CHAPTER XXI.THE LOUVRE.

THE MEETING OF TIBBITTS AND THE PROFESSOR.

Scene the second: The Jardin Mabille—music, lights, gaily dressed women, little tables, wine, and all that sort of thing.

Tibbitts dancing furiously with a lady in silken attire, and striving in vain to do the high, grotesque dancing of the Parisian. The music ceases and Tibbitts leads his partner to a table. In his excitement he does not at once notice that at the table exactly in front of him is seated the Professor, who, inasmuch as he was holding an interesting conversation with a lady who spoke English somewhat, did not notice Tibbitts till their eyes met.

TIBBITTS AND THE PROFESSOR.

Tibbitts is a young man of great presence of mind. Hewas equal to this emergency. The Professor regarded him a moment, and said:—

“Lemuel!”

Lemuel stared at him and replied:—

“Are you addressing me, sir?”

“Certainly I am.”

“You are mistaken in the person, sir. I do not know you. My name is not Lemuel, it is Smith. Smith, of Hartford, Connecticut. May I ask your name, and why you address me, a perfect stranger? Do I resemble any friend of yours? Am I like any grandson you have? If so, could you, for the sake of the resemblance, lend me a hundred francs?”

“Lemuel, this is trifling. What are you doing here?”

It suddenly occurred to Lemuel that he had the Professor in as close a corner as the Professor had him, and he replied:—

“Professor, what areyoudoing here?”

“Lemuel, I was fearful that you would break your promise to me, and I came here to be sure thatyouwere not here.”

“Professor, I was fearful thatyoumight accidentally stray hither after the meeting of the Social Science sharps was over, and I came here to see that no harm came to you.”

“Lemuel, we are, I perceive, both innocent of any harmful intention, but as our action might be misconstrued at home, it would be as well if no mention is made of this unfortunate matter.”

Lemuel coughed slightly and appeared wrapped in thought a moment. Finally he spoke:—

“I do not know but that I am permitting my good nature to get the better of my duty, but I will not make mention of your escapade. But I wish it distinctly understood that this must not be repeated, and that you go home at once. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. It is no place for you. You, a teacher, an instructor of youth, a man of sixty, one whose duty it is to form the morals of American youth, one to whose care is entrusted inexperienced youth, to be seen in such a place and in such a company. It is too much, and would not sound well in the West. For shame. As I said, it must not be repeated. Go. I now see why you were so willing that I should go to the Opera, and why you exacted ofme a promise that I should not come here. You intended to come here by yourself, and did not want me to be a witness to your shame. But go! I forgive you! I forgive you.”

The Professor went, and as soon as he was safely away, Lemuel took the seat he had vacated, and was presently engaged in a very pleasant conversation with the lady who spoke English somewhat.

The Professor’s guardianship will not be of much use to the pleasure-seeking youth. Professors have curiosity, which they generally gratify, in one way or another. Poor humanity!

The café is the Frenchman’s especial resort, however. They are everywhere and of all classes, and from six to twelve at night are full. The regular Frenchman sees his friends here; business is transacted here; the political questions of the day are discussed, and here nations are made and unmade. In foul weather the inside is crowded; in fair, the little tables on the sidewalk under the beautiful trees are all occupied. And these little tables outside afford never-failing pleasure, to any one, native or foreign. There is a constant ebb and flow of humanity along the streets; there the costumes of all nations and the manners and customs of the world are reproduced for your benefit. Americans, English, Germans, Turks, Tunisians, West Indians, Carribeans, Russians, and Polanders. If there is a nation on earth that is not represented in the Boulevard des Italiens or any of the principal streets, any fine night, I do not know of it.

THE CAFÉ SWELL.

And here sits the Parisian, hour after hour, watching this human kaleidoscope, and thanking heaven that he is a Frenchman, and above all a Parisian.

THE RELIGIOUS AFRICAN.

The electric lights shine through the foliage of the trees, making figures of rare beauty upon the faultless sidewalks; there is the constant procession of vehicles more beautiful under this light than at noonday; opposite him are the brilliantly lighted shops with their wealth of beauty in the windows, and all around him is bustle, stir, and life. There is nothing dull or stagnant on the streets of Paris at night. The Parisian will not have it that way. The glitter may be very thin, but he will have the glitter. He lives upon it.

Paris by day is beautiful—Paris by night is superb.

