In the garden of the Tuileries there is a sunny corner under the wall of a
terrace which fronts the south. Along the wall is a range of benches
commanding a view of the walks and avenues of the garden. This genial nook
is a place of great resort in the latter part of autumn and in fine days in
winter, as it seems to retain the flavor of departed summer. On a calm,
bright morning it is quite alive with nursery-maids and their playful
little charges. Hither also resort a number of ancient ladies and
gentlemen, who, with the laudable thrift in small pleasures and small
expenses for which the French are to be noted, come here to enjoy sunshine
and save firewood. Here may often be seen some cavalier of the old school,
when the sunbeams have warmed his blood into something like a glow,
fluttering about like a frost-bitten moth thawed before the fire, putting
forth a feeble show of gallantry among the antiquated dames, and now and
then eying the buxom nursery-maids with what might almost be mistaken for
an air of libertinism.
Among the habitual frequenters of this place I had often remarked an old
gentleman whose dress was decidedly ante-revolutional. He wore the
three-cornered cocked hat of the _ancien regime_; his hair was frizzed
over each ear into _ailes de pigeon_, a style strongly savoring of
Bourbonism; and a queue stuck out behind, the loyalty of which was not to
be disputed. His dress, though ancient, had an air of decayed gentility,
and I observed that he took his snuff out of an elegant though
old-fashioned gold box. He appeared to be the most popular man on the walk.
He had a compliment for every old lady, he kissed every child, and he
patted every little dog on the head; for children and little dogs are very
important members of society in France. I must observe, however, that he
seldom kissed a child without, at the same time, pinching the
nursery-maid's cheek; a Frenchman of the old school never forgets his
devoirs to the sex.
I had taken a liking to this old gentleman. There was an habitual
expression of benevolence in his face which I have very frequently remarked
in these relics of the politer days of France. The constant interchange of
those thousand little courtesies which imperceptibly sweeten life have a
happy effect upon the features, and spread a mellow evening charm over the
wrinkles of old age.
Where there is a favorable predisposition one soon forms a kind of tacit
intimacy by often meeting on the same walks. Once or twice I accommodated
him with a bench, after which we touched hats on passing each other; at
length we got so far as to take a pinch of snuff together out of his box,
which is equivalent to eating salt together in the East; from that time our
acquaintance was established.
I now became his frequent companion in his morning promenades, and derived
much amusement from his good-humored remarks on men and manners. One
morning, as we were strolling through an alley of the Tuileries, with the
autumnal breeze whirling the yellow leaves about our path, my companion
fell into a peculiarly communicative vein, and gave me several particulars
of his history. He had once been wealthy, and possessed of a fine estate in
the country and a noble hotel in Paris; but the revolution, which effected
so many disastrous changes, stripped him of everything. He was secretly
denounced by his own steward during a sanguinary period of the revolution,
and a number of the bloodhounds of the Convention were sent to arrest him.
He received private intelligence of their approach in time to effect his
escape. He landed in England without money or friends, but considered
himself singularly fortunate in having his head upon his shoulders; several
of his neighbors having been guillotined as a punishment for being rich.
When he reached London he had but a louis in his pocket, and no prospect of
getting another. He ate a solitary dinner of beefsteak, and was almost
poisoned by port wine, which from its color he had mistaken for claret. The
dingy look of the chop-house, and of the little mahogany-colored box in
which he ate his dinner, contrasted sadly with the gay saloons of Paris.
Everything looked gloomy and disheartening. Poverty stared him in the face;
he turned over the few shillings he had of change; did not know what was to
become of him; and--went to the theater!
He took his seat in the pit, listened attentively to a tragedy of which he
did not understand a word, and which seemed made up of fighting, and
stabbing, and scene shifting, and began to feel his spirits sinking within
him; when, casting his eyes into the orchestra, what was his surprise to
recognize an old friend and neighbor in the very act of extorting music
from a huge violoncello.
As soon as the evening's performance was over he tapped his friend on the
shoulder; they kissed each other on each cheek, and the musician took him
home, and shared his lodgings with him. He had learned music as an
accomplishment; by his friend's advice he now turned to it as a means of
support. He procured a violin, offered himself for the orchestra, was
received, and again considered himself one of the most fortunate men upon
earth.
Here therefore he lived for many years during the ascendency of the
terrible Napoleon. He found several emigrants living, like himself, by the
exercise of their talents. They associated together, talked of France and
of old times, and endeavored to keep up a semblance of Parisian life in the
center of London.
They dined at a miserable cheap French restaurant in the neighborhood of
Leicester Square, where they were served with a caricature of French
cookery. They took their promenade in St. James's Park, and endeavored to
fancy it the Tuileries; in short, they made shift to accommodate themselves
to everything but an English Sunday. Indeed the old gentleman seemed to
have nothing to say against the English, whom he affirmed to be _braves
gens_; and he mingled so much among them that at the end of twenty years
he could speak their language almost well enough to be understood.
