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The Paris Sketch Book

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* They made a Jesuit of him on his death-bed.

** Saint Simon's account of Lauzun, in disgrace, is admirably
facetious and pathetic; Lauzun's regrets are as monstrous as those
of Raleigh when deprived of the sight of his adorable Queen and
Mistress, Elizabeth.


"Quand j'aurai de la peine aux Carmélites," says unhappy Louise,
about to retire from these magnificent courtiers and their grand
Galerie des Glaces, "je me souviendrai de ce que ces gens là m'ont
fait souffrir!"--A troop of Bossuets inveighing against the
vanities of courts could not preach such an affecting sermon. What
years of anguish and wrong had the poor thing suffered, before
these sad words came from her gentle lips! How these courtiers
have bowed and flattered, kissed the ground on which she trod,
fought to have the honor of riding by her carriage, written
sonnets, and called her goddess; who, in the days of her prosperity,
was kind and beneficent, gentle and compassionate to all; then (on a
certain day, when it is whispered that his Majesty hath cast the
eyes of his gracious affection upon another) behold three thousand
courtiers are at the feet of the new divinity.--"O divine Athenais!
what blockheads have we been to worship any but you.--THAT a
goddess?--a pretty goddess forsooth;--a witch, rather, who, for a
while, kept our gracious monarch blind! Look at her: the woman
limps as she walks; and, by sacred Venus, her mouth stretches almost
to her diamond ear-rings?"* The same tale may be told of many more
deserted mistresses; and fair Athenais de Montespan was to hear it
of herself one day. Meantime, while La Vallière's heart is
breaking, the model of a finished hero is yawning; as, on such
paltry occasions, a finished hero should. LET her heart break: a
plague upon her tears and repentance; what right has she to repent?
Away with her to her convent. She goes, and the finished hero never
sheds a tear. What a noble pitch of stoicism to have reached! Our
Louis was so great, that the little woes of mean people were beyond
him: his friends died, his mistresses left him; his children, one by
one, were cut off before his eyes, and great Louis is not moved in
the slightest degree! As how, indeed, should a god be moved?


* A pair of diamond ear-rings, given by the King to La Vallière,
caused much scandal; and some lampoons are extant, which impugn the
taste of Louis XIV. for loving a lady with such an enormous mouth.


I have often liked to think about this strange character in the
world, who moved in it, bearing about a full belief in his own
infallibility; teaching his generals the art of war, his ministers
the science of government, his wits taste, his courtiers dress;
ordering deserts to become gardens, turning villages into palaces
at a breath; and indeed the august figure of the man, as he towers
upon his throne, cannot fail to inspire one with respect and awe:--
how grand those flowing locks appear; how awful that sceptre; how
magnificent those flowing robes! In Louis, surely, if in any one,
the majesty of kinghood is represented.

But a king is not every inch a king, for all the poet may say; and
it is curious to see how much precise majesty there is in that
majestic figure of Ludovicus Rex. In the Frontispiece, we have
endeavored to make the exact calculation. The idea of kingly
dignity is equally strong in the two outer figures; and you see, at
once, that majesty is made out of the wig, the high-heeled shoes,
and cloak, all fleurs-de-lis bespangled. As for the little lean,
shrivelled, paunchy old man, of five feet two, in a jacket and
breeches, there is no majesty in HIM at any rate; and yet he has
just stepped out of that very suit of clothes. Put the wig and
shoes on him, and he is six feet high;--the other fripperies, and
he stands before you majestic, imperial, and heroic! Thus do
barbers and cobblers make the gods that we worship: for do we not
all worship him? Yes; though we all know him to be stupid,
heartless, short, of doubtful personal courage, worship and admire
him we must; and have set up, in our hearts, a grand image of him,
endowed with wit, magnanimity, valor, and enormous heroical
stature.

