But if modern Paris has improved in this respect, it has, on the other hand, we are told, lost far more in the chapter of manners. The generation born during the first Revolution still preserved some of the older style of social bearing; but, in the present descendants, we may now vainly seek for any of the graces that once gave to France her European credit for politeness.
The French, after lording it over the capitals of Europe for so many years, were impatient to the last degree of the retribution which the allied armies brought to their own doors in 1816. Even a returning émigré could not restrain his rage on finding that—
foreigners held the fortresses, and that he had to submit his passport for a vise to Prussian, Russian, or English authorities; and he lost all command of himself at the idea of the prostration of the grande gloire Française.... The same wrath at the occupation of France by foreign troops—an occupation which lasted for hardly three years—whereas the French had ravaged Germany for full twenty, from the siege of Mentz to the battle of Leipsic, was then felt in Paris by all classes. Every little theatre on the Boulevards played some piece referring to it in all the refrains urging the foreigners to be off at once; all the print-shops were full of caricatures of the English and Russians. The German soldiers, by-the-by, were, without exception, called Prussians. At that time there was less hatred expressed towards the Russians; in the theatres even the people would point with curiosity to Lostopchin, the author of the conflagration at Moscow. The hatred of the Russians grew much more decided under Nicholas. Alexander, on the contrary, was personally popular. Strictly speaking, the Prussians were detested; while the English, on the contrary, served as a perpetual butt for ridicule and wit. Their language, gestures, dress, afforded a complete series of dramas and caricatures.
This soreness of France under a very light application of her own Continental system, brings to mind an anecdote from the papers of the time, which is worth preserving:—
When the Prussian army entered Paris, one of its officers made particular interest to be quartered in a certain hotel in the Faubourg St Germain, the residence of a widow lady of rank. On taking possession of his billet, the Colonel at once haughtily refused the apartments offered him; and, after a survey of the premises, insisted on having the best suite on the first floor, then occupied by the lady of the house herself. She protested and entreated in vain—the Colonel was harsh and peremptory,—the lady had to abandon her sitting-room, boudoir, and bed-room, and content herself with the chambers intended for the officer. From these, however, she was as rudely dislodged on the next day, the Colonel demanding them for his orderly, and the lady had at last to creep into a servant's garret. This was not all. On first taking possession of his rooms the officer had summoned the maitre d'hotel, and commanded a rich dinner of twelve covers for the entertainment of a party of his comrades. They came—the cellar had to yield its choicest wines; the house was filled with bacchanalian uproar. The orgy was repeated both on the next day and on the next following. On the morning afterwards the officer presented himself before the lady of the house. "You are perhaps somewhat annoyed by my proceedings in your hotel?" "Certainly," was the reply, "I think I have cause to complain of the manner in which the law of the strongest has been used here, in defiance of the commonest regard due to my sex and age. I have been roughly expelled from every habitable room in my own house, and thrust into a garret; my servants have been maltreated; with my plate and provisions and the best of my cellar, you have forced them to wait on the riotous feasting of your comrades. I have appealed to your generosity, to your courtesy, but in vain. I protest against such conduct. It is unworthy of a soldier." "Madam," replied the Prussian, "what you say is perfectly true. Such conduct is brutal and unbecoming. I have the honor to inform you that what you have justly complained of for the last three days is but a faint copy of the manner in which your son daily behaved himself in my mother's house in Berlin for more than six months after the Battle of Jena. From me you shall have no further annoyance. I shall now retire to an inn. The hotel is entirely at your own disposal." The lady blushed, and was silent.
We can hardly choose amiss among the portrait sketches. Here is the Princess of Chimay, once celebrated as the fair Spanish Cabarus—or Madame Tallien of the "18th Brumaire." After giving up a name which she had no legal right to bear, she married the Count Caraman before he succeeded to a princely title. In 1818, this heroine—
was some forty years old. Her age was partly open to positive proof, as in '94 she was known to have just reached her twentieth year—it was partly shown by a fulness of person, rather tending to corpulence, which betrayed the retreat of her younger bloom; but still you would rarely find another beauty so well preserved, or a general appearance equally imposing. Tall, full, gorgeous, she reminded you of the historical beauties of antiquity. Such a figure you might imagine as an Ariadne, Dido, or Cleopatra. With a perfect bust, arms, and shoulders; white as an animated statue, regular features, beaming eyes, pearly teeth, hair raven black—hearing, speech, motion, still ravishingly perfect. Her costume, too, had a certain Grecian character.
Among the painters, Gérard was the lady's chosen intimate. When she first knew him, he had already been long famous and rich; but he seems to have taken pleasure in recalling the struggles of his early career. It was, in many respects, a strange one:—
His father was a Frenchman, who belonged to the domestic establishment of the Cardinal de Bernis, then ambassador at Rome. His mother, whose name was Tortoni, was the daughter of a plain Roman citizen. In 1782, Gérard's parents, with their three boys, of whom François, the eldest, was now twelve, returned to France, where the father died in 1789. A year afterwards the widow went back with her children to her own country, but had to return to France once more, for the preservation of a small income important in her narrow circumstances. On this occasion, besides her sons, she came back with her little brother Tortoni and his infant sister, some years younger than her eldest son François. Thus there was in the house an aunt younger than her nephew.
The family found it hard enough to live at all in Paris: and when François's great talent for drawing revealed itself, the household means were further pinched to provide him with paper and pencils. Under all obstacles, however, his powers soon grew evident: he got at last an introduction to David, and became his pupil:—