A VERSAILLES CHRISTMAS-TIDE By Mary Stuart Boyd With Fifty-three Illustrations by A. S. Boyd 1901 Contents I. The Unexpected Happens II. Ogams III. The Town IV. Our Arbre de Noël V. Le Jour de l'Année VI. Ice-bound VII. The Haunted Château VIII. Marie Antoinette IX. The Prisoners Released Illustrations The SummonsStorm WarningTreasure TroveThe Red Cross in the WindowEnter M. Le DocteurPerpetual MotionUrsa MajorMeal ConsiderationsThe Two ColonelsThe Young and BraveMalcontentThe AristocratPapa, Mama, et BébéJuvenile ProgressAutomoblesse obligeSable GarbA Football TeamMistress and MaidSage and OnionsMarketingPrivate BoxesA Foraging PartyA Thriving MerchantChestnuts in the AvenueThe Tree VendorThe Tree BearerRosineAlms and the LadyAdorationThankfulnessOne of the DevoutDe l'eau ChaudeThe MillThe PresbyteryTo the Place of RestWhile the Frost HoldsThe Postman's WrapA Lapful of WarmthThe Daily RoundThree Babes and a BonneSnow in the ParkA Veteran of the ChâteauUn, Deux, TroisBedchamber of Louis XIVMarie LeczinskaMadame AdelaideLouis QuatorzeWhere the Queen PlayedMarie AntoinetteThe Secret StairMadame sans TêteIlluminationL'Envoi CHAPTER I THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS [Illustration: The Summons] No project could have been less foreseen than was ours of wintering inFrance, though it must be confessed that for several months our thoughtshad constantly strayed across the Channel. For the Boy was at school atVersailles, banished there by our desire to fulfil a parental duty. The time of separation had dragged tardily past, until one foggyDecember morning we awoke to the glad consciousness that that veryevening the Boy would be with us again. Across the breakfast-table wekept saying to each other, "It seems scarcely possible that the Boy isreally coming home to-night, " but all the while we hugged the assurancethat it was. The Boy is an ordinary snub-nosed, shock-headed urchin of thirteen, withno special claim to distinction save the negative one of being an onlychild. Yet without his cheerful presence our home seemed empty and dull. Any attempts at merry-making failed to restore its life. Now all wasagog for his return. The house was in its most festive trim. Christmaspresents were hidden securely away. There was rejoicing downstairs aswell as up: the larder shelves were stored with seasonable fare, andevery bit of copper and brass sparkled a welcome. Even the kitchen catsported a ribbon, and had a specially energetic purr ready. Into the midst of our happy preparations the bad news fell withbomb-like suddenness. The messenger who brought the telegram whistledshrilly and shuffled a breakdown on the doorstep while he waited to hearif there was an answer. "He is ill. He can't come. Scarlet fever, " one of us said in an odd, flat voice. "Scarlet fever. At school. Oh! when can we go to him? When is there aboat?" cried the other. There was no question of expediency. The Boy lay sick in a foreign land, so we went to him. It was full noon when the news came, and nightfallsaw us dashing through the murk of a wild mid-December night towardsDover pier, feeling that only the express speed of the mail train wasquick enough for us to breathe in. But even the most apprehensive of journeys may hold its humours. Just atthe moment of starting anxious friends assisted a young lady into ourcarriage. "She was going to Marseilles. Would we kindly see that she goton all right?" We were only going as far as Paris direct. "Well, then, as far as Paris. It would be a great favour. " So from Charing Cross tothe Gare du Nord, Placidia, as we christened her, became our care. She was a large, handsome girl of about three-and-twenty. What was herreason for journeying unattended to Cairo we know not. Whether she everreached her destination we are still in doubt, for a more complacentlyincapable damsel never went a-voyaging. The Saracen maiden who followedher English lover from the Holy Land by crying "London" and "À Becket"was scarce so impotent as Placidia; for any information the Saracenmaiden had she retained, while Placidia naively admitted that she hadalready forgotten by which line of steamers her passage through theMediterranean had been taken. Placidia had an irrational way of losing her possessions. While yet onher way to the London railway station she had lost her tam-o'-shanter. So perforce, she travelled in a large picture-hat which, although prettyand becoming, was hardly suitable headgear for channel-crossing inmid-winter. [Illustration: Storm Warning] It was a wild night; wet, with a rising north-west gale. Tarpaulinedporters swung themselves on to the carriage-steps as we drew up at Doverpier, and warned us not to leave the train, as, owing to the storm, theCalais boat would be an hour late in getting alongside. The Ostend packet, lying beside the quay in full sight of thetravellers, lurched giddily at her moorings. The fourth occupant of ourcompartment, a sallow man with yellow whiskers, turned green withapprehension. Not so Placidia. From amongst her chaotic hand-baggage sheextracted walnuts and mandarin oranges, and began eating with anappetite that was a direct challenge to the Channel. Bravery orfoolhardiness could go no farther. Providence tempers the wind to the parents who are shorn of their lamb. The tumult of waters left us scatheless, but poor Placidia early paidthe penalty of her rashness. She "thought" she was a good sailor--thoughshe acknowledged that this was her first sea-trip--and elected to remainon deck. But before the harbour lights had faded behind us a sympatheticmariner supported her limp form--the feathers of her incongruous hatdrooping in unison with their owner--down the swaying cabin staircaseand deposited her on a couch. "Oh! I do wish I hadn't eaten that fruit, " she groaned when I offeredher smelling-salts. "But then, you know, I was so hungry!" In the _train rapide_ a little later, Placidia, when arranging her wrapsfor the night journey, chanced, among the medley of her belongings, upona missing boat-ticket whose absence at the proper time had threatenedcomplications. She burst into good-humoured laughter at the discovery. "Why, here's the ticket that man made all the fuss about. I reallythought he wasn't going to let me land till I found it. Now, I do wonderhow it got among my rugs?" We seemed to be awake all night, staring with wide, unseeing eyes outinto the darkness. Yet the chill before dawn found us blinking sleepilyat a blue-bloused porter who, throwing open the carriage door, curtlyannounced that we were in Paris. Then followed a fruitless search for Placidia's luggage, a hunt whichwas closed by Placidia recovering her registration ticket (with afragment of candy adhering to it) from one of the multifarious pocketsof her ulster, and finding that the luggage had been registered on toMarseilles. "Will they charge duty on tobacco?" she inquired blandly, asshe watched the Customs examination of our things. "I've such a lot ofcigars in my boxes. " There was an Old-Man-of-the-Sea-like tenacity in Placidia's smilingimpuissance. She did not know one syllable of French. A new-born babecould not have revealed itself more utterly incompetent. I verilybelieve that, despite our haste, we would have ended by escortingPlacidia across Paris, and ensconcing her in the Marseilles train, hadnot Providence intervened in the person of a kindly disposed polyglottraveller. So, leaving Placidia standing the picture of complacentfatuosity in the midst of a group consisting of this new champion andthree porters, we sneaked away. [Illustration: Treasure Trove] Grey dawn was breaking as we drove towards St. Lazare Station, and thedaily life of the city was well begun. Lights were twinkling in the darkinteriors of the shops. Through the mysterious atmosphere figures loomedmistily, then vanished into the gloom. But we got no more than a vagueimpression of our surroundings. Throughout the interminable length ofdrive across the city, and the subsequent slow train journey, ourthoughts were ever in advance. The tardy winter daylight had scarcely come before we were jolting in a_fiacre_ over the stony streets of Versailles. In the gutters, croneswere eagerly rummaging among the dust heaps that awaited removal. InFrance no degradation attaches to open economies. Housewives on theirway to fetch Gargantuan loaves or tiny bottles of milk for the matutinal_café-au-lait_ cast searching glances as they passed, to see if amongthe rubbish something of use to them might not be lurking. And at onealluring mound an old gentleman of absurdly respectable exteriorperfunctorily turned over the scraps with the point of his cane. We had heard of a hotel, and the first thing we saw of it we liked. Thatwas a pair of sabots on the mat at the foot of the staircase. Pausingonly to remove the dust of travel, we set off to visit our son, walkingwith timorous haste along the grand old avenue where the school wassituated. A little casement window to the left of the wide entrance-doorshowed a red cross. We looked at it silently, wondering. [Illustration: The Red Cross in the Window] In response to our ring the portal opened mysteriously at touch of theunseen concierge, and we entered. A conference with Monsieur leDirecteur, kindly, voluble, tactfully complimentary regarding ourhalting French, followed. The interview over, we crossed the courtyardour hearts beating quickly. At the top of a little flight of worn stonesteps was the door of the school hospital, and under the ivy-twinedtrellis stood a sweet-faced Franciscan Soeur, waiting to welcome us. [Illustration: Enter M. Le Docteur] Passing through a tiny outer room--an odd combination of dispensary, kitchen, and drawing-room with a red-tiled floor--we reached thesick-chamber, and saw the Boy. A young compatriot, also a victim of thedisease, occupied another bed, but for the first moments we wereoblivious of his presence. Raising his fever-flushed face from thepillows, the Boy eagerly stretched out his burning hands. "I heard your voices, " his hoarse voice murmured contentedly, "and Iknew _you_ couldn't be ghosts. " Poor child! in the semidarkness of thelonely night-hours phantom voices had haunted him. We of the morningwere real. The good Soeur buzzed a mild frenzy of "Il ne faut pas toucher" aboutour ears, but, all unheeding, we clasped the hot hands and crooned overhim. After the dreary months of separation, love overruled wisdom. Mereprudence was not strong enough to keep us apart. Chief amongst the chaos of thoughts that had assailed us on thereception of the bad news, was the necessity of engaging an Englishmedical man. But at the first sight of the French doctor, as, clad in along overall of white cotton, he entered the sick-room, our insularprejudice vanished, ousted by complete confidence; a confidence that ourfuture experience of his professional skill and personal kindliness onlystrengthened. It was with sore hearts that, the prescribed _cinq minutes_ ended, wedescended the little outside stair. Still, we had seen the Boy; andthough we could not nurse him, we were not forbidden to visit him. So wewere thankful too. CHAPTER II OGAMS [Illustration: Perpetual Motion] Our hotel was distinctively French, and immensely comfortable, in thatit had gleaned, and still retained, the creature comforts of a centuryor two. Thus it combined the luxuries of hot-air radiators and electriclight with the enchantment of open wood fires. Viewed externally, thebuilding presented that airy aspect almost universal in Versaillesarchitecture. It was white-tinted, with many windows shuttered withoutand heavily lace-draped within. A wide entrance led to the inner courtyard, where orange trees in greentubs, and trelliswork with shrivelled stems and leaves still adhering, suggested that it would be a pleasant summer lounge. Our hotel boasted a_grand salon_, which opened from the courtyard. It was an elaboratelyornate room; but on a chilly December day even a plethora ofembellishment cannot be trusted to raise by a single degree thetemperature of the apartment it adorns, and the soul turns from a coldhearth, however radiant its garnish of artificial blossoms. A privateparlour was scarcely necessary, for, with most French bedrooms, oursshared the composite nature of the accommodation known in a certainclass of advertisement as "bed-sitting-room. " So it was that duringthese winter days we made ourselves at home in our chamber. The shape of the room was a geometrical problem. The three windows eachrevealed different views, and the remainder of the walls curvedamazingly. At first sight the furniture consisted mainly of draperiesand looking-glass; for the room, though of ordinary dimensions, ownedthree large mirrors and nine pairs of curtains. A stately bed, endowedwith a huge square down pillow, which served as quilt, stood in acorner. Two armchairs in brocaded velvet and a centre table wereadditions to the customary articles. A handsome timepiece and aquartette of begilt candelabra decked the white marble mantelpiece, andwere duplicated in the large pier glass. The floor was of well-polishedwood, a strip of bright-hued carpet before the bed, a second before thewashstand, its only coverings. Need I say that the provision forablutions was one basin and a liliputian ewer, and that there was not afixed bath in the establishment? It was a resting-place full of incongruities; but apart from, or perhapsbecause of, its oddities it had a cosy attractiveness. From the momentof our entrance we felt at home. I think the logs that purred andcrackled on the hearth had much to do with its air of welcome. There isa sense of companionship about a wood fire that more enduring coallacks. Like a delicate child, the very care it demands nurtures youraffection. There was something delightfully foreign and picturesque toour town ideas in the heap of logs that Karl carried up in a great_panier_ and piled at the side of the hearth. Even the little faggots ofkindling wood, willow-knotted and with the dry copper-tinted leavesstill clinging to the twigs, had a rustic charm. These were pleasant moments when, ascending from the chill outer air, wefound our chamber aglow with ruddy firelight that glinted in the mirrorsand sparkled on the shining surface of the polished floor; when we drewour chairs up to the hearth, and, scorning the electric light, revelledin the beauty of the leaping and darting flames. It was only in the _salle-à-manger_ that we saw the other occupants ofthe hotel; and when we learned that several of them had lived _enpension_ under the roof of the assiduous proprietor for