Tuesday, July 3d.—Too quickly the days go by. The weather is so deliciously fair and bright this morning that it is a joy to be alive. Out into the sunshine we go, ‘not caring a sou where, if only these days could last forever,’ said F. Yes, Paris is indeed fascinating, but we must remember that life is not all a holiday, nor would we wish it to be. We owe to our Maker something higher in aim and in good works. We owe to our beloved country ourselves, and the help of our acts and purposes. When human beings are born and bred in the same air, speak the same tongue, it is a disloyal thing to turn faces from each other. ‘United we stand,’ We heard of a party of Americans finding difficulty in entering Germany not long ago because they had no passports, so I thought we had better fortify ourselves with the documents. Hunted up the abode of the American Legation. Found the apartments to resemble the rooms of a private family, more than those of business. We were duly questioned, measured, and pen-portraits taken of us, and after a sufficient amount of ‘red-tape delay,’ the desired papers were in our hands. Very likely we shall not be obliged to use them, but they serve to tell us how tall we are, and, better still, that my nose is straight, which I never knew before.
We next went to the Pantheon, which is something of a reproduction of St. Peter’s at Rome, and is now devoted to receiving the remains of great men who have merited the gratitude of France. The church was formerly called the church of St. Geneviève, she having been the patron saint of Paris. There are some beautiful frescoes here relating to her life. The rich Corinthian columns, the marble groups, frescoes, and bas-reliefs, are all an interesting study. France is represented bestowing honors on her noted sons. On the frieze is this inscription: ‘Aux Grands Hommes La Patrie Reconnaissante.’ There are some beautiful frescoes here by Cabanel, which represent different scenes in the life of St. Louis. The one where Blanche of Castile, his mother, is talking with him is very lovely. The artist has succeeded in investing the faces of St. Louis with much beauty and spirituality. I looked at these paintings with great satisfaction, as I admire the results of Cabanel’s brush always. I thought, too, not only of St. Louis, but of Louis S. S., and wished I could see his pleasant face. I have so often called him my St. Louis. Please tell him this when you see him, and love to them all. Yet, with all of the objects I have told you of, and many, many others, the interior of the Pantheon has a cold, bare look. Underneath this building are immense vaults, and Victor Hugo’s remains are here. The coffin, covered with cloth, mounted and embroidered with silver, stands on trestles facing the tomb of Rousseau,—although the remains of the latter are at Geneva. A huge pyramid of immortelles is before us, that were brought, by those who loved the great man, on the day of his funeral. All that was mortal of him is here, but a mind that could give ‘Les Miserables’ must be working for good still, in the ‘great somewhere.’
Noticing the interest I felt in everything pertaining to Victor Hugo, a Paris friend, with us to-day, said, ‘Let us sit down and rest near these withered blossoms, and I will tell you a little about his funeral, which took place just three years ago this month, and of which I was an eye-witness.’ Although Victor Hugo was born an aristocrat, and was the greatest poet of France, his sympathy and love for the common people, and his strong and earnestly avowed republican tendencies, led him to request in his will that he should be carried to his grave in the hearse of the poor. And although this was done, never were such preparations made before for the celebration and the honoring of any dead. France claimed him as her greatest, noblest son. His body was laid in state, under the Arch of Triumph, on a catafalque draped with black velvet embroidered with silver, standing in a bank of flowers. Bands of crape were draped from the top of the huge arch to the ground. Through the day, and through the night, torches were lighted, and thousands of people visited the spot. It was known that he said it would be his choice to be laid without ceremony by the side of his wife, in the little country churchyard, but the people would not have it thus; only to the Pantheon should he be carried! But the Pantheon bore a visible cross, indicating dedication to the Roman church. Hugo could not rest there. His religion was of no sect. He believed in God and loved Him. He believed in his fellow-man—loved and helped him. His creed was the Golden Rule, and he lived by it. The Government ordered the cross removed from the building, and it was done, and on June 1st, 1885, all that was mortal of Victor Hugo—whose motto was ever ‘Fraternity, Equality, and Liberty’—was carried there, followed by the greatest and wisest citizens of France, her ministers, her soldiers, and her people. We arose, laid our corsage ornament—a beautiful fleur-de-lis—by the great man’s last resting-place, and turned away.