The faro bankeress is getting ready to go home. She has well nigh done Europe, which is to say, she has explored every shop in Paris and London. She may go through Switzerland and Germany with us, but we hope not. We are praying that she will go home from Paris, and she can’t start any too quick. That she is making preparations for a start, she confesses. She is afraid of sea voyages; she has a mortal dread of water; she remarks that she always lives very correctly a week or so before she sails. She says her prayers regularly, attends church every service, and does nothing wrong that she knows of. She will not go to an Opera on Sunday; she declined to go to the Mabille at all; nor will she even play cards any day. This for ten days before sailing.

“And after you land safely in New York?”

“O, I ain’t on the water then, and it don’t differ so much.”

Which is very like a negro I once knew in Bucyrus, Ohio. He was very religious, of the African kind of religion, and was the loudest and most muscular man at a prayer meeting for many a mile around. A gentleman who had a piece of work to do that was not entirely legal offered Sam two dollars to do it for him.

“Massa Perkins, dis ting doesn’t adzackly squar wid my perfeshn, an’ it’s decidedly wicked. It’s suthin’ a perfessin’ Christian shouldn’t do, nohow. But two dollahs is a mi’ty heap ob money foh de ole man, and ain’t picked up ebery day. I’ll chance it. Bress de Lawd! It’s a sin, but I can ’pent. Bress de Lawd, I can ’pent.

“While de lamp holds out to bun,De vilest sinnah may retun.”

“Bress de Lawd foh de deff-bed ’pentance. Dat is de great t’ing. Yoo can ’pent on a dying bed.”

“But, Sam,” said Perkins, “I don’t want you to do anything that grinds against your conscience. A death bed repentance is all very well, but suppose you die too suddenly to repent?”

“It’s a risk, Massa Perkins, but I’ll chance it. Two dollahs is a great deal ob money foh de ole man. It’s a mi’ty sudden deff dat’ll ketch me onpropared. And come to t’ink ob it, to be entirely safe, I’ll ’pent—jist ez soon ez I git de two dollahs.”

Our faro bankeress had the same kind of religion. Land her safe in New York, and she was easy as to her sins. It was only against the dangers of navigation that she wanted to be insured.

CATHEDRAL AT BEAUVAIS.

BEAUVAIS CATHEDRAL.

PARIS, the magnificent, has thousands of structures that are worth a voyage across the Atlantic to see, but there is in all that wonderful city no one that is so utterly bewildering in its magnificence as the massive pile, the Louvre, one of the largest as well as grandest places in the world. Its long galleries and beautiful salons, with hundreds of winds and turns, form a labyrinth in which, without a guide, one may almost be lost.

It required a great deal of time to build the Louvre, as its completion was being continually retarded. But through all the years and the changes in the styles of architecture, a general oneness of plan was maintained, and the noble structure, though constructed piece-meal, is consistent and symmetrical.

It is admirably located near the banks of the Seine, and with the Tuileries, occupies forty acres of ground. It is of a quadrilateral form, enclosing an immense square. Approaching it from the Place du Royale, its imposing front challenges attention and then invites study. Admiration is excited by the solidity, as well as symmetry of the pile, and this is increased by its elaborate ornamentation.

Such buildings are impossible in this day and age of the world. Private means are not sufficient. An American railroad magnate might do something in this direction, but when the idea of expending even a few paltry millions upon a residence for himself comes to him, he puts it off till after he has attempted a corner in some stock or another, which generally makes a lame duck of him, and he is glad to retire to the humble mansion which he always has—in his wife’s name.

THE STRUGGLE FOR THE LEADERSHIP.

Modern governments cannot do it, for they haven’t the facilities of the ancient Kings for this kind of work. All thatthe old French Kings had to do when they wanted a palace of this kind was to call upon the workmen of the nation, with spears, and set them about it, and feed them upon black bread and very sour and cheap wine, and take possession of the stone quarries and the lumber mills, and put it up. The painters and sculptors and the makers of the furnishings they were compelled to pay, but that was nothing. An extra tax on everything the people lived upon was levied and collected with great vigor and much certainty, and so without any bother or worry the King had a new palace, with fountains, and trees, and flowers, and pictures, and statuary, and all that sort of thing, in the most gorgeous style. A French King, a few hundred years ago, had what an American would not unjustly style a soft thing of it. It was a good situation to hold, and I don’t wonder that Nobles fought to be Kings, and Kings struggled to be Emperors. Everybody wants power.

