UC-NRLF 
 
 $B 3Dfl S7D 
 
 Sool(S |o^.-Q)^LS 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 Iohn Halifax,Gentleman. 
 
 m) 
 
 mt i MmM£m, : 1 K 
 
John 3v/ett 
 
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 solemn, 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. 
 
 i. LITTLE SUNSHINE'S HOLLDAY. 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 language is simple, and 
 the style such as the young will delight in. — N. Y. Times. 
 
 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 afford 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 EROM INDIA. By Geor^- 
 
 iana 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 fiction — than by any amount and degree of 
 direct instruction. — Examiner and Chronicle. 
 
Books for Girls, 
 
 Lively, natural, pure, and good in its teachings, and to be commended 
 to the little readers in all our family circles. — Swiday-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, suffering 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 touchingly 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 this book. — A dvance. 
 
 " The Cousin from India " is a very interesting story of a preternatu- 
 rally clever and wicked little minx, who made her appearance in the 
 quiet family 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 after 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 >&£F* Harper & Brothers will send either of the above works by 
 
 mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United 
 
 States, on receipt of go cents. 
 
' VIVK LA REPUBLTQUK DKMOCR.VTIQUE." [See p. 72. 
 
TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 Monxnai of a fflnrl in Ijer STenxs. 
 
 EDITED BY THE 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
 187 2. 
 
EDUCATION ■K, 
 
THE PEEFACE 
 
 — Which will be only a few words. 
 
 This book is — as it purports to be — the bond 
 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 ; the}' 
 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 other 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 Beatrice Watford, 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Parisian Soiree 13 
 
 CHAPTER IT. 
 The Coup d'etat 50 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 M. le Professeur 87 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 M. £mile 104 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 The Jour de l'An 122 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 In the Faubourg St. Germain 133 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Balls 164 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Paris in April ..... 186 
 
12 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Luxembourg and the Conciergerie 201 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Paris in May 211 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 A French Country .House 229 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 A French Village 258 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Friends and Fetes 283 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Autumn Days 314 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 Sibyl's LpT — and Mine 345 
 
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 
 
11 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 ! 
 
 My first single emotion was one of delight 
 it 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 noblesse, 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 
 " triste 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 iDlysees, 
 making one 'of a line of elegant houses, all glit- 
 tering in their bright white stone, with their 
 moulded and gilded facades on each side of 
 those broad, sunny walks, and their double av- 
 enue of trees. And then my sister's small, 
 pretty apartment 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-and-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 ouvrier, 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 YEAES 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 ours. 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 grillage 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 caleche 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 PARISIAN SOIREE. 1? 
 
 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 enj'03'ment 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 
 cafe ; 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 ties, on the 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 a 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 concierges 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 
 mfauteuils 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 promene," 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 am 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 tete elevee," 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 YEARS 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- locataire, 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 
 causeuse, 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 PARISIAN SOIREE. 21 
 
 being quiet, yet very amusing. 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 
 Frenchman 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. l J7n Jiomme 
 naif el ingenu 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 Emile 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 
 
:32 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 your i type,' your hair, and your complexion. 
 Wait for this evening's experience. " French- 
 men in the street and Frenchmen in the salon 
 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 ! 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 SOIREE, 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 measured 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 empress^ 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- 
 
:>A 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 ? 
 —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 sans/agon 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 us. 
 
 "Just tell me a little about these soirees" 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, piquant 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 mediant enough when 
 the first charm of novelty has worn off. 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 effort, no gene. 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 YEARS 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 Smile de 
 Fleury, who is a sort of relation ; he is Her- 
 mine's cousin, has lately left the Ecole 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 1' University, 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 appartemexit of Madame 
 Gibbs ; we are ushered into a nice little ante- 
 
A PARISIAN SOIREK 27 
 
 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, cachemireSj 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 YEAliS AGO. 
 
 passing meteor. As yet the season for gaye- 
 ties, for balls and fetes, 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 fauteuils 
 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 there; 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 gene, 
 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 lorgnons, a, few militaires, some se- 
 rious-looking Italian exiles, some half-unna- 
 tionalized travellers, citizens of all w r orlds, 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 Eed Eepublicans of the most emanci- 
 pated type. Finally, as large an element as 
 any are English girls ; often habiiuees of Paris, 
 but English all over in look, speech, and dress ; 
 
30 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 and, in their fresh beauty and joyous simplici- 
 ty, great favorites with these causerie- 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, empresse 
 (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. 31 
 
 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 
 candide Anglaise which is stereotyped in their 
 imagination. Yet, though I 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 
 mamlre d'etre. I could after a while perceive, 
 
32 TWENTY YEARS 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 Fleury ; 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 
 indifferent 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. Emile. 
 He had decidedly a military air ; but the first 
 
A PABISIAN 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. Emile, 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 YEARS 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 officer'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. Simile, 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. Emile'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 I 
 
A PARISIAN SOIREE. 35 
 
 were in your place I should throw my brevet 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, "II 
 n'est pas necessaire 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 exaltation. 
 
 Though liking him, I was a little displeased 
 with M. filmile 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 YEARS 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, which 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 brjjliancy, 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 PARISIAN SOIREE. 87 
 
 parture put an end to the game, which seemed 
 so agreeable to these gentlemen, of astonishing 
 the poor Anglaise. I 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 military, 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 YUAMS AGO. 
 
 age soldiery, those committed by the Austrians 
 were said to be pre-eminent. 
 
 Then the gentle M. Emile 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 "egorgd plus d'une douzaine de 
 femmes, ni mange plus de quatre enfants." 
 M. ]±]mile then told composedly some stories 
 of murderous adventure and horrible massa- 
 cre in Algerie ; 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. l'offi- 
 cier" was "romanesque, un peu sentimental 
 meme," " 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. From for- 
 eign, they came to domestic cruelties, which 
 they told apparently with great gusto. "Voi- 
 la, mademoiselle, encore le tigre !" was the de- 
 lighted wind-up. 
 
 Having thus lighted on politics, we pursued- 
 
A PARISIAN SOIREE. 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 twp 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 emphasis 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 litterateur took very well. 
 
 Then he gayly quoted the president's late- 
 reported saying, " II faut supprimer l'Angle- 
 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 YEAKS 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 Eed 
 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 SOIREE. 41 
 
 known as a charming talker, and a brilliant, 
 rising man of lettefls — 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. Emile 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 mothers side, she was not totally eclipsed 
 in the maternal shadow, but spoke for herself 
 in a decided manner, as one accustomed to 
 some independence. It is true she was about 
 
42 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 twenty-three. At first I thought her older, 
 for her face was one of 4hose which at first 
 sight are dingy and heavy, but wh$n animated, 
 lighted up, and especially in full dress and at 
 happy moments, become really beautiful. It 
 was a grand, melancholy face, with severe Ko- 
 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 Kenand, 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 sufficient confidence 
 in herself; but she thought clearly, and spoke 
 readily and 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 fejl into conversation, 
 which turned by chance on the early marriages 
 of French girls, about which I asked her many 
 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 SOIREE. 43 
 
 it.' 7 I afterwards learned that she had formed 
 and kept the romantic resolution never to 
 marry unless she could do it d VAnglaise — 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 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 ancien regime. 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 Sibyl's and 
 Hermine's hands, Monsieur le Comte took his 
 leave. 
 
 " Well," said Sibyl, laughing at my exhaust- 
 ed expression of countenance, " these soirees 
 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, just pour Jammer" 
 
 "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 Anglaise 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 they would 
 probably be declared fiances, 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 AGO. 
 
 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 Her mine 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- 
 nages 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 PARISIAN SOIREE. 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 think," 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, a what a com- 
 monplace affair is an English evening party ! 
 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 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 YEAliS 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 lettre 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 would be a match for them ; that I too 
 would be only observant and amused ; 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, and 
 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 - peyisee. 
 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. Emile among them ?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "No," Sibyl answered, rather hurriedly. 
 " Emile'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 YEAES AGO. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 THE COUP D'ETAT. 
 
 THE week that elapsed between my first 
 and second soirees 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 as, 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 Elysees 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 Changarnier 
 was that morning arrested. Between nine and 
 ten we went out and learned something more 
 definite. We passed through the Champs Ely- 
 sees, 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- 
 nore we found people busy pasting up three 
 proclamations — one from the prefet 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 YEARS 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 
 Frendh minds, denouncing the Assembly just 
 dismissed as & foyer de complols, and calling on 
 the people to assist him — the prince-president 
 — in forming a new government, of which the 
 chief points are a chef responsable named for 
 ten years (who, he not obscurely hints, is to be 
 himself), and two assemblies, 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 prefet'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 l'acte" 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- 
 cochere of the Elysee 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 lancers, with their lances and waving 
 pennons displayed, immovable on their horses. 
 Presently cries of "Vive le general !" arose, and 
 we saw a man in general's uniform, on a beau- 
 tiful white horse, followed by officers, 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 
 etait 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 diers laughed and said something encouraging 
 to us as we passed, but with perfect respect. 
 Good-humor seemed the order of the day. At 
 the Palais Boyal, 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 railings. 
 
 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 cafes, political clubs, etc., 
 a crowd such as I had never seen in Paris 
 before. Pound 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! what 
 various types of excited faces ! Several other 
 ladies were passing, but all curiosity, all inter- 
 est, seemed confined to us English; French- 
 women moved on rapidly, with ennuye looks; 
 they had had enough of revolutions. 
 
THE COUP D'ETAT. 55 
 
 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 " desinteressement hero'ique fle- 
 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 filysees 
 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. Far as one 
 could see those long avenues were one shining 
 mass of helmets and cuirasses and sword-belts, 
 
56 TWENTY 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 7 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 CO UP D 'ETA T. 57 
 
 This magnificent military spectacle I heard 
 described by Sibyl, but I individually lost it. 
 Before we entered the Champs Elysees, I had 
 become so tired with over-excitement, that I 
 chose indiscreetly to go home by myself — a 
 much more difficult affair 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. 
 Honore, I was four times stopped by cordons 
 of soldiers with an " Ou. allez-vous, madame?" 
 The answer " Chez moi" passed me twice ; the 
 third time, after some hesitation and an addi- 
 tional supplication, I was again allowed to 
 pass ; bub 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'Etat has been told 
 by many. I, a girl, shall tell only what I saw 
 with my own eyes — without comment, too. 
 
