There was a picture of Dagote’s which was at this moment an object of
fashionable curiosity in Paris. It was a representation of one of the
many charitable actions of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, “then
Dauphiness--at that time full of life, and splendour, and joy, adorning
and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in;” and yet
diffusing life, and hope, and joy, in that lower sphere, to which the
radiance of the great and happy seldom reaches. The Dauphiness was
at that time the pride of France, and the darling of Paris; not
only worshipped by the court, but loved by the people. While she was
Dauphiness, and during the commencement of her reign, every thing, even
disastrous accidents, and the rigour of the season, served to give her
fresh opportunity of winning the affection and exciting the enthusiasm
of the people. When, during the festivities on her marriage, hundreds
were crushed to death by the fall of a temporary building, the
sensibility of the Dauphiness, the eagerness with which she sent all
her money to the lieutenant de police for the families of those who had
perished, conciliated the people, and turned even the evil presage to
good. Again, during a severe frost, her munificence to the suffering
poor excited such gratitude, that the people erected to her honour a
vast pyramid of snow--Frail memorial!--“These marks of respect were
almost as transitory as the snowy pyramid.”
Ormond went with Mademoiselle O’Faley one morning to see the picture
of the Dauphiness; and he had now an opportunity of seeing a display of
French sensibility, that eagerness to feel and to excite _a sensation_;
that desire to _produce an effect_, to have a scene; that half real,
half theatric enthusiasm, by which the French character is peculiarly
distinguished from the English. He was perfectly astonished by the
quantity of exclamations he heard at the sight of this picture; the
lifting up of hands and eyes, the transports, the ecstasies, the
tears--the actual tears that he saw streaming in despite of rouge. It
was real! and it was not real feeling! Of one thing he was clear--that
this superfluity of feeling or exaggeration of expression completely
silenced him, and made him cold indeed: like one unskilled or dumb he
seemed to stand.
“But are you of marble?” cried Mademoiselle--“where is your sensibilité
then?”
“I hope it is safe at the bottom of my heart,” said Ormond; “but when
it is called for, I cannot always find it--especially on these public
occasions.”
“Ah! but what good all the sensibilité in the world do at the bottom of
your heart, where nobody see it? It is on these public occasions too,
you must always contrive and find it quick at Paris, or after all you
will seem but an Englishman.”
“I must be content to seem and to be what I am,” said Ormond, in a tone
of playful but determined resignation.
“Bon!” said a voice near him. Mademoiselle went off in impatience to
find some better auditor--she did not hear the “_Bon_.”
Ormond turned, and saw near him a gentleman, whom he had often met at
some of the first houses in Paris--the Abbé Morellet, then respected
as the most _reasonable_ of all the wits of France, and who has since,
through all the trying scenes of the revolution, through the varieties
of unprincipled change, preserved unaltered the integrity and frankness
of his character; retaining even to his eighty-seventh year all his
characteristic warmth of heart and clearness of understanding--_le doyen
de la littérature Françoise_--the love, respect, and admiration, of
every honest heart in France. May he live to receive among all the other
tributes, which his countrymen pay publicly and privately to his merit,
this record of the impression his kindness left on grateful English
hearts!
Our young hero had often desired to be acquainted with the Abbé; but the
Abbé had really hitherto passed him over as a mere young man of fashion,
a mere Milord Anglois, one of the ephemeral race, who appear in Parisian
society, vanish, and leave no trace behind. But now he did him the
honour to enter into conversation with him. The Abbé peculiarly disliked
all affectation of sentiment and exaggeration: they were revolting to
his good sense, good taste, and feeling. Ormond won directly his good
opinion and good-will, by having insisted upon it to Mademoiselle, that
he would not for the sake of fashion or effect pretend to feel more than
he really did.
“Bah!” said the Abbé, “hear all those women now and all those men--they
do not know what they are saying--they make me sick. And, besides, I
am afraid these flattering courtiers will do no good to our young
Dauphiness, on whom so much of the future happiness or misery of France
will depend. Her heart is excellent, and they tell me she announces a
strong character; but what head of a young beauty and a young Queen will
be able to withstand perpetual flattery? They will lead her wrong, and
then will be the first to desert her--trust me, I know Paris. All this
might change as quickly as the turn of a weathercock; but I will not
trouble you with forebodings perhaps never to be realized. You see
Paris, Monsieur, at a fortunate time,” continued he; “society is now
more agreeable, has more freedom, more life and variety, than at any
other period that I can remember.”
Ormond replied by a just compliment to the men of letters, who at this
period added so much to the brilliancy and pleasure of Parisian society.
“But you have seen nothing of our men of literature, have you?” said the
Abbé.
“Much less than I wish. I meet them frequently in society, but as,
unluckily, I have no pretensions to their notice, I can only catch a
little of their conversation, when I am fortunate enough to be near
them.”