periods varyingfrom five to seven years, we felt ephemeral, mere creatures of a moment, and wholly unworthy of regard. [Illustration: Ursa Major] At eight o'clock Karl brought the _petit déjeûner_ of coffee and rollsto our room. At eleven, our morning visit to the school hospital over, we breakfasted in the _salle-à-manger_, a large bright room, one orother of whose many south windows had almost daily, even in the depth ofwinter, to be shaded against the rays of the sun. Three chandeliers ofglittering crystal starred with electric lights depended from theceiling. Half a dozen small tables stood down each side; four largerones occupied the centre of the floor, and were reserved for transientcustom. The first thing that struck us as peculiar was that every table saveours was laid for a single person, with a half bottle of wine, red orwhite, placed ready, in accordance with the known preference of theexpected guest. We soon gathered that several of the regular customerslodged outside and, according to the French fashion, visited the hotelfor meals only. After the early days of keen anxiety regarding ourinvalid had passed, we began to study our fellow guests individually andto note their idiosyncrasies. Sitting at our allotted table during theprogress of the leisurely meals, we used to watch as one _habitué_ afteranother entered, and, hanging coat and hat upon certain pegs, satsilently down in his accustomed place, with an unvarying air of calmdeliberation. Then Iorson, the swift-footed _garçon_, would skim over the polishedboards to the newcomer, and, tendering the menu, would wait, pencil inhand, until the guest, after careful contemplation, selected his five_plats_ from its comprehensive list. [Illustration: Meal Considerations] The most picturesque man of the company had white moustaches ofsurprising length. On cold days he appeared enveloped in a fur coat, agarment of shaggy brown which, in conjunction with his hirsutecountenance, made his aspect suggest the hero in pantomime renderings of"Beauty and the Beast. " But in our hotel there was no Beauty, unlessindeed it were Yvette, and Yvette could hardly be termed beautiful. Yvette also lived outside. She did not come to _déjeûner_, but everynight precisely at a quarter-past seven the farther door would open, andYvette, her face expressing disgust with the world and all the thingsthereof, would enter. Yvette was blonde, with neat little features, a pale complexion, andtiny hands that were always ringless. She rang the changes on half adozen handsome cloaks of different degrees of warmth. To an intelligentobserver their wear might have served as a thermometer. Yvette was_blasée_, and her millinery was in sympathy with her feelings. Her hatshad all a fringe of disconsolate feathers, whose melancholy plumageemphasised the downward curve of her mouth. To see Yvette enter from thedarkness and, seating herself at her solitary table, droop over herplate as though there were nothing in Versailles worth sitting uprightfor, was to view _ennui_ personified. Yvette invariably drank white wine, and the food rarely pleased her. Shewould cast a contemptuous look over the menu offered by the deferentialHenri, then turn wearily away, esteeming that no item on its lengthmerited even her most perfunctory consideration. But after one or twodespondent glances, Yvette ever made the best of a bad bargain, andordered quite a comprehensive little dinner, which she ate with the sameair of utter disdain. She always concluded by eating an orange dipped insugar. Even had a special table not been reserved for her, one couldhave told where Yvette had dined by the bowl of powdered sugar, just asone could have located the man with the fierce moustaches and the furcoat by the presence of his pepper-mill, or the place of "Madame" fromher prodigal habit of rending a quarter-yard of the crusty French breadin twain and consuming only the soft inside. From the ignorance of our cursory acquaintance we had judged the Frencha sociable nation. Our stay at Versailles speedily convinced us of thefallacy of that belief. Nothing could have impressed us so forcibly asdid the frigid silence that characterised the company. Many of them hadfed there daily for years, yet within the walls of the sunny dining-roomnone exchanged even a salutation. This unexpected taciturnity in apeople whom we had been taught to regard as lively and voluble made usalmost ashamed of our own garrulity, and when, in the presence of thesilent company, we were tempted to exchange remarks, we found ourselvesdoing it in hushed voices as though we were in church. A clearer knowledge, however, showed us that though some unspokenconvention rendered the hotel guests oblivious of each other's presencewhile indoors, beyond the hotel walls they might hold communion. Tworetired military men, both wearing the red ribbon of the Legion ofHonour, as indeed did most of our _habitués_, sat at adjacent tables. One, tall and thin, was a Colonel; the other, little and neat, a Colonelalso. To the casual gaze they appeared complete strangers, and we hadconsumed many meals in their society before observing that whenever thetall Colonel had sucked the last cerise from his glass of _eau-de-vie_, and begun to fold his napkin--a formidable task, for the serviettesfully deserved the designation later bestowed on them by the Boy, of"young table-cloths"--the little Colonel made haste to fold his also. Both rose from their chairs at the same instant, and the twain, havingreceived their hats from the attentive Iorson, vanished, still mute, into the darkness together. [Illustration: The Two Colonels] Once, to our consternation, the little Colonel replaced his napkin inits ring without waiting for the signal from the tall Colonel. But ourapprehension that they, in their dealings in that mysterious outer worldwhich twice daily they sought together, might have fallen into adifference of opinion was dispelled by the little Colonel, who hadrisen, stepping to his friend and holding out his hand. This the tallColonel without withdrawing his eyes from _Le Journal des Débats_ whichhe was reading, silently pressed. Then, still without a word spoken or alook exchanged, the little Colonel passed out alone. [Illustration: The Young and Brave] The average age of the Ogams was seventy. True, there was Dunois theYoung and Brave, who could not have been more than forty-five. What hisname really was we knew not, but something in his comparatively juvenileappearance among the chevaliers suggested the appellation which for lackof a better we retained. Dunois' youth might only be comparative, buthis bravery was indubitable; for who among the Ogams but he was daringenough to tackle the _pâté-de-foie-gras_, or the _abattis_, a stewcomposed of the gizzards and livers of fowls? And who but Dunois wouldhave been so reckless as to follow baked mussels and _crépinettes_ with_rognons frits_? Dunois, too, revealed intrepid leanings toward strange liquors. Sometimes--it was usually at _déjeûner_ when he had dined out on theprevious evening--he would demand the wine-list of Iorson, and rejectingthe _vin blanc_ or _vin rouge_ which, being _compris_, contented theothers, would order himself something of a choice brand. One of hisfavourite papers was _Le Rire_, and Henri, Iorson's youthful assistant, regarded him with admiration. [Illustration: Malcontent] A less attractive presence in the dining-room was Madame. Madame, whowas an elderly dame of elephantine girth, had resided in the hotel forhalf a dozen years, during which period her sole exercise had been takenin slowly descending from her chamber in the upper regions for hermeals, and then, leisurely assimilation completed, in yet more slowlyascending. Madame's allotted seat was placed in close proximity to thehot-air register; and though Madame was usually one of the first toenter the dining-room, she was generally the last to leave. Madame'sappetite was as animated as her body was lethargic. She always drank herhalf-bottle of red wine to the dregs, and she invariably concluded witha greengage in brandy. So it was small marvel that, when at last sheleft her chair to "tortoise" upstairs, her complexion should be twoshades darker than when she descended. Five dishes, irrespective of _hors d'oeuvres_ at luncheon, and _potage_at dinner, were allowed each guest, and Madame's selection was an affairof time. Our hotel was justly noted for its _cuisine_, yet on infrequentoccasions the food supplied to Madame was not to her mind. At thesetimes the whole establishment suffered until the irascible old lady'staste was suited. One night at dinner Iorson had the misfortune to serveMadame with some turkey that failed to meet with her approval. With theair of an insulted empress, Madame ordered its removal. The conciliatoryIorson obediently carried off the dish and speedily returned, bearingwhat professed to be another portion. But from the glimpse we got as itpassed our table we had a shrewd suspicion that Iorson the wily hadmerely turned over the piece of turkey and re-served it with a littlemore gravy and an additional dressing of _cressons_. Madame, ittranspired, shared our suspicions, for this portion also she declined, with renewed indignation. Then followed a long period of waiting, wherein Madame, fidgeting restlessly on her seat, kept fierce eyes fixedon the door through which the viands entered. Just as her impatience threatened to vent itself in action, Iorsonappeared bearing a third helping of turkey. Placing it before the iratelady, he fled as though determined to debar a third repudiation. For amoment an air of triumph pervaded Madame's features. Then she began togesticulate violently, with the evident intention of again attractingIorson's notice. But the forbearance even of the diplomatic Iorson wasat an end. Re-doubling his attentions to the diners at the farther sideof the room, he remained resolutely unconscious of Madame's signals, which were rapidly becoming frantic. The less sophisticated Henri, however, feeling a boyish interest in thelittle comedy, could not resist a curious glance in Madame's direction. That was sufficient. Waving imperiously, Madame compelled his approach, and, moving reluctantly, fearful of the issue, Henri advanced. "Couteau!" hissed Madame. Henri flew to fetch the desired implement, and, realising that Madame had at last been satisfied, we again breathedfreely. A more attractive personage was a typical old aristocrat, officer of theLegion of Honour, who used to enter, walk with great dignity to histable, eat sparingly of one or two dishes, drink a glass of his _vinordinaire_ and retire. Sometimes he was accompanied by a tiny spaniel, which occupied a chair beside him; and frequently a middle-aged son, whose bourgeois appearance was in amazing contrast to that of hisrefined old father, attended him. [Illustration: The Aristocrat] There were others, less interesting perhaps, but equally self-absorbed. One afternoon, entering the cable car that runs--for fun, apparently, asit rarely boasted a passenger--to and from the Trianon, we recognised inits sole occupant an Ogam who during the weeks of our stay had eaten, inevident oblivion of his human surroundings, at the table next to ours. Forgetting that we were without the walls of silence, we expected nogreeting; but to our amazement he rose, and, placing himself oppositeus, conversed affably and in most excellent English for the rest of thejourney. To speak with him was to discover a courteous and travelledgentleman. Yet during our stay in Versailles we never knew him exchangeeven a bow with any of his fellow Ogams, who were men of likequalifications, though, as he told us, he had taken his meals in thehotel for over five years. Early in the year our peace was rudely broken by the advent of acommercial man--a short, grey-haired being of an activity so foreign toour usage that a feeling of unrest was imparted to the _salle-à-manger_throughout his stay. His movements were distractingly erratic. In hisopinion, meals were things to be treated casually, to be consumedhaphazard at any hour that chanced to suit. He did not enter thedining-room at the exact moment each day as did the Ogams. He would rushin, throw his hat on a peg, devour some food with unseemly haste, anddepart in less time than it took the others to reach the _légumes_. [Illustration: Papa, Mama et Bébé] He was hospitable too, and had a disconcerting way of inviting guests toluncheon or dinner, and then forgetting that he had done so. One morninga stranger entered, and after a brief conference with Iorson, wasconducted to the commercial man's table to await his arrival. Theregular customers took their wonted places, and began in their leisurelyfashion to breakfast, and still the visitor sat alone, starting upexpectantly every time a door opened, then despondently resuming hisseat. At last Iorson, taking compassion, urged the neglected guest to whileaway his period of waiting by trifling with the _hors-d'oeuvres_. He wasproceeding to allay the pangs of hunger with selections from the tray ofanchovies, sardines, pickled beet, and sliced sausage, when his hostentered, voluble and irrepressible as ever. The dignified Ogamsshuddered inwardly as his strident voice awoke the echoes of the room, and their already stiff limbs became rigid with disapproval. In winter, transient visitors but rarely occupied one or other of thesquare centre tables, though not infrequently a proud father and motherwho had come to visit a soldier son at the barracks, brought him to thehotel for a meal, and for a space the radiance of blue and scarlet andthe glint of steel cast a military glamour over the staid company. An amusing little circumstance to us onlookers was that although thesupply of cooked food seemed equal to any demand, the arrival of even atrio of unexpected guests to dinner invariably caused a dearth of bread. For on their advent Iorson would dash out bareheaded into the night, toreappear in an incredibly short time carrying a loaf nearly as tall ashimself. One morning a stalwart young Briton brought to breakfast a prettyEnglish cousin, on leave of absence from her boarding-school. Hisknowledge of French was limited. When anything was wanted he shouted"Garçon!" in a lordly voice, but it was the pretty cousin who gave theorder. _Déjeûner_ over, they departed in the direction of the Château. And at sunset as we chanced to stroll along the Boulevard de la Reine, we saw the pretty cousin, all the gaiety fled from her face, bidding herescort farewell at the gate of a Pension pour