The fine evenings are come back; the trees begin to put forth theirshoots; hyacinths, jonquils, violets, and lilacs perfume the baskets ofthe flower-girls--all the world have begun their walks again on the quaysand boulevards. After dinner, I, too, descend from my attic to breathethe evening air.
It is the hour when Paris is seen in all its beauty. During the day theplaster fronts of the houses weary the eye by their monotonous whiteness;heavily laden carts make the streets shake under their huge wheels; theeager crowd, taken up by the one fear of losing a moment from business,cross and jostle one another; the aspect of the city altogether hassomething harsh, restless, and flurried about it. But, as soon as thestars appear, everything is changed; the glare of the white houses isquenched in the gathering shades; you hear no more any rolling but thatof the carriages on their way to some party of pleasure; you see only thelounger or the light-hearted passing by; work has given place to leisure.
Now each one may breathe after the fierce race through the business ofthe day, and whatever strength remains to him he gives to pleasure! Seethe ballrooms lighted up, the theatres open, the eating-shops along thewalks set out with dainties, and the twinkling lanterns of the newspapercriers. Decidedly Paris has laid aside the pen, the ruler, and theapron; after the day spent in work, it must have the evening forenjoyment; like the masters of Thebes, it has put off all serious mattertill tomorrow.
I love to take part in this happy hour; not to mix in the general gayety,but to contemplate it. If the enjoyments of others embitter jealousminds, they strengthen the humble spirit; they are the beams of sunshine,which open the two beautiful flowers called trust and hope.
Although alone in the midst of the smiling multitude, I do not feelmyself isolated from it, for its gayety is reflected upon me: it is myown kind, my own family, who are enjoying life, and I take a brothersshare in their happiness. We are all fellow-soldiers in this earthlybattle, and what does it matter on whom the honors of the victory fall?
If Fortune passes by without seeing us, and pours her favors on others,let us console ourselves, like the friend of Parmenio, by saying, "Those,too, are Alexanders."
While making these reflections, I was going on as chance took me. Icrossed from one pavement to another, I retraced my steps, I stoppedbefore the shops or to read the handbills. How many things there are tolearn in the streets of Paris! What a museum it is! Unknown fruits,foreign arms, furniture of old times or other lands, animals of allclimates, statues of great men, costumes of distant nations! It is theworld seen in samples!
Let us then look at this people, whose knowledge is gained from the shop-windows and the tradesmans display of goods. Nothing has been taughtthem, but they have a rude notion of everything. They have seenpineapples at Chevets, a palm-tree in the Jardin des Plantes, sugar-canes selling on the Pont-Neuf. The Redskins, exhibited in the ValentineHall, have taught them to mimic the dance of the bison, and to smoke thecalumet of peace; they have seen Carters lions fed; they know theprincipal national costumes contained in Babins collection; Goupilsdisplay of prints has placed the tiger-hunts of Africa and the sittingsof the English Parliament before their eyes; they have become acquaintedwith Queen Victoria, the Emperor of Austria, and Kossuth, at the office-door of the Illustrated News. We can certainly instruct them, but notastonish them; for nothing is completely new to them. You may take theParis ragamuffin through the five quarters of the world, and at everywonder with which you think t o surprise him, he will settle the matterwith that favorite and conclusive answer of his class--"I know."
But this variety of exhibitions, which makes Paris the fair of the world,does not offer merely a means of instruction to him who walks through it;it is a continual spur for rousing the imagination, a first step of theladder always set up before us in a vision. When we see them, how manyvoyages do we take in imagination, what adventures do we dream of, whatpictures do we sketch! I never look at that shop near the Chinese baths,with its tapestry hangings of Florida jessamine, and filled withmagnolias, without seeing the forest glades of the New World, describedby the author of Atala, opening themselves out before me.
Then, when this study of things and this discourse of reason begin totire you, look around you! What contrasts of figures and faces you seein the crowd! What a vast field for the exercise of meditation! A half-seen glance, or a few words caught as the speaker passes by, open athousand vistas to your imagination. You wish to comprehend what theseimperfect disclosures mean, and, as the antiquary endeavors to decipherthe mutilated inscription on some old monument, you build up a history ona gesture or on a word! These are the stirring sports of the mind, whichfinds in fiction a relief from the wearisome dullness of the actual.
Alas! as I was just now passing by the carriage-entrance of a greathouse, I noticed a sad subject for one of these histories. A man wassitting in the darkest corner, with his head bare, and holding out hishat for the charity of those who passed. His threadbare coat had thatlook of neatness which marks that destitution has been met by a longstruggle. He had carefully buttoned it up to hide the want of a shirt.
