CHAPTER I.

THE PETITE PROVENCE: THE BUD.

"WHAT is learnt with the greatest ease in childhood is always most difficult to forget in after-life. Hero and felon are often created by the influence of the nursery rhyme." This was a favourite axiom of the Great Frederick. But French mothers believe not in the theory it conveys, and give their children much more to forget than to remember. The Frenchman's education can only be completed by the forgetfulness of senility, for he learns everything in early childhood, knows everything in early youth, and is blasé with everything in middle age. The morning I spent in the Tuileries just before the war, put me on the track of much that has happened since, and confirmed a suspicion I had long entertained that the only equality existing in France, in spite of all the talk about it, is that which is established between the babies and their grands parents. "What on earth can be the reason that English philosophy has never been able to determine the exact cause of the effects which are so palpable in the unsteady aims of this strange people?" said I, in despair, to my friend Delbrück, who has done more to modify the French system of education than any man of our day. "Simply because English philosophy, while devoting much attention to the study of the flower and the fruitpronouncing the first to be withered and the latter corrupt-has always overlooked the germ-the bud, the blossom, altogether. Even your own great poetphilosopher, who pronounced that the boy is father to the man,' may scarcely be said to have begun at the beginning; for there is yet an antecedent to that profound maxim; for the girl is mother

to the woman' in France, decidedly; and as the latter has the entire management of the education of the boys, it is there you will find the clue to all that seems strange in our organization."

"Hunting the waterfalls" is, however, no easy task in Paris, where domestic life is hidden behind a wall impenetrable to the eye of the foreigner, and I resigned myself to the same ignorance which had subjected my countrymen to Delbrück's just reproach, and resolved to confine myself to the occupation of seeing and hearing, and leave that of understanding to others wiser than myself; and I rushed out, to quiet my bitter disappointment, into the garden of the Tuileries.

The weather was beautiful-the scene most exhilarating. The crowds of children rushing in and out amongst the trees; the hoops, the balls, the skippingropes and skittles, made the whole scene quite refreshing, a very draught of pure water from the spring to one who had been following for some time past the hot and feverish literature of the circulating library, the fiery morals of the stage, in Paris; and no wonder that my soul should turn instinctively to the spot where the purest fountain of innocence was to be found-the only spot, perhaps, in the whole city where I could forget for a moment the conjugal infidelity, the vice and corruption, of which every picture, or book, or play, or song seemed to have served as theme, and to be the only subjects worth treating by French authors or artists— the only ones, indeed, to be understood by the French public. No wonder, then, that I should seek relief from

feeling the smallest humiliation at the companionship.

The past history of the Petite Provence is not without interest. It lies at the foot of the Terrasse des Feuillans, the rendezvous of the beaux and gallants of the eighteenth century. It is just below the Pont Tournant, whence the Committee of the Jacobins were wont to meet, to signal to the members of the Club awaiting their orders below. It opens on the Grande Allée, down whose gravelled space the Prince de Lambesc, at the head of his Royal Allemands, charged the people, sword in hand, and virtually began the Revolution. It was from the Petite Provence, likewise, that the Abbé "Cent Mille Hommes" was accustomed to launch his astounding bulletins concerning the desperate march on Paris by the armies of Pitt-Cobourg, and the rivers of blood-les fleuves de sang-through which they were to wade, in order to capture the invincible battalions of an army which had put to shame the legions of Cæsar. But in our day the Petite Provence suggests no thought of war or bloodshed; all its associations are those of peace and good fellowship. It is a land literally flowing with milk and honey, and wherein the voice of the turtle is constantly heard. The lovers of human nature can behold the infancy of the future generation in all its glory, in the Petite Provence; and as I sat upon the stone bench, I thought that with French children, at all events, French vanity and affectation could assuredly find no place; and I determined to give myself up to what I deemed would prove the innocent enjoy

ment of the moment.

Nothing could be more genial than the

scene.

