We walked on the old Ramparts where we first made acquaintance, where
Richard used to follow my sister Blanche and myself when we were sent
out to learn our lessons _al fresco_. We even saw the wall where he
chalked up, "May I speak to you?" and I chalked back, "No; mother will
be angry." I hunted out my little brother's grave too, and planted it
with fresh rose trees; and I visited my old friend Carolina, the Queen
of the Poissardes. She was still a beautiful creature, magnificent in
her costume. She reminded me of a promise I had made her in the old
days, that if ever I went to Jerusalem I would bring her a rosary. I
little dreamt then that I should marry Richard Burton, or that he would
be Consul at Damascus, or that I should go to Jerusalem. Yet all these
things had come to pass. And so I was able to fulfil my promise, to
her great delight.
From Boulogne we went to Paris, which I found terribly changed since the
Franco-German War. The marks of the terrible Siege were still burnt upon
its face; and this applied not only to the city itself, but to the
people. The radical changes of the last five years, and the war and
the Commune, had made a new world of Paris. The light, joyous character
of the French was no doubt still below the surface, but the upper crust
was then (at least so it struck me) one of sulkiness, silence, and
economy run mad, a rage for lucre, and a lust _pour la revanche_. Even
the women seemed to have given up their pretty dresses, though of course
there were some to be seen.
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