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The Paris Sketch Book

W >> William Makepeace Thackeray >> The Paris Sketch Book




There is only time to take a hasty glance as we pass: it
commemorates some of the wonderful feats of arms of Ludovicus
Magnus, and abounds in ponderous allegories--nymphs, and river-
gods, and pyramids crowned with fleurs-de-lis; Louis passing over
the Rhine in triumph, and the Dutch Lion giving up the ghost, in
the year of our Lord 1672. The Dutch Lion revived, and overcame
the man some years afterwards; but of this fact, singularly enough,
the inscriptions make no mention. Passing, then, round the gate,
and not under it (after the general custom, in respect of triumphal
arches), you cross the boulevard, which gives a glimpse of trees
and sunshine, and gleaming white buildings; then, dashing down the
Rue de Bourbon Villeneuve, a dirty street, which seems interminable,
and the Rue St. Eustache, the conductor gives a last blast on his
horn, and the great vehicle clatters into the court- yard, where the
journey is destined to conclude.

If there was a noise before of screaming postilions and cracked
horns, it was nothing to the Babel-like clatter which greets us
now. We are in a great court, which Hajji Baba would call the
father of Diligences. Half a dozen other coaches arrive at the
same minute--no light affairs, like your English vehicles, but
ponderous machines, containing fifteen passengers inside, more in
the cabriolet, and vast towers of luggage on the roof: others are
loading: the yard is filled with passengers coming or departing;--
bustling porters and screaming commissionaires. These latter seize
you as you descend from your place,--twenty cards are thrust into
your hand, and as many voices, jabbering with inconceivable
swiftness, shriek into your ear, "Dis way, sare; are you for ze'
'Otel of Rhin?' 'Hôtel de l'Amirauté!'--'Hotel Bristol,' sare!--
Monsieur, 'l'Hôtel de Lille?' Sacr-rrré 'nom de Dieu, laissez
passer ce petit, monsieur! Ow mosh loggish ave you, sare?"

And now, if you are a stranger in Paris, listen to the words of
Titmarsh.--If you cannot speak a syllable of French, and love
English comfort, clean rooms, breakfasts, and waiters; if you would
have plentiful dinners, and are not particular (as how should you
be?) concerning wine; if, in this foreign country, you WILL have
your English companions, your porter, your friend, and your brandy-
and-water--do not listen to any of these commissioner fellows, but
with your best English accent, shout out boldly, "MEURICE!" and
straightway a man will step forward to conduct you to the Rue de
Rivoli.

Here you will find apartments at any price: a very neat room, for
instance, for three francs daily; an English breakfast of eternal
boiled eggs, or grilled ham; a nondescript dinner, profuse but
cold; and a society which will rejoice your heart. Here are young
gentlemen from the universities; young merchants on a lark; large
families of nine daughters, with fat father and mother; officers of
dragoons, and lawyers' clerks. The last time we dined at
"Meurice's" we hobbed and nobbed with no less a person than Mr.
Moses, the celebrated bailiff of Chancery Lane; Lord Brougham was
on his right, and a clergyman's lady, with a train of white-haired
girls, sat on his left, wonderfully taken with the diamond rings of
the fascinating stranger!

It is, as you will perceive, an admirable way to see Paris,
especially if you spend your days reading the English papers at
Galignani's, as many of our foreign tourists do.

But all this is promiscuous, and not to the purpose. If,--to
continue on the subject of hotel choosing,--if you love quiet,
heavy bills, and the best table-d'hôte in the city, go, O stranger!
to the "Hôtel des Princes;" it is close to the Boulevard, and
convenient for Frascati's. The "Hôtel Mirabeau" possesses scarcely
less attraction; but of this you will find, in Mr. Bulwer's
"Autobiography of Pelham," a faithful and complete account.
"Lawson's Hotel" has likewise its merits, as also the "Hôtel de
Lille," which may be described as a "second chop" Meurice.

If you are a poor student come to study the humanities, or the
pleasant art of amputation, cross the water forthwith, and proceed
to the "Hôtel Corneille," near the Odéon, or others of its species;
there are many where you can live royally (until you economize by
going into lodgings) on four francs a day; and where, if by any
strange chance you are desirous for a while to get rid of your
countrymen, you will find that they scarcely ever penetrate.

But above all, O my countrymen! shun boarding-houses, especially if
you have ladies in your train; or ponder well, and examine the
characters of the keepers thereof, before you lead your innocent
daughters, and their mamma, into places so dangerous. In the first
place, you have bad dinners; and, secondly, bad company. If you
play cards, you are very likely playing with a swindler; if you
dance, you dance with a ---- person with whom you had better have
nothing to do.


