But leaving these reflections, let us turn to the Champs Elysées and take a seat beneath its trees. What a contrast between the May of ’71 and this one of ’78! That all terror and woe, this one all joy and contentment. French mothers with their bonnes and babies are in groups around far and near, mingled with foreigners of all sorts and nationalities. Faultless carriages pass by, drawn by magnificent, high-stepping horses, of a size and breed formerly unknown in France, and which make many an Englishman exclaim with wrath: “This is the way in which all our horses are taken out of our country!” Doubtless he is right, though only to a certain degree; for the perfection to which horses now attain in France is said to be mainly due to the climate, which has been found to suit equine nature in a way undreamt of some few years since. Thus the breed, when once imported, is improved on French soil, and easily accounts for the multitude of fine horses at present met with all over Paris. This fact, however—together with the taste for horses, driving, and every other thing connected with the existing Anglomania, so foreign to the Parisian natures of forty years ago—owes its discovery to the late emperor, little as any Frenchman now likes to admit its possibility. Before his day no one ever thought of holding the reins, and almost as little of riding, not only in France but on the Continent, leaving such matters to grooms, as Easterns leave dancing to hired performers. But if these tastes were fostered by him before the war, the extraordinary development they have since acquired is one of the remarkable changes in modern Paris, and denotes both greater wealth—despite the Prussian indemnity—and more manly habits than in the “good old days long, long ago.” Louis Napoleon no doubt laid the foundation, but during the republic the edifice has been raised. He it was who inspired the tastes, prepared the ways and means, laid out the roads and drives—the marshal-president and his “subjects” who now profit by them. Perhaps one of the prettiest and most interesting sights nowadays in this beautiful city is the daily Parisian overflow of riders to the Bois de Boulogne between the hours of eight and ten, not only of men but of ladies, whose wildest dreams in former times never aspired to such an expensive pleasure. On a fine May morning “Rotten Row” has here a formidable rival both in numbers and in the steeds, with the difference, too, that instead of riding up and down a monotonous, straight road, the happy-looking parties of equestrians in Paris, almost invariably numbering many ladies, turn off into the fifteen small and large roads that surround the lake in the Bois, and there for a couple of hours enjoy a genuine country canter or a walk beneath pleasant shade. And mingled with these are pony-phaetons well driven by ladies, returning later laden with ferns, wild flowers, and greenery of various kinds. There is true enjoyment in sitting on a bench in the Avenue de Boulogne (once de l’Impératrice) and watching the well-shaped horses, their healthy looks and glossy coats, which would awake the envy of many a London groom, and are not more striking than the good seats of the fair riders and the vast improvement in those of the younger men. Of the number in the early morn the soldier-like President may here be seen, accompanied more than once during this month of May by the Prince of Wales or some other royal visitor.
But this is the afternoon, and, though our thoughts have flown back to the morning, we are sitting in the Champs Elysées and the hour for driving has arrived. Here comes a four-in-hand, driven, though somewhat badly, by the young Marquis de Château Grand—strictly à l’Anglaise, as he fondly hopes—closely pursued by the Duc de Grignon in his pretty dog-cart, attended by his English groom. “Victorias” with duchesses and countesses—the bluest blood of the blue faubourgs—follow in countless numbers. But whose is this open landau with its four black horses and gay postilions, containing two ladies in close converse as they pass along? The stout one is Isabella, ex-Queen of Spain—what memories her name evokes!—the younger “La Reine Marguerite,” as her intimates love to call her; in other words, the wife of Don Carlos, now the inseparable companion of Isabella, with that remarkable disregard to conventionality, considering the remonstrances of her son’s government, which has always been as strong an element in her character as the bonhomie that has led her into this intimacy, and also makes her love her present Parisian life almost as much as she ever did her throne. A few seconds later a handsome man rides slowly by, attended only by his groom, his sad, pensive countenance amidst this gay throng telling a tale of care and inward sorrow. It is Amadeus, son of Victor Emmanuel, but unlike him in most respects, now Duke of Aosta, once too “King of Spain,” and still grieving for his lost wife. Then, turning round to look again at the mass of children, voué to the Blessed Virgin, driving up and down in their blue and white perambulators, and which thus silently bear witness to wide-spread French devotion amid all the seeming worldliness, the eye falls on General de Charette as he walks by with some old friend, and whom we last saw commanding the Papal Zouaves in Rome during that eventful winter of 1870. Since then he has seen fire and fought valiantly for his own native land, he and his corps, as in the ages of faith, first making a public act of consecration to the Sacred Heart, the scapular being emblazoned on their regimental colors. Trial and suffering, however, have rather improved than injured him, for he has grown in size and freshness, mayhap owing somewhat to present happiness and the fair American who has lately brought him both wealth and beauty. Looking towards the road again, the Crown Prince and Princess of Denmark are seen driving past, but only to make us miss the sweet, smiling face of the Princess of Wales and the pleasant manners of the Prince, seen here on their road to the Exhibition every afternoon until last week, but now returned to England, not, however, until they had become such universal favorites and so completely won French hearts that if this were 1880 and not 1878, universal suffrage, it is said, if Paris were a criterion, would be very likely to offer Queen Victoria’s heir the doubtful honor of MacMahon’s place.
