The American in Paris; vol. 1 of 2

by John Sanderson

The beau, by his pains, peruses once again his dicky, or cravat, of a morning, in the “Magazin des Modes,” whilst the politician has his breeches reproduced in the “Journal des Debats;” and many a fine lady pours out her soul upon a billet-doux that once was the dishclout. The chiffonnier stands at the head of the little trades, and is looked up to with envy by the others. He has two coats, and wears on holidays a chain and quizzing-glass, and washes his hands with pâte d’amand. He rises, too, like the Paris gentry, when the chickens roost; and when the lark cheers the morning, goes to bed. All the city is divided into districts, and let out to these chiffonniers by the hour; to one, from ten to eleven, and from eleven to twelve to another, and so on through the night; so that several get a living and consideration from the same district. This individual does justice to the literary compositions of the day; he crams into his chiffonnerie indiscriminately the last Vaudeville, the last sermon of the Archbishop, and the last éloge of the Academy.

Just below him is the Gratteur. This artist scratches the live-long day between the stones of the pavement for old nails from horses’ shoes, and other bits of iron—always in hopes of a bit of silver, and even, perhaps, a bit of gold; more happy in his hope than a hundred others in the possession. He has a store in the Faubourgs, where he deposits his ferruginous treasure. His wife keeps this store, and is a “Marchande de Fer.” He maintains a family, like another man; one or two of his sons he brings up to scratch for a living, and the other he sends to college; and he has a lot “in perpetuity” in Père la Chaise. His rank is, however, inferior to the Chiffonnier, who will not give him his daughter in marriage, and he don’t ask him to his soirées.

In all places of much resort you will see an individual, broad-shouldered and whiskered, looking very affable and officious, especially upon strangers, mostly about grocer-stores and street corners. Let me introduce you to him, also. He wants to carry your letters, and run errands for you from one end of Paris to the other. He will carry, also, your wood to your room, a billet-doux to your mistress, and your boots to the cobbler’s, and, for a modest compensation, perform any service that one person may require of another; also, as you see, a very important individual. Indeed, he holds amongst men nearly the same place that Mercury holds amongst the gods. About his neck he wears a brass medal, polished bright as honour—at once his badge of office and pledge of fidelity. If you seem to doubt his honesty, he points to his medal, and holds up his head; that’s enough. If only the Peers could point to their decorations with the same confidence! For instance, if you walk out in the bright day, not being a Parisian, you are of course overtaken by the rain; for a Paris sunshine and shower are as close together as a babe’s smiles and tears; and then you just step into a “Cabinet de lecture,” and you have not read half the worth of your sou, when your coat has embraced you, and your umbrella is between you and the merciless heavens. This is the commissionnaire. I should have noticed among the little industries the “Broker of theatrical pleasures;” he sells the pass A, who retires early, to B, who goes in late; and the Clacqueur, who for two or three francs a night applauds or hisses the new plays. But we must get on with our journey.

Here on the Boulevard Poissonnière, or near it, resides Mr. ——, of New Jersey; he has been sent over (hapless errand!) to convert these French people to Christianity. He is a very clever man; and we will ask if he is yet alive. The journals of this morning say three or four missionaries have been eat up by the Sumatras.

This is the famous Arch of Triumph of the Porte St. Denis. It compliments Louis XIV. on his passage of the Rhine in 1672, and is the counterpart of the Napoleon Arch at the Barrière de l’Etoile. It is seventy-two feet high, and has at each side an obelisk, supported by a lion, and decorated with trophies. That fat Dutch woman at the left base stands for Holland; and that vigorous, muscular-looking man on the right, is deputy to the Rhine; and that overhead on horseback, is great “baby Louis.”

We have now left the fashionable world at our heels—this is the Boulevard du Temple. This Boulevard, a few years ago, was a delightful and romantic walk of an evening; but noise and business have now violated all the secret retreats of Paris, one after another, and there is no spot left of the great capital in which you can hear your own voice. There were here, before the Revolution, five theatres; and the lists of fame are crowded with the theatrical celebrities which drew the homage of the whole city to this street. This is the only spot in the world that has furnished clowns for posterity; Baron and Le Kain are hardly more fresh in the memory of man than Galimafré and Bobèche. This was the theatre of their triumphs. It was here, too, that the world came to see a living skeleton of eight pounds, and his wife of eight hundred,—that men, to the great astonishment of our ancestors, swallowed carving knives and boiling oil,—that turkeys danced quadrilles, and fleas drove their coaches and six; and it was here that Mademoiselle Rose stood on her head on a candlestick. There are yet six theatres here; but the street once so adorned with gardens, and equipages, and fashionable ladies, and an infinity of other attractions, is now, alas! built up with gaunt houses, and differs scarcely from the other Boulevards.

