Old and New Paris: Its History, Its People, and Its Places, v. 1

by H. Sutherland Edwards

That most amiable of men, La Fontaine, once persuaded himself, or rather allowed himself to be persuaded, that he ought to be jealous of his wife. The circumstances were these. He was on terms of close friendship with an old captain of dragoons, retired from service, named Poignant; a gentleman distinguished by candour and good nature. So much time as Poignant did not spend at the tavern he passed at the house of La Fontaine, and often in the society of his wife when the poet happened not to be at home. One day someone asked La Fontaine how it was that he permitted Poignant to visit him every day. “Why should he not? he is my best friend,” was the reply. “That is scarcely what the public say. They maintain that he only goes to see Mme. La Fontaine.” “The public are wrong. But what ought I to do in the matter?” “You must demand satisfaction, sword in hand, of the man who has dishonoured you.” “Very well,” said the fabulist, “satisfaction I will demand.” On the morrow, at four in the morning, he called upon Poignant, whom he found in bed. “Get up,” he said, “and let us go out together.” His friend asked why he wanted him, and what urgent affair had brought La Fontaine out of bed at such an hour. “I will tell you,” was the answer, “after we have gone hence.” Poignant, quite mystified, arose, dressed, and then inquired to what place the poet was taking him. “You will soon see,” replied La Fontaine, who, when they had both quitted the house and reached a sufficiently retired spot, said with solemnity, “My friend, we must fight.” Poignant, more puzzled than ever, asked in what way he had offended. “Besides,” he added, “I am a soldier, and you scarcely know how to hold a sword.” “No matter,” replied La Fontaine; “the public wishes me to fight you.” Poignant, after protesting for a long time in vain, at length drew his sword from complaisance, and easily disarmed La Fontaine. Then he inquired the meaning of the whole affair. “The public declare,” said La Fontaine, “that you come every day to my house to see, not me, but my wife.” “My dear friend,” returned Poignant, “I should never have suspected you of such a misgiving, and I promise henceforth never to set foot across your threshold.” “On the contrary,” said La Fontaine, shaking the captain by the hand, “I have done what the public wanted, and I now wish you to continue your visits to my house with more regularity than ever.”

Let us conclude with an anecdote concerning another duel which the “public” would have liked to see fought, but which never came to pass, because the aggrieved party had a great weakness for keeping lead and steel out of his body. A certain marquis had been thrashed with a walking-stick, but showed no disposition to take vengeance on his castigator. “Why doesn’t he appeal to arms?” people inquired—to which the witty Sophie Arnould replied: “Because he has too much good sense to take any notice of what goes on behind his back.”{355}

CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE STUDENTS OF PARIS.

Paris Students—Their Character—In the Middle Ages—At the Revolution—Under the Directory—In 1814—In 1819—Lallemand—In the Revolution of 1830.

IF art and fashion, industry and commerce, are chiefly represented on the right bank of the Seine, science and the schools have their headquarters on the left. The “Latin country” or “pays Latin” occupies a considerable portion of the territory known as the Rive Gauche, and gives to it a distinctive character. Latin, since the Revolution, has been no more the language of instruction in France that it is now in other countries, though in Hungary and Austrian Poland it was the language of the law-courts even until the revolutionary year of 1848.

