THE MERRY-GO-ROUND
The Parisienne adores Paris, but she is subject to acute attacks of that modern malady to which the leisure class is peculiarly susceptible, and which one of Madame's countrymen has aptly called the "nostalgie d'ailleurs"—homesickness for elsewhere.
Moved by that spirit of restlessness she forsakes Paris—in order that she may better love that city of her heart. She does not yearn for rest, but she wants change, and so she goes flitting here and there within easy reach of Paris—always within easy reach of Paris. Her fashion circuit is circumscribed by that national sentiment which makes the average Frenchman an unhappy and protesting alien anywhere outside of la belle France.
Madame goes to Monte Carlo; for the Côte d'Azur Rapid has made the Riviera resorts mere suburbs of Paris. She goes to Tangiers; for, after all, Tangiers is France, and in the French quarter of that picturesque place one finds a limited edition of Parisian society. But as for Cairo—no. The fashion show in Cairo, during the height of the season, is a great one, but it is furnished chiefly by English and Americans, and one finds few smart French folk in the throng. The Pyramids are too far from the Avenue des Acacias and the Rue de la Paix.
The Monte Carlo season is not, like the seashore season, an obligatory decampment. One may stay away from the Riviera without imperilling one's social position, while a summer spent in Paris would stamp one as quite outside the social pale; and, though there is, during January and February, a mighty going and coming to and from the south, Paris is gay and crowded all through the winter.
Great private fêtes are usually reserved for the spring season, unless some special event calls them forth, but there is a merry-go-round of more or less formal entertaining, and the society woman needs an expert accountant to keep her engagement book, and the semainier which records the at-home days of her friends, in intelligible order. There is time in the winter for the intimate reunions that are likely to be crowded out in the whirl of spring social functions, and when Bagatelle and Puteaux and la Boulié and the other open-air rendezvous are eliminated from the Parisienne's calculations, she can more often meet her friends in her own home or in theirs.
Balls are not a remarkably important feature of the Parisian season. There is dancing, of course, but the Frenchmen, as a rule, do not care for it.
"The ball? Je m'en passe," said a society man of Paris, when questioned about the matter.
"In America it is, perhaps, different. There one dances and one sits out dances, and one converses, and one flirts. Here, it is usually for the demoiselles that dances are given. You know our French girls? The writers tell us that they are emancipated, that they know many things. Perhaps,—but they do not show all this at the dance. One is introduced, one takes the girl from her mamma, one dances with her, one returns her to her mamma. C'est finis. Gai ça, n'est-ce pas? For the man who wishes to marry, to settle himself, the private ball may have much interest; but for one who seeks merely amusement, entertainment,—Grace à Dieu, il y a d'autres choses."
Truly, there are other things, a multitude of them. The Parisian hostess makes a feature of the musicale and certain salons are famous for music of extraordinarily good quality. Private theatricals, amateur or professional, are a social specialty in Paris. Bridge is a passion there as elsewhere. Parisian vivacity and buoyancy make even the formal reception an occasion lively rather than depressing.
But, when all is said, the dinner is the private social function dearest to the Parisian heart, and the successful Parisian hostess understands the art of dinner-giving as do few other women in the world. An elaborate menu and a gorgeous and extravagant decorative scheme seldom enter into her calculations. There is a rational number of courses, perfectly cooked, perfectly served, there is a dainty and attractive table; but the extravagant display, the eager striving after unique and picturesque effects in table decoration, the costly souvenirs which mark the formal dinner in New York, are not often a part of the French scheme.
On the other hand, the French hostess displays a tact and finesse amounting to genius in the selection and grouping of her guests, and, as a result, her dinner goes off with a verve which no amount of extraneous gorgeousness could achieve. The Parisienne of the better type,—"she of the subtle charm, to whom every man is a possible admirer"—has a famous opportunity for exhibiting her charm at the dinner table—particularly at the "little dinner." From the time she could lisp she has been trained to please and be pleased. She lacks the cultivated imperiousness of the American woman, and though she too, rules, her method differs from that of our social tyrant. Instead of demanding man's allegiance and devotion, she sets about winning them. She is gay, agreeable, witty, sympathetic, thoughtful of man's little needs, indulgent of man's little foibles; and her influence, though less assertive, is subtler than that of the American woman who claims her throne by divine right. Someone has said that "cherchez la femme" is written over every phase of Parisian life, and the thing is true. The Parisienne's influence is felt in politics, art, business, society, and yet the Parisienne is so essentially feminine, and the Parisian is so sure of his supremacy, so unconscious of any bondage save that of love or gallantry.
The Parisienne was born to dining. She has adopted tea-drinking. Fifteen years ago it was almost impossible to obtain a good cup of tea in Paris. To-day Paris is flooded with tea. The change has come about through the Anglomania which, within recent years, has attacked Parisian society. Tea came in with polo and golf, and English tweeds, and long walks, and all the other Anglo-Saxon strenuousness which has disturbed French traditions. It has become the fashion to adopt English sports, English clothes, English customs, English slang.
The Frenchwoman has a form of the mania less virulent than that which has attacked the Frenchman. She may go in for le sport, may do violence to her inclinations and her Louis XV heels by walking,—or as she calls it, "footing,"—may employ an English maid and interlard her conversation with English phrases; but she draws the line at English clothes, while the French dandy's ultimate ambition is to be mistaken for an Englishman, and to that end he employs London tailors, cultivates English habits, and succeeds in being as much like a Londoner as the Place de la Concorde is like Trafalgar Square.
Five o'clock tea is a matter-of-course necessity in London. In Paris it is a fad, and to "five-o'-clocker" is one of the unfailing diversions of the smart Parisienne, whether mondaine or demi-mondaine.
Naturally, being a social fad instead of a personal comfort, afternoon tea is seldom served to Madame when she is alone in boudoir or salon.
If one is at home to one's friends, and there is an appreciative audience for a tea-gown of rare merit, then there is good reason to five-o'-clocker under one's own roof; but, on the whole, the Parisienne loves better to make a toilette worthy of applause and sally forth to drink her tea under the eyes of her world.
Columbin's was the first of the fashionable tea-rooms. Just why the little pâtisserie on the Rue Cambon leaped into fame, it is hard to say. Anglomania was rife, the Parisienne needed new amusement. A shrewd pâtissier combined the psychical moment with superior-toasted currant muffins and cakes and tea and a convenient rendezvous. All the smart Parisian set flocked to Columbin's, the narrow Rue Cambon was crowded with imposing equipages, the curb was lined with dapper grooms, and in the little tea-rooms, between five and six, there was one of the most impressive fashion shows of the fashion-making city.
