  Rousseau and Romieu—Conversation with the porter—The eight hours' candle—The Deux Magots—At what hour one should wind up one's watch—M. le sous-prÉfet enjoys a joke—Henry Monnier—A paragraph of information—On suppers—On cigars While these great events were happening in high political spheres, our humble fortunes were on the wane. The hundred louis that my mother had brought with her had come to an end; we were aghast to find we had spent nearly 4000 francs within a year and a half—nearly 11 1800 francs, that is to say, more than we ought to have done, t; It was therefore imperative that I should fulfil my promises and add to my salary by working out of my office hours. De Leuven and I had stuck valiantly and persistently at collaborating together, but nothing had come of it—a result that made us bitterly inveigh aloud against the injustice of managers, and the want of taste of directorates, although, under my breath, I was more just in my criticism of our efforts, and frankly admitted to myself that were I a manager I would not have accepted my own work. So we made up our minds to make certain sacrifices, and ask Rousseau to join us, in order that he might add those indescribable finishing touches to our works which would make all the difference in the world. These sacrifices consisted in our procuring several bottles of good old Bordeaux, some flasks of rum and some loaf-sugar. Rousseau belonged to the famous school of Favart, Radet, CollÉ, DÉsaugiers, Armand GouffÉ and Company, who never In 1825, then, Romieu was collaborating with Rousseau; but, as in the case of Adolphe and myself, they got absolutely nothing out of it beyond a crowd of adventures each more delightfully amusing than its predecessor, which defrayed their expenses at the cafÉ du Roi and the cafÉ des VariÉtÉs. Let us make it clear, for there might be some ambiguity in the matter, and it might be thought that something also came out of our collaboration. No, nothing at all came of ours: Adolphe had always been as jolly as a Trappist monk, while I, although by nature extremely light-hearted, was only able to laugh at the farces of others, without ever being able, in all the farces that were made, to be more than a simple spectator. I profoundly admired Rousseau's and Romieu's cleverness in these lines. So there were few And as no one could refuse a man as drunk as he was the reasonable request to be taken to a police-officer, Rousseau was taken to his friend, who delivered him a formal lecture, but always wound up by setting him free. Once, however, the lecture was more keen than usual, and Rousseau listened to it looking very penitent. Then, as the police-officer upbraided him for disturbing his slumbers, thus waking him night after night, Rousseau responded— "You are quite right, and I promise you I will henceforth have myself taken before someone else once every three times." He kept his word. But all police-officers were not so long-suffering as good M.—. The first one before whom Rousseau appeared sent him to the Saint-Martin guard-room and kept him there for a couple of days. After this experience he decided to go back to his old habit. Rousseau and Romieu were very fond of playing pranks on porters and grocers. Rousseau would put his head in at a porter's grille and call out— "Good-day, my friend." "Good-day, monsieur." "May I ask what bird that is you have in your window?" "It is a blackcap, monsieur." "Ah! indeed!... Why do you keep a blackcap?" "Because it sings so nicely, monsieur." "Really?" "Stop and listen...." And the porter would put his hands on his hips and wag his head up and down with a smile on his face as he listened to the singing of his blackcap. "Ah! you are right!... You are married?" "Yes, monsieur,—been married three times." "And where is your woman?" "My wife, Monsieur means?" "Yes, of course, your wife." "She is at the lodger's, on the fifth floor." "Indeed! indeed! And what is she doing at the lodger's on the fifth floor?" "Charing." "Is the lodger on the fifth floor young or old?" "Between the two." "Good.... And your children?" "I haven't any." "You haven't any?" "No." "Then what have you been about during your three marriages?" "Excuse me ... does Monsieur want someone?" "No." "Monsieur wants something?" "No." "Well, for the past quarter of an hour Monsieur has been asking me question after question." "Yes." "What did you mean by these questions?" "Nothing at all." "What! nothing at all?... But surely Monsieur had some reason?" "None." "Monsieur had no reason?" "No." "Well, then, I should much like to know why Monsieur did me the honour ...?" "Why, I was passing by ... I saw the words over your lodge 'Speak to the porter,' so I spoke to you." Romieu would enter a grocer's shop. "Good-morning, monsieur." "Monsieur, your very humble servant." "Have you candles eight to the pound?" "Certainly, monsieur, plenty of them; it is an article much in demand, for there are more small purses than large ones." "Your observation, monsieur, savours of higher matters than groceries." Romieu and the grocer bowed to each other. "You flatter me, monsieur." "Monsieur said that he wanted ...?" "One candle of eight to the pound." "Only one?" "Yes, at first; later, I will see." The grocer took a candle out of a packet. "Here it is, monsieur." "Will you cut it in half? I detest fingering candles!" "Quite so, monsieur; they have such a strong smell.... Here is your candle in two pieces." "Ah! now will you be good enough to cut each of those halves into four pieces?" "Into four?" "Yes; I need eight pieces of candle for my purpose." "Here are your eight pieces, monsieur." "Pardon me, will you oblige me by preparing the wicks for me?" "The whole eight?" "Seven rather, since one naturally has its wick ready." "Quite so." "That is all right ... there, there, very good ... there, "But what on earth is that for?" "You will see.... Now, would you have the goodness to lend me a lucifer match?" "Certainly ... take one." "Thanks." And Romieu would solemnly light the eight candle-ends. "But what is that for, monsieur?" "I am creating a farce." "A farce?" "Yes." "And now ...?" "And now the farce is done, I am going"; and Romieu would nod to the grocer and make off. "What! are you going without paying for the candle?" shrieked the grocer. "At least pay for the candle." Romieu would turn round— "If I paid for the candle, where would be the farce?" And he would go on his way quite heedless of the grocer's objurgations. Occasionally, Romieu's ambitions would soar higher than teasing grocers, and he would play irreverent pranks in higher circles of commerce. One evening, he was passing along the rue de Seine, at the corner of the rue de Bussy, at half-past twelve midnight, when an assistant was preparing to close the shop of les Deux Magots. Generally, the establishment closed at eleven, so it was unusually late. Romieu rushed inside the shop. "Where is the proprietor of the establishment?" "M. P——?" "Yes." "He has gone to bed." "Has he been gone long?" "About an hour." "But he sleeps in the house?" "Certainly." "Take me to him." "But, monsieur...." "Without delay." "But...." "Instantly." "Is your communication then of so pressing a nature?" "It is so important that I shudder lest I be too late." "Since Monsieur assures me...." "Come, take me to him, take me to him quickly!" The assistant did not wait to close the shop, but took Romieu through into an anteroom, where M. P—— was snoring like a bass-viol. "M. P——! M. P——!..." shouted the shopboy. "Well, what is it? Go to the devil with you! What do you want?" "It is not I...." "What do you mean by saying it is not you?" "No, it is a gentleman who wishes a few words with you." "At this time of night?" "He says it is very urgent." "Where is the gentleman?" "He is at the door. Come in, monsieur, come in." Romieu entered on tiptoe, hat in hand, with a smiling countenance. "Pardon, monsieur, a thousand pardons for disturbing you." "Oh, do not mention it, monsieur; it is nothing. What is your business?" "I wish to speak with your partner." "With my partner?" "Yes." "But I have no partner." "You haven't?" "No." "Then why put on your sign, 'Aux Deux Magots'? It deceives the public!" But sometimes it happened that the hoaxer was recognised, and then he was caught in his own trap. One day Rousseau went into a watchmaker's. "Monsieur, I wish to see some good watches." "Monsieur, here is the very article you desire." "Whose make is it?" "Leroy's." "Who is Leroy?" "One of the most famous of my craft." "Then you can guarantee it?" "I can." "How many times a week does it need winding?" "Once." "Morning or evening?" "Whichever you prefer; though it is really better to wind it in the morning." "Why so?" "Because one may be drunk in the evening, Monsieur Rousseau, and break the mainspring." Rousseau was caught this time; he left, promising the watchmaker his custom—a promise he never fulfilled, bearing in mind the watchmaker's retort. It will be seen that when Romieu became first a sub-prefect and then a prefect he could not continue this kind of pleasantry; nevertheless, I understand that the old Adam in him would crop out from time to time, for it is very difficult to efface natural propensities, which, according to the poet of Auteuil, will persist in returning full tilt. So it is related that one night the sub-prefect was returning home at eleven o'clock, after supper;—when Romieu was in Paris and took supper out he never returned home until the following morning; but every creature knows, alas! that Paris is not the provinces!—and he caught sight of three or four street lads belonging to the district, busy throwing stones at the complimentary street lamp that was always lit in front of the sous-prÉfecture; however, as it was not Paris, but only a provincial town, the young guttersnipes were country lubbers, "Oh! the young folk of to-day are a degenerate lot!" Sometimes, too, M. le prÉfet, in his brave braided coat of office, would condescend to be gluttonous,—for who does not have his bad moments? even the wisest sin seven times a day, so surely the intellectual man may make a beast of himself once a year. Henri Monnier, the witty caricaturist, charming creator of proverbes and friend of all, when passing through PÉrigueux, went to call on his old comrade Romieu and invited himself to dinner that day. M. le prÉfet gave a formal dinner party, the guests being mostly departmental officials, the stiffest and most punctilious he could find. It took a great deal to overawe Henri Monnier; he chattered away, told all sorts of tales just as freely as if he had been in his own house, or in yours or in mine; in other words, he was delightful. But he noticed that, although he persistently addressed Romieu in familiar language, Romieu was equally persistent in being formal with him. This was entirely contrary to their habits and customs. Henri Monnier made quite certain that he was not labouring under any misapprehension; then, when he was sure he was right, he shouted from one end of the table to the other, "Look here, my dear Romieu, why ever do you address me as you while I use the familiar thou? The company here will take you for my valet." Paris really missed Romieu when he left it, although it still possessed Rousseau; as the authorities were bent on making Romieu a prefect, Paris would have liked him to be prefect When Romieu was appointed sub-prefect, Rousseau jumped for joy; it would, he argued, be a grave omission on the part of the Government to make Romieu a sub-prefect without giving Rousseau some title or other; and as Rousseau had not asked for even a sub-prefecture after the Revolution, it was but reasonable to refrain from blaming the Government, and, less proud than CÆsar, he was quite willing to play second fiddle. He went in search of Romieu. "Well done, my dear friend, I congratulate you." "Oh! you have heard?" "The deuce I have!" "Yes, they have made me a sub-prefect." "Well?" "Well, what?" "I hope you are thinking of me." "Thinking of you? In what way?" "You will require a secretary, I should think." "Yes, so I shall." "You have not got one yet?" "No." "Very well, that is my berth, then. Twelve hundred francs, board, lodging and your society. I could ask for nothing better." "Indeed?" said Romieu. "Come, now!" "Return the day after to-morrow, and I will tell you if the thing be possible." "Possible! What the devil should prevent it ...?" Rousseau took his departure, and returned two days later. He found Romieu looking very serious, even anxious. "Well?" he asked. "Well, my dear friend, I am in despair." "Why?" "Impossible!" "Impossible to take me with you?" "Yes ... you see...." "No, I don't see." "Before I could take you with me I had to make some inquiries." "About me?" "Yes, about you, and I learnt...." "You learnt ...?" "I learnt that you drank." Rousseau left; but this time he did not return again. Poor Rousseau! Three months before his death, he related this story to my son and me, with tears in his eyes. "Romieu will come to a bad end," he said in tones as tragic as those of Calchas; "he is an ungrateful being." May Heaven preserve Romieu from Rousseau's prediction! Romieu stayed in the provinces for three years without coming back to Paris, and during those three years his absence led to great changes in the capital, as the following distich by an unknown author appears to state:— "Lorsque Romieu revint du Monomotapa I said great changes had taken place in Paris, I should have said fatal changes. The cessation of supper parties has brought about more troublesome consequences in a civilised world than might be supposed. I attribute our present state of intellectual degeneration to the cessation of supper parties and the innovation of the cigar. God forbid I should state that our sons' mental abilities are not equal to our own; I, at least, have a son who would not forgive me if I made such a statement. But they are of a different type of mind. Time alone can settle which is the better of the two. We men of forty years and upwards still preserve something of the aristocratic spirit of the eighteenth century, tempered with the chivalrous spirit of the Empire. Women had great influence over minds of that period, and supper parties were a real social factor. By eleven o'clock at night all the cares of the day are cast aside, and one knows there are still from six to eight hours to spend at one's ease between the night ends and day comes. When one sits at a well-filled table, face to face with a pretty girl, amid the pleasurable excitement of lights and flowers, the mind lets itself be carried away into the realm of dreams, though wide awake, and at such a time it attains its highest flights of brilliancy and exaltation. It is not only that one is more brilliant at supper-time than at any other meal, and that one has more wit than at any other repast, but one's very nature seems to be different. I am sure that the greater number of the witty sayings of the eighteenth century were said at supper-time. Let us, therefore, have more of these supper parties, and we shall not lack what made them so brilliant. Now let us turn to the cigar. Formerly, after dÉjeuner, men and women would proceed to the billiard-room or to the garden; after dinner, they would adjourn to the drawing-room; and there the conversation would continue on the same lines, whether desultory or more general. Nowadays, men have scarcely risen from table before they say to one another, "Come, let us have a cigar." Then they go out, and walk up and down the pavements smoking. There they meet women also, but not at all capable of the same type of wit as those whom they have just left in the drawing-room. Men's minds are raised to the level of the women with whom they associate; one cannot demean oneself before the most lovely half of creation. And this generalisation is proved true every day. One does not meet the same people in the public promenades two days running, but, though the people change, the type of conversation is pretty much the same always. Imperceptibly the tone of mind becomes lower. If you add to this the influence of the narcotic contained in tobacco, you can judge what the state of society will be in half a century if the The reader will see that we have travelled far from Rousseau and Romieu. We have only Rousseau now to deal with, and let us, therefore, return to him.
|
| "A tous nos Curtius je souhaite un | choufleur; |
| A nos lÉgislateurs, des sÉances sans | trouble; |
| A l'acteur en dÉfaut, un excellent | souffleur; |
| Aux FranÇais en Russie, un grand dÉdain du | rouble. |
| A Buloz, le retour de Mars et de | Clairon; |
| Aux marins, le bonheur de vivre sur la | dune; |
| A la Sainte-Chapelle, un gothique | perron; |
| A l'apÔtre Journet, l'amitiÉ de la | lune. |
| Au soldat citoyen, l'abandon du | fusil; |
| A l'Écrivain public, un coussin pour son | coude; |
| A moi, l'hiver sans froid, sans neige et sans | grÉsil; |
| Un soleil qui jamais dans un ciel gris ne | boude. |
| Au Juif errant, un banc de velours | nacarat; |
| A l'Arabe au dÉsert, des eaux À pleine | conque; |
| Au joueur, un essaim de neuf au | baccarat; |
| A l'homme qui s'ennuie, une douleur | quelconque. |
| A Leverrier, un point dans le signe d' | Argo; |
| Au tigre du Bengale, un Anglais dans la | jongle; |
| Aux danseuses du jour, les pieds de | Camargo; |
| A l'auteur qu'on attaque, une griffe pour | ongle!" |
Another evening, at the house of Madame de Girardin there was a heated discussion on Ponsard's LucrÈce. The Academy, spiteful and driven to bay, was, just because of its malice, obliged to simulate some show of good feeling. So, although it was not acquainted with a single word of LucrÈce, the Academy puffed it up, praised it, extolled it to the skies. The work became the adopted daughter of all those impotent beings who, having never begot offspring, are reduced to pet the children of others; it was, in short, a work which was going to compete with Marion Delorme and LucrÈce Borgia, the MarÉchale d'Ancre and Chatterton, Anthony and Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle. So there was mirth at the palais Mazarin.
Whilst waiting for the appearance of the chef-d'oeuvre, we aired our own views on the subject. I was acquainted with and had heard LucrÈce. I knew that it was an estimable tragedy of the schoolboy type, conscientiously put together by its author, who, perhaps slightly ignorant of the Roman eras, seemed to me to have confused the Rome of the kings with that of the emperors, Sextus Tarquin with Caligula, Tully with Messalina; but, nevertheless, I maintained that the
"I mean to write a LucrÈce, and to get it played before Ponsard's LucrÈce itself appears. It is advertised for the 25th of the month; it is now the 14th—it will not be played till the 30th. There is more than time enough to compose two thousand lines, to get them read, distributed, rehearsed and played."
"How long will it take you to complete your tragedy?" I said to MÉry.
"Why! four hundred lines an act, five acts in five days——"
"So, to-morrow night you can give us the first Act?"
"To-morrow night, yes."
We arranged to meet again the next evening, not in the least counting on the first Act of MÉry's LucrÈce. Next day we were all at the appointed place, punctual to the minute. We turned ourselves into an audience to listen to his reading. A glass of water was brought to MÉry. He sat down at the table, and we made a circle round about. He drew his manuscript from his pocket, coughed, just moistened his lips with the water and read the following scenes.
He had not finished the Act because he had been interrupted, but as we entered the salle À manger he offered to finish what was wanting before the end of the evening.
LUCRÈCE
TRAGÉDIE
SCÈNE PREMIÈRE
La maison de l'aruspice Faustus, c'est-À-dire une vaste treille À mi-cÔte du mont Quirinal. A gauche, la faÇade d'une maison en briques rouges; devant la porte, un autel supportant un dieu pÉnate en argile; au pied du Quirinal, dans un fond lumineux, le Champ de Mars bordÉ par le Tibre
FAUSTUS, seul, À l'autel de ses dieux
Dieu pÉnate d'argile, Ô mon dieu domestique!
Un jour, tu seras d'or, sous un riche portique,
Et le sang des taureaux rougira tes autels.
Mais, aujourd'hui, reÇois avec un oeil propice
La priÈre et le don du pieux aruspice;
Ces fruits qu'une vestale a cueillis, ce matin,
Dans le verger du temple, au pied de l'Aventin,
Et ce lait pur qui vient de la haute colline
OÙ, la nuit, on entend une voix sibylline,
Quand le berger craintif suspend aux verts rameaux
La flÛte qu'un dieu fit avec sept chalumeaux.
L'aube sur le Soracte annonce sa lumiÈre;
Si j'apporte dÉjÀ mon offrande premiÈre,
C'est qu'une grande voix a retenti dans l'air;
C'est que la foudre, À gauche, a grondÉ sans Éclair,
Et que, dans cette nuit sombre et mystÉrieuse,
A gÉmi l'oiseau noir aux branches de l'yeuse.
O dieu lare! dis-moi quel forfait odieux
Doit punir aujourd'hui la colÈre des dieux,
Afin que le flamine et la blanche vestale
Ouvrent du temple saint la porte orientale,
Et qu'au maÎtre des dieux, dans les rayons naissants,
Montent avec le jour la priÈre et l'encens.
SCÈNE II
FAUSTUS, BRUTUS, en tunique de couleur brune, comme un
laboureur suburbain
BRUTUS
Que les dieux te soient doux, vieillard, et que CybÈle
Jamais dans tes jardins n'ait un sillon rebelle!
La fatigue m'oppresse; À l'Étoile du soir,
Hier, je vins À la ville ...
FAUSTUS
Ici, tu peux t'asseoir.
Modeste est ma maison, Étroite est son enceinte.
Mais j'y vÉnÈre encor l'hospitalitÉ sainte,
Et j'apaise toujours la faim de l'indigent,
Comme si mon dieu lare Était d'or ou d'argent.
BRUTUS
FAUSTUS
Quelle rive, Étranger, t'a vu naÎtre?
BRUTUS
Quand les dieux parleront, je me ferai connaÎtre.
Ma mÈre est de CapÈne; elle m'accoutuma,
Tout enfant, À servir les grands dieux de Numa.
Du haut du Quirinal, on voit ma bergerie
Sous le bois saint aimÉ de la nymphe ÉgÉrie,
Et jamais le loup fauve, autour de ma maison,
Ne souilla de ses dents une molle toison.
FAUSTUS
Et quel secret dessein À la ville t'amÈne?
BRUTUS
La libertÉ!... Jadis Rome Était son domaine,
Lorsque les rois pasteurs, sur le coteau voisin,
Pauvres, se couronnaient de pampre et de raisin;
Lorsque le vieux Évandre arrivait dans la plaine,
Pour prÉsider aux jeux, sous un sayon de laine,
Et que partout le Tibre admirait sur ses bords
Des vertus au dedans et du chaume au dehors ...
Mais ces temps sont bien loin! Tout dÉgÉnÈre et tombe
Le puissant Romulus doit frÉmir dans sa tombe,
En Écoutant passer sur son marbre divin
Des rois ivres d'orgueil, de luxure et de vin!
FAUSTUS
Jeune homme, la sagesse a parlÉ par ta bouche.
Ton regard est serein; ta voix rude me touche.
Non, tu n'es pas de ceux qui vont À nous, rampant
Sous l'herbe des jardins, comme fait le serpent;
InfÂmes dÉlateurs qui touchent un salaire
En rÉvÉlant au roi la plainte populaire,
Et livrent au bourreau, sous l'arbre du chemin,
BRUTUS
PrÊtre, Écoute ton fils.—Tu te souviens, sans doute,
D'un nom sacrÉ, d'un nom que le tyran redoute,
D'un nom qui flamboyait sur le front d'un mortel,
Comme un feu de CybÈle allumÉ sur l'autel,
De Brutus?
FAUSTUS
Sa mÉmoire est-elle ensevelie?
Ce nom est-il de ceux que le Romain oublie?
Il vivra tant qu'un prÊtre en tunique de lin
Dira l'hymme de Rome au dieu capitolin!
Je l'ai connu! J'ai vu s'incliner, comme l'herbe,
Ce hÉros sous le fer de Tarquin le Superbe!..
Il est mort! Morts aussi tous ses nobles parents,
HÉcatombe de gloire immolÉe aux tyrans!
BRUTUS
PrÊtre, il lui reste un fils.
FAUSTUS
Je le sais: corps sans Âme!
Noble front que le ciel a privÉ de sa flamme!
Ombre errante qui va demander sa raison
Au sang liquide encore au seuil de sa maison!