The downfall of Napoleon was another epoch in his life. He had considered
himself a fortunate man to make his escape penniless out of France, and he
considered himself fortunate to be able to return penniless into it. It is
true that he found his Parisian hotel had passed through several hands
during the vicissitudes of the times, so as to be beyond the reach of
recovery; but then he had been noticed benignantly by government, and had a
pension of several hundred francs, upon which, with careful management, he
lived independently, and, as far as I could judge, happily. As his once
splendid hotel was now occupied as a _hotel garni_, he hired a small
chamber in the attic; it was but, as he said, changing his bedroom up two
pair of stairs--he was still in his own house. His room was decorated with
pictures of several beauties of former times, with whom he professed to
have been on favorable terms: among them was a favorite opera-dancer, who
had been the admiration of Paris at the breaking out of the revolution. She
had been a protegee of my friend, and one of the few of his youthful
favorites who had survived the lapse of time and its various vicissitudes.
They had renewed their acquaintance, and she now and then visited him; but
the beautiful Psyche, once the fashion of the day and the idol of the
_parterre_, was now a shriveled, little old woman, warped in the back
and with a hooked nose.
The old gentleman was a devout attendant upon levees; he was most zealous
in his loyalty, and could not speak of the royal family without a burst of
enthusiasm, for he still felt toward them as his companions in exile. As to
his poverty he made light of it, and indeed had a good-humored way of
consoling himself for every cross and privation. If he had lost his chateau
in the country, he had half a dozen royal palaces, as it were, at his
command. He had Versailles and St. Cloud for his country resorts, and the
shady alleys of the Tuileries and the Luxembourg for his town recreation.
Thus all his promenades and relaxations were magnificent, yet cost nothing.
When I walk through these fine gardens, said he, I have only to fancy
myself the owner of them, and they are mine. All these gay crowds are my
visitors, and I defy the grand seignior himself to display a greater
variety of beauty. Nay, what is better, I have not the trouble of
entertaining them. My estate is a perfect Sans Souci, where every one does
as he pleases, and no one troubles the owner. All Paris is my theater, and
presents me with a continual spectacle. I have a table spread for me in
every street, and thousands of waiters ready to fly at my bidding. When my
servants have waited upon me I pay them, discharge them, and there's an
end; I have no fears of their wronging or pilfering me when my back is
turned. Upon the whole, said the old gentleman with a smile of infinite
good humor, when I think upon the various risks I have run, and the manner
in which I have escaped them; when I recollect all that I have suffered,
and consider all that I at present enjoy, I cannot but look upon myself as
a man of singular good fortune.
Such was the brief history of this practical philosopher, and it is a
picture of many a Frenchman ruined by the revolution. The French appear to
have a greater facility than most men in accommodating themselves to the
reverses of life, and of extracting honey out of the bitter things of this
world. The first shock of calamity is apt to overwhelm them, but when it is
once past, their natural buoyancy of feeling soon brings them to the
surface. This may be called the result of levity of character, but it
answers the end of reconciling us to misfortune, and if it be not true
philosophy, it is something almost as efficacious. Ever since I have heard
the story of my little Frenchman, I have treasured it up in my heart; and I
thank my stars I have at length found what I had long considered as not to
be found on earth--a contented man.
P. S.--There is no calculating on human happiness. Since writing the
foregoing, the law of indemnity has been passed, and my friend restored to
a great part of his fortune. I was absent from Paris at the time, but on my
return hastened to congratulate him. I found him magnificently lodged on
the first floor of his hotel. I was ushered, by a servant in livery,
through splendid saloons, to a cabinet richly furnished, where I found my
little Frenchman reclining on a couch. He received me with his usual
cordiality; but I saw the gayety and benevolence of his countenance had
fled; he had an eye full of care and anxiety.
I congratulated him on his good fortune. "Good fortune?" echoed he; "bah! I
have been plundered of a princely fortune, and they give me a pittance as
an indemnity."
Alas! I found my late poor and contented friend one of the richest and most
miserable men in Paris. Instead of rejoicing hi the ample competency
restored to him, he is daily repining at the superfluity withheld. He no
longer wanders in happy idleness about Paris, but is a repining attendant
in the ante-chambers of ministers. His loyalty has evaporated with his
gayety; he screws his mouth when the Bourbons are mentioned, and even
shrugs his shoulders when he hears the praises of the king. In a word, he
is one of the many philosophers undone by the law of indemnity, and his
case is desperate, for I doubt whether even another reverse of fortune,
which should restore him to poverty, could make him again a happy man.