PAQUERETTE: THE STAR OF A NIGHT.

A STORY OF PARIS LIFE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

46 THE KING OF PRUSSIA'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT," "CHANTILLY," &c.

CHAPTER I.

THE WREATH OF DAISIES.

I HAD been for some time in Paris alone, and as must for ever be the case when living apart from all ties of friendship and affection, was beginning to feel lonely even amid the noise and dissipation of this first capital of the world." I had grown weary, and sated even to disgust, of the very elegance and refinement, and was beginning once more to sigh for my old wandering life, and my old hardships and privations. I had just arrived at that pitch of satiety at which the very mind becomes jaundiced, and every object is seen, as it were, through a green and yellow atmosphere. Things which had upon first inspection excited admiration, nay, sometimes enthusiasm, now created a nausea difficult to describe. What had appeared magnificence and grandeur in the public buildings, now appeared nought but overgrown wearisome size; what had seemed ingenuity in their inventions and manufactures now dwindled into the most puerile frivolity. I had begun almost to fancy myself growing childish by residing with such a people. So, having made up my trunks at the hotel, I strolled forth to take my last dinner at the Palais Royal, and went on my way rejoicing that it was the last.

I was first turning into the garden when I was accosted by my old friend R- whom I had not seen for many years. I was delighted with the rencontre, and after many a cordial greeting on both sides, we agreed to turn in together to Véfour's, and take our dinner in company. Hewas a great philosopher, my friend R. Nature had done her best to make him so, and the world's experience had increased this natural stoicism without souring his temper, save now and then, when memory of the past would rise like a ghostly warning to bid him place no faith in the world's friendships and the world's affections. He had reason to place a high value on his knowledge of mankind, for it had been bought with many a bitter pang, and many a wringing of the heart. A faithless love, a treacherous friend assailing him on his very outset into life, had crushed his young feelings into bitterness, and made him exclaim in his despair, that "all men are liars;" but now that the first sharp edge of his wrath had grown more blunted, there remained with him that sort of calm and cold philosophy, a mingling together of pity and of scorn for the weak

nesses and errors of his fellow men, and yet withal such generous sympathy for their woes, that his mind was in a perpetual struggle between the promptings of his own noble generous nature, and the false and selfish doctrines inculcated by the base ingratitude of the world. When we had dined, he proposed a stroll into the garden, to which I gladly assented, and taking a chair opposite the fountain, we passed a delicious hour in friendly converse of old scenes and youthful reminiscences, until we were reminded by the chill damp of night that it was time to seek other quarters more congenial to my friend's weak state of health, and my own intention of setting forth betimes on the morrow.

Such was the charm of R- -'s spirit and conversation, that I found it hard to part with him, and would gladly have enjoyed his society a few hours longer, but to all my propositions for spending the remainder of the evening at some public place of amusement, he returned a decided negative. Musard was tiresome-the theatre a bore-the opera assonnant -and, at length, in answer to my pressing entreaties, he returned frankly:

"I will own, dear friend, without disguise, that I have grown somewhat Parisian, and like my worthy models, the elderly gentlemen of this good city, I have mes habitudes.”

"Oh, in that case-" replied I, stopping short, and holding out my hand to bid him farewell.

"Nay, 'tis not as you think," said he, with gentleness, as he looked in my face, and beheld the peculiar smile which had gathered there; “you, who know so well the history of my life, should not have suspected that I would launch again on that sea of troubles."

"But in Paris a man may be forgiven, if he should forget the anguish of the past and the wise resolutions for the future, among the allurements and seductions which beset him on all sides."

"Nay, more," returned he, mournfully, "he should be envied for the very faculty of forgetfulness. 'Tis a rare gift, and those who possess it should be thankful. But-a truce to grave reflections-come with me, and let me show you one whose philosophy, like my own, hath stood the test of many a bitter trial. You will smile to find where my homage has been daily paid for well nigh fifteen years-where my admiration has all been spent. It has been laid at the feet of one who, no longer in possession of youth and beauty, is yet to me the most interesting of her sex. She has taught me how to live, by teaching me, by her experience, all that life is worth, and to her narrations alone, for she abstains from counselling, do I owe much of that resignation which, at first, I feared would be unattainable. But come, you who are for ever seeking new pages in the book of human life, may have some interest in the perusal of this, and I shall be greatly disappointed in my own judgment, if you do not find a charm beyond that of novelty in her acquaintance."