BRUTUS
C'est un faux bruit: sa main À la vengeance est prÊte;
Minerve a conservÉ sa raison dans sa tÊte.
Son pÈre lui lÉgua son visage, sa voix,
Sa vertu ...
FAUSTUS, s'Écriant
Dieux, je veux l'embrasser!
BRUTUS
Tu le vois.
FAUSTUS
Oh!...
(Serrant Brutus dans ses bras)
Les dieux quelquefois jettent sur la paupiÈre
Un voile, comme ils font aux images de pierre;
Je rentre dans la vie ... Oui, mon fils, je renais!
O dieu lare, pourquoi ton funÈbre prÉsage?
Oui, voilÀ bien son pas, son regard, son visage,
Son maintien de hÉros, son geste triomphant!
Brutus, mort sous mes yeux, revit en son enfant!
Mes pleurs rÉjouiront ma paupiÈre ridÉe!...
Dis, quel heurteux distin t'a conduit?
BRUTUS
Une idÉe.
Le temps est prÉcieux; le premier rayon d'or
Luit sur le fronton blanc de Jupiter Stator.
Il faut agir! Apprends que, dans Rome, j'Épie
Les cyniques projets de cette race impie,
Et qu'elle nous prÉpare un crime de l'enfer,
RÊvÉ par l'EumÉnide en sa couche de fer.
La ville de nos dieux par le crime est gardÉe;
Le sÉnat dort; Tarquin fait le siÈge d'ArdÉe;
La justice se voile et marche d'un pas lent;
Sextus rÈgne au palais! Sextus!... un insolent!
EntourÉ nuit et jour de ses amis infÂmes,
Braves comme Ixion pour insulter les femmes!
Ne laissant, sous le chaume ou le lambris dorÉ,
Dans une alcÔve en deuil, qu'un lit dÉshonorÉ!
Ce matin, ÉveillÉ, l'aube luisant À peine,
J'ai vu Sextus assis sous la porte CapÈne.
Il parlait, l'imprudent! et ne se doutait pas
Du fantÔme Éternel qui brÛle tous ses pas!
Donc, j'ai su qu'il attend que Rome tout entiÈre
S'Éveille, et qu'un esclave apporte sa litiÈre.
Je ne puis en douter: un obscÈne souci,
Avant le grand soleil, doit le conduire ici.
FAUSTUS
Ici?
BRUTUS
Dans ta maison quel dieu jaloux amÈne,
Par ce sentier dÉsert, une dame romaine?
FAUSTUS
Une seule ... elle vient aux heures du matin.
BRUTUS
Quel est son nom?
FAUSTUS
L'hymen l'unit À Collatin.
BRUTUS
LucrÈce!... Dieux, le lys de notre gynÉcÉe!
Sainte pudeur, dÉfends ta fille menacÉe!
FAUSTUS
Son Époux est absent, et, quand le jour a lui,
Elle vient consulter les augures pour lui.
BRUTUS
Oh! qu'aujourd'hui des dieux la puissance immortelle
L'Écarte!
FAUSTUS
Un bruit de pas!...
BRUTUS
Sainte pudeur! c'est elle!...
Now we certainly wanted our joke, but we did not wish to commit a murder; and to have played this piece at the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais or at the Porte-Saint-Martin, before M. Ponsard's LucrÈce, would assuredly have killed the latter. MÉry, therefore, pulled himself up half-way through the first Act.
One last word about 1828.
At this period, MÉry lived at 29 rue du Harlay, in the same rooms with Carrel. Their evening gatherings generally consisted of Rabbe, Raffenel and Reboul.
Of these five friends, who were well-nigh inseparable, four were carried off cruelly in the prime of their life. Rabbe, by a terrible disease that brought him to his grave as disfigured as though his features had been gnawed by a tiger. Carrel and Reboul were killed in duels, the one at Saint-MandÉ, the other at Martinique. Raffenel was blown to pieces on the Acropolis by a Turkish cannon-ball.
CHAPTER IX
I pass from the Secretarial Department to the Record Office—M. Bichet—Wherein I resemble Piron—My spare time—M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison—A scene missing in Distrait—La Peyrouse—A success all to myself
It was in the Luxembourg Gardens that I first made the acquaintance of MÉry. I was introduced to him there. We drew together like iron and magnet; and, although I really could not say which of us was iron and which magnet, we became inseparable. I was already well forward with my drama Christine. I repeated about two or three hundred lines to him, and he encouraged me greatly. I stood in much need of this encouragement.
I had just undergone a change of position. When Oudard saw that I was incorrigible, and found out that I was working at a drama, he moved me from the Secretarial Department to the Record Offices. And this was equivalent to disgracing me. I was put there with a tiny old man of eighty years, called M. Bichet, who since 1788 had always dressed in a pair of satin breeches, variegated stockings, a black cloth coat and a waistcoat of flowered silk. This costume was finished off with ruffles and frills. His face, which was surrounded by a halo of snow-white hair ending in a little queue, was ruddy and honest and kindly in expression. He tried to receive me rudely, but did not manage to succeed. My extreme politeness to him disarmed him. He showed me my place, and loaded my table with all the accumulated arrears of work that lack of a clerk for a month had brought about. I finished the work by the end of three days. I carried it to him in his office, and asked him for something else.
"What! something else already?" he exclaimed.
"Certainly."
"Why?"
"Because I have done what you gave me."
"Completely finished it?"
"Completely."
"Oh! oh! oh!" gasped M. Bichet.
And he picked up my work with the air of a man who says to himself, "It must have been pretty badly scamped!"
M. Bichet was mistaken: my mettle had been roused. Each report, each despatch, each copy drew from him an exclamation of delight.
"Really," he said, "really this is very good! Excellent, monsieur, excellent!... Your writing is the same style as Piron's, monsieur."
"The deuce! That is a fine compliment for me."
"You know Piron's handwriting? He was a copying clerk for five years in this Record Office, monsieur."
"Oh, indeed!... So my handwriting is like his?"
"You have another point in common with him, I hear."
"What is that, monsieur?"
"You write poetry."
"Alas!..."
He came up to me and said roguishly—
"Are the poems you compose the same style of thing as his?"
"No, monsieur."
"Ah! I thought not. Piron was a gay young dog!... I saw him at Madame de Montesson's.... I suppose you never knew Madame de Montesson, did you?"
"Yes, I did, monsieur; my father took me to her house when I was quite a child."
"She was a charming woman, monsieur, a charming woman, and she entertained the best society of Paris."
"Now, monsieur," I asked, "will you please give me some fresh work?"
"What work?"
"Why! any work."
"But there is no more to do!"
"What! nothing else to do?"
"No, since you have finished everything."
"But what, then, am I to do?"
"Whatever you like, monsieur."
"Do you mean I am to do what I like?"
"Yes ... until fresh work comes, when I will put it on your desk, and you can then set to work on it."
"And in my spare moments?..."
"Young man, young man! at your age you ought not to waste a single moment."
"I am quite of your opinion, monsieur, and you will be convinced of my industry if you will let me finish...."
"Ah! ah!"
"I want to know if I may work at my tragedy in my spare time?"
Notice that I said tragedy instead of drama; I did not wish to frighten M. Bichet.
"Are you composing a tragedy, then?" he said.
"Hum!... I do not know whether I ought to tell you."
"Why not? I see no harm in it. My old friend Pieyre has written a comedy."
"Yes, monsieur, and a very striking one it is: l'École des PÈres."
"You know it?"
"I have read it."
"Good.... Then, too, another old friend of mine, Parseval de Grandmaison, writes epic poetry."
"Yes—Philippe-Auguste, for instance."
"You have read it?"
"No, I confess I have not."
"Well then, let me say that although the one writes comedies and the other epic poems, they are none the less worthy men for all that."
"On the contrary, monsieur, they are both excellent fellows."
"Have you met them?"
"Never."
"Hum ... Hum...."
And M. Bichet seemed to be thinking over something to himself.
"Good!..." he said, after a moment's silence.
"Then, monsieur, you have nothing more to say to me at present?"
"Nothing."
"Of course I shall be at my desk, and if you want me...."
"Certainly; you can go."
I resumed my seat with delight. Except for losing Lassagne and Ernest, my disgrace resolved itself into a privilege. The office-boy warned me that if I arrived before eleven o'clock, I should not find him there, and if I stayed past four he would lock me in when he went. So, no more portfolios to make up, all my evenings to myself, and a chief who did not prevent me from writing tragedies! And, forthwith, I set to work on Christine. I cannot say how long I had been working when the office-boy came to tell me that M. Bichet wanted me in his office. I went in at once. M. Bichet was not alone this time; on his right stood a short old man, and on his left a tall old man. As they stood there, the three judges, before whom I seemed about to be arraigned, looked not unlike Minis, Æacus and Rhadamanthus. I bowed, feeling considerably surprised.
"See, there he is," said M. Bichet. "Upon my word, his handwriting is beautiful, it is exactly like Piron's, and he has done fifteen days' work in three."
"What did you tell me monsieur did besides?" asked the tall old man.
"Why, he writes poetry!"
"Ah! yes, quite so, poetry...."
A light dawned on me.
"Have I the honour of addressing M. Parseval de Grandmaison?" I asked.
"Yes, monsieur," he replied.
Then, turning to the other old gentleman, he said—
"Only think, my dear Pieyre, I am so absent-minded, that the most extraordinary thing happened to me the other day."
"What was it?"
"Just imagine! I forgot my own name."
"Bah!" exclaimed M. Bichet.
"Your own name? Not your own name?" queried M. Pieyre.
"Yes, my name, my very own name! It was at the marriage contract of ... what's his name ... you know, who married the daughter of so and so...?"
"How can I assist you on such slight information as that?"
"Oh! dear, dear! the daughter of so and so ... who is my colleague at the Academy?... who writes comedies ... who wrote ... I cannot remember what it was.... A play that Mercier had already done; you know well enough?"
"Alexandre Duval?..."
"Yes, yes; it was at the signing of the contract of what's his name ... who married his daughter ... an architect ... who wrote a work on something ... that was burned ... in the eruption of Vesuvius, where somebody or other died...."
"Oh, yes! Marois, who wrote a work on Pompeii, where Pliny died?" I hazarded timidly.
"That is exactly it!... Thanks, monsieur."
And he quietly stretched himself back in his arm-chair, after having first made me a gracious bow.
"Well then," said M. Bichet, "come, now finish your story, my dear friend."
"What story?"
"Why, the story you were telling."
"Was I telling a story?"
"Of course," said M. Pieyre; "you were relating, my dear friend, that at the signing of the marriage contract of Marois, who has married the daughter of Alexandre Duval, you had forgotten your name."
"Oh yes, true.... Well then, this was it. Everybody
"That is just the scene needed in the Distrait," I said, smiling.
"Yes, monsieur, you are quite right, it does need it; and if you wrote poetry I should say to you 'Add it.'"
"But," M. Bichet interpolated, "he does write poetry, that was the very reason why you had him called in."
"Ah, true, true!... Well then, young man, come, recite some of your lines to us."
"Something out of your tragedy."
"Ah! you are writing a tragedy?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"What is your subject?" asked M. Parseval de Grandmaison.
"Christine...."
"A good subject! Somebody has written one on the same theme.... Very poor! ah! very poor!"
"Pardon me, messieurs, I would much rather recite you something other than lines out of my tragedy." The lines of my tragedy were dramatic lines, which would probably not be very much to the taste of these gentlemen. "I would far rather," I added, "recite you an ode."
"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Parseval de Grandmaison."
"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Pieyre.
"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Bichet.
"Well, then, now for the ode," said M. Parseval. "What is it on, young man?"
"You may remember that, for some time past, people have been much taken up with la Peyrouse? The papers have even lately been announcing that traces of the shipwreck have been found...."
"Is that so?" asked M. Bichet.
"Yes, it is," said M. Pieyre.
"I knew la Peyrouse well," said M. Parseval de Grandmaison.
"I, too," said M. Pieyre.
"I did not know her," said M. Bichet, "but I knew Piron."
"That is not the same thing," said M. Parseval.
"Let us have your ode, young man," said M. Pieyre.
"This is it, monsieur, since you would like to hear it."
"Come, come, don't be afraid," said old Bichet.
I rallied all my powers, and in fairly confident tones I repeated the following lines, which I think may indicate that I had made some progress:—
LA PEYROUSE
Le ciel est pur, la mer est belle!
Un vaisseau, prÈs de fuir le port,
Tourmente son ancre rebelle,
FixÉe au sable, qu'elle mord.
Il est impatient d'une onde
Plus agitÉe et plus profonde;
Le gÉant voudrait respirer!
Il lui faut pour air les tempÊtes;
Il lui faut les combats pour fÊtes,
Et l'OcÉan pour s'Égarer.
Silencieux et solitaire,
Un homme est debout sur le pont,
Son regard, fixÉ vers la terre,
Trouve un regard qui lui rÉpond.
Comme un torrent, s'amasse et roule,
Il y suit des yeux de l'amour
Celle qui, du monde exilÉe,
Doit dÉsormais, triste et voilÉe,
Attendre l'heure du retour.
Son oeil se trouble sous ses larmes,
Et, pourtant, ce fils des dangers
A vu de lointaines alarmes,
A vu des mondes Étrangers:
Deux fois le cercle de la terre,
DÉcouvrant pour lui son mystÈre,
Des bords glacÉs aux bords brÛlants,
Sentit, comme un fer qui dÉchire,
La carÈne de son navire
Sillonner ses robustes flancs.
Et la fortune enchanteresse
Ne l'entraÎnait pas sur les flots;
L'espoir de la douce paresse
Ne berÇait pas ses matelots.
DÉdaigneux des biens des deux mondes,
Il ne fatiguait pas les ondes
Pour aller ravir, tour À tour,
L'or que voit germer le Potose
L'Émeraude À Golconde Éclose,
Et les perles de Visapour.
C'est une plus noble espÉrance
Qui soutient ses travaux divers.
Sa parole, au nom de la France,
Court interroger l'univers.
Il faut que l'univers rÉponde!
Dans son immensitÉ fÉconde,
Peut-Être cherche-t-il encor
Quelque dÉsert Âpre et sauvage,
Quelque dÉlicieux rivage,
Que garde un autre Adamastor.
Il le trouvera! Mais silence!
Du canon le bruit a roulÉ;
Au haut du mÂt, qui se balance,
Un pavillon s'est dÉroulÉ.
Comme un coursier dans la carriÈre
TraÎne un nuage de poussiÈre
Que double sa rapiditÉ,
Le vaisseau s'Élance avec grÂce,
A sa suite laissant pour trace
Un large sillon argentÉ.
BientÔt ses mÂtures puissantes
Ne sont plus qu'un lÉger roseau;
Ses voiles flottent, blanchissantes,
Comme les ailes d'un oiseau.
Puis, sur la mouvante surface,
C'est un nuage qui s'efface,
Un point que devinent les yeux,
Qui s'Éloigne, s'Éloigne encore,
Ainsi qu'une ombre s'Évapore ...
Et la mer se confond aux cieux.
Alors, lentement dans la foule,
Meurt le dernier cri du dÉpart;
Silencieuse, elle s'Écoule
En s'interrogeant du regard.
Puis l'ombre, À son tour descendue,
Occupe seule l'Étendue.
Rien sur la mer, rien sur le port;
Au bruit monotone de l'onde,
Pas un bruit humain qui rÉponde:
L'univers fatiguÉ s'endort!
Les ans passent, et leur silence
N'est interrompu quelquefois
Que par un long cri qui s'Élance,
ProfÉrÉ par cent mille voix.
On a, sur un lointain rivage,
TrouvÉ les dÉbris d'un naufrage ...
Vaisseaux, volez sur cet Écueil!
Les vaisseaux ont revu la France
Mais les signes de l'espÉrance
Sont changÉs en signes de deuil!
HÉlas!... combien de fois, trompÉe,
La France reprit son espoir!
TantÔt, c'est un tronÇon d'ÉpÉe
Qu'aux mains d'un sauvage on crut voir;
TantÔt, c'est un vieil insulaire
SÉduit par l'appÂt du salaire,
Qui se souvient, avec effort,
Que d'Étrangers d'une autre race
Jadis il aperÇut la trace
Dans une Île ... lÀ-bas ... au nord.
Que fais-tu loin de ta patrie,
Qui t'aimait entre ses enfants,
Lorsque, pour ta tÊte chÉrie,
Elle a des lauriers triomphants?
Pour toi, la mer s'est-elle ouverte?
Dors-tu sur un lit d'algues vertes?
Ou, par un destin plus fatal,
Sens-tu tes pesantes journÉes
Rouler sur ton front des annÉes
Qu'ignore le pays natal?
Et, pourtant, te dictant ta route,
Un roi t'a tracÉ ton chemin;
Mais du ciel le pouvoir, sans doute,
A heurtÉ le pouvoir humain.
Et, tandis qu'À leur ignorance
Du retour sourit l'espÉrance,
Dieu, sur les tables de la loi,
A deux diffÉrentes tempÊtes
A dÉjÀ vouÉ les deux tÊtes
Du navigateur et du roi!..."
I had followed with the closest attention the effect produced upon my hearers. M. Parseval blinked his eyelids and simply twirled his thumbs one round the other; M. Pieyre opened his eyes very wide and smiled, his mouth also wide open. Old Bichet, as curious as I was as to the impression I was making on his two friends, seeing that this impression was favourable, shook his head delightedly, saying under his breath—
"Just like Piron! Just like Piron!
When I had finished, they burst out into applause, which was followed by all sorts of encouraging advice.
I did not know whether I stood on my head or my heels. Imagine the feelings of Ovid, exiled among the Thracians, when he found a sun more radiant than that at Rome, and on carpets of flowers more fragrant than those of PÆstum, under trees that lent a cooler shade than those by the Tiber, listened to the applause given his Tristia and his Metamorphoses. I gave thanks to the gods who, unsolicited, had granted me this moment of peace. We shall see that it was to be of but short duration.
CHAPTER X
The painter LethiÈre—Brutus unveiled by M. Ponsard—Madame Hannemann—Gohier—Andrieux—Renaud—Desgenettes—Larrey, Augereau and the Egyptian mummy—Soldiers of the new school—My dramatic education—I enter the offices of the Forestry Department—The cupboard full of empty bottles—Three days away from the office—Am summoned before M. Deviolaine
In the meantime, as I have stated, I had become master of my evenings as I had no longer to see after the portfolio, and I took advantage of my liberty to taste a little of life. My mother recollected an old friend of my father, and we ventured to call upon him. He belonged to the good-natured order of human beings, and gave us a warm welcome. He was the famous artist LethiÈre, painter of Brutus Condamnant ses fils, a heroism that always seemed to me a trifle too Spartan, but which M. Ponsard's LucrÈce has since made clearer to me. M. Ponsard was the first to reveal the great conjugal mystery that the sons of Brutus were not the sons of Brutus, but only the fruit of adultery: by beheading them Brutus exhibited revenge, not his devotion to them!
M. Ponsard, it will be noted, deserved not only to belong to the Academy, but also to the Suscriptions and Belles-Lettres. Well, my father's old friend was the painter of the fine picture entitled Brutus Condamnant ses fils. He had painted my father's portrait, representing him just as a horse had been shot dead under him by a cannon-ball; my father had also sat to him for the model of his PhiloctÈte, in the Chamber of Deputies. We soon made ourselves known to him, and were received with open arms. He embraced both my mother and me, and invited us to look upon his house as
Desgenettes, who had known my father very intimately in Egypt, at once made friendly overtures to me, and introduced me to Larrey.
I shall have occasion several times to refer to the latter gentleman and his son, who was one of my best friends. The Siege of Anvers in 1832 gloriously enabled him to prove himself a worthy son of his father.
Of all these men, Gohier struck me as the most remarkable. Contrary to the laws of perspective, there are certain persons of ordinary calibre, who having, through stress of eventful circumstance, occupied high positions, loom larger in one's view the further away they recede. Now I could not help but look upon the man who had presided over Barras, Roger-Ducos, Moulin and SiÈyes as worth notice; for, for the time being, he had been first of the five kings who had governed France. But I was deceived in my estimate of his greatness:
I need not draw the portrait of Andrieux: everybody knows that petty, old, shrivelled man, with his petty voice and his petty eyes, the author of petty fables and petty comedies and petty stories, who died at the age of eighty, leaving behind him a petty reputation after having raised petty hopes.
Renaud was an old artist who had once painted a picture that was thought well of, the Jeunesse d'Achille. He had grown old in painting the nude. And in his old age he painted nothing but the Graces, naiads and nymphs, turning to the public their ... blue and rosy backs.
Desgenettes was an old libertine of an extremely quick-witted and very cynical turn of mind, half soldier, half doctor, very fond of the real flesh-and-blood goddesses that old Renaud was so fond of copying; he would relate in season and out" the broadest and most immodest of stories, with great glee. There was much of the eighteenth century about him.
Larrey, on the contrary, was austerely puritanic in appearance. He wore his hair quite long, trimmed after the fashion of Merovingian princes: he spoke slowly and seriously. The emperor was said to have spoken of him as the most honest man he ever knew. Apart from the influence of
"Ah! come now and dine with me to-morrow; I will show you a mummy I have brought back from the Pyramids."
"With pleasure," Augereau replied; and he went next day to dinner.
"Well," he said at dessert, "why have we not seen that mummy yet?"
"Because it is in my study," said Larrey. "Follow me, and you shall see it."
Larrey led the way, Augereau following full of curiosity. When they reached the study, Larrey went to the box, which was leaning up against the wall, opened it, and revealed the mummy. Then Augereau approached and touched it with his finger.
"I declare," he exclaimed contemptuously, "it is dead!"
Larrey was so astonished by this exclamation that he did not even bethink himself to offer apologies to Augereau for having disturbed him to look at so uninteresting an object as a dead mummy.
But throughout that period everybody was literary, not in themselves, or from choice, but from tradition. No one had yet forgotten that Bonaparte had signed his own proclamations
"Well, Monsieur de Fontanes, have you found me a poet?"