By the way, the French love this flower, the national emblem of their country. There is a legend about it, that runs like this: Clovis, who was an infidel, went to battle with the Germans. He fought bravely, but was losing ground, when he remembered his young Queen’s faith in God. He called in his despair upon this Great Being the Christians so trusted in, pledging himself to this God’s service forever if He would but give him this one victory. The battle was his, and he was immediately baptized. During the solemn ceremony an angel appeared and threw about King Clovis an exquisite banner embroidered with the lovely flowers of the fleur-de-lis. From that time to the French Revolution the kings of France bore the flower on their banners.
From the Pantheon to the Hotel des Invalides, a comfortable home for disabled soldiers and for aged ones, containing kitchens, dormitories, libraries, museums, etc. We chatted with a very old soldier with but one leg, and he said that he was much happier with that one than most men were with two legs, so well was he there cared for. Next, to the Tomb of Napoleon the First, and I should have known it to have been his burial place had I opened my eyes upon it unexpectedly, anywhere, so ‘Napoleonically’ magnificent is it all, in the Church of the Invalides, so called. Napoleon so loved Paris, that in his will he requested ‘that his body might rest on the banks of the Seine, amongst the French people he loved so well.’ Light for the interior of this building comes through violet-colored glass in the immense cupola, and falls with a peculiar, weird effect upon the sarcophagus, which seems to be of granite, and rests upon two large blocks of different colored stone, one upon the other, making a high pile. The foundation upon which this all stands is a crown of laurels, in green marble, on a floor of black and white, and upon which are seen the names of many of his victories. Twelve victories are also represented by the same number of colossal statues. The crypt containing the sarcophagus is round, and immediately under the dome, in the exact centre, and has around it a marble railing. We went down into this crypt, around the sarcophagus, to a chapel, where we saw the very sword he wore at Austerlitz, the insignia he wore, the battle colors, and the crown of gold given to him by the citizens of Cherbourg. At the farther end is the statue of the Emperor, with the characteristic lines of his face strongly portrayed, and it is clothed in the imperial robes. The gallery leading to this is always lighted by bronze funeral lamps. Other chapels, dedicated to different saints, are richly decorated, and the remains of a number of the relatives of Napoleon rest within them. At the entrance to the tomb, as the whole building or church is called, are two sarcophagi, dedicated, the one to Marshal Duroc, and the other to Marshal Bertrand, the devoted and true friends of the Emperor in his hours of trial. Way high up in the cupola, which is, I have already told you, right over the sarcophagus containing Napoleon’s dust, is a beautiful picture of Jesus, in the midst of angels, looking tenderly down. This crypt is in the centre to be sure, and yet is in front of steps which lead to the beautiful altar. The steps are of white marble, and the high, superb altar is of both black and white marble, with a canopy of gold, beneath which is a figure of Christ on the cross. The cost of this entire monument was nearly two million dollars, and is all so rich and effective that I hope my description of it will enable you to see it, a little, as with my eyes. The life of conquest and glory, defeat and suffering, which this man knew is without a parallel. His spirit left the body in obscurity and exile; that body now rests in the costliest of mausoleums. Here in this very city he once lived in a garret, and wandered hopelessly about seeking employment; here also he lived in palaces, and ruled everything before him. We have seen the Hotel de la Colonnade, Rue des Capucines, where he was married to Josephine, and it was at the Tuileries his divorce from her was proclaimed. His ambition was indeed his ruling passion, when he could put from him the woman who loved him, saying to her, ‘Josephine, thou knowest I love thee; to thee alone do I owe the only moments of true happiness that I have ever had, but my destiny overrules my will.’ Dying on his lonely bed, on the bleak, rude heights of St. Helena, without kith or kin to love him, what then to him were ambition, fame, or victories, even such as his had been?