58 TWENTY YEARS 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 Kepublicans. 
 
 We went out early on Wednesday morning 
 to see another review, as we expected, from the 
 number of soldiers filling the Champs Elysees, 
 a grand scene like that of yesterday. The 
 cavalry were dismounted, and evidently get- 
 ting themselves and their horses ready for in- 
 spection. The horses stood somewhat irregu- 
 larly about in the road, their gay housings on; 
 but they themselves were busy eating the ha} 7 
 brought from the great carts that stood all 
 round. The men, some. leading their horses 
 about, some feeding them, stood some loitering 
 about, or getting their uniforms in 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 fruit and confectionery ; and in and out 
 among the soldiers ran the smart vivandieres, 
 distributing food from the little green-covered 
 carts by the way-side, or wine from the cafes. 
 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- 
 
CO TWENTY YEARS 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- 
 
62 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 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 merety 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 cafe 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 cornets, 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 
 us, 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 Elysee ; he'll 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 Elysee, though 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 w r ell as in the people an ab- 
 
 4 
 
64 TWENTY YEARS 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 affected 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 rnairie 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 
 
 t 
 
THE COUP 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 deportes. 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 
 Greve 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 TWENTY TEARS 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 Lamoriciere — 
 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 Kues 
 du Bac and de l'Universite were evidently in 
 an excited state ; knots of people crowded the 
 narrow trottoir, and shoals of gamins were mov- 
 ing in one direction. In the Champs Elysees 
 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 Eue 
 Eichelieu, where barricades 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 know 
 better than to thrust themselves as mere curi- 
 
THE COUP D'ETAT. 67 
 
 ous spectators into danger — had got as near 
 the agitated parts as possible, till he 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 the 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- 
 cochere down the street for distant cannon. 
 Then came horses' hoofs down the Champs 
 Elysees, 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 
 my 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 their repetition — dreadful and 
 hitherto unheard sounds — volleys of musketry 
 
03 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 and discharges of cannon. How near they 
 were we knew not ; but the insurgent mass 
 was evidently rolling on into the heart of the 
 citjr, and it might be that the conflict was now 
 raging round the Palais de l'filysee 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, unpi tying 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. CO 
 
 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 
 lie in the republican bourgeoisie, of whom the 
 deputies belonging to the Mountain were the 
 leaders. The ouvriers, 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 oow- 
 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 Assembled 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 abundance. 
 The agitation went on ; a barricade monstre, 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 Chaussee 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, 
 
58 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, "Vive la Kepublique !" and ad- 
 juring them to join him. 
 
 The colonel, seeing his exaltation, and wish- 
 ing to spare him, said, "Ketire!" but the young 
 man answered only, " Vive la Kdpublique de- 
 mocratique !" was fired at by the whole troop, 
 and fell dead on the spot. These young men, 
 whether wisely or not, at least sacrificed them- 
 selves to a noble object, and moreover 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 Mroique (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 
 Eue Eichelieu. 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 
 
74 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 offered, 
 the soldiers in many cases rushed into the 
 houses, and arrested, shot, or bayoneted the 
 inhabitants. 
 
 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 
 
76 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 filysees 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 — and 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- 
 
78 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 ed. 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 plar^ks 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 " fermete et le devouement 
 inebranlables," 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 
 him, 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 and 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! 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 so much : had a few false proclamations, 
 a few discharges of musketry, dispersed it into 
 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 five 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, and 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-stuffed 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, cafes, 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 Cafe 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 YEARS AGO. . 
 
 All the houses on the south side, and many 
 on the north side, were injured ; and more and 
 more were the marks 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 
 Poissonniere, 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 stopping to point at one of the most 
 
THE 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 Tier 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 habitues." 
 
 The barricade, she said, had extended across 
 the whole wide road, but it was not well 
 made ; she evidently thought scorn of it com- 
 pared with those of former emeutes. 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 out of them ; 
 
81 TWENTY YEARS 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 habitues " the apology not un needed. 
 
 Next day we went to the cemetery of Pere 
 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 gr6und 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 convej^ed : 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 Pere 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. 
 
 All 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 it to our very clever and spirited bonne, Con- 
 stance, I permitted myself to say something 
 about lachete. 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 
 homes, 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 rouges, who are coming to seize 
 our money and cut our throats!" 
 
M. LE PROFESSEUR. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 M. LE PROFESSEUR. 
 
 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 hilarit}'. He was there beside a 
 
S8 TWENTY YEA1ZS 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 w 7 hole party, indeed, 
 was not other than that of men, I am glad 
 to say, in excellent health and spirits. 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 prejuges 
 atroces — etes-vous convertie a nous?" and I 
 must prepare myself not for 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 sommes que des 
 
M. LE PROFESSEUR. 89 
 
 colombes," 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, 
 " Un 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 tambour -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 contradicting him moderately, I then, 
 to soothe his injured feelings, allowed the 
 French to be amiable, infinitely agreeable, full 
 of talent. 
 
90 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 "Yes, yes, we understand all that," he inter- 
 rupted, in tones of exaggerated humility, " gra- 
 cieux, mais singes encore." 
 
 Unfortunate confession of mine! 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 PROFESSEUR. 91 
 
 in all houses the women reign sovereign, and 
 the men are absolutely- passive. There they 
 have the good sense to know their nullity; 
 but 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, another 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- 
 leges. 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, occupied 
 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 *de 
 l'amour, and then I shall be plus gai et im- 
 petueux." 
 
 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. 
 
 "Vous verrez! vous verrez!" 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, 
 
M. LE PROFESSEUM. 93 
 
 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 demoiselles, before whom he was not per- 
 mitted to discourse "sur l'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 nothing, and ought to know 
 nothing, of such things. Ah, ciel ! c'est bien 
 difficile pour un homme modeste et delicat 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 de- 
 range horriblement." 
 
 Having relieved himself thus far, the afflict- 
 ed professor announced " qu'il fallait se sacri- 
 fler," and went off to 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, 
 
94 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 playing with his pocket-handkerchief, like a 
 kitten with her tail. 
 
 But my part of confidante and consoler to 
 Madame Gribbs's guests was not yet done. 
 Two more sufferers engaged my attention — a 
 struggling artist and a despairing Eepublican. 
 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 
 Eepublican, 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 scmght 
 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 familh, those young men of 
 
M. LE PROFESSEUR. 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 Ultramontanism being now decidedly 
 the fashion. 
 
96 TWENTY YEARS 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 Anglaise can by any possible 
 magnetism inspire him with a due appreci- 
 ation of Shakspeare. Looking anxiously at 
 Sibyl, he said, when first he saw her in the 
 audience, he was frightened, knowing madame 
 to be " un peu moqueuse," but that her " air 
 bienveillant " restored his courage; he hoped 
 Mdlle. Beatrice would be -equally merciful. 
 Certainly, no one would have guessed M. La- 
 mourette to be thus timid ; but human nature 
 is a problem. 
 
 I kept my promise and attended the lecture, 
 which, after all this confidence and condolence, 
 was but decent feeling. Judging from what I 
 already 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 
 heard 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 Jewries files whom he had 
 described as "rangees tout en face de lui," and 
 
M. LE PBOFESSEUR. 97 
 
 across whom he carefully looked " vers les 
 plus laids des etudiants." 
 
 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 sucree, 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 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 worked 
 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 smile 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 PROFESSEUB. 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 " sacrifie Voltaire a l'autel de Shaks- 
 peare"); some patronizing praise of the En- 
 glish poet's imaginativeness; and some stern 
 justice dealt to his " deTauts de gout" — 
 u meme vous qui adorez Shakspeare, vous con- 
 viendrez qu'il est tres-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 meagre 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 TWENTY TEARS 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 emphatically, " 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 PROFESSEUR. 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. Emile, his hat drawn 
 over his brows — I could not see his face, but 
 the professor had, or had divined its secret — 
 he was asleep ! 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 
 
102 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 or smile accompany 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 
 first I said polite things as to the interest of 
 his lecture. He recurred with animation to 
 his passage from Burke, and asked what I 
 thought of the translation. 
 
 " It was very good, monsieur, and you gave 
 it with great spirit; but your lectures will be 
 suppressed if you make any more such quota- 
 tions." 
 
 He looked intensely pleased at this, and 
 said, "Oh, 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: 'On 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 PROFESSEUR. 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 looked helplessly round for my Italian 
 litterateur. 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 ! 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 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 M. EMILE. 
 
 I PERCEIVE that in my account of this 
 last soiree I have not mentioned the young 
 militaire. 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. Simile 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 fetes 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. Ernile. 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 
 more gracefully than in these delicate adorn- 
 ments of daily life. 
 
 Little as I yet know of M. fimilej I believe 
 with Sibyl that he is to be trusted, and I look 
 on him as a specimen of the best class of "la 
 
106 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 jeune France " — a class in which the fine quali- 
 ties that made France's former greatness still 
 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 Simile 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. EM1LE. 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 
 angelique 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 
 f£tes 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 bleuets in the corn-field, the balmy roses 
 of a garden-bower, with a love which makes 
 
108 TWENTY YEABS AGO. 
 
 him sometimes impatient of a life shackled by 
 rigid official duties. Stung, too, by the strug- 
 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 independance ! 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! that fine organization and fervid na- 
 ture have heart and hope in them yet; though 
 
31. EMILE. 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 may be a 
 dozen years hence, when the work of desillu- 
 sionnement 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 impression of something much 
 bitterer and harder than he really is. 
 
 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 TWENTY YE AltS 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 Emile 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 
 idionr, or grammar, such as cause some cheer- 
 ful misunderstanding, or some engaging or per- 
 haps embarrassing mistake, M. fimile 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. 
 
M. EMILR 111 
 
 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 role 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 a person- 
 nage de romwn, 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 Academie, and a vote of ap- 
 
M. EMILE. 113 
 
 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 gate; but I 
 chose to take him as he represented himself. 
 When, a day or two after, he came to us en 
 soiree, 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 ! 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 after, 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 take up the book, ask what "ce 
 monsieur " had said, and recur to the subject, 
 while I smiled internally with tender pleasure 
 H 
 
114 TWENTY YEABS 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 you. 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 TEAMS AGO. 
 
 but never realized it till I heard it from a clev- 
 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 naivete 
 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 ! 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 au 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, iWle 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 TWENTY YEARS 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 offenders — is 
 something past speaking of. These mistakes 
 do not come from want of imagination ; there 
 
M. EMILE. 119 
 
 is but too much of that quality in the rapidity 
 with which half-impressions are seized on and 
 worked up ; they are run away with by a the- 
 ory, and generalize to a wonderful extent; and 
 then their national conceit satisfies them that 
 they 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, logiques 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- 
 
130 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 ency glares on us from 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 
 " effect" 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 devorante." 
 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. 
 
M. 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 deceives. What with us is mere 
 honesty, is with them brutalite, 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. 
 
122 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE JOUR DE L 7 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 nous, the outs would have been out- 
 voted. 
 
 So France has secured her ten years 7 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 
 may. 
 
THE JOUR BE L'AK 123 
 
 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 Parisiennes in 
 rain and dirt, a few soldiers in gray cloaks, all 
 the scanty world under umbrellas, and gloom 
 and dreariness everywhere. 
 