And what magnanimous acts are attributed to him! or, rather, how
differently do we view the actions of heroes and common men, and
find that the same thing shall be a wonderful virtue in the former,
which, in the latter, is only an ordinary act of duty. Look at
yonder window of the king's chamber;--one morning a royal cane was
seen whirling out of it, and plumped among the courtiers and guard
of honor below. King Louis had absolutely, and with his own hand,
flung his own cane out of the window, "because," said he, "I won't
demean myself by striking a gentleman!" O miracle of magnanimity!
Lauzun was not caned, because he besought majesty to keep his
promise,--only imprisoned for ten years in Pignerol, along with
banished Fouquet;--and a pretty story is Fouquet's too.

Out of the window the king's august head was one day thrust, when
old Condé was painfully toiling up the steps of the court below.
"Don't hurry yourself, my cousin," cries magnanimity, "one who has
to carry so many laurels cannot walk fast." At which all the
courtiers, lackeys, mistresses, chamberlains, Jesuits, and
scullions, clasp their hands and burst into tears. Men are
affected by the tale to this very day. For a century and three-
quarters, have not all the books that speak of Versailles, or Louis
Quatorze, told the story?--"Don't hurry yourself, my cousin!" O
admirable king and Christian! what a pitch of condescension is
here, that the greatest king of all the world should go for to say
anything so kind, and really tell a tottering old gentleman, worn
out with gout, age, and wounds, not to walk too fast!

What a proper fund of slavishness is there in the composition of
mankind, that histories like these should be found to interest and
awe them. Till the world's end, most likely, this story will have
its place in the history-books; and unborn generations will read
it, and tenderly be moved by it. I am sure that Magnanimity went
to bed that night, pleased and happy, intimately convinced that he
had done an action of sublime virtue, and had easy slumbers and
sweet dreams,--especially if he had taken a light supper, and not
too vehemently attacked his en cas de nuit.

That famous adventure, in which the en cas de nuit was brought into
use, for the sake of one Poquelin alias Molière;--how often has it
been described and admired? This Poquelin, though king's valet-de-
chambre, was by profession a vagrant; and as such, looked coldly on
by the great lords of the palace, who refused to eat with him.
Majesty hearing of this, ordered his en cas de nuit to be placed on
the table, and positively cut off a wing with his own knife and
fork for Poquelin's use. O thrice happy Jean Baptiste! The king
has actually sat down with him cheek by jowl, had the liver-wing of
a fowl, and given Molière the gizzard; put his imperial legs under
the same mahogany (sub iisdem trabibus). A man, after such an
honor, can look for little else in this world: he has tasted the
utmost conceivable earthly happiness, and has nothing to do now but
to fold his arms, look up to heaven, and sing "Nunc dimittis" and
die.

Do not let us abuse poor old Louis on account of this monstrous
pride; but only lay it to the charge of the fools who believed and
worshipped it. If, honest man, he believed himself to be almost a
god, it was only because thousands of people had told him so--
people only half liars, too; who did, in the depths of their
slavish respect, admire the man almost as much as they said they
did. If, when he appeared in his five-hundred-million coat, as he
is said to have done, before the Siamese ambassadors, the courtiers
began to shade their eyes and long for parasols, as if this
Bourbonic sun was too hot for them; indeed, it is no wonder that he
should believe that there was something dazzling about his person:
he had half a million of eager testimonies to this idea. Who was
to tell him the truth?--Only in the last years of his life did
trembling courtiers dare whisper to him, after much circumlocution,
that a certain battle had been fought at a place called Blenheim,
and that Eugene and Marlborough had stopped his long career of
triumphs.

