CHAPTER XVII.

May 17.
O N the afternoon of the 14th, our party, composed of thirteen, left for Fontainebleau, where we had pre- viously secured apartments at the Hotel de Londres, near the Imperial palace. A dinner that would have done justice to a first-class Parisian restaurant had been provided for us in a private apartment ; and, after the meal, the public parlor being placed at our disposal, we repaired thither towards the hour of 7 p. M. Some fine music, followed by dancing, consumed an hour or more ; and for the lovers of moonlight, a balcony was near at hand. Know you that in this age, as of yore, fair Dian smiles down upon Romeos and Juliets? — and why should n’t it be so at Fontainebleau ? A few soldiers of the palace, off duty, were attracted to the house by the violin performance of aii accomplished Southern gentle- man, and by a lady’s sweet songs, that seemed to woo as gently as the night breeze floating through the open win- dows. The beautiful evening tempted us to a prome- nade, and, as the clock struck ten, we found ourselves on the outskirts of the forest, threading our way down a magnificent avenue lined with trees whose giant pro- portions seemed to point scornfully at our pigmy selves, w
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As far as the eye could stretch there was one intermina- ble sea of foliage, which, witnessed in the stillness and solemnity of night, and with the long, unending vista ahead, appeared like a vast eternity. Next in grandeur to the ocean are the forest-wilds, causing the beholder to exclaim, in acknowledgment of God’s greatness, — “ How marvellous are the works of Thy hands I ” Upon our return to the hotel, the moon was still so bright that we could not forsake its company, and sleep being en- tirely driven from our eyes, we sat in the court-yard among the flowers, singing the old- American ballads, “ Oft in the Stilly Night,” and “ Home, Sweet Home.” Is not the sentiment of the latter song as dear to the wandering traveler, and as religiously preserved in thought, as is the faith connected with a blessed medal, — a little rustic cross carved out of a saintly relic, or some other amulet that is never permitted to leave the person ?
The next morning we took carriages for the forest, with the view of exploring a portion of its forty thou- sand acres ; and soon found ourselves in the midst of thousands of oak, beech and black-fir trees. The scenery is wild and rugged. At one point, from huge gray rocks, irregularly piled up— as if deposited there in some vio- lent convulsion of nature— can be obtained a fine view of the Gorge de Franchard. The name of Franchard is famous in its association with a monastery that once existed, founded by Philippe Auguste. Through the Cave of the Brigands we were led by guides, bearing torches, who mumbled out something about the dread
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Thissier and his band that lived there three years without discovery. It seemed that the lapse of a century had not divested the spot of terror, judging from the haste of the guides to get out of the gloomy hole, and our own desire to return to sunlight. The fatigue, conse- quent upon our wanderings from grove to grove, made us look wistfully for some kind of rest, and it was not denied us. A pic-nic under the verdure-clad canopy had been happily arranged by the gentlemen of the party, and so, in default of chairs, we sat down on the leafy turf, before a feast of salads, meats, fruits and native wines. And thus the hours waned away until the tristful shadows closed around us. * * * * *
Bright and early, the next day, we made our way over to the chateau , first taking a stroll in the garden laid out after the English fashion, and afterwards, standing on the bridge over the large pond to feed the big old carp, that rose in great numbers to the surface. Cen- trally situated there, is an octagonal pavilion, said to have been constructed by Francis I, and noted as being a place where some of the most important conferences con- nected with French history were held. A fitting spot, it seemed in its lonely situation, — like a rock in the sea — for lofty minds, untrameled, to plan their mighty schemes. Then was opened to us the palace, which had been the scene of so many notable events. Its gorgeous apartments form quite a contrast with the ancient and unimposing exterior. The chapel, situated on the ground-floor, is beautifully frescoed ; and, just within the door, is an exquisite statue, representing a woman in the
