Bentley's Miscellany, Volume I

by Various

"Lasciate ogni speranza voi che entrate."

Paris!—there was once a magic in the name—a music in the sound. "Paris!" how often said I to myself when in another quarter of the globe, "Yes, I will one day visit thee—will revive the memory of the great events of which thou hast been the arena—thy Fronde—the League—the Revolution—the Cent Jours—the history of thy chivalrous François—thy noble-minded Henri—the Grand Monarque—the witty and profligate Regent—thy unfortunate Louis, and still more pitiable Empereur;—and then, the Gallery of the Louvre—the Museum of the Luxembourg—Versailles—St. Cloud—the Tuileries!" My dream was about to be realised.

I was then in my twenty-fifth year. I had health—a sufficiency of the goods of fortune to purchase the enjoyment of the moderate pleasures of life. My person and manners were agreeable; my acquirements greater then those of most of my college contemporaries; and the fine arts were "my passion and my enjoyment." All these advantages, with a pardonable egotism, I had been canvassing during my solitary journey (solitary? no, my mind was occupied with the most enchanting reveries—the most intoxicating visions) from which I was only awakened at the barrier of Montmartre. How my heart beat with delight as, from the eminence that overlooks the city, I beheld its spires, and domes, and houses, huddled in the vaporous gloom of an evening in May! The day had been a glorious one; the air breathed balm. My caleche was open; and four posters whirled me rapidly through the Boulevards, and entered the gateway of the Hotel des Princes in the Rue Richelieu. This street was, as all who are acquainted with it, know, the centre and focus of the fashion,—the life and motion of Paris, and of the foreigners who then flocked to it from all parts of Europe, (for it was the third year of the Restoration,) and had caught some of the volatile spirit of its mercurial people.

Times and dynasties change. Politics, that many-headed monster, now reigns supreme. Instead of the goddess Pleasure,—at whose shrine all sacrificed,—they have set up the Gorgon of parties. The army is no "état"—the church is no "état." It is become a city of national guards—reviewed by a king, with his three sons,—a family marked for assassination. There is no court—no ancienne noblesse. Everywhere distress and misery, hate and calumny, persecution and imprisonment, ruin, the grippe, and bankruptcy. Such is a picture of the Paris of 1837.

But I was in the Rue Richelieu—the great artery of the life's blood of Paris. From it, as from a floodgate, rushed along in conflicting eddies, sweeping like a torrent, a crowd in quest of pleasure. Some were hurrying to the gaming-houses; some aux Italiens, to the Ambigu, of the Varietés, and the different theatres; others to the Palais Royal, which in its magic circle comprehends all that vice or luxury can invent to seduce the imagination or gratify the sense; then to Tortoni's, or the innumerable cafés, there to enjoy the al fresco of the Boulevards Italiens seated under the trees, or to mingle with the multitude, chatting, laughing, or whispering in delighted ears under the well-lighted avenue of elms that had just put forth their young leaves. I made one of the throng, and would that Armida Paris had had no worse enchantments—no more seductive pleasures. Alas! what have I now to do with them?—they have lost their charm. My hair is grey,—my heart is withered!

But I anticipate.

What do the phrenologists mean, by not having assigned to their chart of the skull a place for play? Gall, during his long practice in Paris, might surely have discovered it; for, of all people, the Parisians have this passion the most strongly developed. It is common, indeed, to the most savage, as well as the most civilised nations; for I have seen the Hindu strip himself naked, and bet at chukra the last rag in his possession; the African stakes his wife and children; but our neighbours may plunge their families, to the third and fourth generation, in misery and destitution. The pauper sells his only bed: the cradle of his child. The manufacturer takes to the Mont de Pieté his tools; steals those of his employers. The diplomatist and the figurante, the financier and the mendicant, all fall down before one idol—a Moloch worse than that of the Valley of Gehenna—a monster without pity or remorse, who delights in the tears, and groans, and gnashings of teeth of his votaries, nor quits his prey till he tracks them to the Morgue—name of horrid sound! and yet, the last refuge and sole resting-place of his infatuated victims.

How easy it is to moralise! I should like to know if I always had this infernal bias, or if it was engrafted in me, or whether I was seized at that time with the general epidemy, taking the infection, like the cholera, from those about me, or from the air which I was respiring. Oh, worse than wind-walking pestilence is play! It has a subtle poison, and more kinds of death; no, not death! for, I live,—if dying from day to day can be called life.

The first weeks of my séjour passed like days, nay hours; but I did not confine myself to Paris itself. Few foreigners, or even natives, know the beauty of the environs. These were the scenes of my rides by day. In the evening I assisted at some French réunion, or mixed in the soirées of our own country; frequented the Opera Italienne, where not a note is lost: and such notes!—for Pasta was the prima donna. Being "un peu friand," I frequently dined at the Rocher de Concal. I mention that restaurant because I have reason to remember it. The Rocher de Concal boasts none of the magnificence of Very's, or Beauvilliers. The entrance is encumbered with the shells of the huitres d'Ostende, the most delicious of oysters. The rooms are not much larger than boxes at the opera; but they enclose a world of fun. The rustling of silk is often heard there, and one meets in the narrow passages veiled forms hastening to some mysterious rendezvous.

It was here that I became acquainted with the Prince M——. His was a fatal initial; and might have reminded me of what he proved to be,—my Mephistophiles! M—— was one of those princes that "fourmillent" in all the capitals of Europe. He was about thirty years of age. His figure was tall, slight, and emaciated, and corresponded with his countenance, that was of a paleness approaching to marble, and might be said to have no expression, so complete a mastery had he obtained over his feelings. His equipage had nothing at first sight remarkable. The cabriolet was of a sombre colour, and the harness without ornaments; but the horse was not to be matched for beauty and power. His dress seemed equally plain; but, on closer inspection, you discovered it was of a studied elegance, the colours being so well matched that the eye had nothing particular on which to rest. He never was known to laugh, and seldom smiled; he was rather cold, though not forbidding in his manners, and perfectly indifferent whether he amused or not. He never spoke of the politics of the day, of his domains, of his stud or family,—much less of himself, his exploits, or his adventures. He never made an observation that was worthy of being repeated, yet never said a foolish thing. With the sex he was a great favourite, for he perfectly understood the science of flattery; but it was with the utmost tact that he put it in requisition. His address was perfect: he spoke French, and indeed several languages, with that admirable choice of phrase for which the Russians are remarkable. The sole occupation of his life was play; and to win or lose seemed a matter of perfect indifference to him, whatever the stake.