"On n'est plus heureux à notre âge," says the old man, to one of
his old generals, welcoming Tallard after his defeat; and he
rewards him with honors, as if he had come from a victory. There
is, if you will, something magnanimous in this welcome to his
conquered general, this stout protest against Fate. Disaster
succeeds disaster; armies after armies march out to meet fiery
Eugene and that dogged, fatal Englishman, and disappear in the
smoke of the enemies' cannon. Even at Versailles you may almost
hear it roaring at last; but when courtiers, who have forgotten
their god, now talk of quitting this grand temple of his, old Louis
plucks up heart and will never hear of surrender. All the gold and
silver at Versailles he melts, to find bread for his armies: all
the jewels on his five-hundred-million coat he pawns resolutely;
and, bidding Villars go and make the last struggle but one,
promises, if his general is defeated, to place himself at the head
of his nobles, and die King of France. Indeed, after a man, for
sixty years, has been performing the part of a hero, some of the
real heroic stuff must have entered into his composition, whether
he would or not. When the great Elliston was enacting the part of
King George the Fourth, in the play of "The Coronation," at Drury
Lane, the galleries applauded very loudly his suavity and majestic
demeanor, at which Elliston, inflamed by the popular loyalty (and
by some fermented liquor in which, it is said, he was in the habit
of indulging), burst into tears, and spreading out his arms,
exclaimed: "Bless ye, bless ye, my people!" Don't let us laugh at
his Ellistonian majesty, nor at the people who clapped hands and
yelled "bravo!" in praise of him. The tipsy old manager did really
feel that he was a hero at that moment; and the people, wild with
delight and attachment for a magnificent coat and breeches, surely
were uttering the true sentiments of loyalty: which consists in
reverencing these and other articles of costume. In this fifth
act, then, of his long royal drama, old Louis performed his part
excellently; and when the curtain drops upon him, he lies, dressed
majestically, in a becoming kingly attitude, as a king should.

The king his successor has not left, at Versailles, half so much
occasion for moralizing; perhaps the neighboring Parc aux Cerfs
would afford better illustrations of his reign. The life of his
great grandsire, the Grand Llama of France, seems to have
frightened Louis the well-beloved; who understood that loneliness
is one of the necessary conditions of divinity, and being of a
jovial, companionable turn, aspired not beyond manhood. Only in
the matter of ladies did he surpass his predecessor, as Solomon did
David. War he eschewed, as his grandfather bade him; and his
simple taste found little in this world to enjoy beyond the mulling
of chocolate and the frying of pancakes. Look, here is the room
called Laboratoire du Roi, where, with his own hands, he made his
mistress's breakfast:--here is the little door through which, from
her apartments in the upper story, the chaste Du Barri came
stealing down to the arms of the weary, feeble, gloomy old man.
But of women he was tired long since, and even pancake-frying had
palled upon him. What had he to do, after forty years of reign;--
after having exhausted everything? Every pleasure that Dubois
could invent for his hot youth, or cunning Lebel could minister to
his old age, was flat and stale; used up to the very dregs: every
shilling in the national purse had been squeezed out, by Pompadour
and Du Barri and such brilliant ministers of state. He had found
out the vanity of pleasure, as his ancestor had discovered the
vanity of glory: indeed it was high time that he should die. And
die he did; and round his tomb, as round that of his grandfather
before him, the starving people sang a dreadful chorus of curses,
which were the only epitaphs for good or for evil that were raised
to his memory.

As for the courtiers--the knights and nobles, the unbought grace of
life--they, of course, forgot him in one minute after his death, as
the way is. When the king dies, the officer appointed opens his
chamber window, and calling out into the court below, Le Roi est
mort, breaks his cane, takes another and waves it, exclaiming, vive
le Roi! Straightway all the loyal nobles begin yelling vive le
Roi! and the officer goes round solemnly and sets yonder great
clock in the Cour de Marbre to the hour of the king's death. This
old Louis had solemnly ordained; but the Versailles clock was only
set twice: there was no shouting of Vive le Roi when the successor
of Louis XV. mounted to heaven to join his sainted family.

Strange stories of the deaths of kings have always been very
recreating and profitable to us: what a fine one is that of the
death of Louis XV., as Madame Campan tells it. One night the
gracious monarch came back ill from Trianon; the disease turned out
to be the small-pox; so violent that ten people of those who had to
enter his chamber caught the infection and died. The whole court
flies from him; only poor old fat Mesdames the King's daughters
persist in remaining at his bedside, and praying for his soul's
welfare.

