narrow avenues and lanes long since destroyed to make way for the wide
boulevards of the Second Empire. We went along aimlessly, as it seemed
to me, until presently Pierce stopped, exclaiming, "Yes, it is here,"
and turned from the Rue de l'Universite into the short _impasse_ at its
further end. Here he paused.
"Well," I said, "where next?"
"My dear M----," he said, "I can't stand you alone any longer. I 'm
going to take you to call on M. Des Illes."
Now, M. Des Illes was an acquaintance of a minute (to be accurate, of
five minutes), and was nothing to me on earth but a quaint remembrance.
I said I would go anywhere, call on devil or angel, do as he liked. As
I made clear to him the amiability of my indifferent mood, he paused at
the doorway of No. 37.
"Is this the place?"
"Yes, 37 _bis_." Upon this he rang, and the door opening in the usual
mysterious Paris fashion, a concierge put out her head at the side of
the passage, which seemed long and narrow.
"Is M. Des Illes at home?"
"Oui; tout en face, tout au fond; Porte a gauche."
"That 's droll," I said as we walked on. The passage was dimly lighted
by a lantern hung on the wall. We went on quite three hundred feet, and
came out into a courtyard some thirty feet by twice that length. The
walls were high around it, but before us was a small hotel with a rather
elaborate front, not easily made out by the feeble glimmer of a lantern
over the door and another on the wall. The main entrance was a little
to the left of the middle of the house, which seemed to be but one story
high, and over this a Mansard roof.
"Interesting, is n't it?" said Pierce.
"Very," said I, as I rang. The door was opened at once, and we were in a
hall some twenty feet square, beautifully lit with wax candles in the
most charming of silver sconces. There were a few arms on the walls, and
a portrait of a girl in a red gown and hoops. The servant who admitted
us was in black from head to foot--a very tall man with an immense--an
unusual nose, very red cheeks, and enormous ears.
I said, "M. Des Illes is at home?" and he, "Monsieur would oblige with
the names, and this way, please." We gave him our cards and went after
him. He warned us of a step, and of another, and we came into a little
antechamber, where we were pleasantly bid to be seated. He came back at
once, followed by the strangest little old gentleman imaginable. I said,
"M. Des Illes, I believe?"
"Ah," he cried. "It cannot be that I am deceived. It is Monsieur, my
preserver. What a happiness to see you here!" and upon this, to my
great embarrassment, he kissed me upon both cheeks, while Pierce grinned
at me maliciously over his shoulders.
"It was a small matter," I said.
"To you, no doubt; but not to me. Life is never a small possession to
him that owns it. I have friends with me to-night who will feel it to
be more than an honor to welcome you. M. Michel and M. Pierce, you said,
I think. This is a most fortunate hour."
I said all the effusively pleasant things I could think of, while his
servant relieved me of my overcoat. As Pierce was being aided in like
manner I had a good look at my host, and made up my mind that he was
probably dressed for a fancy ball. He was clearly a quite old man,
curiously slight in person, and having almost the delicacy of features
of a woman. Also he was clean shaven, wore his hair in a cue tied with
black ribbon, and was clad in black silk or satin, with jet buttons, a
long waistcoat, a full lace jabot, knee-breeches, black silk stockings,
court shoes, and black jet buckles. With some puzzle of mind I
concluded it to be a mourning suit of the last century, queer to see at
this time and in this place.
As we crossed the antechamber M. Des Illes fluttered about us,
gesticulating and talking with vehemence of his great debt to me, who
thought it small and embarrassingly made too much of. I have laid away
somewhere among my mental negatives a picture of the room into which we
went, following our host. There were many candles in sconces, tables
and chairs of Louis XV.'s time, and one cabinet of wonderful inlaid work
filled with silver.
Two persons rose as we entered. To my surprise, I saw that they also
were dressed in black of the same fashion as that worn by my host. All
had cues, and, like M. Des Illes, wore swords with black sheaths. One of
these gentlemen might have been forty years old, but the other, like my
host, was a man far on in life and certainly not much under seventy
years. As I stood a moment in the doorway, the two, who were playing
piquet, rose, and M. Des Illes, going in before us, turned and said as
we entered:
"I have great pleasure to present to you M. Michel, my preserver, of
whom I have already told. It is he who has with heroism dragged me from
before a swift-coming horse. He with modesty refused me his address.