There is no need of putting the story in the past tense. The crowd and the fashion show are still to be seen in the Rue Cambon, though Columbin's has spread over more space and rival tea-rooms have sprung up like mushrooms all over Paris. On almost any corner one may now get a good cup of tea, but among the multitude of tea-rooms only a few have caught the fancy of the fashionable Parisiennes.
Rumpelmayer's on the Rue de Rivoli is one of the few, and is perhaps the most successful rival of Columbin's among the Parisian mondaines; but tea hour at the Ritz is vastly entertaining, if less exclusive, and more cosmopolitan, while at the Elysées there is music and things are excessively gay. "Too gay," says Madame of the chic Parisian set, with an expressive shrug of her shoulders, but one goes to the Elysées all the same.
Possibly a pretty woman is prettier in ball or dinner toilette than in any other dress,—though one might take issue even with that theory; but surely individuality and distinctive elegance count for more in street costumes of the handsome type than in any other item of a woman's wardrobe. The tea-hour crowd at—say Columbin's, on a winter afternoon, diffuses an atmosphere of luxury, elegance, richness, that even Paris would find it hard to surpass. She is so coquette in her velvets and broadcloth and furs, this dear Parisienne. She steps from her carriage and passes through the door which her groom hurries to open. Inside is a murmur of many voices, a ripple of laughter, a rustle of silken stuffs, a scent of violets. Madame looks about her and smiles—an inclusive smile, for she recognizes so many of the women who are grouped about the little tables. Then she trails her chiffons forward in the manner habitual with Ouida's heroines, and she stops to choose just the little cakes she will have with her tea. The little cakes of Paris merit consideration. She turns her back upon the tea drinkers as she deliberates, my lady chez Columbin. It requires supreme confidence in one's figure and one's dressmaker to turn one's back gracefully, carelessly, upon one's most merciless critics, but Madame does it with nonchalance, and when she has settled the weighty question of cakes she finds her way to a table, stopping here and there to exchange greetings and jests with friends. She is perfectly gowned, wrapped in superb and becoming furs, smiling under the shadowing brim and nodding plumes of her great hat or under the tip-tilted absurdity of her tiny toque. And all around her are women of the same type, exotic products of a society highly artificial, sensuously material. Some of them are beautiful, some are homely, all are extravagantly dressed, and all have made that effort to appear beautiful which is with the Parisienne—more than with any other woman of the world—an absorbing passion.
It is this determined spirit of coquetry which leads the mondaine of Paris to make up in a fashion which in other cities is relegated chiefly to the class without the social gates. The Parisienne makes up frankly, conscientiously, with thought only of the effect obtained and with no effort to attribute to nature the results of her maid's skill or her own. Her cosmetics are as much a part of her toilette as her frock or her hat, and her French audience applauds her make-up instead of criticising. It is coquette, this artificiality, it shows that desire to please which is the fundamental principle of French femininity. If one is beautiful—that is excellent. If one is not beautiful, but makes a heroic effort to appear so,—that too is excellent. The French public forgives all save indifference to the true feminine metier.
Over in the spacious rooms of the Ritz, at the tea hour, one will find more English and Americans than French, though the French go there too, and there is a sprinkling of many nations. The crowd is more mixed than that of the Rue Cambon, in features other than that of nationality. Few demi-mondaines go to Columbin's. Why?—It is hard to tell,—but they do not go. Occasionally, demi-mondaines of the highest class drift in, but they are out of their element. There are hardly enough of them to give each other confidence.
At the Ritz things are different. There one is likely to see the most famous half-world beauties of Paris drinking tea, and at the Elysées the percentage of notoriety is still greater than at the Ritz.
They love dearly to range themselves alongside of the haut monde, these cocottes of Paris, but they like a large and varied scene, a certain amount of moral—or immoral—support. The restricted intimacy of a rendezvous like Columbin's is not to their taste.
At the Palais de Glace the demi-mondaine shines. Here is a setting to which she lends herself readily, a setting, moreover, in which she may pose beside Madame of the beau monde and measure charms with her.
Only the social elect may skate at the Cercle des Patineurs in the Bois, and there one finds the society women of Paris gliding over the ice or chatting around the braziers on the banks of the horseshoe lake. It is the most chic of social rendezvous, this skating club in the Bois, but the weather clerk is no respecter of high society, and there are comparatively few weeks during the winter when open-air skating is practicable in Paris.
Down at the Palais de Glace on the Champs Elysées, the management deals out artificial ice to the just and the unjust every day during the season. Even in October there is skating at the Palais, and it is chic to skate then, just as it is chic to eat fresh strawberries in January, while, during midwinter, this skating-rink is one of the most popular afternoon resorts in Paris. The Parisian skating costume is a triumph, and the Parisiennes skate well, conscious of their own grace and revelling in that consciousness. Some of the great ladies of the French world are famous skaters; especially certain members of the Russian colony; and there are demi-mondaines too who skate marvellously well,—particularly two or three Danish beauties, who have taken on a Parisian lacquer. After all, it is hardly fair that the demi-mondaine of Paris should be credited entirely to the essential immorality of French society, and constitute a reproach against French womanhood, for the class is cosmopolitan to an extraordinary degree, recruited from Spain, from Italy, from Austria, from Russia, from Germany, from Sweden, from Denmark, from all countries of Europe, and centred in Paris because there are concentrated the wealth and prodigality of a material and luxurious civilization, because there the cocotte can live her short day so brilliantly, so dizzily, that during it she can quite forget the inevitable hideousness of the long days to come.
The little grisettes of the Latin Quarter and Montmartre are largely French, and bear the homely French names,—Suzanne, Rose, Marie,—but they are, on the whole, the most honest, the least degraded and corrupt, as they are the humblest of the class to which, broadly speaking, they belong. A grade higher—or lower—according to the view-point of the one who classifies, is the little cocotte of the cafés and dance halls, the Cri-Cri of the Casino, the Fol-Fol of the Elysées Montmartre. When the boulevards and the better theatres and cafés are reached, the name is prone to take on dignity. Antoinette, Diane, Heloise appear. And further still up the cocotte's ladder comes an insistent "Mademoiselle" or "Madame." When the cocotte has become truly demi-mondaine, when she buys her clothes on the Place Vendôme, and acquires a villa at Trouville, an hôtel in Paris, she adds Madame to a high sounding, mouth-filling name, such as Montmorency or Beauregard. Perhaps she even preempts a title. There, for instance, was the Princesse d'Araignée. She was very quiet, this Princess, very retiring, but Paris knew her as it knew the king who was for many years her lover, and to whom she was loyal, though he came but seldom to Paris. He is dead now, that royal lover—a tragic death—and the Princess—but this was to be a story of her title.
