grims. In passing over the cobble-pavement strewed with garbage, you notice that stables are sandwiched between the shops and the little stone houses, though at one point a freshly-restored mansion meets the eye, indicating the possession of some wealth and taste. The steep street ends in a succession of zigzag stone steps, that tax even a strong man's strength; the prospect opening and widening as you ascend. Finally, the convent is reached, the portal of which is guarded by a couple of scenic towers, built in 1257. Then come more stairs, then vast halls and corridors, with huge, prison-like doors, devised for strength; but the halls are enlivened by bazaars, where pilgrims drive through bargains for medals, badges, and beads. When these buildings are cleared, the platform upon which the church stands is reached, and the visitor is enabled to look down upon the town, and away across the sands, far out to sea. The prospect is one of much grandeur; but the most elevated view is from the roof of the church. A bass-relief over the south door of the sanctuary tells us of Aubert's interview with the archangel; and, entering by this door, the visitor finds himself within a really splendid church. The present nave dates back to the year 1140, while the pointed Gothic choir is of the fourteenth century. There is no gaudy ornamentation, and indeed no excess of ornamentation of any kind, though the building is worthy of the grand situation it occupies upon the summit of this wondrous rock. On the north side of the church is the so-called "Marvel," standing poems in stone, is a feast in itself; and the vast fireplace, where a knight could sit in the saddle, shows what they thought in old times of good cheer. But, in speaking of the "Marvel," it will be necessary to shun details, and simply say that this is a marvel, and a place where one might spend days without exhausting the features of interest. There is much to be seen even among the substructions of St.Michel, such as the crypt, catacombs, and dungeons. The latter are consecrated to eternal gloom. The dungeon of Cellini, in the castle of St. Angelo, at Rome, is humane in comparison; while that of the Prison of Chillon, at Lake Leman, appears an elegant salon. It is with a feeling of intense relief that we escape from the stifling atmosphere, to climb the roof of the grand old church, where we again look down upon the town, in whose little street the men appear like mice. Landward we see the fair hills of Brittany and Normandy, and seaward, beyond the mount, stretches the gray Sahara, bounded in the distance by resplendent windrows of snow-white foam proclaiming the advance of the incoming sea. Standing here amid a forest of bold pinnacles and flying buttresses, which almost recall the roof of the Cathedral of Milan, the attention is divided between the boldness of the architect and the solemnity of the grèves, which once, according to old chronicles, were dry land. The manuscripts give the names of villages that no longer exist, and which have been engulfed by the sea. There is something peculiarly attrac upon the brink of a perpendicular and unassailable | tive about these drowned lands, which open the way precipice, of which its outer wall is a part, and presenting in its three different stories many splendid halls, besides extensive dortoirs, refectories, kitchens fit for kings, and all the varied appointments that mark an imperial establishment. The grand refectory, with its lovely architecture, full of exquisite to curious speculations; but there is much to do, and the notes of a chant now break upon the ear. Turning from the line of distant breakers, we look toward the shore, and catch a glimpse of a procession, whose standard-bearer has just stepped upon the sands. At the distance of a mile we hear the an tiphonal song, floating up to us on the calm air. Let us go to the welcome of this pilgrim band. In descending proceed by the walls, noticing the hanging gardens whose soil has been brought from the mainland, thus furnishing flowers for this sterile rock; and observing the strong battlements and ports, the frowning bastions, and all the various inventions for increasing the destructiveness as well as the pomp of war. Issuing at last from the gate, we walk forth upon the sands, and take a deliberate view of the mount, finding it more impressive than ever, and noting, now perhaps for the first time, the Orphelinat, where poor children are protected by the monks. The waves, at full sea, beat against the very foundations of the house. Another time we may walk around the mount, mark the magnificent elevation from every view-point, and try to take in the stupendous fact, which grows upon one like Niagara; but at present the tide and the pilgrims are coming, both of which, rising above human law, wait for no man. Midway the sands we meet the procession, singing, according to the order enjoined, the "Litany of the Saints," and we catch the suffrage "Sancte Michael, ora pro nobis." This procession, like scores of others that we see in the course of a few days' sojourn, is every way remarkable, being composed of