At the commencement of the sixteenth century, the Hôtel de Cluny was for some time the abode of Mary, the Queen of Louis XII. and sister of our own Henry VIII. She had been married only three months when she was left a widow, being then little more than sixteen.[16] Afterwards it was inhabited by a troop of comedians, although by what means the players were enabled to establish themselves in a house avowedly the dwelling of the abbes of Cluny, and of which, whoever lived in it, they never ceased to be the landlords, is not explained. Subsequently it was made a species of temporary convent for the reception of Maire Angélique Arnaud, the abbess of Port-Royal, and a large number of her nuns, whilst a religious establishment was built for them in the Rue de la Bourbe, which at the present day forms the Hospice de l’Accouchement of the same name.
It is now some six or seven years since we went over the Hôtel de Cluny. The then proprietor, M. du Sommerard, has since died, and we know not how his decease has affected the admission of strangers. Certainly it was at that time the most interesting object of curiosity that Paris afforded. You turned from the narrow, busy Rue de la Harpe into its quiet court, and modern Paris was for the moment forgotten in the contemplation of the old and graceful building, with its picturesque tourelle—its beautifully-ornamented attic windows, each surrounded by a different pattern of florid Gothic sculpture—its antique spouts, and chiseled gallery running in front of the eaves, still showing its exquisite workmanship, in spite of the clumsy manner in which its trellised length had been patched up with mortar, and in many places totally concealed—its vanes and gables. Within, it was rich, indeed, in venerable associations; there were collected all those articles of rare worth and vertu that made the hôtel so famous; but these were not to us the principal attractions, for much was the result of comparatively modern labour. An atmosphere of antiquity pervaded the interior; you were sensible at once of that peculiar odour which clings to relics of former times—that mixture of cathedral interiors, old burly red-edged books, worm-eaten wainscoting, and damp closets, which is almost grateful, despite its elements. The sunbeam came through the patched coloured glass of the old windows, and fell in subdued and varied tints upon the relics which the rooms enshrined—relics of everyday life in days long passed away, which it would not mock with the garish light of present noon, except in the open gallery, and there the motes appeared to wake into existence in its rays, and dance about, until with its decline they fell back once more upon the old carvings and mouldings of the woodwork. In the disposition of the rooms, with their numberless articles of simple domestic use and homely furniture, the past was once more recalled; the visitor lived, for the time, in the bosom of a family long since forgotten, even to its very name; the solitude was dispelled, and the antique chambers were once more peopled with their former occupants, gliding noiselessly about the polished floors, circling round the table, still laid out for their meal, or kneeling at the chapel altar, as the quivering light fell on them, piercing the leaves that clustered from the trees of the adjoining garden about the windows. The day-dream was impressive and all-absorbing. The feeling, upon once more turning into the busy hum of the city, was that of dissatisfaction and confusion, like the first waking from a morning slumber, in which we have been again communing with those whom we once loved.
Sainte-Croix and Marie entered the principal door of the corps de logis of the hôtel, and passed up the staircase. He was recognised and saluted respectfully by the domestics, as one on terms of great intimacy with the master. The interior of the hôtel was brilliantly illuminated; and every now and then sounds of the wildest revelry burst along the corridors, as the heavy rustling curtains that hung over the doors were thrust on one side. As they neared the principal room, a man stepped out and met them. His symmetrical figure was well set off by a magnificent dress; his physiognomy was spirituelle, without being handsome; his presence was commanding and prepossessing.
‘My dear Sainte-Croix,’ he exclaimed as he saw Gaudin, ‘you are welcome. The hours were flying by so rapidly, that I began to think we should not see you.’
‘Time generally runs away with bright grains, Marquis, whenever you direct his flight. He must fill his glass from the sands of Pactolus when he measures your enjoyments.’
‘Will you present me to your fair companion?’ said the host, as he glanced towards the Marchioness.
‘Henriette,’ said Gaudin, giving a false name to his partner, ‘this is the Marquis de Lauzun. His mere name conveys with it all those good qualities which, in one less known, we should mention distinctly.’
The Marquis bowed, and Marie inclined in return to his salute, trembling at the same time; for she knew him well, and was fearful of being discovered. And indeed Lauzun perceived in an instant, by her deportment, that her manners had more of the court than the coulisses about them.
‘You have a charming residence, Marquis,’ she observed, endeavouring to disguise her voice.
‘Say, rather, the abbes of Cluny have,’ replied De Lauzun; ‘for I am here only as an intruder. But they are too liberal to me. In return for some poor advantages I persuaded his Majesty to bestow upon their order, they give up their house to me whenever I require it. Let us join the company who honour me this evening.’