The title was, on its face, self-explanatory. "The Spider Princess" had a fine appropriateness in the half-world of Paris. One day some one spoke jestingly of the name. The Princess shook her head.
"It is really mine," she said gravely, "mine since I was a baby."
The jester looked incredulous.
"But yes. I will tell you," said the Princess. "I am of Normandy. You did not know? Yes, I am of Normandy. I was born there in a little village by the sea. Such a very little town. I can see it now. My father was a fisherman. Big and brown and strong, my father—and kind. But yes, of a kindness. He loved me, and I—I adored him. My mother was good—an honest woman, but it was my father whom I adored. When he was at home I trotted always at his heels—une toute petite bébé, brown and plump and laughing always."
There was a big rock in the harbour—an immense jagged rock in the water. The waves washed over it always, save on one day during the month. Then it was quite out of the water and it lay there like a great spider in the sunshine, with long legs running out into the foam. Along the coast they called it l'Araignée.
"It fascinated me, that big rock spider. All the month I watched for it, and when it came up out of the sea I cried to be taken out to it. My father took me. He was like that always—très indulgent, mon père, and I—what I wanted I must have.
"He would carry me down to his boat and row out to the rock and then we would eat our luncheon there, and he would tell me stories and I would play—une bébé, vous savez. I had then but four years, and I was happy—Dieu, que j'étais heureuse. The fisher-folk came to know me there on my rock, to look for us, mon père et moi, and they called me la Princesse d'Araignée. Yes, that was my name. Everyone called me that, smiling, and I was proud.
"One does not stay always a baby. I grew up, and the father died. It was dull there in the little Norman village. I wanted excitement, and—what I wanted I must have, I was always like that.
"The story tells itself after that, n'est-ce pas? I came to Paris, and I found the excitement. But one does not use the name of an honest father here in Paris. Il était tellement bon, mon père.
"I remembered that I had been a princess and I took my title once more. La Princesse d'Araignée! You see it is really mine, the title. The rock is still there in the sea,—but, mon père et moi—"
A far cry from the Palais du Glace, yet not so far after all, as memories go; for the Princesse d'Araignée was at the Palais du Glace one December afternoon long ago, and her king was by her side.
If one does not skate, still one goes to the skating-rink. The promenade is crowded on popular afternoons with all the types familiar in leisure Paris. Women in airy gowns and picture hats furnish effective contrast to the feminine skaters in their short skirts and jaunty toques. A fragrance of flowers and perfumes floats in the air, the ring of the skates sounds through the swinging melody of the music. Once more the Parisian artificiality—once more the Parisian charm.
On one afternoon in the week the crowd at the Palais takes on a most chic and exclusive tone. The prices are higher on that day, but high prices would never shut out the cocotte and her following. Quite the reverse. An unwritten law accomplishes what the increased prices would not accomplish, and Friday afternoon smart society claims the rink for its own. That is le jour chic at the Palais de Glace. If one goes on other days—as one does—there is a fair field and no favour.
The theatres of Paris are in full swing during the winter, and new plays are magnets for the society set as for all Paris; but even the smartest of Parisians are democratic when it comes to theatre-going, and no one or two houses claim their allegiance. The Théâtre Français, the Odeon, les Nouveautés, les Variétés, le Vaudeville, le Théâtre Antoine, le Théâtre Sara Bernhardt, le Maturin,—to all of these Madame goes, and to the cafés chantants in addition. Wherever there is clever entertainment, there one finds the swell Parisienne. She is catholic of taste.
Americans visiting Paris in summer are likely to have a curious idea of the Parisian theatre, as of many things Parisian. Then the better theatres are closed, the actors are probably away with the summer holiday folk, or, if the exigencies of their profession keep them in Paris, they are occupying little villas at Ville d'Avray, at Bougival, or in some other convenient suburb, whence they can run in for rehearsals or professional business when necessary.
Only the cafés chantants and the variety theatres are open and beckoning to the summer visitors, and the crowd at these places has little of the true Parisian character, is made up chiefly of strangers from the colonies, from America, from a host of regions whose summer climates are more trying than that of Paris. The shows are amusing in their way, the crowd is amusing too, but neither is calculated to give one an accurate idea of Paris theatre or of Paris theatre-goers. Indeed, one thing about the summer attendance at Les Ambassadeurs, le Jardin de Paris, and the other resorts that draw the crowd during July and August, always impresses Parisians themselves as phenomenal and distinctly shocking. The "jeune fille" of France does not frequent "ces coins là," but respectable American fathers and mothers tranquilly take their daughters with them to cafés chantants, variety theatres, even to the dance halls of the Rive Gauche and of Montmartre. A goodly number of these rendezvous exist solely for the delectation of visiting strangers and, like the Moulin Rouge, are supported chiefly by the American tourists' money. That the Moulin Rouge is dead speaks well for the educational development of the American traveller, but from the ashes of the place, which had nothing save sheer vulgarity to commend it, has risen a variety theatre with café balconies, and some of the dance-hall features of the old resort are retained in modified form. The Café de la Mort, and the other melodramatic and banal cafés, where efforts are made to provide the visitor with a shock that will sustain the reputation of Paris for devilish wickedness, are, like the Moulin Rouge of unblessed memory, provided for the edification of travellers, and supported chiefly by American dollars. Even Maxim's, which means to the average American the last word on Parisian impropriety, is, by Parisians themselves, considered one of the concessions to American and English expectations and tastes.
"Maxim's? Oh c'est bête ça—toujours les Americains chez Maxim," says the Frenchman, disdainfully.
There is wickedness enough of a purely Parisian flavour in Paris, heaven knows; but the lurid spectacles provided for the tourist are perhaps the least immoral if the most vulgar of its manifestations.
At a Rothschild Garden Party
The Opera is a tradition of the Paris season. All of the swell clubs have boxes and the society folk who can afford it subscribe, yet the opera is not so important an item of the social year in Paris as in New York, and one will usually see more elaborate toilettes and more fashionable women in any one of the popular theatres than at the Opera.
When spring comes to Paris and the horse-chestnuts burst into bloom, new elements enter into the merry-go-round. The clubs in the Bois and outside of Paris become centres of social activity, the races begin, al fresco dining and tea-drinking are in order. Hostesses blest with such grounds as those of Baronne Henri Rothschild give picturesque garden parties, there are chic evening fêtes at Puteaux, elaborate open-air charity entertainments are organized. Riding and driving in the Bois, which has continued languishingly during the winter, takes on new spirit.
