ones, is on all occasions a grievous injury to social enjoyment. It
began perhaps in vanity: fine ladies wished to show the world that
they had "a dear five hundred friends" ready to come at their call.
But as everybody complains of it as a bore, from Whitechapel to
Belgrave-square, and from the Faubourg St. Antoine to the Faubourg du
Roule, vanity would now be likely enough to put a general stop to it,
were it not that a most disagreeable species of economy prevents it.
"A large party kills such a prodigious number of birds," as I once
heard a friend of mine say, when pleading to her husband for
permission to overflow her dinner-table first, and then her
drawing-rooms, "that it is the most extravagant thing in the world to
have a small one." Now this is terrible, because it is true: but, at
least, those blest with wealth might enjoy the extreme luxury of
having just as many people about them as they liked, and no more; and
if they would but be so very obliging as to set the fashion, we all
know that it would speedily be followed in some mode or other by all
ranks, till it would be considered as positively mauvais ton to have
twice as many people in your house as you have chairs for them to sit
on.
The pleasantest evening parties remaining in Paris, now that such
delightful little committees as Molière brings together after the
performance of "L'Ecole des Femmes" can meet no more, are those
assembled by an announcement made by Madame une Telle to a somewhat
select circle, that she shall be at home on a certain evening in every
week, fortnight, or month, throughout the season. This done, nothing
farther is necessary; and on these evenings a party moderately large
drop in without ceremony, and depart without restraint. No preparation
is made beyond a few additional lights; and the albums and portfolios
in one room, with perhaps a harp or pianoforte in another, give aid,
if aid be wanted, to the conversation going on in both. Ices, eau
sucrée, syrup of fruits, and gaufres are brought round, and the party
rarely remain together after midnight.
This is very easy and agreeable,--incomparably better, no doubt, than
more crowded and more formal assemblées. Nevertheless, I am so
profoundly rococo as to regret heartily the passing away of the petits
soupers, which used to be the favourite scene of enjoyment, and the
chosen arena for the exhibition of wit, for all the beaux esprits,
male and female, of Paris.
I was told last spring, in London, that at present it was the parvenus
only who had incomes unscathed by the stormy times; and that,
consequently, it was rather elegant than otherwise to _chanter misère_
upon all occasions. I moreover heard a distinguished confectioner,
when in conversation with a lady on the subject of a ball-supper,
declare that "orders were so slack, that he had countermanded a set of
new ornaments which he had bespoken from Paris."
Such being the case, what an excellent opportunity is the present for
a little remuement in the style of giving entertainments! Poverty and
the clubs render fine dinners at once dangerous, difficult, and
unnecessary; but does it follow that men and women are no more to meet
round a banqueting table? "Because we are virtuous, shall there be no
more cakes and ale?"
I have often dreamed, that were I a great lady, with houses and lands,
and money at will, I would see if I could not break through the
tyrannous yoke of fashion, often so confessedly galling to the patient
wearers of it, and, in the place of heavy, endless dinners, which
often make bankrupt the spirit and the purse, endeavour to bring into
vogue that prettiest of all inventions for social enjoyment--a real
supper-table: not a long board, whereat aching limbs and languid eyes
may yawningly wait to receive from the hand of Mr. Gunter what must
cost the giver more, and profit the receiver less, than any imaginable
entertainment of the kind I propose, and which might be spread by an
establishment as simply monté as that of any gentleman in London.
Then think of the luxury of sitting down at a table neither steaming
with ragoûts, nor having dyspepsia hid under every cover; where
neither malignant gout stands by, nor servants swarm and listen to
every idle word; where you may renew the memory of the sweet strains
you have just listened to at the opera, instead of sitting upon thorns
while you know that your favourite overture is in the very act of
being played! All should be cool and refreshing, nectarine and
ambrosial,--uncrowded, easy, intimate, and as witty as Englishmen and
Englishwomen could contrive to make it!
Till this experiment has been fairly made and declared to fail, I will
never allow that the conversational powers of the women of England
have been fully proved and found wanting. The wit of Mercury might be
weighed to earth by the endurance of three long, pompous courses; and
would it not require spirits lighter and brighter than those of a Peri
to sustain a woman gaily through the solemn ceremonies of a fine
dinner?
