchanting heroine. You will think
me raving; but in truth Sibyl seems to me a
860 TWENTY TEARS AGO.
being one might see but once, and go mad on
the remembrance o£ I never saw — I may just
have imagined — such a woman, but my dream
did not half paint her ; the reality adds ever a
light, a shade that I could not have divined.
Sometimes I think it would be enough to sit
and watch her for life.
" Now that I have said all this, mademoiselle,
I must add that I have wholly given up the
hope of marrying her. The very extravagance
of my language is a proof that my feeling is
not one on which to ground a life-long union.
I could not make such a woman happy ; she
could never love me, and would have a" thou-
sand wants that my inferior nature would not
supply. I trust you, therefore, not to betray
to her what I have just said ; I should blush
for her to read the ravings of such a delirium.
And if I were tempted to try to work on her
feelings, and create an affection, she is now far
from having for me, I should be only selfish.
My prospects are too unsettled. I am coming
to a crisis. My former enemy has gained the
ear of the Minister of War ; an order of arrest
was once actually made out against me, and its
execution was only delayed by the good ofl&ces
of a friend. But if I do not fall in this coming
campaign, which is very probable, and which I
SIBTL^S LOT—Am) MINE. 361
shall not much regret, I shall be a deporti to
Cayenne, and I could not possibly even wish
to associate a tender creature like your sis-
ter with such a lot. No, I have subdued the
worst of my pain, and have resigned a vision
which probably could never have been real-
ized."
I wondered that ifimile should not have dis-
covered, under the ideal charm of Sibyl's ex-
terior, that, with her warm tender heart and
sweet temper, she was the easiest possible
person to live with — that she was thoroughly
bonne enfant I also felt that such romantic
idealization prevented one's judging of the
real seriousness and depth of his attachment,
which alone could justify a great sacrifice on
Sibyl's part.
Bound by his injunction, I read only the
latter part of this letter to Sibyl, expressing,
however, my own conviction of his undying
attachment. But she only answered, mourn-
fully, "It inust not be altered; it is best as
it is." She was, perhaps, secretly hurt at his
tone of complete acquiescence to fate.
We went to England, and there from time
to time we heard of fimile— once heard from
himself; and I judged with pain, from various
indications, that something — I know not if I
852 TWENTY TEAMS AGO.
should call it deterioration, but something that
took from the fresh charm of his nature — was
growing upon him. His cynical bitterness
was now a fixed quality ; he assumed a hard,
worldly tone ; he seemed to despair of every
thing ; his past, he said, was " mort et ense-
veli," and he did not wish to revive it. He
ridiculed his youthful enthusiasms, and ex-
pressed a disbelief in all goodness ; he was not
gloomily or ostentatiously misanthropic, but
quietly and coldly cynical.
One thing was certain ; he still never bowed
the knee in Rimmon's temple ; indeed, his con-
tempt for those who did — that is, for the socie-
ty he lived amidst — was only too marked* for
his safety. And with all this alteration, there
was yet in him, as his friends described, at
times a fascination beyond that of a roman-
tic and ardent youth — beautiful flashes, like
magic northern lights, across his desolate win-
tery life.
Well, I must not linger over this painful
period. The crisis came in a year or two. A
small fraternity of ardent liberals had for some
time been watched by the Government; one
of these, more indiscreet than the others, had
let drop in public words betraying revolution-
ary designs, ^mile, who was not compro-
SIBYL'S LOT— AND MINE. 353
mised, and could have escaped, rallied to his
friend's side, did his best first to save him, and
then to share his doom. Both were arrested,
and, after a brief though rigorous imprison-
ment, ifimile was degraded from his rank in the
^rmy and sent enperpetuite to Algeria.
He had wished not to let us know his fate ;
oppressed by sadness and consequent ill health,
he had expected soon to die there, and de-
sired that we should not be saddened with
the knowledge. But Sibyl's loving vigilance
could not be balked, nor could his heroic con-
duct, which she contrived to discover from
his friends, fail to nerve that tender nature
to equal heroism.
