The Twins of Saint-Marcel. A tale of Paris Incendié

Front matter

■ ' Lu-Lu advanced to the edge of the roof, and with a flutter fell into my out stretched arms. The crowd raised their voice and shouted "Bravo! Bravo I'" — The Twins of Saint-Marcel, page 271. {Frontispiece. ) THE TWINS OF SAINT-MARCEL A TALE OF PARIS INCENDIE. BY Mrs. A. S. ORR, AUTHOR OF 'THE ROSEVILLE FAMILY,' ' LEAH,' 'MOUNTAIN PATRIOTS,' etc., etc. EDINBURGH WILLIAM P. NIMMO 1872. EDINBURGH : PRINTED BY THOMAS AND ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE, PRINTERS TO THE QUEEN, AND TO THE UNIVERSITY.

Preface

The following Tale is so entirely ' founded upon facts/ that the story has merely been introduced to connect real incidents with the history of the time. For history, that of M. Sarcey has been consulted, as also some of the newspapers of 1870-71. The incidents here related came under the observation of the Author, and that of her relatives or intimate friends, whose letters and journals, written on the spot and at the time, have communicated much of these details of the Siege of Paris and the days of the Commune. The Author, with her family, spent the summer of 1870 on the Continent, and travelled for some

PREFACE.

. IV days with the Garde Mobile, leaving Paris the week before the surrender of the army at Sedan. An attempt has been made in this tale to show the benefit bestowed by the courageous efforts of those who have been endeavouring to spread the gospel of peace through the afflicted city of Paris. CONTENTS.

Chapter I. Who We Are

fj^C/j5h|E are twin sisters, Cerise and I ; my name K\V/ VIS *s -A-uree > and we shall be nineteen years old our next birthday. I hope, if we live to see it, we may find it a happier anniver sary than it has been this year ; for truly this last month of April has not been a happy one for us citizens of Paris ; our beloved, our once beautiful Paris ! Tears rush to my eyes as I write these last words ; and indeed, I feel sure, tears will often blind them whilst I write this tale, full of sorrows and of joys, which I have A undertaken to relate.Cerise, my beloved Cerise, having promised to aid me from her memory. Dear Cerise ! no one can tell, as I can, how good and amiable she is ; and how gently and submissively she has borne the sad lot which has befallen her. But I must not forestall my story.

Our home has been, all our lives, in a small house standing in a court-yard surrounded by high walls, in a short street not far from the Halle-au-Vin, in the Quartier of Saint-Marcel. But although that is our home where we live, because our father, Monsieur Jacques Castel, and our brother Desir6— who is six years older than we are — have long been employed, honourably, in the accountants' offices of the Halle au-Vin, and we, Cerise and I, have always rejoiced in this, as we are consequently not compelled to reside more in the city ; yet we have often made long visits into the country, as I shall relate presently. It is so much more agreeable to have a pretty little house of one's own, where our kitchen and salle a-manger, and little salon, are all on the rez-de chaussee, and we have only to mount to the attics to reach our bedrooms, than it would be, to be compelled to climb to a set of apartments on the fifth or sixth story of some large house in a dull or noisy street, to which persons in our condition are usually reduced.

Cerise and I have so often rejoiced that we had only WHO WE ARE. 3 to carry in our wood from a small house in the court, and to carry water from the draw-well under the old chestnut tree, instead of having to drag our wood baskets and water-pails up winding stairs, of perhaps a hundred steps, to our kitchen, as poor Marie and Jacqueline la Motte-Dauphine have had to do, al though the descendants of a very ancient and once powerful family. I have often wondered at the great fall this family must have had in times past ; for they could not even afford to have a bonne to help them in their household work, as we have ; but now I have ceased to wonder at such things as these, for I have seen with my own eyes how easily great people, and even an emperor and empress, can be brought low. We — Cerise and I — have still our good mother, and also our grand'mere, the old Madame David ; and we have besides our uncle and aunt — my mother's brother and his wife — very worthy and well-to-do persons, who have still one daughter and a son left alive ; although, alas ! — but. of this hereafter.