In truth, the whole arrangement appears to me strangely defective and
ill-contrived. Let English ladies be sworn to obey the laws of fashion
as faithfully as they will, they cannot live till eight o'clock in the
evening without some refreshment more substantial than the first
morning meal. In honest truth and plain English, they all dine in the
most unequivocal manner at two or three o'clock; nay, many of those
who meet their hungry brethren at dinner-parties have taken coffee or
tea before they arrive there. Then what a distasteful, tedious farce
does the fine dinner become!
Now just utter a "Passe! passe!" and, by a little imaginative
legerdemain, turn from this needless dinner to such a petit souper as
Madame de Maintenon gave of yore. Let Fancy paint the contrast; and
let her take the gayest colours she can find, she cannot make it too
striking. You must, however, rouse your courage, and strengthen your
nerves, that they may not quail before this fearful word--SUPPER. In
truth, the sort of shudder I have seen pass over the countenances of
some fashionable men when it is pronounced may have been natural and
unaffected enough; for who that has been eating in despite of nature
from eight to eleven can find anything _appétissant_ in this word
"supper" uttered at twelve.
But if we could persuade Messieurs nos Maîtres, instead of injuring
their health by the long fast which now precedes their dinner, during
which they walk, talk, ride, drive, read, play billiards, yawn--nay,
even sleep, to while away the time, and to accumulate, as it were, an
appetite of inordinate dimensions;--if, instead of this, they would
for one season try the experiment of dining at five o'clock, and
condescend afterwards to permit themselves to be agreeable in the
drawing-room, they would find their wit sparkle brighter than the
champagne at their supper-tables, and moreover their mirrors would pay
them the prettiest compliments in the world before they had tried the
change for a fortnight.
But, alas! all this is very idle speculation; for I am not a great
lady, and have no power whatever to turn dull dinners into gay
suppers, let me wish it as much as I may.
LETTER LVIII.
Hôpital des Enfans Trouvés.--Its doubtful
advantages.--Story of a Child left there.
Like diligent sight-seers, as we are, we have been to visit the
hospital for les Enfans Trouvés. I had myself gone over every part of
the establishment several years before, but to the rest of my party it
was new--and certainly there is enough of strangeness in the spectacle
to repay a drive to the Rue d'Enfer. Our kind friend and physician,
Dr. Mojon, who by the way is one of the most amiable men and most
skilful physicians in Paris, was the person who introduced us; and his
acquaintance with the visiting physician, who attended us round the
rooms, enabled us to obtain much interesting information. But, alas!
it seems as if every question asked on this subject could only elicit
a painful answer. The charity itself, noble as it is in extent, and
admirable for the excellent order which reigns throughout every
department of it, is, I fear, but a very doubtful good. If it tend, as
it doubtless must do, to prevent the unnatural crime of infanticide,
it leads directly to one hardly less hateful in the perpetration, and
perhaps more cruel in its result,--namely, that of abandoning the
creature whom nature, unless very fearfully distorted, renders dearer
than life. Nor is it the least melancholy part of the speculation to
know that one fourth of the innocent creatures, who are deposited at
the average rate of above twenty each day, die within the first year
of their lives. But this, after all, perhaps is no very just cause of
lamentation: one of the sisters of charity who attend at the hospital
told me, in reply to an inquiry respecting the education of these
immortal but unvalued beings, that the charity extended not its cares
beyond preserving their animal life and health--that no education
whatever was provided for them, and that, unless some lucky and most
rare accident occurred to change their destiny, they generally grew up
in very nearly the same state as the animals bred upon the farms which
received them.
Peasants come on fixed days--two or three times a week, I believe--to
receive the children who appear likely to live, as nurslings; and they
convey them into the country, sometimes to a great distance from
Paris, partly for the sake of a consideration in money which they
receive, but chiefly for the value of their labour.
It is a singular fact, that during the years which immediately
followed the revolution, the number of children deposited at the
hospital was greatly diminished; but, among those deposited, the
proportion of deaths was still more greatly increased. In 1797, for
instance, 3,716 children were received, 3,108 of whom died.