Demoiselles. The ball wasover. Poor little Cinderella was perforce returning to the dust andashes of learning. [Illustration: Juvenile Progress] CHAPTER III THE TOWN The English-speaking traveller finds Versailles vastly more foreign thanthe Antipodes. He may voyage for many weeks, and at each distantstopping-place find his own tongue spoken around him, and hisconventions governing society. But let him leave London one night, crossthe Channel at its narrowest--and most turbulent--and sunrise will findhim an alien in a land whose denizens differ from him in language, temperament, dress, food, manners, and customs. Of a former visit to Versailles we had retained little more than theusual tourist's recollection of a hurried run through a palace offatiguing magnificence, a confusing peep at the Trianons, a glancearound the gorgeous state equipages, an unsatisfactory meal at one ofthe open-air _cafés_, and a scamper back to Paris. But our winterresidence in the quaint old town revealed to us the existence of a lifethat is all its own--a life widely variant, in its calm repose, from thebustle and gaiety of the capital, but one that is replete with charm, and abounding in picturesque-interest. [Illustration: Automoblesse Oblige] Versailles is not ancient; it is old, completely old. Since the fall ofthe Second Empire it has stood still. Most of the clocks have run down, as though they realised the futility of trying to keep pace with therest of the world. The future merges into the present, the present fadesinto the past, and still the clocks of Versailles point to the same longeventide. [Illustration: Sable Garb] The proximity of Paris is evinced only by the vividly tinted automobilesthat make Versailles their goal. Even they rarely tarry in the old town, but, turning at the Château gates, lose no time in retracing theirimpetuous flight towards a city whose usages accord better with theircreed of feverish hurry-scurry than do the conventions of reposefulVersailles. And these fiery chariots of modernity, with their ghoulish, fur-garbed, and hideously spectacled occupants, once their raucous, cigale-like birr-r-r has died away in the distance, leave infinitelyless impression on the placid life of Versailles than do their wheels onthe roads they traverse. Under the grand trees of the wide avenues thetownsfolk move quietly about, busying themselves with their own affairsand practising their little economies as they have been doing any timeduring the last century. Perhaps it was the emphatic and demonstrative nature of the mourningworn that gave us the idea that the better-class female population ofVersailles consisted chiefly of widows. When walking abroad we seemedincessantly to encounter widows: widows young and old, from the aged tothe absurdly immature. It was only after a period of bewilderment thatit dawned upon us that the sepulchral garb and heavy crape veilsreaching from head to heel were not necessarily the emblems ofwidowhood, but might signify some state of minor bereavement. In Britaina display of black such as is an everyday sight at Versailles isundreamt of, and one saw more crape veils in a day in Versailles than inLondon in a week. Little girls, though their legs might be uncovered, had their chubby features shrouded in disfiguring gauze and to ourunaccustomed foreign eyes a genuine widow represented nothing moreshapely than a more or less stubby pillar festooned with crape. But for an inborn conviction that a frugal race like the French wouldnot invest in a plethora of mourning garb only to cast it aside after afew months' wear, and that therefore the period of wearing the willowmust be greatly protracted, we would have been haunted by the idea thatthe adult male mortality of Versailles was enormous. "Do they wear such deep mourning for all relatives?" I asked our hotelproprietor, who had just told us that during the first month of mourningthe disguising veils were worn over the faces. Monsieur shook his sleek head gravely, "But no, Madame, not for all. Fora husband, yes; for a father or mother, yes; for a sister or brother, anuncle or aunt, yes; but for a cousin, _no_. " He pronounced the _no_ so emphatically as almost to convince us of hisbelief that in refusing to mourn in the most lugubrious degree forcousins the Versaillese acted with praiseworthy self-denial. There seemed to be no medium between sackcloth and gala-dress. We seldomnoted the customary degrees of half-mourning. Plain colours wereevidently unpopular and fancy tartans of the most flamboyant huespredominated amongst those who, during a spell of, say, three years hadbeen fortunate enough not to lose a parent, sister, brother, uncle, oraunt. A perfectly natural reaction appeared to urge the _ci-devant_mourners to robe themselves in lively checks and tartans. It was asthough they said--"Here at last is our opportunity for gratifying ournatural taste in colours. It will probably be of but short duration. Therefore let us select a combination of all the most brilliant tintsand wear them, for who knows how soon that gruesome pall of woe mayagain enshroud us. " Probably it was the vicinity of our hotel to the Church of Notre Damethat, until we discovered its brighter side, led us to esteem Versaillesa veritable city of the dead, for on our bi-daily walks to visit theinvalids we were almost certain to encounter a funeral procession eitherapproaching or leaving Notre Dame. And on but rare occasions was thegreat central door undraped with the sepulchral insignia whichproclaimed that a Mass for the dead was in prospect or in progress. Sometimes the sable valance and portières were heavily trimmed andfringed with silver; at others there was only the scantiest display oftime-worn black cloth. [Illustration: A Football Team] The humblest funeral was affecting and impressive. As the sad littleprocession moved along the streets--the wayfarers reverently uncoveringand soldiers saluting as it passed--the dirge-like chant of the_Miserere_ never failed to fill my eyes with unbidden tears of sympathyfor the mourners, who, with bowed heads, walked behind the wreath-ladenhearse. Despite the abundant emblems of woe, Versailles can never appear otherthan bright and attractive. Even in mid-winter the skies were clear, andon the shortest days the sun seldom forgot to cast a warm glow over thegay, white-painted houses. And though the women's dress tends towardsdepression, the brilliant military uniforms make amends. There are12, 000 soldiers stationed in Versailles; and where a fifth of thepopulation is gorgeous in scarlet and blue and gold, no town can beaccused of lacking colour. Next to the redundant manifestations of grief, the thing that mostimpressed us was the rigid economy practised in even the smallestdetails of expenditure. Among the lower classes there is none of thataping of fashion so prevalent in prodigal England; the different socialgrades have each a distinctive dress and are content to wear it. Amongthe men, blouses of stout blue cotton and sabots are common. Sometimesvelveteen trousers, whose original tint years of wear have toned to someexquisite shade of heliotrope, and a russet coat worn with a fur cap andred neckerchief, compose an effect that for harmonious colouring wouldbe hard to beat. The female of his species, as is the case in allnatural animals, is content to be less adorned. Her skirt is black, herapron blue. While she is young, her neatly dressed hair, even in thecoldest weather, is guiltless of covering. As her years increase shetakes her choice of three head-dresses, and to shelter her grey locksselects either a black knitted hood, a checked cotton handkerchief, or awhite cap of ridiculously unbecoming design. No French workaday father need fear that his earnings will be squanderedon such perishable adornments as feathers, artificial flowers, orribbons. The purchases of his spouse are certain to be governed byextreme frugality. She selects the family raiment with a view todurability. Flimsy finery that the sun would fade, shoddy materials thata shower of rain would ruin, offer no temptations to her. When sheexpends a few _sous_ on the cutting of her boy's hair, she has itcropped until his cranium resembles the soft, furry skin of a mole, thusrendering further outlay in this respect unlikely for months. And whenshe buys a flannel shirt, a six-inch strip of the stuff, for futuremending, is always included in the price. But with all this economy there is an air of comfort, a complete absenceof squalor. In cold weather the school-girls wear snug hoods, or littlefur turbans; and boys have the picturesque and almost indestructiblebérets of cloth or corduroy. Cloth boots that will conveniently slipinside sabots for outdoor use are greatly in vogue, and the comfortableCapuchin cloaks--whose peaked hood can be drawn over the head, thusobviating the use of umbrellas--are favoured by both sexes and all ages. [Illustration: Mistress and Maid] As may be imagined, little is spent on luxuries. Vendors of frivolitiesknow better than to waste time tempting those provident people. On oneoccasion only did I see money parted with lightly, and in that case thebargain appeared astounding. One Sunday morning an enterprising hucksterof gimcrack jewellery, venturing out from Paris, had set down his strongbox on the verge of the market square, and, displaying to the admiringeyes of the country folks, ladies' and gentlemen's watches with chainscomplete, in the most dazzling of aureate metal, sold them at six sousapiece as quickly as he could hand them out. Living is comparatively cheap in Versailles; though, as in all placeswhere the cost of existence is low, it must be hard to earn a livelihoodthere. By far the larger proportion of the community reside in flats, which can be rented at sums that rise in accordance with theaccommodation but are in all cases moderate. Housekeeping in a flat, should the owner so will it, is ever conducive to economy, and life in aFrench provincial town is simple and unconventional. [Illustration: Sage and Onions] Bread, wine, and vegetables, the staple foods of the nation, are goodand inexpensive. For 40 centimes one may purchase a bottle of _vin degard_, a thin tipple, doubtless; but what kind of claret could one buyfor fourpence a quart at home? _Graves_ I have seen priced at 50centimes, _Barsac_ at 60, and _eau de vie_ is plentiful at 1 franc 20! Fish are scarce, and beef is supposed to be dear; but when butter, eggs, and cheese bulk so largely in the diet, the half chicken, the scrap oftripe, the slice of garlic sausage, the tiny cut of beef for the_ragout_, cannot be heavy items. Everything eatable is utilised, andmany weird edibles are sold; for the French can contrive tasty dishesout of what in Britain would be thrown aside as offal. On three mornings a week--Sunday, Tuesday, and Friday--the presence ofthe open-air market rouses Versailles from her dormouse-like slumber andgalvanises her into a state of activity that lasts for several hours. Long before dawn, the roads leading townwards are busy with all mannerof vehicles, from the great waggon drawn by four white horses driventandem, and laden with a moving stack of hay, to the ramshackledonkey-cart conveying half a score of cabbages, a heap of dandelionsgrubbed from the meadows, and the owner. [Illustration: Marketing] By daybreak the market square under the leafless trees presents a livelyscene. There are stalls sacred to poultry, to butter, eggs, and cheese;but the vegetable kingdom predominates. Flanked by bulwarks of greensand bundles of leeks of incredible whiteness and thickness of stem, sitthe saleswomen, their heads swathed in gay cotton kerchiefs, and theground before them temptingly spread with little heaps of corn salad, ofchicory, and of yellow endive placed in adorable contrast to the scarletcarrots, blood-red beetroot, pinky-fawn onions, and glorious orange-huedpumpkins; while ready to hand are measures of white or mottled haricotbeans, of miniature Brussels sprouts, and of pink or yellow potatoes, anesculent that in France occupies a very unimportant place compared withthat it holds amongst the lower classes in Britain. [Illustration: Private Boxes] In Versailles Madame does her own marketing, her maid--in sabots andneat but usually hideous cap--accompanying her, basket laden. From stallto stall Madame passes, buying a roll of creamy butter wrapped in freshleaves here, a fowl there, some eggs from the wrinkled old dame wholooks so swart and witch-like in contrast to her stock of milk-whiteeggs. Madame makes her purchases judiciously--time is not a valuable commodityin Versailles--and finishes, when the huge black basket is getting heavyeven for the strong arms of the squat little maid, by buying a mess ofcooked spinach from the pretty girl whose red hood makes a happy spot ofcolour among the surrounding greenery, and a measure of onions from theprofound-looking sage who garners a winter livelihood from the summerproduce of his fields. [Illustration: A Foraging Party] Relations with uncooked food are, in Versailles, distinguished by anunwonted intimacy. No one, however dignified his station or appearance, is ashamed of purchasing the materials for his dinner in the openmarket, or of carrying them home exposed to the view of the worldthrough the transpicuous meshes of a string bag. The portly gentlemanwith the fur coat and waxed moustaches, who looks a general at least, and is probably a tram-car conductor, bears his bunch of turnips with anair that dignifies the office, just as the young sub-lieutenant in thelight blue cloak and red cap and trousers carries his mother's applesand lettuces without a thought of shame. And it is easy to guess thenature of the _déjeûner_ of this _simple soldat_ from the long loaf, thebottle of _vin ordinaire_, and the onions that form the contents of hisnet. In the street it was a common occurrence to encounter somenon-commissioned officer who, entrusted with the catering for his mess, did his marketing accompanied by two underlings, who bore between themthe great open basket destined to hold his purchases. [Illustration: A Thriving Merchant] A picturesque appearance among the hucksters of the market square is the_boîte de carton_ seller. Blue-bloused, with his stock of lavender orbrown bandboxes strapped in a cardboard Tower of Pisa on his back, heparades along, his wares finding ready sale; for his visits areinfrequent, and if one does not purchase at the moment, as does Madame, the opportunity is gone. The spirit of camaraderie is strong amongst the good folks of themarket. One morning