"C'est impossible!" (shrugging his shoulders and elevating his eyebrows); "ici le prix est fixé;" but monsieur should have them for seven francs, as they had been taken from the show-case.
Monsieur was indifferent; he "remercier'd" the shopkeeper; he did not care to pay but six francs, and walked towards the door; but the salesman followed him, and, as he reached the threshold, presented monsieur the articles in question, neatly enveloped in one of his tissue-paper shop-bills. It was positively too cheap, but "pour obliger monsieur," he would give him this "bon marché" for the six francs.
We paid the six francs accordingly; but our satisfaction respecting the "bon marché" was somewhat dampened at seeing the very self-same description of articles we had just purchased at six francs a pair displayed in a window, scarcely half a dozen stores distant, ticketed, in plain figures, three francs a pair.
Passing along through one of the busiest streets of Paris one day, we observed the entrance or passage from the street to the lower story of one of the houses hung with black and decorated with funeral trappings; in fact, the interior arranged as a sort of little apartment, in the midst of which, exposed to full view to all passers by, stood a coffin, surrounded by candles, with crucifix at its head, and all the usual sombre emblems of mourning; pedestrians, as they passed, respectfully uncovered, and such exposition, we were told, is one of the customs in France when death occurs in a family. Funerals often take place at night, although we have met the funeral train during the day, when all who meet it, or whom it passes, remove their hats—a mark of respect which it is pleasant to observe, and which the newly-arrived tourist makes haste to record as one of the evidences of French breeding and politeness.
When I was a boy, and studied first books of history and geography, there was in one of them a picture in which a Frenchman was represented as taking off his hat and making a ceremonious bow to a lady; underneath, as part of the pleasing fable in which the youth were then, and may be, in many cases, to this day are instructed, was printed that the French were the most polite people in the world. If courtly speech, factitious conventionalities, and certain external forms constitute politeness, then the French are the most polite people; but if politeness embraces in its true definition, as I hold that it does, spontaneous unselfishness, refined generosity, carrying kindliness into common acts, unselfishness into daily life, and a willingness to make some self-sacrifice for others, making itself felt more than seen—then there never was a more monstrous humbug than French "politeness." It is nothing more than a certain set of hypocritical forms, the thin, deceptive varnish which is substituted for the clear, solid crystal of hearty honesty.
The Frenchman will raise his hat at a funeral, will "mille pardons, monsieur," if he accidentally jostles your elbow, bow gracefully to the dame du comptoir as he leaves a restaurant; do these and a thousand graceful and pretty things that tend to exhibit himself, and, that cost nothing; but how seldom does he perform an act that calls for the slightest self-sacrifice! He never surrenders a good place that he holds for an inferior one to a lady, an aged person, or a stranger; but he will, if possible, by some petty trick at an exhibition, a review, or public display, endeavor to obtain it from them for himself. The excess of civility shown by the cringing and bowing shopman, with vertebræ as supple as if oiled or supplied with patent hinges in the middle, he expects to put into the price of the goods when he cheats you in your purchases. Attendance in sickness, and service at your hotel, are measured by the francs' worth, till at last, understanding the hollowness of French politeness, its hypocrisy and artificial nature, you long for less ceremony and more heart, and feel that there is much of the former, and little, if any, of the latter, in the Frenchman's code.
Speaking of funerals naturally inclined us to turn our steps towards the celebrated cemetery of Père Lachaise, which has suggested many of the rural cemeteries in our own country that in natural attractions now so far surpass it; but Père Lachaise cemetery, which was formerly an old Jesuit stronghold, was first laid out in 1804, and now it is the largest burial-ground of Paris. It contains over twenty thousand tombs, besides innumerable graves, and occupies two hundred and twelve acres of undulating ground. Some of the older parts of it present a rusty and ill-kept appearance. Before reaching the entrance gate, we had indications of its proximity from the long street through which we passed being almost entirely filled on both sides with the workshops of marble and stone cutters, and funeral wreath manufacturers. Monuments of every conceivable design, size, and expense were displayed, from the elegant and elaborate group of statuary to the simple slab or the little one-franc plaster Agnus Dei, to mark the grave of the poor man's infant. There were quantities of shops for the sale of wreaths of immortelles, bouquets, and other decorations for graves, and scores of men and girls at work fashioning them into various designs, with mottoes varied for all degrees of grief, and for every relation. These are the touching ones: "To My Dear Mother," "My Dear Father," "My Sweet Infant," "To My Dear Sister;" and the friendly ones, "To My Uncle," "My Aunt," "My Friend;" or the sentimental ones, "Mon Cher Felix," "Ma Chère Marie," "Alphonsine," "Pierre," &c.; besides bouquets of natural flowers, and vases for their reception, of every style, and graduated for every degree of grief and the limit of every purse; and you are beset by children offering pretty little bunches of violets or bouquets and wreaths of natural flowers. Arrived at the gate, we were furnished with a guide, whom it is quite necessary to have, to save time in traversing the cemetery, and direct one to the monuments that one most wants to see of celebrated persons.
Our guide was a retired old soldier, slightly lame, and still preserving a sort of military gait, as he stumped along in front of us; but the combined perfume of the pipe he had learned to smoke while campaigning, and the garlic he loved to eat at home, caused him to be a companion that one would prefer occupying the windward side of.
The older part of the cemetery of Père Lachaise is very much crowded; the tombs or vaults in some avenues stand as close together, comparatively, as the doors of blocks of houses in a city thoroughfare. Many of these vaults, facing the avenues, have open fronts, guarded only by a light, iron latticed gate, through which the visitor may look into a little square chapel, reached by a descent of three or four steps; in this little chapel-vault stands a little altar, or shelf, on which is placed cross, wreaths, and vase or vases of flowers, this being the place of offering or prayer for the relatives, the interment being made below the slab in the floor or side.
These vault chapels are more or less pretentious, according to the wealth of the proprietors, some being fifteen or twenty feet square, with marble sides, flooring, and sculpture, beautiful altar, candles, vases, and handsome prie dieu, while the names cut into the carved panels indicated what members of the family have been placed behind them in the narrow chamber for their last sleep. Garlands, wreaths, and mementos are in every direction—within, about, and upon the graves and tombs; and in one department, where children were buried, upon the little graves, beneath small glass cases, rested some of the little toys—the dolls, and wooden soldiers, and little rattles—that had belonged to them when living. We found, as we advanced, how much a guide was needed, for we should never have been able to have threaded unaided the labyrinths or the winding cypress-shaded paths of this crowded city of the dead.