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attitude of prayer. It must imply a refuge from earthly sorrow, in the consolation that comes from above. Ascending the staircase, we came to an antichambre graced by a picture of Madame de Montespan, and to several rooms that seemed to tell mournfully of the departed glory of Napoleon I ; the first being the cabinet de travail , where he labored in thought and writing ; the second, the cabinet particulier } where he signed his abdication. There, with a single stroke of the pen, was laid aside that vaulted ambition, with which he had met nation upon nation in valiant fight ; and outside, not far from that little room, did he learn, in severing the tie that had so long bound him to his comrades, the bitter- ness of the word farewell — more grievously felt, perhaps, than the misfortune that occasioned the divorce from his beloved Josephine. In this very palace was that pain- ful sentence pronounced. On visiting the Salle des bains , with its glassy walls, allegorically painted, one might well exclaim, how beautiful and appropriate the concep- tion of the artist! There are sea-nymphs reclining among rushes and grasses, and cupids clutching at flow- ery wreaths and garlands. It only wants the mysterious love-language of the tiny gods to complete the charming illusion. The council chamber, with Gobelin tapestry, splendid ceiling and panel paintings ; and the throne- room, with the conspicuous chair of state, the portrait of Louis XIII, and rock-crystal chandelier, valued at twenty thousand dollars, are truly magnificent. En suite are the apartments— once familiar to the tread of Marie Antoinette— occupied by the Empress on her annual
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visits to Fontainebleau ; the Cabinet de toilette, with its grand ceiling representing Aurora, and the two vases presented by the Emperor of Austria to Marie Antoin- ette; the bed-chamber of that unfortunate Queen, the walls being covered with embroidered white satin, a gift to her from the city of Lyons ; and the Salon de Recep- tion, with a superb table from Sevres, allegorically por- traying the Four Seasons. The Galerie de Henri II is the most imposing of all the apartments. How inviting to the lovers of Terpsichore is its glossy floor, richly inlaid with various colored woods ! Diana of Poitiers , crest is linked with that of her enamored king. The Salon de Diane is attractive as a feast of literature, form- ing, as it does, the library of the palace. There are two articles near one of the windows, a sword and coat of mail, that fill the mind with the horror of secret mur- der. They were worn by Monaldeschi, secretary to Christine, Queen of Sweden, when he fell, assassinated by her cruel orders. In a recess near by is a white vase, with handsome bas-reliefs, from the Sevres manufactory — a present to the Duke of Orleans. The Prince Im- perial’s bed-chamber holds a cunning little bedstead, as simple and unpretending as the rest of the furniture. The Gallery of Francis I is wainscotted in oak, and has a wonderful ceiling, made up of massive scroll work, richly gilded. Here and there appear the initial F. and the Salamander, his Majesty’s coat-of-arms. In the bed- room of Catherine de Medicis we saw the first looking- glass that was ever manufactured, and a glance at it made us fancy that we had suddenly grown very aged, w*
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In one room stood the equestrian statue of Francis I, and the gaming-table at which that royal personage often played. Another salon was remarked for its floor, inlaid with the tiniest pieces of wood, to correspond with the ceiling. The rich ornamentation of that one apart- ment afforded sufficient evidence of the superior taste of Louis Philippe, who, during his reign, restored palaces to their former splendor, adding thereto his own embel- lishments. A white marble mantel of large dimensions, with a sculptured block set in the wall, and extending to the ceiling, struck us as being the most massive piece of workmanship, of the kind, we had ever seen. The apartments of les Heines Meres are associated with the name of that holy Father of the Church, Pius VII, whom Napoleon held captive for two years ; and, more recently, with the Duchess of Orleans, who occupied them after her nuptials. Here we saw a beautiful table, of Italian manufacture, presented by the Pope of Rome to the Prince Imperial, and lately exhibited at the Paris Exposition. Finally, we came to a small room named for its frescoes, but far more attractive were its porcelain paintings — gems of Sevres — inserted in the wall, some relating to the history of Fontainebleau, and others, views of celebrated places, such as Versailles. Niagara Falls, our country’s boast, was the subject of one of these unique plates.
