I think there is a fatality in it;—I seldom go to the place I set outfor.
LE PATISSIER.VERSAILLES.
BEFORE I had got half way down the street I changed my mind: as I am atVersailles, thought I, I might as well take a view of the town; so Ipull’d the cord, and ordered the coachman to drive round some of theprincipal streets.—I suppose the town is not very large, said I.—Thecoachman begg’d pardon for setting me right, and told me it was verysuperb, and that numbers of the first dukes and marquises and counts hadhotels.—The Count de B—, of whom the bookseller at the Quai de Conti hadspoke so handsomely the night before, came instantly into my mind.—Andwhy should I not go, thought I, to the Count de B—, who has so high anidea of English books and English men—and tell him my story? so I changedmy mind a second time.—In truth it was the third; for I had intended thatday for Madame de R—, in the Rue St. Pierre, and had devoutly sent herword by her _fille de chambre_ that I would assuredly wait upon her;—butI am governed by circumstances;—I cannot govern them: so seeing a manstanding with a basket on the other side of the street, as if he hadsomething to sell, I bid La Fleur go up to him, and enquire for theCount’s hotel.
La Fleur returned a little pale; and told me it was a Chevalier de St.Louis selling pâtés.—It is impossible, La Fleur, said I.—La Fleur couldno more account for the phenomenon than myself; but persisted in hisstory: he had seen the croix set in gold, with its red riband, he said,tied to his buttonhole—and had looked into the basket and seen the pâtéswhich the Chevalier was selling; so could not be mistaken in that.
Such a reverse in man’s life awakens a better principle than curiosity: Icould not help looking for some time at him as I sat in the remise:—themore I look’d at him, his croix, and his basket, the stronger they wovethemselves into my brain.—I got out of the remise, and went towards him.
He was begirt with a clean linen apron which fell below his knees, andwith a sort of a bib that went half way up his breast; upon the top ofthis, but a little below the hem, hung his croix. His basket of littlepâtés was covered over with a white damask napkin; another of the samekind was spread at the bottom; and there was a look of _propreté_ andneatness throughout, that one might have bought his pâtés of him, as muchfrom appetite as sentiment.
He made an offer of them to neither; but stood still with them at thecorner of an hotel, for those to buy who chose it without solicitation.
He was about forty-eight;—of a sedate look, something approaching togravity. I did not wonder.—I went up rather to the basket than him, andhaving lifted up the napkin, and taking one of his pâtés into my hand,—Ibegg’d he would explain the appearance which affected me.
He told me in a few words, that the best part of his life had passed inthe service, in which, after spending a small patrimony, he had obtaineda company and the croix with it; but that, at the conclusion of the lastpeace, his regiment being reformed, and the whole corps, with those ofsome other regiments, left without any provision, he found himself in awide world without friends, without a livre,—and indeed, said he, withoutanything but this,—(pointing, as he said it, to his croix).—The poorChevalier won my pity, and he finished the scene with winning my esteemtoo.
The king, he said, was the most generous of princes, but his generositycould neither relieve nor reward everyone, and it was only his misfortuneto be amongst the number. He had a little wife, he said, whom he loved,who did the _pâtisserie_; and added, he felt no dishonour in defendingher and himself from want in this way—unless Providence had offer’d him abetter.
It would be wicked to withhold a pleasure from the good, in passing overwhat happen’d to this poor Chevalier of St. Louis about nine monthsafter.
It seems he usually took his stand near the iron gates which lead up tothe palace, and as his croix had caught the eyes of numbers, numbers hadmade the same enquiry which I had done.—He had told them the same story,and always with so much modesty and good sense, that it had reach’d atlast the king’s ears;—who, hearing the Chevalier had been a gallantofficer, and respected by the whole regiment as a man of honour andintegrity,—he broke up his little trade by a pension of fifteen hundredlivres a year.