The students of Paris have so interesting a history that the task of writing it in voluminous fashion was undertaken long ago by a very able writer, Antonio Watripon, whom death unfortunately prevented from completing his “Histoire politiques des Écoles et des Étudiants.” Already in the reign of Charlemagne schools existed and learning flourished in the capital. At the commencement of the twelfth century Abailard grouped around him a large number of pupils; and not long after his time Paris students had so multiplied that in some quarters they outnumbered the townspeople, and lodging was scarcely procurable. The schools were thrown open to the whole world, and foreigners coming to Paris to study were granted the same privileges as native scholars. The Duke Leopold of Austria received his education there, and Charles of Luxemburg, King of Bohemia, and afterwards Emperor of Germany, took the Paris school, in which he had studied, as model for the one he afterwards founded at Prague. Before very long the students of Paris, spoilt by the special privileges which they enjoyed, gave rein to every whim and fancy which occurred to them. In the thirteenth century they nicknamed the townspeople, whom they despised for their ignorance, “cornificiens”; and the latter, jealous of the advantages conferred on the students, took their revenge by calling them “Abraham’s oxen,” and even “Balaam’s asses.” A writer of this period gives the students in general a most profligate character. Their reading was a farce. “They preferred to contemplate the beauties of young ladies rather than those of Cicero.” On the other hand the Abbé Lebœuf cites a letter in which, as a body, they are spoken of with the highest esteem. The truth, doubtless, is that then, as now, some students were serious, and others abandoned to idleness and folly. As early as the thirteenth century student-riots became so frequent in Paris that, the church in this matter supporting the State, all scholars were forbidden to carry arms under pain of excommunication. During the Carnival of 1229 a band of students, after having eaten and drunk at a tavern in the suburb of Saint-Marcel, then outside the walls, provoked a quarrel at the moment of paying, and beat the tavern-keeper and his wife. The neighbours put the aggressors to flight. Next day the students returned in great force, broke into the house, smashed up the furniture, set the wine running, and wounded several persons. The Provost of Paris hastened to the scene with his archers, and meeting a group of peaceable students who were innocent of the affair, swooped down upon them. Two were killed. The masters demanded reparation, but to no purpose. Then the schools were suspended, and Paris was deserted both by professors and students, who went to Rheims, Toulouse, Montpelier, already celebrated for its faculty of medicine, Orleans, and other towns, where the foundations of other universities were laid. The Paris University remained closed for two years. After the reopening of the schools new subjects of quarrel between the students and the townspeople, and between the students and the authorities, constantly arose. The right of fishing in one of the arms of the Seine was claimed by the students, or at least exercised by them until fines were imposed, which in most cases had to be recovered by legal process. The foreign students, moreover, who from the earliest times until now have always been admitted to the Paris schools on the most favourable terms, had disputes of their own; seldom with the other members of the university, but very often with the citizens and the officials.{356}

As we leave the Middle Ages we find that the Paris students, whilst losing a good deal of their original character, preserve all their turbulence and want of discipline. At the fair of Saint-Germains in 1609 they abandoned themselves to all kinds of debauchery, and fought in companies with pages, lackeys, and soldiers of the guard. One lackey cut off a student’s ears and put them in his pocket; after which the students pounced upon every footman or groom they came across, killing some and wounding others. The students of Louis XIII.’s reign are described as “more debauched than ever”; carrying arms, pillaging, killing, making love, and in order to support their excesses, robbing their relatives or even their professors.

It was doubtless the schools, however, which chiefly contributed to make Paris the powerful and active agent of civilisation which that capital so early became. They formed a theatre of discussion for a vast laboratory of ideas. Many a student was beheaded, hanged, or burned in a wooden cage on accusations of heresy; for liberty of conscience, that is to say. “We should greatly deceive ourselves,” says Antonio Watripon, “if we judged the students of other days by their external aspect—drunken challengers, beaters of tavern-keepers, brawlers in the Pré aux Clercs, ravishers of tradesmen’s wives. It is always the same picture on the surface; but underneath there is something which is not at first perceived, and which is marching ever forward—thought! A poor student is persecuted by the parliament. The rector is called to the bar and commanded to imprison the suspected heretic, who, however, has the {357} good fortune to find refuge in Saintonge. Soon the whole world will know that his name is Calvin. The Protestant books are burnt and the printers cast into the dungeons of the bishopric. These persecutions serve only to swell the ranks of the reformers.”

The reputation of the Paris schools spread far and wide, and their civilising influence created institutions of learning in foreign lands. From the ranks of the Paris students in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries stepped forth artists and writers who have remained the glory of France.