Descending by a stairway of brown and white streaked marble, we passed into the outer court — the spot where Napoleon bade adieu to the remnant of his old guard. In treading over these stones, something akin to deep
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regret was felt for the hero, who, amid the tears and sighs of his faithful band, yielded to the dire decree of fate. But, back to the forests we went roaming, stopping first to bow to a venerable patriarch — a tree one thousand years old — and, if age be honorable, we might forever sing praises to that wonderful parent tree ! Somo pieces of its bark were brought off, as mementoes. Under its vast shadow two of our merry party grew sentimentally poetic, though with an utter disregard of rhyme.
“ Now that we ’re in the silent woods,
With nature’s grandeur all around,
My heart leaps out to meet thine own;
Say, dearest, can you love me now?”
“ Yes, dearest, I can love you now;
As hart leaps out from leafy grove,
And glides with swiftness o’er the plain,
So doth my soul, imbued with love,
Fly out to meet thee, charming one.”
The next object of interest was the Croix du Grand Veneur, situated at the intersection of two roads, and named for the legend of the “ Spectral black Hunts- man ; ” but we were not disposed to look into the thicket for that unwelcome personage, and even had he appeared to us, as he did to Henry IV, our jolly peals of laughter would surely have frightened him away. It did not seem necessary to alight from our carriages at the Croix — noted as a rendezvous of the chase — to re- port, as did the hunters of yore, for only two deers — dears — were said to have been shot in the region of the heart, and their recovery seemed probable, with the
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valuable aid of Doctor Gatling, the inventor of the famous gun, whose thunders have already reached Im- perial ears. We did alight, however, to peep into the hollow of the oak tree Clovis . It has gone to decay, like the sovereign whose name it bears ; but the fresh, green ivy-leaf still entwines its withered form, like memory, that wreathes departed worth. Another tree had been shivered by the lightning’s blast — the missile that does its work more swiftly and effectually than the woodman’s axe. After clambering over rocks and thorny bushes, an eminence was gained commanding a magnifi- cent landscape view. Calling the roll, we missed one of the party, who, in attempting a leap that would have tested the agility of a mountain fawn, had slipped and bruised her ankle, the recollection of which must ever call forth a groan — not a blessing — on Fontainebleau.
Resuming our carriages, we visited the Iron Spring, situated under a shelving rock, and embowered in dense foliage. A woman near by sold articles cut out of wood from the forest-trees, such as canes, boxes and other notions. A little whistle that seemed to say, “ Whistle, and I’ll come to thee, my lad,” was shrilly blown, but there was nary a lad to call unto me ; the only sound in the forest-glade being the cuckoo’s voice, so tender and true. The trembling rock proved a great curiosity, balanced as it is on a pivot-like edge. Its giant form was shaken by the weight of a small boy, who performed the tilting experiment on the promise of a few sous. The next stopping place was the Fort de l’Empereur. A very old woman, on top of the high tower, furnished
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a telescope, by the aid of which, she asserted, various objects could be seen at the distance of forty miles ; yet it yielded us no satisfaction, as we were either too old or too young for the glasses. Nature pleased us well enough, viewed with the naked eye. That dumpy old dame, apparently as durable as the stone pedestal where she has long been a fixture, brought to mind “ Little Nan Etticoat, in a white petticoat, the longer she stands, the shorter she grows ” — only her’s was a brown one. Long may she be the guardian of the old crumbling tower, and when she is gone, may the winds that sigh around it, be her requiem! From Mont Calvaire, another height, we saw the town of Fontainebleau, cradled in great beauty. It snugly lay in a hollow, mantled with cliffs and rocks and trees, forming one of the most per- fect pictures conceivable. Over the Sponge Rock, so called from the porous nature of its stone, the French flag was waving. Doubtless there is some romantic or historical interest connected therewith? Lastly, we came upon a chapel in the woods, erected in the reign of one of the Louis ; and if it elicited a prayer at all, it was that we might often visit such glorious scenes, where to the murmur of the breeze in the grand old forests, our hearts could thrill in answering chords. With this weird music, tuned by nature, lingering on our ears, we returned to the hotel, and, with the regret that comes upon leaving a place that may never be seen again, took up our line of march. Our adieux , as sad pilgrims, were freighted with something of the same feeling that was depicted in the face of the Savoyard girl when she bade farewell to her mountain-home.
