The old garden of the _Palais Royal_, long famous for its shady
walks, and for being the most fashionable public promenade in Paris,
had, from its centrical situation, gradually attracted to its
vicinity a considerable number of speculators, who there opened
ready-furnished hotels, coffee-houses, and shops of various
descriptions. The success of these different establishments awakened
the cupidity of its wealthy proprietor, then Duke, of Chartres, who,
conceiving that the ground might be made to yield a capital
augmentation to his income, fixed on a plan for enclosing it by a
magnificent range of buildings.
Notwithstanding the clamours of the Parisian public, who, from long
habit, considered that they had a sort of prescriptive right to this
favourite promenade, the axe was laid to the celebrated _arbre de
Cracovie_ and other venerable trees, and their stately heads were
soon levelled to the ground. Every one murmured as if these trees had
been his own private property, and cut down against his will and
pleasure. This will not appear extraordinary, when it is considered
that, under their wide-spreading branches, which afforded a shelter
impervious to the sun and rain, politicians by day, adjusted the
balance of power, and arbiters of taste discussed the fashions of the
moment; while, by night, they presented a canopy, beneath which were
often arranged the clandestine bargains of opera-girls and other
votaries of Venus.
After venting their spleen in vague conjectures, witty epigrams, and
lampoons, the Parisians were silent. They presently found that they
were, in general, not likely to be losers by this devastation. In
1782, the execution of the new plan was begun: in less than three
years, the present inclosure was nearly completed, and the modern
garden thrown open to the public, uniting to the advantages of the
ancient one, a thousand others more refined and concentrated.
The form of this garden is a parallelogram, whose length is seven
hundred and two feet by three hundred in breadth, taken at its
greatest dimensions. It is bordered, on three of its sides, by new,
uniform buildings, of light and elegant architecture. Rising to an
elevation of forty-two feet, these buildings present two regular
stories, exclusively of the _mansarde_, or attic story, decorated by
festoons, bas-reliefs, and large Composite fluted pillars, bearing an
entablature in whose frieze windows are pierced. Throughout its
extent, the whole edifice is crowned by a balustrade, on the
pedestals of which vases are placed at equal distances.
In the middle of the garden stood a most singular building, partly
subterraneous, called a _Cirque_. This circus, which was first opened
in 1789, with concerts, balls, &c. was also appropriated to more
useful objects, and, in 1792, a _Lyceum of Arts_ was here
established; but in 1797, it was consumed by fire, and its site is
now occupied by a grass-plot. On the two long sides of the garden are
planted three rows of horse-chesnut trees, not yet of sufficient
growth to afford any shade; and what is new, is a few shrubs and
flowers in inclosed compartments. The walks are of gravel, and kept
in good order.
On the ground-floor, a covered gallery runs entirely round the
garden. The shops, &c. on this floor, as well as the apartments of
the _entresol_ above them, receive light by one hundred and eighty
porticoes, which are open towards the garden, and used to have each a
glass lantern, with reflectors, suspended in the middle of their
arch. In lieu of these, some of a less brilliant description are now
distributed on a more economical plan under the piazzas; but, at the
close of day, the rivalship of the shopkeepers, in displaying their
various commodities, creates a blaze of light which would strike a
stranger as the effect of an illumination.
The fourth side of the garden towards the _Rue St. Honoré_ is still
occupied by a double gallery, constructed, as I have already
mentioned, of wood, which has subsisted nearly in its present state
ever since I first visited Paris in 1784. It was to have been
replaced by a colonnade for the inclosure of the two courts. This
colonnade was to have consisted of six rows of Doric pillars,
supporting a spacious picture-gallery, (intended for the whole of the
Orleans collection), which was to have constituted the fourth façade
to the garden, and have formed a covered walk, communicating with the
galleries of the other three sides.
These galleries, whose whole circumference measures upwards of a
third of a mile, afford to the public, even in bad weather, a walk
equally agreeable and convenient, embellished, on the one side, by
the aspect of the garden, and, on the other, by the studied display
of every thing that taste and fashion can invent to captivate the
attention of passengers.
No place in Paris, however, exhibits such a contrast to its former
attractions as this once-fashionable rendezvous. The change of its
name from _Palais Royal_ to _Maison Égalité_ conveys not to the
imagination a dissimilitude more glaring than is observable between
the present frequenters of this favourite promenade, and those who
were in the habit of flocking hither before the revolution.
At that period, the scene was enlivened by the most brilliant and
most captivating company in the capital, both in point of exterior
and manners. At this day, the medal is exactly reversed. In lieu of
well-dressed or well-behaved persons of both sexes, this garden,
including its purlieus, presents, morning and evening, nothing but
hordes of stock-jobbers, money-brokers, gamblers, and adventurers of
every description. The females who frequent it, correspond nearly to
the character of the men; they are, for the greater part, of the most
debauched and abandoned class: for a Laïs of _bon ton_ seldom
ventures to shew herself among this medley of miscreants.
In the crowd, may be occasionally remarked a few strangers attracted
by curiosity, and other individuals of respectable appearance called
hither on business, as well as some inoffensive newsmongers,
resorting to the coffee-houses to read the papers. But, in general,
the great majority, of the company, now seen here, is of a cast so
extremely low, that no decent woman, whether married or single,
thinks of appearing in a place where she would run a risk of being
put out of countenance in passing alone, even in the daytime. In the
evening, the company is of a still worse complexion; and the
concourse becomes so great under the piazzas, particularly when the
inclemency of the weather drives people out of the garden, that it is
sometimes difficult to cross through the motley assemblage. At the
conclusion of the performances in the neighbouring theatres, there is
a vast accession of the inferior order of nymphs of the Cyprian
corps; and then, amorous conversation and dalliance reach the summit
of licentious freedom.