But the day and the appointed hour had come for all those poets who had escaped the notice of M. de Fontanes and Napoleon's munificent offers. They were springing up, blossoming and glowing like hawthorn in the month of May; and their names had already begun to give promise of the immense sensation they were to create in the future. Their names were Lamartine, Hugo, de Vigny, Sainte-Beuve, MÉry, SouliÉ, Barbier, Alfred de Musset, Balzac; these were already filling, at the cost of their heart's blood, that great and unique stream of poetry from which France and Europe and the whole world were to drink during the nineteenth century.
But the movement was taking place not only amidst that plÉiade which I have just named; a whole host of others was fighting, each helping forward the general cause by separate attacks, to make a breach in the walls of the old school of poetry. Dittmer and CavÉ were publishing the SoirÉes de Neuilly; Vitet, the Barricades and the États de Blois; MÉrimÉe the ThÉÂtre de Clara Gazul. And note carefully that all these movements took place away from the stage whereon the real struggle took place, and apart from its manifestations. The real struggle was that in which I, and Victor Hugo (I put myself first for chronological reasons) were to take part. I was preparing for it not only by the continuation of my Christine, but still more by studying humanity as a whole, combined with individual characterisations.
I have referred to the immense service the English actors had done me; Macready, Kean, Young had in turn completed the work begun by Kemble and Miss Smithson. I had seen Hamlet, Romeo, Shylock, Othello, Richard III. and Macbeth. I had read and devoured not only the whole of Shakespeare, but even the whole of the foreign dramatic output. I had recognised that, in the theatrical world, everything emanated from Shakespeare, just as in the external world
I had just about concluded my play, after two months' peace and encouragement in my humble post in the Archives Office, when I received notice from the Secretariat that, as my position was almost a sinecure, it had been done away with, and that I must hold myself ready to enter the Forestry Department—under M. Deviolaine. So the storm that had been hanging over my head for long had burst at last. I said good-bye to old father Bichet with tears in my eyes, and to his two friends MM. Pieyre and Parseval de Grandmaison, who promised to follow my career with sympathetic interest wherever I might be. The reader knows M. Deviolaine. During the five years I had been in the Government offices I had been looked upon as a bÊte-noir, so I entered upon my new official work under no very favourable auspices.
The struggle began immediately I took up my new duties. They wanted to herd me together with five or six of my fellow-clerks in one large room, and I revolted against the proceeding. My companions were good enough to explain to me in all innocence that they found it an advantageous way of killing time—that deadly enemy to employÉs—to sit together, for then they could talk. Now, talk was just what I most dreaded; to them it was a pleasure, to me a torture, for chattering distracted my own ever-increasing imaginative ideas. No, instead of wanting to be in this big office, strewn thick with supernumeraries, clerks and assistants, I had my eye on a sort of recess separated by a simple partition from the office-boy's cubicle, and in which he kept the ink-bottles that were returned to him empty. I asked if I might take possession of this place. I might as well have asked for the
"But, my dear FÉresse," I said, watching him uneasily, "how do you think I can manage here with all those bottles, or, rather, how are all those bottles going to fit in with me,—unless I live in one of them, after the style of le Diable boiteux?"
"That's just it!" leered FÉresse, as he deposited fresh bottles by the old ones. "M. le Directeur gÉnÉral does not look upon it in that light: he wishes me to keep this room for myself, and does not intend a new-comer to lay down the law."
I walked up to him, the blood mantling my face.
"The new-comer, however insignificant he may be, is still your superior," I said; "so you should speak to him with your head uncovered. Take your cap off, you young cub!"
And, at the same moment, I gave the lad a back-hander that sent his hat flying against the wall, and took my departure. All this happened in the absence of M. Deviolaine; therefore I had not the last word in the matter. M. Deviolaine would not return for two or three days; so I decided to go home to my poor mother, and there await his return. But, before I left the office, I went and told Oudard all that had happened, who said he could not do anything in the matter, and I told M. Pieyre, who said that he could not do much. My mother was in a state of despair: it reminded her too much of my return home from MaÎtre LefÈvre's in 1823. She rushed off to Madame Deviolaine. Madame Deviolaine was an excellent woman but narrow-minded, and she could not understand why a clerk should have any other ambition beyond that of ultimately becoming a first class clerk; why a first class clerk should desire to become anything beyond an assistant chief clerk; why an assistant chief clerk should have any other ambition than that of becoming chief clerk, and so forth. So she did not hold out any promises to my mother; for that matter, the poor woman had not much influence over her husband, as she well knew, and she but rarely tried to exercise what little she did possess. Meanwhile, I had begged Porcher to come to our house. I showed him my almost completed tragedy, and I asked him whether, in case of adverse circumstances, he would advance me a certain sum.
"Confound it!" Porcher replied—"a tragedy!... If it had been a vaudeville I do not say but that I would!... However, get it received and we will see."
"Get it received!" Therein, of course, lay the whole question.
My mother returned at that moment, and Porcher's answer was not of the kind to reassure her. I wrote to M. Deviolaine, and begged that my letter might be given him on his return; then I waited. We spent three days of suspense; but during those three days I stayed in bed and worked incessantly. Why did I stop in bed? That requires an explanation. Whilst I was at the Secretariat, and had to be at the office from ten in the morning until five in the evening, returning there from eight until ten o'clock, I had to traverse the distance between the faubourg Saint-Denis No. 53 to the rue Saint-HonorÉ No. 216, eight times a day, and I was so tired out that I could rarely work if I sat up. So I went to bed and slept, first putting my work on the table near my bed; I slept for two hours, and then at midnight my mother woke me and went to sleep in her turn. That was the reason I worked in bed. This habit of working in bed attained such hold of me that I kept it up long after I had gained freedom of action, doing all my theatrical work thus. Perhaps this revelation may satisfy those physiologists who dilated upon the kind of rude passion which has been noted in my earliest works, and with which, perhaps not unreasonably, I have been reproached. I contracted another habit, too, at that time, and that was to write my dramas in a backward style of handwriting: this habit I never lost, like the other, and to this day I have one style of handwriting for my dramas and another for my romances. During those three days I made immense progress with Christine. On the fourth day, I received a letter from M. Deviolaine, summoning me to his office. I hurried there, and this time my heart did not beat any the faster; I had faced the worst that could happen and I was prepared for anything.
"Ah! there you are, you cursed blockhead!" cried M. Deviolaine, when he saw me.
"Yes, monsieur, here I am."
"So! so, monsieur!"
I made no reply.
"So we are too grand a lord to work with ordinary mortals?" M. Deviolaine continued.
"You are mistaken ... quite the contrary. I am not a sufficiently grand lord to work with the others, that is why I want to work alone."
"And you ask for an office to yourself, on purpose to do nothing in it but to write your dirty plays?"
"I ask for an office to myself so that I can have the right to think while I am working."
"And if I do not let you have an office to yourself?"
"I shall try to earn my living as an author. You know I have no other resource."
"And if I do not immediately send you packing, you may be very sure it is for your mother's sake and not for your own."
"I am fully aware of that, and I am grateful to you on my mother's account."
"Very well, take your office to yourself, then; but I give you warning that...."
"You will give me double the work of any other clerk?"
"Exactly so."
"It will be unjust, that is all; but, since I am not the stronger, I shall submit."
"Unjust! unjust!" shrieked M. Deviolaine. "I would have you know that I have never done an unjust thing in my life."
"It would seem there is a beginning for everything."
"Did you ever see—oh, did you ever see such a young rip!" continued M. Deviolaine, as he paced up and down his office,—"did you ever see! did you ever see!..."
Then, turning to me again, he said—
"Very well, I will not treat you unjustly; no, indeed no, you shall not have more work to do than the others; but you shall have as much, and you shall be watched to see that you get through it! M. Fossier shall receive orders from me to carry out this inspection."
I moved my lips.
"What next! Have you something now to say against M. Fossier?"
"No, only that I think him ugly."
"Well, what then?"
"Why, I would much rather he were good-looking, on his own account first and also on my own."
"But what does it matter to you whether M. Fossier be ugly or beautiful?"
"If I have to meet a face three or four times in a day I should much prefer it to be agreeable rather than disagreeable."
"Well, I never met such a cursed young puppy in all my days! You will soon want me to choose my head clerks to suit your taste!... Get out! Go back to your office, and try to make up for lost time."
"I will do so; but, first, I want to ask a promise from you, monsieur."
"Well, upon my word, if he isn't actually going to impose his own conditions on me!"
"You will accept this one, I am sure."
"Now, what do you wish, Monsieur le poËte?"
"I should like you yourself each day to overlook the work I have done and see how I have done it."
"Well, I promise you that.... And when is the first performance to take place?"
"I can hardly tell you; but I am very sure you will be present at it!"
"Yes, I will be there, in more senses than one; you may be quite easy on that score.... Now, go and behave yourself!"
And he made a threatening gesture, upon which I went out.
M. Deviolaine kept his word to me. He gave me plenty of work to do without overdoing me. But, as he had promised, M. Fossier always came and brought the work to me himself, and if, by ill luck, I was not at my desk, M. Deviolaine was instantly informed of my absence.
CHAPTER XI
Conclusion of Christine—A patron, after a fashion—Nodier recommends me to Taylor—The Royal Commissary and the author of HÉcube—Semi-official reading before Taylor—Official reading before the Committee—I am received with acclamation—The intoxication of success—How history is written—M. Deviolaine's incredulity—Picard's opinions concerning my play—Nodier's opinion—Second reading at the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais and definite acceptance
But none of these hindrances prevented me from finishing Christine. I had, however, scarcely written the famous last line—
"Eh bien, j'en ai pitiÉ, mon pÈre ... Qu'on l'achÈve!"
when I found myself in as embarrassing a situation as any poor girl who has just given birth to a child outside the pale of legitimate matrimony. What was I to do with this bastard child of my creation, born outside the gates of the Institute and the Academy? Was I to stifle her as I had smothered her elders? That would have been hard lines indeed! Besides, this little girl was strong, and quite capable of living; it seemed good, therefore, to acknowledge her; but first it was necessary to find a theatre to receive her, actors to clothe her and a public to adopt her!
Oh! if only Talma were living! But Talma was dead and I did not know anyone at the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais. Perhaps it might be possible for me to manage it through M. Arnault. But he would ask to see the work on behalf of which his services were requested, and he would not have read ten lines before he would fling it as far from him as poor M. Drake had the rattlesnake that bit him at Rouen.
He replied, after the manner of Madame MÉchin, when she did not incline to promote any particular end—
"I will never lend my influence in that direction."
I had several times noticed a man with thick eyebrows and a long nose, in the Secretarial Department, who took his tobacco Swiss-fashion. This man periodically brought the ninety theatre tickets to all parts of the house that M. Oudard had the prerogative of giving away every month, at the rate of three per day. I did not know who this man was, but I asked. I was told that he was the prompter.
I lay in wait for this prompter, took him by surprise in the corridor and begged him to tell me what steps were necessary to obtain the honour of a reading before the Committee of the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais. He told me I must first deposit my play with the Examiner; but he warned me that so many other works were already deposited there that I must expect to wait at least a year. As though it were possible for me to wait a year!
"But," I asked, "is there no short cut through all these formalities?"
"Oh dear me, yes!" he replied, "if you know Baron Taylor."
I thanked him.
"There is nothing to thank me for," he said.
And he was right; there wasn't anything to thank him for, for I did not know Baron Taylor in the slightest.
"Do you know Baron Taylor?" I asked Lassagne.
"No," he answered; "but Charles Nodier is his intimate friend."
"What of that?"
"Well, did you not tell me that you once talked with Charles Nodier a whole evening at a representation of the Vampire?"
"Certainly."
"Write to Charles Nodier."
"Bah! he will have forgotten all about me."
"He never forgets anything; write to him."
I wrote to Charles Nodier, recalling to his memory the Elzevirs, the rotifer, the vampires, and in the name of his well-known kindliness towards young people I entreated him to introduce me to Baron Taylor. It can be imagined with what impatience I awaited the reply. Baron Taylor himself replied, granting my request and fixing an appointment with me five or six days later. He apologised at the same time for the hour he had fixed; but his numerous engagements left him so little time that seven o'clock in the morning was the only hour at which he could see me. Although I am probably the latest riser in Paris, I was ready at the appointed hour. True, I had kept awake all the night. Taylor then lived at No. 42 rue de Bondy, fourth floor. His suite of rooms consisted of an anteroom filled with books and busts; a dining-room full of pictures and books; a drawing-room full of weapons and books; and a bedroom full of manuscripts and books. I rang at the door of the antechamber, my heart beating at a terrible rate. The good or ill natured mood of a man who knew nothing about me, who had no inducement to be kindly disposed towards me, who had received me out of pure good-nature, was to decide my future life. If my play displeased him, it would stand in the way of anything I could bring him later, and I was very nearly at the end of my courage and strength. I had rung the bell, gently enough, I admit, and no one had answered it; I rang a second time, as gently as at first; again no one took any notice of me. And yet, putting my ear close, I seemed to hear a noise indicative of something unusual taking place inside: confused sounds and snarls which now sounded like bursts of anger, and now, decreasing in pitch, seemed like a continuous monotonous bass accompaniment. I could not imagine what it could be; I was afraid to disturb Taylor at such a moment and yet it was the very hour he had himself fixed for my
"Ah! monsieur," she said, with a flustered manner, "your coming will do M. le Baron an excellent turn. He is waiting anxiously for you; go in."
"What do you mean?"
"Go in, go in ... do not lose a minute."
I went quickly into the sitting-room, where I found Taylor caught in his bath-tub like a tiger in his den, a gentleman near him reading a tragedy called HÉcube. This gentleman had forced his entrance, no matter what was said to him. He had surprised Taylor as Charlotte Corday had surprised Marat when she stabbed him in his bath; but the agony that the King's Commissary endured was more prolonged than that of the Tribune of the People. The tragedy was two thousand four hundred lines long! When the gentleman caught sight of me, he realised that his victim was to be snatched away from him; he clutched hold of the bath, exclaiming—
"There are only two more acts, monsieur,—there are only two more acts!"
"Two sword-cuts, two stabs with a knife, two thrusts with a dagger! Select from among the arms round about—there are all kinds here—choose the one that will slice the best and kill me straight off!"
"Monsieur," replied the author of HÉcube, "the Government appointed you commissaire du roi on purpose to listen to my play; it is your duty to listen to my play—you shall hear my play!"
"Ah! that is just where the misfortune comes in!" cried Taylor, wringing his hands. "Yes, monsieur, to my sorrow I am commissaire du roil ... But you and such people as you will make me hand in my resignation; you and your like will force me to give it up and leave France. I have
"You can go-to China, if you like," replied the gentleman, "but you shall not go until you have heard my play."
Taylor gave one long moan, like a vanquished athlete, made a sign to me to go into his bedroom and, falling back into his bath-tub, he bowed his head in resignation upon his breast. The gentleman went on. Taylor's precaution of putting a door between him and his reader and me was quite useless; I heard every word of the last two acts of HÉcube. The Almighty is great and full of compassion—may He bestow peace on that author! At last, when the play was finished, the gentleman got up and, at Taylor's earnest entreaty, consented to depart. I heard the old woman double lock the door after him. The bath-water had made good use of the time spent on the reading to grow cold, and Taylor came back into his bedroom shivering. I would have sacrificed a month's pay for him to have found a warmed bed to creep into. And the reason is not far to seek; for, naturally, a man who is half frozen, after just listening to five acts, is not in a favourable mood to hear five more acts.
"Alas! monsieur," I said to him, "I have happened upon a most unsuitable time, and I fear you will not be in the least disposed to listen to me, at least with the patience I could desire."
"Oh, monsieur, I will not admit that, since I do not yet know your work," Taylor replied; "but you can guess what a trial it is to have to listen to-such stuff as I have just heard, every blessed day of my life."
"Every day?"
"Yes, indeed, and oftener! See, here is my agenda for to-day's Committee. We are to hear an Épaminondas."
I heaved a sigh. My poor Christine was caught between two cross-fires of classicism.
"M. le Baron," I ventured to say, "would you rather I came another day?"
"Oh! certainly not," said Taylor, "now we are here...."
"Very well," I said, "I will just read you one act, and if that tires you or bores you, you must stop me."
"All right," Taylor murmured; "you are more merciful than your confrÈres. And that is a good sign.... Go on, go on; I am listening."
Tremblingly I drew my play from my pocket;—it looked a terribly big volume. Taylor cast a glance on the immense bulk with such an alarmed expression that I cried out to him—
"Oh, monsieur, do not be afraid! The manuscript is only written on one side of the paper."
He breathed again. I began. I was so nervous I could not see to read; my voice shook so that I could not hear my own voice. Taylor reassured me; he was unaccustomed to such modesty! I resumed my reading, and I managed somehow to get through my first act.
"Well, monsieur, shall I go on?" I asked in a faint voice, without daring to raise my eyes.
"Certainly, certainly," Taylor replied, "go on. Upon my word, it is excellent!"
Fresh life came to me, and I read my second act with more confidence than the first. When I had finished, Taylor himself told me to go on with the third, then the fourth, then the fifth. I felt an inexpressible desire to embrace him; but I refrained, for fear of the consequences.
When the reading was finished, Taylor leapt from his bed.
"You must come to the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais with me," he said.
"But what must I do there?"
"Why, get your turn to read your play as soon as possible."
"Do you really mean it? Shall I read it to the Committee?"
"Not a day later than next Saturday." And Taylor called out, "Pierre!"
An old man-servant came in.
"Give me all my clothes, Pierre."
Then turning to me, he said, "You will excuse me?"
"Oh, there is nothing to excuse!..." I replied.
On the following Thursday (for Taylor would not wait until the Saturday, but had called a special Committee) the Committee, whether from chance or because Taylor had praised my play extravagantly, was a very large one; there were as many well-dressed men and women present as though a dance were on the way. The ladies decked out in gay hats and flowers, the gentlemen in fashionable dress, the large green carpet, the inquisitive looks which were fixed upon me, every detail down to the glass of water which Granville solemnly placed by my side—which struck me as very ludicrous—all this combined to inspire me with profound emotion.
Christine was then quite different from what it is to-day: it was a simple play, romantic in style, but founded on classical traditions. It was confined to five acts; the action took place entirely at Fontainebleau, and it conformed with the unity of time, place and action laid down by Aristotle. Stranger still! it did not contain the character of Paula, which is now the best creation in the play, and the real dramatic mainspring of the whole work. Monaldeschi betrayed Christine's ambition, but not her love. And yet I have rarely known any work to have such a successful first reading. They made me read the monologue of Sentinelli and the scene with Monaldeschi three times over. I was intoxicated with delight. My play was received with acclamation. Only, three or four of the agenda papers contained the following cautious phrase:—
"A second, reading, or the manuscript to be submitted to an author in whom the Committee has confidence."
The result of the deliberations of the ComÉdie-FranÇaise was that the tragedy of Christine was accepted; but, on account of the great innovations which it contained, they would not undertake to perform it until after another reading, or the manuscript had been submitted to another author, to be named by them.
The whole thing had passed before my eyes like a mist. I had seen face to face for the first time the kings and
"Received with acclamation, mother! received with acclamation!" I shouted. And I began to dance round our rooms, which allowed but little space for such exercise. My mother thought I must have gone mad; I had not told her I was going to the reading for fear of disappointment.
"And what will M. Fossier say?" my poor mother exclaimed.
"Oh!" I replied, suiting my words to the tune of Malbrouck, "M. Fossier can say whatever he likes, and if he is not satisfied, I will send him about his business!"
"Take care, my dear lad," my mother replied, shaking her head; "it will be you who will be sent packing and in good earnest, too."
"All right, mother; so much the better! It will give me time to attend my rehearsals."
"And suppose your play is a failure, and you have lost your situation, what will become of us?"
"I will write another play that will succeed."
"But in the meantime we must live."
"Ah yes! it's very unfortunate that one has to live; happily, in seven or eight days we shall receive something on account."
"Yes, but while we are waiting for that, which you have not yet got, my lad, take my advice and return to your desk, so that no one may suspect anything, and do not boast of what has happened to a single person."
"I fancy you are in the right, mother; and although I asked the whole day off from M. Deviolaine, I will return to my desk. It is half-past two. Why, I shall yet have time to despatch my day's work."
And I set forth at a run to the rue Saint-HonorÉ. The exercise did me good, for I needed fresh air and action; I felt stifled in our tiny rooms. I found a pile of reports ready for me; I set to my task, and by six o'clock everything was finished. But by this time FÉresse's anger against me amounted to hatred: I had compelled him to stay till the stroke of six before I had finished the last lines. I had never written so fast or so well. I re-read everything twice for fear I might have interpolated some lines from Christine in the reports. But, as usual, they were innocent of poetic effusions. I gave them back to FÉresse, who went with them to M. Fossier's office, growling like a bear. I then went home to my dear mother, quite spent and utterly exhausted with the great events of that day. It was 30 April 1828. I spent the evening, the night and the morning of the next day in rewriting my manuscript afresh. By ten o'clock, when I reached the Administration, I found FerÉsse at the door of his office. He had been looking out for me since eight o'clock that morning, although he knew well enough that I never came before ten.
"Ah! there you are," he said. "So you have been writing a tragedy, I hear."
"Who told you that?"
"Why, good gracious, it is in the newspaper."
"In the paper?"
"Yes, read it for yourself."
And he handed me a paper which did, indeed, contain the following lines:—
"The ThÉÂtre-FranÇais to-day accepted with acclamation and unanimity a five-act tragedy in verse, by a young man who has not yet produced anything. This young man is in the administrative offices of M. le Duc d'OrlÉans, who made his path easy for him and who strongly recommended him to the Reading Committee."
