PARIS AND HER SO-CALLED REPUBLICAN GOVERNMENT--NECESSITY FOR
AN AUTOMOBILE--THE RIDE TO CHARTRES--CATHEDRAL NOTRE DAME--THE
AQUEDUCT AT MAINTENON AND ITS BURDEN OF SORROW--THE CASTLE OF
MAINTENON--MADAME AND LOUIS XIV.--ST. CYR AND HER DEATH--RETURN TO
PARIS.
Paris is _en fête_ for the coming of the little Spanish King, and
as the shadows lengthen, he passes in state, down the Avenue of the
Champs-Élysées,--a delicate, pale-faced boy, with apparently no
constitution. The French nation may be on the downward path, but this
city of Paris is gay to-day with no fear of the handwriting on the
wall. One seems to _live_, here, as in no other capital in the world;
all the others are work-a-day where, to their credit be it said,
business and the serious side of life are ever foremost; but here, all
is pleasure and for pleasure, while work is shoved far off into the
distant quarters of the city. To a citizen from a real republic, this
of France seems one in name only. These people so dearly love the pomp
and glitter of fine pageants that the simplicity of our republican
nation could not be endured. One would judge that there are as many
titles in France at the present time as before the great Revolution
and I doubt the arrival of the day when they will be things of the
past, to-day at least they are recognised in France and receive all due
respect socially and politically.
I have visited Paris many, many times in the years gone by and thought
I knew the city thoroughly. So I did and do, the immediate city within
the walls, and many of the points without them, but that is far from
the whole of Paris. So much lies around it which it is bother-some to
reach and that I never saw or should have seen but for an auto, that
I feel deeply grateful to the puffing, conceited thing, which, so to
speak, swallows one up and rushes off in any and all directions, and
at a moment's notice; so that day after day glides by in skimming the
country round about of its rich cream of interest.
To-day we are off for Chartres,--a short run of fifty-five miles each
way. I had asked an acquaintance to go along and warned him to bring
his heavy wraps. He appeared in low shoes, silk socks, a light spring
overcoat and wearing a delicate orchid in his buttonhole. Before we
reach Chartres I have to wrap him up in about everything the car holds
save the gasoline, and I think he is inclined to swallow some of that
and to touch a match to it so hard are the shivers. However, a bottle
of whiskey sets him on his legs again, but I fancy the next time he is
warned he will take heed.
The day's ride is beautiful and proves one of utmost interest, one in
which the pages of France's history are unrolled all too rapidly before
us. The air is fresh and life-giving as we race past the Arch, and so
on into the shade of the Bois, which this morning is so entrancing
that we speed through many of its avenues before starting onward for
the real ride of the day. The machine skims over these level roadways
soundlessly, and so smoothly that one may write if one were so disposed
on such a morning. Other autos rush past us and we hold on to our caps
and almost to our hair; thousands of bicycles flash along the by-paths;
Paris is out to enjoy itself as only Paris knows how to do.
Yonder is Bagatelle, to my thinking the most exquisite portion of
the Bois, and one so little known, to Americans at least. Enter its
gateways, and there, in the very centre of this French wood, you find a
great park intensely English in its characteristics. One might imagine
one's self in some English estate in the heart of that country, for,
save for the villa, there is nothing to remind one that this is France.
The villa itself is not of a size to greatly mar the picture, and as it
is empty and closed you will spend your time in the winding walks and
under the shade of the trees.
There are two statements as to the building of yonder villa, one, that
it was done by the Comte d'Artois on a wager with Marie Antoinette that
he would build a château in a month's time. This he accomplished. The
other statement makes the wager by that same nobleman with the Prince
of Wales and the time sixty days. Whichever is true, the villa was
built and for many years with its park belonged to and was the home
of Sir Richard Wallace, who housed his superb collection, now in
London, within its walls.
Bagatelle now belongs to Paris and is part of the Bois, though still
shut off by its walls and gateways, and you are only permitted to enter
on foot.
It would be pleasant to linger longer here to-day, but with Chartres
in our minds we move off, passing en route the Café de Madrid, which,
to the many thousands who visit or pass it by, means simply a place to
get something to eat and yet it occupies the site of the villa built by
Francis I. on the model of his prison in Madrid (hence the name). Here
the gay monarch first caused ladies to become a necessary part of his
Court, insisting that "a court without women is a year without spring
time and a spring time without roses."
With such power of compliment is it a marvel that he was a favourite of
the fair sex, or that his taste was so perfect that his son could do no
better than make his father's fair Diane the first lady of his Court?
"Madrid" was a house of pleasure. After Francis, Henry II. used it with
Diane de Poitiers, Charles IX. with Mlle. de Rouet. Henry III. changed
it from a menagerie of women to that of beasts. Here the gay Marguerite
divorced by Henry IV. spent her latter years; how, we can well imagine.