124 TWENTY YEAliS 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 pave, 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 ! how like you 
 are — in these two phases — to some beau- 
 ty first seen in her fete-days, all smiling and 
 charming, made up of graces and good-humor, 
 and the same beauty gearing a shabb} 7 dress- 
 ing-gown and a sulky face, in a disorderly bed- 
 room at home ! 
 
 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 JOUR DE VAN. 125 
 
 forth in the Champs Elysees — 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 ! 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." See ! 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- 
 
126 TWENTY YEAMti 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 icicles, 
 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 BE 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 pearls. 
 
 When we entered the tie by the Petit Pont, 
 we found the entrance to the Place de Notre- 
 Dame choked up with a crowd of commis, 
 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 was 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 
 
128 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 vient!" and criticisms, sometimes disparaging, 
 were exchanged on the " filu du Ciel." 
 
 At length the great bells of Notre-Dame 'be- 
 gan to ring, 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 escorte," as 
 4he 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 
 
THE JOUR DE VAN. 139 
 
 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 Nbtre-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 
 T 
 
130 TWENTY YEARS 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-ville, 
 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 BE VAN. 131 
 
 the makes of the several arrondissements ap- 
 plauding loudly. 
 
 On the Suspension Bridge we stopped to 
 buy a medallion 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 disco v- . 
 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. ! 
 
 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 
 
132 TWENTY YEABS 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 forgotten 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 ! thus living through a 
 chapter of history with — I will not name him 
 — but he is now the greatest English poet of 
 our day. 
 
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IN THE FAUBOUEG ST. GEKMAIN. 
 
 AFTER all these literary and republican 
 soirees, 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. 
 
134 TWENTY YEAHIS AGO. 
 
 An air of grand-seigneur insouciance 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 Republicans," 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- 
 
IJST THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 135 
 
 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- 
 taquer." 
 
 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 YEARS 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-cochere 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 FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 137 
 
 called, by way of accommodating herself to 
 our English ideas, a 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 
 aristocrate, 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 betises, of which 
 some chance report, straying beyond the ring- 
 fence of that unspeakably respectable fau- 
 bourg, so much delights all the others. 
 
 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 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 and then at mixed soirees, 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 Legislatif, 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 
 
IJST THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 139 
 
 drawing-room 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 
 couches 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 calculj 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 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 devot, 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 banalites, 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 
 introduced 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 
 
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 141 
 
 of French summer-simplicity. Straightway I 
 recall M. de Montorgueil, whom I had met 
 several times at different 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 and perfect antipathy. He was 
 of the vieilh 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 
 real. He added to this a sham Kepublican- 
 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 
 
142 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 joenible, 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 like, but the French 
 only could love. He spoke of the passions of 
 
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 143 
 
 the heart and of the head, and how that the 
 Northern nations had neither, but lived most- 
 ly "par l'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 
 desire pas ; les enfants me derangeraient dans 
 mon travail." 
 • Having given all this long description, to 
 
144 TWENTY YEARS 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 
 pense a moi ? II y a done de la sympathie en- 
 tre nous? Que e'est touchant!" 
 
 He had been busy, he told me, in organiz- 
 
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 146 
 
 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. 
 A thousand compliments on the kind interest 
 I 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 be 
 doubly supplied, for you must know she is an 
 especial protegee of madame 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 Francais or the Grymnase. 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 FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 147 
 
 side me ; you must take your cue from me, and 
 applaud fervently. Think," he was pleased to 
 add, "you will be doing it for a lady, young, 
 beautiful, 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 
 — unoffended and unmoved. u 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 YEARS 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 forces. 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 face 
 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 un amiable 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 demon of spite was not 
 uppermost, were gay, witty, and flatteringly 
 
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. 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 creme' de la crime — they must 
 
150 TWENTY YEABti 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 
 vith me, the lofty Laure bent forward, and 
 said, "Allez-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's 
 matrimonial speech, and were altogether rath- 
 er lofty and scornful about it. I presently 
 
f 
 IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 151 
 
 gathered that the fair Laure, though of noble 
 and Legitimist family, would have no objec- 
 tion to figure in the plebeian court from which 
 family prejudice as yet excluded her. 
 
 While we were still talking, I was again 
 addressed by M. de Montorgueil, who had left 
 me 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 
 that "belle personne?" was she French? for 
 she was of the Spanish, at least of the meridio- 
 nal type. 
 
 I said, I thought pure French ; still he per- 
 sisted 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, 
 
152 TWENTY YEARS 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*[ 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- 
 est her ; a frank, cordial manner delights her. 
 
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 153 
 
 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 e 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 
 
154 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 braid, little sword, and Legion of Honor rib- 
 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 office — 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 ! " 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. GERMAIN. 155 
 
 posterous vision, gave a rapid stare, exclaimed 
 in a jerk, " Mon Dieu !" — 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 l'embellit. Vous paraissez beaucoup 
 occupe'e de ce monsieur," he observed, and po- 
 litely, but quite unfoundedly, added, "Et lui 
 aussi, il parait beaucoup occupe de vous." I 
 envied some gentlemen who, retired on a sofa 
 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 YEARS 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. E., 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. " VoilsL Ermengarde !" 
 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 FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 157 
 
 nized vagrant in society he attended his wife, 
 whose youth and bolder spirit jpushed her for- 
 ward to something more like a distinctive 
 place. 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 impressions. 
 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 TEARS 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, prononcee- 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 FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 159 
 
 her the replique in the scenes she was about 
 to declamer entered at last. This was a most 
 excellent, 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 bonhomie, 
 but of no dignity. 
 
 A grand Eussian princess was to be the 
 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- 
 ly riveted on the performer the whole time 
 
160 TWENTY YEARS 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 fell into 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 "Phedre," 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 FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 161 
 
 cially the stretching forth of the arm and the 
 quivering of the forefinger; and when these 
 reached their height there came from the 
 French part of her audience a momentary ap- 
 plause. But I, who had my own deep, pre- 
 conceived ideas of what was the proper acting, 
 and who had once in my life seen it realized, 
 felt chilled by what might be very suitable to 
 French and violent organizations, and pleas- 
 ing to kindred eyes. I was full of benevo- 
 lence, but unable to say that my idea of 
 " Phedre " 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 
 away, not to bide, but to exhibit, a laugh. Er- 
 mengarde'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 
 had once had no need to hold the hat for his 
 wife's earnings. 
 
 The second specimen was from the " Misan- 
 thrope." Celimene 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! tres-bien !" 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 
 Theatre Francais, and, to my surprise, found 
 
IN THE FAUBOURG ST. GERMAIN. 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 
 triumph. How she achieved it I know not; 
 but there was so much love and hate continu- 
 ally lost and won in these smiling salons, that 
 I need not have wondered at any change. 
 The French vanity, at one time so amiable, 
 confiding, loving, and chivalrous, can at others 
 be rabid, cruel, and bitterly ungenerous; and 
 with this powerful lever, no doubt, she had 
 worked. Or was he perhaps all the while an 
 enemy in the guise of an admirer ? 
 
164 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 BALLS. 
 
 AS the season advanced we varied the prose 
 of Paris society with some of its poetry, 
 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 tarlatans, and the agree- 
 able middle-aged men vanished before a crop 
 of half-grown, slender-mustached, small young 
 men, chiefly pupils of the flcole 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 the 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 d'etat as having "dined at the Elysee." 
 So my sense of honor kept me away from the 
 most superb of balls given by the prefet 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 
 salle de bal, alas ! 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! 
 Ah ! what Olympian flirtations, of what super- 
 seraphic grace and refinement, should have 
 been held in that hall of halls ! 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 very few 
 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. 167 
 
 the world all kinds of histories and destinies, 
 each solitary among crowds, yet most 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 
 while 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 phrase. 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' e schiavo cosi sprezzabile 
 
168 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 come un uorao che ama." I listened and 
 thought, "Your 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 but 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 
 Eue 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 
 led 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 TWENTY YUAMiS 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 that piqaante 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 
 
BALLS. , 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 
 Helfene had a brother who, though a pupil in 
 the Nicole 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- 
 1 tinople, brought up in Eussia, 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-hy." 
 
172 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 None of the Paris fine gentlemen seemed to 
 suit the fair Helene; she constantly turned 
 away with an air of shy pride, very piquant 
 and very hopeless. She danced a little, 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 Hel&ne, she laughed, and point- 
 ed me out to her mother. I don't know what 
 shS could have noticed in me ; peut-etre," he 
 added, reflectively, passing his hand across the 
 stiff, straight hairs of a most palpable and un- 
 deniable black wig, "peut-etre mes cheveux 
 £taient un peu deranges." 
 
 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 the po- 
 etry of their floating, girlish robes, contrasted 
 with 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- 
 behaved 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 td 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 TWENTY YEARS 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 Hel&ne. 
 " Can you imagine," he asked, "how a man 
 can succeed in making himself so absurd ? — 
 Mon Dieu!" he added, seriously, while follow- 
 ing him with his eyes, as if subdued with as- 
 tonishment, "c'est d'un ridicule fabuleux; a 
 Frenchman, Dieu merci ! could not achieve it 
 with his utmost efforts!" 
 
 I might have had my own ideas as to what 
 a Frenchman could achieve, but I remained 
 passive while he pursued his unconscious vic- 
 tim with arrows of malice ; and then another, 
 who, he declared, made on him the effect of 
 a hanneton, because he was dancing with our 
 hostess's daughter. He pronounced this nice 
 little thing a " coquette effrenee, 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 
 
176 TWENTY YEAMS AGO. 
 
 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! bon!" he said, with severe dignity; 
 "n'en parlons plus. I am sorry that your 
 taste is not more correct j 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 la ma maniere," 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 ?" 
 
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 
 Frenchman 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 YEARS 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 Emile 
 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 bon 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,- 1 dare say, as long as 
 he remembered us, he ridiculed with his coun- 
 trywomen " ces deux begueules 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 YEARS 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 ! 
 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 ! 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 fahy-demon. 
 She was, I believe, keenly jealous of Sibyl ; 
 the root of this jealousy was the fact that M. le 
 Comte (now fiance 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- 
 
182 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 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, feted 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 flmile, 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 off 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 esprit 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- 
 sienne ;" 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- 
 
184 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 mine was fully persuaded, like most French- 
 women, of her own infinite superiority in out- 
 ward manners, which claim I used to let pass 
 uncontested, so as at least not to damage our 
 character for politeness, or bring forward a 
 new proof of our deplorable insular deficiency. 
 Besides, I thought well enough of my own 
 countrywomen on higher grounds, to be will- 
 ing to let Frenchwomen cherish in peace their 
 little social glory. 
 