His face was half hid under his gray hair, and his eyes were closed, asif he wished to escape the sight of his own humiliation, and he remainedmute and motionless. Those who passed him took no notice of the beggar,who sat in silence and darkness! They had been so lucky as to escapecomplaints and importunities, and were glad to turn away their eyes too.
Suddenly the great gate turned on its hinges; and a very low carriage,lighted with silver lamps and drawn by two black horses, came slowly out,and took the road toward the Faubourg St. Germain. I could justdistinguish, within, the sparkling diamonds and the flowers of a ball-dress; the glare of the lamps passed like a bloody streak over the paleface of the beggar, and showed his look as his eyes opened and followedthe rich mans equipage until it disappeared in the night.
I dropped a small piece of money into the hat he was holding out, andpassed on quickly.
I had just fallen unexpectedly upon the two saddest secrets of thedisease which troubles the age we live in: the envious hatred of him whosuffers want, and the selfish forgetfulness of him who lives inaffluence.
All the enjoyment of my walk was gone; I left off looking about me, andretired into my own heart. The animated and moving sight in the streetsgave place to inward meditation upon all the painful problems which havebeen written for the last four thousand years at the bottom of each humanstruggle, but which are propounded more clearly than ever in our days.
I pondered on the uselessness of so many contests, in which defeat andvictory only displace each other by turns, and on the mistaken zealotswho have repeated from generation to generation the bloody history ofCain and Abel; and, saddened with these mournful reflections, I walked onas chance took me, until the silence all around insensibly drew me outfrom my own thoughts.
I had reached one of the remote streets, in which those who would live incomfort and without ostentation, and who love serious reflection, delightto find a home. There were no shops along the dimly lighted street; oneheard no sounds but of distant carriages, and of the steps of some of theinhabitants returning quietly home.
I instantly recognized the street, though I had been there only oncebefore.
That was two years ago. I was walking at the time by the side of theSeine, to which the lights on the quays and bridges gave the aspect of alake surrounded by a garland of stars; and I had reached the Louvre, whenI was stopped by a crowd collected near the parapet they had gatheredround a child of about six, who was crying, and I asked the cause of histears.
"It seems that he was sent to walk in the Tuileries," said a mason, whowas returning from his work with his trowel in his hand; "the servant whotook care of him met with some friends there, and told the child to waitfor him while he went to get a drink; but I suppose the drink made himmore thirsty, for he has not come back, and the child cannot find his wayhome."
"Why do they not ask him his name, and where he lives?"
"They have been doing it for the last hour; but all he can say is, thathe is called Charles, and that his father is Monsieur Duval--there aretwelve hundred Duvals in Paris."
"Then he does not know in what part of the town he lives?"
"I should not think, indeed! Dont you see that he is a gentlemanschild? He has never gone out except in a carriage or with a servant; hedoes not know what to do by himself."
Here the mason was interrupted by some of the voices rising above theothers.
"We cannot leave him in the street," said some.
"The child-stealers would carry him off," continued others.
"We must take him to the overseer."
"Or to the police-office."
"Thats the thing. Come, little one!"
But the child, frightened by these suggestions of danger, and at thenames of police and overseer, cried louder, and drew back toward theparapet. In vain they tried to persuade him; his fears made him resistthe more, and the most eager began to get weary, when the voice of alittle boy was heard through the confusion.
"I know him well--I do," said he, looking at the lost child; "he belongsin our part of the town."
"What part is it?"
"Yonder, on the other side of the Boulevards--Rue des Magasins."
"And you have seen him before?"
"Yes, yes! he belongs to the great house at the end of the street, wherethere is an iron gate with gilt points."
The child quickly raised his head, and stopped crying. The little boyanswered all the questions that were put to him, and gave such details asleft no room for doubt. The other child understood him, for he went upto him as if to put himself under his protection.
"Then you can take him to his parents?" asked the mason, who hadlistened with real interest to the little boys account.
"I dont care if I do," replied he; "its the way Im going."
"Then you will take charge of him?"
"He has only to come with me."
And, taking up the basket he had put down on the pavement, he set offtoward the postern-gate of the Louvre.
The lost child followed him.
"I hope he will take him right," said I, when I saw them go away.
"Never fear," replied the mason; "the little one in the blouse is thesame age as the other; but, as the saying is, he knows black from white;poverty, you see, is a famous schoolmistress!"
The crowd dispersed. For my part, I went toward the Louvre; the thoughtcame into my head to follow the two children, so as to guard against anymistake.