And this reminds me of a little incident that happened in my own beloved America, illustrative of this principle. In a certain county in the good State of Ohio was, and is, a township called Cranberry, inhabited largely by Germans and those of German descent. These Germans, without exception, adhered to one political party, and all voted one way, and their devotion to their party was such that it was considered an unpardonable sin to “scratch” a ticket, or in any way run counter to the action of their convention. In politics they were as regular as a horse in a bark-mill.

One man, always the stoutest and best one physically, of the party, stood at the polls, and every one of his organization as he came to vote was expected to show his ticket to this recognized King, that it might be made certain that no one scratched or acted unorthodox. This man was by right entitled to a county office, and held one as long as he could maintain his position at home.

One Peter Feltzer had been King of Cranberry for a great many years, and by virtue of his position had been successively Commissioner, Treasurer, Representative, and, in fact, had gone up and down the ladder of earthly glory a great many times, and was waxing as full of glory and honors as he was of years.

There was a young man named Meyer, who had an idea that he wanted to hold a county office, and live at the county seat, and spend his time in drinking beer, at good pay, and he knew there was but one road to this summit of human bliss, and that was over Feltzer’s body. So one election day he presented himself at the polls, and ignoring Feltzer, offered a folded ballot.

THE STRUGGLE FOR THE KINGSHIP.

“Mike, show me dot dicket!” exclaimed Feltzer.

“Yoo shust go mit hell!” was Meyer’s answer.

ART IN THE LOUVRE.

Feltzer divined the meaning of this revolt at once. He knew that this was a challenge to mortal combat, and that the prize of the victor was the crown. Meyer was a splendid young man, built like a bull, and only thirty. Feltzer hadbeen, in his day, more than a match for him; but alas, he was sixty, and had been enervated by the soft allurements of official position. However, he determined not to die without a struggle, and so laying off their coats, at it they went. Meyer had no easy contract. Feltzer was fighting for life, and the contest was long and severe. Youth finally triumphed, and Feltzer, after half an hour of rolling in the mud, admitted defeat. Meyer sprang gaily to his feet, and seizing Feltzer’s hickory club exclaimed to the bystanders, “Now, yoo men vat vants to vote will shust showmeyour dickets!”

They accepted their new ruler the same as the French do, and he was elected to an office the ensuing Fall, and ever since, for aught I know. He held it, anyhow, till some younger man deposed him.

This has nothing to do with the Louvre, except as showing that humanity is the same everywhere. If any other moral can be got out of it I have no objection.

All over the Louvre are statues of men who are famous in French history—those who have achieved fame in art, science, literature or war. They are here, and in stone that will last for ages; longer, probably, than the memory of the acts that placed them there.

On the north side of the Place Napoleon there is a wonderful Corinthian colonnade, over the columns of which are heroic statues of eighty-six celebrated men, and on the balustrade are sixty-five allegorical groups, wonderful in design and execution, and so, all the way around the enormous building, story after story is burdened with works of art. Wondrous works, artistically bestowed, always profuse, but never overdone. Every column, every window-cap, even the ledges just under the projection of the roof, bear the impress of genius. There are statues, medallions, large groups illustrating important events in the history of France, exquisitely carved by master hands, on all four sides of the exterior, all symmetrical in design and faultless in proportion.

The interior is in keeping with the exterior. The noble pile is a fit repository for what it contains. The one hundred and forty salons into which the Louvre is divided are marvels of artistic beauty. Intended for the abode of royalty, it wasroyally constructed. The kingly builders did not spare the sweat or blood of their subjects. They set out to have a royal palais, and they did not allow the miseries of a few millions of their people to stand in the way of its achievement.

The most beautiful of them all is the Galerie d’Apollon, the ornamentation of which, in beauty of design and skill in execution, is marvelous. It is of itself a study. The vaulted ceiling is filled with paintings by Le Brun, one of the greatest of the French masters. The cornices and corners are ornamented with beautiful designs in gilt, elaborately wrought, and on the walls are portraits of French artists in gobelin tapestry, making it one of the finest collections of this kind of work extant. There is a perfection in the drawing that is remarkable, and the coloring is exquisite, the various shades and tints blending with a nicety that makes one almost feel that they were done by artists with brush and paint.

Tapestry, as a rule, has small degree of expression in face and feature, but in these every feature is faithfully reproduced, and the whole figure is strikingly life-like.

