Parisians.
THE NUNS had informed the stranger correctly, when they told her that the chapter of the convent was assembled in conclave. Madame Louise of France presided at the meeting, her first exercise of supreme authority, and assisted in their deliberation as to the best means of giving the daughter of the Cassars a reception worthy of her august character and station.
The funds of the convent were rather low. The late abbess, on resigning her functions, had carried away with her a large portion of the lace, which was her private property, as well as the reliquaries and ostensoirs, which it was the practice of superiors, who were all taken from the highest families, to lend to their convents, on devoting themselves to the service of God from the most worldly motives.
Madame Louise, on learning of the intended visit of the dauphiness, had sent an express to Versailles, and the same night a wagon had arrived loaded with hangings, lace, and ornaments, to the value of six hundred thousand livres.
Consequently, when the tidings were spread of the royal splendor which was to be exhibited at the reception of the dauphiness, all the ardent curiosity of the Parisians was redoubled — those same Parisians whom Mercier describes as provoking only a smile when seen in private life, but when assembled in masses arousing reflections more calculated to make us weep and tremble.
Therefore, from earliest dawn, the citizens of the capital, having learned from public report the route which the dauphiness was to take, began to issue from their dens, and, at first in parties of ten or twenty, then in hundreds, and finally in thousands, poured out toward St. Denis.
The French and Swiss guards, and the regiments stationed at St. Denis, were under arms, and formed a line on each side of the road to keep back the waves of the living tide which rolled on toward the gates of the cathedral, and mounted even to the sculptured projections of the building. A sea of heads appeared everywhere, children’s peeping from above the porches of doors, men’s and women’s thronging the windows. Besides these, thousands of curious spectators, who had arrived too late to secure places, or who, like Gilbert, preferred their liberty to the constraint and inconvenience of being shut up during the whole day in one spot, swarmed like ants on every side, climbing the trees which bordered the road from St. Dem’s to Muette, or dispersed here and there wailing for the procession.
The cortege, although still possessing a numerous train of sumptuous equipages, and troops of domestics in splendid liveries, had considerably diminished after leaving Compiegne; for, except for the great lords, it was found impossible to keep pace with the king, who doubled and tripled the usual stages, by means of relays posted on the road.
Those of lesser note had therefore remained at Compiegne, or had taken post-horses and returned to Paris to give their stud a breathing interval. But after a day’s repose at their own domiciles, masters and domestics now thronged toward St. Denis both to witness the preparations and to get another glimpse of the dauphiness, whom they had already only partially seen. And then, besides the court carriages, were there not those of the parliament, the financiers, the rich merchants, the ladies of fashion and those of the opera? Were there not, in addition, hired horses and carriages, as well as the caravans, which rolled toward St. Denis, crammed with the good citizens of Paris, both male and female, who managed to arrive by this means somewhat later than they could have accomplished the distance on foot? It may easily be imagined, therefore, what a formidable army directed its march toward St. Denis on the morning of the day when the gazettes and placards announced that the dauphiness was to arrive, forming into a dense mass before the convent of the Carmelites, and, when no more room could be obtained within the privileged inclosure, stretching away in long lines on the roads by which the dauphiness and her suite were to arrive and depart. Now, let any one picture to himself in this crowd, which was the terror even of the Parisian, Gilbert, insignificant in appearance, alone, undecided, ignorant of the localities, and too proud even to ask a question — for since he was in Paris he had determined to pass for a Parisian — he who had never seen a hundred people assembled together in his life.
At first he saw pedestrians thinly scattered along the road; at La Chapelle they began to increase, and at St. Denis they seemed to rise out of the ground, and presented much the appearance of an immense field bristling with ears of corn. For a longtime past Gilbert had seen nothing, lost as he was in the crowd; he could not look over the heads of those around him, and, swept along in the throng, he blindly followed where the concourse of spectators led him.
At last he saw some children perched on a tree, and longed to imitate their example, but he dared not take off his coat. He made his way, however, to the foot of the tree, just as one of those unfortunates, who like himself were deprived of all view of the horizon, and who staggered onward, trampling others and being trampled on themselves, was struck by the bright idea of questioning their lucky neighbors perched in safety on the branches, and learned from one of them that there was a large space vacant between the convent and the guards. Gilbert, emboldened by this intelligence, ventured in his turn to ask whether the carriages were yet in sight.
They had not yet appeared — but on the road, about a quarter of a league beyond St. Denis, a great cloud of dust was plainly visible. This was what Gilbert wished to know; the carriages not being in sight, it was now his business to ascertain precisely by what route they would approach; but nevertheless he held on his way, traversing the crowd in perfect silence — a mode of procedure which in Paris leads irresistibly to the conclusion that the person practicing it is either an Englishman or deaf and dumb.
