Furor over Not-Quite-Public Transit in 17th century Paris

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Searching for a mention of my heroine's mother in La Muze Historique, a 17th century news/gossip-sheet in rhyme (!), I came upon, quite by accident, an interesting account of an early transport system in Paris. Bear with me, for this is rather fun ...

In January of 1662—a winter of severe cold and famine—three noblemen applied for a patent allowing them to run carrosses (enclosed coaches) on defined routes across Paris. They proposed to charge 5 sols for the entire route, less proportionately. (A pound of bread cost about half a sol, so this was roughly—very roughly—equivalent to ten pounds of bread.) Their intention was to provide transportation for those who did not have the means to hire a chaise or coach. Vehicles would be stationed at convenient spots, and scheduled to run a specific times, empty or not. In short: a bus system.

The Excluded
Permission was granted, but with the puzzling qualification that the carrosses could not be used by soldiers, pages, servants in livery, workmen or labourers. Was this to ensure that the conveyances would appeal to the middle class? I suspect so.

(Above: a French carrosse. The carrosses used for transit were also pulled by two-horses, but seated six, according to this source, or eight, according to another—so it may have been bigger. Each coach was numbered on the side with one to four fleurs-de-lis and showed the Paris arms and blazons on the panels.)

The entrepreneurs tested the strength of two horses for two days mid-February, starting at 6:00 a.m. and making four routes before 11:00, and four more between 2:30 and 6:00.

The test was apparently passed, for two months later, seven vehicles began on March 18, running from Porte St. Antoine to the Luxembourg (the route laid out on placards). But the populace—the excluded impoverished, I suspect—followed behind hooting, violently dissatisfied. It was not a successful first run.

The Affair of the Coaches
The experiment was put off, and two months later The Affair of the Coaches (as it was called) was launched yet again on May 20, Saturday, before 7:00 a.m. "with an éclat and a pomp quite astonishing." The difference, this time, was the pomp, but also the threat: accompanying the coaches at each end of the route were two commissaries in robes, four guards, and about two dozen archers and horsemen.

When everything was ready, the Commissaries "exhorted the bourgeois to render it every assistance, and threatened the lower class of people that if the slightest insult was offered, the severest punishment should follow—and this they said de la part du Roi."

As for éclat...
As for éclat, the coachmen were given capes (casaques) in the colours of the King, with the royal and city arms embroidered on them.  With a guard in each coach and archers and horsemen stationed all along the route, the first coach set out, to be followed by the next at 15 minute intervals. (The process was mirrored at the opposite end of the route.)

The day went off without "the slightest disorder," no doubt thanks to the guards, archers and horsemen.  It had become, instead of a riot, an Event. Crowds gathered to watch the coaches pass and little work got done.

The first hitch
The next day, there were "even many women among the occupants"—but by the afternoon there was such a press of a crowd that people couldn't get near.

"...a number of persons assemble to take their places, and, on the arrival of a coach, find it full. This is provoking; but they console themselves by thinking that another will arrive in a quarter of an hour; however, when the second comes, it is full also..."

Sound familiar?

Soon after, two more routes were added. When the service began to be used by auditors, councillors and courtiers going to the chatelet and the palace, the price was raised. The same system was instituted in St. Germain, where once King Louis XIV rode on one. Over the course of a few years, however, the enterprise was discontinued.

The quotes above are from a letter by Madame Perrier (Pascal's sister) to Arnauld de Pomponne on Sunday, May 21, 1662, from Paris (with a footnote by her brother Pascal, who is credited with creating the system).


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Madame de Montespan: her haughty side

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Jordan, a reader of this blog, noted about the portraits of Madame de Montespan (see my blog below):

"The only three Montespan portraits, in my own opinion, that do justice to her famously "haughty" appearance can be seen by following links. As Sandra mentioned in her original post, it's interesting to note how well-fed Athenais seems in some of them."

Here are the images:

This first one is by an unknown artist. Her eyes, as mentioned before, are unusual, slightly protruding—and yes, as Jordan points out, there is something haughty about her.

The second one, a miniature by Jean Petitot, is clearly the image of a "robust" voluptuous woman with a slightly aloof expression. (The site suggests that it might also be the image of Queen Marie-Thérèse, but that I seriously doubt.)

