Part 10

We had now to go to a little, retired, house on the _Champs Elysées_. There were only three or four carriages before the door, and on ascending to a small, but very neat apartment, I found some twenty people collected. The mistress of the house was an English lady, single, of a certain age, and a daughter of the Earl of ——, who was once governor of New York. Here was a very different set. One or two ladies of the old court, women of elegant manners, and seemingly of good information, several English women, pretty, quiet and clever, besides a dozen men of different nations. This was one of those little _réunions_ that are so common in Paris, among the foreigners, in which a small infusion of French serves to leaven a considerable batch of human beings from other parts of the world. As it is always a relief to me to speak my own language, after being a good while among foreigners, I staid an hour at this house. In the course of the evening an Irishman of great wit and of exquisite humour, one of the paragons of the age in his way, came in. In the course of conversation, this gentleman, who is the proprietor of an Irish estate, and a Catholic, told me of an atrocity in the laws of his country, of which until then I was ignorant. It seems that any younger brother, or next heir, might claim the estate by turning Protestant, or drive the incumbent to the same act. I was rejoiced to hear that there was hardly an instance of such profligacy known.[12] To what baseness will not the struggle for political ascendancy urge us!

Footnote 12:

I believe this infamous law, however, has been repealed.

In the course of the evening, Mr. ——, the Irish gentleman, gravely introduced me to a Sir James ——, adding, with perfect gravity, “a gentleman whose father humbugged the Pope—humbugged infallibility.” One could not but be amused with such an introduction, urged in a way so infinitely droll, and I ventured, at a proper moment, to ask an explanation, which, unless I was also humbugged, was as follows.

Among the _détenus_ in 1804, was Sir William ——, the father of Sir James ——, the person in question. Taking advantage of the presence of the Pope at Paris, he is said to have called on the good-hearted Pius, with great concern of manner, to state his case. He had left his sons in England, and through his absence they had fallen under the care of two Presbyterian aunts; as a father he was naturally anxious to rescue them from this perilous situation. “Now Pius,” continued my merry informant, “quite naturally supposed that all this solicitude was in behalf of two orthodox Catholic souls, and he got permission from Napoleon for the return of so good a father, to his own country, never dreaming that the conversion of the boys, if it ever took place, would only be from the Protestant Episcopal Church of England, to that of Calvin; or a rescue from one of the devil’s furnaces, to pop them into another.” I laughed at this story, I suppose with a little incredulity, but my Irish friend insisted on its truth, ending the conversation with a significant nod, Catholic as he was, and saying—“humbugged infallibility!”

By this time it was eleven o’clock, and as I am obliged to keep reasonable hours, it was time to go to _the_ party of the evening. Count ——, of the —— Legation, gave a great ball. My carriage entered the line at the distance of near a quarter of a mile from the _hôtel_; _gensdarmes_ being actively employed in keeping us all in our places. It was half an hour before I was set down, and the _quadrilles_ were in full motion when I entered. It was a brilliant affair, much the most so I have ever yet witnessed in a private house. Some said there were fifteen hundred people present. The number seems incredible, and yet, when one comes to calculate, it may be so. As I got into my carriage to go away, Charles informed me that the people at the gates affirm that more than six hundred carriages had entered the court that evening. By allowing an average of little more than two to each vehicle, we get the number mentioned.

I do not know exactly how many rooms were opened on this occasion, but I should think there were fully a dozen. Two or three were very large _salons_, and the one in the centre, which was almost at fever heat, had crimson hangings, by way of cooling one. I have never witnessed dancing at all comparable to that of the quadrilles of this evening. Usually there is either too much or too little of the dancing master, but on this occasion every one seemed inspired with a love of the art. It was a beautiful sight to see a hundred charming young women, of the first families of Europe, for they were there of all nations, dressed with the simple elegance that is so becoming to the young of the sex, and which is never departed from here until after marriage, moving in perfect time to delightful music, as if animated by a common soul. The men, too, did better than usual, being less lugubrious and mournful than our sex is apt to be in dancing. I do not know how it is in private, but in the world, at Paris, every young woman seems to have a good mother; or, at least, one capable of giving her both a good tone, and good taste.