Scarcely had Gilbert extricated himself from the multitude, when he perceived, seated behind a ditch, the family of a humble tradesman at breakfast.
There was a blue-eyed daughter, tall and fair, modest and timid.
There was the mother, a fat, laughing little woman, with white teeth and rosy cheeks.
There was an aunt, tall, bony, dry, and harsh.
There was the father, half-buried in an immense camlet coat, which was usually brought out of his chest only on Sundays, but which he ventured to put on on so grand an occasion as the present, and of which he took more care than he did of his wife and daughter, being certain that the latter could take care of themselves.
There was the servant-maid, who did nothing but laugh. She carried an enormous basket containing everything necessary for breakfast, and even under its weight the stout lass had never ceased laughing and singing, encouraged as she was by her master, who took the burden when she was fatigued.
In those days a domestic was one of the family, and occupied a position in it very analogous to that of the house-dog, beaten sometimes, excluded never.
Gilbert contemplated by stealth this group which was so new to him. Shut up at Taverney from his birth, he had hitherto seen only the lord and the lackey, the citizen was altogether a novelty to him.
He saw these honest people employ in their domestic economy a system of philosophy, which, although not drawn from the teachings of Plato and Socrates, was modeled much after that of Bias, a little extended.
They had brought with them as much food as they possibly could, and were determined to make the most of it.
The father was carving one of those appetizing pieces of roast veal, so much in vogue with the Parisian tradesmen. Nicely browned, dainty, and tempting, it reposed amid a bed of carrots, onions, and bacon, in the dish in which the day before it had been baked, carefully placed there by the good housekeeper. The maid had then carried it to the baker, who, while baking his loaves, had given it an asylum in his oven along with a score of such dishes destined to assist the enjoyments of the following day.
Gilbert chose out a place for himself at the foot of a neighboring elm, and dusted it carefully with his checked pocket-handkerchief. He then took off his hat, spread his handkerchief on the ground, and seated himself. He paid no attention to his neighbors, which they remarking, naturally directed a good deal of their own to him.
“That is a careful young man,” said the mother.
The daughter blushed. She always did so when a young man was mentioned before her, a trait in her character which grave the highest gratification to her parents.
The father turned, “And a handsome lad, too,” said he.
The daughter blushed still more deeply than before.
“He looks tired.” said the servant-maid, “and yet he has not been carrying anything.”
“Rather say lazy.” said the aunt.
“Sir,” said the mother, addressing Gilbert, with that familiarity which is found nowhere but among the Parisians, “are the carriages still far off?”
Gilbert turned, and seeing that these words were addressed to him, rose and bowed.
“A most polite young man,” said the mother.
This remark added a still deeper dye to the daughter’s cheeks.
“I do not know, madame,” answered Gilbert; “I only heard that a cloud of dust was seen about a quarter of a league off.”
“Draw nearer, sir,” said the honest tradesman, “and if you have not breakfasted—” and he pointed to the excellent repast which was spread on the grass.
Gilbert approached the group. He had not breakfasted, and the seducing odor of the viands tempted him strongly; but he jingled his twenty-five sous in his pocket, and reflecting that for the third of this sum be could purchase a breakfast almost as good as that which was offered to him, he would not accept any favor from people whom he saw for the first time.
“Thank you, sir,” said he, “a thousand thanks; but I have already breakfasted.”
“Ah!” said the good woman, “I see that you are a prudent young man. But from where you are seated you will see nothing.”
“Why,” replied Gilbert, smiling, “in that case you will not see anything yourselves, as you are in the same position as myself.”
“Oh, it is a very different matter with us! We have a nephew a sergeant in the French guards.”
The young girl looked like a peony.
“His post this morning will be before Le Paon Bleu.”
“If I am not taking too great a liberty,” said Gilbert, “may I ask where Le Paon Bleu is?”
“Just opposite the Carmelite Convent,” replied the mother. “He has promised to keep places for us behind his detachment. He will then give us his bench, and we shall see at our ease all the company get out of their carriages.”
It was now Gilbert’s turn to redden; he had refused to eat with the good people, but he longed to be of their party.
Nevertheless, his philosophy, or rather his pride, whispered; “It is very well for women to require some one to assist them, but I, a man, have arms and shoulders of my own.”
“All those who do not get placed like us,” continued the mother, as if guessing his thoughts, “will only see empty carriages — no great sight in truth, for empty carriages can be seen everywhere, and certainly not worth the trouble of coming as far as St. Denis for.”