As I have told this to please the reader, I beg he will allow me torelate another, out of its order, to please myself:—the two storiesreflect light upon each other,—and ’tis a pity they should be parted.
THE SWORD.RENNES.
WHEN states and empires have their periods of declension, and feel intheir turns what distress and poverty is,—I stop not to tell the causeswhich gradually brought the house d’E—, in Brittany, into decay. TheMarquis d’E— had fought up against his condition with great firmness;wishing to preserve, and still show to the world, some little fragmentsof what his ancestors had been;—their indiscretions had put it out of hispower. There was enough left for the little exigencies of_obscurity_.—But he had two boys who looked up to him for _light_;—hethought they deserved it. He had tried his sword—it could not open theway,—the _mounting_ was too expensive,—and simple economy was not a matchfor it:—there was no resource but commerce.
In any other province in France, save Brittany, this was smiting the rootfor ever of the little tree his pride and affection wish’d to seere-blossom.—But in Brittany, there being a provision for this, he avail’dhimself of it; and, taking an occasion when the states were assembled atRennes, the Marquis, attended with his two boys, entered the court; andhaving pleaded the right of an ancient law of the duchy, which, thoughseldom claim’d, he said, was no less in force, he took his sword from hisside:—Here, said he, take it; and be trusty guardians of it, till bettertimes put me in condition to reclaim it.
The president accepted the Marquis’s sword: he staid a few minutes to seeit deposited in the archives of his house—and departed.
The Marquis and his whole family embarked the next clay for Martinico,and in about nineteen or twenty years of successful application tobusiness, with some unlook’d for bequests from distant branches of hishouse, return home to reclaim his nobility, and to support it.
It was an incident of good fortune which will never happen to anytraveller but a Sentimental one, that I should be at Rennes at the verytime of this solemn requisition: I call it solemn;—it was so to me.
The Marquis entered the court with his whole family: he supported hislady,—his eldest son supported his sister, and his youngest was at theother extreme of the line next his mother;—he put his handkerchief to hisface twice.—
—There was a dead silence. When the Marquis had approached within sixpaces of the tribunal, he gave the Marchioness to his youngest son, andadvancing three steps before his family,—he reclaim’d his sword. Hissword was given him, and the moment he got it into his hand he drew italmost out of the scabbard:—’twas the shining face of a friend he hadonce given up—he look’d attentively along it, beginning at the hilt, asif to see whether it was the same,—when, observing a little rust which ithad contracted near the point, he brought it near his eye, and bendinghis head down over it,—I think—I saw a tear fall upon the place. I couldnot be deceived by what followed.
“I shall find,” said he, “some _other way_ to get it off.”
When the Marquis had said this, he returned his sword into its scabbard,made a bow to the guardians of it,—and, with his wife and daughter, andhis two sons following him, walk’d out.
O, how I envied him his feelings!
THE PASSPORT.VERSAILLES.
I FOUND no difficulty in getting admittance to Monsieur le Count de B—.The set of Shakespeares was laid upon the table, and he was tumbling themover. I walk’d up close to the table, and giving first such a look atthe books as to make him conceive I knew what they were,—I told him I hadcome without any one to present me, knowing I should meet with a friendin his apartment, who, I trusted, would do it for me:—it is mycountryman, the great Shakespeare, said I, pointing to his works—_et ayezla bouté_, _mon cher ami_, apostrophizing his spirit, added I, _de me
faire cet honneur-là_.—
The Count smiled at the singularity of the introduction; and seeing Ilook’d a little pale and sickly, insisted upon my taking an arm-chair; soI sat down; and to save him conjectures upon a visit so out of all rule,I told him simply of the incident in the bookseller’s shop, and how thathad impelled me rather to go to him with the story of a littleembarrassment I was under, than to any other man in France.—And what isyour embarrassment? let me hear it, said the Count. So I told him thestory just as I have told it the reader.
