Lectures of Lola Montez/Chapter 7

The French wits tell a laughable story of an untravelled Englishman who, on landing at Calais, was received by a sulky red-haired hostess, when he instantly wrote down in his note-book—"All French women are sulky and red-haired."

We never heard whether this Englishman afterwards corrected his first impressions of French women, but quite likely he never did, for there is nothing so difficult on earth as for an Englishman to get over first impressions, and especially is this the case in relation to everything in France. An aristocratic Englishman may live years in Paris without really knowing anything about it. In the first place, he goes there with letters of introduction to the Faubourg ​St. Germain, where he finds only the fossil remains of the old noblesse, intermixed with a slight proportion of the actual intelligence of the country, and here he moves round in the stagnant circles of historical France, and it is a wonder if he gets so much as a glimpse of the living progressive Paris. There is nothing on earth, unless it be a three thousand year old mummy, that is so grim, and stiff, and shrivelled, as the pure old French nobility.

France is at present the possessor of three separate and opposing Nobilities.

1st. There is the Nobility of the Empire, the Napoleonic nobility, which is based on military and civil genius.

2d. There is the Orleans Nobility, the family of the late Louis Philippe, represented in the person of the young Count de Paris.

3d. The Legitimists, or the old aristocracy of the Bourbon stock, represented in the person of Henry the Fifth, Duc de Bordeaux, now some fifty years old, and laid snugly away in exile in Italy.

​It is worthy of remark that the Orleanists and the Legitimists do not bear to each other much more love than they do the Bonaparte family.

In fact, both Legitimists and Orleanists winked at the coup d'état of Louis Napoleon, because they preferred to accept what they deem a temporary outside rule, rather than to give way one to the other. Those who are familiar with the actual state of things in France know very well that Louis Napoleon obtained the throne through the mutual jealousies of the Legitimists and the Orleanists, and we may add that he holds that throne by the same tenure; and whenever the interests of those opposing families become one, then will the present Emperor have to battle sharply to retain his throne; and that time may not be far off.

The Duc de Bordeaux, who is without issue, is the last of the old Bourbon line, and when he dies that branch of the royal claimants will become extinct, and then the Count de Paris will be the sole legitimate heir to the throne of France. Then the now divided interests will become one.

​To this consolidated aristocracy we may add that other power most considerable in France, the Socialist or Democratic party, who thoroughly hate Louis Napoleon, and will jump at the first opportunity to revenge themselves upon what they regard as his treachery to the republic. The Emperor is himself keenly sensible to the fact that whenever all these interests become consolidated into one against him, as by the accident of the death of one man they are quite sure to do, he will be terribly shaken upon his throne. This is probably the real reason of his anxiety to seal a fast friendship between himself and England, in which project he is encouraged by the fact that England really owes the Bourbons no particular good will. Now it is this old Bourbon or Legitimate line that we mean when we speak of the aristocracy of France. This nobility has all the old and most revered names of France—names rendered dear to the French by association with the early battles and proudest history of the country.

This nobility lives in isolation from the rest of ​France. They regard their country as now in a state of anarchy. They did not acknowledge Louis Philippe, and they patiently wait for the time when a legitimate sovereign shall sit once more on the consecrated throne of the Bourbons.

This proud old Nobility never marry out of their own ranks. The English nobleman may marry a tradesman's daughter, but a French nobleman of this branch would as soon renounce his religion as do that. They are not a part of society in France, rarely ever appear at public places of amusement, or show themselves in any of the ordinary thoroughfares of the people. However poor they may be, they still quietly and proudly wrap themselves in the dignity of their birth, and shut their eyes and ears to all the activities of living France.

There was one lady of this Nobility, bearing the historic name of Forbin Jansen, who made a mésalliance for her second marriage, with a celebrated painter by the name of Jaquard. For this she was banished from society, but being a most estimable ​lady, she retained the respect of many individuals of the Nobility, who quietly continued her society. Circumstances brought me to the acquaintance, and I may say to the friendship of this lady. She was a great admirer, and by her influence a patron of art and genius in whatever profession it displayed itself. I had to ascend six flights of stairs, where I found the old marquise surrounded with poverty, but still with all the airs of real nobility. There, in that garret, she received the most distinguished names of old France; and although in great poverty, she is still a leading oracle of the ancient legitimist nobility. With that nobility wealth or poverty is nothing; all is birth.

