Meet us on:
Entire Site
    Try our fun game

    Dueling book covers…may the best design win!

    Random Quote
    "The worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has nobody to thank."

    Subscribe to Our Newsletter

    Follow us on Twitter

    Never miss a good book again! Follow Read Print on Twitter

    Chapter 14

    • Rate it:
    • 1 Favorite on Read Print
    Launch Reading Mode Next Chapter
    Chapter 15
    Previous Chapter
    We went to see the Cathedral of Notre Dame. We had heard of it before.
    It surprises me sometimes to think how much we do know and how
    intelligent we are. We recognized the brown old Gothic pile in a moment;
    it was like the pictures. We stood at a little distance and changed from
    one point of observation to another and gazed long at its lofty square
    towers and its rich front, clustered thick with stony, mutilated saints
    who had been looking calmly down from their perches for ages. The
    Patriarch of Jerusalem stood under them in the old days of chivalry and
    romance, and preached the third Crusade, more than six hundred years ago;
    and since that day they have stood there and looked quietly down upon the
    most thrilling scenes, the grandest pageants, the most extraordinary
    spectacles that have grieved or delighted Paris. These battered and
    broken-nosed old fellows saw many and many a cavalcade of mail-clad
    knights come marching home from Holy Land; they heard the bells above
    them toll the signal for the St. Bartholomew's Massacre, and they saw the
    slaughter that followed; later they saw the Reign of Terror, the carnage
    of the Revolution, the overthrow of a king, the coronation of two
    Napoleons, the christening of the young prince that lords it over a
    regiment of servants in the Tuileries to-day--and they may possibly
    continue to stand there until they see the Napoleon dynasty swept away
    and the banners of a great republic floating above its ruins. I wish
    these old parties could speak. They could tell a tale worth the
    listening to.

    They say that a pagan temple stood where Notre Dame now stands, in the
    old Roman days, eighteen or twenty centuries ago--remains of it are still
    preserved in Paris; and that a Christian church took its place about A.D.
    300; another took the place of that in A.D. 500; and that the foundations
    of the present cathedral were laid about A.D. 1100. The ground ought to
    be measurably sacred by this time, one would think. One portion of this
    noble old edifice is suggestive of the quaint fashions of ancient times.
    It was built by Jean Sans-Peur, Duke of Burgundy, to set his conscience
    at rest--he had assassinated the Duke of Orleans. Alas! Those good old
    times are gone when a murderer could wipe the stain from his name and
    soothe his troubles to sleep simply by getting out his bricks and mortar
    and building an addition to a church.

    The portals of the great western front are bisected by square pillars.
    They took the central one away in 1852, on the occasion of thanksgivings
    for the reinstitution of the presidential power--but precious soon they
    had occasion to reconsider that motion and put it back again! And they

    We loitered through the grand aisles for an hour or two, staring up at
    the rich stained-glass windows embellished with blue and yellow and
    crimson saints and martyrs, and trying to admire the numberless great
    pictures in the chapels, and then we were admitted to the sacristy and
    shown the magnificent robes which the Pope wore when he crowned Napoleon
    I; a wagon-load of solid gold and silver utensils used in the great
    public processions and ceremonies of the church; some nails of the true
    cross, a fragment of the cross itself, a part of the crown of thorns.
    We had already seen a large piece of the true cross in a church in the
    Azores, but no nails. They showed us likewise the bloody robe which that
    archbishop of Paris wore who exposed his sacred person and braved the
    wrath of the insurgents of 1848, to mount the barricades and hold aloft
    the olive branch of peace in the hope of stopping the slaughter. His
    noble effort cost him his life. He was shot dead. They showed us a cast
    of his face taken after death, the bullet that killed him, and the two
    vertebrae in which it lodged. These people have a somewhat singular
    taste in the matter of relics. Ferguson told us that the silver cross
    which the good archbishop wore at his girdle was seized and thrown into
    the Seine, where it lay embedded in the mud for fifteen years, and then
    an angel appeared to a priest and told him where to dive for it; he did
    dive for it and got it, and now it is there on exhibition at Notre Dame,
    to be inspected by anybody who feels an interest in inanimate objects of
    miraculous intervention.