You see how accurately the daily press gauged the situation! it has not lost the tradition even to-day. Nevertheless, although inaccurate enough in detail, the news was fundamentally true; and it circulated from corridor to corridor and from storey to storey. It flew from office to office, by means of people coming in and going out, just as though Madame la Duchesse d'OrlÉans had given birth to twins. I was congratulated by all my colleagues, some with sincerity, others mockingly; only the chief of my office hid himself from view. But, since he kept me going with four times my usual amount of work, it was quite evident he had seen the paper. M. Deviolaine came in at two o'clock and at five minutes past two he sent for me. I walked into his office with my head in the air and my hands perched jauntily on my hips.
"Ah! there you are, you young blade!" he said.
"Yes, here I am."
"So you asked me for a holiday yesterday in order to play pranks!"
"Have I neglected my work?"
"That is not the question."
"Excuse me, M. Deviolaine, on the contrary it is the only question."
"But don't you see that they have been making game of you?"
"Who has?"
"The Comedians."
"Nevertheless, they have accepted my play."
"Yes, but they will not put it on the stage."
"Ah! we shall see!"
"And if they do produce your play...."
"Yes?"
"You will still need the approbation of the public."
"Why should you imagine it will not please the public since it has pleased the Comedians?"
"Come now, do you want to make me believe that you, who only had an education that cost three francs a month, will be successful when such people as M. Viennet and M. Lemercier and M. Lebrun fall flat?... Go along with you!"
"But instead of judging me beforehand, wouldn't it be fairer to wait?"
"Oh yes, wait ten years, twenty years! I sincerely hope I shall be buried before your play is acted, and then I shall never see it."
At this juncture, FerÉsse slily opened the door.
"Excuse me, M. Deviolaine," he said, "but there is a Comedian here (he carefully emphasised the word) asking for M. Dumas."
"A Comedian! What Comedian?" M. Deviolaine asked.
"M. Firmin, from the ComÉdie-FranÇaise."
"Yes," I replied quietly; "he takes the part of Monaldeschi."
"Firmin plays in your piece?"
"Yes, he takes Monaldeschi.... Oh, it is admirably cast: Firmin plays Monaldeschi, Mademoiselle Mars Christine...."
"Mademoiselle Mars plays in your piece?"
"Certainly."
"It is not true."
"Would you like her to tell it you herself?"
"Do you imagine I am going to take the trouble to assure myself you are lying?"
"No; she will come here."
"Mademoiselle Mars will come here?"
"I am sure she will have the kindness to do that for me."
"Mademoiselle Mars?"
"Yes, you see that Firmin...."
"Stop! Go your own way! for upon my word you are enough to turn my brain!... Mademoiselle Mars ... Mademoiselle Mars put herself out for you? Think of it!... Mademoiselle Mars!" and he raised his hands to heaven in despair that such a mad idea should ever enter the head of any member of his family.
I took advantage of this theatrical display to escape. Firmin was, indeed, waiting for me. He had made use of his time in looking round the office, and he had ascertained that the windows of my office looked exactly across to those of the ComÉdie-FranÇaise—a circumstance that offered great facilities for my future communications. He came so that no time should be lost, to offer to take me to Picard's house, who was going to read my manuscript. Picard enjoyed the absolute confidence of the ComÉdie-FranÇaise and the ComÉdie-FranÇaise would rely implicitly on his decision. I felt an intense aversion towards Picard, who, according to my views, had retarded the development of real comedy as much as Scribe had advanced the cause of the vaudeville. It was out of the question that Picard could understand Christine from the point of view either of style or of construction. I therefore fought as long as I could against having to submit to Picard's arbitrament. But Firmin knew Picard very well and said that he had such a partiality for young people, and that his advice was so good that, rather than vex Firmin at the outset of my career, I was persuaded to go. It was arranged that, at half-past four that evening, Firmin should call for me and take me to see Picard. At half-past four we set off. Christine had been neatly re-copied. It may be guessed that since I had taken such pains over the plays of ThÉaulon, I took extra care of my own! The manuscript was rolled and tied up with a pretty new piece of ribbon that my mother had given me.
Where did Picard live? Upon my word, I could not say and I will not lose any time in trying to find his address. Wherever he lived, we arrived at his house. His appearance corresponded exactly with the idea that I had formed of him:
"My dear monsieur, have you any means of subsistence?"
"Monsieur," I replied, "I am a clerk at fifteen hundred francs a year in the offices of M. le Duc d'OrlÉans."
"Well, then, my advice to you, my dear lad, is to return to your desk—to return to your desk!"
After such a declaration, the conversation was, of necessity, brief. Firmin and I rose, bowed and departed. Or, rather, I departed; Firmin stayed behind a moment after me: he probably wished a further explanation. Through the half-opened door I could see Picard shrugging his shoulders with such violence that his head seemed in danger of coming off his body. The modern MoliÈre looked extremely repulsive thus, his expression above all being remarkably malicious. Had Picard really given us a conscientious opinion? Firmin was convinced he had, but I doubted it always. It was impossible that an intellectual man, no matter how narrow his views might be, should not discern—I will not go so far as to say a remarkable work in Christine, but remarkable works belonging to the school of Christine.
Next day, I went to see Taylor, carrying with me my manuscript containing Picard's annotations. These annotations consisted of crosses, bracketing and marks of exclamation, which might well be called marks of stupefaction. Certain lines especially seemed to have astounded the author of the Petite Ville and the Deux Philibert. These had been honoured by three exclamation marks.
CHRISTINE
"Vous Êtes FranÇais, vous; mais ces Italiens,
L'idiome mielleux qui dÉtrempe leurs Âmes
Semblerait fait exprÈs pour un peuple de femmes;
D'Énergiques accents ont peine À s'y mÊler.
Un homme est lÀ; l'on croit qu'en homme il va parler;
Il parle, on se retourne, et, par un brusque Échange,
A la place d'un homme, on trouve une louange."—!!!
It was to the last line that the three wretched notes of exclamation had been affixed, which were intended to express many things. For the most part, Picard's criticisms were laconically brief. After the following lines came one huge note of interrogation:—
"Sur le chemin des rois, l'oubli couvre ma trace;
Mon nom, comme un vain bruit, s'affaiblit dans l'espace:
Ce n'est plus qu'un Écho par l'Écho rÉpÉtÉ,
Et j'assiste vivante À la postÉritÉ.
Je crus que plus longtemps—mon erreur fut profonde!—
Mon abdication bruirait dans le monde ...
Pour le remplir encore un but m'est indiquÉ;
Je veux reconquÉrir cet empire abdiquÉ.
Comme je la donnai, je reprends ma couronne,
Et l'on dira que j'ai le caprice du trÔne!"—?
a point of interrogation which seemed to say, "Perhaps the author understands this passage. I, certainly, do not."
After the last line—
"Eh bien, j'en ai pitiÉ, mon pÈre ... Qu'on l'achÈve!"
was written the word "IMPOSSIBLE."
Was it the piece which was impossible or only that line? Picard had had the delicacy to leave me the benefit of the doubt. I related my adventure to Taylor and showed him Picard's notes.
"All right," he said; "leave the play with me and return to-morrow morning."
I left the play with him, feeling very subdued in spirits. I was beginning to learn to my cost that the joys connected with the theatre are the opposite of those in nature, and belong only to early days—after that brief period one's real troubles immediately begin. I took good care to keep my engagement and was with Taylor by eight next morning. He showed me my manuscript, across which Nodier had written in his own handwriting—
"Upon my soul and conscience, I declare Christine is one of the most remarkable works I have read for the last twenty years."
"You realise," said Taylor to me, "I shall need that to back me up. You must keep yourself in readiness to re-read your play on Saturday."
"Monsieur le Baron," I said to him, "I am in an office, and there they are all the more strict with me because I go in for literary work, which bureaucratic eyes look upon as an unpardonable crime. Could I read it on Sunday, rather than Saturday?"
"It is contrary to all custom, but I will see what I can do."
Three days later, I received my notice for the following Sunday. The assembly was even larger than the first time and the play was even more enthusiastically applauded, if that be possible, than it had been on the previous reading. It was put to the vote and accepted unanimously, subject to some alterations which I was to arrange after consultation with M. Samson. Fortunately, M. Samson and I did not see eye to eye; I say fortunately, since the disagreement led to my recasting the whole play, which gained, by this re-handling, the prologue, the two acts at Stockholm, the epilogue at Rome and the entire part of Paula. When we come to the proper place, we
CHAPTER XII
Cordelier-Delanoue—A sitting of the AthÉnÉe—M. Villenave—His family—The one hundred and thirty-two Nantais—Cathelineau—The hunt aux bleus—Forest—A chapter of history—Sauveur—The Royalist Committee—Souchu—The miraculous tomb—Carrier
During the period of the first representations of the English actors (which coincided with my evening attendance at the offices of the Secretariat) I made the acquaintance of a young fellow named Cordelier-Delanoue. It came about very naturally. We were publishing PsychÉ at that time and Delanoue had sent us a poem which he called Hamlet; this we inserted in our journal, he came to thank us and Adolphe and I became friendly with him, I especially. Delanoue was the son of one of the generals of the Revolution, who had formerly known my father; this circumstance had drawn us together and our dramatic and political sympathies did the rest. One night Delanoue came to see me at the office and suggested taking me to the AthÉnÉe while the courier from the Palais-Royal went to Neuilly and back. I was ignorant about many things, so it will not be any cause for astonishment, I hope, if I admit that I had never heard of the AthÉnÉe. M. Villenave was giving a literary soirÉe there that evening. I did not know who M. Villenave was; and my ignorance in this respect was a little more excusable than my not knowing what the AthÉnÉe was. However, I accepted. At that time, I had not the horror of making fresh acquaintances which beset me later. I was promised something connected with literature and literary people, and a promise such as this would have urged me on to cross the razor edge which serves as a
The usual hour for the courier having come, I was quietly escaping to return and receive him at my office, when Delanoue ran after me and caught me up under the peristyle. He had been deputed by the Villenave family to invite me to go and take tea with them at their house, after the meeting. I owed this favour to the kind things my friend Delanoue had said about me. I then had to inquire where the Villenaves lived. No. 82 rue de Vaugirard. Oh! but 53 faubourg Saint-Denis was a fair distance from my home. Fortunately, during my five years' residence in Paris, I had learnt to know its streets pretty thoroughly, so I did not feel obliged, as on my first visit, to hire a conveyance to take me from the place du Palais-Royal to the rue des Vieux-Augustins. The invitation conveyed by Delanoue had been so courteously and warmly pressed that the least I could do was to accept it. I ran off to the office, attended to the courier and returned. During the half-hour of my absence the sitting had been concluded, and I returned to find M. Villenave in a small drawing-room that opened out of the large hall, receiving the congratulations of his friends. Delanoue introduced me to M. Villenave and to his family. The Villenave family consisted first of Madame Villenave, a very gracious little old lady, very intellectual and an experienced society entertainer, but very fond of grumbling in her home-life, for she suffered, like Anne of Austria, from a cancer which ultimately killed her; ThÉodore Villenave, a tall, energetic young fellow, an author, at that time, of various fugitive poems, and translator of Wallenstein, which was destined to make a great commotion behind the scenes of the OdÉon for three or four years before it was put on the stage, where it had a fairly successful reception; Madame MÉlanie Waldor, the wife of a captain in the infantry on service and in garrison, who only put in short and rare appearances at Paris, where those who knew him spoke of him as a brave and loyal soldier. Madame Waldor composed fugitive verses, like her brother, which she published in the daily paper; like her brother, too, she afterwards wrote a play which had a successful run under the title of the
The family returned home on foot, in patriarchal fashion, accompanied by five or six friends, who, like myself, were on their way to the rue de Vaugirard, to take tea and nibble cake together there. As I was the stranger, I was allotted the position of honour—namely, to give my arm to Madame Waldor. As the distance was very long, it was a good opportunity of becoming acquainted. But, as we had never seen each other or spoken together before, the long walk would have been embarrassing to us both, had not Delanoue joined us and made a third in the conversation between the place du Palais-Royal and the rue de Vaugirard. He thereby rendered us both a great service, for which both of us were profoundly grateful to him.
What a strange thing these chance meetings are! How astonished I should have been had anyone told me that this family, whose very existence I had not known a couple of hours before, and who were complete strangers to me, would become for the next two or three years almost as close to me as my own, and that I should traverse the road that then
But I was in haste to reach our destination, to have a talk with M. Villenave. I do not remember how it was, or on what occasion, but a pamphlet he had written fell into my hands—a little work he had published in 1794, entitled Relation des noyades de cent trente-deux Nantais (Story of the drowning of a hundred and thirty-two people of Nantes). Directly I saw M. Villenave I remembered this pamphlet, and as soon as I thought of the pamphlet I resolved to lead the conversation to Carrier, and Nantes and the hundred and thirty-two Nantais. It was not a difficult matter to set M. Villenave talking; only, his conversation was very much like a sermon. When he talked, one had to let him go on, not interrupt him, and listen to him with reverent attention. He had, indeed, happened to be at Nantes in 1793, at the same time as Jean-Baptiste Carrier, of bloody memory. God forbid we should make the faintest excuses for that terrible proconsul and the horrors he perpetrated! But it must be admitted that the Vendeans had themselves set him an abominable example. Wars conducted by priests are apt to be barbarous wars, and it is known—or rather, it is not known, that at the beginning the insurrection was entirely in the hands of priests; the nobles did not involve themselves in it until later, and, when they did take part in it, the method of butchery became rather more humane: it changed to shooting. The first person to play a part in that bloody squabble was a sacristan named Cathelineau. Machiavelli says that, "When it was decided to. assassinate Julian de Medicis in the church of Sainte-Marie-des-Fleurs, they chose ecclesiastics to do the work of assassination, because they were less likely to be impressed by the sanctity of the place."
It is a strange but indisputable fact that when men of peace and love and charity turn into executioners, they become the most refined in cruelty of all; witness the in-pace (dungeons) of convents, witness the cells of the Inquisition, witness the
This Cathelineau was what the country people between Angers and Saint-Laurent would term a sturdy lad (gars). Only three months elapsed between the day of his first shot and the day when he was killed, but these three months sufficed to make his name renowned in history. He was neither tall, nor had he refined manners; he was but five feet four inches high; but he had well-set shoulders and the hips were splendidly poised, and he possessed the fine cool prudent courage of the men of the West. We have mentioned that he was a sacristan, but he was many other things beside; he was mason, carrier, linen-merchant, a married man and the father of twelve or fourteen children. He had hardly gained a hearing before he set up a superior council comprised chiefly of priests: they troubled themselves but little over the nobles. The head of this council was the famous Bernier, curÉ d'Angers. Cathelineau was the man for him; the simple peasant discovered a quicker method of starting an insurrection than the pope with his bulls or the priests with their sermons. He advised the curÉs to shroud the crucifixes in black crÈpe and to carry them thus in their processions. At the sight of their Christ in mourning, the peasants could no longer contain themselves; women tore their hair, men beat their breasts and all swore to kill the Republicans, root and branch, since they had grieved the Saviour. It should be added that nothing could be less knightly and less patriotic than the proclamations of these brave folk:—
"Down with conscription! Down with the militia! Let us dwell in our own countryside. People tell us the enemy may descend on us and threaten our homes. Well and good, let them first trespass on our soil, we shall be ready to meet them there!"
And those who talked thus were well aware that the enemy would have devastated, pillaged and burned all France and demolished Paris before it ventured between their
It was equivalent to saying, "What does it matter to us what may happen to Alsace and Lorraine, Champagne and Burgundy, the DauphinÉ and Provence?... What does it matter to us if they extinguish Paris, the light of the world?... Time enough to seize our guns when we see the Cossack leap his horse over our hedges!"
Now the most picturesque of writers would find great difficulty in giving a patriotic turn to such assertions as these. Personally, I much prefer the volunteers who ran in front of the Prussians as far as Valmy, to these peasants who waited quietly behind their hedgerows; and all the more so since I am not at all convinced that they were not really waiting for them on purpose to ally themselves to them. Why should they not compound with the Prussians? they entered into plenty of negotiations with the English! The war, then, began between patriots and royalists, between citizens and peasants. There were constitutional towns, manufacturing ones,—as, for example, Chollet, where very beautiful handkerchiefs are made,—which contained numbers of workpeople who did not wish for Prussians in France or for friends of the Prussians. One day they heard that the people of Bressuire had risen in revolt; they armed themselves with pikes and rushed off to attack them. So the town of Chollet was especially marked out for hatred by the peasants.
On 4 March, they attacked it in their turn. A commanding officer belonging to the National Guard trusted himself among a group of royalists; he went among them to endeavour to reconcile the two parties; soon, cries of pain issued from this group, the members of which had closed round him and were slashing at his legs with his own sword.
On the 10th, came the turn of Machecoul; here, there was less to do than at Chollet. Machecoul was a small town, exposed on every side and easy to capture. They first learnt the danger they were in on a Sunday; the tocsin was rung and all the peasantry of the surrounding country made for the town.
The reader knows how the insurrection spread from the Lower VendÉe to the Higher. It was brought about by an affair at Saint-Florent: an ÉmigrÉ had sent his servant, a Vendean named Forest into VendÉe to preach resistance, and opposition to the military system. They tried to stop him, but he would not be denied a hearing; he openly preached revolt in the streets. A gendarme came to him; he drew a pistol from his pocket, fired at the gendarme and killed him. That pistol-shot woke those who were yet slumbering, And, mark well, when this unlucky shot was fired, the tocsin was already ringing in six hundred parishes;
Meantime, what was Cathelineau, the prime mover of all this, busy about? We will hear Michelet's version:—
"He had heard of the fight at Saint-Florent and the firing of guns clearly enough; nor could he be unaware by the 12th of the frightful massacre of the 10th, which had compromised the Vendean coast in the revolt past all drawing back. Even if he had not heard anything, the tocsin would have roused him hard enough: the whole country seemed in an uproar, the very earth trembled. He began to think things were growing serious, and whether from the foresight of the father of a family which he was shortly to leave, or whether from military prudence, in the matter of laying in stores of food, he began to heat his ovens and to make bread. First came his nephew, with the story of the affray at Saint-Florent. Cathelineau continued to knead his dough. Then the neighbours began dropping in—a tailor, a weaver, a shoemaker, a hatter.
"'Well, neighbour, what shall we do?'
"Quite twenty-seven of them had assembled there, bent on following his counsel implicitly. He pointed out first that a crisis had come: the leaven had done its work, the fermentation was sufficiently advanced; it was time to stop kneading, wipe his hands and shoulder his gun. Twenty-seven went forth; at the end of the village they numbered five hundred. It was the whole of the population, all worthy men, sturdy, strong, steadfastly brave and honest, the very pick of the Vendean armies, intrepid leaders almost always to be found in the front ranks, facing the Republican cannon."
By the time they reached Chollet, they were fifteen thousand. They had seized a piece of cannon at Jallais, which they christened the Missionnaire; and a second, at some other place, which was dubbed Marie-Jeanne. All along the route priests
"Surrender, my dear friends, or you will all be put to fire and sword!"
This summons was made in the name of commanding officer Stofflet and almoner Barbotin.
The whole of the garrison of Chollet comprised three hundred patriots armed with muskets, and five hundred armed with pikes; they attempted to offer resistance to fifteen thousand men; but, of course, resistance was utterly impossible; M. de Beauveau, the head of the Republicans, fell in the first attack. The patriots retired into a part of the castle which commanded the square, and from whence they could fire upon the Vendeans as they entered the square; this was all the easier as there was a Calvary in the square before which every peasant knelt and prayed, heedless of the firing, not returning to the fight until his prayers were finished and the sign of the cross made. These good folk—let us lay stress on the word and call them brave folk—for they did not understand the enormity of the crimes they were committing, since their priests had ordered them!—did not plunder, but they killed not merely during battle, which was a necessity, but even afterwards, and they killed cruelly, as we shall see.
We will again refer to Michelet for an account of how
"Directly a prisoner was confessed, the peasants no longer hesitated to kill him, as his spiritual salvation was made secure; several escaped death by refusing confession, and by saying that they were not yet in a state of grace; one of them was spared because he was a Protestant and could not confess. They were afraid to send him into damnation. History has dealt very severely with the unfortunate patriots who slaughtered the Vendeans; many of them displayed heroic courage and died like martyrs. Those who were cut into pieces could be counted by hundreds. I will give one instance, among many, of a boy of sixteen who, over the dead body of his father, shouted 'Vive la nation!' until he was pierced through by a score of bayonettes. The most celebrated of these martyrs was Sauveur, a municipal officer of Roche-Bernard, rather let us say of Roche-Sauveur, for it should preserve his name. This town, which is a thoroughfare between Nantes and Vannes, was attacked on the 16th by an immense gathering of nearly six thousand peasants; there were hardly any armed men in the town and it was compelled to surrender. The maddened crowd began at once by butchering twenty-two persons on the square, on the pretext of a gun going off suddenly in the air; they rushed upon the town hall and discovered the procureur syndic, Sauveur, a fearless magistrate who had stuck to his post. He was seized and dragged off; they put him into a dungeon whence, next day, he was taken out to be barbarously massacred. They sampled all kinds of weapons on him, principally pistols: they fired at him with small shot, trying to make him cry, 'Vive le roi!' but he would only shout, 'Vive la rÉpublique!' Infuriated, they fired at his mouth with gunpowder and dragged him before the Calvary to beg for mercy; he lifted his eyes to heaven in adoration, but still he cried, 'Vive la nation!' Next they shot his left eye out and kicked him on a few paces; mangled and bleeding, he stood with hands clasped looking upward.
"'Commend thy spirit to God!' yelled his assassins.
"They shot him down; he fell, but rose again, clasping tightly his magisterial medal and still kissing it. Again he was fired upon; he fell on one knee, dragged himself to the edge of a trench with stoical calmness, without a single groan or cry of anger or of despair! His fortitude drove the frenzied mob to madness, for his only words were—
"'Finish me off, my friends,' and 'Vive la RÉpublique! Do not keep me lingering on, friends; 'Vive la nation!'
"He made his confession of faith to the end, and they silenced him with blows from the butt ends of their rifles!"