His name I shall forever cherish. Permit me, Duke, to present M.
Michel."
I named my friend, who was introduced. Then we were let to know that
the older man, who was stout and well built, and who seemed of M. Des
Illes's years, was the Duke de St. Maur. He in turn presented to us the
youngest of these quaintly clad people, his son, M. de St. Maur. When
these gentlemen bowed, for neither did more, they took up much of the
room, and in the space left to us--such courtesy being
contagious--Pierce and I achieved quite as remarkable salutes.
This ceremony over, we were seated, and the tale of M. Des Illes's
rescue having been told once more at too great length, the Duke rose,
and, taking my hand, desired me to understand that I had conferred upon
him a favor which I must have known M. Des Illes as long as he to
understand. When his son had stated that none could better what his
father had said, he added, "May it please God, Monsieur, that you never
need a friend; and may his providence never leave you without one as
good as you yourself have proved to be." I replied in fluent but
unequal French, and began to have the keenest desire to know what the
mischief all this masquerade might mean.
I soon observed that the politics of the day were out of the talk.
When, indeed, we were speaking of pictures, and Pierce mentioned a
portrait of the Prince President in the Salon, a manner of chill seemed
to fall upon the party, while the Duke said with a certain gentle
decisiveness, "You, who are our guests this evening, and will share it
with us--may I say for my friend and myself that the person mentioned
should never get so far into good society as to be talked of by
gentlemen--at least not to-night--not to-night?"
"No," said St. Maur; "not to-night."
Pierce spoke quickly, "You will pardon us, Duke."
The Duke lifted a remonstrating hand. "It is not needed," he said.
"And have you seen the great landscape by Diaz? I have the pendant; but
now his prices have gone up, and we poor gentlefolk, alas!" Here he
took snuff, and M. de St. Maur remarked with a smile, "My good father is
never so near extravagance as when he talks of his poverty."
"He is shrewd, the young man, and of distressing economy--a quite modern
economy. I bought it to-day." Our laughter set the chat on a less
formal footing, and we fell to talking of theaters, actresses, the
latest play, and the like, until at last M. Des Illes said. "Pardon, my
dear Duke, but the hour is near when we must go down to the cellar."
Meanwhile no one had explained the costumes which appeared to have power
to recall into active life the forms of manners with which they seemed
to consist so well, the grave courtesies of an hour more patient than
that in which we live. "We are at your service," said the Duke, rising.
"Our friends must feel by this time as if they were calling on actors
behind the scenes at the Odeon. Is it not so?" he added.
"Perhaps," I returned. "But the wise who are well entertained do not
ask the name of the inn; at least so they say in Spain."
"Monsieur has found for us a delightful apology," said M. de St. Maur.
"Let us leave him to guess our sad riddle; and now, the lanterns."
As he spoke, M. Des Illes came from a closet with lanterns and straw
wine-baskets, of which he gave one to each of us. Then the candles in
the lanterns were lighted, while Pierce and I, profoundly curious, said
nothing.
"A pity," exclaimed the younger St. Maur, "that our friends' modern
dress should interpolate a note of to-day."
"We can only regret," said I.
"It is but a wicked little remark, that," returned the Duke. "My son is
of to-day, Monsieur. For him this is a masquerade, interesting, droll.
But for us, _mon Dieu_! It is----."
"Yes, it is," returned Des Illes gravely.
"Pardon, Duke," said the son, smiling. "Once all these things lived for
you and for our friend; but as to me--I have only the memory of
another's memory."
"Neatly put!" cried Des Illes. "Almost a _mot_; as near as men get to
it in these degenerate days. Well, well, if wit be dead, wine is not.
Let us go now among the old memories of which your son speaks. Come,
gentlemen."
With these words we went with him through a back room, and thence by a
window into a garden. In the uncertain moonlight I saw that it was
large, with great walls about it, and the appearance beyond these of
tall, leafless trees. We passed a frozen basin and the figure of a
dryad, and went after our host into a house for plants, now to
appearance disused. At a far corner he lifted a trap-door and went
before us down a stone stair to a wine-cellar such as is common in good
French houses. Here were bottles and barrels of _vin ordinaire_ for
common use. I began to feel an increase of interest when, near the far
end of this cellar, M. Des Illes set down his lantern, unlocked a
padlock, and, aided by St. Maur, lifted a larger trap-door. With a word
of care as to the steps, he showed us the way down a broad stone
stairway, and in a minute we were all standing on the rock floor of a
great room underground.
