The American in Paris; vol. 1 of 2

by John Sanderson

Burial of the victims—St. Cloud—The Chateau—The Cicerone—The Chevalier d’Industrie—Grave of Mrs. Jordan—The Bois de Boulogne—Amusements on Fête Days—Place Louis XV.—The King at the Tuileries—The American Address—His Majesty’s Reply—The Princess Amelia—The Queen and her Daughters—The Dukes of Orleans and Némours—Madame Adelaide—Splendour of Ancient Courts—Manner of governing the French—William the Fourth—Exhibition of the Students at the University.

Paris, August 24th, 1835.

I believe I have not described to you the burial of the “victims,”—which is no great matter, since you will see it all in the newspapers. I fell in, the other day, with an immense crowd passing in a long file through the door of a church, and became one of its number. Here was a furnace, or chambre ardente, as they call it, into which a concealed flame threw a red and lurid light, and exhibited the corpses of those who were murdered. From this place they were brought out, and carried about the streets in the most gorgeous of all funeral processions. It would have done credit to the best times of Babylon. No people of the world can get up a theatric display of this kind so prettily as the French; and on this occasion they outdid themselves. The day was appointed, four days ahead, when the general grief was to explode, and it did explode exactly as the Prefecture of Police had predicted. We all ran about the streets the whole day, and cried, “long live” Louis Philippe, and General Mortier—who was killed!

The Duke’s coffin was carried in front, by six horses, in all the solemnity of crape. The spokes of the wheels were silvered, and the rims glittered with a more precious metal. Overhead were flags,—I presume, taken from the enemy,—and groups of emblematic figures: France, with her tresses loose and streaming, and the Departments, all dressed in black frocks, mopping their eyes, and pouring out their little souls over the coffin. The others of the train, seven or eight, followed at long intervals, arrayed in nearly the same style, more or less elegant, according to the dignity of the corpses carried in them. In the midst was a chariot, as rich as the others in decoration, and forming a splendid contrast, of dazzling white; and young girls, in raiment whiter than the snow, following in a long train, chanted hymns to their departed sister. This procession had everything but funeral solemnity. I had expected muffled drums and dead marches, and all but the bell-clappers silent over the face of Paris. The music, on the contrary, was thrilling and military; and all the emblems, but the crape and coffin, would have served as well for an elegant jubilee. The last scene—the entrance into the Chapel of the Invalids, and the ceremony there—was the most solemn. The church was hung in its blackest mourning weeds, and priests, in a long row, said masses upon the dead, holding black torches in their hands. The floor opened, and the deceased were laid by the side of each other in a vault, which closed its marble jaws. All Paris spent the day in the procession, and in the evening went to the Opera Comique. But I don’t like funerals; I will write of something else.

I will tell you of my first excursion to the country. Every one who loves eating, and drinking, and dancing, went out yesterday to the fête at St. Cloud—c’est si jolie, une fête de village! and I went along. The situation of this village is very picturesque, on the banks of the Seine, and commands a delightful prospect of the city and environs of Paris. If St. Cloud would not take it ill, I should like to stay here a month. There are the sweetest little hills, and glades, and cascades imaginable,—not, indeed, beautiful and poetical as your wild and native scenery of Pottsville; one does not wander by the mountain torrent, nor by the clear stream, such as gushes from the flanks of your craggy hills, nor by the “Tumbling Run” that winds its course through the intricate valley till it mingles and murmurs no more in the wizard Schuylkill; nor does one stray through forests of fragrant honeysuckles, or gather the wild flower from the solitary rock; but it is sweet, also, to see the little fishes cut with their golden oars the silvery lake, and to walk upon the fresh-mown turf, and scent the odour from the neighbouring hedge; the rose and woodbine, too, are sweet, when nourished by the agricultural ingenuity and care of man.