History is silent concerning it after that, though it was probably used
for the same purpose by the succeeding Louis until Louis XVI. ordered
its demolition. There is not a vestige of it left to-day, but on its
site stands the pink restaurant with its green benches and shading
trees, its white covered tables and laughing throngs, but it is too
early in the day for them as yet, and the place is rather silent as we
flash by it towards the murmuring river.
As we pass through Louveciennes, we pause a moment before the pavilion,
all that remains of the Villa of Madame du Barry. Everything else has
vanished and it is only the exterior of the pavilion that remains as
she beheld it.
What was her real character,--the daughter of a dressmaker, the
mistress of a king, the power before which all the Court bowed, and
whose influence over the aged monarch was unbounded? How did she
use it? Should we pity her fate, or turn in disgust from a thing so
degraded? Some authorities state that from the first to last she was
all bad,--the mistress of one Comte du Barry, she was, by the King's
orders, married to another, and so presented at Court where her power
soon eclipsed that of all others. The Court was at its lowest stage
of depravity during her time. She cost France thirty-five millions of
francs, and died a coward, showing more fear and terror on the scaffold
than any other woman who mounted its fatal platform. The only thing in
her favour was her patronage of art and of the men of letters.
The other side of the picture, told by an eye-witness, Madame Campan,
is far different, at least as regards the standing of the frail du
Barry. Therein we find her treated with indulgence by Louis XVI. and
Marie Antoinette, and we are told that with the latter she was, during
the dark days of the terror, in constant communication, giving the
queen all the information which she worked so hard to obtain,--that
her grief over the tragedy of the Queen was intense, and that she
desired to dispose of all she possessed in their favour, in re-payment
for the infinite goodness of the King and Queen towards herself.
Returning to France to join the man she loved, de Bressac, she was
forced to gaze upon his severed head carried on a pike past her windows
in Versailles.
Betrayed at last by the negro boy Zamore, whom she had benefited and
protected for years, she was guillotined.
She was evil, doubtless, but was there not enough good there to admit
of the hope of a greeting in another world such as came to the woman of
Palestine, "Neither do I condemn thee?"
The figures of history come trooping to us as we roll onward towards
Versailles, to which we give but a passing glance. Later on, we glide
through the woods where Racine first learned the language of poetry and
so on to Rambouillet, where Francis I. ended his days murmuring to his
son, "Beware of the Guise." The château is a gloomy pile of red brick,
and it was in a chamber in its great round tower that the soul of the
merry monarch sailed forth on its long journey, scarcely faster I think
we glide away from his palace to-day.
To me, properly dressed, this ride is delightful. I find a lined
leather jacket to be of all things the most comfortable, but poor
Narcissus is chattering with cold and so we leave the Château de
Maintenon for inspection on our return.
There is much rushing water around the château and its little village,
and we come soon upon a majestic aqueduct spanning the river,--a
structure which might be considered one of the immediate causes of
the French Revolution. Rising from the placid river and its bright
green banks, the arches are picturesque and beautiful to-day, and
yet, to build them, forty thousand troops were employed. The spot was
so unhealthy that the mortality was immense,--many thousands,--and
the dead were carried away by night that the workers might not be
discouraged or the pleasure of the King delayed, for this was to
furnish life to his fountains at Versailles. The King intended to carry
the waters of the river through a new channel eight leagues in length,
and hence this aqueduct, as it was necessary to connect two mountains.
However, before it was completed, the work was abandoned for the
hydraulics at Marly. This structure was partly demolished to build the
Château of Crécy for Madame de Pompadour. Of the forty-seven original
arches, fourteen remain, each eighty-three feet high with a forty-two
foot span. The loss of life caused in the building of this canal of
thirty-three miles does not appear to have excited much attention at
the time,--such was the power of the King, but the people remember, and
the grandchildren of these did remember in 1793, when, as usual, the
innocent suffered for the guilty.
Leaving the aqueduct with its burden of sorrow and the softly murmuring
river, we mount the hills and enter upon La Beauce, the finest corn
land in France. It spreads away from us, a vast plain, gently sloping
off for miles, until far in the hazy distance of this lovely spring
day the twin towers of the famous Cathedral of Chartres pierce the sky,
and from now on with scarcely any power, and soundless, the car speeds
on and on, ever faster and faster, until the wings come out on its hubs
once more, and we are flying, fairly flying.
If Sheridan had possessed an automobile that day at Winchester, T.
Buchanan Reid would have lost the opportunity to make him immortal, but
still "hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan, hurrah, hurrah for horse and man,"
and one feels like returning to boyhood's days and giving utterance to
some wild whoops as this car rushes onward and onward.