Much is said and much believed in this country about the intrigues among the different classes of the French, but in justice to them it must be said that nearly all these intrigues are somehow based in intellectualism. Intellectual beauty goes farther in Paris than in any other part of the globe.

It is not uncommon to see an old lady of sixty ​years the idol of a man of thirty. Mdlle. Mars, the great comic actress of France, when she was sixty years old, won the heart and mind of Count de Morny, who was but twenty-six, and one of the handsomest men in France. I have seen him myself at the Italian opera in Paris, hang over her chair, as though he were about to dissolve into sighs; it was spring madly laying its head of flowers in the lap of winter. And yet she was not even in her youth, beautiful; but she knew how to be charming. And above all, and more than all, she had genius, which always goes so far with the French gallant. The world is familiar with the fact that when she was robbed of all her diamonds, this young Count presented her with a new set worth over four hundred thousand francs!

The famous Dejazet, another actress of great comic genius, when she was forty-five years old, though neither beautiful nor refined in her manners, ran away with the hearts of half the young men of Paris. The son of that General Bertrand who shared the ​captivity of Napoleon at St. Helena, became totally ruined in his fortune by this celebrated wit. There was a time when no feast for literary people in Paris was complete without her. Her wit sparkled like champagne. Her repartees were inimitable, and were repeated from mouth to mouth all over Paris. Nothing could equal the magnificence and elegance of her house—her kind heart was like a deep well for ever flowing.

Young, and when her genius was in the first fresh tide of its fame, a young nobleman, not over gifted with brains, used to wait upon her almost every day with some valuable present, as a testimony of the admiration her mental gifts had won. But one day he came without a present, and, in a confused manner, told her in the presence of her company that he should hereafter bring a present only every other day; "then," said she, "come only every other day."

No description which I can give can convey a just idea of the fascination of society among such wits as Dejazet; and nowhere do you find that kind of ​society so complete as in Paris. Nowhere else do you find so many women of wit and genius mingling in the assemblies and festive occasions of literary men; and I may add that in no part of the world is literary society so refined, so brilliant, and charmingly intellectual as in Paris. It is a great contrast to literary society in London or America. Listen to the following confession of Lord Byron:—"I have left an assembly filled with all the great names of haut-ton in London, and where little but names were to be found, to seek relief from the ennui that overpowered me, in a cider cellar and have found there more food for speculation than in the vapid circles of glittering dulness I had left."

Could the noble poet have found in London the society that gathers around such wits and men of genius as Dumas, Victor Hugo, Méry, Samson, in Paris, he would have been spared the humiliation of seeking the society of a cider-cellar to save himself from ennui. Around these last-mentioned literary lights revolved the intelligence and wit of Paris during ​my residence there six years ago. Of these Dumas was the first, as he would be in any city of the world. He is not only the boon companion of princes, but the prince of boon companions. He is now about fifty-five years old—a tall, fine looking man, with intellect stamped on his brow, and wit sparkling in every look and motion. Of all the men I ever met with, he is the most brilliant in conversation. His nature is overflowing with generosity, and he is consequently always out of pocket. He receives immense sums for his writings, but they never meet his expenses. Indeed, one of the funniest things in Paris is the perpetual flight of Alexander Dumas from his creditors. To elude them he used sometimes to live from house to house, among his friends. He once went to borrow five francs of a wealthy old lady, who said, "Oh, Monsieur Dumas, a hundred if you want it." But he said, "Only five, to pay my cab hire." He was a great favorite of this excellent old lady, and in the conversation she informed him that she had just finished her preserves for the winter, and insisted on his taking a ​pot as a present. The servant girl took it down to Dumas's cab, whereon he immediately handed her the five-franc piece which he had borrowed of her mistress—the only actual money he was at that time in possession of. Such is Alexander Dumas's appreciation and use of money.

Another time Dumas met a poor artist who told him he was starving, and had not a penny to save himself. Dumas had not a penny either, but he found a gentleman who knew him, and went with him into the first bank they passed. He said to the banker, "I am Alexander Dumas." All immediately paid their respects to him; he continued, "Here is a gentleman whom you know, who knows that I am Dumas, and here is a poor artist who is starving, and I have no money to give him. I wish you to accept a bond from me on the first book I write for fifty francs." It was accepted, and the poor artist went on his way rejoicing.

