THE ADDRESS

VERSAILLES

SHOULD not like to have my enemy take a view of my mind when I am going to ask protection of any man: for which reason I generally endeavor to protect myself; but this going to Monsieur le Duc de C was an act of compulsion-had it been an act of choice, I should have done it, I suppose, like other people.

How many mean plans of dirty address, as I went along, did my servile heart form! I deserved the Bastille for every one of them.

Then nothing would serve me, when I got within sight of Versailles, but putting words and sentences together, and conceiving attitudes and tones to wreathe myself into Monsieur le Duc de C's good graces.-This will do-said I -Just as well, retorted I again, as a coat carried up to him by an adventurous tailor, without taking his measure.— Fool! continued I-see Monsieur le Duc's face first-observe what character is written in it-take notice in what posture he stands to hear you-mark the turns and expressions of his body and limbs-and for the tone-the first sound which comes from his lips will give it you; and from all these together you'll compound an address at once upon the spot, which cannot disgust the Duke-the ingredients are his own, and most likely to go down.

Well! said I, I wish it well over.-Coward again! as if man to man was not equal throughout the whole surface of the globe; and if in the field-why not face to face in the cabinet too? And trust me, Yorick, whenever it is not so, man is false to himself, and betrays his own succors ten times where nature does it once. Go to the Duc de C with the Bastille in thy looks-my life for it, thou wilt be sent back to Paris in half an hour with an escort.

I believe so, said I.-Then I'll go to the Duke, by Heaven! with all the gaiety and debonairness in the world.

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-And there you are wrong again, replied I.-A heart at ease, Yorick, flies into no extremes 't is ever on its center. -Well! well! cried I, as the coachman turn'd in at the gates -I find I shall do very well: and by the time he had wheel'd round the court, and brought me up to the door, I found myself so much the better for my own lecture, that I neither ascended the steps like a victim to justice, who was to part with life upon the topmost,-nor did I mount them with a skip and a couple of strides, as I do when I fly up, Eliza! to thee, to meet it.

As I enter'd the door of the saloon, I was met by a person who possibly might be the maître d'hôtel, but had more the air of one of the under-secretaries, who told me the Duc de C― was busy.—I am utterly ignorant, said I, of the forms of obtaining an audience, being an absolute stranger, and what is worse in the present conjuncture of affairs, being an Englishman too. He replied, that did not increase the difficulty. I made him a slight bow, and told him, I had something of importance to say to Monsieur le Duc. The secretary look'd towards the stairs, as if he was about to leave me to carry up this account to some one.-But I must not mislead you, said I-for what I have to say is of no manner of importance to Monsieur le Duc de C——but of great importance to myself.-C'est une autre affaire, replied he. Not at all, said I, to a man of gallantry. But pray, good Sir, continued I, when can a stranger hope to have accesse?-In not less than two hours, said he, looking at his watch. The number of equipages in the courtyard seem'd to justify the calculation, that I could have no nearer a prospect and as walking backwards and forwards in the saloon, without a soul to commune with, was for the time as bad as being in the Bastille itself, I instantly went back to my remise, and bid the coachman to drive me to the Cordon Bleu, which was the nearest hotel.

I think there is a fatality in it-I seldom go to the place I set out for.

B

LE PATISSER

VERSAILLES

EFORE I had got half-way down the street I changed

my mind: as I am at Versailles, thought I, I might as well take a view of the town; so I pull'd the cord, and ordered the coachman to drive round some of the principal streets. I suppose the town is not very large, said I.-The coachman begg'd pardon for setting me right, and told me it was very superb, and that numbers of the first dukes and marquises and counts had hotels.-The Count de B, of whom the bookseller at the Quai de Conti had spoke so handsomely the night before, came instantly into my mind. -And why should I not go, thought I, to the Count de Bwho has so high an idea of English books and Englishmen— and tell him my story? So I changed my mind a second time -in truth it was the third; for I had intended that day for Madame de R- in the Rue St. Pierre, and had devoutly sent her word by her fille de chambre that I would assuredly wait upon her-but I am govern'd by circumstances-I cannot govern them: so seeing a man standing with a basket on the other side of the street, as if he had something to sell, I bid La Fleur go up to him and inquire for the Count's hotel.

La Fleur return'd a little pale: and told me it was a Chevalier de St. Louis selling pâtés. It is impossible, La Fleur, said I.-La Fleur could no more account for the phenomenon than myself; but persisted in his story: he had seen the croix set in gold, with its red ribband, he said, tied to his buttonhole-and had looked into the basket and seen the pâtés which the Chevalier was selling; so could not be mistaken in that.

Such a reverse in man's life awakens a better principle than curiosity: I could not help looking for some time at him as I sat in the remise-the more I look'd at him, his croix,

and his basket, the stronger they wove themselves into my brain-I got out of the remise, and went towards him.

He was begirt with a clean linen apron, which fell below his knees, and with a sort of a bib that went half-way up his breast; upon the top of this, but a little below the hem, hung his croix. His basket of little pâtés was cover'd over with a white damask napkin: another of the same kind was spread at the bottom; and there was a look of propreté and neatness throughout, that one might have bought his pâtés of him, as much from appetite as sentiment.

He made an offer of them to neither; but stood still with them at the corner of a hotel, for those to buy who chose it, without solicitation.

He was about forty-eight-of a sedate look, something approaching to gravity. I did not wonder.—I went up rather to the basket than him, and having lifted up the napkin, and taken one of his pâtés into my hand-I begg'd he would explain the appearance which affected me.

He told me in a few words, that the best part of his life had pass'd in the service, in which, after spending a small patrimony, he had obtain❜d a company and the croix with it; but that, at the conclusion of the last peace, his regiment being reformed, and the whole corps, with those of some other regiments, left without any provision-he found himself in a wide world without friends, without a livre-and indeed, said he, without anything but this-(pointing, as he said it, to his croix).-The poor chevalier won my pity, and he finished the scene with winning my esteem too.

The king, he said, was the most generous of princes, but his generosity could neither relieve or reward every one, and it was only his misfortune to be amongst the number. He had a little wife, he said, whom he loved, who did the pâtisserie; and added, he felt no dishonor in defending her and himself from want in this way-unless Providence had offer'd him a better.

It would be wicked to withhold a pleasure from the good, in passing over what happen'd to this poor Chevalier of St. Louis about nine months after.

It seems he usually took his stand near the iron gates which lead up to the palace, and as his croix had caught the

eye of numbers, numbers had made the same inquiry which I had done. He had told the same story, and always with so much modesty and good sense, that it had reach'd at last the king's ears-who hearing the chevalier had been a gallant officer, and respected by the whole regiment as a man of honor and integrity-he broke up his little trade by a pension of fifteen hundred livres a year.

As I have told this to please the reader, I beg he will allow me to relate another, out of its order, to please myselfthe two stories reflect light upon each other—and 't is a pity they should be parted.