This room has a history. It was originally built by Henry IV., and was burned in 1661. During the reign of Louis XIV. the work of reconstruction was begun, Le Brun furnishing the designs. His death in 1690 put a stop to the work, and for a century and a half it stood in an unfinished condition. In 1848 work was resumed, and in three years it was finished as it now stands.

There are scores of other rooms of quite as much interest. In all, the frescoes and wall paintings are incomparable, and though the galleries aggregate over a mile and a half in length, in no place is there a barren spot. The great masters, through all these ages, gave to it their best years and their best work, and so long as the Louvre remains these rooms will be monuments of their genius.

THE REASON FOR THE COMMUNE.

The Louvre is inseparable from the history of France. In all the upheavals, the tearings down and overturnings, it has been a central figure. It was from the Louvre on that dreadful night in August, 1572, that Charles IX. fired the shot that was the signal for the horrible massacre of St. Bartholomew, which ended in the indiscriminate slaughter of the Huguenots,and from that time on to the present it has been the stage on which tragedies have been enacted. It figured in the terrible days of the Commune, in 1871, and but for an almost Providential interference, would have passed into history as a memory.

The Louvre has always been the especial object of the hatred of the Parisian mob, and no wonder. Every stone laid was so much bread taken from the mouths of French workingmen; every stroke of a chisel, every inch of the wonderful pile, was a robbery of himself of whatever it cost. It was the habitation of a nobility, supported in luxury at the expense of the French people.

It is all well enough to talk of reason, but there is no reason in a revolution. The Parisian whose wife and family were living in garrets and cellars, eating black bread and drinking sour wine, could not be reasoned with when he caught glimpses of the luxurious salons in which the few took their pleasure. He could not be expected to have much reason when he got a smell of the delicacies of the royal table, and thought of the scant fare on which he was compelled to subsist. His garret and thin pallet did not contrast well with the gorgeous apartments and silken couches of his royal masters, nor did the offal with which he was fed compare pleasantly with the wild profusion of dainties which they rioted upon.

It was nightingale tonguesversusoffal—it was poverty in the extremeversusprodigal waste.

And then the arrogance of these tyrants! They held the commoners as an inferior race, as another creation, much as the Southern planter used to hold his slaves.

One of the ancient nobility replied to a demand from the workingmen for better food: “The animals! Let them eat grass!” It is no wonder, a few months later, when this silken lord was beheaded, that the mob carried his head upon a pike with a tuft of grass in his set jaws.

It is no wonder that when the mob, starved and frozen to a point where death was preferable to life, wrested the power from the nobility and controlled Paris, that it should blindly destroy everything that symbolized royalty, everything that smacked of class rule.

True, the Commune should not have destroyed fountains, and statuary, and paintings, but it must be said that they did not destroy these priceless works for the mere sake of destroying them. The statues symbolized royalty. It was not a Venus that was the object of their hatred—the Venus was their wrong, in stone.

OF THE COMMUNE.

There is much to be said about these Parisian mobs, and whoever knows of the sufferings of the people, even under the mildest form of royalty, cannot wholly condemn. The many laboring for the few; the man with a hungry wife and pallid children does not care much for the art that his oppressors delight in. He looks at immortal work through eyes dimmed with suffering and half blinded with tears, and it is not singular that in his rage he strikes blindly.

THE COMMUNE.

At this time Napoleon had fought an unprovoked war, and to perpetuate his dynasty had dragged from their wretched homes thousands of the youth of France, and had been drivenback by the Prussians in utter and entire humiliation. Had he crushed Prussia, the glory of the achievement would have atoned in some degree for its cost; but to bear the burden of defeat in shame and humiliation was too much, and though a Republic followed, the Commune was not satisfied. It would not trust the Republic. It looked upon the Republic as a partial change—it wanted a radical one; and, with the childishness peculiar to the French, they commenced the work of reconstruction by destroying what was their own, and which would delight them as much under the Republic of the future as it had their oppressors in the Monarchies of the past.

English, American or German people would have done differently. If these wonderful works reminded them too much of their sufferings to be pleasant, they would have been sold to other nations, and the proceeds devoted to the payment of the national debt.

It is well for the world that so much of the Louvre was preserved, for there are other nations than France that have an interest in it. Art has no nationality—it is the property of the world.

The Communists ruined many of the finest works in the lower part of the building, but fortunately their ravages were confined to a small space. More important matters occupied their attention, and the Louvre was virtually spared. It was set on fire, however, and the magnificent library of ninety thousand volumes was entirely destroyed, and many works of art were injured, but the troops of the Republic arrived in time to arrest the progress of the flames, and the building was preserved.