It very often happens that when Dumas is visiting a friend, one of his creditors is announced, and he ​instantly makes for his hat, and flics before his foe like a Mexican lancer. He owes everybody in Paris; out of a hundred men you meet, you may be sure that seventy-five of them are Dumas's creditors.

His marriage was an act of flight from a creditor. The lady was an actress, Mdlle. Ada, who had neither beauty, genius, nor a spotless character to commend her—but her father was a broker to whom poor Dumas owed immense sums of money, and he was pushing Dumas to the last extremity of the law for his money. But Dumas had no money, and the old broker, seized with a bright thought, proposed to forgive him the whole amount if he would marry his daughter Ada. This alternative Dumas preferred to going to jail, so he did marry her—if such a life as they afterwards led could be called a married life.

One afternoon, on stepping suddenly into his own drawing-room, he caught a stranger gentleman in the act of giving a kiss to his wife. He gazed at him with wonder for some time, and then exclaimed, "Good heavens, and without his being obliged to!"

​Dumas has always been a great favorite with the Orleans family; in fact, I know not what society in France is not glad to receive him, though he has a horror of society, in the usual acceptation of the term. He is always sought for at convivial suppers, and is always sure to attend them.

Roger de Beauvoir, another wit and writer of romance and poetry, was one of the three men that kept Paris alive when I was there. He was most eccentric, a great ladies' man, always dressed like a Cupid taken out of a band-box. His fights with his creditors were the most remarkable part of his history. One time he emptied the contents of his bath-tub on the head of his creditor, who fled in terror, never to come back again. At another time he threw all the wood and coal of his huge French fireplace on several unfortunate creditors who were standing in the courtyard attempting to gain admittance, and refusing to leave without some kind of satisfaction, which they got at last in the shape of burning coals on their heads. But Roger was a genius, and always managed by an ​invitation to a supper party to silence his creditors, promising that they should have the honor to hear and see the male and female celebrities of the day.

Samson, another of this trinity of wits, was an actor and a teacher of the great Rachel. He was an excellent man, highly respected, and his decision in all theatrical matters was law. He always reminded me of a passage from Ben Jonson descriptive of a town wit—"Alas! Sir Horace is a mere sponge; nothing but humors and observations, he goes up and down sucking from every society, and when he comes home, squeezes himself dry again. He will tell all he knows. He would sooner lose his best friend than his best jest."

But Samson was an amiable jester, and always inclined to the good-natured side of human nature. In this respect he was a great and happy contrast to another celebrated person I used to meet with, Jules Janin, the malicious and caustic critic of the "Journal des Debats." Samson used to call him the executioner, and he bore another name, "the guillotinist of ​artists." Every one feared him, and everybody was particularly civil to him through fear. I do not know. (his wife not excepted), of any one that loves him in all Paris. The charming Countess de Merlain, a literary woman herself, and whose saloons were ever crowded by talent and genius, always said of him that whenever he entered her presence she had after each visit one grey hair the more.

But there is no doubt of his ability as a critic and translator; he always appeared as if he were locked up, lest the world should see into his heart. But he has great power in his way in Paris, a competent critic in art being always a great man there. Love of art is a distinctive trait of the French nation. In fact you see art in everything there. The cook is an artist, who compounds his flavors with as nice a respect to science, as docs the painter in combining his colors. The French woman is an artiste in the selection of her toilette; and even the youth who arranges Cashmere shawls, laces, or what not, in a shop window, shows the artistic feeling also. It will not perhaps be a matter ​of indifference to ladies to know that the celebrated Mons. Constatin (a Portuguese nobleman in exile), celebrated for his artificial flowers, of which there is no equal, is so particular about his finest specimens that he has the real flower put into a glass of water and the imitated one by its side in another, and the young ladies employed in its manufacture are all made to say which is the real and which the artificial; should one of them tell the difference, the flower is destroyed and recommenced over again. In fact, everything is art in Paris. There are artists in coat-making (other-wheres called tailors); artists in shoemaking; artists in hair; and even I remember one day seeing on a little sign-board "artist in blacking boots."

