THE ORGY AT THE HÔTEL DE CLUNY
The Hôtel de Cluny, into the court-yard of which Gaudin led the
Marchioness on alighting from the carriage, is not only a building of
great interest at the present day, but was equally celebrated in the
Middle Ages, and so intimately connected with ancient Paris, even in
the time of the Romans, that a very brief description of it may not be
altogether out of place.
Any one who cares to visit it may arrive at its gates by proceeding up
the Rue de la Harpe from the river, at the Pont St. Michel, and
turning to the left in the Rue des Mathurins. But just before this
point the Palais des Thermes will be passed--the remains of a vast
Roman edifice which once occupied a large area of ground in the
Quartier Latin. Of this building the hall is still in tolerable
preservation; and two stages of subterraneous passages may be traced
to the length of about one hundred feet, where they are choked up with
ruins. There is, however, existing proof that they formed a perfect
communication between the Palais des Thermes and the Convent des
Mathurins, at the other extremity of the street.
Upon the foundations of the Roman building, towards the close of the
fifteenth century, Jacques d’Amboise, one of the nine brothers of
Louis XII.’s minister who bore that name, built the present edifice.
The ground had been purchased more than a century previous by Pierre
de Chaslus, an abbe of the celebrated order of Cluny, a portion of the
Roman palace then being sufficiently perfect to reside in; and that
became the residence of the abbes of Cluny when their affairs called
them to Paris.
The new building was raised upon this site, and with the materials of
the ancient structure, so that at many parts of the _hôtel_ the
graceful architecture of the _moyen âge_ may be seen rising from the
foundation-walls of Roman masonry. This is not, however, the only part
to interest the artist or the antiquary. The entire edifice, built at
an epoch of architectural revolution, is a mixture of the last
inspirations of the Gothic style with the first dawn of the
_renaissance_.
At the commencement of the sixteenth century, the Hôtel de Cluny was
for some time the abode of Mary, the Queen of Louis XII. and sister of
our own Henry VIII. She had been married only three months when she
was left a widow, being then little more than sixteen.[16] Afterwards
it was inhabited by a troop of comedians, although by what means the
players were enabled to establish themselves in a house avowedly the
dwelling of the abbes of Cluny, and of which, whoever lived in it,
they never ceased to be the landlords, is not explained. Subsequently
it was made a species of temporary convent for the reception of Maire
Angélique Arnaud, the abbess of Port-Royal, and a large number of her
nuns, whilst a religious establishment was built for them in the Rue
de la Bourbe, which at the present day forms the Hospice de
l’Accouchement of the same name.
It is now some six or seven years since we went over the Hôtel de
Cluny. The then proprietor, M. du Sommerard, has since died, and we
know not how his decease has affected the admission of strangers.
Certainly it was at that time the most interesting object of curiosity
that Paris afforded. You turned from the narrow, busy Rue de la Harpe
into its quiet court, and modern Paris was for the moment forgotten in
the contemplation of the old and graceful building, with its
picturesque _tourelle_--its beautifully-ornamented attic windows, each
surrounded by a different pattern of florid Gothic sculpture--its
antique spouts, and chiseled gallery running in front of the eaves,
still showing its exquisite workmanship, in spite of the clumsy manner
in which its trellised length had been patched up with mortar, and in
many places totally concealed--its vanes and gables. Within, it was
rich, indeed, in venerable associations; there were collected all
those articles of rare worth and _vertu_ that made the _hôtel_ so
famous; but these were not to us the principal attractions, for much
was the result of comparatively modern labour. An atmosphere of
antiquity pervaded the interior; you were sensible at once of that
peculiar odour which clings to relics of former times--that mixture of
cathedral interiors, old burly red-edged books, worm-eaten
wainscoting, and damp closets, which is almost grateful, despite its
elements. The sunbeam came through the patched coloured glass of the
old windows, and fell in subdued and varied tints upon the relics
which the rooms enshrined--relics of everyday life in days long passed
away, which it would not mock with the garish light of present noon,
except in the open gallery, and there the motes appeared to wake into
existence in its rays, and dance about, until with its decline they
fell back once more upon the old carvings and mouldings of the
woodwork. In the disposition of the rooms, with their numberless
articles of simple domestic use and homely furniture, the past was
once more recalled; the visitor lived, for the time, in the bosom of a
family long since forgotten, even to its very name; the solitude was
dispelled, and the antique chambers were once more peopled with their
former occupants, gliding noiselessly about the polished floors,
circling round the table, still laid out for their meal, or kneeling
at the chapel altar, as the quivering light fell on them, piercing the
leaves that clustered from the trees of the adjoining garden about the
windows. The day-dream was impressive and all-absorbing. The feeling,
upon once more turning into the busy hum of the city, was that of
dissatisfaction and confusion, like the first waking from a morning
slumber, in which we have been again communing with those whom we once
loved.
