Negligence

A chance stroll led me to Trianon. Before even crossing the gates of the Versailles estate, an attendant rushes in, waving little pink cards. You have to pay four francs for even the smallest car to be able to navigate all the bumps of a roller-coaster road, maintained, no doubt, by the consortium of spring manufacturers.
Mind you, I find it perfectly natural to charge a tax to tourists who come to visit a château or a museum. But I don't think it's excessive to ask that the money collected be used for the upkeep of monuments and parks. Now, not only is the road leading to the Grand Trianon in a deplorable state, but inside the monument itself, along the corridor leading to a large salon, visitors can see, through the windows, a sort of glass hall of which not a single pane remains. It smacks of poverty, of rottenness, of decay, but also of neglect. Trianon is visited by foreigners from all over the world: they must have a terrible idea of ​​our care. For it is a lack of care to leave a crumbling glass roof in this state, and for so long. I even wonder how so many panes could have been broken with such perfection. I know we're not rich, but we're not down to two or three thousand-franc bills yet.
Even better, on the large table in a living room there's an enormous surtout resting on a mirror: this mirror is broken. Would it cost that much to replace it? We could politely ask Saint-Gobain to provide a mirror; it wouldn't ruin the shareholders, and visitors wouldn't leave the delightful palace with the impression that all those charged with its upkeep are desperately worried about it.

D.