 English and French girls have probably a 
 strong class-resemblance, in spite of national 
 differences. Both, no doubt, are " ignorant 
 and frivolous enough," as Mr. Bennett says in 
 " Pride and Prejudice" — that is, very undevel- 
 oped and chaotic. In the English girl there 
 is mostly a naturalness, which, in a shy nation 
 like ours, often gives her manners a timid awk- 
 wardness, an abrupt sincerity, a something of 
 coldness, but which in the higher natures often 
 escapes in the shy expression of some deep 
 feeling or idea, unconscious of its depth, com- 
 ing softly and doubtfully from the bottom of 
 the heart or mind, some high conception, rich 
 in its very vagueness, 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 ; 
 as 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 VIII. 
 
 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 troisieme on 
 the bright city all alive and awake. Below us 
 lie the Champs Elysees, with their ever-passing 
 swarms like ants covering the shining pave- 
 ment between the avenues of trees. How gay, 
 open, and fresh every thing looked, from the 
 Arc de Triomphe to the Eond Point ! little 
 was visible save wide, smooth, shady avenues, 
 broad pavement, circling trees, and blue skies. 
 There is Franco ni'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 IN APRIL. 187 
 
 ing, and bowing to each other, and wear that 
 look of being so consciously bien 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 plaisirs (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. 
 Aurelie, 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 a 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 bonne causerie with Mademoiselle Aure- 
 lie is always welcome. 
 
 Sibyl is now busy arranging bunches of Par- 
 
188 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 ma violets, which M. Emile has just brought 
 her, in spite of my protest against the imperial 
 flower. "Violets were created long before 
 Louis Napoleon," says Emile. "And we won't 
 let him Have every good thing to himself," 
 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 filyse'es! They ex- 
 tend from the honest bourgeoise ) 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 Repub- 
 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- 
 
PARIS IN APRIL. 189 
 
 - gether in a leash, or following elegant women 
 in all kinds of soft, beautiful velvets and furs. 
 And the flower - women ! 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 ternis 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 meridionaux, 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 
 
190 TWENTY YEABS AGO. 
 
 columns towering in the middle ; while the 
 aerial-looking Arch of Triumph closed up the 
 distance, like a dream, cut out in costal, 
 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 stock-still, and looking immovably up at 
 the great stone lion on the right side 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 
 
PARIS 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 beau 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 
 Elysees 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 Elysees; 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 flaneurs in the broad 
 sunshine between the two torrents of foot-pas- 
 
193 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 sengers^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 lorgnon 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 solemn 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 
 
PARIS IN APRIL. 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 crepe 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, espilghrie, 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 !" The rest of the time we were joined 
 by M. Emile, whose refined and clever conver- 
 sation quite drew away my attention from the 
 restless, yet monotonous scene before us. He 
 N 
 
194 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 began by telling us that bis 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 I. 
 
 " 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 
 delicats et durs, comme leur caractere." 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, 
 
PARIS IN APRIL. 195 
 
 *and this naivete amuses ; but in his heart, phi- 
 losopher or no, the Frenchman considers la 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. Emile 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 Eepublican 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 and deepened as he uttered a few bitter, 
 broken sentences. 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 Clemence du Pre- 
 sident," illustrating an incident at a review 
 the day before. 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. Emile was silent for a moment ; 
 then he muttered, " What an abomination ! 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 heel 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 Emile in it — men whose warm heart and 
 vivid imagination unite with a clear head and 
 straightforward sense of duty. Perhaps one 
 regrets 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'Etat; 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 blase indifference, 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 
 
198 TWENTY YEAMS 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 Emile 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 Eo- 
 man Catholic religion wooes us through heart 
 
PARIS IN APRIL. 199 
 
 and 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; tfye 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 high, 
 and filling the church with clouds of rich per- 
 fume. The delicious choral singing, that in- 
 spired me with profound sadness like the pro- 
 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 
 £ide-door, the altar -lights were extinguished, 
 and half the church left in a divine darkness. 
 
200 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 We went home; and I could but hope that 
 the worshippers believed in it all, and that 
 each movement, each genuflexion, each lifting 
 of the Host, was to them a sacred act. To me, 
 who believe in a spiritual, not a material De- 
 ity, the whole appeared theatrical and pagan, 
 in spite of an effect that I could not but feel, 
 of which half was upon the senses, half upon 
 the imaginative emotions. 
 
THE LUXEMBOURG. 201 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE LUXEMBOURG AND THE CONCIERGERIE. 
 
 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. 
 
9Qa TWENTY YEAltS 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. 
 He 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 Conciergerie. It 
 was rather before the time of lilac-blossom ; but 
 perhaps, with an aristocratical magnificence 
 
 worthy of Louis XIV. 's time, M. de T 
 
 thought he could control nature by way of a 
 galanterie to ces dames, and so it was arranged. 
 Hermine was included in the party, and he 
 was content and I very much amused. 
 
 Sibyl was not over-well that day, and Her- 
 mine, 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 effort of flirtation with one in- 
 
THE LUXEMBOURG. 203 
 
 dividual, or for a single soiree; 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 world 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 passed on 
 tumbrils to the guillotine, and thence came 
 into the Salle, old as the 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, 
 
204 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 dark, dreary it still is, only twelve feet by ten, 
 yet curtained off 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 
 Marie Antoinette always used. It is easy, 
 and in some sense just, to talk of the crimes 
 and follies of the old regime and the necessity 
 of destroying it, of the righteous vengeance 
 of an oppressed people, and the glorious fruit 
 of the great Kevolution, 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 LUXEMBOURG. 205 
 
 fore us, and will feel how that suffering is en- 
 hanced by a sense of sudden and utter fall. It 
 will, 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 lively greffier 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! it was a dreadful 
 place ! so stony cold, so black, so pitilessly 
 
206 TWENTY YEAttS 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 r 
 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 Panthdon 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, ordered to load ; as for me, I 
 knew nothing about that business, and I don't 
 believe many of my companions did, although 
 some of them had been twenty years in the 
 National Guard. I found myself, therefore, 
 much 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, 7 said he. ' Then will you be so obliging 
 as to load mine for me V i With the greatest 
 pleasure, 7 he replied. And oh how relieved I 
 was! 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 7 waiting we were 
 told that the barricade was taken, and that we 
 were no longer required. We were very glad 
 
308 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 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 righting 
 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 Eepublican 
 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 LUXEMBOURG. 209 
 
 they felt now they would not feel a month, a 
 week, a day hence ; that it was a shocking 
 thing to kill a man in a state of excitement, 
 which resembled intoxication, and left no time 
 for the operation of reason ; that, after all, he 
 had not committed murder, that he had only 
 wounded a man, and that death was too dread- 
 ful a penalty for this. Bnfin 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 
 while 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 
 his affair at all. At last we got him into an- 
 other room, where we locked him up, and by 
 this respite finally saved Bim. 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 etrang&e, mixed with disserta- 
 tions on love and matrimony as practiced in 
 
210 TWENTY YEARS 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 Elysees, 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 far 
 the public promenade in the cab with a grand 
 seigneur would please les marnrs in a French 
 point of view, declined, and so ended our day. 
 
PARIS IN MAY. 211 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 PARIS IK MAY. 
 
 WE have now a succession of blue, dry, 
 burning days, which fill the Champs 
 Elysees 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 
 
212 TWENTY YEARS 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 
 white persiennes are flung back 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 Itf MA Y. 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 was 
 magnificently dressed, but greatly scandalized 
 the French female spectators by her scarlet 
 and gold-embroidered scarf; she was at once 
 concluded "originale." There was no splen- 
 
214 TWENTY YEAliS AGO. 
 
 dor of any kind, and the wedding was pro- 
 nounced a "triste affaire;" 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 in Normandy whither she 
 was going to reside with 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 cuisiniere 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 smart femme de chain- 
 bre of Madame la Duchesse, for whom her mis- 
 tress had begged permission to watch the 
 growth of the foreign wonder. We sent a 
 portion 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, his mother's darling, and, I fear, like 
 
PARIS IN MAY. 215 
 
 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 ; on 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 mortuaire — a white one, 
 to signify that the dead was unmarried, with 
 his initial "C" embroidered on it — hung all 
 over the porte-Qpchere, 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 ridicules. 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. 
 
216 TWENTY YEARS 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 
 fiill 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 Eenaud," 
 said Sibyl. " Aurelie 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 (our grave 
 English cousin, who was then with us) made 
 no objection, and we went to the Eue d'Agues- 
 seau, where Madame de Eenaud received us 
 
PARIS IN MA Y. 217 
 
 kindly, but told us poor Aurelie was too ill to 
 go out. She had been ailing some, time, she 
 did not know why. At last Aurelie 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 Aurelie? 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. 
 
 Aurelie was at length induced to accom- 
 pany us into the Tuileries gardens. The sun 
 
218 TWENTY YEARS 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. 
 
 Aurelie 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 was 
 almost the only " household word " — " Uncle 
 Tom's Cabin." She boldly avowed herself an 
 advocate of negro slavery, alleging that all the 
 English supposed philanthropic exertions for 
 its abolition were simply dictated by a desire 
 to ruin their colonies. But then she turned 
 smilingly to Horace, who was looking dumbl}^ 
 
PARIS IN MAY. 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 Aurelie 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 to 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. 
 
320 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 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. Aurelie inter- 
 rupted me by throwing herself back in her 
 seat with a fit of laughter, as she exclaimed, 
 "All these are pretty contes 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 
 Aurelie. 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 heart or of- 
 fering his hand. And; then, presently it will 
 
PARIS IN MA Y. 221 
 
 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 gout 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 affairs. There are, especially 
 in the country, such things as matches origin- 
 ating in an affection which begins in youth 
 
:322 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 detestables." 
 
 Horace escorted Mdlle. Aurelie 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- 
 souciant 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, 
 clear, sharp voice. With some doubts as to 
 
PARIS IN MAY. 223 
 
 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 Kepublic- 
 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 not 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 a 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 " elle" without any other distinguish- 
 ing mark, was at home, and, finding that she 
 
224 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 negre!" and protest that 
 he was " malheureux comme une pierre." I 
 suppose one of his numerous affaires de coeur 
 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 MA T. 235 
 
 clouds of magical foam, and fell again on each 
 side like liquid lace, like a watery bride- veil. 
 Those myriad lights in the great square began 
 their fantastic many-figured dance above, be- 
 yond, and across each other; then gathered, as 
 it were, and shot forth along the Champs Ely- 
 sees in double glittering lines that suddenly 
 seemed 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 cafes, 
 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 
 pageant or plaything ! 
 