—And the master of my hotel, said I, as I concluded it, will needs haveit, Monsieur le Count, that I shall be sent to the Bastile;—but I have noapprehensions, continued I;—for, in falling into the hands of the mostpolish’d people in the world, and being conscious I was a true man, andnot come to spy the nakedness of the land, I scarce thought I lay attheir mercy.—It does not suit the gallantry of the French, Monsieur leCount, said I, to show it against invalids.
An animated blush came into the Count de B—’s cheeks as I spoke this.—_Necraignez rien_—Don’t fear, said he.—Indeed, I don’t, replied Iagain.—Besides, continued I, a little sportingly, I have come laughingall the way from London to Paris, and I do not think Monsieur le Duc deChoiseul is such an enemy to mirth as to send me back crying for mypains.
—My application to you, Monsieur le Count de B— (making him a low bow),is to desire he will not.
The Count heard me with great good nature, or I had not said half asmuch,—and once or twice said,—_C’est bien dit_. So I rested my causethere—and determined to say no more about it.
The Count led the discourse: we talk’d of indifferent things,—of books,and politics, and men;—and then of women.—God bless them all! said I,after much discourse about them—there is not a man upon earth who lovesthem so much as I do: after all the foibles I have seen, and all thesatires I have read against them, still I love them; being firmlypersuaded that a man, who has not a sort of affection for the whole sex,is incapable of ever loving a single one as he ought.
_Eh bien_! _Monsieur l’Anglois_, said the Count, gaily;—you are not cometo spy the nakedness of the land;—I believe you;—_ni encore_, I dare say,_that_ of our women!—But permit me to conjecture,—if, _par hazard_, theyfell into your way, that the prospect would not affect you.
I have something within me which cannot bear the shock of the leastindecent insinuation: in the sportability of chit-chat I have oftenendeavoured to conquer it, and with infinite pain have hazarded athousand things to a dozen of the sex together,—the least of which Icould not venture to a single one to gain heaven.
Excuse me, Monsieur le Count, said I;—as for the nakedness of your land,if I saw it, I should cast my eyes over it with tears in them;—and forthat of your women (blushing at the idea he had excited in me) I am soevangelical in this, and have such a fellow-feeling for whatever is weakabout them, that I would cover it with a garment if I knew how to throwit on:—But I could wish, continued I, to spy the nakedness of theirhearts, and through the different disguises of customs, climates, andreligion, find out what is good in them to fashion my own by:—andtherefore am I come.
It is for this reason, Monsieur le Count, continued I, that I have notseen the Palais Royal,—nor the Luxembourg,—nor the Façade of theLouvre,—nor have attempted to swell the catalogues we have of pictures,statues, and churches.—I conceive every fair being as a temple, and wouldrather enter in, and see the original drawings and loose sketches hung upin it, than the Transfiguration of Raphael itself.
The thirst of this, continued I, as impatient as that which inflames thebreast of the connoisseur, has led me from my own home into France,—andfrom France will lead me through Italy;—’tis a quiet journey of the heartin pursuit of Nature, and those affections which arise out of her, whichmake us love each other,—and the world, better than we do.
The Count said a great many civil things to me upon the occasion; andadded very politely, how much he stood obliged to Shakespeare for makingme known to him.—But _a propos_, said he;—Shakespeare is full of greatthings;—he forgot a small punctilio of announcing your name:—it puts youunder a necessity of doing it yourself.
THE PASSPORT.VERSAILLES.
THERE is not a more perplexing affair in life to me, than to set abouttelling any one who I am,—for there is scarce any body I cannot give abetter account of than myself; and I have often wished I could do it in asingle word,—and have an end of it. It was the only time and occasion inmy life I could accomplish this to any purpose;—for Shakespeare lyingupon the table, and recollecting I was in his books, I took up Hamlet,and turning immediately to the grave-diggers’ scene in the fifth act, Ilaid my finger upon Yorick, and advancing the book to the Count, with myfinger all the way over the name,—_Me voici_! said I.