At this party I met the ——, an intimate friend of the ambassador, and one who also honours me with a portion of her friendship. In talking over the appearance of things, she told me that some hundreds of _applications for invitations_ to this ball had been made. “Applications! I cannot conceive of such meanness. In what manner?” “Directly; by note, by personal intercession—almost by tears. Be certain of it, many hundreds have been refused.” In America we hear of refusals to go to balls, but we have not yet reached the pass of sending refusals to invite! “Do you see Mademoiselle ——, dancing in the set before you?” She pointed to a beautiful French girl, whom I had often seen at her house, but whose family was in a much lower station in society than herself. “Certainly—pray how came _she_ here?” “I brought her. Her mother was dying to come, too, and she begged me to get an invitation for her and her daughter; but it would not do to bring the mother to such a place, and I was obliged to say no more tickets could be issued. I wished, however, to bring the daughter, she is so pretty, and we compromised the affair in that way.” “And to this the mother assented!” “Assented! How can you doubt it—what funny American notions you have brought with you to France!”

I got some droll anecdotes from my companion, concerning the ingredients of the company on this occasion, for she could be as sarcastic as she was elegant. A young woman near us attracted attention by a loud and vulgar manner of laughing. “Do you know that lady?” demanded my neighbour. “I have seen her before, but scarcely know her name.” “She is the daughter of your acquaintance, the _Marquise de ——_.” “Then she is, or was, a _Mademoiselle de ——_.” “She is not, nor properly ever was, a _Mademoiselle de ——_. In the revolution the _Marquis_ was imprisoned by you wicked republicans, and the _Marquise_ fled to England, whence she returned, after an absence of three years, bringing with her this young lady, then an infant a few months old.” “And _Monsieur le Marquis_?” “He never saw his daughter, having been beheaded in Paris, about a year before her birth.” “_Quelle contre tems!_” “_Ne c’est-ce pas?_”

It is a melancholy admission, but it is no less true, that good breeding is sometimes quite as active a virtue, as good principles. How many more of the company present were born about a year after their fathers were beheaded, I have no means of knowing; but had it been the case with all of them, the company would have been of as elegant demeanor, and of much more _retenue_ of deportment, than we are accustomed to see, I will not say in _good_, but certainly in _general_ society, at home. One of the consequences of good breeding is also a disinclination, positively a distaste, to pry into the private affairs of others. The little specimen to the contrary, just named, was rather an exception, owing to the character of the individual, and to the indiscretion of the young lady in laughing too loud, and then the affair of a birth so _very_ posthumous was rather too _patent_ to escape all criticism.

My friend was in a gossiping mood this evening, and as she was well turned of fifty, I ventured to continue the conversation. As some of the _liaisons_ which exist here must be novel to you, I shall mention one or two more.

A _Madame de J——_ passed us, leaning on the arm of _M. de C——_. I knew the former, who was a widow; had frequently visited her, and had been surprised at the intimacy which existed between her and _M. de C——_, who always appeared quite at home, in her house. I ventured to ask my neighbour if the gentleman were the brother of the lady. “Her brother! It is to be hoped not, as he is her husband.” “Why does she not bear his name, if that be the case?” “Because her first husband is of a more illustrious family than her second; and then there are some difficulties on the score of fortune. No, no. These people are _bonâ fide_ married. _Tenez_—do you see that gentleman who is standing so assiduously near the chair of _Madame de S——_? He who is all attention and smiles to the lady?” “Certainly—his politeness is even affectionate.” “Well it ought to be, for it is _M. de S——_, her husband.” “They are a happy couple, then.” “_Hors de doute_—he meets her at _soirées_ and balls; is the pink of politeness; puts on her shawl; sees her safe into her carriage, and—” “Then they drive home together, as loving as Darby and Joan.” “And then he jumps into his _cabriolet_, and drives to the lodgings of ——. _Bon soir, monsieur ——_, you are making me fall into the vulgar crime of scandal.”

Now, as much as all this may sound like invention, it is quite true, that I repeat no more to you than was said to me, and no more than what I believe to be exact. As respects the latter couple, I have been elsewhere told that they literally never see each other, except in public, where they constantly meet, as the best friends in the world.

I was lately in some English society, when Lady G—— bet a pair of gloves with Lord R—— that he had not seen Lady R—— in a fortnight. The bet was won by the gentleman, who proved satisfactorily that he had met his wife at a dinner party, only ten days before.

