It would have furnished a fine subject for a painter to see this beautiful woman, still in the zenith of her youth and charms, walking between these two noble boys, whose personal beauty is as remarkable as that of their parents, as she accompanied them to the college. The group reminded me of Cornelia and her sons, for there was the same classic tournure of heads and profiles, and the same elevated character of spirituelle beauty, that painters and sculptors always bestow on the young Roman matron and the Gracchi.
The Duc seemed impressed with a sentiment almost amounting to solemnity as he conducted his sons to Ste.-Barbe. He thought, probably, of the difference between their boyhood and his own, passed in a foreign land and in exile; while they, brought up in the bosom of a happy home, have now left it for the first time. Well has he taught them to love the land of their birth, for even now their youthful hearts are filled with patriotic and chivalrous feelings!
It would be fortunate, indeed, for the King of France if he had many such men as the Duc de Guiche around him—men with enlightened minds, who have profited by the lessons of adversity, and kept pace with the rapidly advancing knowledge of the times to which they belong.
Painful, indeed, would be the position of this excellent man should any circumstances occur that would place the royal family in jeopardy, for he is too sensible not to be aware of the errors that might lead to such a crisis, and too loyal not to share the perils he could not ward off; though he will never be among those who would incur them, for no one is more impressed with the necessity of justice and impartiality than he is.
CHAPTER XVI.
The approach of spring is already visible here, and right glad am I to welcome its genial influence; for a Paris winter possesses in my opinion no superiority over a London one,—nay, though it would be deemed by the French little less than a heresy to say so, is even more damp and disagreeable.
The Seine has her fogs, as dense, raw, and chilling, as those of old Father Thames himself; and the river approximating closer to "the gay resorts" of the beau monde, they are more felt. The want of draining, and the vapours that stagnate over the turbid waters of the ruisseaux that intersect the streets at Paris, add to the humidity of the atmosphere; while the sewers in London convey away unseen and unfelt, if not always unsmelt, the rain which purifies, while it deluges, our streets. Heaven defend me, however, from uttering this disadvantageous comparison to Parisian cars, for the French are too fond of Paris not to be proud even of its ruisseaux, and incredulous of its fogs, and any censure on either would be ill received.
The gay butterflies when they first expand their varicoloured wings and float in air, seem not more joyous than the Parisians have been during the last two days of sunshine. The Jardins des Tuileries are crowded with well-dressed groups; the budding leaves have burst forth with that delicate green peculiar to early spring; and the chirping of innumerable birds, as they flit from tree to tree, announces the approach of the vernal season.
Paris is at no time so attractive, in my opinion, as in spring; and the verdure of the foliage during its infancy is so tender, yet bright, that it looks far more beautiful than with us in our London squares or parks, where no sooner do the leaves open into life, than they become stained by the impurity of the atmosphere, which soon deposes its dingy particles on them, "making the green one"—black.
The Boulevards were well stocked with flowers to-day, the bouquetières having resumed their stalls; and many a pedestrian might be seen bargaining for these fair and frail harbingers of rosy spring.