Now, whether the idea of poor Yorick’s skull was put out of the Count’smind by the reality of my own, or by what magic he could drop a period ofseven or eight hundred years, makes nothing in this account;—’tis certainthe French conceive better than they combine;—I wonder at nothing in thisworld, and the less at this; inasmuch as one of the first of our ownChurch, for whose candour and paternal sentiments I have the highestveneration, fell into the same mistake in the very same case:—“He couldnot bear,” he said, “to look into the sermons wrote by the King ofDenmark’s jester.” Good, my Lord said I; but there are two Yoricks. TheYorick your Lordship thinks of, has been dead and buried eight hundredyears ago; he flourished in Horwendillus’s court;—the other Yorick ismyself, who have flourished, my Lord, in no court.—He shook his head.Good God! said I, you might as well confound Alexander the Great withAlexander the Coppersmith, my lord!—“’Twas all one,” he replied.—
—If Alexander, King of Macedon, could have translated your Lordship, saidI, I’m sure your Lordship would not have said so.
The poor Count de B— fell but into the same _error_.
—_Et_, _Monsieur_, _est-il Yorick_? cried the Count.—_Je le suis_, saidI.—_Vous_?—_Moi_,—_moi qui ai l’honneur de vous parler_, _Monsieur leComte_.—_Mon Dieu_! said he, embracing me,—_Vous êtes Yorick_!
The Count instantly put the Shakespeare into his pocket, and left mealone in his room.
THE PASSPORT.VERSAILLES.
I COULD not conceive why the Count de B— had gone so abruptly out of theroom, any more than I could conceive why he had put the Shakespeare intohis pocket.—_Mysteries which must explain themselves are not worth theloss of time which a conjecture about them takes up_: ’twas better toread Shakespeare; so taking up “_Much Ado About Nothing_,” I transportedmyself instantly from the chair I sat in to Messina in Sicily, and got sobusy with Don Pedro, and Benedict, and Beatrice, that I thought not ofVersailles, the Count, or the passport.
Sweet pliability of man’s spirit, that can at once surrender itself toillusions, which cheat expectation and sorrow of their wearymoments!—Long,—long since had ye number’d out my days, had I not trod sogreat a part of them upon this enchanted ground. When my way is toorough for my feet, or too steep for my strength, I get off it, to somesmooth velvet path, which Fancy has scattered over with rosebuds ofdelights; and having taken a few turns in it, come back strengthened andrefresh’d.—When evils press sore upon me, and there is no retreat fromthem in this world, then I take a new course;—I leave it,—and as I have aclearer idea of the Elysian fields than I have of heaven, I force myself,like Æneas, into them.—I see him meet the pensive shade of his forsakenDido, and wish to recognise it;—I see the injured spirit wave her head,and turn off silent from the author of her miseries and dishonours;—Ilose the feelings for myself in hers, and in those affections which werewont to make me mourn for her when I was at school.
_Surely this is not walking in a vain shadow—nor does man disquiethimself_ in vain _by it_:—he oftener does so in trusting the issue of hiscommotions to reason only.—I can safely say for myself, I was never ableto conquer any one single bad sensation in my heart so decisively, asbeating up as fast
as I could for some kindly and gentle sensation tofight it upon its own ground.
When I had got to the end of the third act the Count de B— entered, withmy passport in his hand. Monsieur le Duc de C—, said the Count, is asgood a prophet, I dare say, as he is a statesman. _Un homme qui rit_,said the Duke, _ne sera jamais dangereux_.—Had it been for any one butthe king’s jester, added the Count, I could not have got it these twohours.—_Pardonnez moi_, Monsieur le Count, said I—I am not the king’sjester.—But you are Yorick?—Yes.—_Et vous plaisantez_?—I answered, IndeedI did jest,—but was not paid for it;—’twas entirely at my own expense.