The first floor of the building is devoted wholly to ancient sculpture, and a wilderness there is of it. Too much of it, in fact, unless one has time for its study. You stop a moment to admire a Psyche; you have only time to glance at the Caryatides in the hall in which Henri IV. celebrated his marriage with Margaret of Valois; you pass through the Salle du Gladiateur, containing the Borghese Gladiator, the famous work made familiar through copies of it; you look down a long hall filled with wonderful statues and see at the farther end theoutline of a figure whose very pose is a poem. The room is hung in crimson velvet, and the light, soft and subdued, makes the figure seem almost that of a living, breathing being. At this distance the effect is wonderful. There was great genius in making the sculpture; there was almost as much in placing it.

There is a long vista of beautiful statues lining the way on either side to the crimson chamber, which, with its gentle lights and shades, makes the picture perfect, and as one feels the delight of the scene wonder ceases at the ravings of artists and lovers of art over the Venus of Milo.

There, in the center of the crimson room, stands the armless figure whose perfection of form and face has never been equaled. It stands alone, with nothing near to distract the mind by divided attention, and as the lover of the beautiful looks upon the wondrous beauty of that speechless yet speaking statue, admiration ripens into adoration.

Even Tibbitts and the faro bankeress stood still and silent before it for full twenty minutes, and no greater compliment was ever paid a work of art. It interested even them.

The figure compels feeling. You do not feel that you are enjoying rare sculpture, but your sympathies go out to the beautiful form before you, not in cold marble but in life—real life, with all the tender qualities belonging in nature to such a perfect face and figure.

This may be gush, but there is something about this block of marble that is fascinating beyond expression. In it art has conquered material. The marble lives and breathes. It is marble, but it is marble endowed with life. Or, rather it is not marble, it is life resembling marble. It is a dream caught and materialized. If it is not nature, it is more than nature. It is a poet’s idea of what nature should be.

A VERY PRETTY ART SPEECH.

Whether it be the face with the wonderful features that almost speak, or the form so graceful in pose, or the combination of both, cannot be said; but the effect is produced, and no one can withstand the silent appeal made by this creation of an unequaled genius. It is something of which one cannot tire. The oftener it is seen the greater the impression. It can never be forgotten, nor can it be described. It cannot bereproduced, either in marble or oil. There are innumerable copies of it the world over, but to feel and realize the absolute perfection of the work the original must be seen. No copy can do it justice.

The great trouble with the Louvre is there is too much of it. If one could live to the age of Methusaleh it would all be very well, but unfortunately life is short. You wish you had not so much to see, for you want to see it all, and the very wealth is bewildering. Recollection becomes confusing and mixed.

Of course every one selects some one picture or statue which impresses him to the point of carrying away a memory thereof. We had among us a young American physician who stood in the orthodox pose before the Gladiator. Having studied anatomy, muscles and things of that nature were just in his way. He stood for full twenty minutes wrapped in what he desired us to understand as ecstacy, and then delivered himself thus:—

“A——! This is the very actuality of the ideality of individuality.”

It was a very pretty speech, and the fact that he had lain awake all the night before arranging it, and that he pulled us all around to the Gladiator to get his chance of firing it off did not detract from its merit. No one knew what it meant, but the words were mouth filling, and it did as well as though it had some glimmer of meaning. There is nothing in art like good sounding words.

From the ground-floor you ascend a broad stair-case, exquisitely carved. You come into another wilderness, only this is in canvas, instead of marble. Every school in the world is represented here, for when the French potentate was not able to buy he could always sieze. You don’t stop to inquire how the collection was made; it is here, and to an American, or any other foreigner, that is sufficient. We come to enjoy the pictures, and we don’t care whether they were purchased or taken by force. There are, as I said, one hundred and forty of these salons, and you must go through them all. There are galleries devoted to the French school, ancient and modern, the Italian school, the German, Dutch, Flemish, andSpanish, and you come away feeling a sort of satisfaction that it has been done; but no man living, in the time one usually has in Paris, can get a good idea of what is there gathered. Four miles of art is rather too much for one short effort. It is bewildering in its very profusion. One may be fond of art, but not educated to the point of taking so much of it in systematically. Nevertheless, days spent in collections like the Louvre are too good to miss. Some of it will stick to you if you cannot carry it all away.

TIBBITTS AND THE FARO BANKERESS ENJOYING ART.

TWO PEOPLE’S DELIGHT IN ART.