The creeping plant upon the wall was waving to and fro in the mildest of summer breezes, while the sunbeams, equally mild, without scorch or glare, were reflected on the parterre, all brilliant with the gayest flowers. The little children were skipping merrily about, and I was determined to use an indulgent benevolence towards them. The Petite Provence is devoted exclusively to babies; here there were "the germ,

the bud, the blossom" to be studied. "The flower and the fruit," I knew, were to be found in another part of the garden.

Some of the children were overdressed, it is true. There were paniers and poufs appended to little creatures of four years old, and all sorts of nameless seductions, which Frenchwomen know so well how to employ, were serving as adornment to diminutive coquettes of even less age than that. But this display of vanity was not their own, and found pity rather than condemnation in my sight. My heart was softened even towards their mothers, when I beheld the grave and airy lightness with which the malicious little fairies twisted and twirled, like the winged genii in a pantomime, to show their toilets to the best advantage.

Beside me on the bench sat a huge Picardy wet-nurse, with a lean, long baby on her lap, where it lay kicking and writhing, while she, nothing daunted by the presence of a stranger of the opposite sex, set about repairing in detail the disorder in her toilet created by her recent endeavours to assuage the furious appetite of the young tyrant, whose rage at being neglected even for a moment displayed itself in loud protestations. She wore a low round-eared cap, bordered with lace, and confined by a broad blue ribbon with a large flat bow behind. A small kerchief of gay pattern was crossed over her bosom, and her gown of comfortable merino, of a dark chocolate colour, was protected by an apron of oiled silk, to which it is most likely that an English nurse would have objected entirely, but of which my neighbour, being French, seemed rather proud than otherwise, for she spread it out with great complacency over her knees, turning back one corner to show the rich black silk apron beneath. She was evidently fresh from the countrya circumstance at which I inwardly rejoiced. The tan and freckles of the haymaking and the harvest still remained upon her forehead, and the rich bloom of the meadows was still painted on her cheeks. It was plain that her

morale was still as unsophisticated as her physique, for the very candid manner in which she performed every one of the little duties incidental to her profession sufficiently proved that hypocrisy could not yet be numbered amongst her defects. When she had completed her own personal arrangements, she gathered up the baby, who still lay sprawling on her knees, bawling most lustily at the helpless condition in which it had been left.

But her nerves were evidently well strung. She did not even blink at the shrill, discordant cries which burst from the child. On the contrary, placing the little mouth close to her ear, she patted the squaller on the back with the movement used by every nurse throughout the world; and while she did so she sang the lullaby peculiar, so it seems, to those of France alone. Imitating with the exclamation of "Pan! Pan! Pan!" the action of knocking, performed by the open palm upon the baby's shoulders, which awakens attention, and causes an instant cessation of the wailing, she sang to a pretty a pretty melodious tune :—

"Who knocks, who knocks? Away, away! My husband has come home to-day, Although far out of town

He promised me all night to stay." Then in gruff accents, imitating the husband's voice, she asks in prose :— "What are you singing there, you impudent baggage?"

And resuming her song she replies:-

"A song to soothe the baby's fear,

And hush the child to sleep, my dear."

Then again in a whisper :"Love, knock no more, but haste away, My husband has come home to-day.

The song startled me, I must confess. It seemed the confirmation of all I had heard and read on the subject of French mothers, who suffer impure ideas to be imbibed with the very milk their babies suck. The nurse sang it, too, with peculiar gusto, and, what is more, the young rogue she was rocking, completely diverted from his grievances by the melody, looked up into her face with

his great black eyes as if in search of the hidden meaning of the words.

