The Two Fetes.
THE IMPORTANT events of history are to the novelist what gigantic mountains are to the traveler. He surveys them, he skirts their foot, he salutes them as he passes, but he does not climb them. In like manner we shall survey, skirt, and salute that august ceremony, the marriage of the dauphiness at Versailles. The ceremonial of France is the only chronicle that ought to be consulted in such a case. It is not, in fact, in the splendor of the Versailles of Louis XV., in the description of the court-dresses, the liveries, the pontifical ornaments, that our particular history, that modest follower who takes a by-path leading along the high road of the history of France, would find anything to pick up. Let us leave the ceremony to be performed amid the brilliant sunshine of a fine day in May; let us leave the illustrious spectators to retire in silence, and to describe or comment on the marvels of the exhibition which they had just witnessed;, and let us return to our peculiar events and personages, which also have, historically speaking, a certain value.
The king, weary of the ceremonies, and especially of the dinner, which had been long and was an exact imitation of that given on the marriage of the great dauphin, son of Louis XIV. — the king retired to his apartments at nine o’clock and dismissed everybody. The dauphin and his bride had also retired to their apartments; and the immense crowd of spectators of the ceremony thronged the courtyard and the terraces of Versailles, now one blaze of light, and waited anxiously for the fireworks, which were to be exhibited on a scale of unusual magnificence.
The evening, at first lovely and serene, by degrees became overcast, and gusts of wind, gradually increasing in violence, tossed the branches wildly to and fro, as if they had been shaken by some giant arm; while immense masses of clouds hurried across the heavens, like squadrons rushing to the charge. The illuminations were suddenly extinguished, and, as if fate had determined to turn the general rejoicings into gloom, no sooner had the first rockets been discharged than the rain descended in torrents, as if the heavens had opened, and a loud and startling peal of thunder announced a terrible convulsion of the elements.
Meanwhile, the people of Versailles and Paris fled like a flock of frightened birds, scattered over the gardens, in the roads, in the woods, pursued in all directions by thick hail, which beat down the flowers in the gardens, the foliage in the forest, the wheat and the barley in the fields. By morning, however, all this chaos was reduced to order, and the first rays of light, darting from between copper-colored clouds, displayed to view the ravages of the nocturnal hurricane.
Versailles was no longer to be recognized. The ground had imbibed that deluge of water, the trees had absorbed that deluge of fire; everywhere were seas of muddy water, and trees broken, twisted, calcined, by that serpent with burning gripe called lightning. As soon as it was light Louis XV., whose terror was so great that be could not sleep, ordered Lebel, who had never left him during the night, to dress him. He then proceeded to the bridal-chamber, and, pushing open the door, shuddered on perceiving the future queen of France reclining on a prie-Dieu, pale, and with eyes swollen and violet colored, like those of the sublime Magdalene of Rubens. Her terror, caused by the hurricane, had at length been suspended by sleep, and the first dawn of morning which stole into the apartment tinged with religious respect her long white robe with an azure hue. At the further end of the chamber, in an armchair pushed back to the wall, and surrounded by a pool of water which had forced its way through the shattered windows, reposed the dauphin of France, pale as his young bride, and, like her, having the perspiration of nightmare on his brow. The nuptial bed was in precisely the same state as on the preceding evening.
Louis XV, knit his brow; a pain, keener than any he had yet felt, darted through that brow like a red-hot iron. He shook his head, heaved a deep sigh, and returned to his apartments, more gloomy and more affrighted, perhaps, at that moment than he had been during the night.
On the 30th of May, that is, on the second day after that tremendous night, that night fraught with presages and warnings, Paris celebrated in its turn the marriage festival of its future sovereign. The whole population poured, in consequence, toward the Place Louis XV., where were to be exhibited the fireworks, that necessary accompaniment to every great public solemnity, which the Parisian accepts scoffingly, but which he cannot dispense with. The spot was judiciously chosen. Six hundred thousand spectators could move about there at their ease. Around the equestrian statue of Louis XV, had been erected a circular scaffolding, which, by raising the fireworks ten or twelve feet above the ground, enabled all the spectators in the place to see them distinctly. The Parisians arrived, according to custom, in groups, and spent some time in choosing the best places, an inalienable privilege of the first comers. Boys found trees, grave men posts, women the railings of fences and temporary stands, erected in the open air, as usual at all Parisian festivities, by gypsy speculators, whose fertile imagination allows them to change their mode of speculation every day. About seven o’clock, along with the earliest of the spectator’s, arrived several parties of police.