The Avenue des Acacias is thronged with carriages and motors at the driving hours, and now and then women descend from their carriage to promenade, to chat with friends, to display their toilettes.
The Avenue des Acacias is the drive of drives for the mixed crowd of smart folk, but the old nobility of France prefers to drive in stately hauteur along the Avenue de la Reine Marguerite. One must make some protest against the levelling of class barriers.
The two most fashionable bridle-paths run along beside these two favourite driving avenues, but the whole Bois is a paradise of bridle-paths, and near its centre is a spot which has been chosen as the favourite meeting-place of chic riders at certain hours. The Parisians are riding more since things English became the fashion, and many of them ride very well, though the men affect English horsemanship to the point of caricature; but, on the whole, the French are better at haute école riding than at park riding. They make the best circus riders in the world, but the horsemanship of the average rider on the bridle-paths of the Bois leaves much to be desired.
As for driving, there are many good whips, but the accomplishment is not general, and few Parisiennes of social prominence drive. It is not "convenable," and though several of the greatest ladies of France hold the reins over their own fine horses in the Bois, driving alone with a groom is generally ranked in the same category as walking alone with a dog. The woman who does either must expect uncomplimentary classification, unless she stands high enough to be a law unto herself.
And apropos of dogs, the pet dog show is always one of the events of the spring season, an occasion that calls for artistic effect in mistress as well as dog, produces scores of effective tableaux, offers testimony concerning feminine folly. There are good dogs shown, dog aristocrats of unimpeachable birth and breeding, but their exhibition is enveloped in such a flurry of chiffons, such a hysteria of pride, ambition, emotion. Nowhere in the world has the dog endured such insults to his sturdy, canine simplicity as in Paris. Nowhere else has he been so dandified, so coddled, so spoiled. The pet dog of the Parisienne of high degree is likely to be a sybarite, and the pet dog of the famous cocotte leads a luxurious existence that demands prodigal expenditure.
One Parisian dog tailor has a most flourishing and successful business. He is the Paquin of dogdom, and let no one think that he is not an artist. When Madame brings her little angel to him for a spring outfit, there is an impressive paraphrase of Madame's own sessions with her couturier,—a serious conference concerning materials, colours, trimmings, models. In New York a dog blanket is a dog blanket. It may be cheap or expensive, but it is probably bought ready made and approximately fitted. The Parisian dog tailor considers his client's figure, complexion, air.
"But no, Madame. I find that he has not the breadth of chest to wear that model—and the colour! He is not of a type for the blue and silver. A warm violet, now, with the embroidery in more tender shades, and a touch of gold? Bon! And the curving line on the shoulder? It gives an air of slenderness, that shoulder seam. Madame has samples of the other costumes she wishes to match?"
Absurd? Of course it is all ineffably absurd, but the mania for dress extends even to the lapdog in Paris.
The little angel has also his boots—of fur for the cold, of oilskin for the dampness. He has his tiny kerchiefs of cobweb fineness, embroidered with his name or monogram, and tucked into the pockets of his handsome coats. He wears jewelry, more or less costly, collars, bangles, even bracelets. One notorious Parisienne has a collection of jewelry for her dog that is worth a fortune, collars of cabuchon emeralds and diamonds, of pink pearls, of cunningly wrought gold and lucky jade. It is a hobby of the mistress, this dog jewelry, and when one's specialty is the speedy bankrupting of Grand Dukes and wealthy American fledglings and rich Portuguese Jews, one has the money for one's hobbies.
The pet dog show is not a dog clothes exhibit. The entries are judged upon their canine merits, but it is amusing all the same, this event, and the mistresses pose most charmingly with their pets. Nothing that happens in Paris lacks its theatrical note.
The Fête des Fleurs belongs to the spring season, but it does not belong to the smart Parisian set, though every one turns out to see the show. The fête is given in the name of charity, and doubtless charity covers its sin, but there is more than a little vulgarity and horse-play mixed with the picturesque beauty of the scene. A part of the Bois is roped off, and an entrance fee is charged for all sight-seers and equipages passing the barriers. So much for charity. The rest is merry-making of a somewhat promiscuous sort. Every seat along the avenues is taken, masses of flowers are banked high along the curb, to be sold as ammunition for the battle of flowers. Bands are playing, flags are fluttering, garlands are swinging from decorated poles, and past the judges' stand by the pigeon-shooting club files an endless line of carriages, carts, automobiles, fiacres, conveyances of all types, from the butcher's cart, bearing the honest butcher and his wife and children, to the electric victoria of the most famous dancer of Paris. Only the chic society woman is conspicuous by her absence. One seldom sees, in the Fête des Fleurs procession, faces familiar in the exclusive salons.
But the sight is an interesting one, for all that. A Parisian fête does not need the indorsement of the Faubourg St. Germain in order to be gay, and the public celebrities and demi-mondaines turn out in all their glory for the Fête des Fleurs.
Pretty women look out from the riot of flowers that covers hansom, victoria, dog-cart, phaeton, automobile, and money has been spent like water to furnish some of the beauties with their setting. One phaeton is literally hidden under purple orchids, and holds two blondes elaborately arrayed in white and violet. Behind comes a victoria trimmed in thousands of yellow and red roses and bearing a noted Spanish dancer. A popular opera singer has made her motor car a moving bank of pink roses and violets.
Bunches of forget-me-nots and daisies and pinks are hurtling through the air. A popular lionne of the day is so pelted with fragrant ammunition that she springs up in her carriage bower and stands, a slender mousseline-draped beauty, laughing under the rain of nosegays, and with gay abandon returning her assailants' fire.
In the carriage just behind hers are two gorgeously gowned women, old and haggard and hideous under their cosmetics, derelicts, favourites who have outlived their day, and are fighting the hopeless fight against defeat and misery and oblivion; but the beauty of the flower battle does not look behind her and read the memento mori. She is having her day now. What has yesterday or to-morrow to do with a Fête des Fleurs?
There are other public fêtes on the floodtide of the Paris spring,—plebeian, many of them, and the Fête de Neuilly is one of the most plebeian; yet it is chic to go to Neuilly at least once while the van dwellers from all the highways and byways of France are in camp along the Avenue de Neuilly. From every direction the vagabonds have gathered,—a motley crew of gipsy wanderers, strolling entertainers who, after a winter in the provinces, have found their way back to the borders of the Paris they love.