Note (which ladies are requested not to read).--In one of these
establishments, daily advertised as most eligible for English, a
friend of the writer lived. A lady, who had passed for some time
as the wife of one of the inmates, suddenly changed her husband and
name, her original husband remaining in the house, and saluting her
by her new title.




A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS.


A million dangers and snares await the traveller, as soon as he
issues out of that vast messagerie which we have just quitted: and
as each man cannot do better than relate such events as have
happened in the course of his own experience, and may keep the
unwary from the path of danger, let us take this, the very earliest
opportunity, of imparting to the public a little of the wisdom
which we painfully have acquired.

And first, then, with regard to the city of Paris, it is to be
remarked, that in that metropolis flourish a greater number of
native and exotic swindlers than are to be found in any other
European nursery. What young Englishman that visits it, but has
not determined, in his heart, to have a little share of the
gayeties that go on--just for once, just to see what they are like?
How many, when the horrible gambling dens were open, did resist a
sight of them?--nay, was not a young fellow rather flattered by a
dinner invitation from the Salon, whither he went, fondly
pretending that he should see "French society," in the persons of
certain Dukes and Counts who used to frequent the place?

My friend Pogson is a young fellow, not much worse, although
perhaps a little weaker and simpler than his neighbors; and coming
to Paris with exactly the same notions that bring many others of
the British youth to that capital, events befell him there, last
winter, which are strictly true, and shall here be narrated, by way
of warning to all.

Pog, it must be premised, is a city man, who travels in drugs for a
couple of the best London houses, blows the flute, has an album,
drives his own gig, and is considered, both on the road and in the
metropolis, a remarkably nice, intelligent, thriving young man.
Pogson's only fault is too great an attachment to the fair:--"the
sex," as he says often "will be his ruin:" the fact is, that Pog
never travels without a "Don Juan" under his driving-cushion, and
is a pretty-looking young fellow enough.

Sam Pogson had occasion to visit Paris, last October; and it was in
that city that his love of the sex had liked to have cost him dear.
He worked his way down to Dover; placing, right and left, at the
towns on his route, rhubarb, sodas, and other such delectable wares
as his masters dealt in ("the sweetest sample of castor oil, smelt
like a nosegay--went off like wildfire--hogshead and a half at
Rochester, eight-and twenty gallons at Canterbury," and so on), and
crossed to Calais, and thence voyaged to Paris in the coupé of the
Diligence. He paid for two places, too, although a single man, and
the reason shall now be made known.

Dining at the table-d'hôte at "Quillacq's"--it is the best inn on
the Continent of Europe--our little traveller had the happiness to
be placed next to a lady, who was, he saw at a glance, one of the
extreme pink of the nobility. A large lady, in black satin, with
eyes and hair as black as sloes, with gold chains, scent-bottles,
sable tippet, worked pocket-handkerchief, and four twinkling rings
on each of her plump white fingers. Her cheeks were as pink as the
finest Chinese rouge could make them. Pog knew the article: he
travelled in it. Her lips were as red as the ruby lip salve: she
used the very best, that was clear.

She was a fine-looking woman, certainly (holding down her eyes, and
talking perpetually of "mes trente-deux ans"); and Pogson, the
wicked young dog, who professed not to care for young misses,
saying they smelt so of bread-and-butter, declared, at once, that
the lady was one of HIS beauties; in fact, when he spoke to us
about her, he said, "She's a slap-up thing, I tell you; a reg'lar
good one; ONE OF MY SORT!" And such was Pogson's credit in all
commercial rooms, that one of HIS sort was considered to surpass
all other sorts.

During dinner-time, Mr. Pogson was profoundly polite and attentive
to the lady at his side, and kindly communicated to her, as is the
way with the best-bred English on their first arrival "on the
Continent," all his impressions regarding the sights and persons he
had seen. Such remarks having been made during half an hour's
ramble about the ramparts and town, and in the course of a walk
down to the custom-house, and a confidential communication with the
commissionaire, must be, doubtless, very valuable to Frenchmen in
their own country; and the lady listened to Pogson's opinions: not
only with benevolent attention, but actually, she said, with
pleasure and delight. Mr. Pogson said that there was no such thing
as good meat in France, and that's why they cooked their victuals
in this queer way; he had seen many soldiers parading about the
place, and expressed a true Englishman's abhorrence of an armed
force; not that he feared such fellows as these--little whipper-
snappers--our men would eat them. Hereupon the lady admitted that
our Guards were angels, but that Monsieur must not be too hard upon
the French; "her father was a General of the Emperor."