the Artist had paused a moment to make a roughsketch of a plump, affable man who, shadowed by the green cotton awningof his stall, was selling segments of round flat cheeses of goat's milk;vile-smelling compounds that, judged from their outer coating ofwithered leaves, straw, and dirt, would appear to have been made in astable and dried on a rubbish heap. The subject of the jotting, busywith his customers, was all unconscious; but an old crone who sat, herfeet resting on a tiny charcoal stove, amidst a circle of decadentgreens, detecting the Artist's action, became excited, and after eyeinghim uneasily for a moment, confided her suspicions as to his ulteriormotive to a round-faced young countryman who retailed flowers close by. He, recognising us as customers--even then we were laden with hisviolets and mimosa--merely smiled at her concern. But his apathy onlyserved to heighten Madame's agitation. She was unwilling to leave hersnug seat yet felt that her imperative duty lay in acquainting Monsieurdu Fromage with the inexplicable behaviour of the inquisitive foreigner. But the nefarious deed was already accomplished, and as we moved awayour last glimpse was of the little stove standing deserted, while Madamehastened across the street in her clattering sabots to warn her friend. The bustle of the market is soon ended. By ten o'clock the piles ofvegetables are sensibly diminished. By half-past ten the white-cappedmaid-servants have carried the heavy baskets home, and are busypreparing lunch. At eleven o'clock the sharp boy whose stock-in-tradeconsisted of three trays of snails stuffed _à la_ Bourgogne has sold allthe large ones at 45 centimes a dozen, all the small at 25, and quitetwo-thirds of the medium-sized at 35 centimes. The clock points to eleven. The sun is high now. The vendors awaken tothe consciousness of hunger, and Madame of the _pommes frites_ stall, whose assistant dexterously cuts the peeled tubers into strips, is fullyoccupied in draining the crisp golden shreds from the boiling fat andhanding them over, well sprinkled with salt and pepper, to avidcustomers, who devour them smoking hot, direct from their papercornucopias. Long before the first gloom of the early mid-winter dusk, all has beencleared away. The rickety stalls have been demolished; the unsoldremainder of the goods disposed of; the worthy country folks, theirpockets heavy with _sous_, are well on their journey homewards, and onlya litter of straw, of cabbage leaves and leek tops remains as evidenceof the lively market of the morning. [Illustration: Chestnuts in the Avenue] CHAPTER IV OUR ARBRE DE NOËL We bought it on the Sunday morning from old Grand'mere Gomard in theAvenue de St. Cloud. It was not a noble specimen of a Christmas-tree. Looked at with cold, unimaginative eyes, it might have been considered lopsided; undersizedit undoubtedly was. Yet a pathetic familiarity in the desolate aspect ofthe little tree aroused our sympathy as no rare horticultural trophyever could. Some Christmas fairy must have whispered to Grand'mere to grub up thetiny tree and to include it in the stock she was taking into Versailleson the market morning. For there it was, its roots stuck securely into abig pot, looking like some forlorn forest bantling among the gardenplants. [Illustration: The Tree Vendor] Grand'mere Gomard had established herself in a cosy nook at the foot ofone of the great leafless trees of the Avenue. Straw hurdles werecunningly arranged to form three sides of a square, in whose midst shewas seated on a rush-bottomed chair, like a queen on a humble throne. Her head was bound by a gaily striped kerchief, and her feet restedsnugly on a charcoal stove. Her merchandise, which consisted of half adozen pots of pink and white primulas, a few spotted or crimsoncyclamen, sundry lettuce and cauliflower plants, and some roots ofpansies and daisies, was grouped around her. [Illustration: The Tree-Bearer] The primulas and cyclamen, though their pots were shrouded in pinaforesof white paper skilfully calculated to conceal any undue lankiness ofstem, left us unmoved. But the sight of the starveling little fir treereminded us that in the school hospital lay two sick boys whose roseatedreams of London and holidays had suddenly changed to the knowledge thatweeks of isolation and imprisonment behind the window-blind with the redcross lay before them. If we could not give them the longed-for homeChristmas, we could at least give them a Christmas-tree. The sight of foreign customers for Grand'mere Gomard speedily collecteda small group of interested spectators. A knot of children relinquishedtheir tantalising occupation of hanging round the pan of charcoal overwhose glow chestnuts were cracking appetisingly, and the stall of thelady who with amazing celerity fried pancakes on a hot plate, and soldthem dotted with butter and sprinkled with sugar to the lucky possessorsof a _sou_. Even the sharp urchin who presided over the old redumbrella, which, reversed, with the ferule fixed in a cross-bar of wood, served as a receptacle for sheets of festive note-paper embellished withlace edges and further adorned with coloured scraps, temporarilyentrusting a juvenile sister with his responsibilities, added hispresence to our court. [Illustration: Rosine] Christmas-trees seemed not to be greatly in demand in Versailles, andmany were the whispered communings as to what _les Anglais_ proposeddoing with the tree after they had bought it. When the transaction wascompleted and Grand'mere Gomard had exchanged the tree, with a sheet of_La Patrie_ wrapped round its pot, for a franc and our thanks, theinterest increased. We would require some one to carry our purchase, andeach of the bright-eyed, short-cropped Jeans and Pierres was eager tooffer himself. But our selection was already made. A slender boy in a_béret_ and black pinafore, who had been our earliest spectator, wassingled out and entrusted with the conveyance of the _arbre de Noël_ toour hotel. The fact that it had met with approbation appeared to encourage thelittle tree. The change may have been imaginary, but from the moment itpassed into our possession the branches seemed less despondent, theneedles more erect. "Will you put toys on it?" the youthful porter asked suddenly. "Yes; it is for a sick boy--a boy who has fever. Have you ever had an_arbre de Noël_?" "_Jamais_, " was his conclusive reply: the tone thereof suggesting thatthat was a felicity quite beyond the range of possibility. The tree secured, there began the comparatively difficult work offinding the customary ornaments of glass and glitter to deck it. Afruitless search had left us almost in despair, when, late on Mondayafternoon, we joyed to discover miniature candles of red, yellow, andblue on the open-air stall in front of a toy-store. A rummage in theinterior of the shop procured candle clips, and a variety of glitteringbagatelles. Laden with treasure, we hurried back to the hotel, and beganthe work of decoration in preparation for the morning. During its short stay in our room at the hotel, the erstwhile despisedlittle tree met with an adulation that must have warmed the heart withinits rough stem. When nothing more than three coloured glass globes, agilded walnut, and a gorgeous humming-bird with wings and tail of spunglass had been suspended by narrow ribbon from its branches, Rosine, thepretty Swiss chambermaid, chancing to enter the room with letters, wasstruck with admiration and pronounced it "très belle!" And Karl bringing in a fresh _panier_ of logs when the adorning wascomplete, and silly little delightful baubles sparkled and twinkled fromevery spray, putting down his burden, threw up his hands in amazementand declared the _arbre de Noël_ "magnifique!" This alien Christmas-tree had an element all its own. When we weresearching for knick-knacks the shops were full of tiny Holy Babes lyingcradled in waxen innocence in mangers of yellow corn. One of theselittle effigies we had bought because they pleased us. And when, thedecoration of the tree being nearly finished, the tip of the centre stemstanding scraggily naked called for covering, what more fitting thanthat the dear little Sacred _Bébé_ in his nest of golden straw shouldhave the place of honour? It was late on Christmas Eve before our task was ended. But next morningwhen Karl, carrying in our _petit déjeûner_, turned on the electriclight, and our anxious gaze sought our work, we found it good. Then followed a hurried packing of the loose presents; and, a _fiacre_having been summoned, the tree which had entered the room in allhumility passed out transmogrified beyond knowledge. Rosine, duster inhand, leant over the banisters of the upper landing to watch itsdescent. Karl saw it coming and flew to open the outer door for itsbetter egress. Even the stout old driver of the red-wheeled cab creakedcumbrously round on his box to look upon its beauties. [Illustration: Alms and the Lady] The Market was busy in the square as we rattled through. From behindtheir battlemented wares the country mice waged wordy war with the townmice over the price of merchandise. But on this occasion we were tooengrossed to notice a scene whose picturesque humour usually fascinatedus, for as the carriage jogged over the rough roads the poor little_arbre de Noël_ palpitated convulsively. The gewgaws clattered likecastanets, as though in frantic expostulation, and the radiantspun-glass humming-birds quivered until we expected them to break fromtheir elastic fetters and fly away. The green and scarlet one with thegold-flecked wings fell on the floor and rolled under the seat just asthe cab drew up at the great door of the school. The two Red-Cross prisoners who, now that the dominating heat of feverhad faded, were thinking wistfully of the forbidden joys of home, had nosuspicion of our intention, and we wished to surprise them. So, burdenedwith our treasure, we slipped in quietly. From her lodge window the concierge nodded approval. And at the door ofthe hospital the good Soeur received us, a flush of pleasure glorifyingher tranquil face. Then followed a moment wherein the patients were ordered to shut theireyes, to reopen them upon the vision splendid of the _arbre de Noël_. Perhaps it was the contrast to the meagre background of the tinyschool-hospital room, with its two white beds and bare walls, but, placed in full view on the centre table, the tree was almost imposing. Standing apart from Grand'mere's primulas and cyclamen as though, conscious of its own inferiority, it did not wish to obtrude, it hadlooked dejected, miserable. During its sojourn at the hotel theappreciation of its meanness had troubled us. But now, in the shabbylittle chamber, where there were no rival attractions to detract fromits glory, we felt proud of it. It was just the right size for thesurroundings. A two-franc tree, had Grand'mere possessed one, would havebeen Brobdignagian and pretentious. [Illustration: Adoration] A donor who is handicapped by the knowledge that the gifts he selectsmust within a few weeks be destroyed by fire, is rarely lavish in hisoutlay. Yet our presents, wrapped in white paper and tied with blueribbons, when arranged round the flower-pot made a wonderful show, Therewere mounted Boers who, when you pressed the ball at the end of theair-tube, galloped in a wobbly, uncertain fashion. The invalids had goodfun later trying races with them, and the Boy professed to find that hisBoer gained an accelerated speed when he whispered "Bobs" to him. Therewere tales of adventure and flasks of eau-de-Cologne and smart virilepocket-books, one red morocco, the other blue. We regretted thepocket-books; but their possession made the recipients who, boylike, took no heed for the cleansing fires of the morrow, feel grown-up atonce. And they yearned for the advent of the first day of the year, thatthey might begin writing in their new diaries. For the Sister there wasa miniature gold consecrated medal. It was a small tribute of ouresteem, but one that pleased the devout recipient. [Illustration: Thankfulness] Suspended among the purely ornamental trinkets of the tree hung tiny netbags of crystallised violets and many large chocolates rolled up insilver paper. The boys, who had subsisted for several days on nothingmore exciting than boiled milk, openly rejoiced when they caught sightof the sweets. But to her patients' disgust, the Soeur, who had a prettywit of her own, promptly frustrated their intentions by counting thedainties. "I count the chocolates. They are good boys, wise boys, honest boys, andI have every confidence in them, but--I count the chocolates!" said theSoeur. [Illustration: One of the Devout] As we passed back along the Rue de la Paroisse, worshippers wereflocking in and out of Notre Dame, running the gauntlet of the unsavourybeggars who, loudly importunate, thronged the portals. Before the quietnook wherein, under a gold-bestarred canopy, was the tableau of theInfant Jesus in the stable, little children stood in wide-eyedadoration, and older people gazed with mute devotion. Some might deem the little spectacle theatrical, and there was a slightirrelevance in the pot-plants that were grouped along the foreground, but none could fail to be impressed by the silent reverence of thecongregation. No service was in process, yet many believers knelt atprayer. Here a pretty girl returned thanks for evident blessingsreceived; there an old spinster, the narrowness of whose means forbadeher expending a couple of sous on the hire of a chair, knelt on thechilly flags and murmured words of gratitude for benefits whereof herappearance bore no outward indication. We had left the prisoners to the enjoyment of their newly acquiredproperty in the morning. At gloaming we again mounted the time-wornoutside stair leading to the chamber whose casement bore the ominous redcross. The warm glow of firelight filled the room, scintillating in theglittering facets of the baubles on the tree; and from their pillows twopale-faced boys--boys who, despite their lengthening limbs were yethappily children at heart--watched eager-eyed while the sweet-facedSoeur, with reverential care, lit the candles that surrounded the Holy_Bébé_. CHAPTER V LE JOUR DE L'ANNÉE The closing days of 1900 had been unusually mild. Versailles townsfolk, watching the clear skies for sign of change, declared that it would beoutside all precedent if Christmas week passed without snow. But, defiant of rule, sunshine continued, and the new century openedcloudless and bright. [Illustration: De L'eau Chaude] Karl, entering with hot