They live near the beautiful town of Fontainebleau, in the department of the Seine-et-Marne, where they have a charming garden, in which they cultivate a treillage of vines, and fatten a number of young pheasants for the Paris market. Ah ! how beautiful was my last visit there, for me, — Aur6e ! My next chapters shall relate its events ; although they make me feel more sad. My dear mother has always felt a profound attach ment for this good and only brother, Desire David, after whom our brother was also named. Perhaps it may have been the beautiful example of brotherly and sisterly love shown between them that has caused so true a friendship to exist between our brother Ddsire and us, Cerise and me, and also which has united us two sisters in such love that, with only one exception, our feelings and tastes are so much the same, that, as one might say, Cerise is Auree, and Aur6e is Cerise.

Truth, however, compels me to confess that my temper is by no means so amiable as is that of my sister ; she is all patience and gentleness, and I am all passion and hurry — or, as my father expresses it, Auree is all fire and tow ; a spark lights up her pride, her indignation, and she explodes in vehement language. Helas ! I have had enough to humble my pride and to try my patience, but not so much as Cerise has had. At this moment I behold her with wonder, as she sits by the well in the court, shelling peas for supper (with her sweet face a little raised from this mechanical work), and sings in notes which to my ears sound as sweet as those of the nightingale, that all the cannon's roar and powder's smoke have not WHO WE ARE. 5 frightened from her annual visit to our white acacia tree. I know the words which my sister sings while her dainty fingers shell the peas.

They are words of love and peace, which may well cheer her heart and brighten her countenance ; and which, but for our great troubles, might never have reached our ears ; but I must not go on too fast ; for, at the time which I now write of, we thought of very little beyond this world's love and blessings. Cerise is very pretty ; at least we all think her so, and I am sure others must agree with us. She has a calm, oval face, very pale, it is true, but full of thoughts ; and her dark eyes are so shaded by her drooping lids and dark lashes, that I think her more dove-like than any one, — not that I think so very much of doves in general, for we have a pigeon-cot in our court, and I find its inmates dirty and troublesome. Persons say we are very much alike, as twin-sisters ought to be ; but I 'm well assured I have not that softness of expression, nor quietness of motion and grace of figure, which distinguish Cerise ; and I have much colour ; we both have black hair, very long and thick, which we have much pleasure in arranging for each other ; besides this, she is tall and I am little, and this is, I think, sufficient to give my reader some idea of us, two young Parisiennes as we are.

Over our dwelling apartments and below our four sleeping-rooms there is an e'tage which has ahvays been let, as we have never required it for our own use. Since I can remember anything we have had the same family living there. When my story begins, it consisted of three persons, a father, a son, and a daughter ; Monsieur Brunei, Clemence and Henri. We have always been on terms of friendship and goodwill with these our lodgers — with poor Cerise it came to much more, as we shall see. Clemence Brunei was nearly as old as our Desire, and she was a person of a strong mind and brusque manners. She had a kind heart, and often procured little pleasures for us, taking us on Sundays to the theatres or other great sights, and on Mondays to walk in the Bois de Boulogne to see the beau-monde and the bourgeoisie.

The Brunels were much richer people than we have ever been, although Henri was not any higher up in his office in the Halle-au-Vin than my brother Desire. But Monsieur Brunei had much gold ; and as Clemence aided him in obtaining it, he shared it liberally with her ; and she pleased herself by taking us — Cerise and me — as I have said, to many places of amusement. We, the twins, always dressed neatly en citoyenne; wearing dark merinoes or alpaca dresses, according to the season, bright silk foulard aprons and pretty WHO WE ARE. 7 round caps of white batiste and lace, decorated with blue or pink ribbons, for either of these colours suited us. Cldmence, on the contrary, wore silk or cashmere, muslins or furs, as it pleased her ; and she never went into the streets without a hat, with either feathers or flowers, like any of the beau-monde in the Bois.

