And presently we realised that the '87 St. Julien was growing low in the cellar, whilst many bins of Château d'Irrac cried out to be consumed. We sent for the great man and confided our suspicions, adding, "You cannot compare the two wines." "Monsieur donc knows the St. Julien? Ah," with a keener glance, "I had not remarked. I ask a thousand pardons of monsieur. After all, it is a matter of taste. The Château d'Irrac is much appreciated—especially by the English. Monsieur will allow me to change the wine?"
Amende honorable, but not accepted; and the Château d'Irrac remained.
Presently we entered upon our longer drive to the Gare d'Orléans. Paris had put up her shutters and toned down her illuminations. Shops were closed, lights were out, Vanity Fair had disappeared.
The streets grew more and more empty. Our driver found his way to the river and went down the quays, where on summer evenings lovers of old books spend hours examining long rows of stalls, on which sooner or later every known and unknown literary treasure makes its appearance. Perhaps he was a man who liked the tragic side of life—and where is it more suggested than on the banks of the Seine? Night after night its turbid waters close over the heads of the rashly despairing. The ghastly Morgue is weighted with secrets. Every bridge is surrounded by an atmosphere of sighs. One last look upon the world, the sky, the quiet stars, then the fatal plunge into the silent waters, and another soul has risked the unknown.
Once more in the darkness uprose the outlines of Notre Dame in all the beauty of Gothic refinement; all the delicate lacework and flying buttresses subdued and dreamlike under the night sky.
Who can look upon this architectural wonder without thinking of those historical, twelfth-century days when the first stone was laid, and it slowly rose to perfection? All the centuries that have since rolled on, changing and destroying much of its charm? The perils it went through and did not altogether escape in those terrible days of '93 when, condemned, it was saved by a miracle? That Age of Reason, which drove half the excitable Frenchmen of Paris stark staring mad.
How can we haunt these precincts without thinking of their high priest Victor Hugo, who loved them as Scott and Burns loved their wholesomer banks and braes? Everywhere uprises a vision of the old grey-headed man as we remember him, with pale heavy face, grave earnest manner, deep thoughtful eyes, and on the surface, so little that was light, excitable and French; for ever pondering upon the mysteries of life, human suffering and endurance, broken destinies. His face looks at you from every dark and vacant window in the neighbouring Ile St. Louis. The shadows of Notre Dame fall upon its mediæval roofs; the dark waters of the river wash their foundations, and sometimes flood them also. If they could only whisper their secrets of human sin and suffering, that great army of martyrs who have died, not in defence of the good but in consequence of the evil, the world would surely dissolve and disappear. Many a time has he stood contemplating these problems, planning the destinies of his characters, from the windows of the Hôtel Lambert. Its painted ceilings recall the days of Lebrun, and up and down the old staircases and deserted corridors one hears the cynical laugh of Voltaire and the tripping footsteps of Madame de Châtet.
We left this delightful and romantic atmosphere behind us as our driver pursued his way down the right bank of the Seine.
Another world, inhabited by another people. Darkness reigned; lamps were few and far between; the roar of the great city sounded afar off, and amidst that roar dwelt all the rank and fashion, wealth and intrigue, that turn the heaven-sent manna to ashes of the Dead Sea fruit. Presently he crossed a bridge and there was a flash of lamps upon the dark waters below. The Seine was pursuing her relentless course, carrying her burden of sorrows to the far-off sea, burying them in the ocean of eternity, recording them in the books of heaven.
A few moments more, and at the Gare d'Orléans we dismissed our man with his pourboire. We were in good time, and had the place almost to ourselves. "Le train n'est pas encore fait, monsieur," said a polite official. "Ah! there it comes. You will not be over-crowded to-night, I imagine."