water, gave us seasonable greeting, and as wedescended the stair, pretty Rosine, brushing boots at the open window ofthe landing, also wished us a smiling _bonne nouvelle année_. But withinor without there was little token of gaiety. Sundry booths for the saleof gingerbread and cheap _jouets_, which had been erected in the Avenuede St. Cloud, found business languishing, though a stalwart countrymanin blouse and sabots, whose stock-in-trade consisted of whirligigsfashioned in the semblance of _moulins rouges_ and grotesque blueChinamen which he carried stuck into a straw wreath fixed on a tallpole, had no lack of custom. The great food question never bulks so largely in the public interest asat the close of a year, so perhaps it was but natural that the greatestappreciation of the festive traditions of the season should be evincedby the shops devoted to the sale of provender. Turkeys sported scarletbows on their toes as though anticipating a dance rather than the oven;and by their sides sausages, their somewhat plethoric waists girdled bypink ribbon sashes, seemed ready to join them in the frolic. In onecookshop window a trio of plaster nymphs who stood ankle-deep in a poolof crimped green paper, upheld a huge garland of cunningly moulded waxroses, dahlias, and lilac, above which perched a pheasant regnant. Thistrophy met with vast approbation until a rival establishment across theway, not to be outdone, exhibited a centrepiece of unparalleledoriginality, consisting as it did of a war scene modelled entirely inlard. Entrenched behind the battlements of the fort crowning aneminence, Boers busied themselves with cannon whose aim was carefullydirected towards the admiring spectators outside the window, not at theBritish troops who were essaying to scale the greasy slopes. Half way upthe hill, a miniature train appeared from time to time issuing from anabsolutely irrelevant tunnel, and, progressing at the rate of quite amile an hour, crawled into the corresponding tunnel on the other side. At the base of the hill British soldiers, who seemed quite cognisant ofthe utter futility of the Boer gunnery, were complacently driving offcattle. Captious critics might have taken exception to the fact that thewaxen camellias adorning the hill were nearly as big as the battlements, and considerably larger than the engine of the train. But fortunatelydetractors were absent, and such trifling discrepancies did not lessenthe genuine delight afforded the spectators by this unique design which, as a card proudly informed the world, was entirely the work of theemployés of the firm. It was in a pâtisserie in the Rue de la Paroisse that we noticed anuninviting compound labelled "Pudding Anglais, 2 fr. 1/2 kilo. " A littlethought led us to recognise in this amalgamation a travesty of our oldfriend plum-pudding; but so revolting was its dark, bilious-lookingexterior that we felt its claim to be accounted a compatriot almostinsulting. And it was with secret gratification that towards the closeof January we saw the same stolid, unhappy blocks awaiting purchasers. [Illustration: The Mill] The presence of the customary Tuesday market kept the streets busy tillnoon. But when the square was again empty of sellers and buyersVersailles relapsed into quietude. I wonder if any other town of itssize is as silent as Versailles. There is little horse-traffic. Save forthe weird, dirge-like drone of the electric cars, which seems in perfectconsonance with the tone of sadness pervading the old town whose gloryhas departed, the clang of the wooden shoes on the rough pavement, andthe infrequent beat of hoofs as a detachment of cavalry moves by, unnatural stillness seems to prevail. Of street music there was none, though once an old couple wailing aplaintive duet passed under our windows. Britain is not esteemed amelodious nation, yet the unclassical piano is ever with us, and even inthe smallest provincial towns one is rarely out of hearing of theinsistent note of some itinerant musician. And no matter how far onepenetrates into the recesses of the country, he is always within reachof some bucolic rendering of the popular music-hall ditty of the yearbefore last. But never during our stay in Versailles, a stay thatincluded what is supposedly the gay time of the year, did we hear thesound of an instrument, or--with the one exception of the old couple, whom it would be rank flattery to term vocalists--the note of a voiceraised in song. With us, New Year's Day was a quiet one. A dozen miles distant, Pariswas welcoming the advent of the new century in a burst of feverishexcitement. But despite temptations, we remained in drowsy Versailles, and spent several of the hours in the little room where two pallidRed-Cross knights, who were celebrating the occasion by sitting up forthe first time, waited expectant of our coming as their one link withthe outside world. [Illustration: The Presbytery] It was with a sincere thrill of pity that at _déjeûner_ we glanced roundthe _salle-à-manger_ and found all the Ogams filling their accustomedsolitary places. Only Dunois the comparatively young, and presumablybrave, was absent. The others occupied their usual seats, eating withtheir unfailing air of introspective absorption. Nobody had cared enoughfor these lonely old men to ask them to fill a corner at their tables, even on New Year's Day. To judge by their regular attendance at thehotel meals, these men--all of whom, as shown by their wearing the redribbon of the Legion of Honour, had merited distinction--had littlehospitality offered them. Most probably they offered as little, for, throughout our stay, none ever had a friend to share his breakfast ordinner. The bearing of the hotel guests suggested absolute ignorance of oneanother's existence. The Colonels, as I have said in a previous chapter, were exceptions, but even they held intercourse only without the hotelwalls. Day after day, month after month, year after year as we weretold, these men had fed together, yet we never saw them betray even themost cursory interest in one another. They entered and departed withoutrevealing, by word or look, cognisance of another human being'spresence. Could one imagine a dozen men of any other nationality thusmaintaining the same indifference over even a short period? I hopefuture experience will prove me wrong, but in the meantime my formerconception of the French as a nation overflowing with _bonhomie_ and_camaraderie_ is rudely shaken. The day of the year would have passed without anything to distinguish itfrom its fellows had not the proprietor, who, by the way, was a Swiss, endeavoured by sundry little attentions to reveal his goodwill. Oystersusurped the place of the customary _hors d'oeuvres_ at breakfast, andthe meal ended with _café noir_ and cognac handed round by thedeferential Iorson as being "offered by the proprietor, " who, enteringduring the progress of the _déjeûner_, paid his personal respects to his_clientèle_. The afternoon brought us a charming discovery. We had a boy guest withus at luncheon, a lonely boy left at school when his fewcompatriots--save only the two Red-Cross prisoners--had gone home onholiday. The day was bright and balmy; and while strolling in the parkbeyond the Petit Trianon, we stumbled by accident upon the _hameau_, thelittle village of counterfeit rusticity wherein Marie Antoinette lovedto play at country life. Following a squirrel that sported among the trees, we had strayed fromthe beaten track, when, through the leafless branches, we caught sightof roofs and houses and, wandering towards them, found ourselves by theside of a miniature lake, round whose margin were grouped the daintiestrural cottages that monarch could desire or Court architect design. History had told us of the creation of this unique plaything of thecapricious Queen, but we had thought of it as a thing of the past, a toywhose fragile beauty had been wrecked by the rude blows of theRevolution. The matter-of-fact and unromantic Baedeker, it is true, givesit half a line. After devoting pages to the Château, its grounds, pictures, and statues, and detailing exhaustively the riches of theTrianons, he blandly mentions the gardens of the Petit Trianon ascontaining "some fine exotic trees, an artificial lake, a Temple ofLove, and a hamlet where the Court ladies played at peasant life. " It is doubtful whether ten out of every hundred tourists who, Baedekerin hand, wander conscientiously over the grand Château--Palace, alas! nolonger--ever notice the concluding words, or, reading its lukewarmrecommendation, deem the hamlet worthy of a visit. The Château is animmense building crammed with artistic achievements, and by the time thesightseer of ordinary capacity has seen a tenth of the pictures, a thirdof the sculpture, and a half of the fountains, his endurance, if not allhis patience, is exhausted. I must acknowledge that we, too, had visited Versailles withoutdiscovering that the _hameau_ still existed; so to chance upon it in thesunset glow of that winter evening seemed to carry us back to the timewhen the storm-cloud of the Revolution was yet no larger than a man'shand; to the day when Louis XVI. , making for once a graceful speech, presented the site to his wife, saying: "You love flowers. Ah! well, Ihave a bouquet for you--the Petit Trianon. " And his Queen, weary of therestrictions of Court ceremony--though it must be admitted that thewillful Marie Antoinette ever declined to be hampered byconvention--experiencing in her residence in the little house freedomfrom etiquette, pursued the novel pleasure to its furthest by commandingthe erection in its grounds of a village wherein she might the betterindulge her newly fledged fancy for make-believe rusticity. About the pillars supporting the verandah-roof of the chief cottage andthat of the wide balcony above, roses and vines twined lovingly. Andthough it was the first day of January, the rose foliage was yet greenand bunches of shrivelled grapes clung to the vines. It was lovely then;yet a day or two later, when a heavy snowfall had cast a white mantleover the village, and the little lake was frozen hard, the scene seemedstill more beautiful in its ghostly purity. At first sight there was no sign of decay about the long-desertedhamlet. The windows were closed, but had it been early morning, onecould easily have imagined that the pseudo villagers were asleep behindthe shuttered casements, and that soon the Queen, in some charming_déshabillé_, would come out to breathe the sweet morning air and toinhale the perfume of the climbing roses on the balcony overlooking thelake, wherein gold-fish darted to and fro among the water-lilies; orexpect to see the King, from the steps of the little mill where helodged, exchange blithe greetings with the maids of honour as theytripped gaily to the _laiterie_ to play at butter-making, or saunteredacross the rustic bridge on their way to gather new-laid eggs at thefarm. The sunset glamour had faded and the premature dusk of mid-winter wasfalling as, approaching nearer, we saw where the roof-thatch haddecayed, where the insidious finger of Time had crumbled the stonewalls. A chilly wind arising, moaned through the naked trees. The shadowof the guillotine seemed to brood oppressively over the scene, and, shuddering, we hastened away. [Illustration: To the Place of Rest] CHAPTER VI ICE-BOUND Even in the last days of December rosebuds had been trying to open onthe standard bushes in the sheltered rose-garden of the Palace. But withthe early nights of January a sudden frost seized the town in its icygrip, and, almost before we had time to realise the change of weather, pipes were frozen and hot-water bottles of strange design made theirappearance in the upper corridors of the hotel. The naked cherubs in thepark basins stood knee-deep in ice, skaters skimmed the smooth surfaceof the canal beyond the _tapis vert_, and in a twinkling Versaillesbecame a town peopled by gnomes and brownies whose faces peeped quaintlyfrom within conical hoods. Soldiers drew their cloak-hoods over their uniform caps. Postmen wenttheir rounds thus snugly protected from the weather. The doddering oldscavengers, plying their brooms among the great trees of the avenues, bore so strong a resemblance to the pixies who lurk in caves and woods, that we almost expected to see them vanish into some crevice in thegnarled roots of the trunks. Even the tiny acolytes trotting gravely inthe funeral processions had their heads and shoulders shrouded in theprevailing hooded capes. [Illustration: While the Frost Holds] To us, accustomed though we were to an inclement winter climate, thechill seemed intense. So frigid was the atmosphere that the first steptaken from the heated hotel hall into the outer air felt like puttingone's face against an iceberg. All wraps of ordinary thickness appearedincapable of excluding the cold, and I sincerely envied the countlesswearers of the dominant Capuchin cloaks. [Illustration: The Postman's Wrap] Our room was many-windowed, and no matter how high Karl piled the logs, nor how close we sat to the flames, our backs never felt really warm. Itwas only when night had fallen and the outside shutters were firmlyclosed that the thermometer suspended near the chimney-piece grudginglyconsented to record temperate heat. [Illustration: A Lapful of Warmth] But there was at least one snug chamber in Versailles, and that was theroom of the Red-Cross prisoners. However extravagant the degrees offrost registered without, the boys' sick-room was always pleasantlywarm. How the good Soeur, who was on duty all day, managed to regulatethe heat throughout the night-watches was her secret. A half-waking boymight catch a glimpse of her, apparently robed as by day, stealing outof the room; but so noiseless were her movements, that neither of theinvalids ever saw her stealing in. They had a secret theory that in herown little apartment, which was just beyond theirs, the Soeur, garbed, hooded, and wearing rosary and the knotted rope of her Order, passed hernights in devotion. Certain it was that even the most glacial ofweathers did not once avail to prevent her attending the Mass that washeld at Notre Dame each morning before daybreak. [Illustration: The Daily Round] Frost-flowers dulled the inner glories of the shop windows with theirunwelcome decoration. Even in the square on market mornings businessflagged. The country folks, chilled by their cold drive to town, cowered, muffled in thick wraps, over their little charcoal stoves, lacking energy to call attention to their wares. The sage with