Punch or The London charivari: Punch or The London charivari (2.1842)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

59

THE SUNDAY AT PARIS.

[From our own Correspondent.)

ARIS is peculiar at any time, but six times more on a Sunday.
Every one imbued with English notions, and not free from
English prejudices, must, if he have passed but one week at
Paris, have felt no little astonishment at the motley charac-
teristics of the first Sunday he spent there ; not exactly for the
Christian Sunday, the day of rest and religion, but for the
citizen Sunday, the day for clean linen and white trousers—for
finery and foppery,—in short, for the Sunday with its Sunday
clothes on—for the Sunday Sundayned.

On Sunday, Paris assumes a physiognomy quite unique. Moral-
ists will speak of it hereafter, and regret the day that Paris ever
had such a day as Sunday. The painter, whose atelier during the week is the sanctuary of
art and industry, where amateurs meet to distribute their praise and patronage, is to be seen
on the Sunday in the heart of a dense crowd waiting for six o'clock to open the doors of
some theatre on the Boulerards, with his wife on one arm, and his children on the other. The
composer, whose opera is running its fiftieth night, is parading six deep with the National
Guard. He is intent upon military tactics, and is aching under the weight of his musket
outside the Tuileries. There are certain triends that are only seen on a Sunday, that only
borrow money on a Sunday,—certain beauties that are only tolerated on a Sunday, and
thrown aside immediately with the Monday ; there are certain books (with but one excep-
tion) that are only read on a Sundav, and the theatres have their performances for the ,

Sunday, just as one has his visits for'the Sunday, his dinners for the Sunday, his particular inan- Instead ot the 1frS?> rich> sumPtuous>
coat and gloves for the Sundav. The Sunday reigns everywhere. : aristocratic, transparent shops, that glitter so

It is on the Sunday that the reviews take place-that the drums beat loudest—that the JT^SLx^0™™!^^^^**!^™^'
washerwomen bring in their bills —that the wife takes longer dressing—that the children
dine at table—that the cousins drop in to dessert—that the servants expect to "have their
evening out." It is likewise the day, par excellence, for picnics and railway excursions—the
day for balls, balloons, and fireworks—the day for stolen handkerchiefs and missing
umbrellas, tight boots, oranges, cabs, roasted chesnuts, and omnibuses. More duels and
disputes—more accidents and rows—more blows and black-eyes, are given and received on , -

a Sunday-more wet feet and indigestions-more colds and rheumatisms, are got on a ladies> and are no longer recognisable under

Sunday, than all the other davs of the vear put together. It is a wonder the Revolution of ±eir new aggrandisements and foho shawls.

July never broke out on a Sunday. However, it was on a Sunday that Fieschi first made ' ^ Promenade the Boulevards in showy

his name terrible ; and it was likewise on a Sunday (to say nothing of its being the first dresses> and wJth a modls 1 a""> and fea^ered

night of the production of Robert le Diahle) that the Duke de Berri was assassinated ; and it is bonnets,—or they spend the day in omnibuses

too true to be doubted by any one who has passed a Sunday at Paris that more bad money [ and cabs> and &° to,.the, theatie m the f fn"

is palmed off on that one day than the theatres can afford to get rid of the other six of the aft£r havmS dmed *°r f*" at he

week ' 6 j Palais Royal,—or else retreat to the country

And as for intrigue, the Sunday is a complete antidote to it. During the week the ladies j in ™mPaP/ with f melou and a cold pie,
nrp vieil.lo Q->.Q,.,. * ti » i i TM » i i ■ n. i u * *i u> i r and eat it upon the grass, never forgetting

aie Msibie every dav at three o clock. Ihreeo clock is the busy hour ot the Exchange, of . , 1 ,. .. ., , ° ... ■

J . ._ . o » urinrt nntho {activities nt t MP (1:1V With ;l

saloon is not once entered from morning to
night; the sofa has a day of rest. The Sun-
day is the busiest day of the week, and the
most disagreeable one — the husband is at
home !

