Chapter III Under the Bourbon Flag
French prisoners—Oldenburg bonnets—“Fugio ut Fulgor”—Soldiers of the Empire—Paris—A French hotel—A walk through Paris—Portrait of Madame de Staël—An English ambassador—The Louvre—French tragedy—The heights of Montmartre—Cossacks in the Champs Elysées—£900 for substitute—Napoleon’s legacies to his successor—A dinner at the English Embassy—Botany and mineralogy—Party at Madame de Staëls—A debate in the Corps Législatif—Malmaison—Elbowing the marshals—St Cloud and Trianon—The Catacombs.
Edward Stanley to his Wife.
Letter I.
Havre, June 26, 1814.
WE have passed the Rubicon—nous voilà en France, all new, interesting, and delightful. I know not where or how to begin—the observations of an hour were I to paint in Miniature would fill my sheet; however, you must not expect arrangement but read a sort of higgledy-piggledy journal as things run through my head. I must pin them down like my Butterflies as they pass, or they will be gone for ever.
At half-past four on Friday we sailed from Portsmouth, and saw the fleet in the highest beauty—amongst them all while they were under sail tacking, &c.; the delay has not been lost time. I should observe before I quit the subject of Portsmouth events, that the Emperor could not find time to sail about for mere amusement two days, this he left to the P. R.38 He (the Emperor) and the Duchess of Oldenburg occupied themselves in visiting the Dockyards, Machinery, Haslar Hospital—in short, everything worthy the notice of enlightened beings....
Our passengers were numerous, about 25 in a vessel of as many tons, with only six what they called regular sleeping-places.... But I had no reason to complain, our party was in many respects excellent—one, a jewel of no ordinary value, by name Mr. John Cross, of whom I must enquire more. I have seldom met with a man of more general and at the same time deep information; he seemed perfect in everything. Mineralogy, Antiquities, Chemistry, literature, human nature were at his fingers’ ends, and most gentlemanly manners into the bargain....
Amongst others we had three French officers, prisoners returning home. They had not met before that evening, but had you heard their incomparable voices when they sang their trios, you would have supposed they had practised together for years. Mr. John Cross alone surpassed them in their art. These gentlemen were certainly not hostile to Bonaparte, but to gratify their musical taste they stuck at nothing—“God save the King,” “Rule Britannia,” “The Downfall of Paris” were chaunted in swift succession, and the following commencement of one of their songs will show the popular opinion of Bonaparte’s campaign in Russia:—
“Quel est le Monarque qui peut
Etre si fou
Que d’aller à Moscou
Pour perdre sa grande armée?”
A fair wind brought us in sight of the French coast early on Saturday. At 11 we were under the headland of Havre, and at 12 anchored in the bay, and were in an instant surrounded by chattering boatfuls who talked much but did nothing. On landing we were escorted to the Passport Office and most civilly received there; the difference, indeed, between public offices in England and France is quite glaring. Even the Custom house Officers apologised for keeping us waiting for the form of searching; and tho’ the Underlings condescended to take a Franc or two, the Officer himself, when I offered money, turned away his head and hand and cried, “Ba, Ba, Non, Non,” with such apparent sincerity that I felt as if I had insulted him by offering it....
The whole process of getting our passports signed, &c., being over, we went to an Hotel. “Ici, garçon, vite mettez Messieurs les Anglois à l’onzième,” cried a landlady—and such a landlady! and up we scampered to the 5th storey (there are more still above us) and to this said, “No onzième.”...
We lost no time in the evening in looking about us; the town is situated about two miles up the Seine on a sort of Peninsula surrounded with very regular and strong fortifications. Its docks are incomparable, and Bonaparte would have added still more to their magnificence, but now all is at a stand—the grass is quietly filling up spaces hitherto taken up by soldiers, Workmen, shot and guns; the numberless merchant vessels in a state of decay proved sufficiently the entire destruction of all trade; but what gave me particular satisfaction was the sight of a flotilla of Praams, luggers, intended for the invasion of England, all reposing in a happy progress to speedy putrefaction and decay. About a mile from the town on the hill is a beautiful village called St. Michel, where the Havre citizens have country houses. The town itself is as singular as heart can wish—indeed, I am firmly convinced that the difference between the towns of the Earth and Moon is not greater than that between those of England and France. I scarcely know how to describe it to you. Conceive to yourself a long street of immensely tall houses from 5 to 8 Stories, huddled, for huddling is the only word which can convey my meaning, and in truth their extraordinary height and narrow breadth seem rather the effect of compression than design.... These houses are inhabited by various families of various occupations and tastes, so that each Storey has its own peculiar character—here you see a smart Balcony with windows to the ground, garnished above and below with the insignia of washing woman or taylor. They are built of all materials, though I think chiefly of wood (like our old Cheshire houses) and stucco; and, thanks to time and the filth and poverty of the people, their exterior assumes a general tint of pleasing dirty picturesque. This said dirt may have its advantages as far as the eye is concerned, but the nose is terribly assailed by the innumerable compounded Effluvias which flow from every Alley-hole and corner. For the people and their dress! who shall venture to describe the things I have seen in the shape of caps, hats and bonnets, cloaks and petticoats, &c.? There I meet a group of Oldenburg Bonnets broader and more loaded with flowers, bunches, bows, plumes than any we saw in London, and would you believe it I am already not merely getting reconciled but absolutely an admirer of them.
Having passed the groups of bonnets I meet at the next moment a set of beings ycleped Poissardes, caparisoned with coverings of all sorts, shapes, and sizes—here flaps a head decorated with lappets like butterflies’ wings—here nods a bower of cloth and pins tall and narrow as the houses themselves, but I must not be too prolix on any one particular subject.
Sunday.
We have been to the great Church. It was full, very full, but the congregation nearly all female.
There is certainly something highly imposing and impressive in that general spirit of outward devotion at least which pervades all ranks. Nothing can be finer than their music: we had a sermon, too, and not a bad one. The order of things is somewhat reversed. In England we wear white bands and black gown, here the preacher had black bands and white gown, and I fear the eloquence of St. Paul would not prevent the smiles of my hearers in Alderley Church were I to pop on my head in the middle of the discourse a little black cap of which I enclose an accurate representation.
What shall I say of political feeling? I think they appear to think or care very little about it; the military are certainly dissatisfied and the Innkeepers delighted, but further I know not what to tell you; I am told, however, that the new proclamation for the more decent observance of Sunday, by forcing the Shopkeepers to shut up their shops during Mass, is considered a great grievance.....