The duty of watching over the safety of Paris was not performed by the French Guards, to whom the city authorities would not grant the gratuity of a thousand crowns demanded by their colonel, the Marshal Duke de Biron.
That regiment was both feared and liked by the population, by whom each member of the corps was regarded at once as a Caesar and a Mandarin. The French Guards, terrible on the field of battle, inexorable in the fulfillment of their functions, had, in time of peace and out of service, a frightful character for brutality and misconduct. On duty they were handsome, brave, intractable; and their evolutions delighted women and awed husbands; but, when dispersed among the crowd as mere individuals, they became the terror of those whose admiration they had won the day before, and severely persecuted the people whom they would have to protect on the morrow. Now, the city, finding in its old grudge against these night-brawlers and sharpers a reason for not giving a thousand crowns to the French Guards — the city, we say, sent merely its civil force, upon the specious pretext that in a family festivity, like that in preparation, the usual guardians of the family ought to be sufficient. The French Guards, on leave therefore, mingled among the groups mentioned above, and, as licentious as they would under other circumstances have been severe, they produced among the crowd, in their quality of soldier-citizens, all those little irregularities which they would have repressed with the butts of their muskets, with kicks and cuffs, nay even with taking the offenders into custody, if their commander, their Caesar Biron, had had a right to call them on that evening soldiers.
The shrieks of the women, the grumbling of the citizens, the complaints of the hucksters, whose cakes and ginger-bread were eaten without being paid for, raised a sham tumult preparatory to the real commotion, which could not fail to take place when six hundred thousand sight-loving persons should be assembled on that spot, and constituted so animated a scene, that the Place Louis XV., about eight o’clock in the evening, presented much the appearance of one of Tenier’s pictures on a large scale, and with French instead of Dutch merrymakers. After the gamins, or street boys of Paris, at once the most impatient and the idlest in the known world, had taken or clambered up to their places; after the citizens and the populace had settled themselves in theirs, the carriages of the nobility and the financiers arrived. No route had been marked out for them; and they therefore entered the place at random by the Rue de la Madeline and the Rue St. Honore, setting down at the new buildings, as they were called, those who had received invitations for the windows and balconies of the governor’s house, from which an excellent view could be obtained of the fireworks.
Such of the persons in carriages as had not invitations, left their equipages at the corner of the place, and, preceded by their footmen, mingled in the crowd, already very dense, but in which there was still room for any one who knew how to conquer it. It was curious to observe with what sagacity those lovers of sights availed themselves, in their ambitious progress, of every inequality of ground. The very wide, but as yet unfinished, street which was to be called the Rue Royale, was intersected here and there by deep ditches, on the margins of which had been heaped the mould thrown out of them and other rubbish. Each of these little eminences had its group, looking like a loftier billow rising above the level of that human ocean.
From time to time this wave, propelled by other waves behind it, toppled over, amid the laughter of the multitude, not yet so crowded, is to cause such falls to be attended with danger, or to prevent those who fell from scrambling to their feet again.
About half-past eight, all eyes, hitherto wandering in different directions, began to converge toward the same point, and to fix themselves on the scaffolding which contained the fireworks. It was then that elbows, plied without ceasing, commenced to maintain in good earnest the position they had gained, against the assaults of incessantly re-enforced invaders.
These fireworks, designed by Ruggieri, were intended to rival (a rivalship, by the way, which the storm two evenings before had rendered easy) — those executed at Versailles by Torre, the engineer. It was known in Paris that Versailles had derived little pleasure from the royal liberality, which had granted fifty thousand livres for their exhibition, since the very first discharges had been extinguished by the rum, and, as the weather was fine on the evening of the 30th of May, the Parisians reckoned upon a certain triumph over their neighbors of Versailles.
