We descended into some subterranean galleries, like to those of the Indian temples of the “Elephant.” The air was infected with camphor and whale oil. Right and left one could see by the twilight a great quantity of busts, in plaster, of the great men of France, all dead—because, I am told, there are never any living great ones there.
“See!” said my conductor, “this is the shelf of Chinese books.”
They were Persian.
I thanked the philosophe with that simple politeness which was invented by our immortal Ki, and left the library.
As I passed to my lodgings, I saw a crowd collected near some scaffolding; and on inquiring of my coachman what was the cause of it, was told that they were erecting a monument to a great man, dead two hundred years ago, whose name was Molière. He composed chefs-d’œuvre, which were hissed at their performance; he was persecuted by the court, martyrized by his wife and his creditors, and died miserably at the theatre between two suet candles. They refused the honors of burial to his remains; and now, two hundred years after his death, his countrymen, to show their gratitude, erect a monument to his memory, to recompense his sufferings.
In most things the French are lively and mercurial; but in the matter of gratitude, they take two centuries for reflection.
There is no great stone in the valley which has not “the ambition to emulate Mount Tergyton,” says a verse of Li-Ki; so at Paris they have taken it into their heads to imitate our large and endless Street of Tranquillity, “Tchang-ngan-Kiai,” which runs the whole length of the imperial palace at Pekin, and terminates at the most beautiful of the seventeen gates of the city, “Thsiam Men,” the gate of “Military Glory.”
I felt pride while traversing their Rue Rivoli, in thinking what a miserable imitation it was of our incomparable “tchang-ngan-Kiai;” my national vanity was appeased.
It was in following this street that I came to another palace, inhabited by the four hundred and seventy emperors who govern Paris, France, and Africa, and whom they call “Deputies.” One must have a little dirty piece of paper to gain admittance there. You give this little paper to a man with a red face and a saucy-looking nose, who permits you to enter. The four hundred and seventy emperors, each sit at the bottom of a dark well, which seems lighted by the moon in her last quarter. An old emperor, with a pleasing and paternal countenance, named Mr. Sosé, governs the four hundred and seventy others, by playing tunes upon a little silver bell. This spectacle is very amusing. The emperors are all badly dressed and coiffé. They talk a great deal—walk about—play tricks—sleep, or write letters to their wives, while an emperor, perched up on a high seat, sings in a low voice something mysterious, to a monotonous air, which resembles our “Hymn to our Ancestors,” without the accompaniment of our national music. Each emperor has the right to mount this seat, and sing to himself his favorite song, turning his back upon Mr. Sosé. I asked a person sitting by me, “What they called this play?” The “Representative Government,” he replied.
Salutes are not fired at Paris, except on the birth-day of the king, which renders a sojourn here almost insupportable. I suppose this wonderful spectacle does not amuse the inhabitants, since they only give it once a year; and if it does not, why do they have it even on the king’s birth-day? I asked this question of a man whom one calls a friend here, one Mr. Lefort, my neighbor at my unfurnished lodgings, who answered, “I do not understand you.”