Letter II.
Rouen, June 28, 1814.
Foolish people are those who say it is not worth while to cross the water for a week. For a week! why, for an hour, for a minute, it would be worth the trouble—in a glance a torrent of news, ideas, feelings, and conceptions are poured in which are valuable through life. We staid at Havre till Monday morning, and though a Cantab friend of Edward’s, on bundling into his cabriolet, expressed his astonishment we would think of staying a day, when he had seen more than enough of the filthy place in an hour, we amused ourselves very well till the moment of departure....
At 4 on Monday we stepped into the cabriolet or front part of our diligence, on the panels of which was written “Fugio ut Fulgor,” and though appearances were certainly against anything like compliance with this notice, the result was much nearer than I could have conceived. Five horses were yoked to this unwieldy caravan—two to the pole, and three before, and on one of these pole horses mounted a Driver without Stockings in Jack Boots, crack went an enormous whip, and away galloped our 5 coursers. It is astonishing how they can be managed by such simple means, yet so it was; we steered to a nicety sometimes in a trot, sometimes in a canter, sometimes on a full gallop.
The time for changing horses by my watch was not more than one minute—before you knew one stage was passed another was commenced; they gave us 5 minutes to eat our breakfast—an operation something like that of ducks in a platter, the dish consisting of coffee and milk with rolls sopped in it. The roads are incomparable—better than ours and nearly if not quite as good as the Irish. The country from Havre to Rouen is rich in corn of every description—there is nothing particular in the face of it, and yet you would, if awakened from a dream, at once declare you were not in England; in the first place there are no hedges—the road was almost one continuous avenue of apple-trees; the timber trees are not planted in hedgerows but in little clumps or groves, sometimes but generally rather removed from the road, and it is amongst these that the villages and cottages are concealed, for it is surprising how few in comparison with England are seen. The trees are of two descriptions—either trimmed up to the very top or cut off so as to form underwood. I did not observe one that could be called a branching tree; the finest beech we saw looked like a pole with a tuft upon it. The cottages are mostly of clay, generally speaking very clean, and coming nearer to what I should define a cottage to be than ours in England.
You see no cows in the fields, they are all tethered by the road-side or other places, by which a considerable quantity of grass must be saved, and each is attended by an old woman or child. We passed through 2 or 3 small towns and entered Rouen 8 hours after quitting Havre, 57 miles. Rouen, beautiful Rouen, we entered through such an avenue of noble trees, its spires, hills and woods peeping forth, and the Seine winding up the country, wide as the Thames at Chelsea.
Such a gateway! I have made a sketch, but were I to work it up for a month it would still fall far short and be an insult to the subject it attempts to represent. If Havre can strike the eye of a stranger, what must not Rouen do? Every step teems with novelty and richness, Gothic gateways, halls, and houses. What are our churches and cathedrals in England compared to the noble specimens of Gothic architecture which here present themselves?... Rouen has scarcely yet recovered from the dread they were in of the Cossacks, who were fully expected, and all valuables secreted—not that they were absolutely without news from the capital: the diligence had been stopped only once during the three days after the Allies entered Paris. Till then they had proceeded comme à l’ordinaire, and the diligence in which we are to proceed to-night left it when Shots were actually passing over the road during the battle of Montmartre—how they could find passengers to quit it at such an interesting moment I cannot conceive; had I been sure of being eaten up by a Horde of Cossacks, I could not have left the spot.
What an odd people the French are! they will not allow they were in ignorance of public affairs before the entrance of the Allies. “Oh no, we had the Gazettes,” they say, and I cannot find that they considered these Gazettes as doubtful authorities. We have plenty of troops here—genuine veterans horse and foot; I saw them out in line yesterday. The men were soldier-like looking fellows enough, but one of our cavalry regiments would have trotted over their horses in a minute without much ceremony; the army is certainly dissatisfied. Marmont is held in great contempt; they will have it he betrayed Paris, and say it would be by no means prudent for him to appear at the head of a line when there was any firing. The people may or may not like their emancipation from tyranny, but their vanity—they call it glory—has been tarnished by the surrender of Paris, and they declare on all hands that if Marmont had held out for a day Bonaparte would have arrived, and in an instant settled the business by defeating the Allies. In vain may you hint that he was inferior in point of numbers (to say anything of the skill and merit of the Russians perhaps would not have been very prudent), and that he could not have succeeded. A doubting shake of the head, significant shrug of the shoulders, and expressive “Ba, Ba,” explain well enough their opinions on the subject.
I cannot conceive a more grating badge to the officers than the white cockade—the fleur de lys is now generally adopted in place of the N and other insignia of Bonaparte, but, excepting from some begging boys, I have never heard the cry of “Vive Louis XVIII.!” and then it was done, I shrewdly suspect, as an acceptable cry for the Anglois, and followed immediately by “un pauvre petit liard, s’il vous plait, Mons.” We went to the play last night; the house was filthy beyond description, and the company execrable as far as dress went; few women, and those in their morning dress and Oldenburg Bonnets—the men almost all officers, and a horrid-looking set they were. I would give them credit for military talents; they all looked like chiefs of banditti—swarthy visages, immense moustachios, vulgar, disgusting, dirty, and ill-bred in their appearance.
From all I hear the account of the duels between these and the Russian officers at Paris were perfectly correct. 39
I am just come in from a stroll about the town. Among the most interesting circumstances that occurred was the inspection of detachments of several regiments quartered there. I happened to be close to the General when he addressed some Grenadiers de la Garde Impériale on the subject of their dismissal, which it seems they wanted. They spoke to him without any respect, and on his explaining the terms on which their dismissal could alone be had, they appeared by no means satisfied, and when he went I heard one of them in talking to a party collected round him say, “Eh bien, s’il ne veut pas nous congédier, nous passerons.” A man standing by told me a short time ago a regiment of Imperial Chasseurs when called upon to shout “Vive Louis XVIII.!” at Boulogne, to a man, officers included, cried “Vive Napoleon!” and I feel very certain that had the same thing been required to-day from the soldiers on the field, they would have acted in the same manner, and that the spectators would have cried “Amen.”
I heard abundance of curious remarks on the subject of the war, the peace, and the changes; they will have it they were not conquered. “Oh no.” “Paris ne fut jamais vaincue—elle s’est soumise seulement!” I leave it to your English heads to define the difference between submission and conquest.