Nor does this in any way complete the list of royal representatives during this month of May in Paris. Archdukes of Austria, princes of Belgium and Holland, with Orleans princes and princesses, old and young, and, neither last nor least, the blind King of Hanover, Bismarck’s victim, and now permanently settled in the gay capital, may be here discerned by those who care to penetrate their incognito.
And not only during the day but at night is the city gay and full of life, for balls and fêtes are going forward, where twelve and fourteen royalties may often be seen at a time; nay more, unlike as in imperial days, the faubourg has come forth from its retreat, and legitimacy has opened its doors with hospitality, oftentimes with regal splendor.
Where, then, are the signs of poverty and depression which the enormous indemnity paid to Prussia and the sad events of recent years might lead a foreigner to expect? Naught but wealth and comfort is apparent; money and money’s worth; the rich showing every outward mark of luxury, the people well clad and housed; that squalor which makes itself so painfully visible by the side of London riches here entirely absent, life bright and cheerful as far as casual observers can perceive.
But beneath all this enjoyment, the flutter of flags on the “opening day,” the gathering of foreign princes as in the palmiest period of imperialism, and the evident revival of trade, in no other country is there so great a dread of impending evil, such a vague, undefined fear, baseless it may possibly be, but which it were folly to ignore. 1880 and the termination of the Septennate are ever before French minds, and the dreaded lack of durability, of a firm basis to their edifice, and the possible renewal of the Commune horrors seem nowadays always uppermost in their thoughts. Despite the outward symptoms of brightness, perhaps even frivolity, no change is more impressive to any one formerly acquainted with France than the grave and sobered character of the nation; the reflection which misfortune seems to have evoked, and the subdued tone their crushing defeat has stamped upon the entire people. The old crowing of the Gallic cock, so Napoleonic and offensive to strangers of yore, has, at least for the present, entirely disappeared and been exchanged for a tranquil manner, a greater civility in answering questions, and a total absence of the “swagger” so universal in the ante-war period. Hence, too, springs a sudden awakening to the possibility of other nations having special merits unnoticed formerly, with a studying of their minds and habits as compared with their own both in the press and private circles, which unconsciously betrays how terrible an ordeal the French have been passing through and how little they count upon its being as yet fully past.