On the 10th May, 1774, the whole court had assembled at the
château; the oeil de Boeuf was full. The Dauphin had determined to
depart as soon as the king had breathed his last. And it was
agreed by the people of the stables, with those who watched in the
king's room, that a lighted candle should be placed in a window,
and should be extinguished as soon as he had ceased to live. The
candle was put out. At that signal, guards, pages, and squires
mounted on horseback, and everything was made ready for departure.
The Dauphin was with the Dauphiness, waiting together for the news
of the king's demise. AN IMMENSE NOISE, AS IF OF THUNDER, WAS
HEARD IN THE NEXT ROOM; it was the crowd of courtiers, who were
deserting the dead king's apartment, in order to pay their court to
the new power of Louis XVI. Madame de Noailles entered, and was
the first to salute the queen by her title of Queen of France, and
begged their Majesties to quit their apartments, to receive the
princes and great lords of the court desirous to pay their homage
to the new sovereigns. Leaning on her husband's arm, a handkerchief
to her eyes, in the most touching attitude, Marie Antoinette
received these first visits. On quitting the chamber where the dead
king lay, the Duc de Villequier bade M. Anderville, first surgeon of
the king, to open and embalm the body: it would have been certain
death to the surgeon. "I am ready, sir," said he; "but whilst I am
operating, you must hold the head of the corpse: your charge demands
it." The Duke went away without a word, and the body was neither
opened nor embalmed. A few humble domestics and poor workmen
watched by the remains, and performed the last offices to their
master. The surgeons ordered spirits of wine to be poured into the
coffin.

They huddled the king's body into a post-chaise; and in this
deplorable equipage, with an escort of about forty men, Louis the
well-beloved was carried, in the dead of night, from Versailles to
St. Denis, and then thrown into the tomb of the kings of France!

If any man is curious, and can get permission, he may mount to the
roof of the palace, and see where Louis XVI. used royally to amuse
himself, by gazing upon the doings of all the townspeople below
with a telescope. Behold that balcony, where, one morning, he, his
queen, and the little Dauphin stood, with Cromwell Grandison
Lafayette by their side, who kissed her Majesty's hand, and
protected her; and then, lovingly surrounded by his people, the
king got into a coach and came to Paris: nor did his Majesty ride
much in coaches after that.

There is a portrait of the king, in the upper galleries, clothed in
red and gold, riding a fat horse, brandishing a sword, on which the
word "Justice" is inscribed, and looking remarkably stupid and
uncomfortable. You see that the horse will throw him at the very
first fling; and as for the sword, it never was made for such hands
as his, which were good at holding a corkscrew or a carving-knife,
but not clever at the management of weapons of war. Let those pity
him who will: call him saint and martyr if you please; but a martyr
to what principle was he? Did he frankly support either party in
his kingdom, or cheat and tamper with both? He might have escaped;
but he must have his supper: and so his family was butchered and
his kingdom lost, and he had his bottle of Burgundy in comfort at
Varennes. A single charge upon the fatal 10th of August, and the
monarchy might have been his once more; but he is so tender-
hearted, that he lets his friends be murdered before his eyes
almost: or, at least, when he has turned his back upon his duty and
his kingdom, and has skulked for safety into the reporters' box, at
the National Assembly. There were hundreds of brave men who died
that day, and were martyrs, if you will; poor neglected tenth-rate
courtiers, for the most part, who had forgotten old slights and
disappointments, and left their places of safety to come and die,
if need were, sharing in the supreme hour of the monarchy.
Monarchy was a great deal too humane to fight along with these, and
so left them to the pikes of Santerre and the mercy of the men of
the Sections. But we are wandering a good ten miles from
Versailles, and from the deeds which Louis XVI. performed there.

He is said to have been such a smart journeyman blacksmith, that he
might, if Fate had not perversely placed a crown on his head, have
earned a couple of louis every week by the making of locks and
keys. Those who will may see the workshop where he employed many
useful hours: Madame Elizabeth was at prayers meanwhile; the queen
was making pleasant parties with her ladies. Monsieur the Count
d'Artois was learning to dance on the tight-rope; and Monsieur de
Provence was cultivating l'eloquence du billet and studying his
favorite Horace. It is said that each member of the august family
succeeded remarkably well in his or her pursuits; big Monsieur's
little notes are still cited. At a minuet or syllabub, poor
Antoinette was unrivalled; and Charles, on the tight-rope, was so
graceful and so gentil, that Madame Saqui might envy him. The time
only was out of joint. O cursed spite, that ever such harmless
creatures as these were bidden to right it!