I have heard persons remark on this, not very kindly ; asking, ' Is it thus the bourgeoisie of Paris dress them selves ?' and I have heard Clemence reply, ' One citizen is as good as another ; and if it pleases me to wear a hat and feathers, I have as good a right to do so as the Empress or the Queen of Spain's daughters : the good God made us all of one flesh ; what are they more than I ?' Neither Cerise at first, nor I, at any time, liked to hear her speak in this way ; nor did we quite comprehend her words ; but she often said things which we understand now. Poor Clemence ! it had been better for her had she held other sentiments, or at least not given such free expression to her thoughts: Now I see that Cerise has shelled all the peas, and she rises to carry them into the house ; and, ah ! how she turns away from the farther side of the court — she avoids letting her soft sad eyes rest on one spot there ; and no marvel !

It is where the T WINS OF SA INT-MA R CEL . boughs of the magnolia and westeria, which cover the wall, have been cut away : they were broken so that my father cut them down, leaving a great bare space of the wall to be seen. That used to be the prettiest part of our court ; for there was a flower border there below the wall, and in summer and autumn it used to be filled with scarlet gera niums, reines-Marguerites, mignonnette, and splendid gladioles from our uncle's garden at Fontainebleau ; for, as every one knows, that is the place where the finest of these beautiful roots are cultivated. Our border has been neglected this year ; for none of us like to make that part of our court look bright now : its memories are too sad ; and although my beloved Cerise has higher hopes now than those there ex tinguished, yet I cannot wonder that she is careful to turn her head the other way, when passing near the white acacia tree ; or that she never sits on the new-mended bench beneath that tree.

Writing of the gladioles has reminded me that I have to relate the events of a day which we — my mother, Cerise, and I — spent at Fontainebleau, shortly before our sorrows came ; when our beautiful Paris was still the pride of the nations and of our hearts.

Chapter II. Our

uncle's family, ©Tp^g^VERYTHING went on well and pleasant^ jp iiinK as 't appeared, after the plebiscite was over tj gpy| on the 8th of May. Before that day the bise had not ceased, and we had not left off our warm clothes. Ah ! how it blew up the Champs Elys^es and down the Avenue de l'lmperatrice on the previous Monday ! it makes me shiver v/hen I recall it. And what anxious - looking groups of citizens we encountered ! It was the last walk we had with poor Cl^mence in the Bois, although we little thought so then. She was not in a good temper that day, for the observation of many an excited speaker reached her ears, and convinced her that, whether willingly or not, their votes would be for him, whom, to our horror, Cerise and I heard her and M. Brunei, her father, call ' our tyrant' That was over strong language.

We, the twins, loved to see the Emperor ride past with the pretty Prince on his favourite pony beside him ; and all his fine officers and his guard. Above all, our young hearts rejoiced when we had the good fortune to meet the Empress ; especially as one day, when she passed very slowly in her open carriage — with the sun shining on her golden hair, and her light Marabout feathers fluttering above her fair brow, — she smiled and nodded her head to us — yes, to the twins — Cerise and me. How proud we felt what a lovely lady was our Empress ! — how good and fair the Eugenie of us Parisiennes ! But Clemence turned away and looked scornful ; and now, when the plebiscite was at hand, her dark grey eyes flashed, and her sallow cheeks flushed up, as she asked — - ' Is this then what we — the French people — we the brave— call liberty ? ' My father and mother were much pleased with the result of this plebiscite, and Desire took off his cap and threw it up several times in the air, for we were all in the court of our house when we heard the result, and that an immense majority had de clared for Louis Napoleon.