 As we strayed slowly along we stopped to 
 *P 
 
226 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 listen to a clear and powerful 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 life. 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 instinct 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 mottier's 
 side to join her companions at the Fete-Dieu, 
 and, for the first time, with them flung flowers 
 before the cure going to mass, looking first to 
 
PARIS IN MAY. 227 
 
 see how the others did it — to the future day 
 when she might be lounging in a gay caleche 
 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 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- 
 tions which are expected from those who have 
 taken their seats, and of which the tariff 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 
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 IT may he 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 YEARS 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 few miles be- 
 yond Versailles, was so little visited or known 
 of, that a dweller there asked us how we came 
 to find out this 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. 231 
 
 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 his 
 little son 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- 
 cade 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 roof, 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 wilde'V, 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 
 
332 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 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 west an aque- 
 duct rises, at the end of the valley, out of a 
 thick background mass of forests towards Bue 
 and Viroflay, 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 sound^ 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. 383 
 
 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-chaussee: 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-chaussee and 
 the premier, the latter containing five charm- 
 ing bedrooms. Our party consisted of Sibyl 
 and myself, Sibyl's 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 proprietaire 
 
234 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 and his wife, who came down from Paris from 
 time to time to look after their affairs. As 
 for the society of this deeply secluded neigh- 
 borhood, there was a rich banker's fine house 
 and grounds a mile or so off, but the family 
 were never there ; there was a charming fami- 
 ly of quiet people, half French, half Swiss, in 
 the little village ; the cure, 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 shine 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 inextricably inter- 
 twined. For we had come to a passage in our 
 
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 235 
 
 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 ( u 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 Charlier 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 is 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 
 
236 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 confinement and subsequent dismissal. He 
 did the unusual thing of marrying for love a 
 first cousin, very young and pretty ; but the 
 love-match has turned out, it appears, very 
 like a mariage de convenance. The gentleman 
 is tricky and lax, the lady jealous and passion- 
 ate, and "love," we are told, "has traversed so 
 many scenes of cold and hot water that it has 
 ended by being drowned and scalded to death" 
 — in plain English, she has thrown numerous 
 jugs of water at him, although her own con- 
 duct has not been beyond suspicion. They 
 have still a community of interests, over which 
 they frequently quarrel. Madame is the sharp- 
 er and more business-like, and looks to the 
 smallest details with the keen close rigor of a 
 true Frenchwoman. Her husband is smooth 
 and civil; his voice would be pleasing were it 
 not too carefully kept down to a soft coaxing 
 under-tone, especially when addressing young 
 ladies; and his smile! it can be heard through 
 his voice ; and a very little, as Sibyl observes, 
 would make him oilier than one could bear. 
 He promises much, but, as he has always to 
 refer to madame, who is by no means so well- 
 disposed, performs next to nothing. Madame, 
 who twenty years ago was so pretty, is now a 
 queer little round ball, with a sort of shabby 
 
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 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 trowsers — 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 
 
238 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 into 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 sabots and handker- 
 chief-coiffure go by, the gardener or workmen 
 in their shirt-sleeves, whistling innocently, Zoe 
 
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. U /239 
 
 the jardiniere, 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 
 observe 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 Eosiers 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 pink -blossomed boughs, and the porte-cochere, 
 a greafcTirighpWooden 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 irjsjdisrepair, 
 and betrays the tale of onT^f^rietairj^^A\&.' 
 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 face. 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 Teau, mes- 
 dames ! je vais arroser les arbres!" and up 
 
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 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 jproprie- 
 taire 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 affect the degage 
 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 
 touche mes peches I" 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 
 
343 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 it is difficult to ascertain relationships in this 
 free-and-easy set — noisy, idle, and frolicsome 
 all the day long, chattering their familiar 
 French, and seeming as necessary to each oth- 
 er as one of those black, round, soft puppies 
 — looking like lumps of glossy velvet — is to 
 his brother. 
 
 But Julie has a new excitement to-day; she 
 carries in a cage a curious small animal, a loir 
 — that is to say, a huge species of dormouse, 
 more rat or even squirrel like than ours, with 
 large ears, pink snout and paws, which lives in 
 the trees and devours fruit. Edgar Leonini 
 has just caught it, and given it to Jules. Ju- 
 lie tells us about it in her French -English, 
 and the boy stands by, too shy to speak En- 
 glish, but understanding it, evidently, by his 
 comments on what we say. Presently it is 
 offered to us, declined, and finally set at lib- 
 erty. 
 
 The little group of garden-chairs all round 
 the orange -tree is gradually occupied by the 
 various tenants. Here is a gentleman in straw 
 hat, light coat and trowsers, smoking, silent, 
 listless, with languid figure, pale, used-up face, 
 and drawling voice. There is his wife, de- 
 scribed by Honorine as " grande et grosse, 
 comrne la tour de Baby lone," an American, 
 
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 243 
 
 heartily and honestly vulgar, and so far su- 
 perior to her husband, who moreover neglects 
 and ill-treats her. Her life is, I should think, 
 a sad one, and her only comfort must be in tho 
 little Julie, for whom she exhibits a touching 
 affection. There is another lady, who, though 
 middle-aged, has more than the remains of the 
 rich, almost splendid beauty of the South ; 
 while her sons, two dark, thin, tall lads, are 
 heard calling to each other, " Edgar !" and 
 "Hugo!" through the garden, amidst their one 
 sole, employment of catching butterflies in a 
 net. They are very listless, not like active, 
 vigorous English boys. Thus all remain till 
 they disperse to their eleven o'clock dejeuner. 
 Every one, even to the youngest of the boys, 
 takes off his cap and bows respectfully as we 
 pass ; sauvagerie has prevented the intercourse 
 from getting beyond this point, except an oc- 
 casional chat with the poor ill-used mother 
 and a passing laugh with Julie. 
 
 Poor Julie ! I can not but feel interested in 
 her. Who can tell what will be her grown- 
 up fate? Neglected, wholly uneducated, sur- 
 rounded by evil influences (for most of her 
 elder relations are by no means fit associates 
 for the young), she is still a child, and a very 
 pretty one, with a fair, delicate, regular beauty; 
 
244 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 and, still protected by childish ignorance, she 
 goes about unheeded in that sort of passive, 
 calm, almost dreamy reserve which shrouds 
 the mystery of a young girl's being, her fair 
 young face pale with the heat of these July 
 days, like a delicate brier-rose that grows faint 
 and fading ere half blown, her fast-shooting- 
 up, slight figure of twelve years old still mov- 
 ing with the lightness of childhood, her voice 
 seldom heard amidst her coarse, grown-up as- 
 sociates, her mind probably intent on Gamin 
 (the house-dog), the chat javme, and birds'- 
 nests, helping the jardiniere to gather vegeta- 
 bles, or madame her mother to prepare the 
 dinner. She seems to have a great yearning 
 towards us, and makes little timid advances, 
 playing whenever she can with baby May, 
 coming silently to seat herself, with an enor- 
 mous doll, on the stone seat under our dress- 
 ing-room window ; and, much as we dislike 
 the parents, we can not repel the poor child. 
 Poor little Julie ! pass ten years, and where 
 and what will you be ? 
 
 Leaving this now peopled court for the quiet- 
 er and cooler north gardens, as I pass I hear a 
 sound of singing high in the air, and recognize 
 our musical gardener's voice. I look up, and 
 discern him perched in a cherry-tree, chanting 
 
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 245 
 
 loud, in the innocent lightness of his spirits, 
 and greeting me with a debonnaire "Bonjour, 
 mademoiselle." He has for some days been 
 possessed by a song, in which are these words: 
 
 Dans les temps ou l'amour 
 Fut constant, et la beaute 
 Valait la galanterie. 
 
 I should like to know when those times (with 
 reference, at least, to the first clause) were in 
 Prance ; to ascertain this would require a very 
 laborious historical investigation. 
 
 The gardener's good-humor, by-the-bye, is, 
 like that of many of his nation, a very fragile 
 and insecure dependence. We have already 
 seen his wild eyes and eager manner blaze 
 into fierceness, not exactly with us, but with 
 Honorine, who certainly has a peculiar gift of 
 being provoking to her equals, more especially 
 when she suspects them of an intention to 
 wrong us. 
 
 One evening, coming back from some errand 
 in the village at nine o'clock, she happened to 
 ring the gate-bell rather loud and long, and so 
 to rouse this functionary from his bed. So he 
 came in great wrath, saying, u Ne la sonnez 
 pas de cette maniere; je voudrais bien vous 
 laisser ]& jusqu'au matin." After, of course, a 
 screaming altercation, Honorine came to com- 
 
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; u it's his business; 
 il est paye 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 zpal, 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 salle- 
 d-manger, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. Why 
 
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 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 scene. All the young population were at 
 work, or rather at play, there — that is, doing 
 the ouvriers 1 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- 
 
248 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 mobility; and so it remains for half the day. 
 One of the elder boys is generally there beside 
 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 "Voila, 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 bonne 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 COUNTRY 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! Hippolyte!" with their untiring labor, 
 and still more untiring clatter of talk, is some- 
 thing unfathomable. 
 
 In the afternoon, as Sibyl and I sat in the 
 hall, seeking half a degree less heat, there pass- 
 ed by, and looked in, the maiire - magon, 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 propriete" 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 TWENTY YEAMS AGO. 
 
 see it on Sunday evening, praising every 
 thing, and appealing to me at every turn with 
 "N'est-ce pas, mademoiselle? vous Favez 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 batiment le plus joli du 
 monde. Vous aurez tout ce que vous voudrez, 
 et 9a ne sera pas une grande coiitance 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 " batiments en bas," he answer- 
 ed mysteriously, " Qa est commence, 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, U M. Charlier et moi, nous ne somrnes 
 
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 251 
 
 pas d'accord. Je ne veux pas continuer de 
 batir a ce prix; il ne me paye pas assez, et 
 nous sommes mecontents tous! II ne me 
 donne que trois francs le jour — oui, madame, 
 rien que cela ! et si je suis a la tete de tous les 
 magons comme de raison, si j'ai a les trouver, 
 les faire travailler, leur payer leurs gages, il 
 me faut plus. J'attends a lui parler. Dites 
 done," to Zoe, 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 Charlies 
 
252 TWENTY TEARS 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- 
 tilles ) and whose agreeable society would give 
 me all the 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, 'Ah ! 
 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 face tiousn ess, that I replied, as 
 
A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 253 
 
 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-spoken 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. 
 
254 TWENTY YEARS 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 puffy, 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&s-commodes, ces 
 grands boucles!" 
 
 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 mires, 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 a 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 COUNTRY HOUSE. 255 
 
 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 
 
256 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 social occasions when the Paris pensionnaires 
 are down here they -retire to the billiard-house, 
 and " menent," 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 
 w T ind 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 FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 257 
 
 tops, and throws silver fretwork across the 
 gray slope, and turns the wall on the other 
 side to a glittering white, 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 moon look- 
 ing through the great walnut-trees. We look 
 at our house-front : there is our drawing-room 
 lamp in the rez-de-chaussee, a shaded light in 
 Sibyl's nursery on the premier, another in one 
 of the small rooms in the second, where Ma- 
 dame Leonini 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A FKENCH VILLAGE. 
 
