An Englishman In Paris Part 32

Even in the humblest restaurants, the bread supplied to customers is of a superior quality; the ordinary household bread (pain de menage) is only to be had by specially asking for it; the roll with the cafe-au-lait in the morning is an inst.i.tution except with the very poor.

As for meat, I have an idea, in spite of all the doubts thrown upon the question by English writers, that the Parisian workman in 1870 consumed as much as his London fellow. The fact of the former having two square meals a day instead of one, is not sufficiently taken into account by the casual observer. There are few English artisans whose supper, except on Sundays, consists of anything more substantial than bread and cheese.

The Frenchman eats meat at twelve a.m. and at six p.m. The nourishment contained in the sc.r.a.ps, the bones, etc., is generally lost to the Englishman: not a particle of it is wasted in France. Be that as it may, the statistics for 1858 show a consumption of close upon eight ounces (English) of fresh meat per day for every head of the population. Be it remembered that these statistics are absolutely correct, because a town-due of over a halfpenny per English pound is paid on the meat leaving the public slaughter-houses, and killed meat is taxed similarly at the city gates. Private slaughter-houses there are virtually none.

Allowing for all this, it will be seen that Paris was not much better off than other capitals would have been if threatened with a siege, except, perhaps, for the ingenuity of even the humblest French housewife in making much out of little by means of vegetables, fruit, and cunningly prepared sauces, for which, nevertheless, b.u.t.ter, milk, lard, etc., were wanted, which commodities were as likely to fail as all other things. Nor must one forget to mention the ingenuity displayed in the public slaughter-houses themselves, in utilizing every possible sc.r.a.p of the slaughtered animals for human food. I had occasion, not very long ago (1883), to go frequently, and for several weeks running, to one of the poorest quarters in London. I often made the journey on foot, for I am ashamed to say that, until then, the East End was far more unknown to me than many an obscure town in France, Italy, Germany, and Spain. The clever remark of a French sociologist that "the battle of life is fought below the belt," holds especially good with regard to the lower cla.s.ses.

Well, I may unhesitatingly say that in no country are the poor left in greater ignorance with regard to cheap and nourishing food than in England, if I am to judge by London. The French, the German, the Italian, the Spanish poor, have a dozen inexpensive and succulent dishes of which the English poor know absolutely nothing; and still those very dishes figure on the tables of the well-to-do, and of fashionable restaurants, as entrees under more or less fantastic names. Is the English working man so utterly devoid of thrift and of common sense, is his contempt for the foreigner so great as to make him refuse to take a lesson from the latter? I think not. I fancy it will depend much on the manner in which the lesson is conveyed. A little less board-school work and Sunday-school teaching, fewer Bible cla.s.ses, and a good many practical cooking-cla.s.ses would probably meet the case.

The French, though aware of their incontestable superiority in the way of preparing food, did not disdain to take a lesson from the alien. They clearly foresaw the fate in store for the cattle penned in the squares and public gardens, if compelled to remain there under existing conditions, and with the inclement season close at hand; consequently, the authorities enlisted the services of Mr. Wilson, an Irish gentleman who had been residing in Paris for a number of years, and whose experience in the salted-provision trade seemed to them very likely to yield most satisfactory results. Up till then, only thirty head of cattle had been submitted to his process, from that moment the number is considerably increased, and it becomes apparent that, in a short while, there will be few live oxen, sheep, or pigs left in Paris, though, as yet we are only in the beginning of October. Under Mr. Wilson's able management, half a hundred Irishmen are at work for many, many hours a day at the slaughter-house in La Villete, whither flock the Parisians, at any rate the privileged ones, to watch the preliminaries to the regime of salt-junk which is staring them in the face. The fodder thus economized will go to the horses, although there is a whisper in the air that one eminent savant has recommended their immediate slaughter and salting also. Of course, such as are wanted for military purposes will be exempted from this holocaust on the altar of patriotism. M. Gagne, who has already provided the Parisians with amus.e.m.e.nt for years, in his capacity as a perpetual candidate for parliamentary honours, does not stop at hippophagy; he seriously proposes anthropophagy. "A human being over sixty is neither useful nor ornamental," he exclaimed at a public meeting; "and to prove that I mean what I say, I am willing to give myself as food to my sublime and suffering townsmen." Poor fellow! as mad as a March hare, but a man of education and with an infinite fund of sympathy for humanity. He was but moderately provided for at the best of times; his income was derived from some property in the provinces, and, as a matter of course, the investment of Paris stopped his supplies of funds from that quarter. He was of no earthly use in the besieged city, but he refused to go. He had a small but very valuable collection of family plate, which went bit by bit to the Mint, not to feed himself but to feed others, for he was never weary of well-doing. He reminded one irresistibly of Balzac's hero, "le Pere Goriot," parting with his treasures to supply his ungrateful daughters, for the Parisians were ungrateful to him. Mad as he was, no man in possession of all his mental faculties could have been more sublime.

