LE JOUR DE L'ANNÉE
The closing days of 1900 had been unusually mild. Versailles townsfolk,
watching the clear skies for sign of change, declared that it would be
outside all precedent if Christmas week passed without snow. But,
defiant of rule, sunshine continued, and the new century opened
cloudless and bright.
[Illustration: De L'eau Chaude]
Karl, entering with hot water, gave us seasonable greeting, and as we
descended the stair, pretty Rosine, brushing boots at the open window of
the landing, also wished us a smiling _bonne nouvelle année_. But within
or without there was little token of gaiety. Sundry booths for the sale
of gingerbread and cheap _jouets_, which had been erected in the Avenue
de St. Cloud, found business languishing, though a stalwart countryman
in blouse and sabots, whose stock-in-trade consisted of whirligigs
fashioned in the semblance of _moulins rouges_ and grotesque blue
Chinamen which he carried stuck into a straw wreath fixed on a tall
pole, had no lack of custom.
The great food question never bulks so largely in the public interest as
at the close of a year, so perhaps it was but natural that the greatest
appreciation of the festive traditions of the season should be evinced
by the shops devoted to the sale of provender. Turkeys sported scarlet
bows on their toes as though anticipating a dance rather than the oven;
and by their sides sausages, their somewhat plethoric waists girdled by
pink ribbon sashes, seemed ready to join them in the frolic. In one
cookshop window a trio of plaster nymphs who stood ankle-deep in a pool
of crimped green paper, upheld a huge garland of cunningly moulded wax
roses, dahlias, and lilac, above which perched a pheasant regnant. This
trophy met with vast approbation until a rival establishment across the
way, not to be outdone, exhibited a centrepiece of unparalleled
originality, consisting as it did of a war scene modelled entirely in
lard. Entrenched behind the battlements of the fort crowning an
eminence, Boers busied themselves with cannon whose aim was carefully
directed towards the admiring spectators outside the window, not at the
British troops who were essaying to scale the greasy slopes. Half way up
the hill, a miniature train appeared from time to time issuing from an
absolutely irrelevant tunnel, and, progressing at the rate of quite a
mile an hour, crawled into the corresponding tunnel on the other side.
At the base of the hill British soldiers, who seemed quite cognisant of
the utter futility of the Boer gunnery, were complacently driving off
cattle. Captious critics might have taken exception to the fact that the
waxen camellias adorning the hill were nearly as big as the battlements,
and considerably larger than the engine of the train. But fortunately
detractors were absent, and such trifling discrepancies did not lessen
the genuine delight afforded the spectators by this unique design which,
as a card proudly informed the world, was entirely the work of the
employés of the firm.
It was in a pâtisserie in the Rue de la Paroisse that we noticed an
uninviting compound labelled "Pudding Anglais, 2 fr. 1/2 kilo." A little
thought led us to recognise in this amalgamation a travesty of our old
friend plum-pudding; but so revolting was its dark, bilious-looking
exterior that we felt its claim to be accounted a compatriot almost
insulting. And it was with secret gratification that towards the close
of January we saw the same stolid, unhappy blocks awaiting purchasers.
[Illustration: The Mill]
The presence of the customary Tuesday market kept the streets busy till
noon. But when the square was again empty of sellers and buyers
Versailles relapsed into quietude. I wonder if any other town of its
size is as silent as Versailles. There is little horse-traffic. Save for
the weird, dirge-like drone of the electric cars, which seems in perfect
consonance with the tone of sadness pervading the old town whose glory
has departed, the clang of the wooden shoes on the rough pavement, and
the infrequent beat of hoofs as a detachment of cavalry moves by,
unnatural stillness seems to prevail.
Of street music there was none, though once an old couple wailing a
plaintive duet passed under our windows. Britain is not esteemed a
melodious nation, yet the unclassical piano is ever with us, and even in
the smallest provincial towns one is rarely out of hearing of the
insistent note of some itinerant musician. And no matter how far one
penetrates into the recesses of the country, he is always within reach
of some bucolic rendering of the popular music-hall ditty of the year
before last. But never during our stay in Versailles, a stay that
included what is supposedly the gay time of the year, did we hear the
sound of an instrument, or--with the one exception of the old couple,
whom it would be rank flattery to term vocalists--the note of a voice
raised in song.
With us, New Year's Day was a quiet one. A dozen miles distant, Paris
was welcoming the advent of the new century in a burst of feverish
excitement. But despite temptations, we remained in drowsy Versailles,
and spent several of the hours in the little room where two pallid
Red-Cross knights, who were celebrating the occasion by sitting up for
the first time, waited expectant of our coming as their one link with
the outside world.
[Illustration: The Presbytery]
It was with a sincere thrill of pity that at _déjeûner_ we glanced round
the _salle-à-manger_ and found all the Ogams filling their accustomed
solitary places. Only Dunois the comparatively young, and presumably
brave, was absent. The others occupied their usual seats, eating with
their unfailing air of introspective absorption. Nobody had cared enough
for these lonely old men to ask them to fill a corner at their tables,
even on New Year's Day. To judge by their regular attendance at the
hotel meals, these men--all of whom, as shown by their wearing the red
ribbon of the Legion of Honour, had merited distinction--had little
hospitality offered them. Most probably they offered as little, for,
throughout our stay, none ever had a friend to share his breakfast or
dinner.