men, women, and children, bearing numerous banners; the children in long white robes and gay sashes, the women in peculiar Breton and Norman costumes, the men in holiday attire, and decorated with badges, and the priests, in official regalia, leading the office. On the long column moves, with the steady step of solemn enthusiasm, until reaching the gate, when, according to the pilgrim ritual, the litany ends, and the singers take up the hymn to St. Michael, "Prince most glorious," in adoration of whom, on his descent from heaven, "the sea lifts itself up," while "the earth trembles." Chanting the solemn invocation, they slowly climb the mount. At the entrance of the church a second hymn to the archangel is sung. The song ended, the service begins, and the preacher, before mass, pronounces a fervid discourse; the whole being interspersed with invocations, sung or pronounced with a wild enthusiasm, saluting the archangel as the guardian of paradise, and beseeching him to intercede with the Father and the Son on their behalf, and lead them to the "joy eternal," annexing his name to the threefold ascription. Sometimes there is a mass at every altar at the same time, the choir being full of banners and regalia, and the peer democratically standing by the side of the peasant in his blue blouse, all being animated by one heart and mind, namely, the relief of France and Rome, which all believe may be accomplished by St. Michael's puissant arm; the shrill treble and thundering bass wellnigh causing the roof to quake in the pilgrim hymn ending "Pour Rome donc et pour la France admitted, but then, he added, "it makes the people This is all intensely political, as one of the priests result of intercession, they point to the fact that, in religious, and teaches them to pray." And, as one the late war, the portions of France where the archangel is honored the most suffered the least, and in fact almost nothing, from the inroads of the Germans: ".... So much the fear Of thunder and the sword of Michael In recognition of his services, a general contribution was made to secure the silver statue of the leader of the hosts, now seen in the church. The pope indorses this, which we might call the cultus of Michel, and pilgrimages and invocations are attended by large indulgences. The confraternity of St.-Michel is numerous, and extends over all France; but the work of the society falls upon a few, chiefly priests, who reside in the convent, and have the charge of entertaining the pilgrims. They are also the custodians of the monuments of the mount, and hope to derive enough from the pilgrimages to repair and restore all the buildings, which, in such an exposed situation, go rapidly to decay. As already indicated, at the French exhibition last season magnificent drawings were displayed, showing the mount as it is, and as it will appear when divested of what does not belong to it. What is needed is more power on the part of the convent authorities, who should be allowed to manage the affairs of the town, now simply a kind of irresponsible republic without government, or at least without municipal law. The people, indeed, conduct themselves very well, but they are chiefly stupid fishermen, and have no conception of decent sanitary habits. They live and worship by themselves, and possess a very ancient and quaint chapel. Indeed, everything here bears the stamp of the archangel, and the inhabitants, as well as pilgrims and tourists, have only one idea. Stanfield, the coast-painter, after his visit, could scarcely divest himself of the subject, and therefore begged a literary friend to write a "Drama of Mont St.-Michel," which he might illustrate with his pencil, and thus possibly get relief. The material for such a drama is abundant, but then how would the drama itself appear compared with Stanfield's illustrations? The reader will judge of that after making his own pilgrimage, and forming some adequate acquaintance with this marvelous mount. I CROIZETTE. ONCE knew, in the neighborhood of Paris, a was gazing with delight at the exquisite effect of good old priest who was gentleness itself. His the antique wrought-iron work under the brilliant every movement was replete with episcopal unction, light. and his soft, sweet voice sounded in the ears of the afflicted like a soothing melody. In listening to him one could appreciate the legend of David charming away the melancholy of King Saul by the sounds of his harp. One evening after dinner, as we were sitting together on the banks of the Seine, the priest said to me, in his quietly deliberate voice: "I once belonged to the Third Cuirassiers. One day while intoxicated I had the misfortune to kill, in duel, a comrade who had supplanted me in the heart of a grisette." "What are you doing?" asked one of her friends. "My dear fellow," she answered, gayly, "my three selves are in ecstasies. The Cossack is looking enviously at a collection of candles, the Parisian is enchanted by the blaze of light, and the lover of the beautiful is contemplating an old work of art." Let us remain in this salon, whose doors are closed to all but a few faithful