Whatever the question of human flesh as food may have been to the Parisians, that of horseflesh was by no means new to them. Since '66, various attempts had been made to introduce it on a large scale, but, for once in a way, they were logical in their objections to it. "It is all very well," wrote a paper, devoted to the improvement of the humbler cla.s.ses,--"it is all very well for a few savants to sit round a well-appointed table to feast upon the succulent parts of a young, tender, and perfectly healthy horse, especially if the steaks are 'aux truffes,' and the kidneys stewed in 'Madeira;' but that young, tender, and perfectly healthy horse would cost more than an equally tender, young, and perfectly healthy bullock or cow. So, where is the advantage?

In order to obtain that advantage, horses only fit for the knacker's yard, not fit for human food, would have to be killed, and the hard-working artisan with his non-vitiated taste, who does not even care for venison or game when it happens to be 'high,' would certainly not care for a superannuated charger to be set before him. You might just as well ask an unsophisticated cannibal to feast upon an invalid. The best part of 'the warrior on the shelf' is his wooden leg or his wooden arm; the best part of the superannuated charger is his skin or his hoof, with or without the shoe; and no human being, whether cannibal or not, can be expected to make a timber-yard, a tanner's yard, or an old-iron and rag store of his stomach, even to please faddists."

As a consequence, only two millions of pounds of horseflesh were "produced" during the first three years succeeding the publication of that article (1866-69); but it is more than doubtful whether a sixteenth part of it was consumed as human food--with a knowledge on the part of the consumers. And during those three years, as if to prove the writer's words, the public were being constantly fortified in their dislike with official reports of the seizure of diseased horses on their way to the four specially appointed slaughter-houses. I remember, that in one week, twenty-four animals were thus confiscated by the sanitary inspectors, "the flesh of which," added the _Moniteur_, "would have probably found its way to the tables of the better cla.s.s Parisians, in the shape of Arles, Lorraine, or German sausages. These commodities," it went on, "are never offered by the manufacturer to the experienced proprietors of the ham and beef shops (charcutiers), but to fruiterers, grocers, vendors of so-called dainties, and dealers in preserved provisions." The article had the effect of arousing the suspicion of the better cla.s.ses as well as of the poorer.

The number of "horse-butchers" had decreased by four during the four years that had elapsed since their first establishment with the Government's sanction, and the remaining eighteen were not very prosperous when the siege brought the question to the fore once more.

The public could not afford to be positively hostile to the scheme, but the a.s.sertion of the rare advocates of the system, that they were enthusiastic, is altogether beside the truth. They had to make the best of a bad game, that was all. It is a very curious, but positive fact, nevertheless, that I have heard Parisians speak favourably afterwards of dog's and cat's flesh, even of rats baked in a pie; I have heard them say that, for once in a way, even under ordinary circ.u.mstances, they would not mind partaking of those dishes: I have never heard them express the same good will toward horseflesh. Of course, I am alluding to those who affected no partisanship, either one way or the other. One thing is very certain, though: at the end of the siege the sight of a cat or dog was a rarity in Paris, while by the official reports there were thirty thousand horses left.

Meanwhile, the Academie de Sciences is attracting notice by the reports of its sittings, in which the question of food is the only subject discussed. Professor Dorderone reads a paper on the utilization of beef and mutton fat; and he communicates a new process with regard to kidney fat, which, up till then, had withstood the attempts of the most celebrated chefs for culinary purposes. He professes to have discovered the means of doing away with the unpleasant taste and smell which have hitherto militated against its use, he undertakes to give it the flavour and aroma of the best b.u.t.ter from Brittany and Normandy. M.

Richard, the maire of La Villette, attempts similar experiments with animal offal, which M. Dumas, the great savant, declares highly satisfactory. M. Riche, one of the superior officials of the Mint, transforms bullock's blood into black puddings, which are voted superior to those hitherto made with pig's blood. The nourishing properties of gelatine are demonstrated in an equally scientific manner, and the Academie des Sciences gradually becomes the rendezvous of the fair ones of Paris, who come to take lessons in the culinary art.