Nothing, therefore, is so interesting and at the same time touching to any one who has not been in Paris since 1867 as to note the signs of change in these respects which meet us at every turn. One time it is the eloquent tribute of the Figaro to the reign and subjects of Queen Victoria on the birthday of that constitutional monarch; at another, the strict neutrality, so foreign to their natures, which this excitable people are maintaining in the present turmoil of the Eastern question; yesterday I noticed it at a dinner, when a heedless remark about the ruined Conseil d’Etat caused all the party to shudder and to exclaim, one after the other, that hard as it had been to eat horses—nay, dogs, and even cats, as many of them had had to do during the siege—the suffering was as naught compared to the terror of those fearful Commune days. One who had lived near the Palais Royal had seen the Tuileries burning from the end of her own street, another had been roused from her work by a shell throwing the opposite chimney down into her court-yard—and now that it is rebuilt an inscription records the fact—while a third had slept for the two worst nights, if sleep it could be called, in the cellar of her house, amongst the odds and ends of a band-box maker’s stock, who occupied the place. But the most singular experience of all, perhaps, was that of a family who then lived at their villa twelve miles outside of Paris, and became aware of the Conseil d’Etat being in flames from a shower of burnt paper falling on their lawn on that May evening of the 22d, 1871, of which some scraps showed the government stamp and belonged to documents of the state. And, perhaps, of all the Commune misdeeds the burning of this building and the Hôtel de Ville was the most malicious, for in both places marriage contracts and family deeds were kept or registered, and the loss and confusion which have hence ensued in families can never properly be estimated.
But it is especially in the churches, just where passing travellers have neither the time nor opportunity for observation, that the strides in religious fervor become most apparent. Above all in the Faubourg St. Germain is one at once conscious of breathing a different atmosphere. There the bells, as in old Catholic Swiss and German towns, wake one at five or half-past five o’clock of a summer morning, and keep up a constant call to Mass thenceforward until a late hour. There, too, should one turn in to a church on coming home from the Exhibition, he is certain to find devout women, and men also, lost in meditation before the Blessed Sacrament. “Kneeling-work” (as a late writer names this œuvre) and “reparation” are the practice of the day in the orthodox quarter. But especially before the Grotto of Lourdes in the Jesuits’ Church, Rue de Sèvres, is the crowd of ardent petitioners never ceasing and intensely fervent. I have watched them with admiration the many times I have been there myself, and the thousand ex-votos, many from military men, prove that their prayers have not been made in vain. The faubourg is also like a network of “Mother Honors,” second only to Rome itself in their number and variety. Sisters of Charity especially flit about it in every direction, and are even to be met with in the omnibuses or shopping with the utmost simplicity amidst the vast crowds of the Bon Marché. The devotions of the “Mois de Marie,” moreover, lend the district at this moment an additional source of ardor.
May, too, has ever been the month of First Communions, and those who know French life understand what this implies. The whole winter, nay, for many previous years, the catechism has been leading up to this point, and now since Easter Sunday the examinations have been constant and severe. Each parish has a day set apart in May for this great event, preceded by a short retreat, attended many times a day by all the children. Then on the happy morning the whole church is given up to the ceremony. All is arranged most systematically: the nave set apart for the two hundred or three hundred young communicants—rich and poor mixed together—the boys in front with white rosettes in their new jackets, the girls in rows behind enveloped in long white veils. Beautiful hymns are sung by the whole congregation, led by one of the priests; a touching sermon is preached by the curé; the parents are in the aisles, and many follow their children to the holy table. In the afternoon the little ones again meet to renew their baptismal vows in presence of the Blessed Sacrament, and the day closes by Vespers and Benediction. On that day week, before they lose their first fervor, in the same church the same children receive confirmation. These have been fête days for the whole family, nay, parish; and as parishes and churches are numberless in Paris, tiny brides and white-rosetted boys are met in all quarters during the whole of this beautiful month. If any of these children have the misfortune in after-years to lose their faith, their parents and the clergy at least have faithfully and zealously fulfilled their share of duty, while, on the other hand, it is a certain fact that in most cases this care lays the foundation of the solid virtues and tender piety, of that religious element in French life so well described by Mme. Craven and others, and which, side by side with the frivolity, is now making such sure and steady progress in every part of France.
The month of May, too, is here, as in England, the period of charitable bazaars, annual meetings, and rendering of accounts. Amongst others, two societies, the immediate offspring of the Commune, are now attracting much attention. One is that of St. Michael, to whom devotion as ancient patron of France has revived with marvellous ardor, and under whose protection has been placed the society for the distribution of good books; the other, “Les Cercles Catholiques,”[[127]] or Working-men’s clubs, more deeply interesting than any other of the present day.