The vast plain spreads away, spangled with daisies. The hedges are all
a-blossom, the air is full of perfume and this old world seems young
once more, until, as we enter the ancient city of Chartres and pause
before her Cathedral, we suddenly drop back again into the Middle Ages.
[Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL AT CHARTRES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
This Cathedral of Notre Dame is considered by architects to be the most
perfect in France. Its "vast size" is also mentioned. As to the former
opinion, it arises, I think, so far as the exterior is concerned, from
its simplicity of outlines. One comprehends the whole at a glance, and
the eye is not confused and tired by a vast conglomeration of styles,
as is the case with many churches. If one were to see this at Chartres
first, many of the other cathedrals would impress one as over-dressed,
so to speak.
As for its size, after the churches of Rouen, Amiens, and Beauvais,
this does not impress me, as it is on a far smaller scale than any of
those edifices. For instance, the height of the nave is thirty-four
feet less than in the Cathedral of Amiens and forty-seven less than
that of Beauvais. Neither is it so long or wide as those of Rouen
and Amiens. However, while it is not so vast, it is in its interior
much more impressive than Amiens. Because of its ancient windows, it
holds a "dim religious light" under its arches soothing to mind and
heart. "Peace, be still," pervades the silence and follows you as a
benediction when you go hence. But before you go, gaze a while upon
the glory of these windows. Europe holds nothing like them. They are
perfect, and they are eight hundred years old. Other cathedrals have
a few or a few fragments, here are one hundred and thirty perfect
windows; and from the great rose circle forty feet in diameter to those
surrounding the aisles, all are full of that beautiful painted glass,
such as we are not able to produce in this latter day.
After all, the glory of this Church of our Lady is in such details as
this, and in her exquisite lace-like carvings in stone, surrounding the
outer wall of the choir. These, together with the Gothic porticoes on
the north and south side, form the objects of the greatest beauty and
interest in Chartres.
[Illustration: THE NORTH PORTAL OF THE CATHEDRAL AT CHARTRES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
[Illustration: THE SOUTH PORTAL OF THE CATHEDRAL AT CHARTRES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
[Illustration: STONE CARVINGS SURROUNDING THE CHOIR OF THE CATHEDRAL AT
CHARTRES
From a photograph]
The cathedral has been the object of vast pilgrimages because of a
sacred image of the Virgin, which stood in its crypt,--it was destroyed
in 1793. Henry IV. was crowned here, and here one still sees the
celebrated black image of the twelfth century which was crowned with a
"bonnet rouge" during the Terror, but is now restored to its ancient
occupation of receiving the veneration of the faithful.
[Illustration: THE VIERGE DU PILIER IN THE CATHEDRAL OF CHARTRES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
We were not impressed with the town of Chartres and so after a good
dinner and much whiskey for the frozen youth of the orchids, we bid
it farewell. While there we met some friends who had come from Naples
in their own car, a new one, and had spent a thousand dollars for it
in tires alone. It was now on the way to the shops in Paris, to be
"thoroughly overhauled" and it is not two months old. My red car is not
so gorgeous, but I enter it with every satisfaction, and my enjoyment
of my tour is not rendered any the less by the knowledge that though
I keep it a year or for ever, I shall have no such items to pay when
it leaves me, nor shall I have an old car on my hands, and that means
much, for the fashions of these machines change so from year to year
that a "last year's car" is worth little when you try to sell it.
However, as I have stated before, Jean says that this car is of such
sturdy make that it should last for years with small additional expense.
[Illustration: THE VIADUCT OF MAINTENON, NEAR CHARTRES
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
As we near again the aqueduct of Louis XIV. its arches frame most
picturesquely the Château de Maintenon, which stands some distance
beyond it, on the river's bank. Built by Cocquereau, the treasurer of
Louis XI., the castle was given by Louis XIV. to de Maintenon, and
here in 1685 in its little chapel, he is supposed to have married
her, though it is generally conceded that that ceremony occurred at
Versailles but that they came here immediately afterwards. The King
was but forty-seven and she fifty years of age, so that he lived with
her thirty years. She certainly possessed charms past understanding
to have enchained such a man at that comparatively youthful age, to
have enchained and held him as she did for thirty years. We picture the
widow Scarron as a pinched-nose, pale-faced woman of sour expression.
She must have been far different and far more to have held this
Louis, who probably was as nearly natural as it was possible for him
to be, here in these rooms which to-day are, so they tell us, as
she left them. If so, how did the Terrorists overlook them? Here is
the sitting-room with its frayed green satin furniture, and yonder
the bedroom and several other apartments. There was no great state
maintained in Maintenon and I doubt not that the worthy couple often
strolled down the banks of this placid river to look at the work on
yonder aqueduct outlined against the sky.
