On the sixteenth, I received a prospectus through my concierge. There
was to be a concert, mixed with speeches—a sort of popular fête at the
Tuileries. The places varied in price from ten sous to five francs.
Five francs the Salle des Maréchaux; ten sous the garden, which was to
be illuminated with Venetian lamps among the orange-trees; the whole to
be enlivened by fireworks from the Courbevoie batteries.
I had tact enough not to put on white gloves, and set out for the
palace.
It was not a fairy-like sight; indeed, it was a most depressing
spectacle. A crowd of thieves and vagabonds, of dustmen and
rag-pickers, with four or five gold bands on their sleeves and caps,
(the insignia of officers of the National Guard), were hurrying along
down the grand staircase, chewing “imperiales,” spitting, and repeating
the old jokes of ’93. As to the women—they were sadly out of place.
They simpered, and gave themselves airs, and some of them even beat
time with their fans, as Mademoiselle Caillot was singing, to look as
if they knew something about music.
[Illustration: The Palace of the Tuileries, from The Garden.]
The Last concert held in the Tuileries by the Commune took place on
Sunday, the 21st March, when Auteuil and Passy had been in the power of
the army for several hours. Two days later the old palace was in
flames. Citizen Félix Pyat had advocated the preservation of the
Tuileries in the “Vengeur”, proposing to convert it into an “asylum”
for the victims of work and the martyrs of the Republic. “This
residence”, he wrote, “ought to be devoted to people, who had already
taken possession of it.”
The concert took place in the Salle des Maréchaux: a platform had been
erected for the performers. The velvet curtains with their golden bees
still draped the windows. From the gallery above I could see all that
was going on. The Imperial balcony opens out of it; I went there, and
leaned on the balustrade with a certain feeling of emotion. Below were
the illuminated gardens, and far away at the end of the Champs Elysées,
almost lost in the purple of the sky, rose the Arc de Triomphe de
l’Etoile.
The roaring of the cannon at Vanves and Montrouge reached me where I
stood. When the duet of the “_Maître de Chapelle_” was over, I returned
into the hall; the distant crashing of the mitrailleuse at Neuilly,
borne towards us on the fresh spring breeze, in through the open
windows, joined its voice to the applause of the audience.
Oh! what an audience! The faces in general looked fit subjects for the
gibbet; others were simply disgusting: surprise, pleasure, and fear of
Equality were reflected on every physiognomy. The carpenter, Pindy,
military governor of the Hôtel de Ville, was in close conversation with
a girl from Philippe’s. The ex-spy Clémence muttered soft speeches into
the ear of a retired _chiffonnière_, who smiled awkwardly in reply. The
cobbler Dereure was intently contemplating his boots; while Brilier,
late coachman, hissed the singers by way of encouragement, as he would
have done to his horses. They were going to recite some verses: I only
waited to hear—
“PUIS, QUEL AVEUGLEMENT! QUEL NON-SENS POLITIQUE!”
an Alexandrine, doubtless, launched at the National Assembly, and made
my way to the garden as quickly as I could.
There, in spite of the Venetian lamps, all was very dull and dark. The
walks were almost deserted, although it was scarcely half-past nine. I
took a turn beneath the trees: the evening was cold; and I soon left
the gardens by the Rue de Rivoli gate. A good many people were standing
there “to see the grand people come from the fête”—a fête given by
lackeys in a deserted mansion!