Pogson felt a tremendous respect for himself at the notion that he
was dining with a General's daughter, and instantly ordered a
bottle of champagne to keep up his consequence.

"Mrs. Bironn, ma'am," said he, for he had heard the waiter call her
by some such name, "if you WILL accept a glass of champagne, ma'am,
you'll do me, I'm sure, great honor: they say it's very good, and a
precious sight cheaper than it is on our side of the way, too--not
that I care for money. Mrs. Bironn, ma'am, your health, ma'am."

The lady smiled very graciously, and drank the wine.

"Har you any relation, ma'am, if I may make so bold; har you
anyways connected with the family of our immortal bard?"

"Sir, I beg your pardon."

"Don't mention it, ma'am: but BiRONN and BYron are hevidently the
same names, only you pronounce in the French way; and I thought you
might be related to his lordship: his horigin, ma'am, was of French
extraction:" and here Pogson began to repeat,--


"Hare thy heyes like thy mother's, my fair child,
Hada! sole daughter of my 'ouse and 'art?"


"Oh!" said the lady, laughing, "you speak of LOR Byron?

"Hauthor of 'Don Juan,' 'Child 'Arold,' and 'Cain, a Mystery,'"
said Pogson:--"I do; and hearing the waiter calling you Madam la
Bironn, took the liberty of hasking whether you were connected with
his lordship; that's hall:" and my friend here grew dreadfully red,
and began twiddling his long ringlets in his fingers, and examining
very eagerly the contents of his plate.

"Oh, no: Madame la Baronne means Mistress Baroness; my husband was
Baron, and I am Baroness."

"What! 'ave I the honor--I beg your pardon, ma'am--is your ladyship
a Baroness, and I not know it? pray excuse me for calling you
ma'am."

The Baroness smiled most graciously--with such a look as Juno cast
upon unfortunate Jupiter when she wished to gain her wicked ends
upon him--the Baroness smiled; and, stealing her hand into a black
velvet bag, drew from it an ivory card-case, and from the ivory
card-case extracted a glazed card, printed in gold; on it was
engraved a coronet, and under the coronet the words


BARONNE DE FLORVAL-DELVAL,

NÉE DE MELVAL-NORVAL.

Rue Taitbout.


The grand Pitt diamond--the Queen's own star of the garter--a
sample of otto-of-roses at a guinea a drop, would not be handled
more curiously, or more respectfully, than this porcelain card of
the Baroness. Trembling he put it into his little Russia-leather
pocket-book: and when he ventured to look up, and saw the eyes of
the Baroness de Florval-Delval, née de Melval-Norval, gazing upon
him with friendly and serene glances, a thrill of pride tingled
through Pogson's blood: he felt himself to be the very happiest
fellow "on the Continent."

But Pogson did not, for some time, venture to resume that sprightly
and elegant familiarity which generally forms the great charm of
his conversation: he was too much frightened at the presence he
was in, and contented himself by graceful and solemn bows, deep
attention, and ejaculations of "Yes, my lady," and "No, your
ladyship," for some minutes after the discovery had been made.
Pogson piqued himself on his breeding: "I hate the aristocracy,"
he said, "but that's no reason why I shouldn't behave like a
gentleman."

A surly, silent little gentleman, who had been the third at the
ordinary, and would take no part either in the conversation or in
Pogson's champagne, now took up his hat, and, grunting, left the
room, when the happy bagman had the delight of a tête-à-tête. The
Baroness did not appear inclined to move: it was cold; a fire was
comfortable, and she had ordered none in her apartment. Might
Pogson give her one more glass of champagne, or would her ladyship
prefer "something hot." Her ladyship gravely said, she never took
ANYTHING hot. "Some champagne, then; a leetle drop?" She would!
she would! O gods! how Pogson's hand shook as he filled and
offered her the glass!

What took place during the rest of the evening had better be
described by Mr. Pogson himself, who has given us permission to
publish his letter.


"QUILLACQ'S HOTEL (pronounced KILLYAX), CALAIS.

"DEAR TIT,--I arrived at Cally, as they call it, this day, or,
rather, yesterday; for it is past midnight, as I sit thinking of a
wonderful adventure that has just befallen me. A woman in course;
that's always the case with ME, you know: but oh, Tit! if you COULD
but see her! Of the first family in France, the Florval-Delvals,
beautiful as an angel, and no more caring for money than I do for
split peas.

"I'll tell you how it occurred. Everybody in France, you know,
dines at the ordinary--it's quite distangy to do so. There was
only three of us to-day, however,--the Baroness, me, and a gent,
who never spoke a word; and we didn't want him to, neither: do you
mark that?