All that kind of beauty which the fertile earth can receive from the hand of a skilful cultivator is possessed by these little hills of St. Cloud in its most adorable perfection. I have listened here to the music of the bees, and in the calm and balmy evening to the last serenade of the thrush retiring to its rest. One forgets, in hearing this language of his native country, that he is wandering in a foreign land! St. Cloud has, also, an interest in its historical recollections. It was burnt once by the English; it was besieged and taken by Condé, in the religious wars; and Henry III. was assassinated here, by Jacques Clement. It was the favourite residence of Bonaparte. If he resided any where (for ambition has no home,) it was at St. Cloud. It was here he put himself at the head of the government, overthrowing the Directory, in 1799. The neighbourhood is adorned with magnificent villas. The French do not, like the English, plunge from the bustle and animation of their city into a lifeless solitude, or carry a multitude of guests with them to their country seats, to eat them out of house and home, as an antidote to the vapours. They select the vicinity of some frequented spot, as St. Cloud or Versailles, and secure the pleasures of society to their summer residences. I believe it is well for one who wishes to make the best of life, in all its circumstances, to study the French. I am glad that, in imitating England in many things (as we ought), we have not copied her absurd whim of living in the country at Christmas.

The Chateau at St. Cloud is an irregular building; it has on its principal front four Corinthian columns; and Justice, and Prudence, and a naked Truth, and some other hieroglyphic ladies, are looking down from the balustrade. I had myself conducted through its apartments; the salle de compagnie—d’audience—de toilet, and the Queen’s bed-chamber. Only to think, here she used to sleep, the little queeny! They have made her bed just two feet high, lest she might fall out and break her majesty’s neck in the night. The King’s apartments are in a similar range. The salon de Diane is fine, with the tapestry of the gobelins, and the grand salon with Sêvres’ China vases. Its crimson velvet hangings cost twenty thousand dollars, and its four candelabra six thousand. The galérie d’Apollon has paintings by the best masters. I admired all these things excessively.

Every one knows the genealogy of admiration. They certainly exceed very far our usual republican notions of magnificence. Thou most unclassical Blucher! Why the fellow slept here, booted and spurred, in the Emperor’s bed, and kennelled his hounds upon the sofas—both with an equal sense I presume, of the sumptuousness of their lodgings. If, at least, he had put his hounds into Diana’s saloon, the stupid Goth, he might have had some credit for his wit—he can have none for his brutality.

I was puzzled about the reward to be given to our Cicerone. To have all this service for nothing was unreasonable; and to offer money to a man with a cocked hat, and black velvet breeches—it was a painful feeling. I was in a situation exactly the reverse of Alexander the Great towards his schoolmaster.—What was enough for such a respectable gentleman to receive, was too much for me to give. I consulted a French lady; for French ladies know every thing, and they don’t knock you down when you ask them a question.—She told me a franc would be as much as he would expect. Think of giving a franc for an hour’s service, to as good a looking gentleman as General Washington!

Coming out from the Castle, I wandered through the Park, which contains some hundred acres, diversified with hills and valleys, and presenting from an eminence a delightful view of the surrounding country, including Paris. On this spot is a “Lantern of Demosthenes,” copied from the monument of that name at Athens. A great part of the park is a public promenade, and is chiefly remarkable for its jets d’eaux, which on a fête day throw up the water sportively in the air, and for its numerous cascades, one of which is one hundred and twenty-five feet above the level of the basin. I next went with a guide into the “Petit Parc,” made for Marie Antoinette. She bought this chateau (one of her sins) just before the Revolution. This park is beautiful, with bowers, groves, pieces of water, statuary, and every imaginable embellishment. In wandering about here, I got acquainted with a nobleman. He is of that order of knighthood which the French call “Chevaliers d’Industrie.”—“This, sir, I think, is by Pigale, and this Cupid by Depautre. Look especially at this Venus by Coustan.”—“Point du tout, monsieur, I make it a duty as you are a stranger.” He liked the Americans excessively.—“To be the countryman of Franklin, c’est un titre!” I seldom ever met a more polite and accomplished gentleman, and fashionable. I had a purse, containing in silver twenty francs, which, being incommodious to a waistcoat, I had put into an outside coat pocket. Late in the evening, you might have seen me returning homewards on foot, (the distance two leagues,) not having wherewith to hire a coach, and no money at my lodgings. If the devil had not been invented, I should have found him out on this occasion.