friends--the members of the Croizette Club. There meet almost every day, from four to six o'clock, M. Perrin, the manager of the Comédie Française, Prince Radziwill, the Chevalier Nigra, Baron de Beyens, Baron Finot, and the financiers Stern, Joubert, and Martini. No journal You may imagine the surprise that this confession caused me. Well, I felt exactly the same impressionists, no artists, no musicians. some ten years later, when, between the acts of 'Jean de Thommeraye," I went behind the scenes to compliment Mademoiselle Croizette on her interpretation of the character of the courtesan Baronnette. She talked to me of her childhood, of her education, and ended by saying: The conversation is as brilliant as it was at the Hôtel de Rambouillet, and, although lacking the celebrated blue hanging starred with silver of the salon of Artémise, the walls are none the less interesting to examine. The pictures by Carolus Duran and by Jadin are calculated to fix the attention of amateurs. The furniture is covered with Eastern "I came very near becoming a governess." A governess! What an idea! The Baronne stuffs. In one corner stands Mademoiselle Croizette's d'Ange, the Duchesse de Septmonts, a governess!-writing-desk, hidden behind a gilt trellis-work, over that fair creature a governess, who unites all seductions in her own person, and who proves that Venus did not perish in the wreck of the pagan world! Can one imagine Croizette with blue spectacles, a grammar in her hand, and employed in wiping recalcitrant noses? No, it is impossible; so it is all for the best. And we are unspeakably grateful to the theatre for having rescued from teaching that strange profile, better suited to the blaze of the footlights than to the smoky lamps of a boarding-school. The portrait of Croizette is not an easy thing to take. None of her features possess that mathematical regularity which suits the hackneyed phrases. Her eyes are small, her nose is large. The modeling of the mouth is heavy and contorted. And yet what a charm and what harmony in this assemblage of defects! Everything about her, from a certain break in her contralto tones to the merry or angry sparkle in her brown eyes-everything attracts attention to this woman, whose originality is striking -above all, in private life. Those who are satisfied with laconic definitions say of her, "She is modern," or, "She has a strange temperament," or else, "She has an exceptional nature." which climb tropical plants. On the blotting-book lies a just-finished letter. Croizette does not like to write, and yet, strange to say, her handwriting is colossal. Her lazy pen takes twice the trouble that is necessary, for the letters that it forms are not less than half an inch long. Only the official signature of a monarch can equal hers in size. The flourish is bold and masterly. "If I were you," said Dumas to her, "I should ask in my will that the only inscription on my tombstone should be that original signature." Mademoiselle Croizette intends to follow this advice. She has already spoken to the stone-cutter on the subject. I will not detain my reader long in the other rooms of this beautiful home. We will cast a rapid glance into the bedroom, hung with blue satin, with its suite of furniture in the style of Louis XVI., enameled white, with blue lines. We observe in the ebony bookcase the works of Hugo, Balzac, Voltaire, De Musset, and the plays of Alexandre Dumas fils, bound in dog-fish skin, that skin that, with its gold veins, reminds one of lapis lazuli. In the dressing-room we note the secretary and cheval-glass But, preferring precise terms to a hollow brevity, of Mademoiselle Mars, purchased at a sale in Verwe will describe Croizette as follows: "A native of St. Petersburg, transplanted to Paris at a very early age, amid an intelligent society, she shows traces of her three nationalities, which are -Russia, France, and Art." One reception-evening in the Rue de l'Échelle, No. 8 (her residence is situated half a block from the Comédie Française), the candles of the superb chandelier that hangs in her salon were lit. Croizette sailles, and, after a caress for the three dogs, the four cats, and the paroquet, who seem to be the real masters of the house, we will turn our steps toward the Théâtre Français, to the dressing-room of the young actress. Actresses' dressing-rooms have often been described, but I do not think that the reader has ever been introduced into one of those reserved by the Comédie Française for its company. We will not find there the smoky, stuffy little closets of the other theatres. They are pretty rooms, well aired and spacious, and transformed by the aid of the upholsterer into elegant boudoirs. Croizette's dressing-room differs from the others, however, as she does not affect the daintily-pretty style. The walls are hung with striped ticking, which gives the room the aspect of a military tent. There the actress arms herself for the combat. As a general, before a battle, studies his plans, so she studies her intonations and prepares her effects. She will stop suddenly, her face daubed with pearlwhite and her hands