Boucher :: I THE SMALL BEGINNINGS

I THE SMALL BEGINNINGS

The year after good Queen Anne came to rule over us, Louis the Fourteenth being still King of France, on an autumn day in the October of 1703, that saw the trees of Paris shedding their parched leaves as a carpet to the feet of the much-bewigged dandified folk who stepped it swaggeringly down the walks of the Palais Royal, swinging long canes, and strutting along the shaded promenades of the more fashionable places of the city, there stood in the vestry of the parish church of Saint Jean-en-GrÈve a little group of the small burgess folk, gathered about a little infant, whilst the tipstaff to the king’s palace, one FranÇois PrÉvost, signed solemnly as witness to the birth-certificate and as acknowledged godfather to the aforesaid morsel of humanity, which, as the certificate badly set forth in black and white for ever, was henceforth to be known for good or ill as FranÇois Boucher, first-born son, on the 29th of September, four days past, of the tipstaff’s friend, Nicolas Boucher, “maÎtre-peintre,” who stood hard by, and of his wife Elizabeth Lemesle.

The worthy tipstaff’s writing done, he bowed in the best Court manner to Mademoiselle Boullenois, daughter to yonder consequential fellow, the law officer from the Police Court; and handed her the inked quill to bear witness in her turn as godmother.

PLATE II.—MADAME DE POMPADOUR
(In the Wallace Collection)

Here we have one of the handsomest portraits of his great patron and friend, the notorious Marquise de Pompadour, painted by Boucher at the most brilliant phase of his art. It is a glittering achievement. The figure is superbly placed in its surroundings. The play of limpid light upon the beautifully gowned woman, of which Boucher was such a master-painter, proves it to be of his best period. The Pompadour stands, wreathed in smiles, as the mistress of a great domain; and masks as usual behind her pretty ways all hint of that calculating hand and remorseless will that sent her enemies without a sigh to the Bastille or banishment or worse—she who was past-mistress of the art of the lettre de cachet.

The sand being flung upon the wet ink, and the blotting done, there was exchange of compliments in the stilted manner of good-fellowship of the day between priest and party—tapping of snuff-boxes and taking of snuff, with more than a little gossip of the Court and some shaking of heads, and under-lips solemnly thrust forth; the gossip is not without authority and weight, for is not godfather PrÉvost tipstaff to the king’s majesty, therefore in the whirl of things?

The child, indeed, was born into a Paris agog with stirring affairs. Well might heads be shaken solemnly. The French arms were knowing defeat. The Englishman, Marlborough, was flinging back the French armies wheresoever he gave them battle. Europe was one great armed camp. France was suffering terrible blood-letting. Defeat came on defeat. These were sorry times. On land all went wrong. Good generals were set aside; intriguing good-for-nothings led the veterans into disaster. But there was still France upon the high seas.

Then the women folk, bored with high politics, would draw back the talk to the infant FranÇois, and there would be genial banter about the morsel; for was he not a Saturday child, therefore bound to be a bit of a scamp!

And so, off to Monsieur Boucher’s modest[Pg 13]
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[Pg 16] little home in the Rue de Verrerie to a glass of wine and further compliments and banter, and more vague surmises as to what lay upon the knees of the gods for little FranÇois Boucher.

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