What do you think of that, you Royalist gentlemen? Surely the 2nd and 3rd of September could not show you anything better than that? Wait a bit, this is not all; and what we are about to tell, be it clearly understood, is not written for the purpose of reviving hatred, but to make people detest civil warfare. If I once again borrow Michelet's words, it is not only because they are more eloquent than mine, but so that there may be two of us to cry "Shame!" Listen, and you will see how true are his words:—
"One essential difference that we have noticed between the violence of the revolutionist and that of the fanatic, urged on by the fury of priests is, that the former, in killing, desire nothing but to be rid of their enemy; the latter, inspired with the feelings of ferocity of the times of the Inquisition, have less desire to kill than to cause suffering, to make the poor finite victim expiate in infinite misery, in protracted agony, by way of avenging God! To read the gentle idyllic accounts of Royalist writers, one might think that these insurgents were saints; that, in the main, they only exacted vengeance and entered upon reprisals when forced thereto by the cruelties of the Republicans. Let them tell us what were the reprisals which caused the people of Pontivy, on the 12th or 13th of March, led by a refractory curÉ, to murder seventeen of the National Guard in the public square! Were they reprisals which were exercised at Machecoul, for six weeks, under the organised authority of the Royalist Committee? One Souchu, a tax-gatherer, who presided, filled and emptied the town prisons four times. The mob had, as we have seen, at first killed from sheer sport out of brutal delight. Souchu put a stop to that, and took care that the executions
should be long drawn-out and painful. As executioners, he specially preferred children, because their clumsy hands caused more protracted suffering. Seasoned men such as sailors and soldiers could not witness these deeds without indignation, and wanted to prevent them, so the Royalist Committee did its murders by night: they did not shoot any longer, but slaughtered their victims and then hastily covered up the dying with earth. According to authentic reports made at the Convention, 542 persons perished in one month and by what ghastly deaths! When they could find practically no more men to slay they proceeded to women. Many were Republicans and not sufficiently complaisant to the priests who had a spite against them. A frightful miracle took place: in one of the churches there was a tomb of some noted saint or other; they consulted it; a priest said mass over the tomb and laid hands on it. Behold, the stone moved. "'I can feel it rising up!' exclaimed the priest.
"And why did it rise up? To demand a sacrifice pleasing to God, namely, that women should no longer be spared but slaughtered! Happily, indeed, the Republicans, the National Guard from Nantes, arrived.
"'Alas!' the townspeople said to them, coming to them weeping and wringing their hands, 'you come too late! You can but save the walls, the town itself is exterminated!...'
"And they pointed to the place where men had been buried alive. Horrified, they beheld a shrivelled hand which in the fearful anguish of suffocation had seized hold of and twisted the withered grasses...."
Is it any good to speak about Carrier after all this? What would it serve to tell of his bateaux À Soupapes;
"I do not understand you! You must be mad! Why blame me to-day for doing what you gave me orders to do yesterday? In accusing me, the Convention accuses itself.... My condemnation, look to it, is your condemnation also; you will find yourselves caught in the same proscription with me: if I am guilty, so is every man here ... every one, every one, every one! down to the very bell on the president's table!"
But all his cries were useless. And herein lies the horror of revolutions; they reach a pitch at which the same terror that drove them into action drives them into reaction, and in which the guillotine, sated with drinking the blood of the accused, is callously and indifferently willing to drink the blood of judges and executioners! This reaction, which set in two days later, saved the lives of AndrÉ ChÉnier and M. Villenave, together with a hundred and thirty-one of the Nantais, his companions.
"Madame Bataillard, daughter of Madame MÉlanie Waldor, has just died after a long and painful illness. The funeral will take place to-morrow. Any friends who may not have received an invitation to be present are invited to attend at the cemetery at eleven o'clock."
Unhappily, the notice came too late for me. Amongst all her many friends I certainly held her in the most affectionate remembrance, and I was denied the consolation either of seeing her before she died or of following her to her grave. The merry child, the beautiful young girl, the serious and intelligent wife, who should have died long after us, since we saw her grow up, has gone before us, and we still wait here!
CHAPTER XIII
M. Villenave's house—The master's despotic rule—The savant's coquetry—Description of the sanctuary of the man of science—I am admitted, thanks to an autograph of Buonaparte—The crevice in the wall—The eight thousand folios—The pastel by Latour—Voyages of discovery for an Elzevir or a Faust—The fall of the portrait and the death of the original
I meant to talk of M. Villenave, and behold I have been talking about Cathelineau, Stofflet, Sauveur and Carrier. What a strange thing imagination is! the wayward inhabitant of one's house, thought to be a slave therein, but in reality its queen!
I left off saying that we were going to take tea at M. Villenave's house.
Every bird makes its own nest, whether of twigs or of different kinds of feathers; and each man makes his own home—when he possesses one at all—indicative of his character, his temperament and his idiosyncrasy. And so M. Villenave's house had its own characteristics, reflecting the taste of its occupant. It was built of stones which had once been white, but which time had coloured grey, and which were fast turning into black. It did not open out on the road; it was a severe and gloomy-looking house which did not lend itself to any such frivolous doings; a wall, ten feet high, faced the street, like a kind of outwork, ornamented at the top by a formidable fringe of jagged glass. This wall had in it two gates, a large one and a small one. Unless carriages wanted to enter, the large one was always kept shut, its hinges rusty, its lock broken; the small door, next to the porter's lodge, opened upon and gave access to the garden—a
"See, mamma! a flower!..."
The garden, which may have been fifteen mÈtres square, was bounded on the side of the house by a pathway of paving-stones, leading to a corridor tiled with square red bricks, a staircase at the end completing the vista. But before you reached this staircase, you first passed four doors. The one on the left belonged to the dining-room, the window of which looked out upon the tidiest part of the garden; on the right, opposite it, was a small room, not much used, where a table and three or four old arm-chairs were left to grow damp. In several places the wall paper was bulging out and falling off, without anybody taking any notice of it, and was becoming pitted with green and white damp spots. Then, on the left again, came the kitchen door, and, on the right, the larder and pantry. This dark and damp ground-floor was like a catacomb, and was only descended into at meal-times. The real dwelling-rooms, where we were entertained, were on the first floor. This floor contained a small and a large drawing-room, and the bedrooms belonging to Madame Villenave and Madame Waldor. We will leave the small drawing-room and the two bedrooms and give our whole attention to the large salon, which, after the attics (let us hasten to mention these here, before we have the right of entering them), was the strangest room in the house. Its shape was a long rectangle, having, at each of its angles,
This recalls to my mind that I have not mentioned Nodier since I described him as helping me to gain entrance to the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais. Excellent and beloved Nodier!—one of my dearest friends! He shall not lose, you may be sure, by the postponement.
Happily, M. Villenave very rarely appeared in the salon, except on the AthÉnÉe nights. He spent the rest of his time on the second floor, only appearing among his family for dinner; then, after a few minutes' chat, after lecturing his son and scolding his wife, he would stretch himself out in an armchair, have his curls attended to by his daughter and return to his own apartments. The quarter of an hour during which the teeth of the comb gently scratched his head was the happiest time of the day to M. Villenave, the only rest he allowed himself from his unending absorption in scribbling.
"But why did he curl his hair?" someone asks.
That was the question I myself put.
Madame Waldor declared that it was purely an excuse for having his head scratched. M. Villenave must have been a parrot in one of the metamorphoses that preceded his life as a human being. Madame Villenave, who had known her husband longer than her daughter had, and who therefore could claim to know him better, averred that it was from vanity. And, indeed, M. Villenave, who was a good-looking old man, must have been splendidly handsome as a young man. His strongly marked features were wonderfully set off in their frame of flowing white hair, which showed up the fiery light of his fine black eyes. In fact, although M. Villenave was a learned man, he was also vain—a combination of virtue and
Follow me, reader, if these minute details after the fashion of Balzac amuse you, and if you believe nature takes as much pains over the making of a hyssop as over the making of a cedar-tree. Besides, we may perhaps be able to unearth some curious anecdote from out the medley, concerning a charming pastel by Latour. But we have not got there yet; we shall come to it in the end, just as at last we have come to M. Villenave's sanctum.
We have divided up the ground floor into dining-room, kitchen, pantry; and on the first floor into the small and large salons and the bedrooms; there was nothing like that on the second floor. The second floor had five rooms, five rooms full of nothing else but books and boxes. These five rooms must have contained forty thousand volumes and four thousand boxes, piled up on the floor and on tables. The anteroom alone was a vast library. It had two entrances: that on the right led to M. Villenave's bedroom—a chamber to which we shall return. That on the left opened into a large room, which, in its turn, led into a much smaller one. These two rooms, be it understood, were nothing but two libraries. The four walls of them were tapestried with books upheld on a substratum of boxes. This was odd enough in itself, as will readily be imagined, but it was not the most original thing that caught one's notice. The most ingenious arrangement was a square construction which stood in the middle of the room like an enormous block and formed a second library within
There were to be found a portion of the papers of Louis XVI., discovered in the iron chest; there was the correspondence of Malesherbes, two hundred autographs of Rousseau, and four hundred of Voltaire together with autographs of all the kings of France, from Charlemagne down to our own time; there were drawings by Raphael and Jules Romain, by Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Lebrun, Lesueur, Greuze, Vanloo, Watteau, Boucher, Vien, David, Girodet, etc.
M. Villenave would not have parted with the contents of those two rooms for a hundred thousand crowns.
I There now only remain the bedroom and the black cabinet behind M. Villenave's alcove, which was reached by a corridor, about which we shall have occasion to say a few words. Only those who saw that bedroom, wherein the bed was the least conspicuous piece of furniture, can conceive any idea of what the bedroom of a bibliomaniac is like. It was in this room that M. Villenave received his friends. After four or five months' intimacy in the household, I had the honour of being received in it. An old servant, called, I believe, FranÇoise, conducted me to it. I had promised M. Villenave an autograph—not that of Napoleon, of which he possessed five or six, or that of Bonaparte, of which he had three or four—but one of Buonaparte.
He had given orders that I was to be shown upstairs as soon as I arrived.
FranÇoise half opened the door.
"M. Dumas is here," she said.
Generally, when anyone was announced, even were he an intimate friend who had come unexpectedly, M. Villenave would utter a loud cry, scold FranÇoise and fling up his arms in despair; then, finally, when he had indulged his fit of despair, and moaned and sighed his fill, he would say—
"Very well, FranÇoise, as he is there, show him in."
Then the intruder would be let in.
My reception was quite otherwise. M. Villenave had hardly caught my name before he exclaimed—
"Show him in! show him in!"
In I went.
"Ah! here you are," he said. "Well, I wager you have not been able to find it!"
"What?"
"That famous autograph you promised me yesterday."
"Yes, indeed ... I have found it."
"And have you brought it?"
"To be sure I have!..."
"Really?"
"Here it is!"
"Quick, let me see it!"
I handed it to him. M. Villenave rushed up to the window.
"Yes, it is genuine," he said; "there is the u!... Oh! there is his very own u, there is no doubt about it. Let us see: '29 vendÉmiaire, year IV,' that is it!... Stop, stop!" He went to a box. "See, here is one of frimaire in the same year, signed 'Bonaparte, 12 frimaire'; so it must have been between 29 vendÉmiaire and 12 frimaire that he dropped his u; this determines a great historic question!"
While this monologue was being carried on, I had been glancing round the bedchamber thoroughly, and I had noticed that the only piece of furniture that was not encumbered with books was the arm-chair from which he had just risen. After M. Villenave had carefully examined the
"Ah! now, sit down," he said.
"I should like nothing better," I replied; "but what do you mean me to sit on?"
"Why, on the couch."
"Oh yes, on the couch!"
"What about it?"
"Well, just look at the couch for yourself."
"Upon my word, you are right; it is full of books. Never mind, pull up an arm-chair."
"With great pleasure. But the arm-chairs ...?"
"The arm-chairs?"
"Are littered just like the couch."
"Ah! I have so many books.... Have you noticed the great crack in the walls of the house?"
"No."
"It is visible enough, nevertheless.... Well, my dear monsieur, it is the books! The books are pulling down the house."
"The books? How?"
"Yes, twelve hundred folios, monsieur, twelve hundred splendid and rare folios; I even believe there are quite unknown ones among them, so rare are they! I put all those in the garret and I was intending to put more there, for there was room for another twelve hundred; when, suddenly, the house trembled, uttered a groan and cracked."
"Why, you must have thought it was an earthquake?"
"Exactly!... but when we found the damage was limited we sent for an architect. The architect examined the house from the cellar to the second floor and declared that the accident could only have been caused by too heavy a weight. And, consequently, he asked to be allowed to look at the attics. Alas! this was what I dreaded. Oh! if it had only been a question of myself, I would never have given him the key; but one has to sacrifice oneself for the general good.... He visited the attics, discovered the folios, reckoned that the
"At a loss?"
"No.... Alas! I made a profit of five or six thousand francs on them, because, you know, books increase in value from having been in the possession of a bibliophile; but the poor folios were lost to me—hounded from beneath the roof that had sheltered them.... I shall never come across such a collection again. But pray take a chair."
The chairs were in a similar condition to the easy-chairs and couches—not one was unoccupied. I decided to change the conversation.
"Oh!" I said to M. Villenave, approaching towards his recess, at the back of which an open door leading to the corridor permitted me to see what was there. "Oh! monsieur, what a beautiful pastel you have down there!"
"Yes, yes," replied M. Villenave, with that old-fashioned courtly air that I have only met with in two or three old men who were as vain as he. "Yes, that is the portrait of an old friend of mine—I say old, because I am no longer young, and she, if I remember correctly, was five or six years older than I. We became acquainted in the year 1784; you see that is not yesterday. We have not seen each other again since 1802, but that has not prevented us from writing to one another every week, or from looking forward to the weekly letters with exactly the same pleasure.... Yes, you are right, the pastel is charming, but if you had known the original you would have thought her still more charming!"
And a sweet reflection of youth, like a ray of sunlight, passed over the handsome face of the old man, making it look forty years younger.
Alas! I only entered that sacred tabernacle of the intellect twice: I have described what happened on my first visit, and I will immediately tell what happened at the second. But I ought previously to answer the question as to how M. Villenave managed to collect all these valuable
M. Villenave employed two aides-de-camp, or, rather, bloodhounds: one named Fontaine, himself the author of a book called the Manuel des Autographes; the other an employÉ in the War Office. Twice a week they went a hunting; they rummaged the shops of the grocers, who, accustomed to these visits, would put aside all the papers that they thought might be rare or curiosities. From amongst these papers the two visitors would make a selection, paying the grocers fifteen sous a pound, M. Villenave paying them at the rate of thirty sous. There also were what might be described as royal hunting-days; on these days M. Villenave hunted in person; every grocer in Paris knew him, and came up to him with his hands full of papers, far more precious to him than roses and lilies.
The reader should have seen M. Villenave when he sallied forth to take his leisure, or, rather, when he went out to accomplish the principal work of his life. He was no vain, becurled dandy on these days, neither did he wear the white cravat or the blue coat with gold buttons; no, he did not wish to look too well-to-do in the presence of the old second-hand
"We must find a place for it later."
That place would never be found, and the book would remain on the couch, the arm-chair or the chair, where it had been placed, a fresh obstacle in the way of any visitor who had to find a seat.
I was too well aware of M. Villenave's dislike to be disturbed, to have ventured on a second visit to his sanctum, until, when recasting Christine afresh, I wished to consult the autograph writing of the daughter of Gustavus-Adolphus; I
"Monsieur!" she said, "monsieur!"
"What is it, FranÇoise?"
"Does Monsieur want to go up to M. Villenave's rooms?"
"Yes, FranÇoise."
"I thought Monsieur was visiting the ladies as usual."
"You are wrong, FranÇoise."
"Then Monsieur will be good enough to spare my poor legs going up two flights of stairs and give M. Villenave this letter for him that has just come."
"Willingly, FranÇoise."
FranÇoise gave me the letter, and I took it and went upstairs. I knocked when I reached the door, but there was no answer. I knocked a little louder. Again no answer. I began to feel uncomfortable; the key was in the door, and the presence of that key invariably indicated the presence of M. Villenave in his room. Surely some accident must have happened to him. I knocked a third time, meaning to enter if I was not answered. There was no response, and I entered. M. Villenave was asleep in his arm-chair. The noise I made in entering and, perhaps, the draught that I caused, disturbed some magnetic influences, and M. Villenave uttered a cry, awoke and jumped up.
"Ah! pardon me," I exclaimed. "I beg a thousand pardons! I have disturbed you."
"Who are you? What is your business?" asked M. Villenave quickly.
"Why, upon my word, do you not recognise me?... Alexandre Dumas."
"Oh!" said M. Villenave, with a gasp.
"Really, monsieur," I said, "I am very sorry. I will withdraw."
"No, no; on the contrary, come in," said M. Villenave, as he passed his hand across his forehead; "you will render me a service."
I went in.
"Take a seat," he said, from customary habit.
Eight or ten folios lay tossed about on the floor; I formed a pile of them and sat down on the top.
"Yes," continued M. Villenave, "it was a very singular thing.... I fell asleep, the dusk came on and, in the meantime, my fire went out. You awoke me and found me in the dark, so I could not account for the noise inside my room; it was, no doubt, the draught from the passage that touched my face, but, in waking, I seemed to see something white, like a shroud, dancing before my eyes.... Curious, was it not?" went on M. Villenave, with a shiver, as though he felt cold through and through. "But here you are, so much the better!" And he held out his hand to me.
I responded to his courtesy, transferring to my left hand the letter I had brought him in my right.
"What have you there?" asked M. Villenave.
"Ah! pardon, I was forgetting ... it is a letter which FranÇoise gave me for you and that is the reason I disturbed you."
"Thanks ... Stop a minute, would you please feel about for a match? I am really quite bewildered still, and if I were superstitious I should believe I had had a presentiment."
He took the match I held out to him and lit it in the red embers on the hearth. Directly the match caught fire, we could distinguish objects in the room by its flickering light, faint though it was.
"Oh! good gracious!" I exclaimed suddenly, "what has happened to your beautiful pastel?"
"As you see, the glass and the frame are broken; I am waiting to send it to the glazier's and picture-framer's ... it was a most incomprehensible thing!"
"What was?"
"The way it fell."
"Did the nail come out, or the ring break?"
"Neither the one nor the other. The day before yesterday I was working all evening; when it reached a quarter to twelve, I was tired, but I still had to correct a proof of a handy little edition of my Ovid. I decided to combine rest and work by going to bed and correcting the proofs when I was in bed. So I lay down: I put my candle on the table by the bedside, and the light from it shone on the portrait of my poor friend; my glance followed the candlelight and I said good-night to the picture as usual.... A half-open window let in a little breeze which blew the flame of my candle about so that it seemed to me as though the portrait returned my good-night by bending its head as I had done! You will understand that I looked upon this movement as visionary and foolish; but, whether folly or a vision, my mind persisted in dwelling upon the movement, and the more I pondered over it, the more real the incident seemed; my eyes would stray from my Ovid, and fix themselves on that one point, the picture; my wandering thoughts would fly back, in spite of myself, to the days of my youth; and these early days passed before me one by one.... Ah me! I think I have told you that the original of that pastel occupied a good deal of my attention in those early days! So there I was, going at full tilt over old recollections of twenty-five years back; I addressed the copy as though the original could hear me, and my memory answered for her; it seemed as though the lips in the pastel moved; I thought the colours of the painting began to fade, and the expression on the face grew sad and unhappy.... Something like a smile of farewell passed over her lips; a tear came into her eyes ready to moisten the glass. Midnight began to strike; and, in spite of myself, I shivered—why, I could not tell! The wind blew, and, at the last stroke of midnight, while the clock was still vibrating, the half-open window opened wide violently, I heard a sigh like a groan, the eyes
"That is indeed a strange story!" I said. "And have you received your weekly letter as usual?"
"No, and that is what makes me uneasy; that is why I gave FranÇoise orders to bring or send up any letters that might come for me the moment they arrive."
"Well," said I, "perhaps the one I have just brought you...."
"That is not her style of folding:—still, never mind, as it comes from Angers...."
Then, turning it over to break the envelope he exclaimed, "Ah! my God! it is sealed in black! Poor soul, some misfortune has befallen her!"
And M. Villenave grew pale as he unsealed the letter; it enclosed a second one.
His eyes filled with tears as he read the first lines of the first letter.
"Look," he said, and he held it out to me, "read it"; and, while he silently and sadly opened the second letter, I took the first and read:—
"MONSIEUR,—It is with personal grief, increased by realising what you too will feel, that I have to inform you that Madame——died on Sunday last, at the last stroke of midnight. The day before, while she was writing to you, she was seized by
an indisposition which we thought at first was only slight, but it grew worse, until she died. I have the sad duty of sending to you the letter she had begun to write to you, unfinished as it is. This letter will assure you that her affection for you remained unchanged to the end. "I remain, Monsieur, in great grief, as you will readily believe, your very humble and very obedient servant,
"THÉRÈSE MIRAUD"
"So you see," resumed M. Villenave, "it was at the last stroke of midnight that the portrait fell, and it was at the last stroke of midnight that she died."
I felt that his grief needed a solitude peopled only by past recollections and uninterrupted by any poor attempts I could offer at consolation. I picked up my hat, pressed his hand and left.
This incident recalled to me the apparition of my father, on the very night of his death, which woke me up when I was a little child, and I put to myself the question that is so often asked and never answered, "What are the mysterious bonds which bind the dead to the living?" Later, when I lost my mother, whom I loved more than anyone else in the world, and who, on her side, loved me beyond all telling, I remembered these two visions and, kneeling down by the bed on which she had just expired, with my lips on her hand, I implored her, if anything of her had survived, to appear to me just once again; then, when night came, I lay down in a lonely room and waited with a beating heart, hoping to see the beloved vision. I counted in vain nearly all the hours of that night, and not the slightest sound or apparition came to solace my sorrowful watch. After that, I doubted all such experiences, whether my own or others'; for my mother's love for me, and mine for her, were so great that I knew if she had been able to rise once more from her resting-place to bid me a last farewell she would surely have done it. But perhaps it is only children and old people who are privileged—children because they are nearer the cradle, old people because they are nearer the grave.