As we saw the Duke and his companions hang their lanterns on hooks set
in the wall, we did as they had done, and, placing our wine-baskets on
casks, began to get used to the cross lights of the lanterns and to look
around us. The space seemed to be some thirty feet long and perhaps as
much as fifteen feet wide. It was cut out of the soft lime-rock which
underlies Paris. Perhaps a dozen casks of wine, on racks, were set
along one side of the cave, and over them, on stone shelves excavated in
the walls, were hundreds of bottles.
"Be careful of the cobwebs," said Des Illes, and there was need to be.
They hung from above in black curtains and in coarse openwork of tangled
ropes. They lay over the bottles and across the casks, wonderful for
amount and for their dark hue. The spinners of this funereal broidery I
could nowhere see. It was the work of generations of arachnidean
artists long dead; or else those who lived were hiding, scared, amidst
these great pendent festoons. I wondered how the net-makers had lived,
for flies there were none, and no other insect life so far as I could
see. After this brief survey I observed that the air was cool, and so
dry that it was hardly felt to be uncomfortable. The three gentlemen
were moving to and fro, exchanging phrases apparently about the wine,
and as I joined their little group it became clear that a selection was
being made.
"There will be one bottle of the year," said the Duke.
"Yes, of the year," repeated our host.
"Might I ask of what year?" said Pierce.
"Of 1793," replied St. Maur; "the fatal year. Permit me"; and he held
the basket wine-cradle while the Duke put on his glasses, and, turning
the lantern-light on to a shelf, said: "There are but twelve left."
"Enough for us, friend," said Des Illes, lifting a bottle. "It has the
black ribbon on the neck, but the spiders have so covered everything as
with a pall, that it was hard to be sure." With this, he turned to me.
"It has a black ribbon, you perceive."
"It has," I said, rather puzzled.
"And now, my friends, choose as you will, you cannot go far wrong. The
sun of many summers is locked up in these bottles."
"I wall take Chambertin," said the Duke.
"And I, Pomard," said his son.
"And I," said Des Illes, "Romanee Conti. But all here are in the
peerage of wines."
Then, when each of this curious company had made his choice, our host
said to us:
"It will be best that I choose for you. There is already enough of
Burgundy to trouble some toes to-morrow. Shall we say Bordeaux? Here
are two of long descent, and one is a comet-wine--of a name long
lost--and one is Laffitte, and both are in good order; neither is less
than thirty years old. In this changeless atmosphere our great wines
are long-lived. Have a care not to disturb the wines as we go up the
stairs."
"We shall carry them with care," I replied, laughing, "until we have
swallowed them."
"And then without care, I trust," cried the younger St. Maur. "Let us
go; it is chilly here."
"A moment," said the Duke. "M. Michel will desire to know why all this
costuming, and the bottles in mourning, and this ancient cellar."
"True," I returned. "I was about to ask."
"Well, well," said Des Illes. "A few words here, where they will have
the more interest, and then let us mount, and end the tale with such
memories as these good wines may suggest."
"This way," said the Duke to me. "Let me show you something." I
followed him to the end of the cellar, where, to my surprise, I saw by
the light of his lantern a door heavily built and guarded by a bar of
wood. This he lifted, and as he opened the door, and we gazed into the
deep darkness beyond, he said: "I show you a passageway into the
catacombs of Paris, of which this cave must have been a part until built
off to be made a cellar somewhere in the reign of Louis XV. And stay.
Look at this"; and, turning aside, he showed me, as it lay on a cask, a
cobwebbed bit of something.
"What is it?" I said.
"A woman's glove--and it has been here since 1794."
"The rest were better told in a less somber place," said St. Maur. "Let
us go." Upon this we went up the stairs and out into the air. As we
crossed through the barren shrubbery, each with his lantern and a little
basket of wine, I thought that probably Paris could show no stranger
sight than this sunken garden-space dark with box, the gentlemen in
their dress of another time, and we two Yankees wondering what it all
meant.