" I am so glad, Beatrice," she said, " that all
doubt is put an end to now ; for the future I
feel that my place is by ifimile ; and oh, if I
can in any way soothe or help him, what a
blessing will he not be to me ! If there is any
thing good and noble in me — ^I am sure I have
given little reason to suppose there is — he
awakened and called it forth."
Sibyl and I — I could not leave her now —
went accordingly to Algeria, under the care
of Horace and his wife, ifemile and she were
married, and love each other to this day with
that love which alone suflBces for happiness,
Z
8M TWENTY TEAMS AQO,
He has at last returned to his crushed, tor-
tured, distracted France, to do for her what a
man may.
•K- -Sf « « « «
This sentence — added lately — forms a fit
conclusion to my old journal of twenty years
ago. Of course all is changed since then — ex-
cept that what was my principal interest then
has resulted now in the perfect union of two
well-matched and beautiful natures. I myself
have not been so happy. I do not complain,
nor greatly wonder ; under the apparently ran-
dom destinies of various individualities there
is a moral order, clear as inevitable, did we
but know it. Sibyl's nature was one predes-
tined to and deserving happiness. The unself-
ish sweetness, the patient serenity with which
she accepted life and its cares, in the end usu-
ally secure the smiles of that not quite irra-
tional divinity. Fortune. I was diiSferent. I
am Beatrice Walford still, and I have fetched
all these pictures of the past out of ghost-land.
THE END.
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JOSEPHINE.
MARIA ANTOINETTE.
MADAME ROLAND.
HENR7 rV.
PETER THE GREAT.
GENGHIS KHAN.
KING PHILIP.
HERNANDO CORTEZ.
MARGARET OF ANJOU.
JOSEPH BONAPARTE.
QUEEN HORTENSE.
LOUIS xrv.
LOUIS PHILIPPB.
Books inf the Abbotts,
THE LITTLE LEARNER SERIES.
A Series for Very Young Children. Designed to Assist in
the Earliest Development of the Mind of a Child, while under
its Mother's Special C^re, during the first Five or Six Tears
of its Life. By Jacob Abbott. Beautifully Illustrated.
Complete in 5 Small 4to Volumes, Cloth, 90 cents per Vol.
Price of the set, in case, $4 50. *
LEARNING TO TALK ; or, Entertaining and Instruct-
ive Lessons in the Use of Language. 1 70 Engravings.
LEARNING TO THINK : consisting of Easy and En-
tertaining Lessons, designed to Assist in the First Unfold-
ing of the Reflective and Reasoning Powers of Children.
120 Engravings.
LEARNING TO READ ; consisting of Easy and En-
tertaining Lessons, designed to Assist Toung Children in
Studying the Forms of the Letters, and in beginning to
Read. 160 Engravings.
LEARNING ABOUT COMMON THINGS; or.
Familiar Instruction for Children in respect to the Ob-
jects around them that attract their Attention and awaken
their Curiosity in the Earliest Years of Life. 120 En-
gravings.
LEARNING ABOUT RIGHT AND T77RONG; or,
Entertaining and Instructive Lessons tor Young Children
in respect to their Duty. ^Ci T£,w^tw\t\^?».
Books by the Abbotts.
KINGS AND QUEEN&
SINGS AND QUEENS ; or, Life in the Palace : con-
sisting of Historical Sketches of Josephine and Maria Lou-
isa, Louis Philippe, Ferdinand of Austria, Nicholas, Isa-
bella II., Leopold, Victoria, and Louis Napoleon. By
John S. C. Abbott. With numerous Illustrations. 12mo,
Cloth, $1 76.
A SUMMER IN SCOTLAND.
A SXTMBflER IN SCOTLAND r a Narrative of Ob-
servations and Adventures made by the Author during a
Summer spent among the Glens and Highlands in Scot-
land. By John S. C. Abbott. Illustrated with En-
gravings. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75.
THE ROMANCE OF SPANISH HISTORY.
