In our case—for we were all alike—instead of afternoon, we seemed to be in a perpetual state of "the morning after." It was at length agreed that we should enter the first public conveyance we could find that was leaving Paris.
The conveyance destined to receive us was, in appearance, a cross between the English omnibus of domestic life and the French diligence, that has, alas! nearly disappeared; a fat, heavy vehicle, drawn by a couple of strong little hacks, with a driver who gave himself diligence airs, and cracked his whip, and smoked his pipe most ostentatiously.
The first thing we learned on taking our seats was, that we had better have gone by the railway; that is to say, if we intended only going as far as Sceaux, and were pressed for time. We replied, that we were going wherever the omnibus choose to take us, and time was no object. These observations were elicted by a good-humored old man, with a clear, hale, weather-beaten face, which he had contrived to shave to a most miraculous point of perfection, though it was as wrinkled as the boots of any groom. His dress was poor and threadbare in the extreme; and in England he might have passed for a broken-down carpenter; but he, nevertheless, wore the cordon of the eternal Legion of Honor.
The omnibus, he said, went as far as Longjumeau, a place which we were all anxious to see, as being associated with a certain postillion, with big boots, and a wonderful wig, who sang a peculiar song with immense rapidity, accompanied by jingling bells, a crackling whip, and a perpetual post-horn. To our great regret, however, we learned that this distinguished individual was not likely to be seen at Longjumeau, the natives of which had probably never heard of his existence. It was too bad, however, to allow the illusion as to the existence of our old friend to be thus dispelled; so we easily succeeded in persuading ourselves that the popularity of the postillion doubtless kept him continually on the move, and that his native place was, after all, the place where we should have remembered it was least likely to find him.
We proceeded on our way in the most approved style of French omnibuses—with a great deal of clatter, a great deal of confusion, and very little speed. The country any where within a mile or two of Paris, is not very inviting—level wastes of barren ground, with occasionally an oasis in the shape of a brick-kiln, or something equally ornamental; dusty roads, planted with rows of little trees, and bounded by high walls, covered with quack advertisements. The passenger gazes out of window about once every ten minutes, hoping for a little variety; but as far as the waste, the trees, the walls, and the quack advertisements are concerned, he might believe himself still in the same spot. Accordingly, the wise tourist generally seeks amusement inside the vehicle, as we did on the occasion in question—by encouraging the passengers to sing country songs, and contributing ourselves something of the kind toward the general hilarity.
At last—after an hour's jolting and stumbling, and hallooing, and cracking, on the part of omnibus, horses, driver, and whip—something like open country begins to make its appearance—with occasionally an attempt at foliage and cultivation. We have just time to congratulate ourselves upon the change—with a slight regret at the absence of hedges and green lanes—when the omnibus stops at an accommodation of rustic restaurants, schools for young ladies, billiard-rooms, tobacconists' shops, and one church, which we are told is Sceaux. Here we alight, after an exchange of affectionate flatteries with our fellow passengers, who are bound to Longjumeau, and make our way, as a matter of course to the park. But previously a bell at the railway station announces the arrival of a train from Paris, and we have an opportunity of observing the perfect working of this pretty little line—the serpentine course of which is, at first sight, calculated to strike horror into the engineering mind—how the carriages perform impossible curves in perfect safety, and finally accomplish something very like a figure of eight at the terminus, without any relaxation of speed. The manner in which this is accomplished is principally by providing the engines with small oblique wheels, pressing against the rails, in addition to the usual vertical ones. The carriages, too, are so constructed, that both the fore and hind wheels may turn freely under them; and each carriage is connected with its neighbor by a kind of hinge, which effectually prevents a separation, while it affords every facility for independent motion. Thus almost any curve can be accomplished, and it is next to impossible that the train can come off the rails. But for this contrivance, the railway, condemned to a straight line, would probably never pay, and all the pretty places where it has stations, would lose half their visitors.
The great lion of Sceaux is its park, where the chateau, built by Colbert, and subsequently associated with persons of no less importance than the Duc du Maine and Madame de Montespan, was flourishing before the first revolution. Art has here been somewhat ungrateful to nature; the one has furnished the tallest of trees and the thickest of bosquets; but the other has clipped them with more than her usual want of taste, and through the latter, has cut avenues, ingeniously imitative of railway tunnels—of which the pastoral effect may be imagined. On Sundays and Thursdays, during the summer, crowds flock from Paris to the balls which are held in this park—where there is also a tolerable gathering of rustic simplicity from the country round. Then it is that all the colored lamps, which now by daylight look so dingy, are brilliantly lighted up; the dirty stucco statues gleam like alabaster; the seedy drapery becomes golden and gorgeous; the grimy decorations are festive and fairy-like; and the smoky-looking glass column in the centre glitters like an immense diamond—reflecting the surrounding scene with a thousand flattering and fantastic variations.
But what about Robinson Crusoe? All in good time. Robinson is now something less than two miles off, if the information of our decorated friend may be relied upon; and perhaps the sooner we join him the better. Accordingly, with Sceaux behind us, and the prospect of dinner before us, we proceed gayly on foot through roads as rustic in appearance as the inevitable brick walls and unavoidable quack advertisements will allow them to be, and arrive at last at our journey's end—without meeting on our way with any incidents of travel more exciting than the sight of two countrymen and a windmill.
Here, then, we are, at last, at Robinson. Robinson, then, is a place, and not a person? But what relation has this to De Foe's Robinson Crusoe? Simply this; that the spot is the most romantic—the most picturesque—and was the most desolate within so short a distance of Paris; and it has been called "Robinson," as a tribute at once to these united charms, and to the merits of a work which is as popular in France as in its native country. The surname "Crusoe" the French throw aside, as they do every thing which they can either not pronounce, or not understand—refusing in particular to swallow any thing like a name which does not become the mouth, on the wise principle which leads every animal but the donkey to reject thistles.
The fame of the place, however, has by degrees rendered its name inapplicable. Its romantic and picturesque qualities it still retains, but its desolation is no more. It is Robinson Crusoe's island with the spell broken—the loneliness of thirty years profaned. It is Robinson Crusoe's island monopolized by common-place colonists, who have set up cafés and restaurants. It is Juan Fernandez captured by the savages, who appear there in the shape of the bourgeoisie, or as pert-looking young Frenchman, in varnished boots, escorting transparent bonnets. It is Robinson Crusoe's island, in fact, with a dash of Greenwich.