Immediately after breakfast we were to visit
Chateau de Corbeville. The carriage came, and H., Mrs. C., and W.
entered. I mounted the box with the "_cocker_," as usual. To be
shut up in a box, and peep out at the window while driving through
such scenes, is horrible. By the way, our party would have been
larger, but for the arrest of Monsieur F., an intimate friend of the
family, which took place at five o'clock in the morning.
He was here yesterday in fine spirits, and he and his wife were to
have joined our party. His arrest is on some political suspicion, and
as the result cannot be foreseen, it casts a shadow over the spirits
of our household.
We drove along through the bright, fresh morning - I enjoying the
panorama of Paris exceedingly - to the Western Railway Station, where
we took tickets for Versailles.
We feel as much at home now, in these continental railroad stations,
as in our own - nay, more so. Every thing is so regulated here, there
is almost no possibility of going wrong, and there is always somebody
at hand whose business it is to be very polite, and tell you just what
to do.
A very pleasant half hour's ride brought us to Versailles. There we
took a barouche for the day, and started for the chateau. In about an
hour and a half, through very pleasant scenery, we came to the spot,
where we were met by Madame V. and her daughter, and, alighting,
walked to the chateau through a long avenue, dark with overarching
trees. We were to have a second breakfast at about one o'clock in the
day; so we strolled out to a seat on the terrace, commanding a fine
and very extensive prospect.
Madame V. is the wife of an eminent lawyer, who held the office of
intendant of the civil list of Louis Philippe, and has had the
settlement of that gentleman's pecuniary affairs since his death. At
the time of the _coup d'etat_, being then a representative, he
was imprisoned, and his wife showed considerable intrepidity in
visiting him, walking on foot through the prison yard, amongst the
soldiers sitting drunk on the cannon. At present Monsieur V. is
engaged in his profession in Paris.
Madame V. is a pleasant-looking French woman, of highly-cultivated
mind and agreeable manners; accomplished in music and in painting. Her
daughter, about fifteen, plays well, and is a good specimen of a
well-educated French demoiselle, not yet out. They are simply ciphers,
except as developed in connection with and behind shelter of their
mother. She performed some beautiful things beautifully, and then her
mother played a duet with her. We took a walk through the groves, and
sat on the bank, on the brow of a commanding eminence.
A wide landscape was before us, characterized by every beauty of
foliage conceivable, but by none more admirable, to my eye, than the
poplars, which sustain the same relation to French scenery that
spruces do to that of Maine. Reclining there, we could almost see,
besides the ancient territory of the Duke d'Orsay, the celebrated
valley of Chartreuse, where was the famous Abbey of Port Royal, a
valley filled with historic associations. If it had not been for a
hill which stood in the way, we should have seen it. At our leisure we
discussed painting. Before us, a perfect landscape; around us, a deep
solitude and stillness, broken by the sighing of ancient aristocratic
shades, and the songs of birds; within us, emotions of lassitude and
dreamy delight.
We had found a spot where existence was a blessing; a spot where to
exist was enough; where the "to be" was, for a moment, disjoined from
the inexorable "to do," or "to suffer." How agreeable to converse with
cultivated and refined artistic minds! How delightful to find people
to whom the beautiful has been a study, and art a world in which they
could live, move, and have their being! And yet it was impossible to
prevent a shade of deep sadness from resting on all things - a tinge of
melancholy. Why? - why this veil of dim and indefinable anguish at
sight of whatever is most fair, at hearing whatever is most lovely? Is
it the exiled spirit, yearning for its own? Is it the captive, to whom
the ray of heaven's own glory comes through the crevice of his dungeon
walls? But this is a digression. Returning, we examined the mansion, a
fine specimen of the old French chateau; square-built, with high
Norman roof, and a round, conical-topped tower at each corner. In
front was a garden, curiously laid out in beds, and knots of flowers,
with a fountain in the centre. This garden was enclosed on all sides
by beech trees, clipped into lofty walls of green. The chateau had
once been fortified, but now the remains of the fortifications are
made into terraces, planted with roses and honeysuckles. Here we
heard, for the first time in our lives, the nightingale's song; a
gurgling warble, with an occasional crescendo, _a la_ Jenny Lind.
At five we dined; took carriage at seven, cars at nine, and arrived in
Paris at ten.
Friday, June 17. At twelve o'clock I started for Versailles to visit
the camp at Sartory, where I understood the emperor was to review the
troops.
At Versailles I mounted the top of an omnibus with two Parisian
gentlemen. As I opened my umbrella one of them complimented me on
having it. I replied that it was quite a necessary of life. He
answered, and we were soon quite chatty. I inquired about the camp at
Sartory, and whether the emperor was to be there. He said he had heard
so.
He then asked me if we had not a camp near London, showing that he
took me for an Englishman. I replied that there was a camp there,
though I had not seen it, and that I was an American.