One of the most remarkable and the most noted persons to be met with in Paris is Madame Dudevant, commonly known as Georges Sand. She is now about fifty years of age (it is no crime to speak of the age of a woman of her genius), a large, masculine, coarse-featured woman, but with fine eyes, and open, easy frank, and hearty in her manner to friends. To a dis​cerning mind her writings will convey a correct idea of the woman. You meet her everywhere dressed in men's clothes—a custom which she adopts from no mere caprice or waywardness of character, but for the reason that in this garb she is enabled to go where she pleases without exciting curiosity, and seeing and hearing what is most useful and essential for her in writing her books. She is undoubtedly the most masculine mind of France at the present day.

Through the folly of her relations she was early married to a fool, but she soon left him in disgust, and afterwards formed a friendship with Jules Sandeau, a novelist and clever critic. It was he who discovered her genius, and first caused her to write. It was the name of this author, Jules Sandeau, that she altered into George Sand, a name which she has made immortal.

Georges Sand in company is silent, and except when the conversation touches a sympathetic cord in her nature, little given to demonstration. Then she will talk earnestly on great matters, generally on Philosophy ​or Theology, but in vain will you seek to draw her into conversation on the little matters of ordinary chit-chat. She lives in a small circle of friends, where she can say and do as she pleases. Her son is a poor weak-brained creature, perpetually annoying the whole neighborhood, by beating on a huge drum night and day. She has a daughter married to Chlessindur, the celebrated sculptor—but who resembles but little her talented mother. Madame Georges Sand has had a life of wild storms, with few rays of sunshine to brighten her pathway; and like most of the reformers of the present day, especially if it is her misfortune to be a woman, is a target placed in a conspicuous position to be shot at by all dark unenlightened human beings, who may have peculiar motives for restraining the progress of mind; but it is as absurd in this glorious nineteenth century, to attempt to destroy freedom of thought, and the sovereignty of the individual, as it is to stop the falls of Niagara.

There was a gifted and fashionable lady (the Countess of Agout), herself an accomplished authoress, ​concerning whom and Georges Sand a curious story is told. They were great friends, and the celebrated pianist Liszt was the admirer of both. Things went on smoothly for some time, all couleur de rose; when one fine day Liszt and Georges Sand disappeared suddenly from Paris, having taken it into their heads to make the tour of Switzerland for the summer together. Great was the indignation of the fair Countess at this double desertion; and when they returned to Paris, Madame d'Agout went to Georges Sand and immediately challenged the great writer to a duel, the weapons to be finger-nails, etc. Poor Liszt ran out of the room and locked himself up in a dark closet till the deadly affray was ended, and then made his body over in charge to a friend, to be preserved, as he said, for the remaining assailant.

Madame d'Agout was married to an old man, a book-worm, who cared for naught else but his Library; he did not know even the number of children he possessed, and so little the old philosopher cared about the matter that when a stranger came to the ​house, he invariably, at the appearance of the family, said, "Allow me to present to you my wife's children," all this with the blandest smile and most contented air.

I once asked Georges Sand which she thought the greatest pianist, Liszt or Thalberg; she replied Liszt is the first, but there is only one Thalberg. If I were to attempt to give you an idea of the difference between Liszt and Thalberg, I should say that Thalberg is like the clear, placid flow of a deep grand river—while Liszt is the same tide foaming, and bubbling, and dashing on like a cataract. If Liszt were to come to this country, he would raise a furore, as he did in Hungary,—where the gallant Hungarians, beside themselves with admiration, presented the piano-forte player with a handsome sword; forgetting the ridicule of a weapon of destruction in hands that never destroyed or fought anything else but a piano-forte.

Now to return a moment to Georges Sand. The stories of her indelicate eccentricities, so freely circulated in the press of the United States, are perfect ​fabrications. She is a large-brained and large-hearted woman, conscious of her own strength, and therefore independent in her opinions. All the absurd tales about this great-minded woman, are probably not so much intended by those that invented them for malice, as for the sake of making some interesting gossiping paragraph about this celebrated woman.

I am happy that there was one American author, the late lamented Margaret Fuller, who had not only the intellect to rightly understand her, but the courage to defend her.

In Paris literary people and artists form a distinct society of their own, where others find it sometimes impossible to enter. What need Georges Sand care for the artificial, and I may add the hypocritical pretensions of what calls itself par excellence society? When that society has all vanished like a vapor, when not a vestige is left of it, she will still live in the memory and the admiration of posterity.

