University of Virginia Library

15. LETTER XV.

The weather still holds warm and bright, as it has
been all the month, and the scarcely “premature white
pantaloons” appeared yesterday in the Tuileries. The
ladies loosen their “boas;” the silken greyhounds of
Italy follow their mistresses without shivering; the
birds are noisy and gay in the clipped trees—who that
had known February in New England would recognise
him by such a description?

I took an indolent stroll with my friend, Mr. Van
B—, this morning to the Hopital des Invalides,
on the other side of the river. Here, not long since,
were twenty-five thousand old soldiers. There are
but five thousand now remaining, most of them having
been dismissed by the Bourbons. It is of course one
of the most interesting spots in France; and of a
pleasant day there is no lounge where a traveller can
find so much matter for thought, with so much pleasure
to the eye. We crossed over by the Pons Louis
Quinze, and kept along the bank of the river to the
esplanade in front of the hospital. There was never
a softer sunshine, or a more deliciously tempered air;
and we found the old veterans out of doors, sitting
upon the cannon along the rampart, or halting about,
with their wooden legs, under the trees, the pictures
of comfort and contentment. The building itself, as
you know, is very celebrated for its grandeur. The
dome of the Invalides rises upon the eye from all
parts of Paris, a perfeet model of proportion and
beauty. It was this which Bonaparte ordered to be
gilded, to divert the people from thinking too much
upon his defeat. It is a living monument of the most
touching recollections of him now. Positively the
blood mounts, and the tears spring to the eyes of
the spectator, as he stands a moment, and remembers
what is around him in that place. To see his maimed
followers, creeping along the corridors, clothed and
fed by the bounty he left, in a place devoted to his
soldiers alone, their old comrades about them, and all
glowing with one feeling of devotion to his memory,
to speak to them, to hear their stories of “L'Empereur”—it
is better than a thousand histories to make
one feel the glory of “the great captain.” The interior
of the dome is vast, and of a splendid style of
architecture, and out from one of its sides extends a
superb chapel, hung all round with the tattered flags
taken in his victories alone. Here the veterans of his
army worship, beneath the banners for which they
fought. It is hardly appropriate, I should think, to
adorn thus the church of a “religion of peace;” but
while there, at least, we feel strangely certain, somehow,
that it is right and fitting; and when, as we stood
deciphering the half-effaced insignia of the different
nations, the organ began to peal, there certainly was
anything but a jar between this grand music, consecrated
as it is by religious associations, and the thrilling
and uncontrolled sense in my bosom of Napoleon's
glory. The anthem seemed to him!

The majestic sounds were still rolling through the
dome when we came to the monument of Turenne.
Here is another comment on the character of Bonaparte's
mind. There was once a long inscription on
this monument, describing, in the fulsome style of an
epitaph, the deeds and virtues of the distinguished
man who is buried beneath. The emperor removed
and replaced it by a small slab, graven with the single
word Turenne. You acknowledge the sublimity
of this as you stand before it. Everything is in keeping
with its grandeur. The lofty proportions and
magnificence of the dome, the tangible trophies of
glory, and the maimed and venerable figures, kneeling
about the altar, of those who helped to win them, are
circumstances that make that eloquent word as articulate
as if it was spoken in thunder. You feel that
Napoleon's spirit might walk the place, and read the
hearts of those who should visit it, unoffended.

We passed on to the library. It is ornamented
with the portraits of all the generals of Napoleon,
save one. Ney's is not there. It should, and will be,
at some time or other, doubtless; but I wonder that,
in a day when such universal justice is done to the
memory of this brave man, so obvious and it would
seem necessary a reparation should not be demanded.
Great efforts have been making of late to get his sentence
publicly reversed, but, though they deny his
widow and children nothing else, this melancholy and
unavailing satisfaction is refused them. Ney's memory
little needs it, it is true. No visiter looks about
the gallery at the Invalides without commenting feelingly
on the omission of his portrait; and probably no
one of the scarred veterans who sit there, reading their
own deeds in history, looks round on the faces of the
old leaders of whom it tells, without remembering and
feeling that the brightest name upon the page is wanting.
I would rather, if I were his son, have the regret
than the justice.