“But, madame,” said Gilbert, “it seems to me that many besides yourself will endeavor to secure the place you speak of.”
“Yes; but every one has not a nephew in the guards to assist them.”
“Ah! true!” murmured Gilbert.
As he said this, his face wore an expression of disappointment which did not escape Parisian penetration.
“But,” said the husband, well skilled in divining the wishes of his wife, “this gentleman can accompany us if he pleases.”
“Oh, sir. I fear I should be troublesome,” replied Gilbert.
“Bah! not at all,” said the good woman; “on the contrary, you will assist us in reaching our places. We have only one man now to depend on, and then we should have two.”
No other argument could have had so much weight in determining Gilbert. The idea that he could be useful, and by so doing pay for the favor which was offered him, put him quite at his ease and relieved every scruple.
He accepted the offer.
“We shall see to whom he will offer his arm,” said the aunt.
This assistance was indeed a real Godsend to Gilbert. How, without it, could he have passed through a barrier of thirty thousand persons, each more favored than himself by rank, wealth, or strength, and, above all, by the practice they had acquired in obtaining places at fetes, where every one seizes the best he can procure?
Had our philosopher “been less of a theoretical and more of a practical man, the present occasion would have furnished him with an admirable opportunity for studying the dynamics of society.
The carriage with four horses burst like a cannon-ball through the mass; all fell back on each side before its running footman, with his plumed hat, his gayly striped jacket, and his thick stick, who rushed on in advance, frequently preceded by two formidable coach-dogs.
The carriage with two horses advanced more slowly, and whispered a sort of password in the ear of’ a guardsman, after which it proceeded to take its place in the cortege before the convent.
Single horsemen, although overlooking the crowd from their elevated position, were forced to advance at a foot-pace, and only gained a good position after a thousand jostlings, interruptions, and oaths.
Lastly, the poor pedestrian, trodden, trampled on, and tossed about, was driven forward like the foam of the wave by a thousand waves rolling on behind. Sometimes raising himself on tiptoe to see over the heads of his neighbors; sometimes wrestling like Antaeus, to fall like him to his mother earth; seeking his way through the multitude, and when he had found it, dragging after him his family — almost always a troop of women — whom the Parisian alone ventures to attempt, conducting through such scenes.
Lowest of all, or rather, superior to all, in such circumstances, was the man of the very dregs of the people. With unshaven beard and ragged cap, his arms naked to the elbow, and his garments held together by some fragment of a cord, indefatigably working with elbows, with shoulders, and with feet, and ever and anon uttering a savage and sardonic laugh, he made his way among the crowd as easily as Gulliver amid the Lilliputians.
Gilbert, who was neither a great lord with a carriage-and-four, nor a member of parliament with two, nor a soldier on horseback, nor a Parisian, nor a man of the people, must have infallibly been trampled under foot by the throng, had he not been under the protection of the tradesman. Backed by him he felt powerful, and boldly offered his arm to the mother of the family.
“Impertinent fellow!” said the aunt.
They set out; the father gave his sister and his daughter each an arm, and the maid-servant followed behind with the huge basket.
“Gentlemen, may I trouble you?” said the good woman, with her ready laugh. “Gentlemen, if you please, a little room. Gentlemen, be good enough—”
And every one fell back and yielded a passage to her and Gilbert, while in their wake glided the rest of the party.
Foot by foot, step by step, they managed to advance five hundred paces, and then found themselves close to that formidable line of French guards on which the tradesman and his family rested all their hopes. The daughter had by this time regained her natural color. Once there, the citizen mounted on Gilbert’s shoulders to look over the soldier’s heads, and perceived at twenty yards’ distance from him his wife’s nephew twisting his mustaches. The good man made such outrageous gestures with his hat, that at last his nephew’s attention was attracted to him; he came forward, asked his comrades to make way a little, and obtained a slight opening in their ranks.
Through this chink slipped Gilbert and the good woman, then the citizen himself, the sister and daughter, and after them the stout lass with the basket. Their troublesome journey was over, and mutual thanks were exchanged between Gilbert and the head of the family. The mother endeavored to detain him by their side, the aunt said he had better go, and they separated, not to meet again.
In the open space in which Gilbert now found himself, none but privileged persons were admitted, and he therefore easily reached the trunk of a large linden-tree, mounted upon a stone near it, and, supporting himself by a low branch, waited patiently.
About half an hour after he had thus installed himself, the cannon roared, the rattling of the drums was heard, and the great bell of the cathedral sent forth its first majestic peal.