Of course, to such a proposition I was but too happy to accede, and, crossing the garden, he led me to the side of the square opening on the Place des Victoires. Here, stopping in what seemed to me one of the most unfrequented corners, he entered a little glass case, for it would require a stretch of the imagination to dignify it with the name of shop, wherein the piles of fresh nosegays, the scattered leaves, the wreaths and hearts, and quaint devices of immortelles, proclaimed the temple of one of those priestesses of Flora, whose very existence is peculiar to the city

of Paris,-a bouquetière. I had at first expected to behold, seated within this fairy shrine, a young and elegant female, such as I had been accustomed to see occupying the counters of the magasins which encircle the Palais Royal,-a being all smiles, and pink muslin, with satin apron and plaited frill, with hair so black and shining that it might be taken for a satin skull cap, with large gilt brooch and mock gold waist buckle; in short, one of those delicious, beaming, toiling, light-hearted creatures, poor as nuns, yet elegant and poetical as houris- -a grisette of Paris. I was mistaken. The only occupant of the little shop was a lady somewhat past the prime of life, rather on its decline, of a mild and benign expression of countenance, whose coal black eyes, still possessing much of the vigour and fire of youth, seemed to borrow additional lustre from the soft pallor of her features. She was attired in a close-fitting dress of rich black silk. A snowy fichu of plaited muslin was crossed in tight folds over her bosom, sufficiently open at the throat to disclose the massive gold heart and cross, still worn by those females of her calling who follow the old régime. Her head-dress consisted of the high and picturesque cap, generally worn by females of all classes before the time of the Revolution, and now but seldom seen. It was composed of the richest Mechlin, which, descending in a cloud on each side of her face, lent it even a greater paleness, by casting over her cheek and brow that peculiarly soft shade, so loved by painters, and which they prize so highly, as giving an indescribable interest even to the tamest portrait.

She was busily engaged, when we entered, sorting the buds and leaves of a large bunch of orange blossoms. A beautiful bouquet of the delicious plant lay on the marble slab beside her, and her fingers were weaving, with a skill and nicety unknown but to those of her profession in Paris, a chaplet of the same, drawing through each starry blossom an elastic silver-wire, yet leaving it as fresh as when gathered from the tree.

She smiled as my friend entered the shop, and extended her hand across the little counter towards him; and with that bland, old-fashioned politeness, which in former days knew no distinction of station as regards the softer sex, he bent forward, and carried it to his lips.

I remarked, by the way, that the hand was fair and dimpled as that of the most luxurious sultana, and must, moreover, at that moment, have been redolent of the fragrant orange-blossoms, therefore felt no astonishment at my friend's courtesy. I must confess, however, that I was somewhat put out of countenance by the ceremonious manner in which I was introduced to this bouquetière by R, who seemed to use as much ceremony and etiquette, as though he had been commissioned to present

me at court.

The object of all this homage raised her eyes towards me with a soft, sleepy look, but I could observe a sly, quiet smile play about the corners of her mouth, as her glance fell upon a full-blown, damask rose, which I had purchased as I came along, and which but a moment before I had imagined to be beautiful. I had fortunately presence of mind enough to feel the mute criticism, and instantly dislodged it, with a request, that she would replace it with one of her own compositions, as she was wont to call those bouquets upon which she had bestowed peculiar care. She instantly complied, evidently pleased with this mark of attention, and in a few moments presented me with a bouquet des bois, at the same time

telling me that it was the one most in vogue for the promenade in the Bois de Boulogne. It was composed of a few purple violets, a sprig of valerian, a lily of the valley, and a blossom of the wood-strawberry, with one single specimen of its beautiful scarlet fruit. It was a chef-d'œuvre in its exquisite simplicity, and I felt proud of the very complacency with which she herself surveyed it, placing it in the most advantageous position, and then stepping back to view the general effect. Rtold me, with a jealous sneer, that I looked murderous; and this observation, of course, completely consoled me for the departure of the five-franc piece from my own pocket to that in the apron of the bouquetière, in exchange for an article of which even the nominal value could have been scarcely a single sou.

"Always pleasantly engaged, Madame Robert," said my friend to the bouquetière, as she laid down, upon the cool marble counter, the finished chaplet which she had been braiding; "why, your life must pass away amid dreams of love and beauty, in wafting blessings with the blossoms that are twined around the brow of each youthful bride, and in vows for the happiness of those who receive with more gladness these offerings of friendship when twined by you."