 IN this village, which belonged to Les Ho- 
 siers, or Les Eosiers to the village — which 
 you will — we gradually became quite at home. 
 At first our chief link of communication 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 officials, and 
 even sometimes with our proprietaires ; however, 
 these serve to vary the monotony of existence. 
 Like a true Parisian (though Picard-born), 
 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 ad mi ring, 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 made 
 no answer, for they would not have under- 
 stood her, " tant ces gens du pays sont betes." 
 She could have said, "C'est trop bon, monsieur, 
 pour aller au Carnaval avec vous. Mais a 
 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 
 ecarlates et tout ce qu'il y a de plus gai ; quant 
 aux couleurs de Paris qui sont plus distin- 
 guees, ils les trouvent mesquines. Et c'est le 
 meme pour les figures, ils n'aiment pas les 
 teints pales, ils les admirent quand ils sont 
 rouges com me les pavots." 
 
 One day I found in the kitchen a tall, very 
 handsome man, dressed like a gentleman, evi- 
 
260 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 dently intensely conscious of his attractions, 
 talking in a mincing doucereux tone, and ap- 
 parently bringing his Adonis-ship to aid in 
 his bargaining. He came to propose selling 
 us butter, represented himself as a proprietaire, 
 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 ! 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 dtaient 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 achete une vache que pour 
 s'amuser." She described his manners 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 
 " tr&s-petit, tr&s-plat — si c'etait a moi, ce serait 
 passable, mais donner de tels ordres a des 
 dames et demoiselles, les traiter comme des 
 enfants dans la rue — viola 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 proprietaire, 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 mechancete !" I remonstrated 
 a little, not very wisely, as she was perfectly 
 u dans son droit;" but, behold! 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, 
 
968 TWENTY YEARS 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 nn 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. 268 
 
 more, to explain and apologize for what she 
 called her " vivacite Francaise." 
 
 However, let us now pass out of the porte- 
 coctere, 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 are 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. 
 GeVard, 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 little cabaret, with a bush and a small picture 
 of a party drinking at a table over the door, 
 and a China rose bloomin.g between the win- 
 dows, kept by the Mere 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 affiches 
 half torn off, such as " Vente du Mobilier de 
 Madame Veuve," u Adjudication d'une Maison 
 Bourgeoise, Jardin et C'our," "Le Prefet aux 
 habitants de Seine-et-Oise. On repand a Paris 
 de fausses nouvelles sur l'e'tat de la province ; 
 on doit repandre en province de fausses nou- 
 velles sur l'e'tat de Paris. L'emeute est suppki- 
 mee dans la capitale ; toutes les nouvelles des 
 Departements sont excellentes." And again, 
 fresh and conspicuous over all, " Louis Na- 
 poleon, President de la Eepublique, 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 houses is the cure's, with its 
 gabled front and four small windows ; nothing 
 
A FRENCH 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 most 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 XIY. were all roy- 
 al property, and occupied by the enfants de la 
 coitTj 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 
 one 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, 
 Melanie, 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 us, 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 locatairesP 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 FRENCH VILLAGE. 267 
 
 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 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 three 
 roads to different 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- 
 
268 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 ing face ; there was a soft stir in the air like 
 the pulse of morning life. 
 
 But sounds 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, 
 frhe 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 prqprietaire. 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 belles 
 vetches, 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 folie, she wears a bonnet, actually 
 the only one in the village : a strange, sun- 
 burnt, shapeless thing it is. Now she stands 
 
A FttENCH 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 "distingues," 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!" 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 and followed the scarcely visible 
 
270 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 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, alid 
 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 Eosiers, 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 VILLAGE. 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. Suddenly 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 proprietaire would be very angry, etc. I 
 made all sorts of apologies, pointed out that T 
 
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 - champetre had 
 caught mademoiselle in the corn, and was 
 about to make a proces-verhal 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- 
 champetre is a sort of public officer, 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 proces-'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 had 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. Bedard had made an ill -spelt 
 statement that I owed him fifty sous. 
 
 No doubt th-e excessive rigor with which 
 property is guarded in France has its justifica- 
 tion. The land is uninclosed, and the majori- 
 ty of proprietors are 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-champetre, and the fine or the 
 proch-verbal, 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-verbal, 
 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 once 
 leave, yet, threatened with a proces, 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 des 
 fleurs — les coquelicots coutent 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 Francaise 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 FMENCH VILLAGE. 275 
 
 with "Eh bien, mademoiselle, vous etiez done 
 attrappee hier — n'est-ce pas ?" 
 
 The cure, 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 — "voila!" 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 flowers 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- 
 
276 TWENTY YEARS 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. Chaiiier's grounds, had 
 only an hour or two in the early morning or 
 the late evening to devote to it. The. young 
 man presently appeared, 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 Kaffaelesque 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 all, 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 ! 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 good. 
 
 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 cidsr-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 two 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, 
 
378 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 and much pleasure on 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 humblest paysanne; the handkerchief 
 coiffure, the loose body quite untrimmed, the 
 short bed-gown petticoat, blue stockings, and 
 coarse shoes — 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- 
 lard's, 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. 270 
 
 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 shouldtell her Paris friends, to whom 
 she was bringing it, " qu'on avait admir£ son 
 bouquet." Among her roses was a York and 
 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 
 Eoses." So I guessed, and accurately, too, 
 that she had been well brought up by careful 
 and intelligent parents. 
 
 Sibyl jneanwhile had discovered that these 
 were our neighbors in the place, the Gerards, 
 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 YEAMB 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 wani 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 tabac, etc. — with constant gaps filled by 
 mere waste places. 
 
A FRENCH VILLAGE. 281 
 
 But, once past the Barrifere, we soon find our- 
 selves -in the forest-way home, which consists 
 of a pleasant walk of forty minutes through 
 the Bois de Go u arts, 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 mastered 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 ^Itoile — 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 mock their imitation, or as if minded 
 to make their last songs their best. And the 
 cuckoo, whose pertinacious voice is heard ev- 
 
282 TWENTY YEAMS AGO. 
 
 ery 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. 283 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 FRIENDS AND FETES. 
 
 THE G^rards 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 buissons baignee de rosee. 
 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 YEARS 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 : "Elle 
 £tait trop nigaude." 
 
 "Elle en a bien l 7 air," 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 Frangaise. Then I put up 
 my painting materials, put on my hat, and we 
 wandered out to our fayorite 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 pf 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 fetes, 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 cile talked with bright intelligence ; she was, 1 
 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 
 reading to us from Dumas's " Memoires," the 
 following sentence occurred: "Je soupgonne 
 fort la curieuse de dix-sept ans d'avoir colle 
 son visage blond et rose contre 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, il faut l'avouer." 
 
 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 me to madame, the moderator and medi- 
 ator, who, as she said, was always anxious that 
 
FEIENDS AND FETES. 287 
 
 no one should be hurt, and took care to inter- 
 pret every thing in her favor. Dear little Lu- 
 cile! who in good earnest could hurt her? 
 But certainly Sibyl came nearer to the aimdble 
 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 fetes, our attention had been directed, 
 as one of the best and steadiest, as well as the 
 handsomest, young men of the place — Hip- 
 poly te Langlois, now at work both at the Ge- 
 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 ouvrier called out in an 
 innocent manner to his fellow- workmen, "Dites 
 done, Maurice, n'est-ce pas une belle chose que 
 la faineantise bien prattquee?" 
 
288 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 Just now this young village wit is, as I said, 
 an object of interest to us, on account of the 
 fStes which are beginning at Les Eosiers, and 
 of which our respective bonnes, Honorine and 
 Louise, are the most distinguished ornaments. 
 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 fiSte, 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 Fete-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 inftdelium 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 curd 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. 289 
 
 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 cure 
 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 
 fete 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 pay sans , 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 se- 
 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 fete a month beforehand. The 
 person whom I suspect is of course Hippolyte 
 Langlois, the peasant-proprietor's son : at anj^ 
 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, gink cotton gown, and was too econom- 
 ical to buy another. So we have done our 
 best to make her belle, by buying a very pret- 
 ty gay blue print, that looks like muslin,- and 
 gives her great satisfaction ; and the cure'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 fete 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, 
 
292 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 fortunately for us, the revels are to be held. 
 First, our great dining-table is borrowed ; then 
 the unjustly 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 civilty ask us to join their party 
 at tea, which we civilly decline, having a bet- 
 ter iete 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 fete. 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 marier!" 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 : th.Q fetes 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, which 
 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 jardiniere, Augus- 
 tine having joined the party, as well as the 
 
294 TWENTY YEARS 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- 
 diniere, 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 cure 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 bedeau in the new coat to which ive 
 had contributed our mite. 
 
 There was chanting of the howling descrip- 
 
FRIENDS AND FETES. 295 
 
 tion, a short prone, 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 robes, 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 called, 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 gateau^ 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 YEARS 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 fete, 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 with 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 
 
FMIENDS 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-a-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 expecta- 
 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 grow 
 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 three Gerard ladies, who have just 
 come in. 
 
 Among the spectators was the archbishop's 
 
FBIENDS 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- 
 
800 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 
 her proj esseur, M. l'Ours. 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 young 
 mason, besides having promised two others for 
 the next evening, which was to close the fete. 
 She highly disapproved of the manners of the 
 town importations, and said she never went 
 to public balls at Paris because of these mail- 
 vaises habitudes, which there could not be es- 
 caped from. 
 
 Some time after the fete of St. Eustache, 
 Honorine told us of a boil de noces that was to 
 take place in the village. The occasion was 
 the marriage of Mademoiselle Allard, daughter 
 to the aubergiste of L'filtoile du ISTord, to an ar- 
 
FRIENDS AND FETES. 301 
 
 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 de 
 rigueur 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 Ge- 
 rard, and resolved to do what she proposed for 
 Louise — to lend a muslin skirt for the occa- 
 sion. Never was offer more 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 occasi6n. 
 
 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 cheke Fille,— Je te souhaite le bon- 
 jour et en meme temps pour m'informer de ta 
 sante. Quant a moi, il faut me lever a deux 
 et me coucher a deux ; voila quinze jours que 
 
302 TWENTY YEAliS AGO. 
 
 cela m'a pris. Ma pauvre fille, 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. Eien a 
 te dire pour le moment que des compliments ; 
 surtout, ma fille, viens, je t'en supplie. 
 
 " Josephine Kosier." 
 
 So here ended poor Honorine's expected 
 fete ; 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 had 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 cPhonneur, 
 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 Zelie, 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 Zelie'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 
 
304 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 forced five years ago to marry this man, and 
 bad never been happy since. 
 