Cries of ' Vive l'Empereur, l'lmperatrice et le Prince Imperial!' together with ' Vive la France et la paix ! ' broke forth from our party ; Henri Brunei joining in the latter shout, though not the former. ' Vive la France ! la patrie, et la liberte ! ' growled a voice from one of the windows above. We looked up and saw Brunei, the elder, standing there. Clemence beside him, with tears of anger rolling down her face, while she cried, ' A bas la tyrannie ! Vive le peuple Francais ! A bas les Mouchards ! ' All things went on pleasantly after this, for politics were tabooed between the rez-de-chaussee and the first floor. Every one promised and prophesied of peace and prosperity ; the easterly winds departed, and beautiful summer had shed her sunbeams over our parks and fountains. If there were a whisper of extravagance in high places to be kept up by taxation ; of Mouchards in all places of public resort ; and of horrible deadly pestilence spreading in secret ; it was all whispered by those birds of ill-omen who always croak about through all cities.

These croakings were nothing to the happy family of the small house in the Ouartier Saint-Marcel, and less than nothing to Cerise and me. With what light hearts and chattering tongues we set out very early one of those fine June mornings in a voiture, which had been ordered to come for us the evening before to take us across the river, and passing by the grand new Boulevard de Sebastopol to the Lyons railway station. How bright was Paris at that early hour, between five and six o'clock ! Her unequalled Notre Dame shining like a golden glory ; her delicately spired Sainte-Chapelle rising like an abode for angels into the clear blue sky ; her cheerful streets and long rows of palaces. But — ' Oh ! what is that, mother ?' cried I. 'Only a body which they are carrying to the Morgue, my child,' she replied. 'Ah ! see how the long hair hangs over the face, and the clothes drip water,' said Cerise, shuddering. ' It is some unhappy girl who has ended her days in the Seine,' said mamma.

Alas ! such was Paris even in her pride ! Our uncle, the good Desire David, met us at the station of Fontainebleau ; and what a pretty station it is ! Just such as suited Eugenie,, who, in my mind, was entitled to have everything pretty to meet her eye, and who came so often here. But we did not remain here long, for our uncle had his char-a-banc waiting to convey us half a league, away to his home. It was a pretty house with green volets and a verandah covered with climbing roses, woodbine, and passion-flower ; and it stood in a large garden where some fine lime-trees gave shade and shelter. Outside the great wooden entrance-gate we met our cousins, Blanchard and Emile ; two fine young men, in fresh clean blouses, who received us with welcoming smiles ; and we all had a good laugh at the difficulty we experienced in descending the high steps of the char-a-banc.

They insisted that we could not get down, and that they must accordingly lift us to the ground in their strong arms ; so little did we, young and gay as we were, require to give us an excuse for laughter. I was surprised to see Blanchard so cheerful, for he was usually a grave and thoughtful youth, who occupied himself much in helping my uncle to rear the young pheasants, and to keep his large vegetable garden in order. As for Emile, he was always of a joyous tempera ment, and ready for any boyish play or gaiety. We knew him much better than his elder brother ; and for this reason he had spent many months with us. Emile's future occupation was to be that of an artist ; for he had a great taste and facility for painting, and he had passed much time in the galleries of the Louvre and the Luxembourg, practising the art under the guidance of an excellent teacher.

So that we looked upon our bright-faced young painter as our own especial property. Our aunt and cousin Pauline received us at the house door with many tender embracings. ' I am so glad you are come to-day, dear cousins,' said Pauline, 'for we have arranged a party to the valley de la Solle — you remember it, Auree; is it not so?' ' Yes, yes ; it is charming ! and we are to go there to-day ? Oh, how delicious ! Listen, Cerise ; you are going to see the Rocher des deux Sceurs, of which I have so often spoken to you.' ' Our rock, Auree ! Ah, well ! that is charming ! but first I want to see the pheasants.' ' First you must come to dejeuner, my dear friends,' said our fat, pleasant-looking aunt, with her broad face all dimpled with smiles and joy. So, laying aside our umbrellas, and the light shawls which we had carried upon our arms, we fol lowed my aunt and mother into the large cheerful salon, — cool with its polished red-tiled floor and white draperies, — Pauline's arms wound round a waist of each of us two, kissing us alternately, and exclaiming, ' How content I am !' Dear Pauline, she is like our third sister.