Ramshackle booths, tents, shooting-galleries, carousels, acrobats, fortune-tellers, snake-charmers, lion tamers, ventriloquists, fat ladies, magicians, vendors of every imaginable cheap and tawdry thing—the old Coney Island multiplied by ten and invested with a Gallic lightness and sparkle in place of its own dull vulgarity. That is the Neuilly Fair.
Smart folk give jolly little dinners and, after, take their guests out to Neuilly for a lark. They visit the side shows, and shoot at the balls, and buy ridiculous souvenirs, and ride on the carousel, and throw confetti, and give themselves up to vulgar amusements with the infantile joyousness that is a characteristic Parisian mood.
Madame is very charming in all her elegant perfection against the tawdry background of Neuilly, and she knows that she is charming—all of which helps to make the "Neuilly evening" a popular item on the June programme.
There was once a crown prince who went to the Neuilly Fête, and who saw a gipsy girl there. He was bon garçon, this crown prince, and he was doing the fête incognito and with a thoroughness that included making friends with many of the van folk. The gipsy girl was beautiful. She killed herself afterward, far from Paris, in the country of the Prince, but one expects comedy, not tragedy, of the fête de Neuilly.
Princes and kings are frequent visitors in Paris, and when they come officially, everyone, from the President of the Republic to the street-sweeper of the boulevards, conspires to do them honour. But his Royal Highness loves better to visit Paris incog. and amuse himself according to his own will. He has even been known to make an official visit, to endure with cheerful resignation the formal entertaining lavished upon him, to be escorted to the station by a guard of honour and high officials, to wave a courteous adieu from his car window, and, within forty-eight hours, to be back in Paris, incognito, with only one or two members of his suite for attendants and only his own tastes to be consulted in the matter of entertainment. Even royalty is human.
Paris dances and sings and fiddles her way through the spring days—as she has danced and sung and fiddled her way through history; and when July comes and the blinds are drawn down in the fashionable residence quarters, still Paris is not dull.
Swarms of visitors from the Colonies, from Southern Europe, from America, fill the gaps left by departing Parisians. Restaurant tables are crowded. Les Ambassadeurs, l'Horloge and their rivals do a flourishing business. Only the onlooker who knows the real Paris misses the gayest element of the Parisian world from its accustomed haunts, and finds the Parisian summer a dreary interregnum twixt season and season.
THE HUNTING SEASON AT THE CHÂTEAUX
With September, Parisians renounce their allegiance to Neptune. For that matter, Neptune has little to do even with the seashore season of the Parisian world. The hoary old fellow is but a detail of the stage setting. Whatever sovereignty he may have claimed at Trouville, Dieppe, Dinard, he long ago made over to Venus Anadyomene, and even she cannot hold her courtiers. There comes a day when the sands that have for months bloomed riotously in Parisian gowns and sunshades and millinery, stretch away, yellow and lone, before deserted casinos and empty hotels.
The seashore season is over. The hunting season is on.
Venus Anadyomene has given way to Diana, goddess of the chase. Pagan Neptune has handed the fashionable crowd over to Christian St. Hubert, patron saint of venery.
There is an element of farce in certain phases of French hunting, for the Frenchman is born to theatrical effects as the sparks fly upward, and the good shopkeeper of Paris goes a-hunting in a fashion that has been the delight of Punch artists for many years. He is so round and rosy and valiant and important this French sportsman of Punch, his hunting costume is so elaborate, he is so lavishly equipped with hunting paraphernalia. The railway stations of Paris are crowded with hunters of this class when the falling leaves are aswirl in the forests of France; but Monsieur is only one of many French hunting types, and the English go far astray when they make the caricature inclusive, just as they strain the truth when they picture the French follower of hounds as a dapper and rotund little fop clinging frantically round his horse's neck and shouting—"Stop ze hunt! Stop zat fox! I tomble! I faloff! Stop ze fox!"
If the London cockney should arise en masse each October and go forth to hunt as does the bourgeois of Paris, there would doubtless be amusing sights in the railway stations of London; and though the fox hunting of France does not compare favourably with that of England, there's many a fox-hunting English squire who would fall by the way if he attempted to ride with a wiry French marquis on an all day and night wolf hunt through the woods and plains of Poitou.
The chase is a passion with the French, and all classes save those to which a day's holiday, a gun, and a dog are unattainable joys hail the advent of the shooting season with enthusiasm. One sees the solitary hunter in the marshes near the city, or searching patiently for birds on ground where no placards warn trespassers away. The toy estates that fringe the woods near Paris are carefully enclosed in high fences of wire net, and there, on clear autumn mornings, there is a mighty fusillade among the thickets while Monsieur in his English tweeds, and Madame in her newest and most impractical shooting costume, and their equally decorative friends, play at la chasse.
Since the greater part of the French land is subdivided to a remarkable degree, and the average proprietor cannot shoot over his own place without danger of killing the owner or the game on adjoining property, many shooting alliances are made between groups of men owning adjacent lands, and the privilege of hunting over the whole territory is accorded to each of the group, while the game killed is apportioned according to fixed rules. There are other hunting syndicates more ambitious, renting or owning expensive preserves in country far from Paris, and, of course, there are the fortunate owners of large estates who have on their own preserves enough good shooting to satisfy even the most exacting of English sportsmen.
Millionaire bourgeois own a majority of the important preserves of Seine et Marne, Seine et Oise, and Oise, and the Rothschilds have the finest shooting estate in France, at Vaux-de-Cernay. Kings and princes from all quarters of Europe have shot the birds of the famous banker, who is a power behind many thrones, and some of the fêtes that have followed great hunts in the Rothschild coverts have been memorable ones. Four thousand pheasants were slaughtered to make a holiday for the last royal guest, and after the hunt came an evening of dazzling fête and spectacular illumination of all the country round.
There are other estates where the chasses à tir are famous and where sumptuous entertaining is done during shooting season; but it is in the chasse à cour that France lives up to its old traditions and can show the disdainful Englishman sport not known on the English country side.
The area of the French hunting districts is comparatively small, for over half of the hounds of France are found in Vendee, Anjou, Touraine, and Poitou, but the packs are many and admirable and the sport is good. In the remote regions there is boar hunting, that for an exciting run and a dangerous finish beats anything England has to offer. The Frenchman will go far for a boar hunt, but he will not take many of his favourite hounds with him. English foxhounds are cheaper and the boar is sure to make short work of any dog that runs in on him when he stands at bay, bristles erect, little eyes red with rage, foam flying from his champing tusks; so, as a rule, the French dog is used only to locate the boar, and English dogs are offered up, if sacrifice there must be.