Presently there was a stir amongst the baby population, which had greatly increased since my arrival in the Petite Provence, and from all parts of the garden came running, toddling, skipping, and jumping, a formidable tribe of little boys and girls, some of the latter attired in the height of the same fashion as that adopted by their mothers; others in fantastic accoutrements, imitating the national costumes of various countries; some, again, in dresses taken from the popular pictures of the day, and others in attire of the Middle Ages! Notwithstanding this affectation, for which it must be owned the poor infants were not liable, there seemed to be a vast amount of practical business going forward; much whispering and laying of tiny heads together; and at last the object of the sudden gathering became visible in the formation of a ring, and with much joyous laughter and immense confusion and clatter of tongues, a round dance was proposed and accepted with the noisiest demonstrations of approval. No one possessed of the smallest degree of sensibility could fail to be charmed with the grace and elegance of the little creatures-these qualities are inherent to the French blood. But there was nothing infantine about any one of them. The youngest girl, an imp of not more than four summers, seemed to be as conscious of examination, as full of the responsibility of her dress and appearance, as much occupied with the effect she was producing, as her own mother must doubtless have been at that very moment. The little hands were joined, and the little feet pattered round and round upon the gravel in cadence with the tune. I listened eagerly for the words, hoping to be consoled for the unpleasant feeling left by the nurse's song, which had jarred so strangely on my nerves. The melody

was gay and lively, full of that graphic musical fancy which has made the popular airs of France popular all over the world. The ronde commenced in the

most innocent and childish manner, and I began to imagine that the incipient corruption was confined to the nurses alone, and had not yet extended to the children. It was amid a tumult of clattering feet throwing up a cloud of dust and pebbles into the air that I caught at last the meaning of the song which so delighted the little singers. Every shrill, tiny voice joined in the tune with more or less correctness, but the words were lisped forth with tolerable precision :

66

A shepherd maid there was,

Who tended her sheep with ease, Of their wool she made a coat,

And of their milk a cheese.

"The kitten sate watching the churn, And her lips she began to lick:

Touch with thy paw that cream, thou thief!

And thy back shall feel the stick.'

"Her paw she dipp'd not in,

But the cream lapp'd to and fro;
The shepherd maid, in wrath,
Just kill'd her with one blow.

In terror she flew to the priest,

'Holy Father, devoid of all sin!

My kitten is dead! While churning the cheese

I murder'd her with the pin.'

"Oh daughter, sinful and wrath,

Thy penance must be severe;

Thou must give me a kiss with thy ruby red lips,

And hug me, and call me thy dear !' "Such penance, indeed, is of grace,

How sweetly delicious the pain! Holy Father, devoid of all sin,

We'll perform it again and again.'

And as the ronde concluded the laughter and the screaming, and the kissing right and left, rendered the scene one of uproarious delight. The little girls, I observed, were most particularly zealous in keeping the boys in time to the melody, and in stimulating them to gallantry; for the boys, almost all dyspeptic-looking and nervous, seemed much less disposed to enter into the spirit of the song than their partners. When the ronde was concluded they dispersed into groups, some to grub up the gravel with their tiny spades and shovels, which operation the young gentlemen

performed upon their hands and knees, to the great detriment of their white kerseymere costumes: others to loll upon the knees of their gossiping bonnes, and whine for cakes and sirop de groseille, which were kept ready for use in small baskets, stowed away beneath the bench. But the chief amusement of

the boys the one which gave the greatest delight and elicited the greatest laughter-was to fill their baskets with pebbles, then pour the contents gently into the satin-lined hoods of the girls, which gaped invitingly as the little wearers were stooping before them. Thus the embryo elements of tiger and monkey, which Voltaire declares must enter into the composition of every Frenchman, were being developed under my very eyes.