When at length we reentered M. Des Illes's drawing-room a brighter fire
was on the hearth than is common in France. About it M. Des Illes set
with care, in their cradles, the half-dozen bottles we had fetched from
the cellar. I ventured to say that it would be long before they were
warm enough to drink; but the Duke said that was quite a modern notion,
and that he liked to warm his wine on the tongue. It seemed to me odd;
but I am told it was once thought the thing to have red wines of the
temperature of the cellar. When the wine was set at a correct distance
from the fire, and the blaze heartened a little with added fuel, M. Des
Illes excused himself, and, returning after some twenty minutes,
explained that he had been arranging a dressing for the salad, but that
it would be an hour before supper could be made ready.
"That," I said, "will give us full leisure to ask some questions."
"_Pardie!_" said St. Maur. "Had I been you, by this time I should have
asked fifty."
"No doubt," laughed his father; and then, turning to us, "Usually when
we dress as you see, we are alone--Des Illes and I at least--men of a
forgotten past. But to-night friendly chance has sent you here, and it
were but courteous that we explain what may seem absurd. M. Des Illes
will tell you the story."
"It is many years since I heard it," said St. Maur. "I shall be well
pleased to hear it once more."
"But it is long."
"_Fi donc_, my friend. The wine will be the better for waiting," said
the Duke; "and, after all, some one must tell these gentlemen. As for
me, I should spoil a good story."
Then Pierce and I said how delighted we should be to listen, but indeed
we little knew how strange a tale we were to hear.
"It shall be as the Duke likes," said M. Des Illes. "Let us move nearer
to the fireside. It is chilly, I think." Upon this we drew to the fire.
Our host added a small fagot of tender twigs, so that a brief blaze went
up and lit the dark velvets and jet buttons of the company.
"You will all have heard it," said Des Illes; "but it is as you desire.
It will be new to our friends."
"And surely strange," said the Duke's son.
"My memory may prove short, Duke. If I fail, you will kindly aid me."
"Ah, my friend, neither your wine nor your memory has failed. But make
haste, or your supper will be spoiled while we await a tale which is
slow in coming."
"The things I shall speak of took place in the month of July, 1794.
Alas! this being now 1853, I was in those days close to eleven years of
age. My good Duke, here, was himself some two years younger. My father
had been purveyor of wines to the Court, as his father had been, and I
may say, too, that we were broken-down nobles who liked better this way
of earning a meal than by clinging to the skirts of more lucky men of no
better blood than we.
"There had been in the far past some kindly relation between my Duke's
people and my own, and how it came about I know not, but my grandmother,
when the old Duchess died, would have it she must nurse the little Duke,
and hence between him, as he grew up, and my father was the resemblance
often seen between brothers of one milk. We were all of us, my mother
and father and I, living in this house when my story begins, and
although in secret we were good servants of the King, we were quietly
protected by certain Jacobins who loved good wine. In fact, we did very
well and kept our heads from Madame Guillotine, and from suspicion of
being enemies of the country, until the sad thing chanced of which I am
made to tell the history.
"In the spring of 1793 the Duke, my father's foster-brother, came one
day from the country in disguise, and with him this same Duke Henri you
see here to-day. I do not now know precisely what had taken place, but
I believe the Duke was deep in some vain plots to save the Queen, and
wished to be free for a time from the care of his boy. At all events,
Duke Henri, a very little fellow, was left with us and became our cousin
from Provence. He had a great opinion of his dignity, this dear Duke, in
those days, and was like enough to get us all into trouble.
"Early in July 1794 my father was much disturbed in mind. I often saw
him at night carrying things into the plant-house, where my mother
nursed a few pots of flowers. There was cause, indeed, to trouble any
one, what with the merciless guillotine and the massacres. As for us,
too, we knew pretty well that at last we were becoming "suspects."
"One evening--it was the 19th of July--my father was away nearly all
day, a thing for him quite out of the common. About dusk he came home,
and after a few words in haste to my mother called us to help him. On
this we were set to work carrying bottles of milk, cheese, bread, and
cold meats in baskets to the plant-house, where my father took them from
us. Then we went back and forth with blankets, pillows, and more things
than I can now recall. After this, it being night, we were told to wait
in the house, but no explanation was given us as to what these unusual
preparations meant."
"It was this house, this same house," said Duke Henri; "when we had done
all that was required of us we sat within doors, wondering what it was
for."
"The next day, being July 20th about noon, we boys were playing in the
garden when I saw my mother come through the window, and heard her cry
out: 'It is ruin, it is ruin; my God, it is ruin!' A moment after came
my father with the Duke de St. Maur--Duke Philip, of course. The Duke
was speaking vehemently as we boys ran to hear. 'I came to say that I
am going to England. I have not a moment. I fear I may have been
followed. I grieve to have fetched this trouble upon you.'