 I asked if she had loved another ; Honorine 
 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 mal mariee" 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 
 fooked in ; it was so beautifully clean, so still, 
 empty, and peaceful, with the large fire-place, 
 
FRIENDS AND FETES. 305 
 
 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 Zelie 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. 
 
 Zelie's sad story dwelt in my mind, and I 
 went to visit her in her wretched quarters — the 
 manege. 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 windows. 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 Zelie'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 
 D 
 
306 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 oVeau, whose sister 
 has married the village tailor, nephew to the 
 cure; the bride is Eenee, 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 mairie, 
 getting through the previous civil marriage; 
 
FEIENDS AND FETES. 307 
 
 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- 
 chancete, 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 pere a fait des 
 difficultes ; ce raariage 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- 
 
308 TWENTY TEARS AGO. 
 
 dale," as Honorine remarked. The wager 
 took place at the fete of St. Eustache, whither 
 Eenee 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 
 tenue! 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 
 unmercifully, 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! 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 
 the party sat round. There was the gray- 
 haired maire; one of the sisters, as demoiselle 
 oVhonneur; 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 betises, 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 bedeau 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 badty. 
 
310 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 The service was wonderfully long and 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 sacmtie 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- 
 tions. It seems that, 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 Ge- 
 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 
 ^ cuisiniere is much more distinguee* than a 
 bonne d'enfants, as Eende 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 abime 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 pretre, 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,' 7 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 YEARS AGO. 
 
 at Versailles. A beaten 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 Curd was? C'est que lui 
 aussi, il a ete frappe; un autre jeune homme, 
 de Montbrun, a dit des betises sur cette de- 
 moiselle (la mariee) et, ce qui est pis, sur ses 
 maitres. Alors M. le Cure lui a fait une bonne 
 remontrance ; mais, au lieu de se soumettre, il 
 a pris M. le Cure par le devant de sa soutane 
 et l'a pousse dans l'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 Cure ! 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 Mere 
 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. 
 
FRIENDS AND FETES. 313 
 
 "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 6te 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 l'on 
 s'en doute." 
 
 "Oui, mademoiselle, s'il m'aime, je ne puis 
 pas l'empecher, mais je ne ferais rien pour le 
 detacher (Telle." 
 
 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 TWEXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 AUTUMN DAYS. 
 
 WE came, as I have said, to this summer 
 nest of Les Eosiers, 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 dearl} T loved fresh air 
 
AUTUMN DAYS. 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. £mile, 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 Cleri- 
 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 Emile's visits were much more in- 
 teresting to me, whatever they were to Sib} 7 !. 
 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- 
 
316 TWENTY YEARS 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, when 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. 317 
 
 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 garden, 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 " jGtoile 3u Nord." 
 
 There was in one respect a change. M. 
 Emile 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 i 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 
 
318 TWENTY YEARS 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 DAYS. 319 
 
 serve ; 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 mili- 
 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 
 
330 TWENTY TEARS 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 anyjate 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 and 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 DAYS. 321 
 
 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 Emile happened to make their vis- 
 its together. These two men were obviously 
 quite unsuitable, and did not like each other. 
 The marquis — the crime 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 £]mile, 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 become 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 
 
322 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 possible ; the young marquis generally en- 
 grossed the* conversation, and M. flmile 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 Emile much the better of the 
 two; indeed she frankly told me 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 coquelterie 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 betises," 
 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. Simile 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 DAYS. 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 the 
 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, including a determination to 
 marry only one who had been brought up to 
 
324 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 regard domestic virtue and affection 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 bent on amusing 
 us, proposed a good many rides and drives to 
 explore the neighborhood, in all of which M. 
 Emile 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 Eoyal — 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; La Chevreuse — an ex- 
 quisite valley; and Les Granges — the home 
 
A VTUMN DA YS. 325 
 
 of those thoughtful and gifted solitaires, whose 
 chambers are still left just as they were. 
 
 In the midst of these pleasure excursions 
 Emile 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, u 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 YEARS 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 l'oubli du passd et 
 l'indifference pour l'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 
 
AUTUMN DAYS. 327 
 
 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 riot 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 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 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 ! Sometimes she will won- 
 der, chide him in her heart, determine that if 
 he comes 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 he 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 ! 
 
A UTUMN DA Y& 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 ! 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. 
 
330 • TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 Once more Simile 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 immediate 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 ( u et Dieu sait," he coolly interject- 
 ed, " si je l'aime") it would not make his pulse 
 beat quicker. This indifference seemed to ex- 
 tend to every thing, and I doubted if he any 
 
AUTUMN DAYS. 331 
 
 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 Clerimont. 
 
 When iSmile 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.' 7 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 marechal 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 to 
 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 DAYS. 333 
 
 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 plies 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 — pouraller a 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 spirits. 
 % The last time I had seen any great number 
 
'334 TWENTY YEARS 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 
 Elysees. 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 
 rnilitaires "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 
 Gerards', 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 
 
AUTUMN DAYS. 335 
 
 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-cochere 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 only a day ago, but, be- 
 ing no shyer than most French children, ap- 
 proached our window at once, addressed us on 
 the subject of the white kitten, furnished his 
 
336 TWENTY YEARS 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 bourreaa 
 instead," "Pourquoi non," he asked, "since 
 the executioner was going to hang him?" 
 u Mais," he observed, finally, with great satis- 
 faction, "le diable etait plus fort que lui.^ A 
 
AUTUMN DAYS. 337 
 
 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 her 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 . 
 
338 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 posed to be there by the end of November if 
 we could find an 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 
 troublee." 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 mmtres to Paris. Honorine 
 then wandered pensively about, carrying the 
 cat as a "petite soci^te," and owning to feeling 
 ennuyee. 
 
 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 DAYS. 339 
 
 ive and laborious than Honorine, and was oft- 
 en not neatly ckaussee, which is a point of the 
 utmost importance to the French mind, 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'etait ni 
 pour elle, ni pour Louise, qu'il etait trop riche, 
 qu'il ne regarderait pas les domestiques,' 7 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 not 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. 
 
 yard, and " every thing to make life desir- 
 able." 
 
 A day or two before we left Lea Eosiers 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 jprojprie- 
 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 a 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. 341 
 
 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. " Yoyez 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 demenagemeni, 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 YEARS 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 porteuse d'eau, 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 maire finally brought the voiturier 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 a liltoile 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 who, while eating her 
 
AUTUMN DAYS. 343 
 
 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 garcon. 
 " Je vous assure, 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 appartement 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 af- 
 faire de cceur, 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 propriete. 
 From that time I withdrew all my interest 
 from the engaging } r oung mason, whom I re- 
 garded as an utter flirt. But as my regard for 
 
344 TWENTY YEARS 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 "rneilleur homme du 
 monde," and that she had "bien tombe dans 
 son mariage." 
 
SIBYL'S LOT— AND MINE. 345 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SIBYL'S LOT — AND MINE. 
 
 OUR 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. 
 Emile. 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 
 
346 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 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. Aurelie 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 sufficient 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 Clerimont 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 d 'argent. 
 
 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 
 bewildered — the next moment I understood. 
 After some fencing in the dark, some broken 
 words and attempted reserves, she told all her 
 story, iSmile 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 believe; 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 pailffully, hesitated, and 
 said, " I tried to divert my thoughts, which 
 were sometimes loo bitter, and I believe in my 
 pride I wanted to disguise them from Simile, 
 
348 TWENTY YEARS 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 Emile had gone, I con- 
 trived without any actual eclaircissement 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 lilmile 
 ever make love 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. 349 
 
 " Can nothing be done?" I asfed. 
 
 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. Emile kept up 
 some correspondence with our good friends 
 Aurelie 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 thing 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 
 
350 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 being one might see but once, and go mad on 
 the remembrance of. 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 offices 
 of a friend. But if I do not fall in this coming 
 campaign, which is very probable, and which I 
 
SIBYL'S LOT— AND MINE. 351 
 
 shall not much regret, I shall be a deporte 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 Simile 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 must 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 Emile — once heard from 
 himself; and I judged with pain, from various 
 indications, that something — I know not if I 
 
852 TWENTY YEARS 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 Kimmon'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. Simile, 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, Emile was degraded from his rank in the 
 army and sent en perpetuite 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 fimile ; 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. Simile and she were 
 married, and love each other to this day with 
 that love which alone suffices for happiness. 
 Z 
 
354 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 He has at last returned to his crushed, tor- 
 tured, distracted France, to do for her what a 
 man may. 
 
 * * * # #' * 
 
 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 different. I 
 am Beatrice Walford still, and I have fetched 
 all these pictures of the past out of ghost-land. 
 
 THE END. 
 
BOOKS BY THE ABBOTTS. 
 
 THE FRANCONIA STORIES. 
 
 By Jacob Abbott. In Ten Volumes. Beautifully Illus- 
 trated. IGmo, Cloth, 90 cents per Vol. ; the set complete, 
 in case, $9 00. 
 
 1. Malleville. C>. Stuyvesant. 
 
 2. Mary Bell. 7. Agnes. 
 
 3. Ellen Linn, 8. Mary Erskine. 
 
 4. Wallace. 9. Rodolphus. 
 
 5. Beechnut. 10. Caroline. 
 
 MARCO PAUL SERIES. 
 
 Marco Paul's Voyages and Travels in the Pursuit of 
 Knowledge. By Jacob Abbott. Beautifully Illustrated. 
 Complete in 6 Volumes, 1 6mo, Cloth, 90 cents per Volume. 
 Price of the set, m 1 case, $5 40. 
 
 In New York. In Boston. 
 On the Erie Canal. At the Springfield Arm- 
 In the Forests of Maine. ory. 
 In Vermont. 
 
 RAINBOW AND LUCKY SERIES. 
 
 By Jacob Abbott. Beautifully Illustrated. 16mo, 
 Cloth, 90 cents each. 
 
 Handie. Selling Lucky. 
 
 Rainbow's Journey. Up the River. 
 
 The Three Pines, 
 
 YOUNG CHRISTIAN SERIES. 
 
 By Jacob Abbott. In Four Volumes. Richly Illus- 
 trated with Engravings, and Beautifully Bound. 12mo, 
 Cloth, $1 75 per Vol. The set complete, Cloth, $7 00 ; in 
 Half Calf, $14 00. 
 
 1. The Young Christian. 
 
 2. The Corner Stone. 
 
 3. The Way to Do Good. 
 
 4. Hoaryhead and M'Donner. 
 
Books by the Abbotts. 
 
 HARPER'S STORY BOOKS. 
 
 A Series of Narratives, Biographies, and Tales, for the In- 
 struction and Entertainment of the Young. By Jacob Ab- 
 bott. Embellished with more than One Thousand beauti- 
 ful Engravings. Square 4 to, complete in 12 large Volumes, 
 or 86 small ones. 
 