Tibbitts and the faro bankeress were delighted. Tibbitts, with an eye to speculation, made elaborate calculation as tothe cost of the entire collection, and wondered whether or not a good thing could not be made by buying it all up and exhibiting it in New York.

That was the delight he got out of it.

The faro bankeress protested that she had never enjoyed art so much, and had never before known the delight that was in it. From several of the female figures she had got ideas of lace that were entirely new to her, and she had found and fixed in her mind a design for a fancy dress for Lulu, which she should have made the next day. She wondered if she could borrow the picture to show to the modiste. She had no idea that the ladies of ancient days dressed in such good taste, or that they had such wonderful material to dress with. Some of the costumes she had studied were altogether too sweet for anything.

And that was the delight she got out of it.

THEPalais-Royal is the Parisian Mecca for all Americans. Its brilliant shops, glittering with diamonds and precious stones, are so many shrines at which Americans are most devout worshipers. They go there day after day, admiring the bewildering display, and the admiration excited by the wily shopkeeper by his skill in arranging his costly wares leads to purchases that would not otherwise have been made. There is a fascination about a shop window literally filled with diamonds, arranged by a Frenchman, that is irresistible, and with hundreds of such windows extending all the way around the immense court, there is no escaping its power. What a Parisian shopkeeper doesn’t know about display isn’t worth knowing. All Paris is arranged solely for the eye. They ignore the other senses to a very great degree.

With all its present wealth and beauty the Palais-Royal has witnessed some very exciting scenes.

It was built by Cardinal Richelieu for his residence, and he built it extremely well, little dreaming of the scenes of carnival, riot, quarrels, and bloodshed that were to be enacted there long after he had vacated it forever.

In 1663, when it was finished, it was called the Palais-Cardinal, but having been presented by Richelieu to Louis XIII., whose widow, Anne of Austria, with her two sons, Louis XIV. and Philippe d’Orléans, lived there, it was called the Palais-Royal.

THE LUXURIOUS PALAIS.

Louis, on coming into possession of the Palais, presented it to his brother Philippe, during whose occupancy it was the scene of the most horrible orgies the world ever saw. The royal profligate gathered about him a host whose tastes wereas depraved as his own, and with these he led a life of wild debauchery.

PALAIS-ROYAL.

Later on, Philippe Egalité, exceeding the excesses of his grandfather, Philippe d’Orléans, made the Palais-Royal the scene of wilder disorders than had ever been seen there before, as bad as it had been. He was so reckless that his princely income was not enough to keep him in ready money. In fact his coffers were well nigh exhausted when he conceived the idea of deriving a revenue from some of the property that surrounded the Palais, which up to that time had been used simply for ornamentation. So he caused a number of shops to be erected around the garden adjoining the Palais, and from the rents paid for these was enabled to keep up his former manner of life until that (to him) memorable morning in November, 1793, when he took a walk to the Place de la Concorde, up a short flight of stairs, and for once in his life laid his head on a hard pillow. The deadly guillotine did its work, and the riotous life of Philippe Egalité came to a sudden end.

At that time the upper rooms of the vast galleries, now converted into handsome restaurants, were devoted to gaming, and it was no child’s play, then, either. Here the excitable nobles, fascinated by the green cloth, lived in a constant whirl of excitement. The stakes ran high. Fortunes were made and lost in a night, and the Seine never did so good a business in the way of suicide. While these elegantly furnished and brilliantly lighted salons witnessed the demonstrative joy ofthe lucky winner or the gloomy despondency of the unhappy loser, scenes of an entirely different nature, and far more terrible in their results were being enacted in the cafés below.

In these cafés met the leaders of the people who were organizing for the destruction of the thoughtless revelers above their heads. It was the old story over again. Thecanaille, as the nobles termed the people, were groaning under the loads imposed upon them. The life-blood of the French people was being drained by the parasites of royalty—it was waste on the one hand and starvation on the other. Every gold piece that passed upon the tables above represented so much unpaid for sweat from the many below. Absolute power had, as it always does, run into unbridled license, and unbridled license had made the people desperate. They might not succeed, but they could no more than die, and the life they had was not worth the having.

It was in these cafés that Camille Desmoulins organized the people, and with such arms as they could seize on that memorable morning in July, marched upon the Bastille. They did not need arms. That mob, so led, could have torn down the hoary old wrong with their bare hands. There was not a man or woman in the throng that surged out of the Palais that morning who had not some especial reason for its destruction. Confined within its walls had died their brothers and fathers. To them it was royalty, and to royalty they owed every woe that afflicted them.