covered with paste, to repeat a speech of whose effect she is not quite sure. Here it was, before these large swing-mirrors, that she studied that terrible death-scene of the "Sphinx" that the sharp tongues of the company were wont to call "a death with mushroom-sauce." And since I have touched upon the chapter of the local squabbles, I will mention here that none found, upon their entrance into the house, more coldness and ill-feeling (from the ladies of the company naturally) than Croizette. At the present time her kind heart has won pardon for her beauty and her success, but at her début she saw revived for her benefit the cutting sarcasms and silent hostility that long ago had greeted Mademoiselle Plessy, in whom the "old stagers" saw a rival and suspected a star. Croizette received all attacks with perfect serenity. Only once-and that quite recently-was she roused from her calm. A sociétaire, whose figure is as meagre as hers is opulent, said at the end of a rehearsal, “Undoubtedly Sophie has talent, but she does not understand her profession-she is not yet accustomed to the boards." "I confess," said Croizette, turning toward her charitable comrade, "that, so far as boards are concerned, you have the advantage of me." But let us enter the dressing-room on whose threshold we have lingered. The room is divided into two parts by a curtain, which permits the actress to change her dress without forcing her visitors to withdraw. As soon as she is dressed the curtain is drawn back, and the conversation is resumed. Croizette, however, continues to "make up" her face according to the inevitable requirements of the stage. The hare's-foot spreads the pearl-powder on her features; a black pencil marks in the corners of her eyes the touch that lengthens them, and a stick of pink cosmetic deepens the crimson of her lips. | Meantime the hair-dresser arranges the frizzes over her forehead, or twists up the masses of her blond hair, and her maid walks around her, smoothing the satin bows, or pulling out the rebellious puffs. Those who are tired of watching these operations contemplate the pictures on the walls-a portrait of Bressant, who was Croizette's first professor; a photograph of Delaunay, with an affectionate inscription; a sketch by Carolus Duran; and a head of a negress on an ochre background, signed by her rival, Sarah Bernhardt. Pens, ink, packs of cards for the games of solitaire that while away the length of the entr'actes (here her Russian origin betrays itself), a glass of water, and bottles of peppermint, her favorite remedy for nervous attacks, are scattered over the slabs of the inlaid furniture. Sometimes on the mantelpiece a bouquet of roses and white lilacs perfume the air. Like an affable and generous hostess, Croizette detaches sprays of this perfumed cluster of flowers for the button-holes or corsages of her visitors. Outside of her profession, which Croizette loves above all things, and to the study of which she brings the strong will and the energy that gained for her her diplomas from the Hôtel-de-Ville and the Conservatoire; outside of the theatre, Croizette has but one passion-horses. To such a point does she carry her love for them that, whenever she visits a magnificent stable, she envies the lot of the stableboys. When quite a child, her greatest ambition was to ride on horseback, and, if I remember rightly, she ran away from her mother's house in Versailles to join a coachman of the neighborhood, who indulged her with a ride occasionally. They had locked her in her room, but she broke a pane of glass, and went to keep her appointment, with her wrist streaming with blood. The character of Sophie Croizette is in some respects exceedingly masculine. The sight of blood awakes no repugnance. She will watch a surgical operation without flinching, will dress a wound, or watch beside a corpse. Her physician calls her Mademoiselle Nélaton. To finish with the masculine tastes of the young actress, I will group them all together in a rather strange mixture. The heroine of "L'Étrangère" prefers meat to any other kind of food, despises desserts, disdains all ornaments, has no idea of the value of money, is utterly devoid of coquetry, and is never so happy as when, arrayed in a riding-habit, and mounted on a thorough-bred horse, she can gallop over the country. My sketch is finished. I see, however, on looking it over, that I have given to my sitter a multitude of good qualities, and not one bad one. But it is never too late to mend. Croizette is outrageously absent-minded. The other day she entered her bath with her shoes and stockings on, and never noticed the fact until an hour later, when she began to dress. She has another defect, and that an involuntary one. She makes havoc among the hearts of the college-students, and creates whirlwinds beneath the caps of young officers. She receives daily at the theatre a number of letters, wherein collegians respectfully propose to espouse her as soon as they have graduated. Sometimes they send her verses. The verses are invariably bad. But at least for that fault, Croizette is not in the least responsible. |