VERSAILLES, June 24, 1894.
Dear
I am out here to see the election of the new President.
I jumped on the mail coach and came off in a hurry without any
breakfast, but I had a pretty drive out, and the guard and I
talked of London. The palace is closed and no one is admitted
except by card, so I have seen only the outside of it. It is
most interesting. There is not a ribbon or a badge; not a
banner or a band. The town is as quiet as always,
and there are not 200 people gathered at the gate through
which the deputies pass. Compared to an election convention
in Chicago, it is most interesting. How lively it is inside
of the chamber where the thing is going on I cannot say. I
shall not wait to hear the result, but will return on the
coach.
Nothing could be more curious than the apparent
indifference of the people of Paris to the assassination of
the President. Two days after he died there was not a single
flag at half mast among the private residences. The
Government buildings, the hotels and the stores were all that
advertised their grief. I shall have an interesting story to
write of it for the Parisian series. Dana Gibson and I will
wait until after the funeral and then go to Andorra. If he
does not go, I may go alone, but perhaps I shall go back to
London at once. This has been an interesting time here, but
only because it is so different from what one would expect.
It reads like a burlesque to note the expressions of
condolence from all over the world, and to mark the
self-satisfaction of the French at attracting so much
sympathy, and their absolute indifference to the death of
Carnot. It is most curious. We have an ideal time. Never
before have I had such jolly dinners, with such good talk and
such amusing companions.
DICK.