Desperate, determined men they were, crazed with excitement, and caring for nothing. They reached the Bastille and hurled themselves against its stubborn sides. Again and again were they beaten back by the garrison within, but each repulse only served to more determined efforts, and finally on the 14th of July the Bastille was swept from the face of the earth. Nothing was left of it but the terrible memories of the bloody past.

THE COMMUNE.

In 1801-7 the first Napoleon assembled the Tribunate in the Palais-Royal, and in 1815, Lucien Bonaparte made it his residence during the “One Hundred Days.” From 1815 to 1830 it was again in the possession of Orleans family, and Louis Philippe occupied it until his ascension to the throne. Eighteen

VISION OF THE COMMUNE.

years later, during the Revolution of February, which finally resulted in the Presidency of Louis Napoleon and subsequently his election byplébisciteas Emperor, the royal apartments were completely wrecked. The mob, wild with excitement, went through the Palais like a whirlwind, destroying anythingand everything it could lay its hands upon. Of all the magnificent paintings, the exquisite statues, the marvelous collections of fine glass and porcelain, with which the royal apartments were adorned, nothing escaped their fury. Almost the entire building was destroyed.

Napoleon III., who did so much to beautify Paris, restored the Palais to its original condition, and it continued so, being the residence of Prince Napoleon, cousin of the Emperor and son of Jeróme Napoleon, until the outbreak of the war in 1870. Then in 1871, on the 22d of May, the Communists took a hand at it, and sad work they made. Almost the entire south wing was destroyed by fire, and the other portions were badly damaged.

Now it is bright and gay with its magnificent display of diamonds, its pleasant little park with fountains and statues, its long spacious galleries that form unequaled promenades, and its restaurants celebrated the world over.

The galleries, four in number, extend entirely around the square park, which is two hundred and fifty-seven yards long and one hundred and ten wide. The Galerie d’Orléans, on the south side, is the most showy. It is three hundred and twenty feet long and one hundred and six feet wide, flanked with shops, containing fine goods of all descriptions. The roof is glass covered, and when lighted up at night, presents a dazzling appearance. It was on this site that, previous to 1830, stood the disreputable shops that gave the locality such an unsavory reputation.

The other galleries, though not so fine in construction, are just as attractive, and their wide pavements, shaded by the high balcony that forms a part of the second story, are thronged day and night with strangers, to whom these windows, ablaze with the light of precious stones, are always a delight. It is a pleasure to saunter slowly along and admire the beauties that increase every minute.

IN THE COURT YARD.

Nowhere in the world can be found so great a collection of gems in so small a space as in these four galleries. The fronts of the stores consist of a huge plate glass window and a small door. Although disproportionate in size, the window suffices to show the goods, and the door is plenty large enoughfor any one who wishes to enter. The Frenchman has a natural love for the beautiful, and the French jeweler shows his taste in the arrangement of his window. A large space, covered with diamonds, set and unset, of fine gold jewelry, artistic designs in rubies, pearls, opals, or emeralds, is in itself a beautiful sight, but when they are all arranged so as to show them all to the best advantage, then the effect is marvelous.

But there can be too much of a good thing. As a whole day spent among the wonders of the Louvre fatigues the mind and body, so the constant succession of dazzling windows in the Palais-Royal becomes after a while tiresome, and the pretty little park is sought for rest and refreshment.

MOTHER AND BONNE—PALAIS-ROYAL.

There the scene changes again, and a new and interesting phase of the Palais-Royal’s attractions is seen. Under the long rows of trees that fringe the busy galleries are groups of women enjoying the cool breeze that just moves the branches above them, and tempers the heat that elsewhere is oppressive. They have some little trifle of fancy work in their hands, and as they languidly ply the needle they talk. It may be too warm to knit. It is never too warm to gossip.

Closely imitating these are the bonnes, or nurse girls, old and young, who chatter away like magpies, while their charges are amusing themselves making pictures in the sand. Theyoungsters romp and roll about with all the pleasure of childhood. They don’t care whether the Palais-Royal ever saw bloodsheds and riots or not. It makes a good playground for them, and that is all they want.

THE YOUTHFUL BONNE.