A walk to the little Trianon is both pleasing and moral: no doubt
the reader has seen the pretty fantastical gardens which environ
it; the groves and temples; the streams and caverns (whither, as
the guide tells you, during the heat of summer, it was the custom
of Marie Antoinette to retire, with her favorite, Madame de
Lamballe): the lake and Swiss village are pretty little toys,
moreover; and the cicerone of the place does not fail to point out
the different cottages which surround the piece of water, and tell
the names of the royal masqueraders who inhabited each. In the
long cottage, close upon the lake, dwelt the Seigneur du Village,
no less a personage than Louis XV.; Louis XVI., the Dauphin, was
the Bailli; near his cottage is that of Monseigneur the Count
d'Artois, who was the Miller; opposite lived the Prince de Condé,
who enacted the part of Gamekeeper (or, indeed, any other rôle, for
it does not signify much); near him was the Prince de Rohan, who
was the Aumônier; and yonder is the pretty little dairy, which was
under the charge of the fair Marie Antoinette herself.

I forget whether Monsieur the fat Count of Provence took any share
of this royal masquerading; but look at the names of the other six
actors of the comedy, and it will be hard to find any person for
whom Fate had such dreadful visitations in store. Fancy the party,
in the days of their prosperity, here gathered at Trianon, and
seated under the tall poplars by the lake, discoursing familiarly
together: suppose of a sudden some conjuring Cagliostro of the time
is introduced among them, and foretells to them the woes that are
about to come. "You, Monsieur l'Aumônier, the descendant of a long
line of princes, the passionate admirer of that fair queen who sits
by your side, shall be the cause of her ruin and your own,* and
shall die in disgrace and exile. You, son of the Condés, shall
live long enough to see your royal race overthrown, and shall die
by the hands of a hangman.** You, oldest son of Saint Louis, shall
perish by the executioner's axe; that beautiful head, O Antoinette,
the same ruthless blade shall sever." "They shall kill me first,"
says Lamballe, at the queen's side. "Yes, truly," replies the
soothsayer, "for Fate prescribes ruin for your mistress and all who
love her."*** "And," cries Monsieur d'Artois, "do I not love my
sister, too? I pray you not to omit me in your prophecies."


* In the diamond-necklace affair.

** He was found hanging in his own bedroom.

*** Among the many lovers that rumor gave to the queen, poor Ferscu
is the most remarkable. He seems to have entertained for her a
high and perfectly pure devotion. He was the chief agent in the
luckless escape to Varennes; was lurking in Paris during the time
of her captivity; and was concerned in the many fruitless plots
that were made for her rescue. Ferscu lived to be an old man, but
died a dreadful and violent death. He was dragged from his
carriage by the mob, in Stockholm, and murdered by them.


To whom Monsieur Cagliostro says, scornfully, "You may look forward
to fifty years of life, after most of these are laid in the grave.
You shall be a king, but not die one; and shall leave the crown
only; not the worthless head that shall wear it. Thrice shall you
go into exile: you shall fly from the people, first, who would have
no more of you and your race; and you shall return home over half a
million of human corpses, that have been made for the sake of you,
and of a tyrant as great as the greatest of your family. Again
driven away, your bitterest enemy shall bring you back. But the
strong limbs of France are not to be chained by such a paltry yoke
as you can put on her: you shall be a tyrant, but in will only; and
shall have a sceptre, but to see it robbed from your hand."

"And pray, Sir Conjurer, who shall be the robber?" asked Monsieur
the Count d'Artois.


This I cannot say, for here my dream ended. The fact is, I had
fallen asleep on one of the stone benches in the Avenue de Paris,
and at this instant was awakened by a whirling of carriages and a
great clattering of national guards, lancers and outriders, in red.
His MAJESTY LOUIS PHILIPPE was going to pay a visit to the palace;
which contains several pictures of his own glorious actions, and
which has been dedicated, by him, to all the glories of France.

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