DEPARTURE FROM PARIS--THE CEMETERY OF THE PICPUS--RIDE THROUGH
THE FOREST OF FONTAINEBLEAU TO SENS--THE CATHEDRAL--TOMB OF THE
DAUPHINS--THE GREAT ROUTE TO GENEVA--STONED BY BOYS--TONNERRE
To those who love her, Paris shows even yet glimpses of the olden days,
and as we flash past the Louvre and along the banks of the Seine, many
a stately façade rises above us. This section was Royal Paris for
many centuries, and it is to be regretted that the government of the
city does not assume control and preserve what is left of the private
hotels, at least preserve their exteriors. To build a modern city is
at all times possible, but once down, these ancient houses can never
be replaced, and their existence brings thousands of strangers and
much money to this capital of France and its people. Something of such
preservation has been done, but there is much which should be preserved
which stands in danger. The Hôtel de Sens, unique and perfect but a
year or so ago, is gone, and for what?
We leave the Column Bastille well to our left, and speed off down the
Rue du Faubourg St. Antoine to the Place du Trône,--now, Place de la
République--a vast open space guarded by two stately columns and from
which broad avenues stretch away until lost in perspective. Here Louis
XIV. erected a throne and received the homage of Paris when he returned
from his Spanish marriage. All the gorgeousness and glitter of his
capital gathered then with no shadows on their sky of what was to come.
Just here where he was enthroned stood, later, a scaffold holding two
long high posts with a glittering knife flashing up and down, a hedge
of steel surrounded it and a howling mob thronged the place. When the
Place de la Revolution became too slippery with blood, the guillotine
came here, and here, between June 14 and July 27, 1794, fell thirteen
hundred of the most illustrious heads of France. For any reason or for
no reason, whole families came together and were glad to be allowed
to go "together." It is related that a little child, a girl, at the
Luxembourg, then a prison, came racing and shouting from the door to
the waiting trumbril with the cry, "O Mama, Mama, my name _is_ on your
list and I can go too."
Close by in what is now the neighbouring cemetery of the Picpus they
found rest.
Leaving the Place du Trône on the city side, by the first street to
the left we enter a quiet quarter of Paris which the tide of life
rarely invades. These streets are of the oldest in Paris, and this
convent before us, now called the Sacred Heart, was once that of
the Bernardin-Benedictin, into which Jean Valjean penetrated, and I
must confess that it is with him rather than the illustrious dead
that my thoughts are busy as we draw up before the gates. The whole
neighbourhood seems deserted, the yellow streets are as silent as the
convent and its grave-yard, and one wonders over which of these walls
Jean Valjean made that wonderful escape into this abode of Perpetual
Adoration, of Perpetual Silence.
[Illustration: THE TOMB OF LAFAYETTE IN THE PICPUS CEMETERY, PARIS
From a photograph]
But our George has jangled the porter's bell and the gate is shortly
opened by a sad-faced Sister, who, with down-cast eyes conducts us
through the long convent gardens, past the buildings which one may
not enter, and into an oblong enclosure crowded with flat tombstones,
upon which as we pass down the walks we read the most historical names
in France, until upon reaching the last in the line, the name of La
Fayette is before us. Two little American flags adorn it and hang
motionless in the quiet air. But even La Fayette's tomb cannot hold
our thoughts long here. The eye is irresistibly drawn to a small door
in a wall just beyond it, guarded by an iron grill and surmounted by a
tablet bearing a simple inscription.
Gazing inward you see a space some seventy-five feet square and guarded
by high walls. Its grass is shaded by some cypress trees, a simple
iron cross rises in the centre. There are no stones or monuments of
any sort to mark this last resting place of the flower of the French
aristocracy. Thirteen hundred and six were brought here from the Place
du Trône and were cast pell mell into the fosse.
