The Memoirs of François René Vicomte de Chateaubriand sometime Ambassador to England, Volume 1 (of 6): Mémoires d'outre-tombe, volume 1Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de
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The Memoirs of François René Vicomte de Chateaubriand sometime Ambassador to England, Volume 1 (of 6): Mémoires d'outre-tombe, volume 1
Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de
Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de, 1768-1848
I in my turn went on a voyage of discovery, with the address given, two
hundred and forty years before, by Bassompierre. I crossed the Petit
Pont, passed the Markets, and followed the Rue Saint-Denis as far as
the Rue aux Ours, on the right; the first street on the left, ending in
the Rue aux Ours, is the Rue Bourg-l'Abbé. Its inscription, smoky as
though through time and a fire, gave me good hope. I found the "third
little door on the side of the Rue Saint-Martin," so faithful are the
historian's directions. There, unfortunately, the two centuries and a
half, which at first I thought had lingered in the street, disappear.
The frontage of the house is modern; no light issued from the first,
nor from the second, nor from the third floor. From the attic-windows,
beneath the roof, hung a garland of nasturtiums and sweet peas; on the
ground-floor, a hairdresser's shop displayed a variety of towers of
hair behind the window-panes.
In great discomfiture, I entered this museum of the Eponines: since the
Roman Conquest, the Gallic women have always sold their yellow tresses
to foreheads less richly decked; my Breton countrywomen still let
themselves be shorn on certain fair-days, and barter the natural veil
of their heads for an Indian kerchief. Addressing a barber, who was
drawing a wig over an iron comb:
"Sir," said I, "do you happen to have purchased the hair of a young
sempstress who used to live at the sign of the Two Angels, near the
Petit Pont?"
He stood dumfoundered, unable to say either yes or no. I asked a
thousand pardons, and made my way out through a labyrinth of toupees.
I wandered next from door to door: no sempstress, twenty years of age,
making me "deep courtesies;" no frank, disinterested, passionate young
woman, "her head dressed for the night, wearing naught but a very fine
shift, a short petticoat of green stuff, and slippers on her feet, with
a wrapper around her." A grumbling old crone, ready to join her teeth
in the tomb, was near to beating me with her crutch: perhaps it was the
aunt of the assignation!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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