A Versailles Christmas-Tide | Page 8

had their chubby features shrouded in disfiguring
gauze and to our unaccustomed foreign eyes a genuine widow
represented nothing more shapely than a more or less stubby pillar
festooned with crape.
But for an inborn conviction that a frugal race like the French would
not invest in a plethora of mourning garb only to cast it aside after a
few months' wear, and that therefore the period of wearing the willow
must be greatly protracted, we would have been haunted by the idea
that the adult male mortality of Versailles was enormous.
"Do they wear such deep mourning for all relatives?" I asked our hotel
proprietor, who had just told us that during the first month of mourning
the disguising veils were worn over the faces.
Monsieur shook his sleek head gravely, "But no, Madame, not for all.
For a husband, yes; for a father or mother, yes; for a sister or brother,
an uncle or aunt, yes; but for a cousin, no."
He pronounced the no so emphatically as almost to convince us of his
belief that in refusing to mourn in the most lugubrious degree for
cousins the Versaillese acted with praiseworthy self-denial.
There seemed to be no medium between sackcloth and gala-dress. We
seldom noted the customary degrees of half-mourning. Plain colours
were evidently unpopular and fancy tartans of the most flamboyant
hues predominated amongst those who, during a spell of, say, three
years had been fortunate enough not to lose a parent, sister, brother,
uncle, or aunt. A perfectly natural reaction appeared to urge the
ci-devant mourners to robe themselves in lively checks and tartans. It
was as though they said--"Here at last is our opportunity for gratifying
our natural taste in colours. It will probably be of but short duration.
Therefore let us select a combination of all the most brilliant tints and
wear them, for who knows how soon that gruesome pall of woe may
again enshroud us."

Probably it was the vicinity of our hotel to the Church of Notre Dame
that, until we discovered its brighter side, led us to esteem Versailles a
veritable city of the dead, for on our bi-daily walks to visit the invalids
we were almost certain to encounter a funeral procession either
approaching or leaving Notre Dame. And on but rare occasions was the
great central door undraped with the sepulchral insignia which
proclaimed that a Mass for the dead was in prospect or in progress.
Sometimes the sable valance and portières were heavily trimmed and
fringed with silver; at others there was only the scantiest display of
time-worn black cloth.
[Illustration: A Football Team]
The humblest funeral was affecting and impressive. As the sad little
procession moved along the streets--the wayfarers reverently
uncovering and soldiers saluting as it passed--the dirge-like chant of the
Miserere never failed to fill my eyes with unbidden tears of sympathy
for the mourners, who, with bowed heads, walked behind the
wreath-laden hearse.
Despite the abundant emblems of woe, Versailles can never appear
other than bright and attractive. Even in mid-winter the skies were clear,
and on the shortest days the sun seldom forgot to cast a warm glow
over the gay, white-painted houses. And though the women's dress
tends towards depression, the brilliant military uniforms make amends.
There are 12,000 soldiers stationed in Versailles; and where a fifth of
the population is gorgeous in scarlet and blue and gold, no town can be
accused of lacking colour.
Next to the redundant manifestations of grief, the thing that most
impressed us was the rigid economy practised in even the smallest
details of expenditure. Among the lower classes there is none of that
aping of fashion so prevalent in prodigal England; the different social
grades have each a distinctive dress and are content to wear it. Among
the men, blouses of stout blue cotton and sabots are common.
Sometimes velveteen trousers, whose original tint years of wear have
toned to some exquisite shade of heliotrope, and a russet coat worn
with a fur cap and red neckerchief, compose an effect that for

harmonious colouring would be hard to beat. The female of his species,
as is the case in all natural animals, is content to be less adorned. Her
skirt is black, her apron blue. While she is young, her neatly dressed
hair, even in the coldest weather, is guiltless of covering. As her years
increase she takes her choice of three head-dresses, and to shelter her
grey locks selects either a black knitted hood, a checked cotton
handkerchief, or a white cap of ridiculously unbecoming design.
No French workaday father need fear that his earnings will be
squandered on such perishable adornments as feathers, artificial flowers,
or ribbons. The purchases of his spouse are certain to be governed by
extreme frugality. She selects the