We left the hospital, as all must leave it, full of
Napoleon. France is full of him. The monuments
and the hearts of the people, all are alive with his
name and glory. Disapprove and detract from his
reputation as you will (and as powerful minds, with

apparent justice, have done), as long as human nature
is what it is, as long as power and loftiness of heart
hold their present empire over the imagination, Napoleon
is immortal.

The promenading world is amused just now with the
daily appearance in the Tuileries of a Polish lady,
dressed in the Polonaise undress uniform, decorated
with the order of distinction given for bravery at Warsaw.
She is not very beautiful, but she wears the
handsome military cap quite gallantly; and her small
feet and full chest are truly captivating in boots and a
frogged coat. It is an exceedingly spirited, well-charactered
face, with a complexion slightly roughened
by her new habits. Her hair is cut short, and brushed
up at the sides, and she certainly handles the little
switch she carries with an air which entirely forbids
insult. She is ordinarily seen lounging very idly along
between two polytechnic boys, who seem to have a
great admiration for her. I observe that the Polish
generals touch their hats very respectfully as she
passes, but as yet I have been unable to come at her
precise history.

By the by, masquerading in men's clothes is not at
all uncommon in Paris. I have sometimes seen two
or three women at a time dining at the restaurants in
this way. No notice is taken of it, and the lady is perfectly
safe from insult, though every one that passes
may penetrate the disguise. It is common at the
theatres, and at the public balls still more so. I have
noticed repeatedly at the weekly soirees of a lady of
high respectability, two sisters in boy's clothes, who
play duets upon the piano for the dance. The lady
of the house told me they preferred it, to avoid attention,
and the awkwardness of position natural to their
vocation, in society. The tailors tell me it is quite a
branch of trade—making suits for ladies of a similar
taste. There is one particularly, in the Rue Richelieu,
who is famed for his nice fits to the female figure. It
is remarkable, however, that instead of wearing their
new honors meekly, there is no such impertinent puppy
as a femme deguisée. I saw one in a café, not long
ago, rap the garçon very smartly over the fingers with
a rattan, for overrunning her cup; and they are sure
to shoulder you off the sidewalk, if you are at all in
the way. I have seen several amusing instances of a
probable quarrel in the street, ending in a gay bow,
and a “pardon, madame!”

There has been a great deal of excitement here for
the past two days on the result of a gambling quarrel.
An English gentleman, a fine, gay, noble-looking fellow,
whom I have often met at parties, and admired for
his strikingly winning and elegant manners, lost fifty
thousand francs on Thursday night at cards. The
Count St. Leon was the winner. It appears that
Hesse, the Englishman, had drank freely before sitting
down to play, and the next morning his friend, who
had bet upon the game, persuaded him that there had
been some unfairness on the part of his opponent. He
refused consequently to pay the debt, and charged the
Frenchman, and another gentleman who backed him,
with deception. The result was a couple of challenges,
which were both accepted. Hesse fought the
Count on Friday, and was dangerously wounded at the
first fire. His friend fought on Saturday (yesterday),
and is reported to be mortally wounded. It is a little
remarkable that both the losers are shot, and still more
remarkable, that Hesse should have been, as he was
known to be, a natural son of George the Fourth; and
Count Leon, as was equally well known, a natural son
of Bonaparte!

Everybody gambles in Paris. I had no idea that so
desperate a vice could be so universal, and so little
deprecated as it is. The gambling-houses are as open
and as ordinary a resort as any public promenade, and
one may haunt them with as little danger to his reputation.
To dine from six to eight, gamble from eight
to ten, go to a ball, and return to gamble till morning,
is as common a routine for married men and bachelors
both, as a system of dress, and as little commented on.
I sometimes stroll into the card-room at a party, but
I can not get accustomed to the sight of ladies losing
or winning money. Almost all Frenchwomen, who
are too old to dance, play at parties, and their daughters
and husbands watch the game as unconcernedly
as if they were turning over prints. I have seen English
ladies play, but with less philosophy. They do
not lose their money gayly. It is a great spoiler of
beauty, the vexation of a loss. I think I never could
respect a woman upon whose face I had remarked the
shade I often see at an English card-table. It is certain
that vice walks abroad in Paris, in many a shape
that would seem, to an American eye, to show the
fiend too openly. I am not over particular, I think,
but I would as soon expose a child to the plague as
give either son or daughter a free reign for a year in
Paris.