"My mother was vexed indeed, and spoke angrily; but my father said, 'No;
trouble has been close for days, and the house is watched. For me,
there need be no real fear. I have friends, and should be set free
quickly, but the Duke!--'
"In the end they would not let Duke Philip go, and urged that now it
would bring about a greater peril for all of us if he were caught going
out or were seen to come forth.
"'There is a better way,' cried my father. 'Quick! Let us all go down
to the lower cave.' The Duke remonstrated, but was cut short, for my
father said, 'If you have compromised us, I must judge now what is
best.' And so the Duke gave in, and we were all hurried into the
plant-house and down the stairs to the first cellar, where were many of
the things so long made ready. My father opened the larger trap, and
began with great haste to carry down, with our help, all he had left in
the cellar above. Every one aided, and it was no sooner done than we
heard a noise in the house, or beyond it. 'The officers!' said my
father. 'Now you are all safe, and I shall soon come for you.'
"He stood a moment, seeming to hesitate, while my mother and the Duke
prayed him to come down and close the trap; but at last he said, 'No; it
were better my way,' and shut down the door.
"I heard a great clatter of barrel-staves falling on the trap. I think
he had seen the need to take this precaution, and it was this made him
run for us and for his friend a perilous risk; his fear, I mean, that
unless hidden, the trap would easily be seen by any one who chanced to
enter the upper cellar. I should have said that my father lifted the
trap a little and cried, 'The good God help thee, Claire!' Then we were
at once in darkness, and again the staves were replaced, as one could
easily hear. I heard my mother sob, but the one-year-old baby she
carried screamed loudly, and this, I think, took up her attention for a
time. I was on the stone staircase when my father went by me saying,
'Be good to thy mother.' I sat still awhile, and, the baby ceasing to
cry, we remained thus for a time silent in this appalling darkness, like
hunted things, with the terror of the time upon us.
"It is a sad story, dear Duke. I wonder how you can wish to hear it
again. And will my young friend draw the corks of these bottles, and be
careful not to shake the wine?"
St. Maur, saying, "With pleasure, yes," went on to draw the corks.
"What a bouquet has that Chambertin!" said the Duke. "But go on, my
friend."
"In a moment or so my mother exclaimed: 'There is something wrong. I
must go and see. My husband was to come with us. It has long been so
arranged.'
"With great difficulty the Duke persuaded her to run no farther risk.
'If,' he said, 'your husband has been arrested, you can do no good. If
he has not, we shall soon hear, and I, myself, will seek to learn where
he is.'
"This quieted her for a little while, and we sat still in the darkness,
which seemed to grow deeper. I think it must have been an hour before
any one spoke, but at times I could hear my mother sob. At last the
baby woke up again and made doleful cries, so that the Duke said--and
his was the first voice to break the long silence: 'Is there a way to
make a light? It may quiet him.'
"My mother said, 'Yes'; and after groping about we found flint and
steel, and presently, with a little care, there was a bit of flame and a
candle lit. I declare to you, it made things look the more dismal.
Later it caused us all to feel a strange and causeless elation. My
mother, who was a resolute woman, began to walk about, and the baby,
having been given milk, grew quiet. We boys were set to work arranging
the mattresses and blankets and all the material my father had by
degrees made ready for this hour of need. There was food enough for a
stay of many days, and as to wine, there was of that an abundance, and
also a barrel of good water.
"After our brief task was over we two little fellows sat most of that
long first day beside each other, rarely opening our lips. My mother lay
on a mattress, trying to keep the babe quiet, for he used his lungs
dangerously well. The Duke walked to and fro restlessly, and by and by
carefully put his pistols in order and laid them on a cask. After some
hours he became more tranquil and even gay, and kept us all sustained by
his gentle goodness and sweet temper, laughing at our fears, recalling
to my mother what hopeful words my father had used, and at last almost
making her sure that no one would hurt so good a man.
"When the Duke looked at his jeweled watch, which had been used to
number more pleasant hours, he told us it was night, and nine o'clock.
My mother said prayers, and the candle having been put out, we all lay
down and slept as we could. I must have slept well, for it was nine in
the morning when I awakened, and I, for one, had to think a little to
recover my orientation.