He does not stop to
think, as he sips his post-prandial coffee at Hartman's window, of the
line of French chivalry that a century ago made their favorite
promenade by the spot where he now sits. His mind, running on Mrs.
A----'s ball or Mrs. B----'s lawn-tennis, is far from dreaming of the
irresistible De Lauzun, the gallant De Fersen, a fugitive from the love
of a queen, but destined to serve her as lackey in her need, the two
handsome Viosmenils, the baron Cromot du Bourg, the duc de Deux-Ponts,
or any of the brilliant cortege of a bygone day. But what memories the
mere enumeration of their names brings up! Rank and valor were the
heritage of all of them, an heroic but unhappy end the fate of most.
Who can say that the aroma of their presence does not still linger
round the old town, up and down the narrow streets where they passed
with gay jests and clanking sword, or in the quaint mansions, still
peeping out from behind century-old hedges, where they left the record
of their graces in the heart of their host and of their loves on his
window-pane? What can be pleasanter than for the American pen to linger
over the page of history that chronicles the generous sympathy which
brought this fine flower of France to our shores? Where is the heart,
even in our cynical nineteenth century, which holds enthusiasm an
anachronism, that does not thrill at the recollection of the chivalry
that quitted the luxury and revels of Versailles to dare the dangers of
an ocean-voyage (then no ten-day pleasure-trip) for a cause that still
hung in the balances of success? Viewed practically, the help offered
was even more deserving of praise.
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