Beef and mutton are 5d. per lb. here. Chickens 3s. the couple, though 24 per cent. was probably added to me as an Englishman. Bread a 100 per cent. cheaper than in England—at least so I was informed by an Englishman in the commercial line. Fish cheap as dirt at Havre, 3 John Dorys for 6d.
From Havre to Rouen, 57 miles, cost us £1 6s. for both; from thence to Paris, 107 miles, £2; our dinners, including wine, are about 4s. a head; breakfast 2s., beds 1s. 6d. each.
Letter III.
Paris, June 30th.
Here we arrived about an hour ago; for the last two miles the country was a perfect garden—cherries, gooseberries, apple-trees, corn, vineyards, all chequered together in profusion; in other respects nothing remarkable....
The first sight of Paris, or rather its situation, is about 10 miles off, when the heights of Montmartre, on one side, and the dome of the Hôpital des Invalides on the other reminded us of their trophies and disasters at the same time....
Now you must enter our rooms in l’Hôtel des Etrangers, rue du Hazard, as I know you wish to see minutely. First walk, if you please, into an antechamber paved with red hexagon tiles (dirty enough, to be sure), and the saloon also, into which you next enter through a pair of folding doors. This saloon is in the genuine tawdry French style—gold and silver carving work and dirt are the component features. It is about 20 feet square, plenty of chairs, sofas of velvet, and so forth, but only one wretched rickety table in the centre. Two folding doors open into our bedroom, which is in furniture pretty much like the rest; the beds are excellent—fitted up in a sort of tent fashion—and mine has a looking-glass occupying the whole of one side, in which I may at leisure contemplate myself in my night-cap, for I cannot discover for what other purpose it was placed there.
Now let us take a walk—put on thick shoes or you will find yourself rather troubled with the paving stones, for nothing like a flagged footpath exists; a slight inclination from each side terminates in a central gutter, from which are exploded showers of mud by the passing carriages and cabriolets. You must get on as you can; horse and foot, coaches and carts are jumbled together, and he who walks in Paris must have his eyes about him. The streets are in general narrow and irregular, and so much alike that it requires no small skill to find one’s way home again. Ariadne in Paris would wish for her clue. First we ascended the bronze column40 in the Place de Vendôme—figure to yourself a column perfect in proportions much resembling Nelson’s in Dublin, ornamented after the plan of Trajan’s pillar—all of bronze, on which the operations of the wars and victories in Germany are recorded. Bonaparte’s statue crowned it, but that was removed. The column itself, however, will remain an eternal statue commemorating his deeds, and though the Eagles and letter N are rapidly effacing from every quarter, this must last till Paris shall be no more. From the top of this pillar you of course have a magnificent view, and it must have been a choice spot from whence to behold the fight of Montmartre. It will scarcely interest you much to say much about the other public buildings, suffice it to say that all the improvements are in the very best style—magnificent to the last degree; they may be the works of a Tyrant, but it was a Tyrant of taste, who had more sense than to spend 120,000 Louis in sky-rockets. His public buildings at least were for the public good, and were ornaments to his capital.
But let us turn from inanimate to living objects; since I penned the last line I have been sitting with Mme. de Staël.... By appointment we called at 12.41 For a few moments we waited in a gaudy drawing-room; the door then opened and an elderly form dressed à la jeunesse appeared; she is not ugly; she is not vulgar (Edward begs to differ from this opinion, he thinks her ugly beyond measure); her countenance is pleasing, but very different from anything my fancy had formed; a pale complexion not far from that of a white Mulatto, if you will allow me to make the bull; her eyebrows dark and her hair quite sable, dry and crisp like a negro’s, though not quite so curling. She scarcely gave me time to make my compliments in French before she spoke in fluent English. I was not sorry she fought under British colors, for though she was never at a loss, I knew I could express and defend myself better than had she spoken in French. I hurried her as much as decency would permit from one subject to another, but I found politics were uppermost in her thoughts.... She was equally averse to both parties—to the royal because she said it was despotism; the Imperial because it was tyranny. “Is there,” said I, “no happy medium; are there none who can feel the advantages of liberty, and wish for a free constitution?” “None,” said she, “but myself and a few—some 12 or 15—we are nothing; not enough to make a dinner party.” I ventured to throw in a little flattery—I knew my ground—and remarked that an opinion like hers, which had in some measure influenced Europe, was in itself an host; the compliment was well received, and in truth I could offer it conscientiously to pay tribute to her abilities.
On leaving Mme. de S. we paid another visit. From the greatest woman we went to see our greatest man in Paris, Sir Charles Stuart,42 to whom Lord Sheffield had given me a letter of introduction. This had been sent the day before, and of course I now went to see the effect. After waiting in the Anti-chamber of the great man for about half an hour, and seeing divers and sundry faces pass and repass in review, we were summoned to an audience. We found a little, vulgar-looking man, whom I should have mistaken for the great man’s butler if he had not first given a hint that he was bonâ fide the great man himself. I think the conversation was nearly thus: E. S.: “Pray, Sir, are the Marshalls in Paris, and if so is it easy to see them?” Sir C. S.: “Upon my soul I don’t know.” E. S.: “Pray, Sir, is there anything interesting to a stranger like myself likely to take place in the course of the next fortnight?” Sir C. S.: “Upon my soul I don’t know.” E. S.: “Pray, Sir, is the interior of the Thuilleries worth seeing, and could we easily see the apartments?” Sir C. S.: “Upon my soul I don’t know.” This, I do assure you, was the cream of the conversation. Now certainly a great man ought to look wise and say he does not know so and so, when in fact he knows all about it, but somehow or other I could not help thinking that Sir Charles spoke the truth, for if I may draw any inference from Physiognomy, I never saw a face upon which the character of “upon my soul I don’t know” was more visibly stamped. I left my card, bowed, and retired....
I next turned my eyes to the Louvre.43 What are the exhibitions of London, modern or ancient? What are Lord Stafford’s, Grosvenor’s, Angerstein’s, &c., in comparison with this unrivalled gallery? Words cannot describe the coup d’œil. Figure to yourself a magnificent room so long that you would be unable to recognise a person at the other extremity, so long that the perspective lines terminate in a point, covered with the finest works of art all classed and numbered so as to afford the utmost facility of inspection; no questions asked on entering, no money to be given to bowing porters or butlers, no cards of admission procured by interest—all open to the public view, unfettered and unshackled; the liberality of the exhibition is increased by the appearance of Easels and desks occupied by artists who copy at leisure. It is noble and grand beyond imagination. In the Halls below are the Statues, arranged with equal taste, though, as they are in different rooms, the general effect is not so striking. I recognised all my old friends, the Venus de Medicis was alone new to me. She is sadly mutilated, but is still the admiration of all persons of sound judgment and orthodox taste, amongst whom, I regret to say, I deserve not to be classed, as I really cannot enter into the merits of statues, and the difference between a perfect and moderate specimen of sculpture appears to me infinitely less than between good and moderate paintings....