I have lately heard a story, of which a child received at this
hospital is in some sort the heroine; and as I thought it sufficiently
interesting to insert in my note-book, I am tempted to transcribe it
for you. The circumstances occurred during the period which
immediately followed the first revolution; but the events were merely
domestic, and took no colour from the times.
M. le Comte de G*** was a nobleman of quiet and retired habits,
whom delicate health had early induced to quit the service, the court,
and the town. He resided wholly at a paternal chateau in Normandy,
where his forefathers had resided before him too usefully and too
unostentatiously to have suffered from the devastating effects of the
revolution. The neighbours, instead of violating their property, had
protected it; and in the year 1799, when my story begins, the count
with his wife and one little daughter were as quietly inhabiting the
mansion his ancestors had inhabited before him, as if it stood on
English soil.
It happened, during that year, that the wife of a peasant on his
estate, who had twice before made a journey to Paris, to take a
nursling from among the enfans trouvés, again lost a new-born baby,
and again determined upon supplying its place from the hospital. It
seemed that the poor woman was either a bad nurse or a most unlucky
one; for not only had she lost three of her own, but her two
foster-children also.
Of this excursion, however, she prophesied a better result; for the
sister of charity, when she placed in her arms the baby now consigned
to her care, assured her it was the loveliest and most promising child
she had seen deposited during ten years of constant attendance among
the enfans trouvés. Nor were her hopes disappointed: the little Alexa
(for such was the name pinned on her dress) was at five years old so
beautiful, so attractive, so touching, with her large blue eyes and
dark chesnut curls, that she was known and talked of for a league
round Pont St. Jacques. M. and Madame de G***, with their little
girl, never passed the cottage without entering to look at and caress
the lovely child.
Isabeau de G*** was just three years older than the little
foundling; but a most close alliance subsisted between them. The young
heiress, with all the pride of a juvenile senior, delighted in nothing
so much as in extending her patronage and protection to the pretty
Alexa; and the forsaken child gave her in return the _prémices_ of
her warm heart's fondness.
No Sunday evening ever passed throughout the summer without seeing all
the village assembled under an enormous lime-tree, that grew upon a
sort of platform in front of the primitive old mansion, with a
pepper-box at each corner, dignified with the title of Château
Tourelles.
The circular bench which surrounded this giant tree afforded a
resting-place for the old folks;--the young ones danced on the green
before them--and the children rolled on the grass, and made garlands
of butter-cups, and rosaries of daisies, to their hearts' content. On
these occasions it was of custom immemorial that M. le Comte and
Madame la Comtesse, with as many offspring as they were blessed
withal, should walk down the strait pebbled walk which led from the
chateau to the tree exactly as the clock struck four, there to remain
for thirty minutes and no longer, smiling, nodding, and now and then
gossiping a little, to all the poor bodies who chose to approach them.
Of late years, Mademoiselle Isabeau had established a custom which
shortened the time of her personal appearance before the eyes of her
future tenants to somewhat less than one-sixth of the allotted time;
for five minutes never elapsed after the little lady reached the tree,
before she contrived to slip her tiny hand out of her mother's, and
pounce upon the little Alexa, who, on her side, had long learned to
turn her beautiful eyes towards the chateau the moment she reached the
ground, nor removed them till they found Isabeau's bright face to rest
upon instead. As soon as she had got possession of her pet, the young
lady, who had not perhaps altogether escaped spoiling, ran off with
her, without asking leave of any, and enjoyed, either in the
aristocratic retirement of her own nursery, or her own play-room or
her own garden, the love, admiration, and docile obedience of her
little favourite.
But if this made a fête for Isabeau, it was something dearer still to
Alexa. It was during these Sabbath hours that the poor child learned
to be aware that she knew a great many more wonderful things than
either Père Gautier or Mère Françoise. She learned to read--she
learned to speak as good French as Isabeau or her Parisian governess;
she learned to love nothing so well as the books, and the pianoforte,
and the pictures, and the flowers of her pretty patroness; and,
unhappily, she learned also to dislike nothing so much as the dirty
cottage and cross voice of Père Gautier, who, to say truth, did little
else but scold the poor forsaken thing through every meal of the week,
and all day long on a Sunday.