We needed little of our cousin's hospitable exhor tations to eat, for the pleasures of the morning had not hurt our appetites ; and when Cerise assured them she was ready to die of hunger, she only echoed my sentiments ; so that we did ample justice to the handsome repast which was offered to us—fricandeau de veau d petits-pois, and fresh strawberries, with that peculiar cream called Fontainebleau cheese, and hot rolls of white bread and cafe au lait. We were all very merry during the repast, and we newcomers could not help observing that many sly remarks on the subject of housekeeping affairs were addressed by Monsieur David and his wife to their eldest son.

And when Pauline perceived that we looked mystified thereby, she whispered to her neigh bour Cerise, who, in her turn, communicated the in telligence to me, that Blanchard was about to marry little Marie Sarcy ; his father and mother were tired of rearing pheasants, and were about to resign their trade to him, and to content themselves with the cul tivation of vegetables and vines. ' There is no danger, you know,' said my aunt, ' of Blanche's having to join the army now, or in future, for his father has paid a large sum of money to pro vide a substitute for him ; and, indeed, Emile has this very week arrived at the same piece of good fortune.' ' Is it not sometimes better fortune to serve one's country ?' said Cerise, who had the spirit of a heroine inside her quiet little person. ' A young painter seldom makes a good soldier, my good little niece,' said my uncle. ' And may serve his country in some other way,' said Emile ; ' is it not so ?' ' Insomuch as the fine arts are more beautiful than the battle-field,' said I. ' Which, next to sacred subjects, it is the painter's greatest glory to celebrate,' said Cerise. ' Horace Vernet was a great painter.' ' To my mind, Leonardo da Vinci was the greater man ; he taught the Lombardians to irrigate their dry plains,' said my uncle. ' Yes ; any good farmer might have done the same, had he used his wits,' said Emile ; 'but Leonardo's farming is spoken of with wonder because of his glorious picture, that Cenicola which has immortalized his name and glorified Milan.' ' And which our Napoleon allowed his soldiers to use as a target, as I have heard,' said Cerise, who often said little things like this, which made me doubt the sincerity of her love for ' the dynasty.' 'For me, I admire my "belle jardiniere" more than any work of art,' I observed, kindly and encou ragingly to Emile, for he had painted a copy of that well-known beauty of the Louvre for me and it formed the chief glory of our little room, Cerise's and mine.

Emile blushed very much at this compliment, but said politely he hoped to paint me something much better ; in fact he meant to set all his strength to equal ' the great Murillo,' as he always called the Assumption. ' There is nothing like a fine ambition,' observed my uncle. ' Except a proper appreciation of one's powers,' said my aunt slyly, and yet with a twinkle of admiring hope in her kindly mother's eyes. B

Chapter III. What Happened In The Forest

JSSIISJJHIS little talk was interrupted by the en- Wm llll trance of Marie Sard, the 'intended' of Hi aHI1 cousin Blanchard ; a dainty little person, about our own age ; a brunette, of beauti ful small features, large black eyes, and a most benign expression. She came in at the door timidly, and glanced like a fawn at the strangers. But her blushes and pretty mauvaise honte were relieved by a small companion, whom she held by the hand, and to whom she quickly contrived to divert our attention. This was her young sister, a very fat and rosy faced child of three years' old, to whom Marie observed — ' Say good-morning, Fanfan. How ! wilt thee not say the good-day ? Ah,fi-donc /' ' Is this the way one comes to Madame David's house in the morning?' said Pauline, who had left her seat at the table, and stooped down to lift the child into her arms. 'Do people come in without saying good-morning ?