My neighbour had by this time adjusted her properties, and spread her grey silk parasol over the baby, who now lay fast asleep upon a down pillow edged with lace, while a long flowing coverlet of muslin, gay with blue ribbons and embroidery, covered his lanky form. To speak truth, my sturdy friend seemed nothing loth to talk, and a few minutes sufficed to inspire her with such immense confidence in my honour and discretion, that she unfolded to my ear all the most intimate details of her life, never sparing her own delicacy or mine. In short, I had scarcely conversed with her for a quarter of an hour, before I became as thoroughly acquainted with her motives and antecedents as if I had known her for many years. She informed me, without the smallest pressing on the subject, that she had been chosen by Trousseau as wet-nurse to the son and heir of M. Caisse, the rich banker of the Chaussée d'Antin, not only because she possessed all the physical requisites for the appointment in greater perfection than any of her rivals, but also because she was still a "demoiselle," which qualification she informed me is highly esteemed by the Paris doctors, as it ensures to the employer immunity from the right of disturbance or removal by a husband. As my eyes had already opened to their fullest extent on listen

ing to the extraordinary roundelay warbled by the innocent babes of Paris, they could open no wider; but the information, and most particularly the cool manner in which it was conveyed, and the look of triumph by which it was accompanied, certainly did take me by surprise. But the unsophisticated creature prattled on, glad of a listener, and told me how cleverly she had made her bargain, never forgetting one single item of the wet-nurse's admitted prerogatives: "Fifty francs a month, washing, wine, coffee à discrétion, lace caps, black morocco shoes with sandals, aprons (black silk and white cambric), and des belles étrennes (rich New-year's presents)." These, by the way, generally consist of a watch and chain or a French cashmere shawl. Rousseau's honest indignation is quite justifiable: "Neither shipwreck, nor fire, nor sickness, nor bankruptcy can be considered so great a calamity as the admission of a wetnurse into a bourgeois family."

And she went on and on, telling me the history of her adventures when she was a petite jeunesse, and the story of Flageolet, her bon ami, who had been carried off by the conscription, and many other histories, all curious in their way, and all tending to throw great light upon the manner in which the germ is nourished into the bud, and to furnish many reasons, all of them good ones, why the Parisian hotbed should bring forth such precocious fruit. Being from Picardy, she was frank and honest in her speech-les francs Picards being renowned for their candour-and owned to me, without disguise, that she would not stay another day in Paris were it not for the certainty of being soon able to compel the rich banker to purchase a remplaçant for Flageolet, whose time of service had yet three years to run. She was indeed quite "expansive," as the French call it, and added that: "A remplaçant just now will be rather dear: but M. Caisse will consider that the article would increase rather than diminish in value, since there was talk of war, and that from 800f., the present price, it would soon rise to 1,200f.; and

what is that for a rich man like him? I know how to make him comply. I will threaten to leave the baby at once, and what will Madame say to that? I will fret and cry, and eat fresh salad with plenty of vinegar. I will let the sour apples roll out of my pocket when Monsieur is standing by-for it is only by frightening a bourgeois that you can ever get anything you want-and I'll frighten ce vieux Caisse out of a substitute for Flageolet, before many weeks are over, I'll warrant you. Yes, sour apples and green salad will do it; and when it is done the rest will be easy. Flageolet is a tailor.; he must be set up in his trade; and when his signboard is over the door-oh then, ma foi !"

She did not finish her sentence, but gave the baby such a disdainful toss, that it squalled most fiercely, while she renewed the song which had irritated me before by its impropriety, but which seems to have quite a contrary effect upon French babies, for it produced the same soothing result as before.

I should have heard more of the good nurse's history, but, just then, there broke into the Petite Provence a whole crowd of the nursing sisterhood, and my friend darted suddenly away towards the gate. It was the hour for relieving guard at the poste, and the roll of the drum seemed to act with magic power upon the nurses. The black lace hat of the Mâconaise, the straw bonnet of the Berichonne, the long lappets of the Basse-Bretonne, the towering cap of Normandy, after clustering all together, sailed majestically away towards the gate. Such variety of accents, such diversity of patois, and such energy of speech were surely never gathered in such small space before. Then came the loud rush of many feet, and the solemn sweep of babies' long cloaks, and the advance of ponderous petticoats. The trumpet was sounding, and the guard was turning out the Chasseurs de Vincennes-in all the glory of cock's-tail feathers and snow-white gaiters. The pressure was tremendous; I was almost carried off my legs by the sudden charge. In a moment the Petite Provence was de