The incidents of her life which have furnished food for silly people and lovers of scandal, will be forgotten, ​and the light of her genius will shine in the circles that shall gather around thousands of hearths in every country.

Georges Sand gives a laughable account of an old, shrivelled, and miserable-looking piece of parchment in the shape of a Countess, who came hobbling into a company in the cholera time, smelling something from a good-sized bottle and exclaiming:—"Oh, this is very dreadful, the cholera is making frightful progress." It was all very well when the people only were attacked. They were justly punished for their sins, and their provoking insolence. But the matter is really now becoming more alarming. The disease is beginning to invade the ranks of society. Monsieur Le Marquis B—— was carried off this morning; he died a beautiful death!"

The thing to be noticed in this anecdote is the distinction made between the people and society; and I think you will agree with me that persons who are received and respected by the former, need not bother themselves much about the latter.

​I have occasionally met Rachel in the company of literary people and artists in Paris, but she was never a feature, never even a prominent member of such a party. As she loved nothing but money, nothing else appeared to love her. She had no talent for conversation. She had indeed but one gift, that of delivery—of concentrated mimicry, in which she was unsurpassed.

Lamartine I have often met on business, but not in company. He seldom goes anywhere. He is a dreary, lonely man, who shuns crowds, and isolates himself in a beautiful world of his own. His wife is an Englishwoman, who has small sympathy with the French. manners, which fact may further contribute to keeping him from the world; and besides he has not recovered and never will, the death of his only child, a sweet young thing fifteen years old, who died in Syria of consumption.

In this connexion I may name old Professor Tissot of the French Academy, and the oldest Academician in France. The scientific world is as familiar with his name as with the name of science itself. He is a rem​nant of dead France; a guide-book through all the labyrinths of its revolutions, and scenes of blood. He witnessed the reign of terror, the execution of Madame Roland, and that of Charlotte Corday, and the fall and death of Robespierre. He was an intimate friend of Madame de Stael, was a spectator of the accession of the Empire, of the downfall of the Empire, of the restoration of the Bourbons, of the downfall of the Bourbons, of the accession of the younger branch of the house of Orleans, of its downfall, and of the return of the Bonapartes.

He it was that furnished Lamartine with much of his materials for his "History of the Girondins." He wanders about Paris, pointing out the places of the past, showing you where Danton, Robespierre, Marat, and Mirabeau lived, and where all the horrors of the reign of terror took place. He comes sometimes among his friends and relates his tales of horror. The old man could not be satisfied with living in any decently named street of the present day, but has resided with his old wife in the ancient part of Paris, ​giving his address Professor Tissot, rue de l'Enfer (Hell street).

The old man is much esteemed by the students, and though pensioned by government, still lectures to his pupils. Such another relic of past events I venture to say does not exist in the world.

I have now sketched my impressions of some of the really celebrated literary people and artists with whom I have a personal acquaintance, but had almost forgotten one who never will be forgotten in the hearts of the reading people throughout the world, and who has lately gone to his rest. You will at once know that I am speaking of Eugéne Sue. His courage in avowing his opinions in the face of whatever opposition, and even of threats, marks him as one of the great heroes of the age. He was an honest, sincere, truth-loving man; and it will be long before Paris can fill the place which death has made vacant.

I have something more to say of the social and moral aspects of life in Paris, which impressed me as being not essentially different from life in the other ​capitals of the civilized world, except in its disuse of masks and false pretensions. Vice has got an ugly fashion of going naked in Paris, while in London and New York it dresses itself up in garments of respectability, if not of absolute piety, and so disguises and hides itself, that externally it ceases to be apparent. But after all that has been said about the immoralities of Paris, the difference between that city and London and New York is more in appearance than in reality. In attempting a sketch of social life in the French capital, I am obliged to speak of the women, because I do not suppose that any one expects any particular amount of morality among the men. There is no city where young girls are so entirely protected from every temptation as in Paris. The treatment of young unmarried women there is entirely Oriental. They are watched by mothers with extremest care, not only because it is believed to be right as a principle, but because no young lady has the least prospect of a respectable marriage, if the idea gets abroad that this watchfulness has been for a single moment relaxed. A mother who ​should allow her daughter to walk out alone but once with a young man, is regarded as having disgraced her child, and the poor girl is immediately pointed at.

