To those of our elders who knew the Paris of the early fifties, the present-day aspect—in spite of all its glorious wealth of boulevards and architectural splendour—will suggest the mutability of all things.
It serves our purpose, however, to realize that much of the character has gone from the Quartier Latin; that the Tuileries disappeared with the Commune, and that the old distinctions between Old Paris, the faubourgs, and the Communal Annexes, have become practically non-existent with the opening up of the Haussman boulevards, at the instigation of the wary Napoleon III. Paris is still, however, an “ancienne ville et une ville neuve,” and the paradox is inexplicable.
The differences between the past and the present are indeed great, but nowhere—not even in the Tower of London, which is usually given as an example of the contrast and progress of the ages—is a more tangible and specific opposition shown, than in what remains to-day of mediæval Paris, in juxtaposition with the later architectural embellishments. In many instances is seen the newest of the “art nouveau”—as it is popularly known—cheek by jowl with some mediæval shrine.
It is difficult at this time to say what effect these swirls and blobs, which are daily thrusting themselves into every form of architectural display throughout Continental Europe, would have had on these masters who built the Gothic splendours of France, or even the hybrid rococo style, which, be it not denied, is in many instances beautiful in spite of its idiosyncrasies.
To those who are familiar with the “sights” of Paris, there is nothing left but to study the aspects of the life of the streets, the boulevards, the quais, the gardens, the restaurants, and the cafés. Here at least is to be found daily, and hourly, new sensations and old ones, but at all events it is an ever-shifting scene, such as no other city in the world knows.
The life of the faubourgs and of the quartiers has ever been made the special province of artists and authors, and to wander through them, to sit beneath the trees of the squares and gardens, or even outside a café, is to contemplate, in no small degree, much of the incident and temperament of life which others have already perpetuated and made famous.
There is little new or original effort which can be made, though once and again a new performer comes upon the stage,—a poet who sings songs of vagabondage, a painter who catches a fleeting impression, which at least, if not new, seems new. But in the main one has to hark back to former generations, if one would feel the real spirit of romance and tradition. There are few who, like Monet, can stop before a shrine and see in it forty-three varying moods—or some other incredible number, as did that artist when he limned his impressions of the façade of the Cathedral of Nôtre Dame de Rouen.
Such landmarks as the Place de la Bastille, the Pantheon,—anciently the site of the Abbey de Ste. Geneviève,—the Chambre des Députés,—the former Palais Bourbon,—the Tour St. Jacques, the Fountain des Innocents, St. Germain l’Auxerrois, the Palais du Luxembourg, the Louvre, and quite all the historic and notable buildings one sees, are all pictured with fidelity, and more or less minuteness, in the pages of Dumas’ romances.
Again, in such other localities as the Boulevard des Italiens, the Café de Paris, the Théâtre Français, the Odêon, the Palais Royal,—where, in the “Orleans Bureau,” Dumas found his first occupation in Paris,—took place many incidents of Dumas’ life, which are of personal import.