I was not long in overtaking them; they were walking side by side,talking, and already quite familiar with each other. The contrast intheir dress then struck me. Little Duval wore one of those fancifulchildrens dresses which are expensive as well as in good taste; his coatwas skilfully fitted to his figure, his trousers came down in plaits fromhis waist to his boots of polished leather with mother-of-pearl buttons,and his ringlets were half hid by a velvet cap. The appearance of hisguide, on the contrary, was that of the class who dwell on the extremeborders of poverty, but who there maintain their ground with nosurrender. His old blouse, patched with pieces of different shades,indicated the perseverance of an industrious mother struggling againstthe wear and tear of time; his trousers were become too short, and showedhis stockings darned over and over again; and it was evident that hisshoes were not made for him.
The countenances of the two children were not less different than theirdress. That of the first was delicate and refined; his clear blue eye,his fair skin, and his smiling mouth gave him a charming look ofinnocence and happiness. The features of the other, on the contrary, hadsomething rough in them; his eye was quick and lively, his complexiondark, his smile less merry than shrewd; all showed a mind sharpened bytoo early experience; he walked boldly through the middle of the streetsthronged by carriages, and followed their countless turnings withouthesitation.
I found, on asking him, that every day he carried dinner to his father,who was then working on the left bank of the Seine; and this responsibleduty had made him careful and prudent. He had learned those hard butforcible lessons of necessity which nothing can equal or supply the placeof. Unfortunately, the wants of his poor family had kept him fromschool, and he seemed to feel the loss; for he often stopped before theprintshops, and asked his companion to read him the names of theengravings. In this way we reached the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, whichthe little wanderer seemed to know again. Notwithstanding his fatigue,he hurried on; he was agitated by mixed feelings; at the sight of hishouse he uttered a cry, and ran toward the iron gate with the giltpoints; a lady who was standing at the entrance received him in her arms,and from the exclamations of joy, and the sound of kisses, I soonperceived she was his mother.
Not seeing either the servant or child return, she had sent in search ofthem in every direction, and was waiting for them in intense anxiety.
I explained to her in a few words what had happened. She thanked mewarmly, and looked round for the little boy who had recognized andbrought back her son; but while we were talking, he had disappeared.
It was for the first time since then that I had come into this part ofParis. Did the mother continue grateful? Had the children met again,and had the happy chance of their first meeting lowered between them thatbarrier which may mark the different ranks of men, but should not dividethem?
While putting these questions to myself, I slackened my pace, and fixedmy eyes on the great gate, which I just perceived. Suddenly I saw itopen, and two children appeared at the entrance. Although much grown,I recognized them at first sight; they were the child who was found nearthe parapet of the Louvre, and his young guide. But the dress of thelatter was greatly changed: his blouse of gray cloth was neat, and evenspruce, and was fastened round the waist by a polished leather belt; hewore strong shoes, but made for his feet, and had on a new cloth cap.
Just at the moment I saw him, he held in his two hands an enormous bunchof lilacs, to which his companion was trying to add narcissuses andprimroses; the two children laughed, and parted with a friendly good-by.
M. Duvals son did not go in till he had seen the other turn the cornerof the street.
Then I accosted the latter, and reminded him of our former meeting; helooked at me for a moment, and then seemed to recollect me.
"Forgive me if I do not make you a bow," said he, merrily, "but I wantboth my hands for the nosegay Monsieur Charles has given me."
"You are, then, become great friends?" said I.
"Oh! I should think so," said the child; "and now my father is richtoo!"
"Hows that?"
"Monsieur Duval lent him some money; he has taken a shop, where he workson his own account; and, as for me, I go to school."
"Yes," replied I, remarking for the first time the cross that decoratedhis little coat; "and I see that you are head-boy!"
"Monsieur Charles helps me to learn, and so I am come to be the first inthe class."
"Are you now going to your lessons?"
"Yes, and he has given me some lilacs; for he has a garden where we playtogether, and where my mother can always have flowers."
"Then it is the same as if it were partly your own."
"So it is! Ah! they are good neighbors indeed. But here I am; good-by,sir."
He nodded to me with a smile, and disappeared.
I went on with my walk, still pensive, but with a feeling of relief.
If I had elsewhere witnessed the painful contrast between affluence andwant, here I had found the true union of riches and poverty. Heartygood-will had smoothed down the more rugged inequalities on both sides,and had opened a road of true neighborhood and fellowship between thehumble workshop and the stately mansion. Instead of hearkening to thevoice of interest, they had both listened to that of self-sacrifice,and there was no place left for contempt or envy. Thus, instead of thebeggar in rags, that I had seen at the other door cursing the rich man,I had found here the happy child of the laborer loaded with flowers andblessing him! The problem, so difficult and so dangerous to examine intowith no regard but for the rights of it, I had just seen solved by love.