Things went on thus without a shadow of turning till Alexa attained
her tenth, and Isabeau her thirteenth year. At this time the summer
Sunday evenings began to be often tarnished by the tears of the
foundling as she opened her heart to her friend concerning the
sufferings she endured at home. Père Gautier scolded more than ever,
and Mère Françoise expected her to do the work of a woman;--in short,
every day that passed made her more completely, utterly, hopelessly
wretched; and at last she threw her arms round the neck of Isabeau,
and told her so, adding, in a voice choked with sobs, "that she wished
... that she wished ... she could die!"
They were sitting together on a small couch in the young heiress's
play-room when this passionate avowal was made. The young lady
disengaged herself from the arms of the weeping child, and sat for a
few moments in deep meditation. "Sit still in this place, Alexa," she
said at length, "till I return to you;" and having thus spoken, with
an air of unusual gravity she left the room.
Alexa was so accustomed to show implicit obedience to whatever her
friend commanded, that she never thought of quitting the place where
she was left, though she saw the sun set behind the hills through a
window opposite to her, and then watched the bright horizontal beams
fading into twilight, and twilight vanishing in darkness. It was
strange, she thought, for her to be at the chateau at night; but
Mademoiselle Isabeau had bade her sit there, and it must be right.
Weary with watching, however, she first dropped her head upon the arm
of the sofa, then drew her little feet up to it, and at last fell fast
asleep. How long she lay there my story does not tell; but when she
awoke, it was suddenly and with a violent start, for she heard the
voice of Madame de G*** and felt the blaze of many lights upon
her eyes. In another instant, however, they were sheltered from the
painful light in the bosom of her friend.
Isabeau, her eyes sparkling with even more than their usual
brightness, her colour raised, and out of breath with haste and
eagerness, pressed her fondly to her heart, and covered her curls with
kisses; then, having recovered the power of speaking, she exclaimed,
"Look up, my dear Alexa! You are to be my own sister for evermore:
papa and mamma have said it. Cross Père Gautier has consented to give
you up; and Mère Françoise is to have little Annette Morneau to live
with her."
How this had all been arranged it is needless to repeat, though the
eager supplication of the daughter and the generous concessions of the
parents made a very pretty scene as I heard it described; but I must
not make my story too long. To avoid this, I will now slide over six
years, and bring you to a fine morning in the year 1811, when Isabeau
and Alexa, on returning from a ramble in the village, found Madame de
G*** with an open letter in her hand, and an air of unusual
excitement in her manner.
"Isabeau, my dear child," she said, "your father's oldest friend, the
Vicomte de C***, is returned from Spain. They are come to pass a
month at V----; and this letter is to beg your father and me to bring
you to them immediately, for they were in the house when you were
born, my child, and they love you as if you were their own. Your
father is gone to give orders about horses for to-morrow. Alexa dear,
what will you do without us?"
"Cannot Alexa go too, mamma?" said Isabeau.
"Not this time, my dear: they speak of having their chateau filled
with guests."
"Oh, dearest Isabeau! do not stand to talk about me; you know I do not
love strangers: let me help you to get everything ready."
The party set off the next morning, and Alexa, for the first time
since she became an inhabitant of Château Tourelles, was left without
Isabeau, and with no other companion than their stiff governess; but
she rallied her courage, and awaited their return with all the
philosophy she could muster.
Time and the hour wear through the longest fortnight, and at the end
of this term the trio returned again. The meeting of the two friends
was almost rapturous: Monsieur and Madame had the air of being
_parfaitement contents_, and all things seemed to go on as usual.
Important changes, however, had been decided on during this visit. The
Vicomte de C. had one son. He is the hero of my story, so believe him
at once to be a most charming personage in all ways--and in fact he
was so. A marriage between him and Isabeau had been proposed by his
father, and cordially agreed to by hers; but it was decided between
them that the young people should see something more of each other
before this arrangement was announced to them, for both parents felt
that the character of their children deserved and demanded rather more
deference to their inclinations that was generally thought necessary
in family compacts of this nature.