"Mais, monsieur," says one, "maintenant que nous avons du beurre, veuillez nous dire d'ou viendront nos epinards?"[84]

[Footnote 84: "Mettre du beurre dans ses epinards," means, figuratively, to increase one's comforts.--EDITOR.]

"Don't let that trouble you, madame," is the answer; "if you will honour us with your presence next week, one of our learned friends from the Jardin des Plantes will tell you how to grow salads, and perhaps asparagus, on your balcony and in front of your windows, in less than a fortnight."

The learned professor is not trying to mystify his charming interlocutor; he honestly believes in what he says: and, a week later, when "the friend from the Jardin des Plantes" has spoken, there is a wonderful run on all the seed-shops near the Chatelet, every one tries to borrow flower-pots from his neighbours, and barrow-loads of mould are being trundled in long lines into Paris. Wherever one goes, the eye meets careful housewives bending over wooden boxes on the balconies; M.

Philippe Lockroy, the eminent actor and dramatist, the father of M.

Edouard Lockroy, the future minister of the Third Republic, asks seriously why we should not revive the hanging gardens of Semiramis, and sets the example by converting his fifth floor balcony into a market garden, to the discomfiture of his son, who finds his erstwhile bedroom converted into a storehouse for tools and less agreeable matter. I may mention that M. Lockroy did not abandon his project after a mere fleeting attempt, nor when the necessity for it had disappeared, but that at the hour I write (1883) he has taken a prize for pears grown on that same balcony.

The mania spreads, and every one becomes, for the time being, a market-gardener in chambers. Even M. Pierre Joigneux, the well-known horticulturist, and equally clever writer, is bitten with it. That the thing was perfectly feasible, was proved subsequently by M. Lockroy, but the latter did not imitate the n.i.g.g.e.r who dug up the potatoes an hour after he had planted them, to see if they were growing. That thoroughly inexperienced persons should have indulged in such wild fancies is perhaps not to be wondered at; but M. Joigneux was not one of these, yet he provided an Englishman, who had come to propose the experiment to him, with all the necessary funds. "I was perfectly certain that I should never see him again," he said afterwards; but, with all due deference, we may take this as a shamefaced denial of his credulity.

"Contrary to my expectations," M. Joigneux went on, when he told us the tale a few nights afterwards at the Cafe de la Paix--he lived in the Rue du 4 Septembre,--"my Englishman did come back, accompanied by a porter who carried the requisite material. I did not interfere with him in the least, but merely watched him. I knew that in England they did produce 'greenstuff' in that way; though I was also aware of the difference between a few blades and a serious crop."

Others, more ingenious still, began to argue that if it was possible to produce vegetables in a fortnight by means of light and a few handfuls of mould, it could not be difficult to produce mushrooms with a much thicker layer of mould and in the darkness of a cellar.

Fortunately there is, as yet, a very decent kitchen-garden to fall back upon. It lies between the fortifications and the forts; it has been somewhat pillaged at first, but the authorities have organized several companies of labourers from among those whom they have not been able to provide with arms, and those who do not dig or delve keep watch against depredation. They have a very simple uniform--a black kepi with crimson piping, and a crimson belt round their waists. They are exposed to a certain danger, for every now and then a stray German bullet lays one of them low, but, upon the whole, their lot is not a hard one.

"We have still nearly everything we want," writes a facetious journalist; "and now that good and obliging fellow, Gambetta, is going to fetch us some cream cheese from the moon for our dessert."

In fact, during the last few days, we have been informed of the Minister of the Interior's impending departure for Tours by balloon on the 7th of October, and by twelve o'clock on that day the little Place St. Pierre, right on the heights of Montmartre, is simply black with people. "The great statesman," the "hero who is to rouse the provinces to unheard-of efforts for the deliverance of the sacred soil of France from the polluting presence of the Teutonic barbarian," has not arrived yet when I edge my way through the crowd, accompanied by an officer on General Vinoy's staff, who is a near relative of mine. With the recollection of my adventure in the Avenue de Clichy fresh upon me, I would not have ventured to come by myself. There is a military post on the Place St.

Pierre, and I am wondering whether it will turn out to pay honours to "the great statesman;" and whether Nadar, the famous Nadar, whom I can see towering above the crowd, and giving instructions, will treat Gambetta with the same scant courtesy he once treated Louis-Napoleon, when the latter went to see the ascent of his balloon, "Le Geant," from the Champ-de-Mars. Nadar's behaviour on that occasion reminds one of Elizabeth's with the wife of Bishop Parker. "'Madam,'" said the queen, "I may not call you, and 'mistress' I am loth to call you." Nadar was too fervent a republican to call Louis-Napoleon "Majesty;" he was too well-bred to insult his guest by addressing him as "Monsieur:" so, when he saw the sovereign advancing, he backed towards his car, and, before he could come up with him, gave orders to "let go."