CHAPTER XIV
First representation of SouliÉ's RomÉo et Juliette—AnaÏs and Lockroy—Why French actresses cannot act Juliet—The studies of the Conservatoire—A second Christine at the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais—M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey—Conspiracy against me—I give up my turn to have my play produced—How I found the subject of Henri III.—My opinion of that play
Meantime, we had reached the beginning of June 1828, and I was informed by SouliÉ that the OdÉon had accepted his RomÉo, were rehearsing it and were nearly ready to perform it. We had not seen each other since the night when we had agreed each to write our own version of Christine. But he had not forgotten me, and I received two gallery stall tickets for the first night. As my mother had often heard me talk of SouliÉ, and as she knew that SouliÉ was one of my friends, it was by way of preparing her for the first representation of my work that I took her to see the first representation of SouliÉ's. Poor mother! It was a great treat to her to go out with me. Alas! I had neglected her sadly for months past. We become so accustomed to those guardian angels, our mothers, that we never dream, as we leave them to pursue all the foolish fancies of youth, that a moment will come—a terrible and unanticipated moment—when they, in their turn, will leave us! Then only do we recollect, with tears in our eyes and remorse at our hearts, those many thoughtless and cruel absences and we exclaim, "Good God! why did I so often leave her for this and that, now to be separated from her by you for ever?"
We made our way to the OdÉon. A first representation was a great affair in those days—especially when the play to
The upshot of all this is that AnaÏs, although a charming comedienne (she was probably trained at the Conservatoire), made an inadequate Juliette; and Lockroy, who had studied his part from Kemble and Macready and, above all, had thought about it himself, did marvels in the part of Romeo. One of these marvellous things was a stroke of genius. When he sees Juliette rise from her tomb and walk, he retreats backward, keeping his eyes fixed on her, for fear lest she whom he takes for a ghost should vanish, and feels in the funeral couch she has just left, refraining from uttering his cry of joy until he has assured himself that the bed is empty. The play obtained the literary success it deserved—a success that culminated in the last act, which was almost entirely borrowed from Shakespeare.
I do not think I ever felt so much moved at any of my own representations as I was at this representation of SouliÉ; I never suffered more than during these first four acts, when I felt that the piece dragged along lifeless and dull, realising that this dulness and lack of life arose from the excessive good taste of the poet, who had thought it necessary to improve on Shakespeare. However, it was quite original enough to satisfy the public, and the public was content; but I am very sure that SouliÉ himself was not.
Meanwhile, the influence of Picard's criticism on Christine was making itself felt at the ComÉdie-FranÇaise. Mademoiselle Mars, who was at first fired with enthusiasm over the part of Christine, cooled in her study of it; for, incomplete as it then was, she felt it beneath her powers; Firmin, inspired comedian though he was, lacked a sense of composition and was beginning to feel uneasy over the part of Monaldeschi; finally, Ligier, who was to have acted the part of Sentinelli, left the ComÉdie-FranÇaise and went to the OdÉon. Something still more serious had happened. The Committee of the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais had received a second play entitled Christine.
This second Christine had been written by a M. Brault, formerly a prefect and a friend of M. Decazes, who supported him with all his might. The principal rÔle in this new tragedy, namely, that of Christine, had been deputed to Madame Valmonzey. In case you do not know anything about Madame Valmonzey, I will tell you who she was. Madame Valmonzey was not a good actress, but she was a very good-looking woman, the mistress of M. Évariste Dumoulin, editor of the Constitutionnel. It may, perhaps, be asked why I mention this fact. I reply that it is because I must. Heaven forbid I should rake up a scandal needlessly and needlessly speak ill of the dead; but I am writing the history of art and the history of literature and the history of the theatre, and in order that this history may be history the truth must be told.
This was what happened on the receipt of a second Christine at the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais and in consequence of the amours of M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey. M. Évariste Dumoulin let it be known that if they did not perform the play of his friend M. Brault before that of M. Alexandre Dumas he would ruin the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais by means of his journal. This declaration of war greatly frightened the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais; nevertheless, as it was a serious and unprecedented thing that M. Évariste Dumoulin demanded of the Committee, they replied that they were quite ready to play M. Brault's Christine, but that, in order to do so, my consent to cede my turn to him would first have to be obtained. M. Brault, moreover, was ill of an incurable disease, from which he died some time after, and it would be a comfort to the poor dying man to see his play acted before he died. This was the way the request was put to me by his son, in a most polite and affable letter, and by the Duc de Decazes in the most friendly terms, making me also offers of help. On their side, the Comedians of the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais guaranteed, after a Committee meeting, to play my piece after they had performed M. Brault's, upon the first request I should make them to do so.
I have always been easily moved by appeals of this kind. But this postponement was a serious matter to my mother and to
No reward attended my sacrifice. The very next day, the papers announced that the Committee of the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais, having discerned more chances in M. Brault's play than in mine, had decided that M. Brault's piece should be performed, while mine was to be indefinitely postponed. I could have objected publicly, produced the letter of M. Brault's son and revealed the engagement entered into by the ComÉdie-FranÇaise. I did nothing of the kind, and from that day to this, I have never taken any notice of the petty intrigues of the papers; I can boast with pride, and without fear of contradiction, that I have never soiled my hands either to gain my own ends or to injure other people. Of course, neither M. Brault, the poor dying poet, nor his son, nor M. Decazes, had any hand in all these intriguing announcements. I even believe that M. Brault's son had the decency to write and tell the true version of the facts, and to thank me publicly, as he had thanked me privately. But although I treated these hardships with disdain, they had their annoyances. My mother never read the papers, but the Deviolaine family read them, and everybody in the offices read them, and charitable souls took care to say to my mother—
"Upon my word, your son is getting himself talked about!"
"What about?" my mother would ask, trembling with fright.
And then they hastened to inform her, and saddened her poor heart, for I was her all in all, and she was far more anxious about me than I was about myself.
The rehearsals of M. Brault's Christine were pushed on as fast as mine had been delayed—though everybody knows what rapidity means at the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais; M. Brault had ample time in which to die before the representation of his play, which had only an indifferent success. As to Madame Valmonzey, she did not even achieve any success. All the same, my piece was delayed indefinitely.
SouliÉ had finished his Christine and got it accepted at the OdÉon, with Mademoiselle Georges and Ligier to play the principal parts. And what was happening to me all this time?...
One of those chances which fate deals out only to those marked out by destiny gave me the subject of Henri III. by just such another accident as had led me to Christine. The only cupboard I had in my office—the office, it will be remembered, that I ardently coveted—I had to share with FÉresse: I put my paper in it, he put his bottles there. One day, whether by inadvertence or to play a trick on me, or to show his superior rights over mine, he took away the key of this cupboard when going an errand. During his absence I used up all the paper lying about in my office, and, as I still had three or four reports to copy out, I went to get some more paper. A volume of Anquetil lay open, on a desk: I mechanically cast my eyes on it, and at page 95 I read the following lines:—
"Although attached to the king, and by rank an enemy of the Duc de Guise, Saint-MÉgrin was none the less in love with the duchess, Catherine de ClÈves, and it was said that she returned his love. The author of this anecdote gives us to understand that the husband was indifferent on the subject of his wife's actual or supposed infidelity. He opposed the entreaties of his relations that he should avenge himself, and
only punished the indiscretion or the crime of the duchess by a joke. One day he entered her room early in the morning, holding a potion in one hand and a dagger in the other; after rudely awaking his wife and reproaching her, he said in tones of fury— "Decide, madame, whether to die by dagger or poison!'
"In vain did she ask his forgiveness; he compelled her to make her choice. She drank the concoction and flung herself on her knees, recommending her soul to God and expecting nothing short of death. She spent an hour in fear; and then the duke came back with a serene countenance, and told her that what she had taken for poison was an excellent soup. Doubtless this lesson made her more circumspect afterwards."
I gained access to the Biographie; the Biographie referred me to the MÉmoires de l'Estoile. I did not know what the MÉmoires de l'Estoile were; I asked M. Villenave, who lent me them. The MÉmoires de l'Estoile, volume i. page 35, contain these lines—:
"Saint-MÉgrin, a young gentleman of Bordeaux, handsome, wealthy and good-hearted, was one of the curled darlings kept by the king. One night when coming away, at eleven o'clock, from the Louvre, where the king was, in the rue du Louvre, near the rue Saint-HonorÉ, he was set upon by some twenty to thirty unknown men, with pistols, swords and cutlasses, who left him on the pavement for dead; he died, indeed, the next day, and it was a wonder how he could have lived so long, for he had received thirty-four or thirty-five mortal wounds. The king ordered his dead body to be carried to Boisy, near the Bastille, where QuÉlus, his companion, had died, and buried at Saint-Paul with as much pomp and solemnity as his companions Maugiron and QuÉlus had been buried there before him. No inquiries were made concerning the assassination, His Majesty having been warned that it had been done through the instrumentality of the Duc de Guise, because of the reports of intimacy between the young mignon and the duke's wife, and that the blow had been dealt by one who bore the beard and features of his brother the Duc du Maine. When the King of Navarre heard the news, he said—
"'I am glad to hear that my cousin the Duc de Guise has
not suffered himself to be cuckolded by a mignon de couchette such as Saint-MÉgrin; I wish all the other gilded youths about court who hang round the princesses ogling them and making love to them could receive the same treatment'...."
Farther on, in the MÉmoires de l'Estoile, came this passage, concerning the death of Bussy d'Amboise:—
"On Wednesday, 19 August, Bussy d'Amboise, first gentle-man-in-waiting of M. le Duc, Governor of Anjou, AbbÉ de Bourgueil, who assumed very high and mighty airs, because of the partiality of his master, and who had done all kinds of evil deeds and robbed the countries of Anjou and Maine, was slain by the Seigneur de Monsoreau, together with the wicked lieutenant of Saumur, in a house belonging to the said Seigneur de Monsoreau, where, at night, the said lieutenant, who was his love messenger, had brought him to sleep that night with the wife of the said Monsoreau, to whom Bussy had for a long time made love; with whom the said lady had purposely made this false assignation in order to have him surprised by her husband, Monsoreau; when he appeared towards midnight, he was immediately surrounded and attacked by ten or a dozen men who accompanied the Seigneur de Monsoreau, and who rushed upon him in fury to massacre him: this gentleman, seeing himself so contemptibly betrayed, and that he was alone (as on such expeditions people usually prefer to be), did not, however, cease to defend himself to the last, proving, as he had often said, that fear had never found room in his heart;—for so long as an inch of sword remained in his hand, he fought on till only the handle was left him, and then he made use of tables, forms, chairs and stools, with which he disabled three or four of his enemies, until, overpowered by numbers and bereft of all arms and means of defending himself, he was beaten down, close to a window, from which he had tried to fling himself in the hope of escape. Such was the end of Captain Bussy...."
It was from these two paragraphs relating to Bussy and to Saint-MÉgrin that I built up my drama. M. Villenave told me that I should find details as to manners in two valuable books entitled the Confession de Sancy, and the Ile des Hermaphrodites.
In connection with Henri III. it is easy to see that the dramatic gift is born with certain people. I was twenty-five years of age, Henri III. was my second serious piece of work: let any conscientious critic take it and submit it to the most rigorous examination and he will find plenty to blame in the style, but nothing in the plot. I have written fifty dramas since Henri III., but not one of them is more cleverly constructed.
CHAPTER XV
The reading of Henri III. at M. Villenave's and M. Roqueplan's—Another reading at Firmin's—BÉranger is present—A few words about his influence and popularity—Effect produced by my drama—Reception by the ComÉdie-FranÇaise—Struggle for the distribution of parts—M. de Broval's ultimatum—Convicted of the crime of poetry I appeal to the Duc d'OrlÉans—His Royal Highness withholds my salary—M. Laffitte lends me three thousand francs—Condemnation of BÉranger
The execution of Henri III. was, relatively speaking, rapid; as soon as the plot was completely settled in my mind it scarcely took me two months to finish the work. I recollect that, in the interval between the composition of the plot and the execution of the piece, I went to Villers-Cotterets, to shoot, I believe; on my return, I started before the carriage, and my young friends, Saunier, Labarre and Duez, put me on my way as far as the village of Vauciennes. During our walk I told them the whole of Henri III. from beginning to end. Henri III. was completed directly the plot was completed. When I am busy working at one of my plays it is a help to me to tell the story; as I tell it I invent, and, at the conclusion of one of these recitals, some fine morning, there the play is, ready finished. But it often happens that this way of composing, namely, by not beginning the composition until I have finished the plot, is very slow. I kept Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle nearly five years thus in my head, and since 1832 I have had the plot of a Juif errant in my mind, waiting till I can get a moment's leisure to finish it; it will be one of my best pieces of work. I have only one fear, and that is that I shall die before I can get it done.
When I had finished Henri III. I read it to a small circle of friends at Madame Waldor's. The play made a great impression; but the unanimous advice was that I ought to have Christine produced first. They said that Henri III. was too daring for a first production. I need hardly say that M. Villenave thought all these new movements in literature monstrous aberrations of the human intellect. It was the period when an entirely fresh generation was springing up around us and with us. Several journals had just been begun by men of our age, full of the new ideas then afloat, in opposition to the views of the Constitutionnel, the Courrier franÇais, the Journal de Paris and the Journal des DÉbats, which from that time reserved the whole of its praise for Victor Hugo.
These journals were the Figaro and the Sylphe. They were edited by Nestor Roqueplan, Alphonse Royer, Louis Desnoyers, Alphonse Karr, Vaillant, Dovalle and a dozen other bold champions of the Romantic school. I invited them all to meet in Nestor Roqueplan's rooms, also asking Lassagne and Firmin to join us. In those days Nestor Roqueplan was not magnificently lodged in his apartments at the OpÉra; his salons were not ornamented by Boule, nor were the corner-stones from Coromandel. He had a small room on the fifth floor, with a chimneypiece ornamented with a washhand basin, in lieu of a clock, and duelling pistols instead of candlesticks. Nearly a score of us were packed in this room; we laid out the mattresses from the bed on the floor to form divans; we transformed the bedstead into a sofa. I stood before a table lit by plain candles; the kettle was put on the fire so that each act could be divided by a cup of tea—and I began. This time, I was dealing with men of daring opinions, and their advice was therefore exactly the opposite: they all declared with one accord that I ought to abandon Christine to her unhappy lot and to push forward Henri III. Firmin was enchanted; he could understand the part of Saint-MÉgrin much better than he had been able to enter into that of Monaldeschi. He undertook to ask for a reading for me and
"My friend," he said, "you were only half right in the matter of Christine; you are altogether right in Henri III."
Firmin fixed the reading for the following Thursday; it was necessary that BÉranger should be present at it. You must understand the import of those few words, "It was necessary that BÉranger should be present at it!" BÉranger was the hero of the hour; of him Benjamin Constant had just said, "Good old BÉranger! he thinks he is writing chansons and really he is composing odes!" This mot had gone round, it hit the mark so deliciously, and the whole of the Liberal party had pronounced BÉranger to be the greatest poet of his age. This partisanship had roused some opposition, but the only effect was to carry enthusiasm to the utmost pitch. Please, let me make it clear that I do not wish to convey the impression that BÉranger was overrated, but I think it was rather unjust on the others; and by the others I mean Lamartine and Hugo. They also composed odes, admirables odes, too, and no one went so far as to say that they could not also compose chansons. The explanation was that Lamartine and Hugo were both out-and-out members of the Royalist party, and the Royalist party was far from representing the opinion of the majority. Now, this popular enthusiasm was not on account of BÉranger as a poet pure and simple; it was for BÉranger as a national poet, for BÉranger as the author of the Vieux Drapeau, the Dieu des bonnes gens, the Grand'mÈre. Here the instincts of the masses were not at fault; they fully realised that BÉranger was a fiery socialist, that each of his political chansons was the blow of a pickaxe aimed to undermine the foundations of the throne, and they applauded with hands and with voices the bold pioneer who
Laffitte's friendship with BÉranger and BÉranger's influence on Laffitte displayed itself in a singular way in 1830. France owed the reign of Louis-Philippe to these two men; that is to say, the indispensable transition as I deem it from aristocratic royalism to democratic rule—that intermediate stage which has been termed la royautÉ bourgeoise. We shall have some strange details to relate when we reach the proper time and place; for, throughout that great week, we were closely associated with makers and unmakers of kings. But, for the moment, the BÉranger that Firmin promised me was not the man of politics, but BÉranger the poet, the author of Lisette, the Deux Soeurs de CharitÉ and FrÉtillon. We were, besides, to have such authorities as MM. Taylor, Michelot and Samson; Mlle. Leverd and Mlle. Mars.
I wished my mother to have the pleasure of being present at this reading, as I felt quite certain of a successful issue, so I persuaded her to accompany me.
Alas! poor mother! I might have had a presentiment that she would not be present at its performance!
The reading created a great impression on everybody. Although, in the nature of things, BÉranger could not thoroughly enter into the spirit of dramatic form, he, too, was moved to enthusiasm along with the rest, by the third and fifth acts and did not hesitate to predict that I should have a great success.
From that night dates a friendship between BÉranger and me—a friendship which has never failed. This friendship often took a sardonic, almost bitter form of expression, for BÉranger
The reading, as I have said, had a marked effect upon all present; but especially were the five Comedians impressed by it—Firmin, Michelot, Samson, Mlle. Mars and Mlle. Leverd. It was settled that when the Committee met two days hence, a special reading should be asked for and that, making use of the guarantee which was given me with regard to Christine, special favour should be sought on my account so that the piece might be played as soon as possible. The play was read on 17 September 1828 and received with acclamation. After the reading, I was called into the director's office, which was vacant, for the time being. There I found Taylor, Mademoiselle Mars, Michelot and Firmin. Mademoiselle Mars began the subject with her usual frankness, I was going to say with her usual brutal frankness. I was not to allow Henri III. to be put aside as I had in the case of Christine; everything must be settled at once, while the Committee was in the mood—the distribution of rÔles, the signing of the contract; and, taking advantage of the eager enthusiasm of the Committee, steps were immediately to be taken to obtain the mise en scÈne from the Administration. Moreover, my generous patron Taylor was about to quit the theatre to travel in the East; he had kept his promise to the author of HÉcube and was setting out, not only for Alexandria and Cairo, but even as far as Luxor. Advantage might be taken of his absence to do me a bad turn. I endowed Mlle. Mars, Firmin and Michelot with plenary powers, and they undertook my affairs, constituting themselves my tutelary guardians, and declaring that I was incapable of carrying out the necessary negotiations myself.
When the question of the distribution of rÔles was discussed, Mlle. Mars met with great opposition. She wished Armand to undertake the part of Henri III. and Madame Menjaud to be the page. Now, I wanted Louise DesprÉaux to be the
Such were my worries at the theatre—there were plenty more for me at the offices.
As in the case of Christine, the papers immediately published the news of my reception, and as in the case of Christine there was a great commotion about it in the offices. However, nothing was said to me at first. Thanks to the easy means of communication between the Committee and my little office, Firmin called on me several times, and my subsequent absences after his calls, which had reference to various difficulties that arose about distribution of parts or the mise en scÈne, having been noted, an accusation was concocted against me of a sufficiently grave nature to constitute a charge of insubordination.
At length, in dulcet tones, he explained to me that literature and official work were incompatible and that, knowing how, in spite of the natural antipathy between them, I had been endeavouring to combine them, he requested me to make my choice between the two.
M. de Broval was a fine talker, for he had been a third-class clerk in the diplomatic service. On great days he wore, as I believe I have mentioned, a coat with a braided collar, and on this coat the medal of Saint-Janvier, which he had received on the marriage of the Duc d'OrlÉans with the daughter of Ferdinand of Sicily; on ordinary days, he dressed like everybody else. One of his shoulders was higher than the other and he had a big red nose. I was always unlucky with deformed persons. I knew that the time had come when I must stake my last throw; I let M. de Broval proceed with the rounding off of his sentences, and his greatly beloved climaxes, until he had finished, and then I said—
"Monsieur le Baron, as far as I have been able to follow your discourse, I gather you leave me the choice between my place as copying clerk and my vocation as a literary man."
"That is so, Dumas," the baron replied.
"My place was obtained from the Duc d'OrlÉans by General
"Ah! ah!" M. de Broval exclaimed in surprise; "and how do you and your mother propose to live, monsieur?"
"That is my own business, monsieur"; and I bowed and prepared to take my leave.
"Take notice, Monsieur Dumas," said M. de Broval, "from the end of next month you shall not receive any further salary."
"From this present one, monsieur, if you wish it. This will enable you to save one hundred and twenty-five francs on His Highness's account, and I have no doubt that His Highness will be duly grateful to you for this economy."
Whereupon I again bowed and withdrew.
M. de Broval kept his word. When I returned to my office, I was officially informed that in future I could dispose of my time as I thought proper, since from that day my salary was suspended. It seems incredible and yet it is a fact. Furthermore, the salaries in the prince's offices were as a general rule so poor they were not enough for us to live on. So each had recourse to some particular industry to ameliorate his constant state of penury: some had married sempstresses who kept little shops; others had shares in livery stables;
Well, I had prepared my plans beforehand, and these plans had fortified me. I had decided that I would lay my case before BÉranger, and ask him to obtain for me an interview with Laffitte. It was just possible that Laffitte might do for me what he had done for ThÉaulon, under similar circumstances. Laffitte might, perhaps, lend me a thousand crowns. I went and told Firmin all my difficulties, and he took me to BÉranger. And BÉranger took me to Laffitte. I should misrepresent the truth if I said that M. Laffitte jumped at the opportunity of rendering me this service; but I should also misrepresent it if I did not hasten to add that he did render it me. I signed a promissory note for three thousand francs, I deposited a copy of my manuscript of Henri III. with the cashier, and I pledged my word of honour to return the three thousand francs upon the sale of the manuscript. There' was no question of interest.