Besides, Paris expected much more from the old established popularity of Ruggieri, than from the recent reputation of Torre.
Moreover, the plan of Ruggieri, less capricious and less vague than that of his colleague, bespoke pyrotechnical intentions of a highly distinguished order. Allegory, which reigned supreme at that period, was coupled with the most graceful architectural style, and the scaffolding represented the ancient temple of Hymen, which, with the French, rivals in ever-springing youth the temple of Glory. It was supported by a gigantic colonnade, and surrounded by a parapet, at the angles of which dolphins, open-mouthed, only awaited the signal to spout forth torrents of flames. Facing the dolphins rose, majestically upon their urns, the Loire, the Rhone, the Seine, and the Rhine — that river which we persist in naturalizing and accounting French in spite of all the world, and, if we may believe the modern lays of our friends the Germans, in spite even of itself, — all four — we mean the rivers — ready to pout-forth, instead of water, blue, white, green and rose-colored flames, at the moment when the colonnade should be fired.
Other parts of the works, which were to be discharged at the same time, were to form gigantic vases of flowers on the terrace of the temple of Hymen.
Lastly, still upon this same palace, destined to support so many different things, rose a luminous pyramid, terminated by the terrestrial globe. This globe, after emitting a rumbling noise like distant thunder, was to burst with a crash and to discharge a mass of colored girandoles.
As for the bouquet — so important and indeed indispensable an accompaniment that no Parisian ever judges of fireworks but by the bouquet — Ruggieri had separated it from the main body of the structure. It was placed toward the river, close to the statue, in a bastion crammed with spare rockets, so that the effect would be greatly improved by this additional elevation of six or eight yards, which would place the foot of the sheaf as it were upon a pedestal.
Such were the details which had engrossed the attention of all Paris for a fortnight previous. The Parisians now watched with great admiration Ruggieri and his assistants passing like shades amid the lurid lights of their scaffolding, and pausing, with strange gestures, to fix their matches and to secure their priming.
The moment, therefore, that the lanterns were brought upon the terrace of the building — an appearance which indicated the approach of the discharge — it produced a strong sensation in the crowd, and some rows of the most courageous recoiled, producing a long oscillation which extended to the very extremities of the assembled multitude.
Carriages now continued to arrive in quick succession, and began to encroach more and more upon the place; the horses resting their heads upon the shoulders of the rearmost spectators, who began to feel uneasy at the close vicinity of these dangerous neighbors. Presently the crowd, every moment increasing, collected behind the carriages, so that it was not possible for them to withdraw from their position even had they been desirous to do so, embedded as they were in this compact and tumultuous throng. Then might be seen — inspired by that audacity peculiar to the Parisians when in an encroaching mood, and which has no parallel except the long-suffering of the same people when encroached upon — French guards, artisans, and lackeys, climbing upon the roofs of these carriages, like shipwrecked mariners upon a rocky shore.
The illumination of the boulevards threw from a distance its ruddy glare upon the heads of the thousands of spectators, amid whom the bayonet of a city official, flashing like lightning, appeared as rare as the ears of corn left standing in a field leveled by the reaper.
On either side of the new buildings, now the Hotel Crillon and the Garde Meuble of the Crown, the carriages of the invited guests — between which no precaution had been taken to leave a passage — had formed a triple rank which extended on one side from the boulevard to the Tuileries, and on the other from the boulevard to the Rue des Champs Elysees, turning like a serpent thrice doubled upon itself.
Along this triple row of carriages were seen wandering, like specters on the banks of the Styx, such of the invited as were prevented by the carriages of those earlier on the ground from reaching the principal entrance. Stunned by the noise, and unwilling, especially the ladies, who were dressed in satin from head to foot, to step upon the pavement, they were hustled to and fro by the waves of the populace, who jeered them for their delicacy, and, seeking a passage between the wheels of the carriages and the feet of the horses, crept onward as well as they could to the place of their destination — a goal as fervently desired as a haven of refuge by mariners in a storm.