After dining at a Restaurateur’s, who gave us a most excellent dinner, wine, &c., for about 3s. a head, we went to the Théâtre Français, or the Drury Lane of Paris. We expected to see Talma44 in Mérope, but his part was taken by one who is equally famous, Dufour, and the female part by Mme. Roncour. She was intolerable, though apparently a great favourite; he tolerable, and that is all I can say. In truth, French tragedy is little to my taste.... The best part of the play was the opportunity it afforded “les bonnes gens” de Paris to show their loyalty, and much gratified I was in hearing some enthusiastic applause of certain passages as they applied to the return of their ancient sovereign. There is something very sombre and vulgar in the French playhouses with the men’s boots and the women’s bonnets. Could I in an instant waft you from the solitudes of Stoke to the clatter of Paris, how you would stare to see the boxes filled with persons almost extinguished in their enormous casques of straw and flowers. I have seen several bearing, in addition to other ornaments, a bunch of 5 or 6 lilies as large as life....
Letter IV.
Paris, July 8, 1814.
You will take for granted we have seen all the exhibitions, libraries, &c., of Paris; they will wait for more ample description—a glance on one or two will be sufficient.
L’Hôpital des Invalides was, you know, famous for its magnificent dome, which was decorated with flags, standards, and trophies of the victorious arms of France; impatient to shew them to Edward, I hastened thither, but alas, not a pennant remains. On the near approach of the Allies they were taken down, and some say burnt, others buried, others removed to a distance. I asked one of the Invalides whether the Allies had not got possession of a few. With great indignation and animation he exclaimed, “Je suis aussi sûr que je suis de mon existence qu’il n’out pas pris un seul même.”
On Sunday last, after having hunted everywhere for a Protestant church, one of which we found at last by some blunder quite empty, we went with our landlord, a serjeant in the national guard, to inspect the heights of Chaumont, Belleville, and Mt. Martre.... We ascended from the town for about 3 miles to a sort of large rambling village, in situation and circumstances somewhat like Highgate. This was Belleville, whose heights run on receding from Paris a considerable distance, but terminate rather abruptly in the direction of Mont Martre, from which they are separated by a low, swampy valley containing all the dead horses, filth, and exuvious putrefactions of Paris.... Immediately below, extending for many miles, including St. Denis and other villages, are fine plains; upon which plains about 3 in the morning the Russians deployed, and the Spectacle must have been interesting beyond measure.... On the heights and towards the base were assembled part of Marmont’s45 army with their field pieces and some few heavier guns; there, too, were stationed the greater part of the students of l’Ecole Polytechnique, corresponding to our Woolwich cadets. Nothing could surpass their conduct when their brethren in arms fled; they clung to their guns and were nearly all annihilated. I was assured that their bodies were found in masses on the spot where they were originally stationed; their number was about 300.... I met a few in the course of the day who were, like ourselves, contemplating the field of battle, and who spoke like the rest of their countrymen of the baseness of Marmont and treachery of the day. The cannonade must have been pretty sharp while it lasted, as about 5,000 Russians perished before they got possession of the heights—though the actual operation of storming did not occupy half an hour—but their lines were quite open to a severe fire of grape from eminences commanding every inch of the plain. Whilst this work was going on at Belleville, another Russian column performed a similar service at Mt. Martre, which is nearer Paris—in fact, immediately above the Barriers.... Thither our guide next conducted us, and pointed out the particular spots where the assault and carnage were most desperate. A number of Parties were walking about and all talking of the battle or Bonaparte.... Till this day I had never heard him openly and honestly avowed, but here I had several opportunities of incorporating myself in groups in which his name was bandied about with every invective which French hatred and fluency could invent. Their tongues, like Baron Munchausen’s horn, seemed to run with an accumulated rapidity from the long embargo laid upon them. “Sacré gueux, bête, voleur,” &c., were the current coin in which they repaid his despotism, and I was happy to find that his conduct in Spain was by all held in utter detestation and considered as the ground work of his ruin.
I saw one party in such a state of bodily and mental agitation that I ran up expecting to see a battle, but the multiplicity of hands, arms, and legs which were rising, falling, wheeling, and kicking, were merely energetic additions to the general subject.... The National guard were not (with few exceptions) actually engaged. To the amount of 36,000 they occupied the towns and barriers, by all accounts guessing, or, as one intelligent conductor assured us, very certain that they would not be called upon to fight much for the defence of Paris.... Indeed, from all I have been able to learn, and from all I have been able to see, it appears pretty clear that no serious defence was intended—a little opposition was necessary for the look of the thing. And although Marmont might have done more, I feel convinced that had he exerted himself to the utmost, Paris must have perished.
The heights were defended in a very inadequate and unsoldierlike manner; not a single work was thrown up before the guns, no entrenchments, no bastions, and yet with three days’ notice all this might have easily been done. The barriers all round Paris were, and still are, hemmed round with Palisades with loop holes, each of which might have been demolished by half a dozen rounds from a 6-pounder; the French, indeed, laugh at them and consider them as mere divertissements of Bonaparte’s, and feeble attempts to excite a spirit of defence amongst the people—a spirit which, fortunately for Europe, was never excited. The lads of Paris had determined to take their chance and not to do one atom more than they were called upon or compelled to do. These wooden barriers are made of le bois de tremble (aspen), and the pun was that the fortifications “tremblaient partout.” You will like to hear something of Edgeworth’s friend, St. Jean d’Angély;46 he came up to the barrier where our landlord (who had been formerly an imperial guardsman and fought in the battle of Marengo) was posted; here he called loudly for some brandy, for which he got laughed at by the whole line of guard; he then sallied forth and proceeded a short distance, when his horse took fright, and as St. Jean was, as our landlord told us, “entiérement du même avis avec son cheval,” they both set off as fast as they could, and were in a few minutes far beyond all danger, nor did they appear again amid the din of arms. The fate of Paris was decided with a rapidity and sang-froid quite astonishing. By 5 o’clock in the Evening all was entirely at an end, and the national guard and allies incorporated and doing the usual duty of the town. They were, indeed, under arms a little longer than usual, and a few more sentries were placed and the theatre not open that Evening, but that single evening was the only exception, and the next day the Palais Royal was as brilliant and more cheerful than ever, with its motley groups of visitors. The Cossacks were not quartered in the Palais Royal, they were in the Ch. Elysées, the trees of which bear visible marks of their horses’ teeth, but a good many came in from curiosity and hung their horses in the open space of the Palais.... The Russian discipline was most severe, and not an article was taken from any individual with impunity, immediate death was the punishment. The field of battle bore few marks of the event—a few skeletons of horses and rags of uniforms; the more surprising thing is that, notwithstanding all the trampling of horse and foot on the plains below so late as the end of March, the corn has not suffered in the slightest degree. I wish the Alderley crops were as good.