She laughed outright at my friend's attempt at poetical inspiration, but, suddenly checking herself, she said, mournfully,

"You forget that we must, at times, have other thoughts than those of love, and mirth, and marriage," and she touched a wreath of amaranth, which hung against the wall; "even amid my work, I sometimes sigh to think that it will be worn rather with tears than smiles. Look at yonder snow-white wreath: 'tis for the lame and patient daughter of one of our oldest peers. She will be united to-morrow to a heartless spendthrift, who, broken in health and fortune, with no one single quality to justify the high name he bears, yet comes, an unwilling, nay, a sneering bridegroom to the altar, deeming himself a sacrifice in being united to one all gentleness and guileless purity; while she, on her part, would gladly resign all hopes of grandeur, to pass away her days amid the calm and quiet of the old convent from which she is to be torn for to-morrow's ceremony. Here is a bouquet, to be worn by a buxom widow, who adorns herself, for the third time, with the nuptial blossoms. As she is forbidden by custom to wear the orange flower, which can be assumed but once, she has ordered jessamine. I work without spirit, for I almost feel as if I were an accomplice in this arrogant pretension to youth and innocence."

She pointed to the bunch of delicate flowers which lay before her, and I took it up to breathe its exquisite fragrance. As I did so, I could not forbear a smile. I perceived that the sly, satirical philosopher, had introduced here and there a few Michaelmas daisies, and her glowing black eyes twinkled with fun and mischief, as they met my glance.

She, however, continued her occupations with as much unconcern as if we had been a hundred leagues distant, and thus, in the midst of much quiet pleasantry, sometimes seasoned by a reflection full of melancholy, or an aphorism worthy of a professed philosopher, did she invent and execute the most beautiful productions, worthy to adorn the artist's study, to be gazed upon as models when a Madonna was to be crowned with flowers, or a sleeping Jesus to be strewn with blossoms by the hands of ministering angels, telling us, at the same time, the individual

destination of each one, with such infinite grace and humour, that I no longer wondered at the fascination which had so often held R- - spellbound for hours at her side.

"This pale camelia, with its shining leaves turned all downwards to the stem, is for an actress of one of the minor theatres, from a stripling heir, who is beginning to despair, because the object of his flame has never worn the bunch of carnations he sent her a day or two ago. Rely upon it she will grow frightened at the message, and will wear in her hair to-night a wreath of damask-roses, even though she should be called upon to act the part of nun or vestal. Here is a bunch of marigolds from the young moustached Duc de D to the Countess SHe is evidently bent on a journey; look at the sprig of purple heath; 'tis to some mountains-no doubt the Pyrenees. I warrant me I shall have an order, before the day is out, for the same ugly mixture, with the addition of a blue corn-flower, a sprig of jasmine, and a half-blown rose, signifying confidence, and truth, and hope; and then madame will fall sick in time to avoid suspicion, and be ordered to the eaux, whither her trusting husband will of course hasten to convey her. Yonder wreath, made from the pith of the bull-rush, is for the Holy Virgin, in one of the side chapels of St. Roch. It is the offering of a poor little damsel, whose lover has just recovered from a fit of illness, which the maiden deems owing to her prayers. Now, I worked at this with right good will-nay, do not sneer, it is a first, fresh, early love; they are both scarce sixteen. Here are bouquets for the young Marquise d'AShe will, perhaps,

shut herself in her boudoir alone for hours, to inhale their sweets at leisure. In the course of my long career, she is but the second I have met with who carried this nervous susceptibility to so great a pitch. It is her life, and she could no more live without flowers, than she could breathe without air, or see without the light of heaven."

While she had been speaking, she had filled the large basket which Babet, the peasant girl, her aid and messenger, held her upon arm, and the latter soon after took her departure, to convey the various orders to their respective destinations.

But one single object remained upon the marble slab. It was a wreath of the common white daisy, so lightly and elegantly wrought, that it might have been a meet ornament for the tresses of the proudest beauty of the land. I thought she had forgotten to place it in the basket with the rest, and, catching some of my friend R's complacency, I stepped after Babet to call her back, but the bouquetière detained me, while a dark shadow passed across her calm open brow, as she said,

"Nay, nay, you are too good: 'tis not for profit that I wove that garland, it was for my own pleasure, and, although it be but a melancholy one, yet, after all, it is some little relief to turn from ministering to the idle passions and miserable vanities of others, to satisfy the purest of our soul's affections."

A tear glistened in her eye, as she took the wreath and gazed upon it mournfully; but, presently rallying, she added, with her own meaning smile,

"You, who are young, would scarcely credit the number of these garlands I have already woven. Could I now see them displayed before me, they would form a most goodly monument to the memory of departed years, and might serve to teach the young, the beautiful, and the gifted,