The Chevalier Duchesne and myself had travelled together for some days without exchanging more than the ordinary civilities of distant acquaintance, when some accident of the road threw us more closely together, and ended by forming an intimacy which, in our Paris life, brought us every hour into each other's society.
Stranger as I was in the capital, to me the acquaintance was a boon of great price. He knew it thoroughly: in the gorgeous and stately salons of the Faubourg; in the guingettes of the Rue St. Denis; in the costly mansion of the modern banker (the new aristocracy of the land); or in the homely ménage of the shopkeeper of the Rue St. Honoré,—he was equally at home, and by some strange charm had the entrée too.
The same “sesame” opened to him the coulisse of the Opera and the penetralia of the Français. In fact, he seemed one of those privileged people who are met with occasionally in life in places the most incongruous and with acquaintances the most opposite, yet never carrying the prestige of the one or the other an inch beyond the precincts it belongs to. Had he been wealthy I could have accounted for much of this, for never was there a period when riches more abounded nor when their power was more absolute: but he did not seem so; although in no want of money, his retinue and simple style of living betrayed nothing beyond fair competence. Neither, as far as I could perceive, did he incline to habits of extravagance; on the contrary, he was too apt to connect every display with vulgarity, and condemn in his fastidiousness the gorgeous splendor that characterized the period.
Such, without going further, did Duchesne appear to be, as we took up our quarters at the Luxembourg, and commenced an intimacy which each day served to increase.
“Well, thank Heaven, this vaudeville is over at last!” said he, as he threw himself into a large chair at my fire, and pitched his chapeau, all covered with gold and embroidery, into a far corner of the room.
We had just returned from Notre Dame, where the grand ceremonial of receiving the standards was held by the Senate with all the solemnity of a high mass and the most imposing observances.
“Vaudeville?” said I, turning round rapidly.
“Yes; what else can you call it? What, I ask you, had those poor decrepit senators, those effeminate priests in the costumes of béguines, to do with the eagles of a brave but unfortunate army? In what way can you connect that incense and that organ with the smoke of artillery and the crash of mitraille? And, lastly, was it like old Daru himself to stand there, half crouching, beside some wretched half-palsied priest? But I feel heartily ashamed of myself, though I played but the smallest part in the whole drama.”
“Is it thus you can speak of the triumph of our army? the glories—”
“You mistake me much. I only speak of that miserable mockery which converts our hard-won laurels into chap-lets of artificial flowers. These displays are far beneath us, and would only become the victories of some national guard.”