After all I have told you, and all that you may have heard from others, I am nevertheless inclined to believe, that the high society of Paris is quite as exemplary as that of any other large European town. If we are any better ourselves, is it not more owing to the absence of temptation, than to any other cause? Put large garrisons into our towns, fill the streets with idlers, who have nothing to do but to render themselves agreeable, and with women with whom dress and pleasure are the principal occupations, and then let us see what protestantism and liberty will avail us, in this particular. The intelligent French say that their society is improving in morals. I can believe this, of which I think there is sufficient proof by comparing the present with the past, as the latter has been described to us. By the past, I do not mean the period of the revolution, when vulgarity assisted to render vice still more odious—a happy union, perhaps, for those who were to follow—but the days of the old _régime_. Chance has thrown me in the way of three or four old dowagers of that period, women of high rank, and still in the first circles, who, amid all their _finesse_ of breeding, and ease of manner, have had a most desperate _rouée_ air about them. Their very laugh, at times, has seemed replete with a bold levity, that was as disgusting as it was unfeminine. I have never, in any other part of the world, seen loose sentiments _affichés_, with more effrontery. These women are the complete antipodes of the quiet, elegant _Princesse de ——_, who was at Lady —— ——’s, this evening; though some of them write _Princesses_ on their cards, too.

The influence of a court must be great on the morals of those who live in its purlieus. Conversing with the Duc de ——, a man who has had general currency in the best society of Europe, on this subject, he said,—“England has long decried our manners. Previously to the revolution, I admit they were bad; perhaps worse than her own; but I know nothing in our history as bad as what I lately witnessed in England. You knew I was there, quite recently. The king invited me to dine at Windsor. I found every one in the drawing-room, but His Majesty and Lady ——. She entered but a minute before him, like a queen. Her reception was that of a queen; young, unmarried females kissed her hand. Now, all this might happen in France, even now; but Louis XV., the most dissolute of our monarchs, went no farther. At Windsor, I saw the husband, sons, and daughters of the favourite, in the circle! _Le parc des Cerfs_ was not as bad as this.”

“And yet, M. de ——, since we are conversing frankly, listen to what I witnessed, but the other day, in France. You know the situation of things at St. Ouen, and the rumours that are so rife. We had the _fête Dieu_, during my residence there. You, who are a Catholic, need not be told that your sect believe in the doctrine of the “real presence.” There was a _reposior_ erected in the garden of the _château_, and God, in person, was carried, with religious pomp, to rest in the bowers of the ex-favourite. It is true, the husband was not present: he was only in the provinces!”

“The influence of a throne makes sad parasites and hypocrites,” said M. de ——, shrugging his shoulders.

“And the influence of the people, too, though in a different way. A courtier is merely a well-dressed demagogue.”

“It follows, then, that man is just a poor devil.”

But I am gossiping away with you, when my Asmodean career is ended, and it is time I went to bed. Good night.

LETTER VIII. TO JACOB SUTHERLAND, ESQUIRE, NEW YORK.

The Chambers have been opened with the customary ceremonies and parade. It is usual for the King, attended by a brilliant _cortège_, to go, on these occasions, from the Tuileries to the Palais Bourbon, through lines of troops, under a salute of guns. The French love _spectacles_, and their monarch, if he would be popular, is compelled to make himself one, at every plausible opportunity.

The garden of the Tuileries is a parallelogram, of, I should think, fifty acres, of which one end is bounded by the palace. It has a high vaulted terrace on the side next the river, as well as at the opposite end, and one a little lower, next the _rue de Rivoli_. There is also a very low broad terrace, immediately beneath the windows of the palace, which separates the buildings from the _parterres_. You will understand that the effect of this arrangement, is to shut out the world from the persons in the garden, by means of the terraces, and, indeed, to enable them, by taking refuge in the woods that fill quite half the area, to bury themselves almost in a forest. The public has free access to this place, from an early hour in the morning, to eight or nine at night, according to the season. When it is required to clear them, a party of troops marches, by beat of drum, from the _château_, through the great _allée_, to the lower end of the garden. This is always taken as the signal to disperse, and the world begins to go out, at the different gates. It is understood that the place is frequently used as a promenade, by the royal family, after this hour, especially in the fine season; but, as it would be quite easy for any one, evilly disposed, to conceal himself among the trees, statues and shrubs, the troops are extended in very open order, and march slowly back to the palace, of course driving every one before them. Each gate is locked, as the line passes it.

The only parts of the garden, which appear, on the exterior, to be on a level with the street, though such is actually the fact with the whole of the interior, are the great gate opposite the palace, and a side gate near its southern end; the latter being the way by which one passes out, to cross the Pont Royal.