The greater part of the political commotions which have, at different
times, convulsed Paris, took their rise in the _ci-devant Palais
Royal_, or it has, in some shape, been their theatre. In this palace
too originated the dreadful reverse of fortune which the queen
experienced; and, indeed, when the cart in which her majesty was
carried to the scaffold, passed before the gates of this edifice, she
was unable to repress a sign of indignation.
All writers who have spoken of the inveterate hatred, which existed
between the queen and M. d'Orléans, have ascribed it to despised
love, whose pangs, as Shakspeare tells, us, are not patiently
endured. Some insist that the duke, enamoured of the charms of the
queen, hazarded a declaration, which her majesty not only received
with disdain, but threatened to inform the king of in case of a
renewal of his addresses. Others affirm that the queen, at one time,
shewed that the duke was not indifferent to her, and that, on a hint
being given to him to that effect, he replied: "Every one may be
ambitious to please the queen, except myself. Our interests are too
opposite for Love ever to unite them." On this foundation is built
the origin of the animosity which, in the end, brought both these
great personages to the scaffold.
Whatever may have been the motive which gave rise to it, certain it
is that they never omitted any opportunity of persecuting each other.
The queen had no difficulty in pourtraying the duke as a man addicted
to the most profligate excesses, and in alienating from him the mind
of the king: he, on his side, found it as easy, by means of
surreptitious publications, to represent her as a woman given to
illicit enjoyments; so that, long before the revolution, the
character both of the queen and the duke were well known to the
public; and their example tended not a little to increase the general
dissoluteness of morals. The debaucheries of the one served as a
model to all the young rakes of fashion; while the levity of the
other, was imitated by what were termed the _amiable_ women of the
capital.
After his exile in 1788, the hatred of M. d'Orléans towards the queen
roused that ambition which he inherited from his ancestors. In
watching her private conduct, in order to expose her criminal
weaknesses, he discovered a certain political project, which gave
birth to the idea of his forming a plan of a widely-different nature.
Hitherto he had given himself little trouble about State affairs;
but, in conjunction with his confidential friends, he now began to
calculate the means of profiting by the distress of his country.
The first shocks of the revolution had so electrified the greater
part of the Parisians, that, in regard to the Duke of Orleans, they
imperceptibly passed from profound contempt to blind infatuation. His
palace became the rendezvous of all the malcontents of the court, and
his garden the place of assembly of all the demagogues. His exile
appeared a public calamity, and his recall was celebrated as a
triumph. Had he possessed a vigour of intellect, and a daring equal
to the situation of leader of a party, there is little doubt that he
might have succeeded in his plan, and been declared regent. His
immense income, amounting to upwards of three hundred thousand pounds
sterling, was employed to gain partisans, and secure the attachment
of the people.
After the taking of the Bastille, it is admitted that his party was
sufficiently powerful to effect a revolution in his favour; but his
pusillanimity prevailed over his ambition. The active vigilance of
the queen thwarting his projects, he resolved to get rid of her; and
in that intention was the irruption of the populace directed to
Versailles. This fact seems proved: for, on some one complaining
before him in 1792, that the revolution proceeded too slowly. "It
would have been terminated long ago," replied he, "had the queen been
sacrificed on the 5th of October 1789."
Two months before the fall of the throne, M. d'Orléans still reckoned
to be able to attain his wishes; but he soon found himself
egregiously mistaken. The factions, after mutually accusing each
other of having him for their chief, ended by deserting him; and,
after the death of the king, he became a stranger to repose, and, for
the second time, an object of contempt. The necessity of keeping up
the exaltation of the people, had exhausted his fortune, great as it
was; and want of money daily detached different agents from his
party. His plate, his pictures, his furniture, his books, his
trinkets, his gems, all went to purchase the favour, and at length
the protection, of the Maratists. Not having it in his power to
satisfy their cupidity, he opened loans on all sides, and granted
illusory mortgages. Having nothing more left to dispose of, he was
reduced, as a last resource, to sell his body-linen. In this very
bargain was he engaged, when he was apprehended and sent to
Marseilles.
Although acquitted by the criminal tribunal, before which he was
tried in the south of France, he was still detained there in prison.
At first, he had shed tears, and given himself up to despair, but now
hope once more revived his spirits, and he availed himself of the
indulgence granted him, by giving way to his old habits of
debauchery. On being brought to Paris after six months' confinement,
he flattered himself that he should experience the same lenity in the
capital. The jailer of the _Conciergerie,_ not knowing whether M.
d'Orléans would leave that prison to ascend the throne or the
scaffold, treated him with particular respect; and he himself was
impressed with the idea that he would soon resume an ascendency in
public affairs. But, on his second trial, he was unanimously declared
guilty of conspiring against the unity and indivisibility of the
Republic, and condemned to die, though no proof whatever of his guilt
was produced to the jury. One interrogatory put to him is deserving
of notice. It was this: "Did you not one day say to a deputy: _What
will you ask of me when I am king?_ And did not the deputy reply: _I
will ask you for a pistol to blow out your brains?_"
Every one who was present at the condemnation of M. d'Orléans, and
saw him led to the guillotine affirms that if he never shewed courage
before, he did at least on that day. On hearing the sentence, he
called out: "Let it be executed directly." From the revolutionary
tribunal he was conducted straight to the scaffold, where,
notwithstanding the reproaches and imprecations which accompanied him
all the way, he met his fate with unshaken firmness.