Baronne Henri de Rothschild at the Meet
For wolf hunting the French hounds are called into service, though it is difficult to break any hound to wolf scent, and nothing wears a dog out more effectually than a wolf chase. Good horses are required, too, for a wolf hunt is likely to mean a night out and a tremendous straight-away run over a wide area, and even when dogs and horses and hunters are of the best, an old wolf will usually give them all the slip. The beast has phenomenal endurance and cunning. For hours he will idle along just in front of the hounds, knowing they dare not attack him while he is fresh. Then, when the pack is beginning to breathe hard and labour a little, Monsieur le loup shows what he can do in the way of speed when he really gives his mind to it. Away he flies, a streak of yellow grey, leaving his pursuers far behind, and the chances are that pack and hunters have but a magnificent run for their pains. One of the most famous sportsmen of France, who keeps a pack devoted altogether to wolf hunting, says that he has killed less than a half dozen old wolves in his hunting career.
Louveteaux—young wolves—furnish most of the sport, and here the story is a different one; for the year-old wolf provides a long and brilliant but usually successful run, and frequently a kill in the night when flaming torches held by huntsmen in picturesque livery throw weird lights and shadows over the scene.
Small wonder that the Frenchman who chases wolf and boar returns the Briton's scorn in kind, and calls the English fox hunt a "promenade à cheval." There is a certain amount of justice in the phrase, for the Englishman of fox-hunting fame hunts to ride instead of riding to hunt.
The French sportsman shrugs his shoulders, too, at the stag hunt of old England.
"To bring a tame deer in a box and push it under the noses of the hounds—Ce n'est pas la chasse, mon ami," says the Marquis, with fine contempt, and while his description doesn't apply accurately to all English deer hunting, it is true that tracking the deer comes nearer deserving its title of royal sport in France than in England.
Contrary to Punch tradition, the gentleman of France is usually a good shot. Shooting has been an essential part of his education and even the veriest dandy of Paris may be uncommonly handy with a revolver or gun. Such prowess is a part of the traditions of his race. Duelling was a passion and a diversion with his ancestors; and while serious duelling is, even in France, a trifle obsolete to-day, the customs due to it still exist. Monsieur le Marquis fences cleverly and shoots as well. Possibly he has his private shooting-gallery and practices there for a while each morning; but, whether or no he has this private practice, he is fairly sure to turn up at some one of the public shooting rendezvous during the day. The Tir au Pigeon Club in the Bois is the nucleus from which all of the open-air clubs of Paris have developed, and is one of the most popular rendezvous for the smart Parisian set. The same is true at Deauville, at Nice, and wherever fashionable Parisian colonies are to be found, and the events at the exclusive shooting clubs in these places will always bring together a notable collection of society folk and an impressive exhibit of Parisian chiffons.
There are many Frenchwomen who can hold their own with the men when it comes to the handling of a gun, and a few who can follow hounds as pluckily as any English Diana; while, as for the wearing of charming shooting costumes, for the covert, or for luncheon with the guns, of dressing effectively for the meet, of donning exquisite negligées for the tea hour when the huntsmen may be expected to straggle in, tired, valiant, and loquacious,—there the Parisienne leads the world. The tea gowns and shooting costumes of the Place Vendôme and the Rue de la Paix are the true triumphs of the French hunting season and the wearing of them is to the average château guest a thing much more important than the killing of game—is, in fact, her method of following the chase. Nimrod may enjoy having his adored one by his side in the covert or running neck and neck with him behind the hounds, but he has little time for admiring her then. His heart is with pheasant or hare or deer. The story is a different one when he goes back to the château in the gathering twilight and finds daintily gowned women waiting, in the glow of fire and candle-light, to greet him with enthusiasm and listen with rapt attention while he fights his battles over again. Then is the hour of the sportswoman, for there's more truth than fiction in the theory so audaciously exploited in "Man and Superman." The form of the chase which appeals most keenly to women the world over is the pursuit of man, and the Parisienne in particular is a zealous devotee of the sport.
A Frenchwoman famous for her advanced ideas,—the "new woman" translated into French—went to Berlin some years ago, and a conference of the emancipated was called to do her honour. She came into the audience hall, exquisitely gowned, the most delightfully feminine of figures. She looked aghast at the band of strong-minded, atrociously dressed women assembled to hear her; and then, throwing aside her premeditated address upon woman's suffrage, she plunged into an eloquent plea for the union of becoming dress and emancipated womanhood, winding up with a fervent appeal to her sisters to remember always that they must dress to please the men.
There spoke the true Frenchwoman, new or old; and the fair guests at the châteaux, whatever may be their feeling about the chase of stag or the shooting of birds, never are so lacking in sporting spirit that they neglect dressing to please the men.
For the Parisienne in general the hunting season means only an excuse for châteaux visits, and a château visit means only picturesque meets at which one may wear one's smartest morning frock, chat with friends from other châteaux, flirt with gallant huntsmen, and, perhaps, follow the hunt at a discreet distance in cart or automobile; it means luncheon with the guns in English fashion, and another opportunity for a smart costume; it means the tea hour of coquetry and chiffons; it means superb dinners to which come fashionable folk from the country round about; it means evening festivities of all kinds. Oh, an excellent opportunity for the displaying of one's wardrobe resources, is the château visit, and a super-excellent opportunity for les affaires de cœur is offered by the informal intimacy of a great house party.
The pretentiousness of château entertainment depends, of course, upon the financial condition of the owner, and it is at the country places of the rich bourgeois, rather than in the most famous historic houses of France, that money is spent most freely during the château season, though American millions have made some aristocratic house parties famous for prodigal extravagance.
Where money need not stand in the way, the programme of entertainment is often a costly one. Perhaps, as has happened before now, theatricals are the order of the day, and the entire company of one of the Parisian theatres is brought down from Paris for the occasion. Or a costume ball is on the tapis and the great dressmakers of the Rue de la Paix are called upon for dazzling costumes. Or a popular diseuse or chanteuse or dancer may be lured away from her café chantant for the evening in order to enliven the lovers of nature who have fled to sylvan haunts.
And always one can play bridge. Ye gods, how they play bridge during the autumn days and nights, those transplanted Parisians!