The King is described as always majestic, yet sometimes with gaiety,
leaving nothing out of place or to hazard before the world. Down
to the least gesture, his walk, his bearing, his countenance, all
were measured, decorous, grand and noble, and always natural, which
the unique, incomparable advantages of his whole appearance greatly
facilitated. In serious affairs, no man ever was more imposing, and
it was necessary to be accustomed to see him, if, in addressing him
one did not wish to break down. The respect, which his presence at
any place inspired, imposed silence and even a sort of dread. When
the mob tore him from the tomb at St. Denis they found a "black mass
of spices,"--the man was lost after death in perfumes, as during
life in pride, and his body was flung, together with all the other
royalties of France, into the great ditch at St. Denis, and, if
the story be true, his heart swallowed by a canon of Westminster was
interred with the very reverend gentleman in that sacred place. It
probably killed him. Another tale is to the effect that one Philip
Henri Schunck, a royalist did, in the year 1819 in Paris, make the
acquaintance of an artist named St. Martin, a friend of one of the
officials who superintended the opening of the royal monuments in the
Jesuits' churches. St. Martin states that he was present on the opening
of several monuments in order to secure the royal dust to be utilized
as "Momie" a valuable dark brown pigment which was often obtained from
mummy cases and ancient tombs. St. Martin converted part of the heart
of Louis XIV. to this use but returned the rest together with the heart
of Louis XII., intact to Schunck through whom they reached St. Denis
where they now are. St. Martin made this surrender during his last
illness--a time when he would scarcely have perpetrated a practical
joke on posterity. At the opening of the monuments two painters were
present; the other was Droling, and between them they bought eleven
hearts including those of Anne of Austria, Maria Theresa, Gaston of
Orleans, the regent, and Madame Henrietta and all were made into
"Momie." There is a picture in the Louvre by Droling--"Intérieur de
Cuisine"--whose rich colours may owe their brilliancy to these hearts
of dead royalties. The heart of Louis le Grand mashed up by a painter's
knife and spread on canvas--where now is your greatness, O King? But of
all this these murmuring waters at Maintenon told the anointed of God
nothing, but reflected his image as placidly as they do ours to-day.
Madame is described as a woman of very stately elegant figure and
bearing. Possessed of infinite tact she never lost her temper even
before de Montespan had been banished from Court. Nothing appeared to
vex her, and she would smile past and through all obstacles until she
obtained what she desired. With all, she would appear to have been an
austere woman, caring little for dress or the pageants of the Court and
much for power. In that, she bore a certain resemblance to Catherine
de Medici. As time wore on, she so influenced the King that we find
the red heels, diamond buckles, laces and plumes almost all gone. That
she ever loved the man is doubtful, and she certainly did not forgive
his dying reference to her age, which exceeded his by two years. Her
last words as she deserted him, which he probably heard--and which she
intended he should hear--were as heartless as only a woman of that
stamp could make them,--"There lies a man who never loved any one but
himself."
[Illustration: THE CHÂTEAU OF MAINTENON. FROM THE NORTH
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
To the students of history, Maintenon and its seclusion would seem a
place more to the liking of its austere mistress than Versailles, and
it is probable that she spent much time in the château. It may be that
here she induced Louis to sign that revocation of the Edict of Nantes
which so affected the fortunes of our own land, by driving the best of
the population of France down the Rhine valley and out on to the ocean.
On our return to Paris we pass by St. Cyr, the immense collection of
buildings which Louis built for Madame as a wedding gift and wherein
she held court at the head of a convent of two hundred and fifty noble
dames.
The place is at present a military school and we are not permitted to
enter, but there is after all nothing to see save the black marble slab
which covers her tomb. To St. Cyr she came a day before the king died,
leaving him to enter upon the great hereafter alone. Here she lived the
simplest and most austere of lives and here she ended her days.
A rushing ride through the afternoon brings us again to Paris, in
the twilight and into the Élysées Palace Hôtel where at least two
hundred of the gayest women of the under world are taking tea, and I
am surprised to find the majority of them speaking English, many, by
their accents, coming from our own country. It is a strange sight this;
London has some such scenes, but I know of none in New York, to its
credit be it said.[4]
[4] In view of the present conditions in one of New York's greatest
hotels, I must qualify that statement.--M. M. S.
With the auto disappeared also, but into the subway I think, the youth
with the spring suit and the orchid, both sadly drooping. I believe he
got into a boiling bath and filled up on what whiskeys and sodas Paris
had left, for twenty-four hours, resting the while at the bottom of a
deep, deep bed.