The simplicity of original manners is, however, wonderfully preserved in this district. The more fashionable parts are so filled with strangers—with parasite plants, that you can scarcely distinguish the indigenous population. This is the true classical and traditional district—the only place in which you can find unadulterated Frenchmen. The inhabitant of this quarter has rather more than a French share of embonpoint, and aims at dignity, and his whiskers leave a part of his chin uncovered; his clothes are large and fine in texture; he carries an umbrella, and, on fête days, a cane, to give him an important air and keep off the dogs. If it rains, he takes a fiacre; he keeps by him his certificate of marriage and “extrait de batême,” and has not got over the prejudice of being born in lawful wedlock. His wife is pretty, but not handsome; her features are regular, and face plump—indeed, she is plump all over. He loves his wife by instinct. She keeps his books, and he asks her advice in all his business; she suckles his children, and gives him tisane when he is sick.

I saw this individual and his wife together a few evenings ago at the Ambigù Comique. I sometimes go to this theatre, and the Gaité and the Cirque Olympique. A vicious student was tempted every now and then to pinch Madame behind. She bore it impatiently, indeed, but silently, for some time. “Qu’est-ce que tu as?—Qu’as tu donc, ma femme?” At last she communicated to her husband the fact. He immediately grew a foot taller upon his seat; and then he looked at the young man from head to foot with one of those looks which mean so much more than words. Not wishing, however, to disturb the play, he contained himself, only riggling on his seat, and eyeing him occasionally, to the end of the act; and then he got up. “Quoi, monsieur,” said he, “vous avez l’impertinence de pincer les fesses de madame?” and then thrusting his tongue into the lower lip, he put on an expression, such as you will never meet outside the Boulevard du Temple. You would go a mile any time barefooted to see it. “I would have you to know, sir, that I am a rentier, (a freeholder) que je paye rente à la ville de Paris; that I am called Grigou, monsieur; and that I live in the Rue d’Angouleme, No. 22;” and he sat down. The little wife now tried to appease him, which made him the more pugnacious; she reminded him he was the father of a family, had children, and, finally, that he had a wife; and then she sat up close by him, and then she came over to the other side, just in front of me, for security.—The bourgeois of this district lives in a larger house than he could get for the same rent in any other part of Paris; he is usually independent in his circumstances, and has a certain à plomb, or confidence in himself, and a liberty in all his movements, which give a full relief to his natural feelings and traits of character.

Some distance towards the right, you will find the great market of frippery—one of the curiosities of this district. Every old thing upon the earth is sold there for new. There are 1800 shops. Nothing was ever so restored from raggedness to apparent green youth and integrity as an old coat in the hands of these Israelites, unless it be the conscience of those who sell. A garment that has served at least two generations, and been worn last by a beggar, you will buy in this market for new in spite of your teeth. It is a good study of human nature to see here how far the human face may be modified by its pursuits and meditations.

This building in the Rue du Temple, with the superb portico and Ionic columns, and two colossal statues in front, is one of great historical importance; and ladies who love knights would not pardon me for passing it unnoticed. The ancient edifice was built seven hundred years ago, and was occupied by one of the most powerful orders of Christianity—the Knights Templars. Here it was that Philip le Bel tortured and burnt alive these soldier monks, seizing their treasures, and bestowing their other possessions upon his new favourites, the Knights of Malta. Who has not heard of the war-cry of Beauseant, which chilled the blood of the Saracens on the plains of Syria, and has since made many a woman tremble in her slippers at midnight? This was his lodging. Heavens! how wide you open your eyes!—yes, here lodged the Knights of the Red Cross, and Richard Cœur de Lion used to put up in this temple in going to the Holy Land. It became national property in the Revolution, and was given at the Restoration (1814) to the Princesse de Condé, who established the present “Convent of the Temple.” The ladies who now occupy it are called the Dames Benedictines, and, like the other nuns, of whom there are at present more than twenty orders in France, they devote themselves to education, and other benevolent employments.