You have no idea of the severity of the conscription. That men can be attached to a being who dragged them, with such violence to every feeling, from their homes would be astonishing, but for the well-known force of the “selfish principle” which amalgamates their glory with his. A friend of our landlord’s paid at various times 18,000 fr., about £900; he thought himself safe, but Bonaparte wanted a Volunteer guard of honour; he was told it would be prudent to enroll himself, which in consideration of the great sums he had paid would be merely a nominal business, and that he would never be called upon. He did put his name down; was called out in a trice and shot in the next campaign. Our waiter at Rouen assured me his friends had bought him off by giving in the first instance £25 for a substitute, with an annuity to the said substitute of an equal sum—pretty well this, for a poor lad of about 16.
Thanks to our landlord and not to Sir Charles Stuart, we might have been introduced into the Thuilleries, but came too late. We lost nothing, as after Mass the King marched through a beautiful sort of Glass gallery facing the Thuilleries Gardens, and then came out into a Balcony to shew himself to the crowd there assembled! he was received with universal and loud applause. “Vive le Roi!” was heard as loud as heart could wish, hats, sticks and handkerchiefs were flying in all directions. When he entered Paris, in one of the Barriers a sort of Archway was made and so contrived that as the carriage passed under a crown fell upon it, a band at the same time striking up “Où peut on être mieux que dans le sein de sa famille,” which is, you know, one of their favourite airs.
Poor man, he has enough to do, and will, I fear, experience a turbulent reign. Bonaparte has left his troops 3 years in arrears, the treasury empty, two parties equally clamourous for places and pensions, both of which must be satisfied. Their taxes are heavier than I thought they were. Our landlord has an estate worth about 2,000 frcs., his father paid 200 fr. a year for it, and he is now under the necessity of paying 1,200, having only a clear surplus of 800, and the finances are at too low an ebb to allow of any immediate reduction in their taxes....
To take things in their course, I must now proceed to my dinner at Sir Charles Stuart’s. I was shewn into a room where I found three or four Englishmen gaping at one another. Before many more had assembled, in came Sir C., and I believe, or rather I am willing to flatter myself, he made a sort of half bow towards us, and then we stood and gaped again; a few more words between him and one or two who were to go to Court the day after, but to me and some others not a syllable of any description was uttered, and when some more English were shewn in who were, I presume, as respectable as myself, his behaviour was quite boorish, he did not condescend to look towards the door. These things went on till a throng of Spaniards with Stars and orders came in; with these he appeared tolerably intimate, and also with three Englishmen who afterwards appeared. We were about 24 in number, and all I had to do in the half-hour preceding dinner was to look out for the most intelligent, gentleman-like-looking Englishman I could, to secure a place by him....
You will ask who I met. I protest to you that I went and returned without being able to learn more than that the secretary’s name was Bidwell, and that one other person in company was a Mr. Martin, who had been agent for prisoners; of the rest I knew nothing, not even of my neighbour; birth, parentage, and education were alike involved in the cloud of diplomatic mystery which seemed to impend heavily over this mansion, and when my neighbour asked me, or I asked him, the names of any person present the answer was mutual—“I don’t know.” Sir Charles sat in the centre with a gold-coated Don on each side of him, with whom he might have whispered, for though I sat within two of his Excellency, I never heard the sound of his voice: however, my opinion may not coincide with all that pass from Calais to Dover, as I heard one man remark to another that his countenance was very pleasing, to which was added in reply, “and he is a very sensible man.” These things may be, but I never met with one more perfect in the art of concealing his talents.
Now for the Jardin des Plantes and its lectures. This same Jardin is a large space appropriated to Botanical pursuits, public walks, menageries, museums, &c. There you see Bears and Lions and, in fact, the finest collection of Birds and Beasts alive, some in little paddocks, others in clean and airy dens. But this is the least part of this delightful establishment; its museums and cabinets are like the Louvre, the finest collection in the world. Everything is arranged in such order that it is almost impossible to see it without feeling a love of science; here the mineralogist, geologist, naturalist, entomologist may each pursue his favourite studies unmolested. Here, as everywhere else, the utmost liberality is shewn to all, but to Englishmen particularly, your country is your passport. Like the mysterious “Open Sesame” in the Arabian nights, you have only to say, “Je suis Anglais” and you go in and out at pleasure. I have seen Frenchmen begging in vain with ladies and officers of the party and turned away because they had happened on the wrong day or hour, and then we, without solicitation, have been desired to walk in. But all these museums and living animals, curious and interesting as they are, are surpassed by the still greater liberality shewn in the daily lectures given by the members of the Institute or Professors of the several sciences. I have attended Haiiy,47 Duméril,48 l’Ettorel, du Mare, and others upon Mineralogy, Nat. Hist., and Entomology, and Haiiy, you know, is the first mineralogist in Europe, and I never looked upon a more interesting being. When he entered the lecture room, every one rose out of respect, and well they might. He is 80 years of age apparently, with a most heavenly patriarchal countenance and silver hair; his teeth are gone, so that I could not understand a word he said, though, indeed, had he been possessed of all the teeth in Christendom I apprehend I should not have been much wiser, as he lectured on the angular forms of the Amphiboles. He looked like a man picked out of a crystal, and when he dies he ought to be reincarnated and placed in his own museum.