We spent the rest of the day in the Cluny, an extensive old museum, containing statues, paintings, armor, and wonderfully beautiful tapestries, and rare antiquities of all descriptions. One exquisite and very odd piece of pottery so interested me, being entirely different from anything I had ever before seen, that I asked one of the near attendants where it came from; he answered, ‘Hades.’ Fearing I did not understand him, I asked the question for the second time, and called my companions to interpret, but ‘Hades’ he repeated, and we could say no more. F. said it seemed well baked, and told us a story of an Englishman who was travelling in France, and had with him a French courier, the latter speaking English a little, but making some peculiar translations. The English gentleman asked concerning a friend whom he knew to be residing somewhere in France. The interpreter innocently assured him that his friend had gone to Thunder in Burgundy. The Englishman, not knowing of the town Tounerre, drew his own conclusions.
Wednesday, July 4th.—A pleasant surprise awaited us this morning. Our hostess, in our honor, had thrown from our balcony our own glorious flag! Our stars and stripes! None other as beautiful in all the world floats. It seemed a part of our own dear land, our home and friends. We are up in the fifth story; the horses are kept in the first. The higher up the rooms are, the more desirable are they considered here, and the greater is the rent. We took an early drive, then spent a little time shopping, and made our way to the monumental chapel containing the tombs and monuments of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI., called the Chapel Expiatoire. Here is a beautiful statue of the unfortunate Queen, and one also of her husband, on the pedestal of which is inscribed, in letters of gold, his will, in which he commends his wife and children to his Maker, and expresses a wish that his wife may be allowed to keep their children, for her maternal tenderness for them he has never doubted. It all expresses the thoughts and feelings of a good man. The remains of the brave Swiss Guard who so faithfully defended the royal family, are also here.
A little more sight-seeing, a few social calls made, last lingering glances at the Palais Royal and the Rue de Rivoli shops, and home to dine. After dinner we, with the entire household, went to an out-of-door fête, in the streets and on the sidewalks of Paris, and a grotesque, comical, ridiculous celebration it was. Old and young were dancing in the streets; open booths for shooting, angling, and all sorts of games of chance were well patronized; cheap shows, theatres, concerts, cycloramas, and panoramas, all in full blast, and Punch and Judy doing their part vigorously; a beautiful girl, with a fine voice, and dressed in white silk, thus exposed to the public gaze, was giving a concert in the open air, and the crowd about her were really ladies and gentlemen; every jim-crack ever manufactured was for sale in the miles of tents temporarily erected;—and altogether it was a strange sight. I could not have believed it possible that intelligent men and women could have enjoyed such a conglomeration, but they seemed to. At midnight, after walking some distance to find our cabs, we were driven to Rue Clement Marot, through the Arch, and this grand monument looked even more grand in the full blaze of the electric lights. To-morrow we regretfully leave this beautiful city and our pleasant friends, who have done so much to make our stay here a happy one. Whatever is rich, Paris is richer. Whatever is grand, Paris is grander! Whatever is beautiful, Paris is more so. I hope to see it all again.
July 5th..—We left Paris at 10 A.M. to-day, leaving the house early enough to step into St. Chapelle for one more look at the incomparable rose window and the other remarkably beautiful stained-glass windows of this gorgeous church. The morning was a bright one, and as the rays of the sun streamed in upon us, through the rich colors of the glass, and mingled with the delicate blue tone reflected from the arched roof of the edifice, the effect was glorious. This exquisite ceiling is thickly dotted with gilt stars. The whole interior is decorated with gilt diamonds, with paintings of fleur-de-lis, St. Louis’s flower between. We went into the little chamber where the saintly King used to sit and listen to the church services, through a window opening into the nave. On reaching the station we found our friends waiting for us, to give us a pleasant send-off toward Geneva.