I do not know whether Gambetta came in a carriage. It did not make its appearance on the Place St. Pierre; he probably left it, like meaner mortals, at the foot of the very steep hill. The cheering was immense, and he took it as if to the manner born. He was accompanied by M.

Spuller, who was to take the journey with him, and who, even at that time, bore a curious likeness to Mr. Spurgeon. M. Spuller did not appear to claim any of the cheers for himself, for he kept perfectly stolid.

Gambetta, on the other hand, bowed repeatedly, at which Nadar grinned.

Nadar was always honest, if outspoken. He did not seem particularly pleased with the business in hand, and was evidently determined to get it over as soon as possible. Gambetta was still standing up, bowing and waving his hands, when Nadar gave the order to "let go" the ropes, and the dictator fell back into the lap of his companion. The balloon rose rather quickly, and about nine that same night we had the news that the balloon had safely landed in the Department of the Oise, about twelve miles from Clermont.

From that moment, the ascent of a balloon with its car containing one or two, sometimes three, wicker cages of carrier-pigeons, becomes a favourite spectacle with the Parisians, who would willingly see the departure of a dozen per day. For each departure means not only the conveyance of a budget of news from the besieged city to the provinces, it means the return of the winged messengers with perhaps hopeful tidings that the provinces are marching to the rescue. I am bound to say, at the same time, that the terrible anxiety for such rescue did not arise solely from a wish to escape further physical sufferings and privations. Three-fourths of the Parisians would have been willing to put up with worse for the sake of one terrible defeat inflicted upon the Germans by their levies or by those in the provinces.

But though the gas companies did wonders, fifty-two balloons having been inflated by them during the siege, they could do no more. Nevertheless, the experiments continue: the brothers G.o.ddard have established their head-quarters at the Orleans Railway; MM. Dartois and Yon at the Northern; Admiral Labrousse, who has already invented an ingenious gun-carriage, is now busy upon a navigable balloon; the Government grants a subsidy of forty thousand francs to M. Dupuy de Lome to a.s.sist him in his research; and at the Grande Hotel there is a permanent exhibition of appliances for navigating the air under the direction of MM. h.o.r.eau and Saint-Felix. The public flock to them, and for a moment there is the hope that if we ourselves cannot come and go as free as birds, there will be at least a means of permanent communication with the outer world that way. M. Granier has proposed to make an aerial telegraph without the support of poles. The wire is to be enclosed in a gutta-percha tube filled with hydrogen gas, which will enable it to keep its alt.i.tude a thousand or fifteen hundred meters above the earth. The cable is to be paid out by balloons. M. Gaston Tissandier, a well-known authority in such matters, looks favourably upon the experiment; but, alas, it comes to nothing, and we have to fall back upon less ingenious, more commonplace means.

In other words, we are offering tempting fees to plucky individuals who will attempt to cross the Prussian lines. Several do make the attempt, and for a week or so the newspapers and the walls swarm with advertis.e.m.e.nts of a private firm who will forward and receive despatches at the rate of ten francs per letter. A good many messengers depart; a good many return almost at once, finding the task impossible; those that do not return have presumably been shot by the Prussians, for not a single one reached his destination.

Then we begin to turn our thoughts to the sheep-dog as a carrier of messengers, or rather to the smuggler's dog, thousands of which are known to exist on the Belgian and Swiss frontiers. The postal authorities go even so far as to promise two hundred francs for every batch of despatches if delivered within twenty-four hours of the animal's departure from his starting-place, and fifty francs less for every twenty-four hours' delay; but the animals fall a prey to the Prussian sentries, not one of them succeeds in reaching the French outposts. The carrier-pigeon is all we have left.

Still, we are not discouraged; and in less than a month after the investment, the Parisians begin to clamour for their favourite amus.e.m.e.nt--the theatre. There are, of course, many divergencies of opinion with regard to the fitness of the measure, and we get some capital articles on the subject, studded with witty sentences and relieved by historical anecdotes, showing that, whatever they may not know, French journalists have an inexhaustible fund of parallels when it becomes a question of the playhouse. "In '92 the Lillois went peacefully to the theatre while the sh.e.l.ls were pouring into the devoted city. Why should we be less courageous and less cheerful than they?" writes one.