 " Harper's Story Books" can be obtained complete in Twelve 
 Volumes, bound in blue and gold, each one containing Three Sto- 
 ries, for $21 00, or in Thirty-six thin Volumes, bound in crimson and 
 gold, each containing One Story, for $32 40. The volumes may be 
 had separately— the large ones at $1 75 each, the others at 90 cents 
 each. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 BRUNO ; ' or, Lessons of Fidelity, Patience, and Self-De- 
 
 nial Taught by a Dog. 
 WILLIE AND THE MORTGAGE : showing How 
 
 Much may be Accomplished by a Boy. 
 THE STRAIT GATE; or, The Rule of Exclusion from 
 
 Heaven. 
 
 VOL. II. # 
 
 THE LITTLE LOUVRE; or, The Boys' and Girls' 
 
 Picture-Gallery. 
 PRANK ; or, The Philosophy of Tricks and Mischief. 
 EMMA ; or, The Three Misfortunes of a Belle. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 VIRGINIA ; or, A Little Light on a Very Dark Saying. 
 
 TIMBOO AND JOLIBA ; or, The Art cf Being Useful. 
 
 TIMBOO AND FANNY; or, The Art of Self-Instruc- 
 tion. 
 
 VOL. IV. 
 
 THE HARPER ESTABLISHMENT; or, How the 
 Story Books are Made. 
 
 FRANKLIN, the Apprentice-Boy. 
 
 THE STUDIO ; or, Illustrations of the Theory and Prac- 
 tice of Drawing, for Young Artists at Home. 
 
 VOL. V. 
 
 THE STORY OF ANCIENT HISTORY, from the 
 Earliest Periods to the Fall of the Roman Empire. 
 
 THE STORY OF ENGLISH HISTORY, from the 
 Earliest Periods to the American Revolution. 
 
 THE STORY OF AMERICAN HISTORY, from 
 the Earliest Settlement of the Country to the Establish- 
 ment of the Federal Constitution. 
 
Books by the Abbotts. 
 
 VOL. VI. 
 JOHN TRUE ; or, The Christian Experience of an Hon- 
 est Boy. 
 ELFRED ; or, The Blind Boy and his Pictures. 
 THE MUSEUM ; or, Curiosities Explained. 
 
 VOL. VII. 
 THE ENGINEER ; or, How to Travel in the Woods. 
 RAMBLES AMONG- THE ALPS. 
 THE THREE GOLD DOLLARS ; or, An Account of 
 the Adventures of Robin Green. 
 
 VOL. VIII. 
 THE GIBRALTAR GALLERY: being an Account 
 
 of various Things both Curious and Useful. 
 THE ALCOVE : containing some Farther Account of 
 
 Timboo, Mark, and Fanny. 
 DIALOGUES for the Amusement and Instruction of 
 
 Young Persons. 
 
 VOL. IX. 
 THE GREAT ELM ; or, Robin Green and Josiah Lane 
 
 at School. 
 AUNT MARGARET; or, How John True kept his 
 
 Resolutions. 
 VERNON; or, Conversations about Old Times in England. 
 
 VOL. X. 
 CARL AND JOCKO ; or, The Adventures of the Little 
 
 Italian Boy and his Monkey. 
 LAP ST ONE ; or, The Sailor turned Shoemaker. 
 ORKNEY,. THE PEACEMAKER; or, The Various 
 
 Ways of Settling Disputes. 
 
 VOL. XL 
 JUDGE JUSTIN; or, The Little Court of Morningdale. 
 MINIGO ; or, The Fairy of Cairnstone Abbey. 
 JASPER ; or, The Spoiled Child Recovered. 
 
 VOL. XII. 
 CONGO ; or, Jasper's Experience in Command. 
 VIOLA and her Little Brother Arno. 
 LITTLE PAUL ; or, How to be Patient in Sickness and 
 Pain. 
 
 Some of the Story Books are written particularly for girls, and 
 some for Boys, and the different Volumes are adapted to various 
 ac:es, so that the work forms a Complete Library of Story Books for 
 all the Children of the Family and the Sunday-School. 
 
Books by the Abbotts. 
 
 ABBOTTS' ILLUSTRATED HISTORIES. 
 
 Biographical Histories. By Jacob Abbott and John S. 
 C. Abbott. The Volumes of this Series are printed and 
 bound uniformly, and are embellished with numerous Engrav- 
 ings. 16mo, Cloth, $1 20 per volume. Price of the set (32 
 vols.), $38 40. 
 
 A series of volumes containing severally full accounts of the lives, 
 characters, and exploits of the most distinguished sovereigns, po- 
 tentates, and rulers that have heen chiefly renowned among man- 
 kind, in the various ages of the world, from the earliest periods to 
 the present day. 
 
 The successive volumes of the series, though they each contain 
 the life of a single individual, and constitute thus a distinct and in- 
 dependent work, follow each other in the main, in regular historical 
 order, and each one continues the general narrative of history down 
 to the period at which the next volume takes up the story ; so that 
 the whole series presents to the reader a connected narrative of the 
 line of general history from the present age hack to the remotest 
 times. 
 
 The narratives are intended to he succinct and comprehensive, and 
 are written in a very plain and simple style. They are, however, not 
 juvenile in their character, nor intended exclusively for the young. 
 The volumes are sufficiently large to allow each history to comprise 
 all the leading facts in the life of the personage who is the subject 
 of it, and thus to communicate all the information in respect to him 
 which is necessary for the purposes of the general reader. 
 
 Such being the design and character of the works, they would 
 seem to be specially adapted, not only for family reading, but also 
 for district, town, school, and Sunday-school libraries, as well as for 
 text-books in literary seminaries. 
 
 The plan of the series, and the manner in which the design has 
 been carried out by the author in the execution of it, have been high- 
 ly commended by the press in all parts of the country. The whole 
 series has been introduced into the school libraries of several of the 
 largest and most influential states. 
 
 Abraham Lincoln's Opinion of Abbotts' Histories. — In a con- 
 versation with the President just before his death, Mr. Lincoln said: "I 
 icant to thank you and your brother for Abbotts' series of Histories. I 
 have not education enough to appreciate the profound ivorks of volu- 
 minous historians; and if I had, I have no time to read them. But 
 your series of Histories gives me, in brief compass, just that knowledge 
 of past men and events which I need. I have read them with the great- 
 est interest. To them I am indebted for about all the historical knowl- 
 edge 1 have," 
 
Books by the Abbotts. 
 
 CYRUS THE GREAT. 
 
 DARIUS THE GREAT. 
 
 XERXES. 
 
 ALEXANDER THE GREAT. 
 
 ROMULUS. 
 
 HANNIBAL. 
 
 PYRRHUS. 
 
 JULIUS CiESAR. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 NERO. 
 
 ALFRED THE GREAT. 
 
 WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. 
 
 RICHARD I. 
 
 RICHARD II. 
 
 RICHARD III. 
 
 MARY QUEEN OP SCOTS. 
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 CHARLES I. 
 
 CHARLES II. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 MARIA ANTOINETTE. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 HENRY IV. 
 
 PETER THE GREAT. 
 
 GENGHIS KHAN. 
 
 KING PHILIP. 
 
 HERNANDO CORTEZ. 
 
 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 
 
 JOSEPH BONAPARTE. 
 
 QUEEN HORTENSE. 
 
 LOUIS XIV. 
 
 LOUIS PHILIPPE. 
 
Books by 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 Care, during the first Five or Six Years 
 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, $1 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 Young 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 WRONG; or, 
 
 Entertaining and Instructive Lessons tor Young Children 
 in respect to their Duty. 90 Engravings. 
 
Books by the Abbotts. 
 
 KINGS AND QUEENS. 
 
 KINGS 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 75. 
 
 A SUMMER IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 A SUMMER IN SCOTLAND • 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 OP SPANISH HISTORY. By 
 
 John S. C. Abbott, Author of "The French Revolution," 
 "The History of Napoleon Bonaparte," &c. With Illus- 
 trations. 12mo, Oloth, $2 00. 
 
SCIENCE 
 FOR THE YOUNG. 
 
 By JACOB ABBOTT. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. . 
 
 HEAT. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50, 
 
 LIGHT. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
 
 WATER AND LAND. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
 
 Few men enjoy a wider or better earned popularity as a writer 
 for the young than Jacob Abbott. His series of histories, and sto- 
 ries illustrative of moral truths, have furnished amusement and in- 
 struction 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 ajpleasant nar- 
 rative, keeping alive the interest of the young reader, and fixing in 
 his memory valuable truths. — Mercury, New Bedford, Mass. 
 
 Jacob Abbott is almost the only writer in the English language 
 who knows how to combine real amusement with real instruction 
 in such a manner that the eager young readers are quite as much 
 interested in the useful knowledge he imparts as in the story which 
 he makes so pleasant a medium of instruction. — Buffalo Commercial 
 Advertiser. 
 
 * * * Mr. Abbott has avoided the errors 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 
 attempts to dodge the solution of a knotty problem behind a cloud 
 of plausible illustrations.— X. Y. Tribune. 
 
POPULAR HISTORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 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 Illustrated. 
 8vo, Cloth, $5 00. 
 
 THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 The French Kevolution of 1789, as Viewed in the Light of 
 Eepublican Institutions. By John S. C. Abbott. With 
 100 Engravings. 8vo, 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., 8vo, 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. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00. 
 
By JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. 
 
 CHILD AT HOME. 
 
 The Child at Home ; or, the Principles of Filial Duty famil- 
 iarly Illustrated. By John S. C. Abbott. Woodcuts*. 
 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
 
 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, 
 
 $1 00. 
 
 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. — Watchman and Reflector. 
 
 It abounds in wise and practical suggestions.— N. Y. Commercial 
 Advertiser. 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED | 
 
 EDUCATION-PSYCHOLOGY 
 LIBRARY 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 i i%tf 
 
 : jaM: J, lot, A&OU,- 
 
 h 
 
 FEB 8 1994 
 
 ■* rd-^6 '6? 
 
 FEB 11 1995 i 
 
 FECEIVeO BY 
 
 FEB 2 RECDrlO # R U m 
 
 -ftttfr- 
 
 3Q1J7J? tflBft jft WP H WT. 
 
 • AlV 
 
 rftCULTV iOAN Du 
 
 MAY 2 5 1988 
 
 SUBJECT TO RCCA L-b 
 
 RE:c ®VEn 
 
 ^ 
 
 fOi/c. 
 
 p SYCH. 
 
 UBRAR 
 
 fEB 1 1 199* 
 
 LD 21A-30/?i-6.'67 
 (H2472sl0)476 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley 
 
U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 C0Lfei4t,5fl75 
 
 54.U43 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY