"Is there any one here expecting to see Mrs. C.?" said one of them.
"Yes, madam," said I; "_we_ do."
"God bless you," said she, fervently, and seized me by the hand. It
was Mrs. C. and her sister. I gave He into their possession.
Our troubles were over. We were at home. We rode through streets whose
names were familiar, crossed the Carrousel, passed the Seine, and
stopped before an ancient mansion in the Hue de Verneuil, belonging to
M. le Marquis de Brige. This Faubourg St. Germain is the part of Paris
where the ancient nobility lived, and the houses exhibit marks of
former splendor. The marquis is one of those chivalrous legitimists
who uphold the claims of Henri VI. He lives in the country, and rents
this hotel. Mrs. C. occupies the suite of rooms on the lower floor. We
entered by a ponderous old gateway, opened by the _concierge_,
passed through a large paved quadrangle, traversed a short hall, and
found ourselves in a large, cheerful parlor, looking out into a small
flower garden. There was no carpet, but what is called here a parquet
floor, or mosaic of oak blocks, waxed and highly polished. The sofas
and chairs were covered with a light chintz, and the whole air of the
apartment shady and cool as a grotto. A jardiniere filled with flowers
stood in the centre of the room, and around it a group of living
flowers - mother, sisters, and daughters - scarcely less beautiful. In
five minutes we were at home. French life is different from any other.
Elsewhere you do as the world pleases; here you do as you please
yourself. My spirits always rise when I get among the French.
Sabbath, June 5. Headache all the forenoon. In the afternoon we walked
to the Madeleine, and heard a sermon on charity; listened to the
chanting, and gazed at the fantastic ceremonial of the altar. I had
anticipated so much from Henry's description of the organs, that I was
disappointed. The music was fine; but our ideal had outstripped the
real. The strangest part of the performance was the censer swinging at
the altar. It was done in certain parts of the chant, with rhythmic
sweep, and glitter, and vapor wreath, that produced a striking effect.
There was an immense audience - quiet, orderly, and to all appearance
devout. This was the first Romish service I ever attended. It ought to
be impressive here, if any where. Yet I cannot say I was moved by it
Rome-ward. Indeed, I felt a kind of Puritan tremor of conscience at
witnessing such a theatrical pageant on the Sabbath. We soon saw,
however, as we walked home, across the gardens of the Tuileries, that
there is no Sabbath in Paris, according to our ideas of the day.
Monday, June 6. This day was consecrated to knick-knacks. Accompanied
by Mrs. C., whom years of residence have converted into a perfect
_Parisienne_, we visited shop after shop, and store after store.
The politeness of the shopkeepers is inexhaustible. I felt quite
ashamed to spend a half hour looking at every thing, and then depart
without buying; but the civil Frenchman bowed, and smiled, and thanked
us for coming.
In the evening, we rode to L'Arc de Triomphe d'Etoile, an immense pile
of massive masonry, from the top of which we enjoyed a brilliant
panorama. Paris was beneath us, from the Louvre to the Bois de
Boulogne, with its gardens, and moving myriads; its sports, and games,
and light-hearted mirth - a vast Vanity Fair, blazing in the sunlight.
A deep and strangely-blended impression of sadness and gayety sunk
into our hearts as we gazed. All is vivacity, gracefulness, and
sparkle, to the eye; but ah, what fires are smouldering below! Are not
all these vines rooted in the lava and ashes of the volcano side?
Tuesday, June 7. _A la Louvre_! But first the ladies must "shop"
a little. I sit by the counter and watch the pretty Parisian
_shopocracy_. A lady presides at the desk. Trim little grisettes
serve the customers so deftly, that we wonder why awkward men should
ever attempt to do such things. Nay, they are so civil, so evidently
disinterested and solicitous for your welfare, that to buy is the most
natural thing imaginable.
But to the Louvre! Provided with catalogues, I abandoned the ladies,
and strolled along to take a kind of cream-skimming look at the whole.
I was highly elated with one thing. There were three Madonnas with
dark hair and eyes: one by Murillo, another by Carracci, and another
by Guido. It showed that painters were not so utterly hopeless as a
class, and given over by common sense to blindness of mind, as I had
supposed.
H. begins to recant her heresy in regard to Rubens. Here we find his
largest pieces. Here we find the real originals of several real
originals we saw in English galleries. It seems as though only upon a
picture as large as the side of a parlor could his exuberant genius
find scope fully to lay itself out.
When I met II. at last - after finishing the survey - her cheek was
flushed, and her eye seemed to swim. "Well, H.," said I, "have you
drank deep enough this time?"
"Yes," said she, "I have been _satisfied_, for the first time."
Wednesday, June 8. A day on foot in Paris. Surrendered H. to the care
of our fair hostess. Attempted to hire a boat, at one of the great
bathing establishments, for a pull on the Seine. Why not on the Seine,
as well as on the Thames? But the old Triton demurred. The tide
_marched_ too strong - "_Il marche trop fort._" Onward, then,
along the quays; visiting the curious old book stalls, picture stands,
and flower markets. Lean over the parapet, and gaze upon this modern
Euphrates, rushing between solid walls of masonry through the heart of
another Babylon.