The bearing of the hotel guests suggested absolute ignorance of one
another's existence. The Colonels, as I have said in a previous chapter,
were exceptions, but even they held intercourse only without the hotel
walls. Day after day, month after month, year after year as we were
told, these men had fed together, yet we never saw them betray even the
most cursory interest in one another. They entered and departed without
revealing, by word or look, cognisance of another human being's
presence. Could one imagine a dozen men of any other nationality thus
maintaining the same indifference over even a short period? I hope
future experience will prove me wrong, but in the meantime my former
conception of the French as a nation overflowing with _bonhomie_ and
_camaraderie_ is rudely shaken.
The day of the year would have passed without anything to distinguish it
from its fellows had not the proprietor, who, by the way, was a Swiss,
endeavoured by sundry little attentions to reveal his goodwill. Oysters
usurped the place of the customary _hors d'oeuvres_ at breakfast, and
the meal ended with _café noir_ and cognac handed round by the
deferential Iorson as being "offered by the proprietor," who, entering
during the progress of the _déjeûner_, paid his personal respects to his
_clientèle_.
The afternoon brought us a charming discovery. We had a boy guest with
us at luncheon, a lonely boy left at school when his few
compatriots--save only the two Red-Cross prisoners--had gone home on
holiday. The day was bright and balmy; and while strolling in the park
beyond the Petit Trianon, we stumbled by accident upon the _hameau_, the
little village of counterfeit rusticity wherein Marie Antoinette loved
to play at country life.
Following a squirrel that sported among the trees, we had strayed from
the beaten track, when, through the leafless branches, we caught sight
of roofs and houses and, wandering towards them, found ourselves by the
side of a miniature lake, round whose margin were grouped the daintiest
rural cottages that monarch could desire or Court architect design.
History had told us of the creation of this unique plaything of the
capricious Queen, but we had thought of it as a thing of the past, a toy
whose fragile beauty had been wrecked by the rude blows of the
Revolution. The matter-of-fact and unromantic Baedeker, it is true, gives
it half a line. After devoting pages to the Château, its grounds,
pictures, and statues, and detailing exhaustively the riches of the
Trianons, he blandly mentions the gardens of the Petit Trianon as
containing "some fine exotic trees, an artificial lake, a Temple of
Love, and a hamlet where the Court ladies played at peasant life."
It is doubtful whether ten out of every hundred tourists who, Baedeker
in hand, wander conscientiously over the grand Château--Palace, alas! no
longer--ever notice the concluding words, or, reading its lukewarm
recommendation, deem the hamlet worthy of a visit. The Château is an
immense building crammed with artistic achievements, and by the time the
sightseer of ordinary capacity has seen a tenth of the pictures, a third
of the sculpture, and a half of the fountains, his endurance, if not all
his patience, is exhausted.
I must acknowledge that we, too, had visited Versailles without
discovering that the _hameau_ still existed; so to chance upon it in the
sunset glow of that winter evening seemed to carry us back to the time
when the storm-cloud of the Revolution was yet no larger than a man's
hand; to the day when Louis XVI., making for once a graceful speech,
presented the site to his wife, saying: "You love flowers. Ah! well, I
have a bouquet for you--the Petit Trianon." And his Queen, weary of the
restrictions of Court ceremony--though it must be admitted that the
willful Marie Antoinette ever declined to be hampered by
convention--experiencing in her residence in the little house freedom
from etiquette, pursued the novel pleasure to its furthest by commanding
the erection in its grounds of a village wherein she might the better
indulge her newly fledged fancy for make-believe rusticity.
About the pillars supporting the verandah-roof of the chief cottage and
that of the wide balcony above, roses and vines twined lovingly. And
though it was the first day of January, the rose foliage was yet green
and bunches of shrivelled grapes clung to the vines. It was lovely then;
yet a day or two later, when a heavy snowfall had cast a white mantle
over the village, and the little lake was frozen hard, the scene seemed
still more beautiful in its ghostly purity.
At first sight there was no sign of decay about the long-deserted
hamlet. The windows were closed, but had it been early morning, one
could easily have imagined that the pseudo villagers were asleep behind
the shuttered casements, and that soon the Queen, in some charming
_déshabillé_, would come out to breathe the sweet morning air and to
inhale the perfume of the climbing roses on the balcony overlooking the
lake, wherein gold-fish darted to and fro among the water-lilies; or
expect to see the King, from the steps of the little mill where he
lodged, exchange blithe greetings with the maids of honour as they
tripped gaily to the _laiterie_ to play at butter-making, or sauntered
across the rustic bridge on their way to gather new-laid eggs at the
farm.
The sunset glamour had faded and the premature dusk of mid-winter was
falling as, approaching nearer, we saw where the roof-thatch had
decayed, where the insidious finger of Time had crumbled the stone
walls. A chilly wind arising, moaned through the naked trees. The shadow
of the guillotine seemed to brood oppressively over the scene, and,
shuddering, we hastened away.
[Illustration: To the Place of Rest]