    Next we went to visit the Morgue, that horrible receptacle for the dead
    who die mysteriously and leave the manner of their taking off a dismal
    secret. We stood before a grating and looked through into a room which
    was hung all about with the clothing of dead men; coarse blouses,
    water-soaked; the delicate garments of women and children; patrician
    vestments, hacked and stabbed and stained with red; a hat that was
    crushed and bloody. On a slanting stone lay a drowned man, naked,
    swollen, purple; clasping the fragment of a broken bush with a grip
    which death had so petrified that human strength could not unloose it
    --mute witness of the last despairing effort to save the life that was
    doomed beyond all help. A stream of water trickled ceaselessly over the
    hideous face. We knew that the body and the clothing were there for
    identification by friends, but still we wondered if anybody could love
    that repulsive object or grieve for its loss. We grew meditative and
    wondered if, some forty years ago, when the mother of that ghastly thing
    was dandling it upon her knee, and kissing it and petting it and
    displaying it with satisfied pride to the passers-by, a prophetic vision
    of this dread ending ever flitted through her brain. I half feared that
    the mother, or the wife or a brother of the dead man might come while we
    stood there, but nothing of the kind occurred. Men and women came, and
    some looked eagerly in and pressed their faces against the bars; others
    glanced carelessly at the body and turned away with a disappointed look
    --people, I thought, who live upon strong excitements and who attend the
    exhibitions of the Morgue regularly, just as other people go to see
    theatrical spectacles every night. When one of these looked in and
    passed on, I could not help thinking--

    "Now this don't afford you any satisfaction--a party with his head shot
    off is what you need."

    One night we went to the celebrated Jardin Mabille, but only staid a
    little while. We wanted to see some of this kind of Paris life, however,
    and therefore the next night we went to a similar place of entertainment
    in a great garden in the suburb of Asnieres. We went to the railroad
    depot, toward evening, and Ferguson got tickets for a second-class
    carriage. Such a perfect jam of people I have not often seen--but there
    was no noise, no disorder, no rowdyism. Some of the women and young
    girls that entered the train we knew to be of the demi-monde, but others
    we were not at all sure about.

    The girls and women in our carriage behaved themselves modestly and
    becomingly all the way out, except that they smoked. When we arrived at
    the garden in Asnieres, we paid a franc or two admission and entered a
    place which had flower beds in it, and grass plots, and long, curving
    rows of ornamental shrubbery, with here and there a secluded bower
    convenient for eating ice cream in. We moved along the sinuous gravel
    walks, with the great concourse of girls and young men, and suddenly a
    domed and filigreed white temple, starred over and over and over again
    with brilliant gas jets, burst upon us like a fallen sun. Nearby was a
    large, handsome house with its ample front illuminated in the same way,
    and above its roof floated the Star-Spangled Banner of America.

    "Well!" I said. "How is this?" It nearly took my breath away.

    Ferguson said an American--a New Yorker--kept the place, and was carrying
    on quite a stirring opposition to the Jardin Mabille.

    Crowds composed of both sexes and nearly all ages were frisking about the
    garden or sitting in the open air in front of the flagstaff and the
    temple, drinking wine and coffee or smoking. The dancing had not begun
    yet. Ferguson said there was to be an exhibition. The famous Blondin
    was going to perform on a tightrope in another part of the garden. We
    went thither. Here the light was dim, and the masses of people were
    pretty closely packed together. And now I made a mistake which any
    donkey might make, but a sensible man never. I committed an error which
    I find myself repeating every day of my life. Standing right before a
    young lady, I said:

    "Dan, just look at this girl, how beautiful she is!"

    "I thank you more for the evident sincerity of the compliment, sir, than
    for the extraordinary publicity you have given to it!" This in good,
    pure English.

    We took a walk, but my spirits were very, very sadly dampened. I did not
    feel right comfortable for some time afterward. Why will people be so
    stupid as to suppose themselves the only foreigners among a crowd of ten
    thousand persons?

    But Blondin came out shortly. He appeared on a stretched cable, far away
    above the sea of tossing hats and handkerchiefs, and in the glare of the
    hundreds of rockets that whizzed heavenward by him he looked like a wee
    insect. He balanced his pole and walked the length of his rope--two or
    three hundred feet; he came back and got a man and carried him across; he
    returned to the center and danced a jig; next he performed some gymnastic
    and balancing feats too perilous to afford a pleasant spectacle; and he
    finished by fastening to his person a thousand Roman candles, Catherine
    wheels, serpents and rockets of all manner of brilliant colors, setting
    them on fire all at once and walking and waltzing across his rope again
    in a blinding blaze of glory that lit up the garden and the people's
    faces like a great conflagration at midnight.