[Illustration: THE CEMETERY OF THE PICPUS. LAFAYETTE'S TOMB ON THE
RIGHT, TABLET TO ANDRÉ CHÉNIER ON THE LEFT
From a photograph by the author]
Amongst them, the figure of the poet André Chénier will probably be
remembered the longest. His only crime lay in his beautiful verses,
in his life and character, all of which were a reproach to the wolves
of the Revolution. The night following his execution a cart loaded with
twenty-five headless corpses left the Place du Trône and wended its
way to this deserted quarry, into which for six weeks had been tumbled
pell mell, stripped of their clothing by the men in charge of the work,
the victims of these last days of the Terror. This fosse remained open
from day to day awaiting further executions and no day passed without
its additions to the mournful assemblage. Here André Chénier was buried
unknown to his family who sought for his grave, for the work was done
in secret and these grave diggers never spoke of their task as to do
so would have insured their joining the silent throng. The secret was
discovered by a poor workwoman, Mlle. Paris, who followed the cart
containing the body of her father, and each week she would repair
thither to pray on the brink of his grave. The days of Robespierre
accomplished and the Terror ended, the plot was bought by an inhabitant
of the Faubourg de Picpus and enclosed in walls, after which it was
blessed by a rebellious priest, rebellious against the Commune, in
hiding in Paris.
In 1802, when Mme. de Montagu Noailles returned to France, her first
care was to discover the grave of her mother guillotined in 1794. Her
search was fruitless until she heard by accident of this workwoman, and
so in the end succeeded in buying this sacred plot of ground.
The ancestor of Prince Salm Krybourg, who now owns the spot, was the
last victim of the guillotine and sleeps here with all the others.
None have the privilege of sepulchre in the outer enclosure unless
they be of blood kin to those who suffered in the Terror and were
buried in this fosse. If there be any aristocracy in death it is here
in this cemetery of the Picpus. As I turn for a last glimpse, the
spring sunshine is filtering down through the thickness of the trees
caressing the grass within, and the tombs without, in a tender sort of
way, as though to make up to the dead, in some small degree, for all
the horrors which had been hurled upon them when alive. So we leave
them under the benediction of spring and follow our sad faced guide who
utters no word or sound, but stands with bowed head and crossed hands
at the great gateway until we pass outward and away.
After such a spot it is well to come down to the cheerful commonplace
streets of this farthest corner of Paris on our way to the South, and
yet as we roll onward through the sunshine, it is some time before
we recover our usual spirits and the world seems gay once more, and
here is one of the charms of automobiling. If all goes well with your
machine, and such has been the case with mine, you cannot long remain
sad or gloomy, ill or desponding. The rushing air and the glory of
living wraps you round about and you cannot but be joyous. Care may be
back there somewhere, but with good luck he cannot catch you. To-day
the air is moist and warm and with the smell of the asphalt comes the
odour of wood violets. The market women, as they rattle past us with
their loads of bright yellow carrots and well washed turnips appear
jolly and good-natured. Doubtless they could enjoy a good day at the
guillotine, but they are not bent upon that now. So we roll onward
through mile after mile of streets and a quarter of Paris heretofore
unknown to me; rather uninteresting on the whole and yet to me no
section of this city is without great interest, and the panorama of her
people is an inexhaustible study, and one of which I never tire.
Paris, like its wickedness, lays fast hold upon those who would leave
it, as the traveller in an auto will find to his discomfort. Of all the
exits from the great city there is but one, that to Brittany, which is
open and straight away. As we entered two weeks ago from Beauvais we
were entangled in a maze of streets which appeared to have no outlet,
and so again as we leave for the south. It is all fair sailing down the
magnificent avenues of the city, but once past the walls our trouble
begins. George gets lost several times and it is with great relief
that we at last leave the houses and roll out once more on one of the
splendid highways of France.
One half the day is misty and rainy with two short, sharp showers,
but with all, the ride is beautiful, passing by the lovely Seine and
through the forest of Fontainebleau. It is dark as we roll into the
quaint old town of Sens and seek shelter in the comfortable Hôtel de
Paris. Again I am welcomed by "Madame" who shows me to a comfortable
room and soon has a fire blazing,--acceptable, though this is the sixth
of May.
After all, I enjoy these quaint hotels. They are so honest, their
people so wholesome, and the whole such a relief after the
perfume-laden air of Paris. Dinner at this hotel is served at a long
white covered table, with its palms and bottles of wine, around which
sit serious-looking provincials with their napkins tucked up under one
ear and spread over ample stomachs. What am I writing, they wonder.