"Nero was fiddling while Rome was burning," writes another, "but Paris is not on fire yet; and, if it were, the Nero who might be blamed for the catastrophe is at Wilhelmshohe, where, we may be sure, he will not eat a mouthful less for our pangs of hunger. If he does not fiddle, it is because, like his famous uncle, he has no ear for music."

"Whatever may happen," writes M. Francisque Sarcey in the _Gaulois_, "art should be considered superior to all things; the theatre is not a more unseemly pleasure under the circ.u.mstances than the perusal of a good book; and it is just in the darkest and saddest hours of his life that a man needs a diversion which will, for a little while, at least, prevent him from brooding upon his sufferings."

To which "Thomas Grimm," of _Le Pet.i.t Journal_, who is on the opposite side, replies: "If I may be allowed to intervene in so grave a question, I have no hesitation in saying that the time for singing and amusing ourselves has not arrived. It seems to me very doubtful whether the spectators would not be constantly thinking of scenes enacted in other spots than behind the footlights. And in such moments, when they might concentrate the whole of their attention on the pleasant fiction enacted before them, the sound of the cannon thundering in the distance would more than once recall them to the reality."

The ice was virtually broken, and on Sunday, the 23rd of October, the Cirque National opened its doors for a concert. During the last five years, as my readers will perceive by the almost involuntary break in these notes, I had not been so a.s.siduous a frequenter of the theatre and the concert hall as I used to be, and though I was during the siege overburdened with business, on the nature of which I need not dwell here, I felt that I wanted some amus.e.m.e.nt. The evenings were becoming chilly, one of my cherished companions was doing his duty with General Vinoy, and, though I had practically unlimited means at my command for my necessities, and am by no means sparing of money at any time, I grudged the price of fuel. As yet, wood only cost six francs the hundredweight, but it was such wood! If the ancient proverb-coiner had been seated in front of the hearth in which it was trying to burn, he might have hesitated to write that "there is no smoke without a fire."

The friendly chats by the fireside, which I had enjoyed for many years, had almost entirely ceased. Nearly all my familiars were "on duty," and the few hours they could s.n.a.t.c.h were either spent in bed, to rest from the fatigue and discomforts of the night, or else at the cafes and restaurants, where the news, mostly of an anecdotal kind, was circulating freely. In fact, the cafes and restaurants, as long as there was fuel and light, were more amusing during the siege than I had known them to be at any time. Perhaps the most amusing feature of these nightly gatherings was the presentation of the bill after dinner. The prices charged at the Cafe de Paris in its palmiest days were child's play compared to the actual ones. I have preserved the note of a breakfast for two at Durand's.

frs.

Hors d'Oeuvres (Radishes and Sausage) 10 Entree (Navarin aux Pommes) 18 Filet de Boeuf aux Champignons 24 Omelette Sucree (3 oeufs) 12 Cafe 1 1 Bouteille de Macon 6 -- Total frs. 71

The bread and b.u.t.ter were included in the hors-d'oeuvres, and I may remark that the entree and the filet de boeuf were only for one.

Durand's was the cheapest of the five restaurants which still retained their ordinary clientele. Bignon, Voisin, the Cafes de la Paix and Anglais were much dearer. The latter gave its patrons white bread as late as the 16th of December.

I made up my mind, then, to go to that concert at the Cirque National, and to as many of the entertainments as might be offered. I have rarely seen such a crowd outside a theatre; and I doubt whether the fact of the performance being for a charitable purpose had much to do with it, because, if so, those who were denied admission might have handed their money at the box-office, but they did not, they only gave the reverse of their blessing. If charity it was, it did not want to end at home that afternoon.

The entertainment began with a charity sermon by the Abbe Duquesnay, a hard-working priest in one of the thickly populated quarters of Paris. I would willingly give another ten francs to hear a similar sermon. I am positive that the Abbe had taken Laurence Sterne for his model. I have never heard anything so brilliant in my life. Not the slightest attempt at thrusting religion down one's throat. A good many quotations on the advantages of well-doing, notably that of Shakespeare, admirably translated, probably by the speaker himself. Then the following to wind up with: "I do not know of a single curmudgeon who has ever been converted into what I should call 'a genuine almsgiver,' by myself, or by my fellow-priests. When he did give, he looked upon the gift as a loan to the Lord in virtue of that gospel precept which you all know.