The fortnight had passed amidst much gaiety: every evening brought
waltzing and music; Isabeau sang _à ravir_; but as there were three
married ladies at the chateau who proclaimed themselves to be
unwearying waltzers, young Jules, who was constrained to do the
honours of his father's house, had never found an opportunity to dance
with Isabeau excepting for the last waltz, on the last evening; and
then there never were seen two young people waltzing together with
more awkward restraint.
Madame de G***, however, fancied that he had listened to
Isabeau's songs with pleasure, and moreover observed to Monsieur son
Mari that it was impossible he should not think her beautiful.
Madame was quite right--Jules did think her daughter beautiful: he
thought, too, that her voice was that of a syren, and that it would be
easy for him to listen to her till he forgot everything else in the
world.
I would not be so abrupt had I more room; but as it is necessary to
hasten over the ground, I must tell you at once that Isabeau, on her
side, was much in the same situation. But as a young lady should never
give her heart anywhere till she is asked, and in France not before
her husband has politely expressed his wish to be loved as he leads
her to her carriage from the altar, Isabeau took especial good care
that nobody should find out the indiscretion her feelings had
committed, and having not only a mind of considerable power, but also
great confidence and some pride in her own strength, she felt little
fear but that she should be able both to conceal and conquer a passion
so every way unauthorised.
Now it unfortunately happened that Jules de C. was, unlike the
generality of his countrymen, extremely romantic;--but he had passed
seven years in Spain, which may in some degree excuse it. His
education, too, had been almost wholly domestic: he knew little of
life except from books, and he had learned to dread, as the most
direful misfortune that could befall him, the becoming enamoured of,
and perhaps marrying, a woman who loved him not.
Soon after the departure of Isabeau and her parents, the vicomte
hinted to his son that he thought politeness required a return of the
visit of the de G*** family; and as both himself and his lady
were _un peu incommodés_ by some malady, real or supposititious, he
conceived that it would be right that he, Jules, should present
himself at Château Tourelles to make their excuses. The heart of Jules
gave a prodigious leap; but it was not wholly a sensation of pleasure:
he felt afraid of Isabeau,--he was afraid of loving her,--he
remembered the cold and calm expression of countenance with which she
received his farewell--his trembling farewell--at the door of the
carriage. Yet still he accepted the commission; and in ten days after
the return of the de G*** family, Jules de C. presented himself
before them. His reception by the comte and his lady was just what may
be imagined,--all kindness and cordiality of welcome. That of Isabeau
was constrained and cold. She turned a little pale, but then she
blushed again; and the shy Jules saw nothing but the beauty of the
blush--was conscious only of the ceremonious curtsy, and the cold
"Bonjour, Monsieur Jules." As for Alexa, her only feeling was that of
extreme surprise. How could it be that Isabeau had seen a person so
very graceful, handsome and elegant, and yet never say one word to her
about him!... Isabeau must be blind, insensible, unfeeling, not to
appreciate better such a being as that. Such was the effect produced
by the appearance of Jules on the mind of Alexa,--the beautiful, the
enthusiastic, the impassioned Alexa. From that moment a most cruel
game of cross purposes began to be played at Château Tourelles. Alexa
commenced by reproaching Isabeau for her coldness, and ended by
confessing that she heartily wished herself as cold. Jules ceased not
to adore Isabeau, but every day strengthened his conviction that she
could never love him; and Isabeau, while every passing hour showed
more to love in Jules, only drew from thence more reasons for
combating and conquering the flame that inwardly consumed her.
There could not be a greater contrast between two girls, both good,
than there was both in person and mind between these two young
friends. Isabeau was the prettiest little brunette in France--et c'est
beaucoup dire: Alexa was, perhaps, the loveliest blonde in the world.
Isabeau, with strong feelings, had a command over herself that never
failed: in a good cause, she could have perished at the stake without
a groan. Alexa could feel, perhaps, almost as strongly as her friend;
but to combat those feelings was beyond her power: she might have died
to show her love, but not to conceal it; and had some fearful doom
awaited her, she would not have lived to endure it.