All through the long days when the men are off after bird or deer, the women, arrayed in the daintiest of bridge coats or frocks, sit around the card tables playing for stakes that are not always low; and indeed there are many days when even the men themselves forsake the coverts for the card tables. During the last château season, rumours ran concerning eighteen-hour sessions of bridge when mesdames and messieurs did not lay down their cards save for hasty luncheon and dinner. Stories were told, too, of immense losses sustained by guests at several famous houses, and games at a louis a point have ceased to be rare in the fashionable Parisian set. Some devotees of the game have, it is said, even installed little bridge tables in the salons of their loges at the opera and spirited games are played there in the intervals of the music, or to the neglect of the music.
There are fashionable hostesses who deplore the craze, but the chief accusation brought against the game is characteristically French. One hears little protest against the ethics of bridge, but it appears that the new fad is killing conversation. If this is true, say the critics, something must indeed be done to save France. Conversation is, with the French, a religion, a heritage, an acquirement, an art, and this fine product of the centuries must not be allowed to perish in an epidemic of gambling.
Even after a night spent at bridge, at least a large percentage of the château party is up and off to the meet in the grey of the morning. Madame may, perhaps, sleep later on, but the meet is an occasion, a social function, a golden opportunity for coquetry; and even if one does not expect to follow the hounds one must be in evidence at the reunion. So my lady is up betimes and at work upon her toilette, a toilette to the planning of which she has devoted anxious hours before leaving Paris. One must be très chic at the meet, for les messieurs will be out in force and the sporting scene with its forest setting will admit of a touch of audacity in dress.
Even the true sportswoman of France does not forget to be coquette, and her interest in habit or shooting costume does not interfere with her sporting zeal. There are Frenchwomen who go boar hunting and wolf hunting with their husbands. Others, like the Baronne de Brandt or the Marquise de Bois-Hebert, visit the out-of-the-way corners of Europe in search of exciting sport, and a long list of Parisian society leaders like the Marquise de Beauvoir, the Comtesse de Fels, the young Duchesses de Luynes, de Noailles, and d'Uzes, make excellent records in the home forests.
The name of d'Uzes is important in modern French hunting annals, though its claims do not rest on modernity. On the contrary the equipage d'Uzes stands for all that is traditional and historic in French venery, and the dowager Duchesse d'Uzes, holding fast to the customs and traditions of the old régime, keeps up the hunt in her forests as the Ducs d'Uzes have kept it up through many a generation and many a change in the affairs of France.
Sixty thousand acres of the forest of Rambouillet are leased by the Duchess for her hunting-grounds, and, though the favourite château of the President of France lies across the woodland from her own hunting château of Bonnelles, and his excellency the President of the French Republic may, if he chooses, shoot birds and rabbits in the forest, which is the property of the state, it is the Duchess who reigns in Rambouillet forest and the republican ruler may not chase the stag there, unless this great lady of old France graciously extends an invitation to him.
What has Rambouillet to do with presidents and republics? It has always been the forest of kings, and its memories reach back through the dim years so far that modern history can but cling to its fingers, while old story and romance haunt every bosky depth and sunlit glade.
It was the heart of the ancient forest of Yveline, this forest of Rambouillet, the country of the Druids, a place of mystery and of fable. Cæsar tells how the Gauls hunted the wild bull in those forest fastnesses. Charlemagne went a-hunting under the great oaks and beeches, and by his side rode his empress, Luitgard the beautiful, while in their train came many a mighty warrior and prince; came, too, fair princesses whose names alone are keys to old romance,—Hiltrud and Rhodaid, Gisela and Theodrada and Bertha, each in robe of green velvet and with silken locks floating free from beneath a golden diadem. For the lover of pictures they still go riding down the forest aisles, those princesses of the far away, "swaying the reins with dainty finger-tips" and smiling on the gallants who rode beside them.
Many a fair lady has ridden in the shades of Rambouillet, with a courtier at her bridle rein, since Charlemagne's day. Each king of France in turn has followed the stag there. Some kings have loved there, some have died there; some, like Louis XIV, have merely been bored there; but it was when Louis XIII ruled in France that venery flourished in its greatest pomp and glory. Many hundreds of officials belonged to the royal hunting equipage in the time of this prodigal Louis, and all the court followed the king when, with sounding horns and baying hounds, he coursed through the woods of Rambouillet.
The princes of the blood had their equipages, too, and there is a story of a long-ago day when three stags broke cover simultaneously on the sides of St. Hubert's pond, and behind each streamed a brilliant hunting cortège sporting the gay colours of a princely house. One can see them there on the banks of the woodland pool—the stags at bay, the swarming hounds, the liveried huntsmen, the princes and courtiers in gorgeous array, the background of forest green and the water mirroring the whole. Extravagant folly, of course, those royal hunts, but a brave show. Your good republican loves better to see the president go forth in his tweeds and his slouch hat, with his guides and beaters and his tweed-clad guests, to shoot the timid little wood creatures that are driven into the range of the guns and killed by thousands in the name of sport. It costs less than Louis' hunting, this democratic battue, and, to-day, the peasants of France have bread,—but for the lover of romance, Rambouillet is filled with ghosts that make a finer show than the estimable republican president and his equally estimable but far from picturesque guests.
Pompous venery went down with all things regal in the Revolutionary flood, but Napoleon, ever theatrical at heart, appreciated the dramatic opportunities of the chase, and once more Rambouillet echoed to the bay of hounds and the call of horns, while the little great man rode in Charlemagne's paths.
Since then, the career of hunting in France has been a chequered one. After the revolution of 1848, the forests were leased to the great nobles, but Napoleon III had the vast domains confiscated after his coup d'état, and it was then that the Ducs d'Uzes and de Luynes held a great final hunt before abandoning the forests to the usurper, and made a kill that is mentioned with awe by latter-day hunters.
But Napoleon cared little for the chase, and in 1868 the dukes were hunting again in their old haunts. The Duc de Luynes died and the Duc d'Uzes took over his pack. When he, too, went the way of all flesh, his widow refused to give up the famous hounds and the traditional equipage. She re-leased the forest, held tenaciously traditions of the chase as they had been upheld by a long line of Ducs d'Uzes. While she lives, at least, the hounds of St. Hubert will occupy their kennels at La Celle les Bordes, and the red and blue and gold of the equipage d'Uzes will flash through the leafy lanes of the forest of Rambouillet.
The Bonnelles season begins on the first of September, but only intimate friends and zealous sportsmen are gathered together in the château at the opening of the season. Later there will be guests of ceremony, royal visitors, and all of the gay Parisian crowd whom the family d'Uzes deigns to entertain.