Sainte-Croix and Marie entered the principal door of the _corps de
logis_ of the _hôtel_, and passed up the staircase. He was recognised
and saluted respectfully by the domestics, as one on terms of great
intimacy with the master. The interior of the _hôtel_ was brilliantly
illuminated; and every now and then sounds of the wildest revelry
burst along the corridors, as the heavy rustling curtains that hung
over the doors were thrust on one side. As they neared the principal
room, a man stepped out and met them. His symmetrical figure was well
set off by a magnificent dress; his physiognomy was _spirituelle_,
without being handsome; his presence was commanding and prepossessing.
‘My dear Sainte-Croix,’ he exclaimed as he saw Gaudin, ‘you are
welcome. The hours were flying by so rapidly, that I began to think we
should not see you.’
‘Time generally runs away with bright grains, Marquis, whenever you
direct his flight. He must fill his glass from the sands of Pactolus
when he measures your enjoyments.’
‘Will you present me to your fair companion?’ said the host, as he
glanced towards the Marchioness.
‘Henriette,’ said Gaudin, giving a false name to his partner, ‘this is
the Marquis de Lauzun. His mere name conveys with it all those good
qualities which, in one less known, we should mention distinctly.’
The Marquis bowed, and Marie inclined in return to his salute,
trembling at the same time; for she knew him well, and was fearful of
being discovered. And indeed Lauzun perceived in an instant, by her
deportment, that her manners had more of the court than the
_coulisses_ about them.
‘You have a charming residence, Marquis,’ she observed, endeavouring
to disguise her voice.
‘Say, rather, the abbes of Cluny have,’ replied De Lauzun; ‘for I am
here only as an intruder. But they are too liberal to me. In return
for some poor advantages I persuaded his Majesty to bestow upon their
order, they give up their house to me whenever I require it. Let us
join the company who honour me this evening.’
He threw aside the heavy tapestry as he spoke, and ushered
Sainte-Croix and Marie into the salon. The scene that presented itself
was most exciting--almost bewildering from its gorgeous revelry. The
whole suite of rooms had been thrown open, and was one blaze of light;
the innumerable wax candles, shedding their brilliancy upon the throng
from every available position, clustered in galaxies of bright
twinkling stars round the elaborately-framed and quaintly-shaped
looking-glasses that characterised the domestic architecture of the
time, even in our own days always associated with splendid elegance
and refinement, or diminished in long perspectives of light along the
corridors, and through the other apartments branching off from the
principal room, the comparatively low ceiling giving them a look of
much greater extent than they in reality possessed.
A joyous crowd had assembled together; all that Paris then knew of
reckless enjoyment and debauchery had collected that evening in the
Hôtel de Cluny. The cavaliers and dames were in equal numbers; some
of the latter were as closely masked as Marie, as were a few--very
few--of the gentleman. Others of the fair visitors displayed their
charms, both of face and bust, to the full, in the same loose fashion
that they would have patronised in the warm season upon the Pont Neuf
and _carrefours_. And the attractions of these beauties were of no
ordinary character. Handsome beyond expression the majority indeed
were, under the most ordinary circumstances; but now their full
swimming eyes were sparkling with excitement--a glow of warmth and
vivid life flushed their damask cheeks--the long clusters of perfumed
and glossy hair showered tremblingly upon their rounded
shoulders--and, as the light badinage or wicked repartee fell from
their rosy lips, followed by the joyous peals of their silvery
laughter, their mouths displayed pearly rows of teeth, which fairly
dazzled by their brilliancy, and alone outshone the whiteness of their
skin.