"You know my way with the women: champagne's the thing; make 'em
drink, make 'em talk;--make 'em talk, make 'em do anything. So I
orders a bottle, as if for myself; and, 'Ma'am,' says I, 'will you
take a glass of Sham--just one?' Take it she did--for you know
it's quite distangy here: everybody dines at the table de hôte, and
everybody accepts everybody's wine. Bob Irons, who travels in
linen on our circuit, told me that he had made some slap-up
acquaintances among the genteelest people at Paris, nothing but by
offering them Sham.

"Well, my Baroness takes one glass, two glasses, three glasses--the
old fellow goes--we have a deal of chat (she took me for a military
man, she said: is it not singular that so many people should?), and
by ten o'clock we had grown so intimate, that I had from her her
whole history, knew where she came from, and where she was going.
Leave me alone with 'em: I can find out any woman's history in half
an hour.

"And where do you think she IS going? to Paris to be sure: she has
her seat in what they call the coopy (though you're not near so
cooped in it as in our coaches. I've been to the office and seen
one of 'em). She has her place in the coopy, and the coopy holds
THREE; so what does Sam Pogson do?--he goes and takes the other
two. Ain't I up to a thing or two? Oh, no, not the least; but I
shall have her to myself the whole of the way.

"We shall be in the French metropolis the day after this reaches
you: please look out for a handsome lodging for me, and never mind
the expense. And I say, if you could, in her hearing, when you
came down to the coach, call me Captain Pogson, I wish you would--
it sounds well travelling, you know; and when she asked me if I was
not an officer, I couldn't say no. Adieu, then, my dear fellow,
till Monday, and vive le joy, as they say. The Baroness says I
speak French charmingly, she talks English as well as you or I.

"Your affectionate friend,

"S. Pogson."


This letter reached us duly, in our garrets, and we engaged such an
apartment for Mr. Pogson, as beseemed a gentleman of his rank in
the world and the army. At the appointed hour, too, we repaired to
the Diligence office, and there beheld the arrival of the machine
which contained him and his lovely Baroness.

Those who have much frequented the society of gentlemen of his
profession (and what more delightful?) must be aware, that, when
all the rest of mankind look hideous, dirty, peevish, wretched,
after a forty hours' coach-journey, a bagman appears as gay and
spruce as when he started; having within himself a thousand little
conveniences for the voyage, which common travellers neglect.
Pogson had a little portable toilet, of which he had not failed to
take advantage, and with his long, curling, flaxen hair, flowing
under a seal-skin cap, with a gold tassel, with a blue and gold
satin handkerchief, a crimson velvet waistcoat, a light green cut-
away coat, a pair of barred brickdust-colored pantaloons, and a
neat mackintosh, presented, altogether, as elegant and distingué an
appearance as any one could desire. He had put on a clean collar
at breakfast, and a pair of white kids as he entered the barrier,
and looked, as he rushed into my arms, more like a man stepping out
of a band-box, than one descending from a vehicle that has just
performed one of the laziest, dullest, flattest, stalest, dirtiest
journeys in Europe.

To my surprise, there were TWO ladies in the coach with my friend,
and not ONE, as I had expected. One of these, a stout female,
carrying sundry baskets, bags, umbrellas, and woman's wraps, was
evidently a maid-servant: the other, in black, was Pogson's fair
one, evidently. I could see a gleam of curl-papers over a sallow
face,--of a dusky nightcap flapping over the curl-papers,--but
these were hidden by a lace veil and a huge velvet bonnet, of which
the crowning birds-of-paradise were evidently in a moulting state.
She was encased in many shawls and wrappers; she put, hesitatingly,
a pretty little foot out of the carriage--Pogson was by her side in
an instant, and, gallantly putting one of his white kids round her
waist, aided this interesting creature to descend. I saw, by her
walk, that she was five-and-forty, and that my little Pogson was a
lost man.

After some brief parley between them--in which it was charming to
hear how my friend Samuel WOULD speak, what he called French, to a
lady who could not understand one syllable of his jargon--the
mutual hackney-coaches drew up; Madame la Baronne waved to the
Captain a graceful French curtsy. "Adyou!" said Samuel, and waved
his lily hand. "Adyou-addimang."

A brisk little gentleman, who had made the journey in the same
coach with Pogson, but had more modestly taken a seat in the
Imperial, here passed us, and greeted me with a "How d'ye do?" He
had shouldered his own little valise, and was trudging off,
scattering a cloud of commissionaires, who would fain have spared
him the trouble.

"Do you know that chap?" says Pogson; "surly fellow, ain't he?"