theonions was absent, but the pretty girl in the red hood held heraccustomed place, warming mittened fingers at a chaufferette which sheheld on her lap. The only person who gave no outward sign of misery wasthe boulangère who, harnessed to her heavy hand-cart, toiledunflinchingly on her rounds. In the streets the comely little _bourgeoises_ hid their plump shouldersunder ugly black knitted capes, and concealed their neat hands in clumsyworsted gloves. But despite the rigour of the atmosphere their heads, with the hair neatly dressed _à la Chinoise_, remained uncovered. Itstruck our unaccustomed eyes oddly to see these girls thus exposed, standing on the pavement in the teeth of some icy blast, talking tostalwart soldier friends, whose noses were their only visible feature. [Illustration: Three Babes and a Bonne] The ladies of Versailles give a thought to their waists, but they leavetheir ankles to Providence, and any one having experience of Versailleswinter streets can fully sympathise with their trust; for even in drysunny weather mud seems a spontaneous production that renders goloshes anecessity. And when frost holds the high-standing city in its frigidgrasp the extreme cold forbids any idea of coquetry, and thickly linedboots with cloth uppers--a species of foot-gear that in grace of outlineis decidedly suggestive of "arctics"--become the only comfortable wear. [Illustration: Snow in the Park] After a few days of thought-congealing cold--a cold so intense thatsundry country people who had left their homes before dawn to drive intoParis with farm produce were taken dead from their market-carts at theend of the journey--the weather mercifully changed. A heavy snowfall nowtempered the inclement air, and turned the leafless park into a fairyvision. The nights were still cold, but during the day the sun glinted warmly onthe frozen waters of the gilded fountains and sparkled on the facets ofthe crisp snow. The marble benches in the sheltered nooks of the snugChâteau gardens were occupied by little groups, which usually consistedof a _bonne_ and a baby, or of a chevalier and a hopelessly unclassabledog; for the dogs of Versailles belong to breeds that no man livingcould classify, the most prevalent type in clumsiness of contour andastonishing shagginess of coat resembling nothing more natural thanthose human travesties of the canine race familiar to us in pantomime. Along the snow-covered paths under the leafless trees, on whose branchesclose-wreathed mistletoe hangs like rooks' nests, the statues stood likeguardian angels of the scene. They had lost their air of aloofness andwere at one with the white earth, just as the forest trees in theirautumn dress of brown and russet appear more in unison with their parentsoil than when decked in their bravery of summer greenery. CHAPTER VII THE HAUNTED CHATEAU [Illustration: A Veteran of the Chateau] The Château of Versailles, like the town, dozes through the winter, onlyhalf awakening on Sunday afternoons when the townsfolk make it theirmeeting-place. Then conscripts, in clumsy, ill-fitting uniforms, treadnoisily over the shining _parqueterie_ floors, and burgesses gossipamicably in the dazzling _Galerie des Glaces_, where each morningcourtiers were wont to await the uprising of their king. But on theweekdays visitors are of the rarest. Sometimes a few half-frozen peoplewho have rashly automobiled thither from Paris alight at the Châteaugates, and take a hurried walk through the empty galleries to restorethe circulation to their stiffened limbs before venturing to set forthon the return journey. Every weekday in the Place d'Armes, squads of conscripts are busilydrilling, running hither and thither with unflagging energy, and the airresounds with the hoarse staccato cries of "Un! Deux! Trois!" wherewiththey accompany their movements, cries that, heard from a short distance, exactly resemble the harsh barking of a legion of dogs. [Illustration: Un--Deux--Trois] Within the gates there is a sense of leisure: even the officials haveceased to anticipate visitors. In the _Cour Royale_ two little girlshave cajoled an old guide into playing a game of ball. A custodian dozesby the great log fire in the bedroom of Louis XIV. , where the warmfirelight playing on the rich trappings lends such an air of occupationto the chamber, that--forgetting how time has turned to grey the oncewhite ostrich plumes adorning the canopy of the bed, and that thepriceless lace coverlet would probably fall to pieces at a touch--onealmost expects the door to open for the entrance of Louis le Grandhimself. To this room he came when he built the Palace wherein to hide from thatgrim summons with which the tower of the Royal sepulture of St. Denis, visible from his former residence, seemed to threaten him. And here itwas that Death, after long seeking, found him. We can see the littlegreat-grandson who was to succeed, lifted on to the bed of the dyingmonarch. [Illustration: The Bedchamber of Louis XIV] "What is your name, my child?" asks the King. "Louis XV;" replies the infant, taking brevet-rank. And nearly sixtyyears later we see the child, his wasted life at an end, dying ofvirulent smallpox under the same roof, deserted by all save his devoteddaughters. To me the Palace of Versailles is peopled by the ghosts of many women. Afew of them are dowdy and good, but by far the greater number aregraceful and wicked. How infinitely easier it is to make a good badreputation than to achieve even a bad good one! "Tell us stories aboutnaughty children, " we used to beseech our nurses. And as our yearsincrease we still yawn over the doings of the righteous, while ourinterest in the ways of transgressors only strengthens. We all know by heart the romantic lives of the shrinking La Vallière, ofMadame de Montespan the impassioned, of sleek Madame de Maintenon--thetrio of beauties honoured by the admiration of Louis le Grand; and ofthe bevy of favourites of Louis XV, the three fair and short-livedsisters de Mailly-Nesle, the frail Pompadour who mingled scheming withdebauchery, and the fascinating but irresponsible Du Barry. Even the mostminute details of Marie Antoinette's tragic career are fresh in ourmemories, but which of us can remember the part in the history of Franceplayed by Marie Leczinska? Yet, apart from her claim to notability ashaving been the last queen who ended her days on the French throne, herstory is full of romantic interest. Thrusting aside the flimsy veil of Time, we find Marie Leczinska thepenniless daughter of an exiled Polish king who is living in retirementin a dilapidated commandatory at a little town in Alsace. It is easy topicture the shabby room wherein the unforeseeing Marie sits contentbetween her mother and grandmother, all three diligently broideringaltar cloths. Upon the peaceful scene the father enters, overcome byemotion, trembling. His face announces great news, before he can schoolhis voice to speak. "Why, father! Have you been recalled to the throne of Poland?" asksMarie, and the naïve question reveals that many years of banishment havenot quenched in the hearts of the exiles the hope of a return to theirbeloved Poland. "No, my daughter, but you are to be Queen of France, " replies thefather. "Let us thank God. " [Illustration: Marie Leczinska] Knowing the sequel, one wonders if it was for a blessing or a curse thatthe refugees, kneeling in that meagre room in the old house atWissenberg, returned thanks. Certain it is that the ministers of the boy-monarch were actuated moreby a craving to further their own ends than either by the desire toplease God or to honour their King, in selecting this obscure maidenfrom the list of ninety-nine marriageable princesses that had been drawnup at Versailles. A dowerless damsel possessed of no influentialrelatives is not in a position to be exacting, and, whate'er befell, poor outlawed Stanislas Poniatowski could not have taken up arms indefence of his daughter. Having a sincere regard for unaffected Marie Leczinska, I regret beingobliged to admit that, even in youth, "comely" was the most effusiveadjective that could veraciously be awarded her. And it is only in thelowest of whispers that I will admit that she was seven years older thanher handsome husband, whose years did not then number seventeen. Yet isthere indubitable charm in the simple grace wherewith Marie accepted hermarvellous transformation from pauper to queen. She disarmed criticismby refusing to conceal her former poverty. "This is the first time in mylife I have been able to make presents, " she frankly told the ladies ofthe Court, as she distributed among them her newly got trinkets. It is pleasant to remember that the early years of her wedded lifepassed harmoniously. Louis, though never passionately enamoured of hiswife, yet loved her with the warm affection a young man bestows on thefirst woman he has possessed. And that Marie was wholly content there islittle doubt. She was no gadabout. Versailles satisfied her. Three yearspassed before she visited Paris, and then the visit was more of thenature of a pilgrimage than of a State progress. Twin daughters hadblessed the union, and the Queen journeyed to the churches of Notre Dameand Saint Geneviève to crave from Heaven the boon of a Dauphin: a prayerwhich a year later was answered. But clouds were gathering apace. As he grew into manhood the domesticvirtues palled upon Louis. He tired of the needlework which, doubtless, Marie's skilled hands had taught him. We recall how, sitting between hermother and grandmother, the future Queen had broidered altar cloths. Marie Leczinska was an adoring mother; possibly her devotion to theirrapidly increasing family wearied him. Being little more than a childhimself, the King is scarcely likely to have found the infantile societyso engaging as did the mother. Thus began that series of foolishinfidelities that, characterised by extreme timidity and secrecy atfirst, was latterly flaunted in the face of the world. Marie's life was not a smooth one, but it was happier than that of herRoyal spouse. To me there is nothing sadder, nothing more sordid inhistory, than the feeble, useless existence of Louis XV. , whose earlyyears promised so well. It is pitiful to look at the magnificentportrait, still hanging in the palace where he reigned, of thechild-king seated in his robes of State, the sceptre in his hand, looking with eyes of innocent wonder into the future, then to think uponthe depth of degradation reached by the once revered Monarch before hisbody was dragged in dishonour and darkness to its last resting-place. [Illustration: Madame Adelaide] Pleasanter figures that haunt the Château are those of the six prettydaughters of Louis and Marie Leczinska. There are the ill-starred twins, Elizabeth and Henrietta: Madame Elizabeth, who never lost the love ofher old home, and, though married, before entering her teens, to theInfanta of Spain, retired, after a life of disappointment, to herbeloved Versailles to die; and the gentle Henrietta who, cherishing anunlucky passion for the young Duc de Chartres, pined quietly away afterwitnessing her lover wed to another. Then there is Adelaide, whom Nattier loved to paint, portraying hersometimes as a lightly clad goddess, sometimes sitting demurely in apretty frock. Good Nattier! there is a later portrait of himself incomplacent middle age surrounded by his wife and children; but I like tothink that, when he spent so many days at the Palace painting the youngPrincess, some tenderer influence than mere artistic skill lent cunningto his brush. When the daughters of Louis XV. Were sent to be educated at a convent, Adelaide it was who, by tearful protest to her royal father, gainedpermission to remain at the Palace while her sisters meekly enduredtheir banishment. From this instance of childish character one wouldhave anticipated a career for Madame Adelaide, and I hate being obligedto think of her merely developing into one of the three spinster auntsof Louis XVI. Who, residing under the same roof, turned coldlydisapproving eyes upon the manifold frailties of their niece, MarieAntoinette. The sisters Victoire and Sophie are faint shades leaving no impressionon the memory; but there is another spirit, clad in the sombre garb of aCarmelite nun, who, standing aloof, looks with the calm eyes of peace onthe motley throng. It is Louise, the youngest sister of all, who, deeplygrieved by her father's infatuation for the Du Barry--an infatuationwhich, beginning within a month of Marie Leczinska's decease, ended onlywhen on his deathbed the dying Monarch prepared to receive absolution bybidding his inamorata farewell--resolved to flee her profligatesurroundings and devote her life to holiness. It is affecting to think of the gentle Louise, secretly anticipating therigours of convent life, torturing her delicate skin by wearing coarseserge, and burning tallow candles in her chamber to accustom herself totheir detestable odour. Her father's consent gained, Louise still tarried at Versailles. Perhapsthe King's daughter shrank from voluntarily beginning a life ofimprisoned drudgery. We know that at this period she passed many hoursreading contemporary history, knowing that, once within the conventwalls, the study of none but sacred literature would be permitted. Then came an April morning when Louise, who had kept her intentionsecret from all save her father, left the Palace never to return. France, in a state of joyous excitement, was eagerly anticipating thearrival of Marie Antoinette, who was setting forth on the first stage ofthat triumphal journey which had so tragic an ending. Already the gayclamour of wedding-bells filled the air; and Louise may have fearedthat, did she linger at Versailles, the enticing vanities of the worldmight change the current of her thoughts. Chief among the impalpable throng that people the state galleries isMarie Antoinette, and her spirit shows us many faces. It is charming, haughty, considerate, headstrong, frivolous, thoughtful, degraded, dignified, in quick succession. We see her arrive at the Palace amid thetumultuous adoration of the crowd, and leave amidst its execrations. Sometimes she is richly apparelled, as befits a queen; anon she sportsthe motley trappings of a mountebank. The courtyard that saw thedeparture of Madame Louise witnesses Marie Antoinette, returning atdaybreak in company with her brother-in-law from some festivityunbecoming a queen, refused admittance by the King's express command. [Illustration: Louis Quatorze] Many of the attendant spirits who haunt Marie Antoinette's ghostlyfootsteps