The various alcoves, containing beds, fitted up with magnificent
hangings and curtains of rich brocade, shot with gold or embroidered
with the most elaborate devices, were all thrown open, according to
custom, separated only from the rooms by light gilt railings; and
within these various young seigneurs were lounging, playing at dice or
tables, surrounded by a crowd of lookers-on; and the profusion of
broad pieces scattered carelessly about showed that the play was high
and reckless. The extremity of the gallery was veiled by some fine
fabric, and behind this, concealed from the view, a band of musicians,
of a number then seldom collected, was performing the latest
compositions of the court. In the centre a table glittering with plate
and glass was loaded with the choicest refreshments, and the most
ingenious devices in confectionery, surrounding a fountain of
marvellous workmanship, modelled, after the Bassin de Neptune at
Versailles, in dead silver and crystal, playing various kinds of wine,
which fell into separate compartments, whence it was drawn by the
guests into chased silver flagons and goblets of variegated Bohemian
glass. The air was heavy with costly perfumes, whose vapours wreathed
out from antique tripods; and every flower that art could force into
bloom, for the time of year, assisted to form the rich bouquets that
were placed about in all directions.
‘Place, messieurs,’ cried Lauzun gaily, affecting the manners of a
chamberlain, ‘for the Captain Gaudin de Sainte-Croix, who will throw
down his dice as a gage to any adversary who chooses to meet him!’
A number of young men welcomed Gaudin as the others spoke. He was
evidently popular amongst them, possessing in a high degree that fatal
versatility of pleasing which can mask the most heartless and
unprincipled disposition with a semblance of the most ingenuous gaiety
and _franchise_.
‘I pledge you, Monsieur de Sainte-Croix,’ cried a cavalier, whose
dress was a strange mixture of extreme elegance and the roughest
texture, ‘and will place a hundred louis d’ors against your own.’
‘A match!’ cried Gaudin, throwing his purse on the bed, round which
the party gathered, including Marie, who still kept close to his side.
‘There are my pieces,’ replied the other; ‘they need no counting.’
And he placed a rude leathern bag by Sainte-Croix’s sparkling purse.
‘I shall beat you, Chavagnac,’ said Gaudin.
‘You will be clever to do it,’ observed a bystander. ‘The Count de
Chavagnac has ruined us this night.’
‘A new gown of ruby velvet _à longues manches_, at the next Foire
Sainte Germain, for me, if you win, Chavagnac,’ said one of the
handsomest of the women.
‘You shall have it, Marotte,’ replied the Count.
‘What do you promise me, M. de Sainte-Croix, for old friendship?’
continued Marotte Dupré--for it was she--turning to Gaudin. ‘Let it
be a kiss, if it be nothing else.’
Gaudin looked towards her, and pressed her arm, as he contracted his
forehead, and made a sign of silence. He felt a sudden shudder pass
over the frame of the Marchioness; and when he turned round, her eyes
glared like a fury’s through her mask. She withdrew her arm and coldly
fell back as she whispered--
‘My eyes are being opened anew. Beware!’
Gaudin was for the instant annoyed and returned no answer. Marotte
Dupré had not taken the hint, and continued--
‘You owe me something on the score of your conduct when Antoine
Brinvilliers carried me to the Rue d’Enfer against my will. By the
way, where is his wife, Dubois? You know the secrets of every woman in
our good city.’
This was addressed to the Abbe Dubois, whose name as a gallant, either
on his own part or that of the King, was pretty well established.
‘Where she should be--quietly at home,’ replied the abbe.
‘Brinvilliers is on his travels. He is another man since she left him,
or he left her, or they left one another. How is it, M. de
Sainte-Croix?--you ought to know.’
‘By the mass!’ cried Gaudin angrily, ‘my sword can answer the
curiosity of any one better than my tongue.’
‘It is the more innocent weapon of the two in Paris just at present,’
said Marotte. ‘O my reputation!’
Gaudin looked towards Marie. By the quivering of a jewelled aigrette
that formed a portion of her head-dress, he could see that she was
trembling, and her hand tightly clutched part of the rich curtain that
hung beside her.
