“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 portieres 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.