Another Scene to which I found my way was equally interesting: I went to a lecture on Iconographic drawing, or Science, as it was called, of representing natural subjects. In other words, when I got there I found it was a professorship of drawing, everything connected with Nat. Hist., such as flowers, animals, insects; and the Professor lectures one day and practically instructs on another. I happened to be present at one of the latter. Conceive my surprise at finding myself in a large library filled with tables, drawing books, ladies and gentlemen all sketching either from nature or excellent copies here. As it was not a public day except to those who wished to attend for instruction, I ought not with propriety to have intruded, but “J’étais Anglois” and every attention was paid. You would have given a little finger to have seen the room; it was a hot summer’s day, but there all was cool and fragrant; the windows opened on the gardens, the tables were covered with groupes of flowers in vases; the company, about 40, were seated up and down where ever they chose, each with a nice desk and drawing board—in short, it was a scene which excited feelings of respect for a nation which thus patronised everything which could add to the rational improvement of its members. Were France the seat of religion and pure virtue it would be Utopia verified; but, alas! there are spots which stain the picture and cast a balance decidedly in favour of England: we are rough, we are narrow-minded, but he who travels is brought to confess and say “England! with all thy faults I love thee still.”...
Letter V.
Paris, July 10th.
Madame de Staëls party formed a fine contrast to the gloom and ponderosity of Sir Charles Stuart’s dinner the day before. We went a quarter before nine, thinking, as it was the nominal hour, it would be ill-bred to go too early, but the French are more punctual in these matters, for we found the good people all assembled and Marmont49 walked out not five minutes before we walked in.
In his stead we had General Lafayette,50 the cornerstone of the Revolution. He is a tall, clumsy-made man, not much unlike Dr. Nightingale, tho’ rather thinner. His countenance discovers thought and sound judgment, but by no means quickness or brilliancy; his manners were quiet, unassuming, and gentleman-like. He spoke little, and then said nothing particularly worth notice.
The next lion announced was a lioness, the celebrated Madame Récamier,51 and though she is not in her première jeunesse, I can easily conceive how she could once dazzle the world. It would be too much to give her credit for superior talents, but her manners were very agreeable tho’ rather like all other belles of France who have fallen in my way, somewhat à la languissante. But I am all this while forgetting the star of the evening, the Baroness herself. She sat in a line with about six ladies, before whom were arranged as many gentlemen, all listening to the oracular tongue of their political Sybil.
She was in high spirits because she had been warmed up by the decision of the court and commons concerning the liberty of the press, which had received an effectual check by limiting all liberty of speech and opinion to works containing not less than 480 pages, thus excluding the papers and pamphlets. The moment we were announced, before she asked me how I did, she enquired whether I had heard this notable decision, and then demanded what I thought of it. Of course, I assured her how much I lamented the prospect of an inundation of dull, prolix books to which France was thus inevitably exposed. This, as we spoke in English, she immediately translated for the benefit of the company, adding “Ce Monsieur Anglois dit cela, et c’est bien vrai il a raison,” and then she laughed and seemed to enjoy the catalogue of stupid books which might be anticipated.
I must confess the party was a little formidable; in England I should have said formal, but there is something in French manners wholly foreign to any application of the word formal, and really after exchanging a few remarks I was glad to be introduced to her son52 and daughter,53 with both of whom I was much pleased. They are clever and agreeable. She is not above eighteen or twenty, and if her complexion was good would be very pretty. She was not shy, beginning conversation in a trice upon interesting subjects. She compared the English and French character, in which she (and I presume it was a maternal opinion) would not allow an atom of merit to the latter. On finding that I was a clergyman she immediately began upon Religion, talked of Hodgson,54 Andrews, Wilberforce,55 and then in questioning me about the Methodists (about whom she seemed to have heard much and entertained confused notions) we slid into mysticism, which carried us, of course, into the third vol. of “Allemagne”; she spoke in raptures of the mystic school, said she was quite one in heart—“Cela se peut,” thought I; but somehow or other “Je ne le crois pas,” for I have heard some little anecdotes of her mother, in which, whatever may be her theoretical views of mysticism, her practical opinions are rather more lax than Fénelon’s. Much against my will I took my leave, willing to hope that Mme. S. spoke the truth when she said how glad she should be to see me if I visited Paris during the winter; she is off to Switzerland in a few days. The French say we have spoilt her—in fact, she occupies little of the public attention in Paris.
The next event most interesting was our visit to the Corps Législatif, or House of Commons. We went to a certain door, to which we were refused admittance, and told it was too full or too late. But said I, “Nous sommes Anglois”; in an instant a man came up and placed us in an inner gallery in the body of the house. The House is something like the Royal Institution—of course larger and beautifully fitted up. Considering it as the Royal Institution for your better comprehension, the President sits on a tribunal throne in a recess corresponding to the fire-place; immediately below is a sort of Rostrum from whence the Members speak, in situation like the lecturer of the R.I. In point of decoration and external appearance both of house and members, it is far superior to our House of Commons, as all the members wear uniforms of blue and gold, but taking it all together I know not that anything can be more illustrative of the French Character—externally all correct and delightful, but within “a sad rottenness of the state of Denmark.”
The president began the proceedings by ringing a bell; a paper was then read detailing, I believe, the orders of the day. A member then arose and went to the Rostrum. In the middle of his speech he was called to order and told it was a very bad speech, so down he came and another mounted. He was equally disliked, for they told him he spoke too low and they could not hear him, so he disappeared; then half a dozen got up and were so impatient that they began speaking altogether before they reached the Tribune. In vain did the President ring his bell, and stand up and gesticulate. Silence, however, was at length obtained, and he addressed them, but with little better success than the rest. One man then stept forward and did obtain a hearing, for he had good lungs and a fair share of eloquence. His speech was short, but it was by far the best; his name was Dumolard.56 Soon afterwards the sitting broke up; the whole took up little more than an hour. I know not whether the perfect want of order was more ridiculous or disgusting; the sittings of the Senate (Peers) are private....
We will now take you to Malmaison, the interesting retreat of the interesting Joséphine. Her character was scarcely known in England. We hear little more of her than as a discarded Empress or Mistress of Buonaparte’s, but she had much to recommend her to public as well as private notice. The French all speak highly of her, and it is impossible, on seeing Malmaison and hearing of her virtues, not to join in their opinion. To be sure, as a Frenchman told me in running through a list of virtues, “Elle avait été un peu libertine, mais ce n’est rien cela,” and, indeed, I could almost have added, “C’est bien vrai,” for every allowance should be made; consider the situation in which she was placed, her education, her temptations; many a saint might have fallen from the eminence on which she stood; I never dwelt with more satisfaction or felt more inclined to coincide in that benevolent verdict of the best of judges of human nature and human frailty, “Neither do I condemn thee, go and sin no more,” than in criticising the character of Joséphine.
