PART III.
ON THE BOULEVARDS.
Summer had come, and was nearly gone. Paris was deserted. As autumn approached, lifting its fiery finger over the city, the flaneurs disappeared. All those who could flee, fled. The faubourg had fled long ago to its châteaux. The Chaussée d’Antin and the Champs Elysées were fleeing aux eaux or aux bains de mer and the boulevards, with their glittering shops and cafés and theatres, were left to the mercy of the tourist. Perhaps the tourist would retort that he was left to the mercy of the boulevards. And, perhaps he would be right. Chignoned sirens, who dwelt in glass cases surrounded by millions of glass vials ranged in rhythmic color from the ceiling to the floor, so as to make the sirens look as much as possible like the centre point of an elaborate kaleidoscope, smiled through their crystal shell at the reckless being who stood outside to peep and wonder. The door stood open. He might not hear the siren’s, “Entrez, monsieur!” but there was no being deaf to her smile; it drew him irresistibly.
“Would monsieur not like just to ‘gouter’ our last novelty, ‘cerise à la Victor Noir?’ Would he not very much like to take some little souvenir home to madame?”
Of course monsieur would. Weak mortal! He unbuttons his coat, and straightway the bees which had sipped abundantly of native porte-monnaies the rest of the year, alight on the purse of the tourist, and suck it, if not dry, as nearly dry as they can.
Busy “dead season,” when stale bonbons and faded finery are brought out, christened by new names, and sold to the barbarians across the Channel. Paris does not want any more of it, but Londres, that city which the English in their ignorance of the French language call Lon-don—Londres will find it charming!
Gaily, busily the bees were plying their task. The long white lines of Haussmann barracks glared shadowless in the fierce vertical sun; gilded railings and balconies flashed in gingerbread magnificence; the dome of the Invalides rose up against the cloudless blue and blazed like a burning mount; the red heat poured down from the zenith on the miles of asphalte that meander through the city, and pelted it till it softened and gave under your foot like india-rubber. Even the lordly chestnuts of the Tuileries, so carefully tended, so abundantly watered, were burnt brown and red, and were shedding their leaves from exhaustion; not a vestige of green was anywhere visible. The fountains were playing, but even they had a tired, worn-out look, and the water seemed to go on splashing lazily from mere force of habit; the flag was still floating above the palace, the gray old palace blinking with its myriad glass eyes in the sultry noon; the broad walks were deserted, no little feet went pattering on the gravel, no merry child-laughter rang through the shade to scare the swallows from their cool siesta; the whole scene, lately so animated and bright, had a weary, day-after-the-ball look that was premature in the first days of July.
The bees of the boulevard were buzzing loud, and bestirring themselves to good purpose. But, hark! What noise is that? Not the cannon’s opening roar, nor “the car rattling o’er the stony street,” but a sound that jars upon the lively hum, and makes the hive suspend labor and hush itself to listen. It comes from the Corps Législatif, first a faint surging sound, then a clamor as of the waves rising and lashing themselves up for a tempest. Louder it grows, and nearer. It crosses the tepid waters of the Seine, lying low between its banks; it reaches the boulevards. At first the cries are indistinguishable, a torrent of human voice, rolling and heaving and rushing like the roar of a cataract, drowning all sense in its senseless frenzy. On it comes, gathering strength in its march, waking up the echoes of the trottoir, and making the crisp leaves quiver and drop, and fly along the dusty pavement before the vociferating multitude like straws before a bellows.
“What is it? Is it a revolution?” cried Berthe, as the horses, laying back their ears, threatened mischief, and obliged the footman to get down and hold them.
“I don’t know, madame,” said the man, looking up the Rue de la Paix at the stream that was pouring along the boulevards, to the sound of beating drums, and blaring trumpets, and all manner of Parisian excitableness in the shape of noise. “It’s more likely une démonstration patriotique; the horses don’t seem to like it, or else we might drive up close and see.”
But Berthe’s curiosity was not proof against a certain mistrust of the sovereign people. The noise might mean nothing more aggressive than a démonstration patriotique, but in Paris patriotism has many moods and phases, and innumerable modes of expressing itself, and its attitudes, if always effective from a dramatic point of view, are not always agreeable to come close to, and, whatever the character of this particular one might be, Berthe preferred admiring it from a respectful distance.