They were highly elated at this, and we
rode along in the best possible humor together. Nothing will make a
Frenchman thoroughly your friend sooner than heartily to praise his
country. It is for this I love them.
Arrived at Sartory I had a long walk to reach the camp; and instead of
inquiring, as I ought to have done, whether the review was to take
place, I took it for granted. I saw bodies of soldiers moving in
various directions, officers galloping about, and flying artillery
trundling along, and heard drums, trumpets, and bands, and thought it
was all right.
A fifteen minutes' walk brought me to the camp, where tents for some
twenty-five thousand whiten the plain far as the eye can reach. There,
too, I saw distant masses of infantry moving. I might have known by
their slouchy way that they were getting home from parade, not
preparing for it. But I thought the latter, and lying down under a
tree, waited for the review to begin.
It was almost three o'clock. I waited and waited. The soldiers did not
come. I waited, and waited, and waited. The soldiers seemed to have
_gone_ more and more. The throne where the emperor was to sit
remained unoccupied. At last it was four o'clock. Thought I, I will
just ask these redcaps here about this.
"Messieurs," said I, "will you be so good as to inform me if the
emperor is to be here to-day?"
"No," they replied, "he comes on Sunday."
"And what is to be done here, then?" I asked.
"Here," they replied, "to-day? Nothing; _c'est fini_ - it is all
over. The review was at one o'clock."
There I had been walking from Versailles, and waiting for a parade
some two hours after it was all over, among crowds of people who could
have told me at once if I had not been so excessively modest as not to
ask.
About that time an American might have been seen precipitately seeking
the railroad. I had _not_ seen the elephant. It was hot, dusty,
and there was neither cab nor _caleche_ in reach.
I arrived at the railroad station just in time to see the train go out
at one end as I came in at the other. This was conducive to a frame of
mind that scarcely needs remark. Out of that depot (it was half past
four, and at six they dine in Paris) with augmented zeal and decision
I pitched into a cab.
"_A l'autre station, vite, vite!_" - To the other station, quick,
quick! He mounted the box, and commenced lashing his Rosinante, who
was a subject for crows to mourn over, (because they could hope for
nothing in trying to pick him,) and in an ambling, scrambling pace,
composed of a trot, a canter, and a kick, we made a descent like an
avalanche into the station yard. There Richard was himself again. I
assumed at once the air of a gentleman who had seen the review, and
walked about with composure and dignity. No doubt I had seen the
emperor and all the troops. I succeeded in getting home just in the
middle of dinner, and by dint of hard eating caught up at the third
course with the rest.
That I consider a very white day. Some might call it _green_, but
I mark such days with white always.
In the evening we attended the _salon_ of Lady Elgin, a friend of
our hostess. Found there the Marquis de M., whose book on the
spiritual rappings comes out next week. We conversed on the rappings
_ad nauseam_.
By the way, her ladyship rents the Hotel de la Rochefoucauld, in the
Rue de Varenne, Faubourg St. Germain.
St. Germain is full of these princely, aristocratic mansions.
Mournfully beautiful - desolately grand. Out of the stern, stony
street, we entered a wide, square court, under a massive arched
gateway, then through the Rez-de-Chaussee, or lower suite of rooms,
passed out into the rear of the house to find ourselves in the garden,
or rather a kind of park, with tall trees, flooded in moonlight,
bathed in splendors, and with their distant, leafy arches (cut with
artistic skill) reminding one of a Gothic temple. Such a magnificent
forest scene in the very heart of Paris!
Saturday, June 18. After breakfast rode out to Arc de Triomphe - de
l'Etoile, and thence round the exterior barriers and boulevards to
Pere la Chaise.
At every entrance to the city past the barriers, (which are now only a
street,) there is a gate, and a building marked "Octroi," which means
customs.
No carriage can pass without being examined, though the examination is
a mere form.
Pere la Chaise did not interest me much, except that from the top of
the hill I gained a good view of the city. It is filled with tombs and
monuments, and laid out in streets. The houses of the dead are smaller
than the houses of the living, but they are made like houses, with
doors, windows, and an empty place inside for an altar, crucifix,
lamps, wreaths, &c. Tombs have no charm for me. I am not at all
interested or inspired by them. They do not serve with me the purpose
intended, viz., of calling up the memory of the departed. On the
contrary, their memory is associated with their deeds, their works,
the places where they wrought, and the monuments of themselves they
have left. Here, however, in the charnel house is commemorated but the
event of their deepest shame and degradation, their total vanquishment
under the dominion of death, the triumph of corruption.
Here all that was visible of them is insulted by the last enemy, in
the deepest, most humiliating posture of contumely.