“Yes,” said the Abbé, with his peculiar look and tone of good-natured
irony, “between the pretty things you are saying and hearing from--Fear
nothing, I am not going to name any _one_, but--every pretty woman
in company. I grant you it must be difficult to hear reason in such a
situation--as difficult almost as in the midst of the din of all the
passions at the faro-table. I observe, however, that you play with
astonishing coolness--there is something still--wanting. Excuse me--but
you interest me, monsieur; the determination not to play at all--
“Beyond a certain sum I have resolved never to play,” said Ormond.
“Ah! but the appetite grows--l’appetit vient en mangeant--the danger is
in acquiring the taste--excuse me if I speak too freely.”
“Not at all--you cannot oblige me more. But there is no danger of my
acquiring a taste for play, because I am determined to lose.”
“Bon!” said the Abbé; “that is the most singular determination I ever
heard: explain that to me, then, Monsieur.”
“I have determined to lose a certain sum--suppose five hundred guineas.
I have won and lost backwards and forwards, and have been longer about
it than you would conceive to be probable; but it is not lost yet. The
moment it is, I shall stop short. By this means I have acquired all the
advantages of yielding to the fashionable madness, without risking my
future happiness.”
The Abbé was pleased with the idea, and with the frankness and firmness
of our young hero.
“Really, Monsieur,” said he, “you must have a strong head--you, le bel
Irlandois--to have prevented it from being turned with all the flattery
you have received in Paris. There is nothing which gets into the
head--worse still, into the heart,--so soon, so dangerously, as the
flattery of pretty women. And yet I declare you seem wonderfully sober,
considering.”
“Ne jurez pas,” said Ormond; “but at least in one respect I have not
quite lost my senses; I know the value and feel the want of a safe, good
guide in Paris: if I dared to ask such a favour, I should, since he has
expressed some interest for me, beg to be permitted to cultivate the
acquaintance of M. l’Abbé Morellet.”
“Ah ça--now my head will turn, for no head can stand the dose of
flattery that happens to suit the taste. I am particularly flattered by
the idea of being a safe, good friend; and frankly, if I can be of any
service to you, I will. Is there any thing I can do for you?”
Ormond thanked him, and told him that it was his great ambition to
become acquainted with the celebrated men of literature in Paris--he
said he should feel extremely obliged if M. Morellet would take occasion
to introduce him to any of them they might meet in society.
“We must do better for you,” said the abbé--“we must show you our men of
letters.” He concluded by begging Ormond to name a day when he could do
him the honour to breakfast with him. “I will promise you Marmontel,
at least; for he is just going to be married to my niece, and of him we
shall be secure: as to the rest I will promise nothing, but do as much
as I can.”
The men of letters about this period in Paris, as the Abbé explained to
Ormond, began to feel their own power and consequence, and had assumed a
tone of independence, as yet tempered with due respect for rank. Many
of them lived or were connected with men of rank, by places about the
court, by secretaryships and pensions, obtained through court influence.
Some were attached by early friendship to certain great families; had
apartments to themselves in their hotels, where they received what
friends they pleased; and, in short, lived as if they were at home.
Their company was much sought for by the great; and they enjoyed good
houses, good tables, carriages, all the conveniences of life, and all
the luxuries of the rich, without the trouble of an establishment. Their
mornings were their own, usually employed in study; and the rest of the
day they gave themselves to society. The most agreeable period of French
literary society was, perhaps, while this state of things lasted.
The Abbé Morellet’s breakfast was very agreeable; and Ormond saw at his
house what had been promised him, many of the literary men at
Paris. Voltaire was not then in France; and Rousseau, who was always
quarrelling with somebody, and generally with every body, could not be
prevailed upon to go to this breakfast. Ormond was assured that he lost
nothing by not seeing him, or by not hearing his conversation, for that
it was by no means equal to his writings; his temper was so susceptible
and wayward, that he was not fit for society--neither capable of
enjoying, nor of adding to its pleasures. Ormond heard, perhaps, more
of Rousseau and Voltaire, and learnt more of their characters, by the
anecdotes that were related, and the bon-mots that were repeated, than
he could have done if they had been present. There was great variety of
different characters and talents at this breakfast; and the Abbé amused
himself by making his young friend guess who the people were, before he
told their names. It was happy for Ormond that he was acquainted with
some of their writings (this he owed to Lady Annaly’s well-chosen
present of French books). He was fortunate in his first
guess--Marivaux’s conversation was so like the style of his writings, so
full of hair-breadth distinctions, subtle exceptions, and metaphysical
refinement and digressions, that Ormond soon guessed him, and was
applauded for his quickness. Marmontel he discovered, by his being the
only man in the room who had not mentioned to him any of “Les Contes
Moraux.” But there was one person who set all his skill at defiance: he
pronounced that he was no author--that he was l’ami de la maison: he was
so indeed wherever he went--but he was both a man of literature, and a
man of deep science--no less a person than the great D’Alembert. Ormond
thought D’Alembert and Marmontel were the two most agreeable men in
company. D’Alembert was simple, open-hearted, unpresuming, and cheerful
in society. Far from being subject to that absence of mind with which
profound mathematicians are sometimes reproached, D’Alembert was present
to every thing that was going forward--every trifle he enjoyed with the
zest of youth, and the playfulness of childhood. Ormond confessed that
he should never have guessed that he was a great mathematician and
profound calculator.