In attempting to pass in at this gate the other morning, for the first time, at that hour, I found it closed. A party of ladies and gentlemen were walking on the low terrace, beneath the palace windows, and a hundred people might have been looking at them from without. A second glance showed me, that among some children, were the heir presumptive, and his sister Mademoiselle d’Artois. The exhibition could merely be an attempt to feel the public pulse, for the country house of _la Bagatelle_, to which the children go two or three times a week, is much better suited to taking the air. I could not believe in the indifference that was manifested, had I not seen it. The children are both engaging, particularly the daughter, and yet, these innocent and perfectly inoffensive beings were evidently regarded more with aversion, than with affection.

The display of the opening of the session produced no more effect on the public mind, than the appearance on the terrace of _les Enfants de France_. The Parisians are the least loyal of Charles’s subjects, and though the troops, and a portion of the crowd, cried _vive le roi_, it was easy to see that the disaffected were more numerous than the well-affected.

I have attended some of the sittings since the opening, and shall now say a word on the subject of the French parliamentary proceedings. The hall is an amphitheatre, like our own; the disposition of the seats and speaker’s chair being much the same as at Washington. The members sit on benches, however, that rise one behind the other, and through which they ascend and descend, by aisles. These aisles separate the different shades of opinion, for those who think alike sit together. Thus the _gauche_ or left is occupied by the extreme liberals; the _centre gauche_, by those who are a shade nearer the Bourbons. The _centre droit_, or right centre, by the true Bourbonists, and so on, to the farthest point of the semicircle. Some of the members affect even to manifest the minuter shades of their opinions, by their relative positions in their own sections, and I believe it is usual for each one to occupy his proper place.

You probably know that the French members speak from a stand, immediately beneath the chair of the president, called a tribune. Absurd as this may seem, I believe it to be a very useful regulation, the vivacity of the national character rendering some such check on loquacity quite necessary. Without it, a dozen would often be on their feet at once; as it is, even, this sometimes happens. No disorder that ever occurs in our legislative bodies, will give you any just notion of that which frequently occurs here. The president rings a bell as a summons to keep order, and as a last resource he puts on his hat, a signal that the sitting is suspended.

The speaking of both chambers is generally bad. Two-thirds of the members read their speeches, which gives the sitting a dull, monotonous character, and as you may suppose, the greater part of their lectures are very little attended to. The most parliamentary speaker is M. Royer Collard, who is, just now, so popular that he has been returned for seven different places at the recent election.

M. Constant is an exceedingly animated speaker, resembling in this particular Mr. M‘Duffie. M. Constant, however, has a different motion from the last gentleman, his movement being a constant oscillation over the edge of the tribune, about as fast, and almost as regular, as that of the pendulum of a large clock. It resembles that of a sawyer in the Mississippi. General La Fayette speaks with the steadiness and calm, that you would expect from his character, and is always listened to with respect. Many professional men speak well, and exercise considerable influence in the house, for here, as elsewhere, the habit of public and extemporaneous speaking gives an immediate ascendancy in deliberative bodies.

Some of the scenes one witnesses in the Chamber of Deputies are amusing by their exceeding vivacity. The habit of crying _écoutez_ prevails, as in the English parliament, though the different intonations of that cry are not well understood. I have seen members run at the tribune, like children playing puss in a corner; and, on one occasion, I saw five different persons on its steps, in waiting for the descent of the member in possession. When a great question is to be solemnly argued, the members inscribe their names for the discussion, and are called on to speak in the order in which they stand on the list.

The French never sit in committee of the whole, but they have adopted in its place an expedient, that gives power more control over the proceedings of the two houses. At the commencement of the session, the members draw for their numbers in the _bureaux_, as they are called. Of these _bureaux_, there are ten or twelve, and, as a matter of course, they include all the members. As soon as the numbers are drawn, the members assemble in their respective rooms, and choose their officers; a president and secretary. These elections are always supposed to be indicative of the political tendency of each _bureau_; those which have a majority of liberals, choosing officers of their own opinions, and _vice versâ_. These _bureaux_ are remodelled, periodically, by drawing anew; the term of duration being a month or six weeks. I believe the chamber retains the power to refer questions, or not, to these _bureaux_; their institution being no more than a matter of internal regulation, and not of constitutional law. It is, however, usual to send all important laws to them, where they are discussed and voted on: the approbation of a majority of the _bureaux_ being, in such cases, necessary for their reception in the chambers.