as they haunted her earthly ones are malefic. Most are women, and all are young and fair. There is Madame Roland, who, taken as ayoung girl to the Palace to peep at the Royalties, became imbued by thatjealous hatred which only the Queen's death could appease. "If I stay here much longer, " she told that kindly mother who sought togive her a treat by showing her Court life, "I shall detest these peopleso much that I shall be unable to hide my hatred. " It is easy to fancy the girl's evil face scowling at the unconsciousQueen, before she leaves to pen those inflammatory pamphlets which areto prove the Sovereign's undoing and her own. For by some whim of fateMadame Roland was executed on the very scaffold to which her envenomedwritings had driven Marie Antoinette. A spectre that impresses as wearing rags under a gorgeous robe, lurksamong the foliage of the quiet _bosquet_ beyond the orangerie. It is theinfamous Madame de la Motte, chief of adventuresses, and it was in thatsecluded grove that her tool, Cardinal de Rohan, had his pretendedinterview with the Queen. Poor, perfidious Contesse! what an existenceof alternate beggarly poverty and beggarly riches was hers before thatlast scene of all when she lay broken and bruised almost beyond humansemblance in that dingy London courtyard beneath the window from which, in a mad attempt to escape arrest, she had thrown herself. Through the Royal salons flits a presence whereat the shades of theRoyal Princesses look askance: that of the frolicsome, good-natured, irresponsible Du Barry. A soulless ephemera she, with no ambitions oraspirations, save that, having quitted the grub stage, she desires to beas brilliant a butterfly as possible. Close in attendance on her movesan ebon shadow--Zamora, the ingrate foundling who, reared by theDuchesse, swore that he would make his benefactress ascend the scaffold, and kept his oath. For our last sight of the prodigal, warm-hearted DuBarry, plaything of the aged King, is on the guillotine, where inagonies of terror she fruitlessly appeals to her executioner's clemency. But of all the bygone dames who haunt the grand Château, the only one Idetest is probably the most irreproachable of all--Madame de Maintenon. There is something so repulsively sanctimonious in her aspect, somethingso crafty in the method wherewith, under the cloak of religion, shewormed her way into high places, ousting--always in the name ofpropriety--those who had helped her. Her stepping-stone to Royal favourwas handsome, impetuous Madame de Montespan, who, taking compassion onher widowed poverty, appointed Madame Scarron, as she then was, governess of her children, only to find her _protégée_ usurp her placeboth in the honours of the King and in the affections of their children. The natural heart rebels against the "unco guid, " and Madame deMaintenon, with her smooth expression, double chin, sober garments andever-present symbols of piety, revolts me. I know it is wrong. I knowthat historians laud her for the wholesome influence she exercised uponthe mind of a king who had grown timorous with years; that the dyingQueen declared that she owed the King's kindness to her during the lasttwenty years of her life entirely to Madame de Maintenon. But we knowalso that six months after the Queen's death an unwonted light showed atmidnight in the Chapel Royal, where Madame de Maintenon--the child of aprison cell--was becoming the legal though unacknowledged wife of LouisXIV. The impassioned, uncalculating de Montespan had given the handsomeMonarch her all without stipulation. Truly the career of Madame deMaintenon was a triumph of virtue over vice; and yet of all thatheedless, wanton throng, my soul detests only her. [Illustration: Where the Queen Played] CHAPTER VIII MARIE ANTOINETTE Stereotyped sights are rarely the most engrossing. At the Palace ofVersailles the _petits appartements de la Reine_, those tiny rooms whosegrey old-world furniture might have been in use yesterday, to me holdmore actuality than all the regal salons in whose vast emptinessfootsteps reverberate like echoes from the past. In the pretty sitting-room the coverings to-day are a reproduction ofthe same pale blue satin that draped the furniture in the days whenqueens preferred the snug seclusion of those dainty rooms overlookingthe dank inner courtyard to the frigid grandeur of their State chambers. Therein it was that Marie Leczinska was wont to instruct her youngdaughters in the virtues as she had known them in her girlhood'sthread-bare home, not as her residence at the profligate French Courthad taught her to understand them. [Illustration: Marie Antoinette] The heavy gilt bolts bearing the interlaced initials M. A. Remind us thatthese, too, were the favourite rooms of Marie Antoinette, and that inall probability the cunningly entwined bolts were the handiwork of herhonest spouse, who wrought at his blacksmith forge below while his wifeflirted above. But in truth the _petits appartements_ are instinct withmemories of Marie Antoinette, and it is difficult to think of any saveonly her occupying them. The beautiful _coffre_ presented to her withthe layette of the Dauphin still stands on a table in an adjoiningchamber, and the paintings on its white silk casing are scarcely fadedyet, though the decorative ruching of green silk leaves has long agofallen into decay. A step farther is the little white and gold boudoir which still holdsthe mirror that gave the haughty Queen her first premonition of thecatastrophe that awaited her. Viewed casually the triple mirror, liningan alcove wherein stands a couch garlanded with flowers, betrays nosinister qualities. But any visitor who approaches looking at hisreflection where at the left the side panels meet the angle of the wall, will be greeted by a sight similar to that whose tragic suggestion madeeven the haughty Queen pause a moment in her reckless career. For in theinnocent appearing mirrors the gazer is reflected without a head. It was through this liliputian suite, this strip of homeliness soartfully introduced into a palace, that Marie Antoinette fled on thatfateful August morning when the mob of infuriated women invaded theChâteau. Knowing this, I was puzzling over the transparent fact that either ofthe apparent exits would have led her directly into the hands of theenemy, when the idea of a secret staircase suggested itself. A littlejudicious inquiry elicited the information that one did exist. "But itis not seen. It is locked. To view it, an order from theCommissary--that is necessary, " explained the old guide. To know that a secret staircase, and one of such vivid historicalimportance, was at hand, and not to have seen it would have been tootantalising. The "Commissary" was an unknown quantity, and for a spaceit seemed as though our desire would be ungratified. Happily theknowledge of our interest awoke a kindly reciprocity in our guide, who, hurrying off, quickly returned with the venerable custodian of the key. A moment later, the unobtrusive panel that concealed the exit flew openat its touch, and the secret staircase, dark, narrow, and hoary with thedust of years, lay before us. [Illustration: The Secret Stair] Many must have been the romantic meetings aided by those diminutivesteps, but, peering into their shadows, we saw nothing but a vision ofMarie Antoinette, half clad in dishevelled wrappings of petticoat andshawl, flying distracted from the vengeance of the furies through therefuge of the low-roofed stairway. In my ingenuous youth, when studying French history, I evolved a theorywhich seemed, to myself at least, to account satisfactorily for theradical differences distinguishing Louis XVI. From his brothers andantecedents. Finding that, when a delicate infant, he had been sent tothe country to nurse, I rushed to the conclusion that the royal infanthad died, and that his foster-mother, fearful of the consequences, hadsubstituted a child of her own in his place. The literature of thenursery is full of instances that seemed to suggest the probability ofmy conjecture being correct. As a youth, Louis had proved himself both awkward and clumsy. He wasloutish, silent in company, ill at ease in his princely surroundings, and in all respects unlike his younger brothers. He was honest, sincere, pious, a faithful husband, a devoted father; amply endowed, indeed, withthe middle-class virtues which at that period were but rarely found inpalaces. To my childish reasoning the most convincing proof lay in hisinnate craving for physical labour; a craving that no ridicule coulddispel. With the romantic enthusiasm of youth, I used to fancy the peasantmother stealing into the Palace among the spectators who daily werepermitted to view the royal couple at dinner, and imagine her, havingseen the King, depart glorying secretly in the strategy that had raisedher son to so high an estate. There was another picture, in whosedramatic misery I used to revel. It showed the unknown mother, who haddiscovered that by her own act she had condemned her innocent son tosuffer for the sins of past generations of royal profligates, journeyingto Paris (in my dreams she always wore sabots and walked the entiredistance in a state of extreme physical exhaustion) with the intentionof preventing his execution by declaring his lowly parentage to the mob. The final tableau revealed her, footsore and weary, reaching withinsight of the guillotine just in time to see the executioner holding upher son's severed head. I think my imaginary heroine died of a brokenheart at this juncture, a catastrophe that would naturally account forher secret dying with her. [Illustration: Madame Sans Tête] During our winter stay at Versailles, my childish phantasies recurred tome, and I almost found them feasible. What an amazing irony of fate itwould have shown had a son of the soil expired to expiate the crimes ofsovereigns! But more pitiful by far than the saddest of illusions is the sordidreality of a scene indelibly imprinted on my mental vision. Memory takesme back to the twilight of a spring Sunday several years ago, when inthe wake of a cluster of market folks we wandered into the old Cathedralof St. Denis. Deep in the sombre shadows of the crypt a light gleamedfaintly through a narrow slit in the stone wall. Approaching, we lookedinto a gloomy vault wherein, just visible by the ray of a solitarycandle, lay two zinc coffins. Earth holds no more dismal sepulchre than that dark vault, through thecrevice in whose wall the blue-bloused marketers cast curious glances. Yet within these grim coffins lie two bodies with their severed heads, all that remains mortal of the haughty Marie Antoinette and other humblespouse. [Illustration: Illumination] CHAPTER IX THE PRISONERS RELEASED The first dread days, when the Boy, heavy with fever, seemed scarcely torealise our presence, were swiftly followed by placid hours when he layand smiled in blissful content, craving nothing, now that we were alltogether again. But this state of beatitude was quickly ousted by aperiod of discontent, when the hunger fiend reigned supreme in thelittle room. "_Manger, manger, manger, tout le temps!"_ Thus the nurse epitomised theconverse of her charges. And indeed she was right, for, from morningtill night, the prisoners' solitary topic of conversation was food. During the first ten days their diet consisted solely of boiled milk, and as that time wore to a close the number of quarts consumed increaseddaily, until Paul, the chief porter, seemed ever ascending the littleoutside stair carrying full bottles of milk, or descending laden withempty ones. "Milk doesn't count. When shall we be allowed food, _real_ food?" wasthe constant cry, and their relief was abounding when, on Christmas Day, the doctor withdrew his prohibition, and permitted an approach to thedesired solids. But even then the prisoners, to their loudly voiceddisappointment, discovered that their only choice lay between vermicelliand tapioca, nursery dishes which at home they would have despised. "_Tapioca!_ Imagine tapioca for a Christmas dinner!" the invalidsexclaimed with disgust. But that scorn did not prevent them devouringthe mess and eagerly demanding more. And thereafter the saucepansimmering over the gas-jet in the outer room seemed ever full of savouryspoon-meat. I doubt if any zealous mother-bird ever had a busier time feeding herfledglings than had the good Sister in satisfying the appetites of thesecallow cormorants. To witness the French nun seeking to allay the hungerof these voracious schoolboy aliens was to picture a wren trying to fillthe ever-gaping beaks of two young cuckoos whom an adverse fate haddropped into her nest. As the days wore by, the embargo placed upon our desire to cater for theinvalids was gradually lifted, and little things such as sponge biscuitsand pears crept in to vary the monotony of the milk diet. New Year's Day held a tangible excitement, for that morning saw amodified return to ordinary food, and, in place of bottles of milk, Paul's load consisted of such tempting selections from the school mealsas were deemed desirable for the invalids. Poultry not being included inthe school menus, we raided a cooked-provision shop and carried off aplump, well-browned chicken. The approbation which met this ventureresulted in our supplying a succession of _poulettes_, which, at theinvalids' express desire, were smuggled into their room under my cloak. Not that there was the most remote necessity for concealment, but theinvalids, whose sole interest centred in food, laboured under the absurdidea that, did the authorities know they were being supplied fromwithout, their regular meals would be curtailed to prevent themover-eating. The point of interest, for the Red-Cross prisoners at least, in ourmorning visits lay in the unveiling of the eatables we had brought. School food, however well arranged, is necessarily stereotyped, and theelement of the unknown ever lurked in our packages. The sugar-sticks, chocolates, fruit, little cakes, or what we had chanced to bring, werecarefully examined, criticised, and promptly devoured. A slight refreshment was served them during our short stay, and when wedeparted we left them eagerly anticipating luncheon. At gloaming, whenwe returned, it was to find them busy with half-yards of the long crustyloaves, plates of jelly, and tumblers, filled with milk on our Boy'spart, and with well diluted wine on that of his fellow sufferer. Fear of starvation being momentarily averted, the Soeur used to lightfresh candles around the tiny Holy _Bébé_ on the still greenChristmas-tree, and for a space we sat quietly enjoying the radiance. But by the time the last candle had flickered out, and the glow of acommonplace paraffin lamp lighted the gloom, nature again demandednourishment; and we bade the prisoners farewell for the night, happy inthe knowledge that supper, sleep, and breakfast would pleasantly whileaway the hours till our return. The elder Red-Cross knight was a tall, good-looking lad of sixteen, theage when a boy wears painfully high collars, shaves surreptitiously--andunnecessarily--with his pen-knife, talks to his juniors about thetobacco he smokes in a week, and cherishes an undying passion for amaiden older than himself. He was ever an interesting study, though I donot think I really loved him until he confided his affairs of the heart, and entrusted me with the writing of his love-letters. I know thatbehind my back he invariably referred to me as "Ma"; but as he openlyaddressed the unconscious nun as "you giddy old girl, " "Ma" might almostbe termed respectful, and I think our regard was mutual. All things come to him who waits. There came a night when for the lasttime we sat together around the little tree, watching the Soeur light thecandles that illuminated the Holy _Bébé_. On the morrow the prisoners, carefully disinfected, and bearing the order of their release in theform of a medical certificate, would be set free. It clouded our gladness to know that before the patient Sister stretchedanother period of isolation. Just that day another pupil had developedscarlet fever, and only awaited our boys' departure to occupy the littleroom. Hearing that this fresh prisoner lay under sentence of durancevile, we suggested that all the toys--chiefly remnants of shatteredarmies that, on hearing of the Boy's illness, we had brought from thehome playroom he had outgrown--might be left for him instead of beingsent away to be burnt. The Boy's bright face dulled. "If it had been anybody else! But, mother, I don't think you know that he is the one French boy we disliked. It washe who always shouted '_à bas les Anglais!