Even after the marriage contract is signed, they are allowed but little liberty of intercourse, and never see each other except in the presence of others. They sit at opposite sides of the room, and any show of affection would be considered not only ridiculous but ill-bred. As one extreme follows another, the French ladies, when once they are emancipated by marriage (and marriage in France in the fashionable world is a complete emancipation from restraint), make up for lost time. The wife in Paris is as free as the girl is restrained. You must understand that nine-tenths of all marriages are brought about by calculation and reason, and not at all by affection. Marriage there is not a union of persons, but a union of properties or of worldly interests. A wealthy person went to a banker and said, "I want to marry your daughter; here are the title-deeds of my estates." Nothing more was requisite, the match was sealed, and the daughter, ​rejoicing in the marriage trousseau, was transferred to the purchaser. Generally speaking, however, it is the young lady who has to buy the husband. I have read of a peasant who was about to lead to the altar a young bride, all blushes and muslin, when her father observed: "Now I think of it, I must remind you that the great cherry-tree in the orchard remains mine." "No," said the bridegroom, it must be mine." "No," said the father, "it remains mine." "Well then," said the bridegroom, "I will not marry your daughter." And so the ceremony was stopped. But I have heard a still more laughable story. A washerwoman had betrothed her daughter, a girl of fifteen years old, to a barber, and promised to give her a dowry of five hundred francs. The day before the marriage, the girl came to the shop and peeped in at the door, saying, "Mother says she has changed her mind about the dowry." The barber, who had the nose of one of his customers between his thumb and finger, looked over his shoulder and replied, "You are joking." "No," said the bride apparent. ​"mother wants the money herself." "Then tell her," said the barber, making a gash on his victim's chin, "that I sha'n't marry you." This may appear an exaggeration, but it is not so. It is quite common to hear of marriages being broken off in Paris on this account. What is marriage worth under such circumstances? What protection is marriage to a woman where her heart is not the object of the alliance? It is undoubtedly true that comparatively few marriages remain long undisturbed in Paris. Woman is possessed with a higher and holier feeling than the mere selfish disposition of her person. The reason why the works of Georges Sand have had great influence, is because they correspond with the state of female public opinion. She did not invent, but she drew attention to existing grounds of complaint. The French women have wept over "Indiana," and read "Consuelo" with approving heart.

If the wives of Paris are accused of intrigues, it is because marriage is less an affair of the heart than the purse. The French woman is naturally intelli​gent, and consequently seeks for intelligence in those around her. In England you hear of young ladies eloping with their fathers' footmen, and in America a lady may be captivated in the same way; but in France, a woman never intrigues with those in inferior position to herself.

The great evil of Paris is that there is no such institution there as Home; as a general fact that sanctifier of the heart—that best shelter and friend of woman—that beautiful feeling called "Home"—does not exist. The nearest approach to this deplorable state of things is found among the business people of the United States. I have noticed this particularly in New York, where the merchant is never at home, except to sleep, and even then his brain is so racked with per cents, advances, or depressions in prices, the rise and fall of stocks, &c., that he brings no fond affection to his family. The husband's brain is a ledger, and his heart a counting-room. And where is woman to find in all this the response to a heart overflowing with affection? And this is as true in New York as in Paris. ​Indeed, as for intrigues, New York may almost rival Paris. There is no country where the women are more fond of dress and finery than the United States, and history shows us that there is no such depraver of women as this vanity. A hundred women stumble over that block of vanity, where one falls by any other cause. And if the insane mania for dress and show does not end in a general decay of female morals, then the lessons of history and the experience of all ages must go for naught.

Georges Sand relates an instance of having seen a blooming beauty wandering along the streets of Paris, where she was accosted by a young student, who said, "Where are you going?" She replied, "Nowhere." Then," said he, "as we are both bound for the same place, we will both go together." Alas, there are so many young women in Paris who are going "nowhere," and there are so many foolish young men to go with them. How many of those girls that go "nowhere," who would have been types of noble, industrious, frugal women, are fallen down and run over ​by the waysides of life, without one good Samaritan to lift them up again, and to tell them that we have all to live to go—somewhere.

It is well known to those who have read Sterne, that when the accusing spirit flew up to Heaven, with Uncle Toby's sin, the recording angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon it, and blotted it out for ever.

If there be yet another tear in Heaven, I pray that it may be shed upon the spot that records the sins of Paris.