THE ROMANCE OF SPANISH HISTORY. By
John S. C. Abbott, Author of '*The French Revolution,"
"The History of Napoleon Bonaparte," &c. With Illus-
trations. 12mo, doth, $2 00.
SCIENCE
FOR THE YOUNd
By JACOB ABBOTT.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS,
\ 12mo, Cloth, $1 50.
LIGHT. 12mo, Qoth, $1 50.
TVATER AND LAND. 12mo, aoth, $1 50.
Few men enjoy a wider or better earned popularity aa a writer
for the yonng than Jacob Abbott His series of histories, and sto-
ries illustrative of moral tmths, have famished amusement and in-
Btrnction to thousands. He has the knack of piquing and gratifying
curiosity. In the book before us he shows his happy faculty of im-
parting useful information through the medium of a pleasant nar-
rative, keeping alive the interest of the young reader, and fixing in
his memory valuable trtXhs.— Mercury, New Bedford, Mass.
Jacob Abbott is almost the only writer in the i;nglish language
who knows how to combine real amusement virith real instruction
in such a manner that the eager young readers are quite as much
interested in the usefol knowledge he imparts as in the story which
he makes so pleasant a medium of instruction.— £u/a{o Commercial
Advertiser, ^
• • • Mr. Abbott has avoided the errbrs so common with writers
for popular effect, that of slurring over the difficulties of the subject
through the desire of making it intelligible and attractive to un-
learned readers. He never tampers with the truth of science, nor
attempta to dodge the solution of a knotty problem behind a cloud
ofpJansible illnstrfttions.— X. Y.Tribtme.
POPULAR HISTORIES
BT
JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.
HISTORY OF FREDERICK THE GREAT.
The History of Frederick the Second, called Frederick the
Great. By John S. C. Abbott. Elegantly Illastrated.
8yo, Cloth, $5 00.
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
The French Bevolution of 1789, as Viewed in the Light of
Bepublican Institutions. By John S. C. Abbott. With
100 Engravings. Svo, Cloth, $5 00.
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.
The History of Napoleon Bonaparte. By John S. C. Ab-
bott. With Maps, Woodcuts, and Portraits on Steel.
2 vols., Svo, Cloth, $10 00.
NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA.
Napoleon at St. Helena ; or. Interesting Anecdotes and Re-
markable Conversations of the Emperor during the Five
and a Half Years of his Captivity. Collected from the
Memorials of Las Casas, O'Meara, Montholon, Antom-
marchi, and others. By John S. C. Abbott. With Il-
lustrations. Svo, Cloth, $5 00. ,^
By JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.
CHILD AT HOME.
The Child at Home ; or, the Principles of Filial Daty famil-
iarly Illustrated. By John S. C. Abbott. Woodcuts.
J6mo, Cloth, $100.
The duties and trials peculiar to the child are explained and il-
lustrated in this volume in the same clear and attractive manner
in which those of the mother are set forth in the "Mother at Home."
These two works may be considered as forming a complete manual
of filial and maternal relations.
MOTHER AT HOME.
The Mother at Home ; or, the Principles of Maternal Duty
familiarly Illustrated. By John S. C. Abbott. Engrav-
ings. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00.
This book treats of the important questions of maternal responsi-
bility and authority ; of the difficulties which the mother will ex-
perience, the errors to which she is liable, the methods and plans
she should adopt ; of the religious instruction which she should
impart, and of the results which she may reasonably hope will fol-
low her faithful and persevering exertions. These subjects are
illustrated with the felicity characteristic of all the productions of
the author.
PRACTICAL CHRISTIANITY.
Practical Christianity. A Treatise specially designed for
Young Men. By John S, C. Abbott. 16mo, Cloth,
$100.
It is characterized by the simplicity of style and appositeness of
illustration which make a book easily read and readily understood.
It is designed to instruct and interest young men in the effectual
truths of Christianity. It comes down to their plane of thought,
and, in a genial, conversational way, strives to lead them to a life
of godliness.— TTotcAf^uin and Reflector.
It abounds in wise and practical suggestions.— iV: Y, ComrMreidl
Advertiser.
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