They say nothing to each other but all stare at me. The newsman comes
in and sells the Paris papers and high overhead chime softly the
Cathedral bells noted for their silvery tones.
The importance of Sens in other days is attested by its ancient and
majestic gateways, but the Sens of to-day is a small place clustering
around the portals of its Cathedral, which is supposed to be the parent
of the Choir of Canterbury, that church having been built by Williams
of Sens. There is a resemblance but I shall not enter into description
here, after having described so many other cathedrals of France.
[Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL AT SENS
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
Passing its portals, one will linger a moment before the tomb of
the Dauphin, father of Louis XVI., speculating as to whether he was
a stronger character than his son, and as to what effect he would
have had, had he worn the crown, though realising that nothing could
have prevented that deluge of 1793. A Napoléon in command would have
dispersed many of the mobs, spared the world much of the horrible
bloodshed, but the Bourbon throne was doomed.
Again, if the king had possessed a modern fire department he could have
gained time if not saved his head. There is no mob which can stand
against water as applied by a fire-engine. It has been tried and
always with success. It would have saved the day at Versailles and the
Tuileries and would do so at the present time in Russia--but to return
to Sens.
There is another monument not mentioned in the books and one of great
beauty. It is to some archbishop whose name I have forgotten. The
statue kneels on a black marble sarcophagus and is of white marble.
It is not so much in the statue itself that the beauty lies, but in
the wonderfully natural arrangement of the robe which flows behind
in billowy folds, until one touches it and marvels that it is really
marble and not heavy satin.
Thomas à Becket fled to Sens to escape Henry II., and you may still see
his robes and mitre in the treasury of this church. You may say your
prayers if you desire at the same altar where he knelt, one wonders
whether it was in adoration of himself or of God.
In Sens you again encounter the work of Viollet-le-Duc, who has
restored wherever he found it possible, but there are bits which
escaped his eye if you care to hunt them out. I find myself before one
now, off in a quiet corner. It is only a detached head on a column and
the eyes gaze into mine in a sidewise fashion as though desirous of
telling me its story,--just as the lips of the deserted Buddhas in the
forests of Java seem ever quivering to speak. They say you were Jean
du Cognot,--but will you pardon a wanderer in these latter days if he
asks, who was Jean, and why his head is here all alone on this column?
Was there ever any more to him? Did he listen to the booming of these
great bells rolling out their summons above us? The eyes gaze downward
at me in a sad sort of fashion and seem to follow me reproachfully as I
pass outward.
The people are streaming in for High Mass and it would be more
respectful to get our car away from the sacred edifice, and so we move
off down the streets of the little city and on into the fair land about
it.
As we leave Sens her beautiful bells shower a benediction upon all
mankind. Their tone is wonderfully soft and mellow and follows us far
out over the misty meadows and by the placid river. A light rain sets
in and the skies give no hope of a pleasant day, but an hour later the
blue patch appears, and when we stop for luncheon, the sun is shining.
This is the main route to Geneva, the highways are superb, and great
machines are rushing past us to and from Paris. Later on, speeding
moderately, we are approaching a bridge where some boys are standing,
when, as we move by, one of them casts a handful of small stones
straight in our faces. Fortunately they did not strike our eyes, or
there would have been a catastrophe more or less serious. Quickly
stopping the car, George rushes after the fleeing culprits, but without
success, those remaining on the bridge calmly tell us that we have no
right to go so fast, and we reply that another time we shall answer by
shooting. We were not going faster than fifteen miles an hour and the
bridge was not in town, making the act one of pure deviltry. It was
the first of its kind which we have encountered since starting from
Nice. These towns nearly all have signs by the highway regulating speed
within their limits and we have always obeyed the notice.
Later we entered a very beautiful avenue of trees leading into
Tonnerre, a melancholy old place with little of interest, save the
Great Hall of a hospital founded by Marguerite de Bourgogne, seven
hundred years ago,--a vast chapel resembling St. Stephen's hall in
Westminster and quite as large.