"The kindest man in existence," answered I; "all the world knows
little Major British."

"He's a Major, is he?--why, that's the fellow that dined with us at
Killyax's; it's lucky I did not call myself Captain before him, he
mightn't have liked it, you know:" and then Sam fell into a
reverie;--what was the subject of his thoughts soon appeared.

"Did you ever SEE such a foot and ankle?" said Sam, after sitting
for some time, regardless of the novelty of the scene, his hands in
his pockets, plunged in the deepest thought.

"ISN'T she a slap-up woman, eh, now?" pursued he; and began
enumerating her attractions, as a horse-jockey would the points of
a favorite animal.

"You seem to have gone a pretty length already," said I, "by
promising to visit her to-morrow."

"A good length?--I believe you. Leave ME alone for that."

"But I thought you were only to be two in the coupé, you wicked
rogue."

"Two in the coopy? Oh! ah! yes, you know--why, that is, I didn't
know she had her maid with her (what an ass I was to think of a
noblewoman travelling without one!) and couldn't, in course,
refuse, when she asked me to let the maid in."

"Of course not."

"Couldn't, you know, as a man of honor; but I made up for all
that," said Pogson, winking slyly, and putting his hand to his
little bunch of a nose, in a very knowing way.

"You did, and how?"

"Why, you dog, I sat next to her; sat in the middle the whole way,
and my back's half broke, I can tell you:" and thus, having
depicted his happiness, we soon reached the inn where this back-
broken young man was to lodge during his stay in Paris.

The next day at five we met; Mr. Pogson had seen his Baroness, and
described her lodgings, in his own expressive way, as "slap-up."
She had received him quite like an old friend; treated him to eau
sucrée, of which beverage he expressed himself a great admirer; and
actually asked him to dine the next day. But there was a cloud
over the ingenuous youth's brow, and I inquired still farther.

"Why," said he, with a sigh, "I thought she was a widow; and, hang
it! who should come in but her husband the Baron: a big fellow,
sir, with a blue coat, a red ribbing, and SUCH a pair of mustachios!"

"Well," said I, "he didn't turn you out, I suppose?"

"Oh, no! on the contrary, as kind as possible; his lordship said
that he respected the English army; asked me what corps I was in,--
said he had fought in Spain against us,--and made me welcome."

"What could you want more?"

Mr. Pogson at this only whistled; and if some very profound
observer of human nature had been there to read into this little
bagman's heart, it would, perhaps, have been manifest, that the
appearance of a whiskered soldier of a husband had counteracted
some plans that the young scoundrel was concocting.

I live up a hundred and thirty-seven steps in the remote quarter
of the Luxembourg, and it is not to be expected that such a
fashionable fellow as Sam Pogson, with his pockets full of money,
and a new city to see, should be always wandering to my dull
quarters; so that, although he did not make his appearance for some
time, he must not be accused of any luke-warmness of friendship on
that score.

He was out, too, when I called at his hotel; but once, I had the
good fortune to see him, with his hat curiously on one side,
looking as pleased as Punch, and being driven, in an open cab, in
the Champs Elysées. "That's ANOTHER tip-top chap," said he, when
we met, at length. "What do you think of an Earl's son, my boy?
Honorable Tom Ringwood, son of the Earl of Cinqbars: what do you
think of that, eh?"

I thought he was getting into very good society. Sam was a dashing
fellow, and was always above his own line of life; he had met Mr.
Ringwood at the Baron's, and they'd been to the play together; and
the honorable gent, as Sam called him, had joked with him about
being well to do IN A CERTAIN QUARTER; and he had had a game of
billiards with the Baron, at the Estaminy, "a very distangy place,
where you smoke," said Sam; "quite select, and frequented by the
tip-top nobility;" and they were as thick as peas in a shell; and
they were to dine that day at Ringwood's, and sup, the next night,
with the Baroness.

"I think the chaps down the road will stare," said Sam, "when they
hear how I've been coming it." And stare, no doubt, they would;
for it is certain that very few commercial gentlemen have had Mr.
Pogson's advantages.

The next morning we had made an arrangement to go out shopping
together, and to purchase some articles of female gear, that Sam
intended to bestow on his relations when he returned. Seven
needle-books, for his sisters; a gilt buckle, for his mamma; a
handsome French cashmere shawl and bonnet, for his aunt (the old
lady keeps an inn in the Borough, and has plenty of money, and no
heirs); and a toothpick case, for his father. Sam is a good fellow
to all his relations, and as for his aunt, he adores her. Well, we
were to go and make these purchases, and I arrived punctually at my
time; but Sam was stretched on a sofa, very pale and dismal.

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