‘_Chut!_’ cried Lauzun, observing Sainte-Croix’s kindling temper; ‘to
your play.’
‘Nine!’ said Guadin, throwing his dice, as he caught at the
opportunity of turning the subject.
‘Nine also,’ observed Chavagnac, throwing.
‘Ten!’ exclaimed Guadin. ‘Will you pay me half, or run the chance?’
‘I will play,’ replied Chavagnac, gently shaking the dice-box.
‘Twelve.’
‘_Peste!_’ cried Gaudin, ‘you have gained them. I thought my dice knew
better than that.’
‘You forgot whose they were to play against,’ said Chavagnac with a
grim smile, taking up the money. ‘Come, I shall be in funds again.
Lauzun’s hospitality has kept me from the high-road. The twelve
hundred pistoles I appropriated from the good people of the Garonne
were nearly gone.’
‘You can still give me the kiss, Gaudin, without being entirely
ruined,’ said Marotte Dupré, as she pouted her red lips towards him.
Sainte-Croix inclined his head towards her. As he did so, Marie darted
forward, and violently drew him back. The action was seen by all the
bystanders. They said nothing, but shrugged their shoulders; whilst
Marotte Dupré looked as if she felt perfectly ready for another duel
with her new and unknown rival.
‘Messieurs,’ cried Lauzun, ‘I have a novelty in store for you. I have
picked up a fellow on the Pont Neuf who will sing you couplets about
yourselves by the mile. He is there every afternoon that it is warm
enough for folks to stand and listen.’
‘Let us see him,’ said Dubois, anxious with the rest to turn the
attention of the company. ‘_A diable les femmes!_ There is not a
misery in the world but is connected with them, if you search its
source.’
‘Nor a pleasure,’ replied Lauzun. ‘You ought to know, abbe, if
experience teaches anything.’
‘And monsieur does know,’ said a person who entered just at the
moment. A glance sufficed to show Sainte-Croix that it was Benoit, who
appeared to have reassumed, in part, his ancient mountebank costume.
‘This is the fellow,’ said Lauzun. ‘Come, friend,’ he continued,
addressing the other, ‘do you see any one here you can sing about?’
‘That do I,’ said Benoit, looking over the crowd; ‘there is the Abbe
Dubois.’
‘Respect the church,’ cried Lauzun laughing. ‘The abbe is beyond your
couplets.’
‘Not at all,’ said Benoit. ‘Mère Ledru left the Quartier
Saint-Honoré but yesterday, entirely to save her daughter from his
addresses. Oh! the abbe is a _bon diable_, but sly in his pursuits.
Hem!’
And clearing his voice he sang these lines, the others repeating the
last lines in chorus--
‘Monsieur l’Abbé, ou allez-vous?
Vous allez vous casser le cou,
Vous allez sans chandelles,
Eh bien!
Pour voir les demoiselles!
Vous m’entendez bien!
_C’est bien!_
_Pour voir les demoiselles!_’
‘Silence, rascal!’ cried Dubois, hurling some pieces at Benoit’s head,
who picked them up, put them in his pocket, and was quieted
directly--sooner, indeed, than the laugh against the gallant abbe
which he had raised.
‘Let M. de Sainte-Croix have his turn,’ said Chavagnac. ‘Do you know
him, fool?’
Benoit glanced expressively at Gaudin as he commenced--
‘Monsieur Gaudin de Sainte-Croix,
Whence do you your treasures draw?
Not from dice, nor cards alone,
Nor philosophy’s rare stone,
_Biribi!_
Why affect such scenes as these,
And neglect your _belle Marquise_?
Where is she?
Left lamenting, like Louise.
_Sacristie!_’
Gaudin’s cheek flamed with anger. The company observed that he was
stung deeper than mere badinage could have done; and this time the
laugh was less general than the one which had been raised against the
abbe. He drew Marie’s arm closer within his own, and with a look of
vengeance at Benoit, left the circle; whilst the other proceeded to
launch a couplet against Chavagnac, filled with no very complimentary
allusions to his wild spirit of appropriation.