Now, my good friends, allow me to give you my view of that sentence: G.o.d is just, and no doubt He will repay the loan with interest, but after He has settled the account, He will indict the lender before the Highest tribunal for usury. Consequently, if you have an idea of placing your money in that way with G.o.d as a security, you had better keep it in your purses."

After this, the orchestra, nine-tenths of whose members are in uniform, performs the overture to "La Muette de Portici" (Masaniello); Pasdeloup conducting. Pasdeloup is a naturalized German, whose real name is Wolfgang, but, in this instance, the public do not seem to mind it; nor is there any protest against the names of two other Germans on the programme, Weber's and Beethoven's. On the contrary, the latter's composition is frantically encored. I believe it is the symphony in _C Minor_, for it has been wedded to Victor Hugo's words, and it is Madame Ugalde who sings the stirring hymn "Patria."

There is a story connected with this hymn, which is not generally known.

I give it as it was told to me a day or so afterwards by Auber, who had it from the lips of Joseph Dartigues, who, at the time of its occurrence, was the musical critic of the _Journal des Debats_.

Hugo was very young then, and one night he went to the Theatre de Madame, which has since become the Gymnase. The piece was one of Scribe's--"La Chatte metamorphosee en Femme;" and Jenny Vertpre, whom our grandfathers applauded at the St. James Theatre in the thirties, was to play the princ.i.p.al part. Still, our poet was not particularly struck with the plot, dialogue, or lyrics; but, all at once, he sat upright in his seat, at the strains of a "Hindoo invocation." When the music ceased, Hugo left the house, humming the notes to himself. He was very fond of music, though he could never reconcile himself to have his dramas appropriated by the librettists, and gave his consent but very reluctantly. Next morning, he met Dartigues on the Boulevard des Italiens, then the Boulevard de Gand. He told him what he had heard, and recommended the critic to go and judge for himself. "It is so utterly different from the idiotic stuff one generally hears." Dartigues acted upon the recommendation. A few days later, they met once more. "Did you go and hear that music, at the Theatre de Madame?" asked Hugo.

"Yes," was the reply. "I am not surprised at your liking it; it is Beethoven's."

Curious to relate, Hugo had not as much as heard the name of the great German composer. The acquaintance with cla.s.sical music was very limited in the France of those days. But Hugo never forgot the symphony, and, later on, in his exile, he wrote the words I had just heard.

The impulse has been given, and from that moment the walls of Paris display as many bills of theatrical and musical entertainments as if the Germans were not at the gates. I go to nearly all, and, to my great regret, hear a great many actors and actresses who have received favours and honours at the hand of Louis-Napoleon vie with one another in casting obloquy upon him and his reign. One of the few honourable exceptions is M. Got, who, being invited to recite Hugo's "Chatiments,"

emphatically refuses "to kick a man when he is down."

At the Theatre-Francais, there is a special box--the erstwhile Imperial box--for the convalescents, who are being tended in the theatre itself.

But though I went to hear Melchisedec and Taillade, Caron and Berthelier, there is one performance that stands out vividly from the rest in my memory. It was a representation of Hugo's "Le Roi s'amuse"

("The Fool's Revenge"), at the theatre at Montmartre. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, I should probably not have gone so far afield to see any piece, not even that which was reputed to be _the masterpiece_ of Victor Hugo, but, in this instance, the temptation was too great. The play had only been performed in Paris once--on the 22nd of November, 1832; next day it was suspended by order of the Government. Alexandre Dumas the elder, Theophile Gautier, Nestor Roqueplan, all of whom were present on that memorable night, had spoken to me of its beauties. I had often promised myself to read it, and had never done so. If I had, I should probably not have gone to Montmartre that night, lest my illusions should be disturbed. The performance was intended as a tribute to the genius of the poet, but also as an act of defiance on the part of the young Republic to the preceding regimes; though why it was not revived during the Second Republic I have never been able to make out clearly.

My companion and I toiled up the steep Rue des Martyrs, and it was evident to us, when we got to the Place du Theatre, that something unusual was going on, for the little square was absolutely black with people. We managed, however, to elbow our way through, and to get two stalls. The house was dimly lighted by gas, the deficiency made up, as far I could see, by lamps in the auditorium, by candles on the stage.

There was not an empty seat anywhere. The overture, consisting of s.n.a.t.c.hes from "Rigoletto," was received with deafening applause, and then the curtain rose upon the magnificent hall in the Louvre of Francois I., with the king surrounded by his courtiers and his favourites. By his side hobbled Triboulet, his evil genius, as Hugo has represented him.