I left Laffitte's house with my three notes of a thousand francs each in my pocket, I shook hands warmly with BÉranger and I ran home to my mother. I found her in despair; she had already heard what had happened. I drew the three notes of a thousand francs from my pocket and put them into her hands. They represented my salary for two years. I explained to her how I had come by the money, but she could not realise it. Nevertheless, my poor mother began to believe that I was
A fortnight after BÉranger had rendered me this service he was sentenced by the tribunal de police correctionnelle de la Seine to pay a fine of ten thousand francs and to nine months' imprisonment, as author of the Ange gardien, of the GÉrontocratie and of the Sacre de Charles le Simple. BÉranger did not appeal against the judgment and he was a prisoner at the beginning of the year 1829. A month after his entry into prison, M. Viennet visited him.
"Well, my noble songster," began the author of the Philippide, "how many chansons have you already composed under lock and key?"
"Not one yet," replied BÉranger; "do you suppose chansons are written as easily as epic poems?"
CHAPTER XVI
The Duc d'OrlÉans has my salary stopped—A scribbler (folliculaire)—Henri III. and the Censorship—My mother is seized with paralysis—Cazal—Edmond Halphen—A call on the Duc d'OrlÉans—First night of Henri III.—Effect it produced on M. Deviolaine—M. de Broval's congratulations
It was under these conditions that the year 1829 broke upon me—the year in which was to take place the grand duel between my past and my future. My intimate intercourse with the Villenave family had been the means of opening to me several of the salons of the day, and among these that of the Princess de Salm. Here it was that I met Lady Morgan, Cooper and Humboldt.
Meanwhile, Henri III. was causing a great sensation. Nothing was talked of save the revolution which its representation meant. I attended the rehearsals with great assiduity, attracted, so I asserted, by my interest in the work; but, according to Mlle. Mars, the real reason was the interest I took in an exceedingly pretty and charming lady, named Mlle. Virginie Bourbier, who played a trifling part in my drama. Since the month of October I had not put foot inside the office. Now, although I had worked hard for nine months of the year and, consequently, was entitled to three-quarters of my bonus, everyone save myself seemed to have had share in the distribution of funds, and in the munificence of His Royal Highness. It was not a simple oversight, as I might have hoped, although that would have been humiliating enough—no, the fact had been debated, considered and decided, and His Royal Highness had condescended to write beside my name, in his own hand—
"The gratuities of M. Alexandre Dumas are to be withheld, as he is engaged in literary work."
The Administration was divided into two camps over my position. Some had bravely dared to take the side of literature against bureaucracy. Among the number of my partisans was little old Bichet, whose head being turned by M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison maintained that I should do great things ... not so great, of course, as Piron; but still, I should make my name known. The others were Lassagne, Lamy, secretary of Mlle. AdÉlaÏde, the son of the director of the comptabilitÉ Jamet, whose admiration for the English actors, and specially for a charming English actress, had brought him over to the Romantic school, and some others, who were too dependent on their positions to dare to manifest their sympathy with me openly. Oudard remained neutral. M. Deviolaine wavered; all this talk there had been about me had shaken his opinion. Was I right, in spite of the whole world, and, in spite of my education at three francs per month, should I succeed where scores of others had failed? He expressed his doubt, from time to time, nearly always winding up his hesitation by the following words:—
"The —— is crazy enough to do it!"
As is usual in theatrical matters, the production was postponed from day to day but at last it was fixed to take place on 11 February. A grave anxiety, however, hovered over everybody and myself in particular, like a black cloud. The Censor had not yet given his final decision upon the play. A wretched creature occupied the office at that time, who lived on scandal, making capital of others' self-esteem or their weakness, beside whom Geoffroi was honesty itself and a conscientious critic. The following lines on the Folliculaire by Laville might have been written about him:—
"Un vase de vermeil, une bague de prix,
Du vin surtout, voilÀ ses cadeaux favoris.
On assure—je crois que, sur ce fait probable,
Pour le vrai, la chronique a pris le vraisemblable—
Qu'au jour oÙ nos amis viennent du vieux Nestor
Nous souhaiter les ans, et bien d'autres encor;
Au jour oÙ les filleuls aiment tant leurs marraines;
Jour de munificence oÙ, sous le nom d'Étrennes,
Et d'une honnÊte aumÔne accroÎt ses revenus,
Il revend au rabais, ou plutÔt À l'enchÈre,
Le superflu des vins et de la bonne chÈre
Dont l'accable le zÈle ou l'effroi des acteurs;
Et que Follicula, pour qui les directeurs
De schalls et de chapeaux renouvellent l'emplette,
Se fait, pendant deux mois, marchande À la toilette!"
The entire theatrical world paid tribute to this man. Mademoiselle Mars gave him a pension; he received subsidies from the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais, the OdÉon, the OpÉra and the OpÉra-Comique. They came to him as to the open market: he sold eulogy to one, calumny to others; he sold everything, even his silence.
Mademoiselle Mars, Firmin, the company of the ComÉdie-FranÇaise, and even Taylor himself had urged me to pay this man a call; but I had obstinately refused. So, one morning, someone brought me his paper, which contained the following lines:—
"In the play that has just been accepted by the ComÉdie-FranÇaise, the work of an author who, we are told, possesses great merit, there appear characters who had a disgraceful connection with the subject (the Court of Henri III.), whose new appearance on the stage may possibly serve to prove the author's talent, but whose presence, it cannot be denied, create an impropriety impossible to tolerate. History has preserved the names of these miserable heroes, those infamous personages, who took part in a debauch as dissolute as it was inexcusable; we will venture to call them by their true names, and to signify our detestation of the representatives of these rÔles of mignons, on account of the scandalous mischief they will do to the masses. If the information we have received upon this subject be correct, the authority which honours the theatre with its guardian vigilance will not permit an innovation of this nature, for it knows that its first duty is only to authorise those plays concerning the representation of which a son or a daughter can be innocently satisfied when they ask of their parents, 'What does that mean?'"
I had expected this and was prepared to meet it. I had
"De la Ponce," I said, in scriptural phrase, "take up your cloak and your hat."
I set off in search of the critic with all the more satisfaction in that I knew there were days when he was no coward: if a duel would serve his purpose he would fight one. I sent in my name.
He had been expecting me, he said, when he heard my name; but he probably did not expect me to come to him in the frame of mind in which I presented myself before him.
Was I going to be lucky or unlucky? I could not tell, but the folliculaire was not in one of his brave moods: he beat about the bush, spoke of his influence with the Government, tried to show us his last New Year's presents and ended up, in short, by offering to use his influence on my behalf with M. de Martignac, who was a friend of his and owed him some money.
I quote this sentence especially, as an example of the man's impudence.
I told him I had not come to solicit his influence but to request him to withdraw as quickly as possible and in the fullest manner his article in that day's papers. Next day, his paper contained the following apology:—
"We are exceedingly sorry to find our brief article on Henri III., recently accepted by the ComÉdie-FranÇais, in yesterday's issue contained imputations which were far from our intention. We had not received the accurate information on the subject which is now in our possession, and we can satisfy our readers concerning the taste, the delicacy and the tact with which the scenes and personages to which we referred are handled. This method of treating romance is too closely akin to classic traditions to admit of objection on our part."
My readers may, perhaps, be surprised that I should have had one moment's uneasiness in connection with such a man, but—I must repeat it to be believed—despicable and despised though this man was, he had his influence. Instead
I was at the theatre, full of delight at this unexpected escape of my play, which was now to be produced the following Saturday, when one of M. Deviolaine's servants came hurriedly to me, looking very scared, to tell me that my mother had fallen ill as she was going down the stairs after visiting M. Deviolaine, and that they could not bring her back to consciousness. M. Deviolaine lived on the fourth floor of the house of one Chaulin, a stationer, at the corner of the rue Saint-HonorÉ and the rue de Richelieu. I rushed away from the theatre, sending the property-lad to tell M. Florence, the doctor belonging to the theatre, that my mother needed his assistance. In a few seconds I was with my mother: she was seated in a large arm-chair; her eyes were open and she had regained consciousness, but she could hardly speak. The whole of one side of her body was quite paralysed. She had been to call on Madame Deviolaine; as usual, I had been the subject of conversation; as usual, they had been telling her I was a wilful blockhead, unworthy the clemency the House of OrlÉans had shown me; that my play would be a failure and would not even produce enough to pay back M. Laffitte his thousand crowns, and that then I should find myself out of a berth and with no future before me. My poor mother had wept copiously, going away in great distress of mind, and as she was about to step downstairs she was seized with faintness, absolutely lost all power and fell down in a
Unluckily, Thibaut was away from Paris. Madame de Celles, daughter of General GÉrard, was suffering from consumption and had required a doctor to accompany her to Italy. Madame de Leuven had recommended Thibaut, and he had gone with her. As we only knew Florence slightly, he thoughtfully withdrew of his own accord after he had rendered first aid to our invalid. So I called in another of my friends, named Cazal. He was an extremely clever fellow who, when he found that, in spite of his medical skill, his practice did not increase, invented a new kind of umbrella and parasol, took out a patent for them and made a fortune. Cazal spent the whole night with us by my mother's side; and next day, as the
How I rejoiced that the idea had come to me of applying to M. Laffitte! how I rejoiced that M. Laffitte had lent me the thousand crowns! We could at least be certain of one thing, that, no matter how things turned out, our mother would want for nothing during her illness. Furthermore, on learning this news, one of my friends, son of a celebrated diamond merchant, Edmond Halphen, not knowing I was as rich as Ali Baba, sent me a small purse containing twenty louis. I returned him the louis, but I kept the purse, in remembrance of that delicate kindness which so few have shown to me, and I recall the act with gratitude, for it touched me deeply. I have, however, sometimes met with the same spontaneous generosity elsewhere, but among my women friends, not among my men friends.
Deeply troubled as I was,—God alone knew how deeply this blow had struck me!—I was obliged to leave my mother, for a few hours; my drama was so novel, even to those who were rehearsing it, that, unless I was present, their confidence took flight. I returned and found everyone greatly concerned by the misfortune that had overtaken me in such an unexpected manner. Taylor was present to prompt in my place in case I was unable to turn up. The play was ready or all but ready, and there was no doubt it would be performed the following Saturday. When I returned home, I found the whole of the Villenave family awaiting me, from ThÉodore to Élisa. They had missed me the night before, I who never missed going to their house a day, and, when the letter arrived that told my kind friends what had happened, they came off to see me at once. No one can have any idea of the strain of the next two or three days—the profound grief at watching my mother's dying condition, and the terrible labour of preparing a first drama for its public ordeal.
The night before the representation, I took a step that I had decided upon for some time previously. I presented myself at the Palais-Royal and asked to see M. le Duc d'OrlÉans. The
"Monseigneur," I said to him, "to-morrow they play Henri III."
"Yes," he said, "I know that."
"Well, monseigneur, I have come to ask a favour of you, or rather an act of justice."
"What is it?"
"To give me your presence at my first representation.... A year ago, your Highness was informed that I was an empty-headed, vain fool; for a year I have been working as a humble poet; without giving me a hearing, monseigneur, you have sided with those of your retinue who have been my accusers—perhaps your Highness should have waited, but your Highness thought otherwise and did not wait. To-morrow things will be put to public trial; all I come to beg of you, monseigneur, is that you will be present at the sentence."
The duke looked at me for a moment, and, seeing how calmly I met his scrutiny, he replied—
"I would have granted your request with great pleasure, M. Dumas, for various people have told me that if you were not a model of industry you were an example of perseverance; but, unfortunately, it is impossible."
"Your Highness probably means that a man who aspires to talk with people in high places should know better than to interrogate a prince; but, monseigneur, I have come to you in such exceptional circumstances that I will venture to ask whence arises that impossibility, for I must confess it disappoints me greatly."
"You shall judge for yourself: to-morrow I expect twenty to thirty princes and princesses to dinner."
"Would it not be a novel entertainment, monseigneur, to take these princes and princesses to see Henri III.?"
"How could I take them to see it when dinner begins at six and Henri III. begins at seven?"
"Let monseigneur advance his dinner one hour and I will delay Henri III. for an hour; that would allow monseigneur three hours wherein to assuage the hunger of his august guests."
"Well, that is not a bad idea.... Do you think the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais would consent to the delay?"
"They would be only too delighted to accommodate your Highness."
"But where should I seat them? I only have three boxes."
"I asked the Administration not to dispose of the first circle until I had seen your Highness."
"You presumed, then, to think that I should consent to see your play?"
"I relied upon your sense of justice.... You see, monseigneur, I appeal to Philippe awakened."
"Very well. Go and tell M. Taylor that, if the ComÉdie-FranÇais consents to put back the representation an hour, I will be present at it, and in order to carry this out I will engage the whole circle."
"I will hasten there immediately, monseigneur."
"Are you satisfied?"
"Enchanted! I trust also that your Highness will not have reason to repent of this kindness."
"I hope so too.... Away with you, and good luck!"
I bowed and left.
Ten minutes later, the theatre had been told; twenty minutes later, the Duc d'OrlÉans had received an answer in the affirmative. That very evening letters were sent to the guests informing them of the change of hour.
The long-expected day came at last! On that day there was neither rehearsal nor any other meeting: I could remain by my mother's side until the evening. They had given me a certain number of theatre tickets, especially tickets for the
At a quarter to eight I kissed my mother, who, in the clouded state of her brain, scarcely realised what a battle I was on the eve of fighting. I met M. Deviolaine in the corridor.
"Well, you young rip!..." he said, "so you have got your way at last!"
"What did I tell you?"
"Yes, but we have yet to see what the public thinks of your prose."
"You will see, since you are here."
"I shall see, I shall see," growled M. Deviolaine. "It is highly probable that I shall see...."
I moved away from him, not knowing what he meant by his words, and I reached my box, which, as I have said, was on the stage. I could see the whole house from my box perfectly. Those who were present at that performance will recollect what a splendid sight it was: the first circle was filled with princes smothered under the orders of five or six nations; the whole of the aristocracy crowded into the first and second rows of the boxes; ladies sparkled with diamonds.
The curtain rose. I have never experienced such a sensation
I ran off to see how my mother was. On my return to the theatre I met M. Deviolaine in the corridor; but, as soon as I appeared, he quickly retired into a small antechamber, on purpose, as I imagined, to avoid me. I did the poor dear man injustice! he had quite other intentions in his thoughts.
The second act began; it was an amusing one; the scene of the pea-shooter concerning which I was much afraid, passed without any signs of objection, and the curtain fell amidst pretty general applause.
The third act was the one to decide the success of the play. In this act comes the scene between the page and the duchess, and the scene between the duchess and the duke—the scene where M. de Guise compels his wife to appoint a meeting with Saint-MÉgrin. If the strong situations in that scene found favour with the public, the battle was won. The scene roused cries of horror, but, at the same time, peals of applause; it was the first time any dramatic scenes had been presented with great freedom—I might even call it with brutal frankness.
I went out; I was very anxious to see my poor mother and to embrace her, although she was then hardly in a condition to understand who it was that was embracing her.
How happy I should have been if she had been in the theatre, instead of on her bed! She was sleeping quite peacefully; I kissed her without waking her, and returned to the theatre. Under the porch I again met M. Deviolaine, who was going away.
"What!" I said, "are you not going to stay to the end?"
"How can I stay to the end, you brute?"
"Why can you not stay?..."
"Because I am thoroughly upset! Because I am turned inside out.. an attack of colic."
"Ah!" I exclaimed, laughing; "so that was why I saw you going to the lavatory?"
"Yes, that was the reason, monsieur.... You have already cost me fifty sous! at two sous each time it is ... Why, you will ruin me!"
"Bah! you exaggerate. Whatever could you do at the twenty-fifth time?"
"Nothing, you young puppy! And the last time, if I had not been stopped by the hair of my head, I should have disappeared entirely! Ah! what a business!... Oh dear! I am horribly ill!" and M. Deviolaine laid both hands on his stomach and began running towards the Rue Saint-HonorÉ.
I went into the theatre; as I had indeed foreseen, from the fourth act to the end it was more than a success, it was an increasing delirium: all hands applauded, even those of the ladies. Madame Malibran, who had only been able to find a seat on the third row, leant right out of her box, holding on to a pillar to keep herself from falling. Then, when Firmin appeared to give the name of the author, the enthusiasm was so universal that even the Duc d'OrlÉans himself stood up and called out the name of his employÉ, the success of whose work—if not the most merited, at least the most striking of the epoch—had just caused him to be greeted as a poet.
That very night, when I returned home, I found a letter from M. le Baron de Broval, which I will give word for word:—
"I cannot sleep without first telling you, my dear young friend, how very happy I am at your splendid triumph, without congratulating you and, above all, your estimable mother most heartily, for I know you felt more anxious on her behalf than on your own. My sister and I and all at the office sympathised deeply with you; and now we rejoice at a triumph justly deserved both on account of your very great and persevering talent and your filial devotion. I am very sure that your laurels, and the success in wait for you in the future now
laid open before you, will not stand in the way of your friendships, and I assure you that my feelings towards you are very warm. BARON DE BROVAL"
"10 February 1829"
This was the man who, five months before, had compelled me to renounce my salary!
CHAPTER XVII
The day following my victory—Henri III. is interdicted—I obtain an audience with M. de Martignac—He removes the interdiction—Les hommes-obstacles—The Duc d'OrlÉans sends for me into his box—His talk with Charles X. on the subject of my drama—Another scribbler—Visit to Carrel—Gosset's shooting-box and pistols No. 5—An impossible duel
To few men has it been given to see such a rapid change take place in their lives as took place in mine during those four hours of the representation of Henri III. I was totally unknown until that night, and, next day, whether for good or for evil, I was the talk of all Paris. From that night dated the hatreds of people whom I had never seen—hatreds roused by the unwelcome fame attached to my name. But friendships also dated from that epoch. What multitudes of people envied me that night, who had no idea that I spent it on a mattress on the floor by the side of my dying mother! Next day, the room was filled with bouquets; I covered my mother's bed with them, and she touched them with the hand that was left unparalysed, pulling them nearer to her or pushing them away, unconscious what all these flowers meant—and, possibly, even unconscious that they were flowers at all. By two o'clock in the afternoon, the day after the performance, my manuscript had sold for six thousand francs. These six thousand francs were paid me in six bank-notes; and I went to show them to M. Deviolaine.
"What are those?" he asked.
"They are the price of my manuscript," I replied. "You see it amounts to M. Laffitte's three thousand francs and three thousand francs besides."
"What!" cried M. Deviolaine; "are there idiots who have bought it of you?"
"You see for yourself."
"Well, they are brainless idiots!"
Then, handing me back the notes, and shrugging his shoulders, he said—
"You do not inquire how I am!"
"I did not dare.... How are you?"
"A little better, happily."
"Were you able to return to the theatre?"
"Yes, I was there for the conclusion."
"Were you there when my name was given out?"
"The deuce I was!"
"And did it not give you a little gratification?"
"A little! Why, you rascal, I wept like a baby!"
"Come now! it cost you a lot to acknowledge that.... Let us shake hands."
"Ah!" said M. Deviolaine, "if only your poor father could have been there!"
"My mother could have been there if people had not made her so unhappy."
"Come, come! you are not going to tell me that it is my fault your mother is in bed, are you? Good gracious me! it tormented me sufficiently during your representation. I could not think of anything else; I believe it was that which gave me the beastly colic.... By the bye, what are they saying in the office?"
I showed him M. de Broval's letter. He read it through twice over.
"Well, I never!..." he said, as he handed it me back, shrugging his shoulders. "Shall you return to the office?"
"I? Dear me no!"
"Well, I think you are right. Shall you go and see M. Fossier?".
"No, indeed."
"He likes you, nevertheless."
"Then why did he not write me a letter of congratulation, too?"
"Well, but he might have expected tickets for his daughter."
"That reminds me. Shall I save you a box for the second performance? You hadn't a good place for the first ... you were close to the door."
"You scoundrel! I was right where I was, near the door.... Do you believe this mad prank you have just played is going to bring you in any more than what you have just shown me?"
"Certainly I do."
"About how much?"
"Fifteen thousand francs."
"What!"
"About fifteen thousand francs."
"And how long will it run to gain that?"
"Perhaps two months."
"So in two months, you will have earned the whole year's salary of three chief clerks, including bonuses?"
"Call in your three chief clerks and tell them to do as much for themselves."
"Get out! I am afraid the very ceiling will fall on our heads while you are saying such monstrous things!"
"To-morrow night, then?"
"Yes, to-morrow night, if I have nothing better to do."
I was quite easy. M. Deviolaine would not have anything better to do, nor would he have accepted a year of his salary to be kept away.
From M. Deviolaine's house I ran to M. Laffitte's. I was proud to be able to pay him what I owed him so promptly. I gave him his thousand crowns, and he returned me my promissory note and my manuscript. But I always remembered the service rendered me, which, coming when my mother was taken ill, was of priceless value. Still, I had not reached the conclusion of my worries. When I returned to my temporary dwelling-place, I found a letter from the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais asking me to go to the office there immediately. I rushed there, and found the Committee in a state of consternation from Taylor downwards. They had received a
Let us return to Henri III., which had nothing to do with all this, and which suddenly and unexpectedly found itself raised sky-high. My return was awaited with impatience, for they dared not advertise without the minister's permission. I brought them that permission, and they advertised. M. le Duc d'OrlÉans announced that he would be present at the second performance. When I reached the theatre that night, I was told that he had already arrived and had asked me to go to his box. I did as I was bidden, between the first and second acts. The densely packed theatre bore witness to the genuine strength of my success. The Duc d'OrlÉans received me most graciously.
"Now, M. Dumas," he said, "are you not satisfied? You have gained your case against everybody—the public and myself included. Even Broval, Deviolaine and Oudard are enchanted."
I bowed.
"But for all that, do you know," he continued laughingly, "you have very nearly got me into serious trouble?"
"You, monseigneur?"
"Yes, I."
"How is that?"
"The king sent for me yesterday."
"The king?"
"Yes, indeed."
"And what about, monseigneur?"
"About your drama."
"About Henri III.?"