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May 18. — To-day was begun with a visit to the Con - ciergerie , a place of saddest interest, marking scenes of imprisonment and carnage— some of the most pitiable suffering ever endured by mortals. How painful were our emotions as we stood before the prison-cell of Marie Antoinette ! With the grating of the key that opened to us the dismal chamber, came vivid spectres of all her woes — the cherished ties rent asunder ; the dignity and pride of the Queen scoffed at ; the gentler feelings of the woman abused ; the loneliness and suspense of incarcera- tion ; the denial of religious communion, such as she favored ; and above all, the horrors of an ignominious death! A stone-tablet in the wall, bearing a Latin inscription of her death, and a crucifix that had helped to solace her sorrow, and direct her prayers, first arrest the attention — one investing the cell with the solemnity of death ; the other, a memento of her pious trust and faith. Against the walls are two pictures, swung on brackets, that admit of their being brought to the feeble light that struggles through the grated window. One is commemorative of her adieu — at the Temple — to the Duchess of AngoulSme and Mme. Elizabeth, in presence of Simon, the cobbler. It seems, indeed, the farewell of sorrow amid the perishing glory of a noble career. The other represents her taking the sacrament just prior to her execution, at the hands of the Abbe Mangin, dis- guised as a gendarme . In an adjoining apartment
Robespierre was confined, and there, in part, he paid the penalty of his crimes, suffering the same misery that he had dealt out to others. A picture of Marie Antoinette,
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like an avenging spirit, is the only thing that breaks the loneliness of that barren cell. She is represented in prison, her figure seeking support against the couch, as if over- come with exhaustion, and her face wearing a look of serene composure, with eyes upturned to heaven. In the window is the crucifix. In these three paintings the artists have finely portrayed the majesty of the Queen, amidst the trials and dejection of the prisoner.
“ In thy beauty’s deathless pride Thou lookest up once more * *
To play a queenly part.”
We saw naught else of the building, but the court- yard, where a few unfortunate culprits were pacing to and fro, wearing the traces of some offence with which stern justice has all to do. And so, in pity, did we look upon these poor creatures, for the compassionate heart, as well as the Bible, says, “ Let the sighing of the prisoner come before thee ! ”
We next visited the Pantheon, whose magnificent dome rears itself proudly, as a monument to the great men of the past. The interior has all the attributes of a place of public worship, whilst certain distinguished monarchs, once wrapped in the ermine of France, are allegorically portrayed by the master-hand of Gros, whose painting, on the dome, spreads out in exquisite beauty, and is continued, on the pendentives, by Gerard’s scarcely less attractive pictures of Justice, Glory, France, and Death. The first is a female culprit, perishing by the sword of Justice; the second, the figure of Napo-
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leon, arrayed in state robes, receiving the embrace of Glory ; the third, a figure representing France, proudly grand, crowned with laurel ; at her side an angel en- gages in the gentle office of garlanding the tomb of a dead hero ; the fourth is Azracl smiting down the strong man. Besides the high altar, there are three others, richly ornamented and enshrining relics. A priest sat before one, to receive floral offerings dedicated to the exquisite marble statue of the Virgin — her pale brow being decked with a chaplet of lilies, whose faint odor, like the first breath of spring, descended to us tenderly, aye, even religiously. Alto- gether, the temple, to-day, was in keeping with the beautiful month of May, for the cold marbles here and there were brightened with roses of every hue, and other blossoms just as gay. A guide, bearing a lan- tern, conducted us below to the tombs of Voltaire and Rousseau. That of the former is very plain, with a garland of laurel and a harpsichord on top. On one side of this small locked enclosure — the cenotaphs of these great writers being separated from the others — stands the full length marble statue of Voltaire, with a