The dowager Duchess, grande dame of the old school, is mistress of the château, but she has able assistants in her daughter-in-law, the young Duchesse d'Uzes, and in her daughters, the great ladies of de Luynes and de Brissac. They fit in oddly with the venerable customs of Bonnelles, these typical products of a society essentially modern, but the combination of new and old is a piquant one, and the excessively up-to-date young Duchesse d'Uzes never appears to better advantage than when she kneels in the little church of Bonnelles on St. Hubert's Day, or, in bravery of blue and scarlet and gold, follows the hounds of Bonnelles through the forest of Rambouillet.
The château of Bonnelles is an imposing pile set in a beautiful park of about two hundred acres, and furnishes room for many guests. Life goes to the same tune there as in the other châteaux during the autumn season, though there is a hint of old-world dignity mingled with the modern gaiety, and among the guests are often included interesting figures not familiar in the very modern salons of Paris. And, too, the hunting is taken rather more seriously at Bonnelles than at many of the châteaux, though even there the late season crowd gives itself over to frivolity rather than to sport.
The kennels of Bonnelles are located at the farm of La Celle les Bordes, about five miles from the château, and the old seigneurial farmhouse is used as a hunting-lodge and a museum for relics and trophies of the chase.
There are packs in France larger than that of Bonnelles. The Menier family, for instance, has sixty couples in its kennels which are perhaps the best in France, while the d'Uzes pack numbers only eighty hounds all told, and of these only sixty run with the pack,—but they are aristocrats, these hounds of d'Uzes, with pedigrees that might put nine tenths of the mushroom nobles of France to shame.
The hounds of St. Hubert are the oldest hunting-dogs of history. Before the time of Charlemagne they were the hunting comrades of kings, and though the pure St. Hubert strain has lost caste and the best dogs of the modern French kennels have been crossed with other blood, it is the old French aristocrat among hounds that gives to the famous French packs their long melancholy faces, their marvellous scent, and their melodious voices.
The dogs of Vendee, lineal descendants of the dogs of St. Hubert, were first favourites in the days of Louis XI, and the d'Uzes hounds trace their lineage back to two royal dogs of that early time,—Greffier, one of the king's most valuable hounds, a white St. Hubert crossed with mastiff, and Baude, the pet hound of Anne of France, daughter to the king. Since that far-away day, the Vendean strain has been crossed with royal English buckhound to the great advantage of the French hound, say those who should know, but, despite this alien blood, it is the descendant of Greffier and Baude that yelps in the kennels at La Celle les Bordes when the dog valets put the pack in leash on the morning of St. Hubert's Day.
The Blessing of the Hounds at Bonnelles
This third of November is a great day at Bonnelles, for the Duchess is ardent churchwoman and ardent patron of the chase, and on St. Hubert's Day the two objects of her devotion fraternize in all pomp and ceremony. Out from the lodge gates issues the pack, and with the dogs go the governor of the pack, the two mounted piqueurs, the two chief foresters, the two chief dog valets, and the lesser officials—all of whom make up the equipage d'Uzes. The huntsmen are in hunting costume of the d'Uzes colours, with hunting-horns slung round their necks and hunting-knives in their belts, the dog valets wear the red and blue without the gold lace, and the chief dog sports the colours of his owners.
On they go to the little church of Bonnelles where a crowd is awaiting them. Outside the church there is a group of onlookers drawn here by curiosity to see the famous ceremony, but within the doors one finds a gathering of folk whom one remembers seeing at Longchamps, on the Avenue des Acacias, in the Casino at Trouville. The little Duchesse d'Uzes is there, charming in her habit and in her three-cornered hunting-hat with its blue and red and gold, but she is very solemn now, this gay little duchess, very solemn indeed; for, as we have said elsewhere, she is devôte, and even at the blessing of the hounds she does not relax her pose.
The piqueurs lead the dogs before the high altar, the mass of St. Hubert is said, and, as the priests lift the host on high, suddenly there is a carillon of bells, hunting-horns sound the fanfare of St. Hubert, the crowd rustles to its feet. Out of the church file the priests in gorgeous vestments and the red-robed acolytes bearing the blest bread of St. Hubert. The oldest priest crumbles the bread for the dogs, sprinkles holy water over the quivering muzzles. There is another peal of bells, the horns sound gaily, the hunting folk spring to saddle, the guests who are not to hunt climb into their traps and automobiles, the piqueurs crack the long lashes of their dog whips, the hounds strain at their leashes, and the whole procession wends its way merrily toward the place chosen for the meet,—while the outsider privileged to witness the show rubs his eyes and hurries off to find a calendar, that he may see whether perchance this is the year of grace 1905 or an earlier and more ceremonious time.
The rendezvous for the meet is at some carrefour or crossroads, where an old stone cross with ancient inscription usually marks a circular opening in the forest, and there one may see an amusing sight on any morning when the hounds are out. Eight o'clock is the rallying hour, and before that hour, though shreds of night still cling to the trees and blur the forest roads, the Duchess is on hand with the party from Bonnelles, to greet her guests.
Up out of the mist they come, gay parties from the neighbouring châteaux, officers from the nearest garrisons, reinforcements from Paris. Some are in hunting costume, some are driving smart traps, many spin up to the rendezvous in automobiles and the snorting and puffing of their machines mixes oddly with the neighing of horses and the restless whining of the hounds. The red coats of the huntsmen, the bright colours of the officers' uniforms, the chic costumes of the women, lend an aspect of gaiety to the sombre forest setting with its wreathing grey mist, and there is a chatter of voices, a ripple of laughter.
The stag which has been tracked and located before the place for the meet was appointed is reported still close at hand, and the master of the hunt gives the word. The hounds are unleashed and sent forward, while at the carrefour, the noise dies down to a murmur or an expectant hush.
Then there is a crash in the thicket, the hounds give tongue, high, sweet, and clear on the crisp autumn air the horns sound the "Stag in view," and away goes the hunt, a glinting line of colour through the dull November woods. The dogs run close, the hunters ride hard, and at their head is the little Duchess, reckless, excited, joying in the sport, true daughter of a hunting house.
It is easy to understand the passion for the chase, when one rides in the wake of the hounds through the haunted old forest of the Druids while the horns are playing the ancient hunting-airs of France and the hounds' sonorous voices ring full and sweet and sad—for there is ever a melancholy in the music when a pack of St. Huberts is in full cry.
The horses stretch themselves to the chase, the tingling morning air is full of wood scents, the sun is scattering the mist.
Hola! Hola! Madame la Duchesse hunts the stag!
The trembling hares and birds seek the thick covert, but they are safe. No presidential battue this, but royal sport. Madame la Duchesse hunts the stag in the ancient forest of kings.