I am not sure whether you know exactly the history of Malmaison. The house and land attached to it were purchased by Buonaparte when First Consul, and given to Joséphine, who made it what it is, and bought more land, so that it is now in fact a little Estate. On being divorced, she retired thither with Eugène Beauharnais, her son, and younger children. Her pursuits and occupations will be best understood by describing what we saw. I should say, before I proceed, that it required some interest to get in, and that we went with the Hibberts, who knew the secretary of the Swedish Ambassador, in whose suite we were incorporated for admission. The chief room in the house is what is called the Gallery A, planned and finished according to her own designs; the floor is a mass of dark inlaid marble, the ceiling arched and light admitted from it, the whole not much unlike the Gallery at Winnington on a much larger scale. It would be difficult to describe the fitting up of the interior. The walls are hung with the most exquisite selections from ancient Masters, not stolen, but many given to her, and the rest purchased by herself; but I was more struck by the statues than with any thing else. The dots represent them and their situations in the Gallery; they are chiefly by two modern artists, Canova and Boher, though I fear the reputation of my taste and judgment will suffer by the confession. I still must confess that I felt far more pleasure than in looking either upon Apollo or the Venus de Medicis. There was a Bust and Statue of herself, the latter particularly beautiful, and if accurate, which I was assured it was, the original must have been elegant and interesting to the last degree. It reminded me much of Lady Charlemont, with a stronger expression of sense. The rest of the room was furnished with tables inlaid with marble, upon which were a variety of bronzes, pieces of armour, &c., and her musical instruments were as she had left them, and everything wore an appearance of comfort which is seldom seen in the midst of such magnificence. Through folding doors you enter into a smaller room hung with pictures. C. was her chapel; before a little unostentatious altar, which had every appearance of having daily witnessed her devotions, was a beautiful Raphael; the walls were hung with seven small Scripture subjects by Poussin. I would have given a great deal to have been her invisible observer in this sacred retirement. She must have been alone, for it was scarcely large enough to admit priest or attendant.
D. was a room in which she breakfasted, during which time music was generally performed in B. From E. was a fine view of the Aqueduct of Marly, and E. was the way to the Garden, which she had fitted up in the English style. I have not time to enter into detail of these or her greenhouses. She was fond of Society and patronised the Arts. She allowed Artists to sit at leisure in her gallery to copy pictures, and conversed with them a great deal. She did an infinity of good to all within her reach and was beloved by all. Her death was very sudden; she had complained of a sore throat, but not sufficiently to confine her to her room. On a certain Wednesday or Thursday she was in her Park in high spirits, showing it to the Emperor Alexander and King of Prussia; being rather heated she drank some iced water; in the evening she was worse, on Sunday she was dead, sensible to the last; talked of death, seemed perfectly resigned—to use the words of a French lady, who told me many interesting particulars, “sa mort était très chrétienne.” They were busied in packing pictures and making catalogues, but I believe there is no fear of dismantling the house, as Eugène Beauharnais57 and the children are to have it in conformity to her will.58 I have seen few things since my departure from England which have interested me more than Malmaison, and I could almost fancy that her statue, which is that of a pensive female, with the chin resting on the hand, was her ghost ruminating over the extraordinary events which had recently occurred, and which she had quitted for ever. You will see Malmaison in my sketch-book, as well as the Castle of Vincennes, which is as picturesque and imposing as it is interesting, from the circumstances attending the Duke d’Enghien’s59 death. It seems this event was known at Paris the next day and spoken of with as much freedom as the despotic government of Paris would admit....
I went yesterday to see the house of Peers in the Luxembourg. The Hall of sittings is not unlike that of the Corps Législatif, but the decorations are more interesting, each niche being filled with Austrian standards and a few others. Under a gilt dome, supported by similar pillars, was the spot where Napoleon’s throne was not. The remnants I saw lying in one of the Ante-rooms, all of which were ornamented with immense pictures of the principal battles, but these, out of compliment to the Emperor, &c., had been covered over with green baize, even the very standards had been removed during the stay of the Emperor of Austria in Paris. There is a sitting on Tuesday, and if I stand at the door I may see the Marshals alight, but my curiosity would not be satisfied, as no persons seem to know them; even the man who shewed us the hall, who actually keeps the door thro’ which they enter and sees them all constantly, assured me he did not know one from the other. He did not even know whether Marmont60 had one arm or two.
Letter VI.
Paris, July 11th.
Thanks to our Landlord, and not to Sir Charles Stuart, we have just been elbowing the Marshals, as a serjeant of the National Guard offered to take us into the Thuilleries, and in we went with him in full uniform, on the very best day we could have selected since our arrival in Paris, as a corps of about 10 or 15,000 men were to be reviewed by the King “en masse” in the Place de Carousel, immediately in front of the Thuilleries.
We were stationed in a room of which I had heard much and wished above all things to see—“la Salle des Maréchaux,” so called from the full-length portraits of 18 of these gentlemen with which it is hung; the upper part of the room is surrounded by a gallery decorated with pictures of the chief battles—Lodi, Passage of the Po, and one sea piece descriptive of the capture of our Frigate, the Ambuscade, by a smaller vessel. It is so good a picture that for the sake of the painting I never thought of lamenting the subject.
After standing in this Hall for a few minutes in the midst of Generals without number in full uniform, I had the satisfaction of being almost knocked over by Marshal Jourdan,61 a sharp, queer-looking fellow not at all stamped with the features of a hero. I eyed him well, and had scarcely satiated my curiosity when half a dozen more came by, walking about without peculiar honors or attention, and only to be distinguished from the Generals by a broad red ribbon, worn like those of our Knights of the Bath.
I looked at each and all, but as few could tell their names I was at a loss to distinguish one from another; my head and eyes were in a perfect fidget, flying from Marshal to Marshal and from Picture to Picture.
Of the Ducs de Treviso,62 de Conegliano,63 Serurier,64 and Perignan65 I had no doubt, as I saw them again several times, but I am not sure that I should know the others except from a recollection of their pictures.
I will describe a few while their countenances are fresh upon my memory.
Ney66 is a fine, handsome man, but remarkably fair with light curling hair, and struck us very like Mrs. Parker, of Astle.
Duc d’Istria67 was reckoned by Robert Hibbert like me—that is to say, he had dark arched eyebrows, a fox-like sort of countenance, very dark, almost swarthy, and from his extreme bilious appearance, I should imagine might be troubled, like myself, with bad headaches.
