_Dear Jane:_
Although quite fatigued, I cannot retire to rest ere I have rendered
my dear sister an account of to-day's excursion to St. Germain and to
Malmaison the favorite residence of the late Ex-Empress Josephine. We
took an early breakfast, and sat off by ten o'clock; the Danvilles in
their carriage, accompanied by Sigismund, and we in a remise, or, as
it is termed in England, a glass coach. We soon alighted at Malmaison,
it being only two leagues from Paris, and spent more than an hour in
walking over the house and grounds, and thinking of poor Josephine. A
great deal of the furniture yet remains as she left it; even her music
books are kept as she arranged them. The room she occupied as her
chamber, is exceedingly beautiful. It is circular, lined with cloth of
crimson and gold, and surrounded by mirrors inserted in the walls and
doors. The bed is supported by golden swans, and the coverlid and
curtains are of silver lama. In the library we saw the writing table
and inkstand of Napoleon. The first bears evident marks of his
penknife; which, while meditating, he used to strike into the wood.
The domestic who conducted us through the apartments, spoke of the
Ex-Empress with great affection; and so did the gardener, a West India
negro, whose ebony visage was a novel spectacle to us. They said she
was beloved by all the household and neighborhood, for her affability
and kindness. The green house is filled with gay and choice flowers
and shrubs; and it is melancholy to reflect that these the frailest
productions of nature, have outlived their lovely mistress, and still
blossom and flourish and shed their fragrance around, while she, like
a shadow has passed away! After following awhile the windings of a
stream that meanders through the garden, we found ourselves at the
threshold of a pretty little temple dedicated to Cupid. The
mischievous urchin himself, treading upon roses, is placed in the
centre, and on the pedestal beneath him, this vindictive couplet is
inscribed:
Il l'est, le fut, ou le doit être,
Qui que ce soit, voici ton Maitre.
We quitted the shades of Malmaison with regret, and proceeded to the
neighboring village of Ruelle to visit the tomb of Josephine in the
church there, where her ashes repose. The monument is of white marble,
and was erected to her memory by Eugene Beauharnais, her son. On its
summit she is represented clad in a folding robe with a diadem on her
head, and kneeling before an open breviary. It is a handsome tribute
of filial love.
Near Ruelle is a chateau that once belonged to Cardinal Richelieu, and
since then to Marshal Massena, whose widow still inhabits it.[1] Being
informed that the family were absent and that it was customary for
strangers to visit this sojourn of those distinguished men, we drove
there; and, alighting from our carriages, were demanding permission of
a person in the yard to see the mansion and its grounds, when a lady
suddenly made her appearance, and we had the mortification to find
that we were intruding on the privacy of Madame Massena herself. We
immediately explained our mistake, and would have come away but she
insisted on our entering, and was so polite that we could not refuse.
The chateau is very plain, and furnished with corresponding
simplicity. In front of it is a limpid sheet of water, and behind it a
pleasant garden, where we wandered awhile and then took leave,
gratified with our adventure, awkward as it was at the commencement.
[Footnote 1: This lady is since dead. She died soon afterwards.]
Retracing our steps a short distance, we continued our ride to Saint
Germain en Laye, and observed on our left a stupendous steam engine
which, on inquiry, we found is used for supplying the fountains of
Versailles and Saint Cloud with water from the Seine, and has
succeeded the famous machine of Marly. This machine had become so
decayed in some parts before its removal, that it occasioned the death
of several persons who were examining its construction--and heedlessly
stepped on an old board, which giving way they were precipitated into
the river and drowned, or crushed to death by the wheels. Saint
Germain en Laye derives its name from the extensive forest adjoining
it, which is considered the finest in France, and has ever been the
favorite hunting ground of the French monarchs. While partaking of the
pleasures of the chase they inhabited the spacious palace, that still
exists and is at present a barracks for soldiers. That abject king
James the Second, resided in it twelve years, supported by the
munificence of Louis le grand, and finally closed his earthly career
in this noble retreat. He was buried in the adjoining church, and his
heart is enshrined in a paltry looking altar, before which a lamp is
constantly burning, and upon which is an inscription informing the
reader why it was erected. But what renders the palace at Saint
Germain peculiarly interesting, is its having been the residence of
the Duchess de la Vallière; and in the ceiling of one of the rooms
appropriated to her use there is a trap door, through which it is
supposed her enamored sovereign descended when he visited her
clandestinely. On the left of the castle is a terrace one mile in
length, and bordering an acclivity that overhangs the Seine, and is
highly cultivated in vineyards and fruit trees. This terrace is much
frequented by persons who resort there, for the purpose of enjoying
fresh air and a fine prospect. Some go in carriages, but the usual
mode of conveyance is by a donkey, and this we chose. The streets of
the town are wide and the houses generally large; which might be
expected, as court festivities were so often held here; and
now-a-days, many of the Parisian gentry pass the summer months here.
We finished the day by dining at a neat auberge, (inn) with a garden
teeming with flowers just in front of our parlor. Returning home we
passed through the village of Nanterre, (the birthplace of St.
Geneviéve) and stopped an instant to buy some of the cakes for which
it is renowned; they are merely buns, and we did not think them
deserving of their fame. _Nanterre beer_ and _Nanterre sausages_ are
also held in great estimation, but of these we did not taste, being
quite satisfied with our trial of the cakes. I imagine you know the
history of St. Geneviéve; though lest you should not, I will tell you
in a few words that she was a shepherdess, whose virtues and piety
caused her to be canonized after her death, and made the patron saint
of Paris. There is a lovely picture of her at the Louvre, by Pierre
Guerin, representing her turning a spindle while guarding her flock.
Good night.