Then the concerts that are given there during the afternoons are enjoyable, and they always attract large audiences. The entire space on the south side is occupied by all kinds and conditions of people, and like all French assemblages, it is quiet and orderly. The music, if not of a high classical standard, is good, and the people enjoy it. Given a little white table in the open air, some light Offenbachian music and a glass of wine, and the Frenchman is happy.

THE AGED BONNE.

The restaurants in the Palais-Royal form another by no means unimportant feature, for the average American is no less fond of a good dinner than the Frenchbon vivant, and in these pleasant places he can find the perfection of good living. The skill of French cooks is acknowledged everywhere. Here he is on his native heath, and is seen, or tasted rather, to his best advantage.

A TALE OF THE COMMUNE.

The clerk or bookkeeper whose salary is not in keeping with his tastes, takes his modest dinner in one of the second-floor restaurants, where he gets a small bottle of claret and a well cooked, well served meal for two francs. The place is clean, the surroundings cheerful, and though there are none of those delicate trifles the French cook delights in making, there is an abundance of hunger-satisfying viands prepared in a most appetizingmanner, and they are to him better than the delicacies that grace a more elaborate table.

The more pretentious man, or the one having more money, goes to more pretentious places, and takes a dinner of several courses for five francs. There is a pleasing variety of soup, fish and entrées, with a dessert, and, if desired, coffee and cognac afterward, all prepared in good style, and well served.

But the thoroughly good liver goes to none of these. He knows the places, there in the Palais-Royal, where cooking has been reduced to a science; where the finest cooks in Paris bend their best energies to the concoction of dishes that Epicurus himself would have delighted in; where fine pictures and elegant surroundings appeal to the sense of sight, while the sense of taste is being catered to. He hies himself there and revels in the delights of a perfect dinner.

As the Parisian, man, woman, or child, will never sit indoors when the open air is possible, the Palais is always full. As a park it is delightful; the shops are just as attractive to the citizen as to the stranger, for the windows change contents every day, and the variety is such that something new and attractive can be seen at any time. It is a small world by itself, and it is no wonder that every American finds him or herself within it every day.

It is always a good thing to get hold of a good modern legend, a story that, while it may not be as gray-headed as those of the time of the gods and goddesses the ancients wrote of, has still attained a respectable age—a middle-aged legend, as it were. Such an one I have unearthed, and write it down for the benefit of coming generations.

It was during the terrible days of the Commune, Mademoiselle Therese, a beauty of the Faubourg St. Antoine, was loved by a Monsieur Adolph, the son of a rich baker in that quarter. That is to say, the baker was rich—but I am anticipating. Mademoiselle was a dressmaker of ravishing beauty. She could have married far above her condition on account of this ravishing beauty, but she was as wise as she was beautiful. She said to herself, “I could marry, by virtue of my face and figure, a grand gentleman, but—what then? I am not accomplished. I could learn to be a fine lady, it is true; but whenMonsieur should tire of me, as he inevitably would, I should lead a very uncomfortable life. I am a daughter of France—I do not wish to lead an uncomfortable life. Adolph is not handsome; he is only five feet four; he has bandy legs; his hair is bad, and his nose is a pug; but his papa has much ducats, and he is so much in love with me that he will take me without adot, and on his papa’s money we shall do business. I shall manage the business, we will make much more money, and found a family of our own, of which I shall be the head! Who knows? My sons will be gentlemen, and my daughters shall marry into the best families. Clearly, I shall marry Adolph.”

She had one other suitor whom she favored somewhat, because he was a handsome fellow of some aristocratic connections, but he lacked the money of Adolph’s father, being the heir of an impoverished house that had barely enough to live on in a sort of scrimped gentility. He was the son of a widow whose husband died with nothing, leaving her with just what she inherited from her own family, which was little enough, the Lord knows.

In some speculations at this time, Adolph’s father, to use the language of the ancients, went up the spout. He lost every sou he had and in his chagrin laid down and died, which precluded the possibility of his acquiring another fortune.

Mademoiselle Therese found herself in this predicament:—

She was solemnly engaged to Adolph.

Adolph was bandy-legged, five feet four inches in height, with a pug nose and sandy hair.

Adolph possessed the additional drawback of not having a sou to bless himself or herself with.

It was a terrible situation.

At this precise time Henri, her other suitor, had come into improved circumstances. An uncle had died leaving him something, not as much as she had expected with Adolph, but yet something. In addition to this the handsome young fellow had served gallantly in the war, had attained the rank of Lieutenant, and was well up in the military.

He came to her with his improved prospects and once more tendered her his hand.

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