Davoust!68 I can scarcely recall his portrait without shuddering. If ever an evil spirit peeped thro’ the visage of a human being, it was in Davoust. Every bad passion seemed to have set its mark on his face: nothing grand, warlike, or dignified. It was all dark, cruel, cunning, and malevolent. His body, too, seemed to partake of his character. I should fancy he was rather deformed. I never saw so good a Richard III. Let him pass and make way for one of a different description, Victor,69 a fine, open, gentlemanly countenance, tho’ not like a military hero. Marmont, a dark haired, sharp-looking man of military stature. Duc de Dantzig,70 very ugly and squinting. Berthier,71 remarkably quiet and intelligent. Murat,72 an effeminate coxcomb with no characteristic but that of self-satisfaction. Moncey, a respectable veteran. Massèna,73 the most military of all, dark hair and countenance, fine figure. Soult,74 a stern soldier, vulgar but energetic; his mouth and lower part of his face like Edridge,75 though not so large a man.
The King was to me a very secondary person; however, I was close to him as he tottered, like a good old well-meaning man, to Mass. On his return he appeared, as I described last Sunday, in the balcony facing the gardens for a few minutes and was loudly cheered, and then he came back to the Salle des Maréchaux and sat down in a fine chair of Bonaparte’s, covered all over with his Bees, in a Balcony facing the Place de Carousel, from whence he looked down on the 10,000 troops who were there assembled. The shouts here were not what they ought to have been. Comparatively few cried “God bless him!” and I much fear the number who thought it was still less. The Duc de Berri,76 on horseback with Marshal Moncey on one side and Du Pont77 on the other, reviewed the troops, who passed in companies and troops before them. As each company passed the officer held up his sword and cried “Vive le Roi!” and some of the soldiers did the same, but not more than one out of ten.
I heard an anecdote of the Duc de Berri which is, I hope, true. A few days ago in reviewing some troops on the Champs Elysées an officer in passing chose to cry out, “Vive Napoléon!” upon which the Duc rode up to him, tore his Epaulette from his shoulder and order from his breast, threw them on the ground, and instantly dismissed him the service; this spirit pleased the soldiers, and they all shouted “Vive le Roi!”
On Saturday we went to St. Cloud, Versailles, and the great and little Trianon. St. Cloud and the great Trianon were the especial residences of Buonaparte, and I looked at his bed and tables and chairs with some curiosity. I have not time to describe all these. I saw one public place yesterday which should be mentioned, a museum of models in every department of art and science, with all the machines, &c., connected with them. I would willingly conclude my observations on Paris with some remarks on its manners, principles, &c., and I would begin with Religion first if I could, but the fact is there appears to be none. If any does exist it must approximate to Mysticism and lie concealed in the recesses of the heart, for truly “the right hand knoweth not what the left hand doeth.” But with all this non-appearance I should be cautious in passing too severe a censure. It must be remembered that the nation is military, that from the earliest years they “sing of arms,” and Buonaparte carried this to such a degree that even children not much older than Owen78 are to be seen in full Uniforms. He wished to incorporate the two terms of man and soldier. We laughed, you remember, at the account of the little King of Rome appearing in Uniform; in Paris this would not appear ridiculous. He had uniforms of all the favourite regiments horse and foot....
But yet there appears to be less vice than in England, I should rather say less organised vice; I have not heard of a single Robbery, public or private—I walk without fear of pickpockets; I should be inclined to say they seemed rather against themselves than against each other. Their principles may be more relaxed on some points than ours, but I doubt much whether a Frenchman would not be as much disgusted in England as an Englishman could possibly be in France; we call them a profligate race and condemn them in toto—something like Hudibras’ John Bull—
“Compounds for sin he is inclined to
By damning those he has no mind to.”
Their public walks and Theatres are less offensive to decency than ours. Drunkenness is scarcely known; at first sight I should pronounce them an idle, indolent people; the streets are almost always full; the gardens, public walks, &c., swarm at all hours with saunterers. According to my ideas a Frenchman’s life must be wretched, for he does not seem at all to enter into the charms of home—their houses are not calculated for it; they huddle together in nooks and corners, and the male part (judging from the multitudes I daily see) leave the women and children to get through the day as they can.
Their coffee-houses are some of them quite extraordinary; most of them are ornamented with Mirrors in abundance, but some shine with more splendour. In the Palais Royal there is one called “Le Café de mille Colonnes,” which merits some description. It consists of three or four rooms—the largest is almost one mass of plate-glass Mirrors, beautiful clocks at each end, and magnificent chandeliers; behind a raised Table of most superb structure, composed of slabs of marble and plate-glass, sat a lady dressed in the richest manner, Diamonds on head and hand, Lace, Muslin, &c. This is the Landlady; by her a little boy, about 4 years old, stood in charge of a drawer from whence the small change was issued; this, if it happened to be copper, was delicately touched by the fair hand, which was immediately washed in a glass of water as if contaminated by the vulgar metal. She never spoke to the waiters, but rung a golden bell; her inkstands, flower jars—in short, every article on the table was of the same metal or of silver gilt. The tables for the company were fine marble slabs; the room was from the reflection of all the mirrors, as you may suppose, a perfect blaze of light, and yet altogether the place looked dirty, from the undress and shabby coats of the company. The French never dress for the evening unless going out to parties, and they always look dirty and unlike gentlemen; the former is not the case, in fact for they are constantly washing and bathing. An hour or two before I was in this extraordinary coffee-house I had traversed a spot as opposite to it as could well be—the Catacombs!—a range of vaults nearly half a mile long, about 80 feet under ground, in which are deposited all the bones from all the cemeteries in Paris. I suppose we were in company with some millions of skeletons, whose skulls are so arranged as to form regular patterns, and here and there was an altar made of bones fancifully piled up, on the sides an inscription in Latin, French, &c. Behind one wall the bodies of all who perished in the massacres in Paris were immured. They were brought in carts at night and thrown in, and there they rest, festering not in their shrouds but in clothes. Such a mass of corrupt flesh would soon have infested all the vaults, so they were bricked up.
I wish to recommend our hotel to any people you may hear of coming to Paris—Hôtel des Estrangers, Rue du Hazard, kept by Mr. Meriel. Its situation is both quiet and convenient; it is really not five minutes’ walk from the leading objects of Paris, and the people have been civil to us beyond measure.