The Parisians — Complete - Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton

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because I enjoyed a familiar acquaintance with the eminent physician referred to, who had commenced his career and founded his reputation in the United States; partly because I had become a solitary man, the ties of home broken, and dear friends of mine were domiciled in Paris, with whom I should be sure of tender sympathy and cheerful companionship. I had reason to be thankful for this change of residence: the skill of Dr. C______ soon restored me to health. Brought much into contact with various circles of Parisian society, I became acquainted with the persons and a witness of the events that form the substance of the tale I am about to submit to the public, which has treated my former book with so generous an indulgence. Sensitively tenacious of that character for strict and unalloyed veracity which, I flatter myself, my account of the abodes and manners of the Vril-ya has established, I could have wished to preserve the following narrative no less jealously guarded than its predecessor from the vagaries of fancy. But Truth undisguised, never welcome in any civilized community above ground, is exposed at this time to especial dangers in Paris; and my life would not be worth an hour’s purchase if I exhibited her ‘in puris naturalibus’ to the eyes of a people wholly unfamiliarized to a spectacle so indecorous. That care for one’s personal safety which is the first duty of thoughtful man compels me therefore to reconcile the appearance of ‘la Verite’ to the ‘bienseances’ of the polished society in which ‘la Liberte’ admits no opinion not dressed after the last fashion.

      Attired as fiction, Truth may be peacefully received; and, despite the necessity thus imposed by prudence, I indulge the modest hope that I do not in these pages unfaithfully represent certain prominent types of the brilliant population which has invented so many varieties of Koom-Posh;

      [Koom-Posh, Glek-Nas. For the derivation of these terms and their

       metaphorical signification, I must refer the reader to the “Coming

       Race,” chapter xii., on the language of the Vril-ya. To those who

       have not read or have forgotten that historical composition, it may

       be convenient to state briefly that Koom-Posh with the Vril-ya is

       the name for the government of the many, or the ascendency of the

       most ignorant or hollow, and may be loosely rendered Hollow-Bosh.

       When Koom-Posh degenerates from popular ignorance into the popular

       ferocity which precedes its decease, the name for that state of

       things is Glek-Nas; namely, the universal strife-rot.]

      and even when it appears hopelessly lost in the slough of a Glek-Nas, re-emerges fresh and lively as if from an invigorating plunge into the Fountain of Youth. O Paris, ‘foyer des idees, et oeil du monde!’—animated contrast to the serene tranquillity of the Vril-ya, which, nevertheless, thy noisiest philosophers ever pretend to make the goal of their desires: of all communities on which shines the sun and descend the rains of heaven, fertilizing alike wisdom and folly, virtue and vice; in every city men have yet built on this earth—mayest thou, O Paris, be the last to brave the wands of the Coming Race and be reduced into cinders for the sake of the common good!

      TISH.

      PARIS, August 28, 1872.

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       Table of Contents

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      It was a bright day in the early spring of 1869. All Paris seemed to have turned out to enjoy itself. The Tuileries, the Champs Elysees, the Bois de Boulogne, swarmed with idlers. A stranger might have wondered where Toil was at work, and in what nook Poverty lurked concealed. A millionaire from the London Exchange, as he looked round on the magasins, the equipages, the dresses of the women; as he inquired the prices in the shops and the rent of apartments—might have asked himself, in envious wonder, How on earth do those gay Parisians live? What is their fortune? Where does it come from?

      As the day declined, many of the scattered loungers crowded into the Boulevards; the cafes and restaurants began to light up.

      About this time a young man, who might be some five or six and twenty, was walking along the Boulevard des Italiens, heeding little the throng through which he glided his solitary way: there was that in his aspect and bearing which caught attention. He looked a somebody; but though unmistakably a Frenchman, not a Parisian. His dress was not in the prevailing mode: to a practised eye it betrayed the taste and the cut of a provincial tailor. His gait was not that of the Parisian—less lounging, more stately; and, unlike the Parisian, he seemed indifferent to the gaze of others.

      Nevertheless there was about him that air of dignity or distinction which those who are reared from their cradle in the pride of birth acquire so unconsciously that it seems hereditary and inborn. It must also be confessed that the young man himself was endowed with a considerable share of that nobility which Nature capriciously distributes among her favourites with little respect for their pedigree and blazon, the nobility of form and face. He was tall and well shaped, with graceful length of limb and fall of shoulders; his face was handsome, of the purest type of French masculine beauty—the nose inclined to be aquiline, and delicately thin, with finely-cut open nostrils; the complexion clear—the eyes large, of a light hazel, with dark lashes—the hair of a chestnut brown, with no tint of auburn—the beard and mustache a shade darker, clipped short, not disguising the outline of lips, which were now compressed, as if smiles had of late been unfamiliar to them; yet such compression did not seem in harmony with the physiognomical character of their formation, which was that assigned by Lavater to temperaments easily moved to gayety and pleasure.

      Another man, about his own age, coming quickly out of one of the streets of the Chausee d’Antin, brushed close by the stately pedestrian above described, caught sight of his countenance, stopped short, and exclaimed, “Alain!” The person thus abruptly accosted turned his eye tranquilly on the eager face, of which all the lower part was enveloped in black beard; and slightly lifting his hat, with a gesture of the head that implied, “Sir, you are mistaken; I have not the honour to know you,” continued his slow indifferent way. The would-be acquaintance was not so easily rebuffed. “Peste,” he said, between his teeth, “I am certainly right. He is not much altered: of course I AM; ten years of Paris would improve an orang-outang.” Quickening his step, and regaining the side of the man he had called “Alain,” he said, with a well-bred mixture of boldness and courtesy in his tone and countenance,

      “Ten thousand pardons if I am wrong. Put surely I accost Alain de Kerouec, son of the Marquis de Rochebriant.”

      “True, sir; but—”

      “But you do not remember me, your old college friend, Frederic Lemercier?”

      “Is it possibly?” cried Alain, cordially, and with an animation which charged the whole character of his countenance. “My dear Frederic, my dear friend, this is indeed good fortune! So you, too, are at Paris?”

      “Of course; and you? Just come, I perceive,” he added, somewhat satirically, as, linking his arm in his new-found friend’s, he glanced at the cut of that friend’s coat-collar.

      “I have been here a fortnight,” replied Alain.

      “Hem! I suppose you lodge in the old Hotel de Rochebriant. I passed it yesterday, admiring its vast facade, little thinking you were its inmate.”

      “Neither am

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