During the week there is nothing more pic-
turesque,—more characteristic of the city—
in short, nothing more than Frenchy—than
the appearance of the Parisian shop-girls be-
hind their counters. A great number of
them are very pretty, for they are generally
picked and selected for this profitable purpose,
—or if not pretty, they study to cheat you
into the belief that they are, by the siduisante
prettiness of their dress. The little aproas,
with their pair of pockets to hold thimble and
thread, and all the tiny artillery of the semp-
stress—the fancy mittens—the silky hair—
the pretty earrings — the showy scarf —■
the dress altogether is neatness itself— the
tout ensemble is elegance peculiarly French and
coquettish. But on the Sunday the shops are
closed, with the exception of the confiseurs,
coiffeurs, cafes, and such as are requisite to con-
tribute to the stomach and vanity of a Frencli-

the streets present nothing but two long, in-
terminable rows of dirty, blank, melancholy-
looking shutters, girthed with ribs of iron, just
as if each house was nothing but an immense
strong-box. On the Sunday, the little shop-
girls figure for four-and-twenty hours as great

tne Chamber of Deputies, of the Courts of Law, in short of all the offices of Paris. The
lawyer is pleading, the banker discounting, the deputy voting, the minister signing. Three
o'clock at Paris on any of the work-days is the hour most pregnant, most palpitating with
flattery and finesse. The young girl has just finished her morning lessons—just locked-up her
piano, or covered her harp ; the young widow lias just sent her children to the Tuileries,
and is sitting at home sentimentally alone. All life, all distraction, is in the streets; in the
drawing-room everything is quiet and retirement ; everything lends to a flirtation—every-
thing contributes to a sentimental tUe-a-ttte. The little saloon, where Madame is reading yes-
terday's romance, and receives her visitor with a languishing air horizontalized upon the

sofa, is a sanctuary which business seldom invades,—a holy spot which the husband never
profanes. Business chains him elsewhere.

But, on the Sunday, what a lamentable change ! The courts are closed,—the lawyers, so
abusive against each other during the week, shake hands, and walk arm-in-arm, like Pylades
and Orestes, together,—the ledger is clasped for the day,—stockbrokers scour the country
in gigs and English phaetons ; and ministers give their official dinners. All sentiment is put
to Bight—all intrigue inhumanely extinguished! The wife stops at home—inspects her
wardrobe—hunts after moths—collects her curl-papers—visits the pantry—takes an inven-
tory of the larder—and scolds her husband and servants the whole day long. The little

to wind up the festivities of the day with a
glass or two of two-franc champagne and a bed
champitre.

Many strangers coach it from the country
to Paris, in order to visit the diamonds of
Mademoiselle Mars. This is the reason why
the Theatre Francais is always so full on a Sun-
day ; no diamonds in the world ever possessed
greater attraction than these. It is likewise the
Sunday that the strangers select to risk their
uninsured lives upon horseback. The Bois de
Boulogne (the ridiculous rival of Hyde Park) is
sure to be full of equestrians and accidents on
that day from four to six o'clock.

It is only on the Sunday, too, that the poor
debtor enjoys a respite of four-and-twenty
hours from the duns or huissiers. It is the only
dav of the week he can fearlessly tread his
natal Asphalte. In the morning he is a con-
noisseur at the Louvre, in raptures before Ru-
bens' Marie de Medicis. lu the afternoon he
dines at Verey's, and spends upon frogs and
pineapples the sum that would go far to pre-
sent him during the week with the liberty he
enjoys only on the Sunday, and in the evening
goes to the Porte St. Martin, and assists,
pocket-handkerchief in hand,at the horrors of
the Tour deNesle. La Chavmiere—the Grecian
Saloon of Paris—which is always in full festi-
vity at twelve o'clock on a Sunday night, shel-
ters him till daybreak, when he sneaks into
his lodging just as the rising of the sun puts
a full stop to the period of the freedom al-
lowed him by the law.

But nothing is more curious at Paris than