PARIS BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.
I wished to go to the Rue Grange Batélière, where M. Drouet lived,
and where he had appointed a rendezvous at the “Hotel des Postes;”
but M. Duplay insisting that I should partake of the hospitality of a
bed, as I had already done of the table, I felt that I could not well
refuse.
It was arranged that I should share Félicién’s room, in which they
made me up a bed. On the morrow, at daybreak, I should be at liberty
to seek out M. Drouet, after my hair had been arranged according to
the new fashion.
As that was an operation which must be performed sooner or later, on
entering the house I seized upon a pair of scissors, handed them to
Mademoiselle Cornelie, and asked her to perform on me the same feat
that Delilah performed on Samson—viz., to cut off my flowing locks.
The sacrifice was consummated amid the laughter of the two girls.
One person alone did not join in the merriment thus provoked, and
that person was he whose room I was going to share for the night.
It was evident to me that he loved Cornelie, and was jealous of
me—absurd idea; but the first stage of jealousy is absurdity.
The operation was over; they led me to a mirror to see if I were
satisfied with the change worked in my personal appearance. At
the first glance I felt inclined to laugh myself; I was more than
clipped—I was almost shorn.
My ridiculous appearance restored Félicién to good humor with
Mademoiselle Cornelie; and, as the servant appeared to announce that
the room was prepared, he asked me to follow him, and he would show
the way.
The first things that I remarked on entering the room were a pair of
fencing foils, and a couple of masks to protect the face. I thought
these rather strange ornaments for the bed-chamber of an apprenticed
carpenter.
“Do you know what those are for?” asked he with a braggart air.
“Yes,” replied I.
“Can you use them?”
“Not particularly well at present; but another month or two in the
Salle d’Armes will improve me, I hope.”
“To-morrow,” said he, “if you like, we will have a bout.”
“I am not sure whether I shall be able to. I fear that M. Drouet will
be anxious about me.”
“Will you have a bout now?” said he.
“Certainly,” I replied, “if you wish it; but we have plenty of time
before us. I shall not leave Paris without returning to thank M.
Duplay, and then we shall have a better opportunity.”
These evasive answers made Félicién think that I was not particularly
anxious to cross foils with him; so he commenced a recital of his
prowess and so, kindly lulled me to sleep.
I awoke, as usual, at daybreak, and slipping quietly out of bed, I
dressed myself with as little noise as possible, so as not to awaken
Félicién, and when ready, I left the room, and descended into the
court.
All of M. Duplay’s household were asleep, but the door was left open,
so that I did not waste an instant.
The clock of the Church of Assumption sounded the half-after four
o’clock as I left the house. I was utterly incapable of finding my
way about Paris, in which I had arrived only the evening before; but
the solemnity to be observed on the morrow had early drawn crowds
abroad, so the streets were pretty full notwithstanding the untimely
hour.
I asked my nearest route; they pointed out to me the Boulevards.
Arrived there, I had only to follow that by no means despicable
portion of my body, my nose, and, in a very short time, I discovered
the Rue Grange Batélière. Ten minutes after, I entered the “Hotel des
Postes,” and discovered, to my great joy, that M. Drouet was within.
I rushed to his chamber, and opened the door gently. He was not only
awake, but on his feet.
“Ah! there you are!” said he, after having looked at me for an
instant without having recognised me, on account of the disappearance
of my hair. “Where have you been, you vagabond? I have been in a nice
state of mind, I can assure you. It appears that you have been taken
in a trap, like a fox, and been compelled to leave your tail behind
you.”
“But you also have acquiesced in the mode.”
“Yes; but not with the same enthusiasm as you. You have been foolish
enough to cross the Pont Neuf, my boy.”
Not knowing what happened on the Pont Neuf, I could not appreciate M.
Drouet’s pleasantry.
I told him all that had happened—from my meeting with the carpenter,
on the Champ de Mars, to my visit to the Jacobin Club.
“Very good,” said Drouet. “You passed last night among the
aristocracy—you shall pass this among the _canaille_.”
“Shall we spend the night together?” cried I, joyously.
“Yes; I will take you to the Cordeliers, where you will meet neither
dukes, nor princes, nor marquises, but three citizens, whom you tell
me you have often thought of—to wit, Marat, Danton, and Camille
Desmoulins; in the meantime, we will take a stroll round Paris.”
“What I wish most to see, M. Drouet, is the Bastille.”
“You mean to say, the place where it stood?”
“Yes.”
“Come along, then; we will breakfast at the first restaurant we find,
and then, hey! for the Place de la Bastille.”
M. Drouet knew Paris very well, having been there about twenty times.
We were not long before we arrived at a wall, on which was written,
in large letters:—
“Here was the Bastille.”
Why did the germs of the Revolution suffocate themselves under those
dismal arches? Why, in 1300, did they discourse the holy gospel? Why,
during the captivity of King John, did the Provost of Paris, Etienne
Marcel, making himself a dictator, establish a popular club there,
equal to that of the eighteenth century? Why were the Cordeliers,
especially, of all the minor orders of St. Francis, republican in
their tendencies—so much so, that, three centuries before Barbeuf and
Prudhomme, they had dreamt the abolition of the rights of property?
The 13th of July was Vesuvius, with its fire-ejecting crater,
threatening to destroy Naples, and overturn the world.
To-day, all has ended in smoke—with, perhaps, a few cinders as a
memorial.