_' in the playground. " The reflection that for weary weeks this obnoxious boy would be the onlyinmate of the _boîte_, as the invalids delighted to call theirsick-room, overcame his antipathetic feeling, and he softened so far asto indite a polite little French note offering his late enemy hissympathy, and formally bequeathing to him the reversion of his toys, including the _arbre de Noël_ with all its decorations, except thelittle waxen Jesus nestling in the manger of yellow corn; the Soeur hadalready declared her intention of preserving that among her treasures. The time that had opened so gloomily had passed, and now that it wasover we could look back upon many happy hours spent within the dingyprison walls. And our thoughts were in unison, for the Boy, abruptlybreaking the silence, said: "And after all, it hasn't been such a badtime. Do you know, I really think I've rather enjoyed it!" L'ENVOI [Illustration: L'Envoi] Heavy skies lowered above us, the landscape seen through the drivingmist-wreaths showed a depressing repetition of drabs and greys as wejourneyed towards Calais. But, snugly ensconced in the _train rapide_, our hearts beat high with joy, for at last were we homeward bound. Theweeks of exile in the stately old town had ended. For the last time thegood Sister had lit us down the worn stone steps. As we sped seawardsacross the bleak country, our thoughts flew back to her, and to thelittle room with the red cross on its casement, wherein, although ourprisoners were released, another term of nursing had already begun forher. In contrast with her life of cheerful self-abnegation, ours seemedselfish, meaningless, and empty. Dear nameless Sister! She had been an angel of mercy to us in atroublous time, and though our earthly paths may never again cross, ourhearts will ever hold her memory sacred. _By the same Author_ OUR STOLEN SUMMER THE RECORD OF A ROUNDABOUT TOUR BY MARY STUART BOYD WITH ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY SKETCHES BY A. S. BOYD _Extracts from Reviews_ THE WORLD. --"To be able to go round the world nowadays, and write adescriptive record of the tour that is vivid and fresh is a positiveliterary feat. It has been successfully accomplished in _Our StolenSummer_ by Mrs. Boyd, who with no ulterior object in making a bookjourneyed over four continents in company with her husband, and pickedup _en route_ matter for one of the pleasantest, most humorous, andleast pretentious books of travel we have read for many a day. It isadmirably illustrated by Mr. A. S. Boyd, whose sense of humour happilymatches that of his observant wife, and the reader who can lay asidethis picturesque and truly delightful volume without sincere regret musthave a dull and dreary mind. " PUNCH. --"_Our Stolen Summer_ is calculated to lead to wholesale breakageof the Eighth Commandment. Certainly, my Baronite, reading thefascinating record of a roundabout tour, feels prompted to steal away. Mary Stuart Boyd, who pens the record, has the great advantage of thecollaboration of A. S. B. , whose signature is familiar in _Mr. Punch's_Picture Gallery. .. . A charming book. " SPECTATOR. --"The writer, by the help of a ready pen and of the pencil ofa skilful illustrator, has given us in this handsome volume a number ofattractive pictures of distant places. .. . It is good to read andpleasant to look at. " TRUTH. --"You will find no pleasanter holiday reading than _Our StolenSummer_. " ACADEMY. --"A fresh record, and worth the reading. Of such is Mrs. Boyd'svolume, which her husband has illustrated profusely with spirited linedrawings. " FIELD. --"One of the brightest books of travel that it has been our goodfortune to read. The illustrations deserve a notice to themselves. Theyare far and away better than those which we usually get in books of thiskind, and we do not know that we can bestow higher praise on them thanto say that they are worthy of the letterpress which they illustrate. " LAND AND WATER. --"A delightful sketch of a delightful journey. .. . _OurStolen Summer_ is a book which will be read with equal delight on a lazysummer holiday, or in the heart of London when the streets are envelopedin fog and the rain is beating against the window panes. Mr. Boyd'ssketches are simply admirable. " SPHERE. --"A delightful record of travel. Mrs. Boyd is never dull, andthere is plenty of acute observation throughout her pleasant story oftravel. My Boyd's illustrations which appear on practically every page, are, it need scarcely be said, up to the high level that is alreadyfamiliar to students of his black-and-white work. " LADIES' FIELD. --"A singularly delightful and unaffected book of travel. " MADAME. --"One of the most delightful books of travel it has been ourgood fortune to read. " MORNING POST. --"If the encouragement of globe-trotting be a virtuousaction, then certainly Mrs. Stuart Boyd has deserved well of hercountry. To read her book is to conceive an insensate desire to be offand away on 'the long trail' at all hazards and at all costs. .. . Mr. Boyd's illustrations add greatly to the interest and charm of the book. There is movement, atmosphere, and sunshine in them. " STANDARD. --"Mrs. Boyd went with her husband round the world, and thelatter--an artist with a sense of humour--kept his hand in practice bymaking droll sketches of people encountered by the way, which heightenthe charm of his wife's vivacious description of a _Stolen Summer_. Mrs. Boyd has quick eyes and an open mind, and writes with sense andsensibility. " DAILY TELEGRAPH. --"It is not so much what Mrs. Boyd has to tell as theinvariable good humour and brightness with which she records even themost familiar things that makes the charm of her excellent diary. " DAILY CHRONICLE. --"Mrs. Boyd has written the log with sparkle andobservation--seeing many things that the mere man-traveller would miss. Mr. Boyd's sketches are, of course, excellent. " PALL MALL GAZETTE. --"Mrs. Boyd writes with so much buoyancy, and herhumour is so unexpected and unfailing, that it is safe to say that thereis not a dull page from first to last in this record of a tour round theworld. .. Mr. A. S. Boyd's numerous illustrations show him at his verybest. " GLOBE. --"A work to acquire as well as to peruse. " WESTMINSTER GAZETTE. --"The narrative from beginning to end does notcontain a dull page. Of Mr. Boyd's numerous sketches it is onlynecessary to say that they are excellent. Altogether _Our Stolen Summer_will be found to be one of the most fascinating of recent books oftravel. " SUNDAY TIMES. --"Brilliantly and entertainingly written, and liberallyillustrated by an acknowledged master of the art of black and white. " SCOTSMAN. --"A beautiful and fascinating book. .. . Pen and pencil sketchesalike have grace, nerve, and humour, and are alive with human interestand observation. " GLASGOW HERALD. --"One of the most delightful travel-books of recenttimes. .. . Mrs. Boyd's volume must commend itself to people whocontemplate visiting the other side of the globe and to all stay-at-hometravellers as well. " DAILY FREE PRESS. --"Mrs. Boyd is an admirable descriptivewriter--observant, humorous, and sympathetic. Without illustrations, _Our Stolen Summer_ would be a notable addition to the literature oftravel; with Mr. Boyd's collaboration it is almost unique. " LEEDS MERCURY. --"Vivacious and diverting record. " YORKSHIRE DAILY POST. --"For such a book there could be nothing butpraise if one wrote columns about it. " BIRMINGHAM DAILY POST. --"A singularly happy and interesting record of amost enjoyable tour. " NORTHERN WHIG. --"Shrewdness of observation, with not a little humour anda real literary gift, mark the story of _Our Stolen Summer_. " THE BOOKMAN. --"Mrs. Boyd writes with so much brightness, such vivacityand picturesqueness of style, that although the volume runs to closeupon four hundred pages there is not a dull page among them. The successof _Our Stolen Summer_, however, is due as much to the artist as to theauthor; and praise must be equally divided. Mr. Boyd's sketches arespirited, clever, full of humour and sympathetic observation. Without aword of letter-press they would have formed an excellent travel-book;taken in conjunction with Mrs. Boyd's narrative they are irresistible. " LONDON AND EDINBURGH: WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS Illustrated by A. S. Boyd A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON WITH TWENTY-SEVEN PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. S. BOYD _Extracts from Reviews_ THE TIMES. --"The characters whom Stevenson had in his mind's eye are allcleverly pictured, and the drawings may be truthfully said to illustratethe writer's ideas--a quality that seldom resides in illustrations. .. . All are faithfully presented as only one who has known them intimatelycould present them. .. . Mr. Boyd's talent for black-and-white work hasnever found happier expression. " MORNING POST. --"It is impossible to imagine anything more likely toappeal to the sentiment of the Scottish people throughout the world thanthis series of pictures, instinct with the spirit of their land. " DAILY TELEGRAPH. --"One of the happiest combinations of author and artistwhich has been seen of late years. Mr. Boyd has entered thoroughly intothe spirit of the lines, and his figures are instinct with gracefulhumour. " DAILY CHRONICLE. --"Mr. Boyd is to be congratulated (as R. L. S. Wouldassuredly have granted) upon interpreting so vividly a notable featurein the national life of Scotland. " ATHENAEUM. --"The task of illustrating Stevenson's verses was mostdifficult, because it demands from the artist knowledge of localcircumstances and characteristic details. Mr. Boyd's success in makingus see so plainly the moods and manners of the 'restin' ploughman' whilehe 'daundered' in his garden and 'raxed his limbs' is the more to beenjoyed and praised. " PALL MALL GAZETTE. --"Followers of the master will appreciate thisbeautiful book for its accurate interpretation of the poem as well asfor its excellent drawing. " ST. JAMES'S GAZETTE. --"There is plenty of good Scotch character in theillustrations, and a quiet observation of the humours of a parish, withsuch annals as those recorded by Gait. " ACADEMY. --"An attractive book. " SATURDAY REVIEW. --"In saying therefore that Mr. Boyd'sillustrations--there is a full page drawing for each verse--are not onlyworthy of the poem, but actually emphasise and define its merits, wegive the book the highest possible praise. It is a volume which shouldbe added to the library of every collector. " SPECTATOR. --"These illustrations to Mr. Stevenson's Scots poem aredistinctly clever, especially in their characterisation of the variousattendants at the village kirk. " SPEAKER. --"The book presents very vividly some of the aspects (bothhumorous and pathetic) of a Scottish rural lowland parish, and willdoubtless touch a chord in the heart of Scotsmen throughout the world. " OUTLOOK. --"Many of Mr. Stevenson's admirers the world over have longdesired that such a classic poem should be faithfully and adequatelyillustrated, and they will give a hearty welcome to this most handsomequarto. " SCOTSMAN. --"One way and another the book is wholly delightful. " GLASGOW EVENING NEWS. --"Mr. Boyd's contributions to a volume which oughtto be popular with Scots in every part of the world, are full of pawkyhumour, and their realism is so pronounced that we seem to have knownthe models in the life. " DUNDEE ADVERTISER. --"This is a volume to be treasured alike for the sakeof the poet, of the artist, and of that form of Scottish life which israpidly disappearing before the march of progress. " ARBROATH HERALD. --"Mr. Boyd has represented these pictures in linesketches, which are characterised at once by the strength and confidenceof a masterful draughtsman and the insight of a keen observer ofcharacter, who has long been familiar with the types presented inStevenson's poem. " GOOD WORDS. --"Mr. Boyd has portrayed, with here and there a happy traitof grace or humour beyond the wording of the text, the very scene andpeople. Each of the illustrations has a charm and freshness of its own. " ART JOURNAL. --"Mr. Boyd's knowledge of Lothian peasants and theirmanners is as complete as Stevenson's. His drawings place in pictorialview the poet's thoughts, while they greatly enhance the descriptions byemphasising what the writer rightly left vague. " LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS, III St. Martin's Lane [Illustration]