The third one, also a Petitot image, is especially interesting to me:

(Note: this is an iStock photo which I paid for the right to use.)

Given Montespan's slightly protruding eyes (a symptom of Grave's disease), her emotional unsteadiness as well as her weight problem later in life, I can't help but wonder if she had a thyroid problem. Are there any doctors among us?

Thank you, Jordan, for bringing these images to our attention.


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Images of Madame de Montespan, a seductive angel/devil

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I've recently discovered Europeana, a great site for text, videos, and images. It's especially great for portraits. Here, for example, are some portraits of Athénaïs de Montespan, some of which I've never seen before:

This one above is credited to Ernest and Mignard. One can see how plump she has become. Here is another by Mignard with a similar theme: 

Athénaïs is often portrayed with her children, no doubt to secure her link to the King. This is another portrait by Mignard: 

And another:

And this one by Charles de La Fosse:

This image by Pierre Gobert is presumed to be of her, and I suspect it likely so:

Her lounging pose was unusual for the time; comfort was a new concept. Here again is a striking study by Nicolas Mignard:

This image of Athénaïs at her chateau at Clagny (Versailles now) is curious: bare legs!

This image, artist unknown (and previously thought to portray Louise de la Vallière) shows a younger Athénaïs with droopy eyes. Might this have been considered the come-hither look?

Here is another, likely even younger portrait, showing her unusual and slightly protruding eyes. 

Here is a fashon plate, dated 1694. I doubt very much that Athénaïs would have been so slender at that time. 

I could easily be on this site all day. 



Sandra Gulland


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On the Wild Side

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Catherine Delors' blog on a Dulwich Gallery art exhibition in London caught my eye: Italian Salvator Rosa (1615 — 1673: bandits, wilderness and magic. Not your usual 17th century fare. 


For example, this haunting portrait, "Lucrezia as poetry":
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A feast of this artist's striking work can be seen on-line:

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Baroque in motion

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I've been enjoying—savouring—a gorgeous book all summer: Baroque—Architecture, Sculpture, Painting, edited by Rolf Toman and liberally illustrated with stunning photographs by Achim Bednorz. This book is a visual feast.

The text is illuminating, as well:

"Baroque art tends in the first instance to make a sensual appeal to the viewer: with theatrical pathos, illusionistic devices, and the interplay of different forms the artist seeks to impress, to convince, and to arouse an internal response. This may explain why the style is often experienced as extravagant, showy, or even pretentious." (page 7)

These are often the words used to describe the baroque style: feverish frenzy, ludicrous, bizarre, confused, florid. In short: over the top.

Reading this book, however, I've come to understand that the baroque style was all about the creation of an illusion. Staircases were key for the staging of entrances and exits. Quoting from the German historian Richard Alewyn:

"... spirit of the baroque ... really only came into its own where there was movement." 

"The staircase provided the classic example of the viewer in motion, an essential principle of all spatial art in baroque." (page 10)

In addition to the stunning example shown on the cover above, here are two other examples of baroque staircases:

Imagine an Escher print in three dimensions: imagine walking through it. That's baroque.


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Baroque post-modern

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I begin each day reading the Poetry Daily. Sometimes a poem will catch me, as did the one this morning, "The Dark Figure in the Doorway" by Morton Marcus.


It's a reflective poem about Diego Velázquez's famous painting of the Spanish Infanta, "Las Meninas" —in English, "The Maids"—painted in 1656.

I recommend that you read that poem, but, to summarize, the author talks about the visual tricks in the painting. The Infanta isn't the one being painted, but the King and Queen, reflected in the mirror behind the painter on the left. Only we are the ones standing in their spot; we are the ones the painter in the painting is studying.


The more I learn about Baroque, the more I come to understand its playfulness, it's tricks. As the poet so well put it:

a post-modern  

bit of fun devised 

centuries before  

the modern age  

will have begun.

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Louis XIV and his heirs: a tragic history

Louis XIV, his son, grandson and great-grandson (tended by his governess), in a painting attributed to Nicolas de Largillière. 


All the King's heirs would predecease him suddenly, one after another. For a clear account, read this blog post by Catherine Delors: here. She has also posted a moving portrait of the surviving child, the future King Louis XV: here.

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