    The dance had begun, and we adjourned to the temple. Within it was a
    drinking saloon, and all around it was a broad circular platform for the
    dancers. I backed up against the wall of the temple, and waited. Twenty
    sets formed, the music struck up, and then--I placed my hands before my
    face for very shame. But I looked through my fingers. They were dancing
    the renowned "Can-can." A handsome girl in the set before me tripped
    forward lightly to meet the opposite gentleman, tripped back again,
    grasped her dresses vigorously on both sides with her hands, raised them
    pretty high, danced an extraordinary jig that had more activity and
    exposure about it than any jig I ever saw before, and then, drawing her
    clothes still higher, she advanced gaily to the center and launched a
    vicious kick full at her vis-a-vis that must infallibly have removed his
    nose if he had been seven feet high. It was a mercy he was only six.

    That is the can-can. The idea of it is to dance as wildly, as noisily,
    as furiously as you can; expose yourself as much as possible if you are a
    woman; and kick as high as you can, no matter which sex you belong to.
    There is no word of exaggeration in this. Any of the staid, respectable,
    aged people who were there that night can testify to the truth of that
    statement. There were a good many such people present. I suppose French
    morality is not of that straight-laced description which is shocked at

    I moved aside and took a general view of the can-can. Shouts, laughter,
    furious music, a bewildering chaos of darting and intermingling forms,
    stormy jerking and snatching of gay dresses, bobbing beads, flying arms,
    lightning flashes of white-stockinged calves and dainty slippers in the
    air, and then a grand final rush, riot, a terrific hubbub, and a wild
    stampede! Heavens! Nothing like it has been seen on earth since
    trembling Tam O'Shanter saw the devil and the witches at their orgies
    that stormy night in "Alloway's auld haunted kirk."

    We visited the Louvre, at a time when we had no silk purchases in view,
    and looked at its miles of paintings by the old masters. Some of them
    were beautiful, but at the same time they carried such evidences about
    them of the cringing spirit of those great men that we found small
    pleasure in examining them. Their nauseous adulation of princely patrons
    was more prominent to me and chained my attention more surely than the
    charms of color and expression which are claimed to be in the pictures.
    Gratitude for kindnesses is well, but it seems to me that some of those
    artists carried it so far that it ceased to be gratitude and became
    worship. If there is a plausible excuse for the worship of men, then by
    all means let us forgive Rubens and his brethren.

    But I will drop the subject, lest I say something about the old masters
    that might as well be left unsaid.

    Of course we drove in the Bois de Boulogne, that limitless park, with its
    forests, its lakes, its cascades, and its broad avenues. There were
    thousands upon thousands of vehicles abroad, and the scene was full of
    life and gaiety. There were very common hacks, with father and mother
    and all the children in them; conspicuous little open carriages with
    celebrated ladies of questionable reputation in them; there were Dukes
    and Duchesses abroad, with gorgeous footmen perched behind, and equally
    gorgeous outriders perched on each of the six horses; there were blue and
    silver, and green and gold, and pink and black, and all sorts and
    descriptions of stunning and startling liveries out, and I almost yearned
    to be a flunkey myself, for the sake of the fine clothes.

    But presently the Emperor came along and he outshone them all. He was
    preceded by a bodyguard of gentlemen on horseback in showy uniforms, his
    carriage-horses (there appeared to be somewhere in the remote
    neighborhood of a thousand of them,) were bestridden by gallant-looking
    fellows, also in stylish uniforms, and after the carriage followed
    another detachment of bodyguards. Everybody got out of the way;
    everybody bowed to the Emperor and his friend the Sultan; and they went
    by on a swinging trot and disappeared.

    I will not describe the Bois de Boulogne. I can not do it. It is simply
    a beautiful, cultivated, endless, wonderful wilderness. It is an
    enchanting place. It is in Paris now, one may say, but a crumbling old
    cross in one portion of it reminds one that it was not always so. The
    cross marks the spot where a celebrated troubadour was waylaid and
    murdered in the fourteenth century. It was in this park that that fellow
    with an unpronounceable name made the attempt upon the Russian Czar's
    life last spring with a pistol. The bullet struck a tree. Ferguson
    showed us the place. Now in America that interesting tree would be
    chopped down or forgotten within the next five years, but it will be
    treasured here. The guides will point it out to visitors for the next
    eight hundred years, and when it decays and falls down they will put up
    another there and go on with the same old story just the same.
    Next Chapter
    Chapter 15
    Previous Chapter
    If you're writing a Mark Twain essay and need some advice, post your Mark Twain essay question on our Facebook page where fellow bookworms are always glad to help!

    Top 5 Authors

    Top 5 Books

    Book Status
    Want to read

    Are you sure you want to leave this group?