One of these carriages arrived about nine o’clock, that is to say, a very few minutes before the time fixed for the commencement of the fireworks, in expectation of making its way toward the governor’s door; but the attempt, so warmly disputed for some time back, had at this moment become extremely hazardous, if not impracticable. A fourth row of carriages had begun to form, re-enforcing the first three, and the mettled horses, tormented by the crowd, had become furious, lashing out right and left upon the slightest provocation, and already causing several accidents unnoticed amid the noise and bustle of the crowd.
Holding by the springs of this carriage, which was attempting to force its way through the concourse, walked a youth, pushing aside all comers who endeavored to avail themselves of this means of locomotion, which he seemed to have confiscated for his exclusive use. When the carriage stopped, the youth stepped aside, but without losing his hold of the protecting spring, which he continued to grasp with one hand. He could thus overhear, through the open door, the animated conversation of the party in the vehicle.
A female head, attired in white and adorned with a few natural flowers, leaned forward out of the carriage door. Immediately a voice exclaimed:
“Come, Andree, provincial that you are, you must not lean out in that manner, or, mordieu! you run a great risk of being kissed by the first bumpkin that passes. Don’t you see that our carriage is swimming as it were in the middle of this mob, just as if it were in the middle of the river. We are in the water, my dear, and dirty water it is; let us not soil ourselves by the contact.”
The young lady’s head was drawn back into the carriage.
“We cannot see anything from this, sir,” said she; “if our horses were to make a half turn, we could see from the door of the carriage, and be almost as well off as if we were at the governor’s window.”
“Turn about a little, coachman,” cried the baron.
“It is impossible, Monsieur le Baron; I should be obliged to crush ten persons.”
“Well, pardieu! crush away.”
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Andree.
“Oh, father!” cried Philip.
“Who is that baron that talks of crushing poor folk?” cried several threatening voices.
“Parbleu!” it is I,” said Taverney, leaning out, and exhibiting as he did so a broad red ribbon crossed over his breast.
At that time people still paid some respect to broad ribbons — even to red ones. There was grumbling, but on a descending scale.
“Wait, father. I will alight,” said Philip, “and see if there is any possibility of advancing.”
“Take care, brother, or you will be killed. Hark to the neighing of the horses, which are fighting with one another!”
“Say rather the roaring,” resumed the baron. “Stay! we will alight. Tell them to make way, Philip, and let us pass.”
“Ah, father!” said Philip, “you are quite a stranger to the Paris of the present day. Such lordly airs might have passed current formerly, but nowadays they are but little heeded; and you have no wish to compromise your dignity, I am sure.”
“Still, when these saucy fellows know who I am—”
“My dear father,” said Philip, smiling, “were you the dauphin himself they would not stir an inch for you. At this moment, particularly, I should fear tile consequences of such a step, for I see the fireworks are about to commence.”
“Then we shall see nothing!” said Andree, with vexation.
“It is your own fault, pardieu!” replied the baron; “you were upward of two hours at your toilet.”
“Brother,” said Andree, “could I not take your arm and place myself among the crowd?”
“Yes, yes, my sweet lady,” exclaimed several voices, touched with her beauty; “yes, come along; you are not very large and we’ll make room for you.”
“Should you like to come, Andree?” asked Philip.
“Oh! yes,” said Andree; and she sprang lightly from the carriage without touching the steps.
“Very well,” said the baron; “but I, who care not a straw about fireworks, will stay where I am.”
“Yes, remain here,” said Philip; “we will not go far, my dear father.”
In fact, the mob, ever respectful when not irritated by any passion, ever paying homage to that sovereign goddess called beauty, opened to make way for Andree and her brother; and a good-natured citizen, who with his family occupied a stone bench, desired his wife and daughter to make room for Andree between them. “Philip placed himself at his sister’s feet, who leaned with one hand on his shoulder. Gilbert had followed them, and was stationed about four paces off, with his eyes riveted upon Andree.
“Are you comfortably placed, Andree?” asked Philip.
“Excellently,” replied the young girl.
“See what it is to be handsome!” said the viscount, smiling.
“Yes, yes, handsome — very handsome!” murmured Gilbert.
Andree heard those words; but as they proceeded doubtless from the lips of one of the populace, she cared no more about them than an Indian god cares for the offering which a poor pariah lays at his feet.