Marmontel was distinguished for combining in his conversation, as in his
character, two qualities for which there are no precise English words,
_naïveté_ and _finesse_. Whoever is acquainted with Marmontel’s writings
must have a perfect knowledge of what is meant by both.
It was fortunate for our young hero that Marmontel was, at this time, no
longer the dissipated man he had been during too great a period of his
life. He had now returned to his early tastes for simple pleasures and
domestic virtues--had formed that attachment which afterwards made the
happiness of his life: he was just going to be married to the amiable
Mdlle. Montigny, a niece of the Abbé Morellet. She and her excellent
mother lived with him; and Ormond was most agreeably surprised and
touched at the unexpected sight of an amiable, united, happy family,
when he had expected only a meeting of literati.
The sight of this domestic happiness reminded him of the
Annalys--brought the image of Florence to his mind. If she had been but
sincere, how he should have preferred her to all he had seen!
It came upon him just at the right moment. It contrasted with all the
dissipation he had seen, and it struck him the more strongly, because
it could not possibly have been prepared as a moral lesson to make an
impression. He saw the real, natural course of things--he heard in a
few hours the result of the experience of a man of great vivacity, great
talents, who had led a life of pleasure, and who had had opportunities
of seeing and feeling all that it could possibly afford, at the period
of the greatest luxury and dissipation ever known in France. No evidence
could be stronger than Marmontel’s in favour of virtue and of domestic
life, nor could any one express it with more grace and persuasive
eloquence.
It did Ormond infinite good. He required such a lesson at this juncture,
and he was capable of taking it--it recalled him to his better self.
The good Abbé seemed to see something of what in Ormond’s mind, and
became still more interested about him.
“Ah, ça,” said he to Marmontel, as soon as Ormond was gone, “that young
man is worth something: I thought he was only _le bel Irlandois_, but
I find he is much more. We must do what we can for him, and not let
him leave Paris, as so many do, having seen only the worst part of our
society.”
Marmontel, who had also been pleased with him, was willing, he said, to
do any thing in his power; but he could scarcely hope that they had the
means of withdrawing from the double attraction of the faro-table and
coquetry, a young man of that age and figure.
“Fear nothing, or rather hope every thing,” said the Abbé: “his head and
his heart are more in our favour, trust me, than his age and his figure
are against us. To begin, my good Marmontel, did not you see how much he
was struck and _edified_ by your reformation?”
“Ah! if there was another Mdlle. de Montigny for him, I should fear
nothing, or rather hope every thing,” said Marmontel “but where shall he
find such another in all Paris?”
“In his own country, perhaps, all in good time,” said the Abbé.
“In his own country?--True,” cried Marmontel, “now you recall it to my
mind, how eager he grew in disputing with Marivaux upon the distinction
between _aimable_ and _amiable_. His description of an _amiable woman_,
according to the English taste, was, I recollect, made _con amore_;
and there was a sigh at the close which came from the heart, and which
showed the heart was in England or Ireland.”
“Wherever his heart is, _c’est bien placé_,” said the Abbé. “I like
him--we must get him into good company--he is worthy to be acquainted
with your amiable and _aimable_ Madame de Beauveau and Madame de Seran.”
“True,” said Marmontel; “and for the honour of Paris, we must convince
him that he has taken up false notions, and that there is such a thing
as conjugal fidelity and domestic happiness here.”
“Bon. That is peculiarly incumbent on the author of _Les Contes
Moraux_,” said the Abbé.
It happened, fortunately for our hero, that Madame de Connal was, about
this time, engaged to pass a fortnight at the country house of Madame
de Clairville. During her absence, the good Abbé had time to put in
execution all his benevolent intentions, and introduced his young friend
to some of the really good company of Paris. He pointed out to him at
Madame Geoffrin’s, Madame de Tencin’s, Madame du Detfand’s, and Madame
Trudaine’s, the difference between the society at the house of a rich
farmer general--or at the house of one connected with the court, and
with people in place and political power--and the society of mixed rank
and literature. The mere passing pictures of these things, to one who
was not to live in Paris, might not, perhaps, except as a matter of
curiosity, be of much value; but his judicious friend led Ormond from
these to make comparisons and deductions which were of use to him all
his life afterwards.