Come then, embrace me, Fanfan. So, that is well. Now come and kiss Madame, and all these ladies.' The child gazed with her great round brown eyes from one to the other ; and suffered herself to be carried round and present her chubby pursed-up crimson lips for each person to kiss her cheeks, while she responded by a chirrup of her mouth. This considerate diversion of our attention enabled Marie to gain the chair which Blanchard had placed for her between himself and his mother. ' Will you have some breakfast, Marie ?' ' No, thanks ; I 've already breakfasted.' ' What ! no strawberries ? no fromage ?' exclaimed Blanchard. 'Who ever refused the good mother's cheese ?' ' Not I,' said Marie. ' Of course not,' said Madame. ' It is much better than my son, is it not, little one ?' 'When one wants to eat strawberries — yes,' replied Marie. ' At all other times — no,' she said softly. ' Then I 've a great mind not to give you any of these fine strawberries,' said Blanchard, heaping her plate at the same time with some of the best, and observing — ' Now, ungrateful, eat all up, and make my only rival disappear out of my sight.' While this little love-scene went on under aunt David's auspices, we others and Pauline — who fed Fanfan with strawberries from her own plate — arranged with uncle Desire and Emile our plans for the day.

Emile wished us to go first to the chateau, but we all observed we knew it by heart, we had been through it so often. 'But you have not seen Winterhalter's splendid picture of Eugenie and the ladies of her Court,' said Emile. ' Ah, that is a group of portraits ! so simple, so living, so full of grace !' ' We are not allowed to see it, are we ?' asked Cerise doubtingiy. ' Is it not too precious for vulgar eyes ?' Another of Cerise's remarks which felt like a drop of cold water to me. 'Persons are not generally allowed into the few rooms which their Majesties retain as perfectly pri vate,' replied Emile. ' It is not much, when so very much is open to us. We should not complain.' ' Clemence says they are our property, and all they have is ours,' said Cerise ; ' therefore that fine picture of which you speak belongs to the nation.' ' In their private capacity their Majesties have their private goods,' replied Emile. ' But it is useless to argue with so great a revolutionist as my little cousin.

Shall you like to see this picture, which you claim as part of your property, Cerise ?' ' I like to see the Empress when she smiles at Auree and me ; I like her en bonne femme ; and also when I see her coming in or out of the Maison-Dieu, when she visits the sick and cheers them with kind words ; but at present I prefer seeing the forest, the wild-flowers, the rocks.' ' Can we not do both ?' said I, anxious to gratify Emile. ' Yes,' replied Emile ; ' Monsieur, de B — is kind ; he knows me — he permits me to enter the private rooms on occasions.' ' Then we shall take the chateau on our way to the valley de la Solle, and we can return by the fine point of view over the river,' said Pauline. 'Agreed! agreed!' we all cried, for indeed any thing was delightful to us. ' Now come and see the pheasants,' said our uncle, ' for you have no more time to lose.

Remember we dine at four o'clock.' Then we went out into the garden to see the hundreds of little brown birds which ran about the walks, so that it required some care to avoid treading upon and annihilating them. They were of all sizes ; some fully fledged and very pretty ; some awkwardlooking, half-fledged, bony things, like some other half-grown beings whom I respect too much to name — the cap may fit ; and dozens besides of sweet little balls of soft light-brown down, just out of the egg. 'What fun Mignon our cat would have here! little sister,' I said. 'Wicked beast,' replied Cerise, 'she would ex emplify the fashionable axiom of " might is right." ' ' There again, Cerise !' exclaimed Emile. ' How do your pigeons escape Madame Mignon ?' asked Pauline ; ' you have your pretty pets still, Auree ; is it not so ?' ' Ah yes, yes ; Mignon does not meddle with them ; nor does Pipo, our dog, either.' ' That is to say, they are placed too high up above the reach of their tyrants,' said Cerise.