In February, 1849, in the midst of the prevailing sorrow and terror,
fetes were given. People danced to help the poor. While the cannon with
which the rioters were threatened on January 29, were, so to speak,
still trained ready for firing, a charity ball attracted all Paris to
the Jardin d’Hiver.
This is what the Jardin d’Hiver was like:
A poet had pictured it in a word: “They have put summer under a glass
case!” It was an immense iron cage with two naves forming a cross, as
large as four or five cathedrals and covered with glass. Entrance to it
was through a gallery of wood decorated with carpets and tapestry.
On entering, the eyes were at first dazzled by a flood of light. In
the light all sorts of magnificent flowers, and strange trees with the
foliage and altitudes of the tropics, could be seen. Banana trees, palm
trees, cedars, great leaves, enormous thorns, and queer branches twisted
and mingled as in a virgin forest. The forest alone was virgin there,
however. The prettiest women and the most beautiful girls of Paris
whirled in this illumination _a giorno_ like a swarm of bees in a ray of
sunshine.
Above this gaily dressed throng was an immense resplendent chandelier of
brass, or rather a great tree of gold and flame turned upside down which
seemed to have its roots in the glass roof, and whose sparkling leaves
hung over the crowd. A vast ring of candelabra, torch-holders and
girandoles shone round the chandelier, like the constellations round
the sun. A resounding orchestra perched high in a gallery made the glass
panes rattle harmoniously.
But what made the Jardin d’Hiver unique was that beyond this vestibule
of light and music and noise, through which one gazed as through a vague
and dazzling veil, a sort of immense and tenebrous arch, a grotto of
shadow and mystery, could be discerned. This grotto in which were big
trees, a copse threaded with paths and clearings, and a fountain that
showered its water-diamonds in sparkling spray, was simply the end of
the garden. Red dots that resembled oranges of fire shone here and there
amid the foliage. It was all like a dream. The lanterns in the copse,
when one approached them, became great luminous tulips mingled with real
camellias and roses.
One seated one’s self on a garden seat with one’s feet in the grass and
moss, and one felt the warmth arising from a heat-grating beneath this
grass and this moss; one happened upon an immense fireplace in which
half the trunk of a tree was burning, in proximity to a clump of bushes
shivering in the rain of a fountain. There were lamps amid the flowers
and carpets in the alleys. Among the trees were satyrs, nude nymphs,
hydras, all kinds of groups and statues which, like the place itself,
had something impossible and living about them.
What were people doing at this ball? They danced a little, made love a
little, and above all talked politics.
There were about fifty Representatives present that evening. The negro
Representative Louisy Mathieu, in white gloves, was accompanied by the
negrophile Representative Schoelcher in black gloves. People said: “O
fraternity! they have exchanged hands!”
Politicians leaning against the mantels announced the approaching
appearance of a sheet entitled the “Aristo,” a reactionary paper. The
Brea affair,* which was being tried at that very moment, was discussed.
What particularly struck these grave men in this sinister affair was
that among the witnesses was an ironmonger named “Lenclume” and a
locksmith named “Laclef.”
* General Bréa was assassinated on June 25, 1848, while
parleying with the insurgents at the Barriêre de
Fontainebleau.
Such are the trivial things men bring into the events of God.