The American in Paris; vol. 2 of 2

by John Sanderson

not gross absolutely, but indecency could not easily conceal herself under a thinner covering. Ladies do not venture here for the world, unless sometimes for mere curiosity, and well masked, as the Pagan deities used to travel about in mortal disguises to see the iniquities of men.

Near this place we descended into an immense room under ground. Here were trulls in visors, and scavengers in lily-tinctured cravats. It was the rabble in its court dresses. At the farthest end of the room rushed out a savage upon a stage and puffed upon twenty instruments; beat furiously a range of drums with his toes, hands, head, heels, &c. to the infinite delight of the merry spectators. Don’t think, gentlemen, you have all the fun at the Tuileries.—My companions did not think it safe to abide long in this place. “We are not concerned for ourselves,” said they, “but we are afraid you might be mistaken for a gentleman;” and we set out for Porte St. Martin.

Here we introduced ourselves to the Masked Balls. It was near morning and the common world had danced itself into languors. The dance here is unique; every motion of the limbs is an eloquent and pathetic language, especially the gallopade. You would go a long way to see a French woman of the Porte St. Martin gallop. The gray hairs, too, of both sexes, dance here.

Every here and there we saw an old thing of a woman, whose follies long ago have gone to seed, tricked out in all the magnificence of ribbons, and kindling her last efforts in the dance. In the private rooms, many, fagged out by the labours of the week, were strewed about upon chairs and sofas, or upon the floor, either faint and languishing, or wrapped in sleep. One, a beautiful woman, lay outstretched, her petticoats dishevelled, her head upon the crossed-legs of her beau, a half sloven, half fop in silk breeches and a dirty shirt, who slept upright upon a chair; another supine, her mouth open, snored towards Heaven; and every where were plenty of legs, arms and bosoms, disdaining any other covering than the sky.—They are gloriously jolly at the Porte St. Martin, of a Mardigras, that’s certain.

About daylight we arrived at the “Descente de la Courtille.” This is the blackguard rendezvous outside the gate so celebrated. All the élite of the Parisian ragamuffins was here.—“Stand out of the way, you fellow without a shirt.”—“Stand out of the way yourself, you sloven. When you die they’ll not think it necessary to bury you. You can’t smell worse.”

We got through this crowd with long struggles in a close carriage; for the custom is to bespatter with filth any one appearing in a decent garb. Paris furnishes for her general parades the most genteel rabble in the world, and I was not aware she could rake together such an ungodly multitude for this occasion.

I went from the street into some of their retired places of revelry. Here many a one had lost his “upright shape,” and was sprawling, male and female, about the rooms and entries; brawny men and weather beaten poissardes, half covered with rags. In the streets were various entertaining sights. One (a sober man by some miracle) was running after his tipsy wife, and as unhappy about her as a hen that has hatched a duck.

Another had come to an equilibrium, and was struggling forward, yet standing still, as one in a night-mare, or as a weather-cock taking resolutions against the wind; and another was rendering up to Bacchus an account of the night’s debauch. Finally, there was one administering a kicking to a retreating enemy, which seemed quite a novelty in Paris, and excited great interest. I was glad to see that the French, when they do resort to violence, prefer that which alone is founded on principles of humanity.

This is the “Descente de la Courtille.” It is one of the places where one sees the nearest approach of our race to the lower animals; it is the connecting link.

We returned home at eight, the fashionable hour. To go to bed at night, or rise in the morning, is all out of fashion. The sun was made for the rabble.... Carnival means, farewell to flesh, and indeed there will be not much flesh on my bones when it is over. Lent means quiet and rest, and comes very properly immediately after it.