"'Are you aware of what I have been informed, cousin?' he said, laying emphasis upon the last word. 'I have been told that you have a youth in your offices who has written a play in which both you and I figure—I as Henri III., and you as the Duc de Guise?'"
"Monseigneur, you could of course have replied that the king was mistaken and that the young man was no longer in your employ."
"No; I much preferred to reply otherwise, and not to lie, since I mean to keep you on."
"Then what did your Highness say?..."
"I said, 'Sire, people have misinformed you, and for three reasons:—First, I do not beat my wife; secondly, Madame la Duchesse d'OrlÉans has not made me a cuckold; thirdly, your Majesty has not a more faithful subject than myself.' Do you think my reply was equal to anything you would have advised me to make?"
"Indeed, monseigneur, it is infinitely more witty."
"And nearer the truth, monsieur.... Ah! the curtain is rising: go about your business; mine is to listen to you."
I bowed.
"By the bye," said the duke, "Madame la Duchesse d'OrlÉans desires to see you to-morrow morning, to inquire how your mother is."
I bowed and withdrew.
Oh! what a power is success, with its notoriety and fuss over a name; with its calm and serene supremacy of mind over matter! M. de Broval, M. Deviolaine and M. Oudard were enchanted; the Duc d'OrlÉans had called me to his box to repeat a witty mot he had said to the king; and, finally, Madame la Duchesse d'OrlÉans would see me on the morrow to ask me news of my mother! Birth, it would seem, only bestows principalities; talent gives the dignity of princehood.
Next day, I paid my visit to the Duchesse d'OrlÉans, who was as gracious to me as could be; but, alas! why did all this kindness come so late? When I returned, I found in an envelope a newspaper, the name of which I have forgotten;—some friend who was sensitive concerning my reputation had sent it me. It announced the success of Henri III., and added—
"That success, great though it be, is not surprising to those who know how these literary and political jobs are put up by the House of OrlÉans. The author is an underling in His Royal Highness's pay."
The article was painful as well as untruthful; a lie, because the House of OrlÉans, as was well known, had not schemed to help me in any way; and painful, because the writer by the
"Philippe!" I shouted to the lad attendant as I passed in, "pistols No. 5 and twenty-five balls."
Philippe came up.
"You can have twenty-five balls," he said, "but not pistols No. 5, unless you are going to practise alone."
"Why so?"
"Because they were lent this morning to a gentleman who had a duel, and you should see the state in which he brought them back."
And, indeed, the second No. 5 pistol had the trigger-guard broken and the butt end blown off.
"What did that?"
"Why! a bullet," said Philippe.
"Quite so, but what about the gentleman who held it?"
"He had two of his fingers cut."
"Cut?"
"Yes, cut!"
"So he had to pay the price of two of his fingers?"
"And also for the mending of the pistol."
"What was this gentleman's name?"
"I do not recollect his name; he was fighting with M. Carrel."
"Stuff and nonsense!"
"It's true."
"Are you certain?"
"Of course I am. M. Carrel's seconds brought back the pistols."
"See," I said to Adolphe, "this will postpone my duel of to-morrow and no mistake."
And then I related to him that my adversary had arranged to fight a duel with Carrel that very day, and that it was probably he who had had his two fingers injured.
"It is very easy to find out," said Adolphe; "let us go and inquire."
We went to M. X——'s house, and found that it was really he who had been fighting; he had had two fingers blown off—his third and little fingers. I sent up my visiting-card by his man-servant, and we took our departure. We had not gone more than two storeys downstairs when we heard the man running after us. M. X—— begged me to go in. I found him smiling in spite of his wounds, and very courteous in spite of his attack.
"Pray excuse me, monsieur," he said, "for the liberty I took in asking you to come back and see me; I use the privilege of a wounded person."
"Is your injury a serious one, monsieur?" I asked.
"No—I escaped with the loss of two fingers from my right hand; and since I still have three left with which to write and tell you how sorry I am for having made myself unpleasant towards you, I have all I need."
"You still have the use of your left to shake hands with me, monsieur," I said, "and that would be better than tiring your right over anything imaginable."
We shook hands; conversed on indifferent topics; and then, ten minutes later, we took leave of one another. We have never seen each other since, and, as I have said, I have totally forgotten his name. I bear my memory a grudge, for I shall ever remember him with pleasure.
Singular freak of chance! If this man had not had a quarrel with Carrel, and if Carrel had not deprived him of his two fingers, he would have fought with me, and he might have killed me or been killed by me. And for what reason, I ask you?
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
The Arsenal—Nodier's house—The master's profile—The congress of bibliophiles—The three candles—Debureau—Mademoiselle Mars and Merlin—Nodier's family—His friends—In which houses I am at my best—The salon of the Arsenal—Nodier as a teller of tales—The ball and the warming-pan
I promised I would return to Nodier, and I will keep my word. After the service Nodier rendered me by opening the doors of the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais to me, I went to thank him. Nodier did better for me on my second visit than he did on the first—he opened the doors of the Arsenal to me. And, lest my readers should be frightened at the word, and think that I mean a collection of arms, a museum of artillery, let me hasten to add that the doors of the Arsenal were the doors of Charles Nodier's house. Everybody knows the large, gloomy-looking building called the Arsenal, in a line with the quai des CÉlestins, at the back of the rue de Morland, looking over the river. This was where Nodier lived. In these unpretentious Memoirs it would take us too far afield to relate how, once upon a time, when Paris was preparing for war, this heavy building was raised upon a piece of ground called the Champ-au-PlÂtre; how, when the heavy-looking building was raised, FranÇois I. had the cannon cast there which did much unlucky work at Pavia; how, requiring a plot of ground, he borrowed a farm from his good town of Paris, promising to return it; how, having borrowed this first farm, he borrowed a second from it, and a third; how, in short, on the principle of
"Sire," Bassompierre said to King Louis XIII., who was
"My dear Bassompierre," Louis XIII. replied, "King Charles IX. did not die from blowing his horn too long and too frequently; he died from being so imprudent as to become reconciled to his mother, after he had had the prudence to quarrel with Catherine of Medici."
Let us return to the Arsenal, and to another king who was so imprudent as to quarrel with his wife—or, rather, with the House of Austria to which she belonged—to Henri IV. He it was, in fact, who finished the Arsenal and laid out the beautiful garden, which we can still see in pictures of the period of Louis XIII. He gave it to Sully, wherein to carry on his ministry of finance; and here it was that the parsimonious minister amassed the millions with which Henri III. intended to carry on his war with Flanders, when the poignard of Ravaillac put an end to that strange dream of the seventeenth century, which was to become a reality in the nineteenth, namely, the union of the seven elective republics and of the six hereditary monarchies, under one supreme head, established under the title of the CongrÈs de la Paix.
Ah! my dear Mr. Cobden, you with whom I once spent several dull days and shared some melancholy dinners in Spain, the idea of this Peace Congress did not originate with you; it came from our unfortunate King Henri IV.,-"Let us render to CÆsar the things that are CÆsar's."
And so all you who visit the Arsenal should know that those beautiful rooms which now form the library were decorated by Sully with Henri IV.'s money.
In 1823, Charles Nodier was appointed librarian of this library, and left the rue de Choiseul, where he lived, to establish himself in his new habitation. But the building that was often the subject of illustrations was not a very magnificent place to live in! On the first landing of a flight of steps with massive balustrades, you came upon a badly fitting door on the left
One day, when I had been lunching with a minister, I was asked—
"How did the luncheon pass off?"
"All right," I replied; "but if I hadn't been there myself I should have been horribly bored!"
And so it was with Nodier; for fear of being bored, he made up paradoxes, just as I told stories.
I must return to what I said about Nodier being a little too much inclined to love everybody. My sentence sounds somewhat reproachful, but it must not be taken so. Nodier was the philanthropist of Terence, the man unto whom nothing is alien. Nodier loved, as fire warms, as a torch lightens, as the sun shines; he loved because to love and make friendships were as much the fruition of his nature as grapes are the fruit of the vine. Let me be permitted to coin a mot to describe the man who himself coined so many, he was a lover (aimeur). I have said he loved and made friendships because, for Nodier, women existed as well as men. As he loved all men of goodwill, so, in his youth (and Nodier was never old), did he love all lovable women. How he managed this he himself would have found it impossible to explain. But, in common with all eminently poetic minds, Nodier always confused the dream with the ideal, and the ideal with the material world; for Nodier, every fancy of his imagination really existed—ThÉrÈse Aubert, la FÉe aux miettes, InÈs de las Sierras—he lived in the midst of all these creations of his genius, and never sultan had a more magnificent harem.
It is interesting to know how a writer who produced so many books, and such entertaining ones too, as he did, worked. I am going to tell you. We will take the Nodier of the week-days, romance-writer, savant and bibliophile, the writer of the Dictionnaire des OnomatopÉes, Trilby, the Souvenirs de Jeunesse. In the morning, after two or three hours of easy work, when he had covered a dozen or fourteen pages of paper six inches long by four wide, with a regular, legible handwriting, without a single erasure, he considered his morning task done, and went out. When he was out of doors, Nodier wandered about aimlessly, going up now one street of the boulevards, now another, now along this or that quay. No matter what road he took, three things preoccupied him: the stalls of the second-hand bookshops, booksellers' windows and book-binders' shops; for Nodier was almost as fond of fine bindings
There were three actors whom Nodier adored—Talma, Potier and Debureau. When I made Nodier's acquaintance, Talma had been dead three years; and Potier had retired two years
"Madame," he asked, "will you please inform me why this pantomime that I have just seen is called the Boeuf enragÉ?"
"Monsieur," replied the boxkeeper, "because that is its title."
"Ah!" exclaimed Nodier; and he withdrew satisfied with the explanation.
The six days of the week were spent in exactly the same way: then came Sunday. Every Sunday Nodier went out at nine o'clock in the morning to breakfast with Guilbert de PixÉrÉcourt, for whom at that time he had a profound admiration and the friendliest feelings. He called him the Corneille of the boulevards. Here he met the scientific gatherings of Crozet or of Techener.
We have mentioned that one of these bibliomaniacs was called the Marquis de Chalabre. He died leaving a very valuable library, which he bequeathed to Mademoiselle Mars. Mademoiselle Mars read very little or, to be truthful, she did not read at all. She commissioned Merlin to classify the books left her and to arrange for their sale. Merlin was the most honest man on the face of the earth; and he set about this commission with his usual conscientiousness, and he turned and re-turned the leaves of each volume so carefully that one day he went to Mademoiselle Mars with thirty or forty one-thousand franc notes in his hand, which he laid on a table.
"What is that, Merlin?" asked Mademoiselle Mars.
"I do not know, madame," he replied.
"What do you mean? Why, those are bank-notes!"
"Certainly."
"Where have you found them?"
"In a pocket-book, within the cover of a very rare Bible;
Mademoiselle Mars took the bank-notes, which were of course hers, and she had the greatest difficulty in making Merlin accept a present of the Bible in which he had, as I understand, discovered the bank-notes.
Nodier would return home between three and four o'clock, and, like M. Villenave, would allow his daughter Marie to dress and titivate him. For we have omitted to mention that Nodier's family was composed of his wife, his daughter, his sister Madame de Tercy and his niece. At six o'clock, Nodier's table would be laid. Three or four spare covers would be provided in excess of the number of the family party, and these were for regular habituÉs. Three or four more covers were put for chance comers. The habituÉs were Cailleux, the director of the MusÉe; Baron Taylor, who was soon to leave his place vacant because of his journey to Egypt; Francis Wey, whom Nodier loved as though he were his own child, whose old French aristocratic accent was but little less noticeable than Nodier's own, and Dauzats'. The casual diners were Bixio, the huge Saint-Valery and myself. Saint-Valery was a librarian, like Nodier. He was six feet one inch in height and an extremely well informed man but possessed of no originality or any wit: it was of him that MÉry wrote this line—
"Il se baisse, et ramasse un oiseau dans les airs!"
When he was at the library, it was a very rare thing for him to need a ladder to reach down a book, so tall was he. He would stretch up one of his long arms, standing on tiptoe, and find the book that was required, even if it were close to the ceiling. He was susceptible in the extreme, and could not bear any joking references to his tall figure no matter how harmless they were; he was angry with me for a long while because once, when he was complaining to Madame Nodier of a violent cold in his head, I asked him if he had had cold feet a year ago.
When you were admitted into that charming and desirable
When, thanks to us, the salon was lit up,—a ceremony that only took place on Sundays, for on week-days the receptions were held in Madame Nodier's room—the light illuminated white panelled walls with Louis XV. mouldings, and furniture of extreme simplicity, comprising a dozen chairs or easy-chairs and a sofa covered with red cashmere, the hangings being of the same colour; a bust of Hugo, a statue of Henri IV. as a child, a portrait of Nodier and a landscape of a view in the Alps, by RÉgnier. On the left, as you entered, was Marie's piano, in a recess almost like a room in itself. This recess was large enough, like the spaces between bedsteads in the time of Louis XIV., for the friends of the household to stand round and talk with Marie as she played quadrilles and valses with her clever, agile fingers. But quadrilles and valses did not begin before the given moment: two hours, from eight to ten, were invariably devoted to conversation; then we danced from ten to one in the morning. Five minutes after Madame Nodier, Marie and I had lighted up the salon, Taylor
Alas! and alas! what has become of all those who gathered there? Fontanay and Alfred Johannot are dead; de Vigny has made himself invisible; Taylor is given over to his travels; Lamartine, with his provisional government, has let France slip through his fingers; Hugo is a deputy and strives to hold the country together, a task that proved too difficult for his colleague's hands; and the rest of us are all scattered, each following his own laborious career, hampered with spiteful enemies, harassing laws and petty ministerial hatreds; we
Let us go back to our salon, into which those of whom I have just been speaking were now entering, hailed with effusive greetings of delight. If Nodier, when he left the dinner-table, went and stretched himself out in his arm-chair by the fireside, it was because he liked, after the fashion of the egoistic Sybarite he was, to enjoy at his ease some chance play of his imagination, during that blissful moment which follows in the wake of coffee; if, on the other hand, making an effort to remain standing, he leant against the chimneypiece, his calves to the fire and his back to the mirror, it meant he was going to tell some of his stories. We were then all on the qui vive to smile at the anecdotes which were to drop from those finely modelled, satirical and witty lips; everybody kept silence; and he would pour forth one of the delightful stories of his youth, which sounded like a romance of Longus, or an idyll of Theocritus. He seemed like Walter Scott and Perrault; the savant grappling with the poet, memory battling with imagination. Nodier was not merely amusing to listen to, but in addition he was delightful to watch. His tall, lean body, his long thin arms, his white tapering hands, his long face, full of a serene melancholy, all harmonised and fitted in with his rather languid voice, and with the afore-mentioned aristocratic accent; and, whether Nodier were reciting a love-story, or describing a fight on the plains of la VendÉe, or some drama that happened in the place de la RÉvolution, a conspiracy of Cadoudal or of Oudet, his hearers would hold their breath to listen, so wonderfully did the story-teller know how to get at the heart of everything he described. Those who came in in the middle bowed silently and sat down in an arm-chair or leant against the wainscotting; the recital always came to an end too soon; why he ever concluded was a mystery, for we knew that Nodier could draw eternally on that purse of Fortunatus which we call imagination. We did not applaud,—do we
"Enough of such prose as that—now let us have poetry, poetry!"
And, without a second bidding, one of the two poets would, from where he was, with hands leant on the back of an armchair, or shoulders propped up against the panelled walls, give birth to the harmonious and eager flow of his poetic fancy; then every head would turn in the fresh direction, every intellect would follow the flight of a thought which soared above them on eagle's wings to play now in the mist of clouds among the lightnings of the tempest, now in the rays of the sun.
On these occasions applause followed; then, when the applause had ceased, Marie would go to her piano and a brilliant rush of notes would burst upon the air. This was the signal for a quadrille; arm-chairs and chairs were put away, card-players took refuge in corners, and those who, instead of dancing, preferred to talk with Marie, would slip into her alcove. Nodier was one of the earliest at the card-tables; for a long time he would only play at bataille, at which he claimed to be very expert; but, finally, he was induced to make a concession to the taste of the century and played ÉcartÉ. When the ball had begun, Nodier, who was usually very unlucky, would call for cards. From the moment he began, Nodier effaced himself, disappeared and was utterly forgotten; he was one of those old-fashioned hosts who obliterated themselves in order to give precedence to their guests, who, when made welcome, become masters of the house themselves. Moreover, after Nodier had disappeared for a time, he would disappear entirely. He went to bed in good time, or, to speak more correctly, he was put to bed early. To Madame Nodier belonged the care of putting this great child to bed; she
Such was Nodier; such was the life of that excellent man.
Once we came upon him in a mood of humiliation and shame and embarrassment. The author of the Rot de BohÈme et ses Sept ChÂteaux had just been nominated an Academician. He made very humble apologies to Hugo and to me, and we forgave him.
After having been rejected five times, Hugo was nominated in his turn. He offered me no excuses, which was as well; since I should certainly not have forgiven him!
CHAPTER II
Oudard transmits to me the desires of the Duc d'OrlÉans—I am appointed assistant librarian—How this saved His Highness four hundred francs—Rivalry with Casimir Delavigne—Petition of the Classical School against Romantic productions—Letter of support from Mademoiselle Duchesnois—A fantastic dance—The person who called Racine a blackguard—Fine indignation of the Constitutionnel—First representation of Marino Faliero
It will be remembered that, during the brief conversation which I had the honour of holding with M. le Duc d'OrlÉans in his private box, he had expressed the desire to keep me near him. I had no motive, now I had gained my liberty of action, for leaving the man who, at any rate, had assured me a living for six years and had allowed me to continue my studies and to become what I was. Moreover, at that time, M. le Duc d'OrlÉans was a typical representative of that Opposition party to which I belonged by rights as the son of a Republican general. M. le Duc d'OrlÉans, son of a regicide, member of the Jacobin Club, defender of Marat and indebted to Collot d'Herbois, seemed, indeed, to me, I must admit, if he had not greatly degenerated since 1793, to be far more advanced in 1829 than I was myself. He acted well up to the mot he uttered the day I was writing to his dictation: "Monsieur Dumas, bear in mind that, if one is descended from Louis XIV., if only by means of one of his bastards, it is still a sufficient honour to be proud of." I had, of course, called forth this mot by my ignorant hesitation. Besides, one could be proud of being descended from Louis XIV., while still blaming the turpitude of Louis XV. and the faults of Louis XVI.; furthermore, where had even our Republican fathers come from?—the
"M. Alexandre Dumas."
Oudard came to meet me with a laughing face.
"Well, my dear poet," he said, "it seems you have had an undoubted success?"
"Yes."
"First, let me congratulate you heartily.... But who could have foreseen it?"
"Those who suppressed my bonus money and kept back my salary; for I presume that if they had foreseen a failure they would not have had the cruelty to expose my mother and me to die of starvation."
"Did not M. de Broval write to you the night of the representation?" Oudard asked in some confusion.
"Yes, indeed; here is his letter."
I showed him the letter the reader has seen.
"And I am keeping it as a model," I continued, putting it back into my pocket again.
"As a model of what?"
"Of diplomatic lying and of stupid sycophancy."
"Come, that is strong language!"
"True, but one ought to call a spade a spade."
"However that may be, let us drop the subject and speak of your position here."
"That is equivalent to discussing castles in the air."
"I do not refer to your past position, for I am well aware
"Continue, my lord MÆcenas, speak in the name of Augustus; I am listening."
"No, on the contrary it is for you to speak. What do you desire?"
"I? I desired success and I have had it. I do not want anything else."
"But what can we do that will be agreeable to you?"
"Not a great deal."
"Nevertheless, there must be some position in the house you would like."
"There is none I covet; but there is one post that would suit my convenience."
"Which is that?"
"To be M. Casimir Delavigne's colleague at the library."
Oudard's facial muscles twitched with an expression indicative of, "You are indeed ambitious, my friend."
"Oh! indeed I quite understand the difficulties," I said.
"You see," Oudard continued, "we already have Vatout and Casimir, a librarian and assistant librarian."
"Of course, and that is ample, is it not, when there is no library?"
For, as a matter of fact, the library of the Duc d'OrlÉans, at that time especially, was very inferior.
"What do you mean by no library?" Oudard exclaimed; for, like the servant of a curÉ, he could not bear to have his master's house depreciated. "We have three thousand volumes!"
"You are mistaken, my dear Oudard: there are three thousand and four; for I saw the MÉmoires de Dumouriez, which had just come from London, in the house of M. le Duc d'OrlÉans, the day before yesterday."
I gave the thrust good-humouredly, and so Oudard took it. He could not ward it off without acknowledging himself hit: he continued—
"Well, well, you are wonderfully clever, my friend; I will convey to monseigneur your desire to become attached to the household as librarian."
I stopped him.
"Stay, let us quite understand one another, Oudard."
"I do not wish for anything better."
"Did you not ask me to come to you?"
"Certainly."
"It was not I who came on my own initiative?"
"No."
"I should not have come if you had not written to me."
"That would have been very remiss on your part."
"Possibly; but, all the same, I did not come. Now you talk of a desire: I have not expressed any; it is not I who desire to remain attached to the household. If they want to keep me, they must make me librarian; as to salary, they need not give me any. You see I am making things exceedingly easy for His Royal Highness."
"Ah! are you always going to be wilful?"
"No, but I remember what M. le Duc d'OrlÉans condescended to write, by the side of my name, in his own handwriting, a month ago: 'Suppress his bonuses,' etc. etc."
"Come, I will tell you something that will restore the prince in your estimation."
"Ah! my dear Oudard, I am indeed far too insignificant an individual to lay claim to the right of quarrelling with him."
"Well, then, I fancy he would accept the dedication of your drama."
"The dedication of my play, my dear Oudard, belongs to the man who got it acted; my drama Henri III. will be dedicated to Taylor."
"You are making a mistake, my dear friend."
"No, I am repaying a debt."
"All right, we will not continue the subject; so, a librarian like Casimir Delavigne...."
"Or like Vatout, if the comparison seems to you to be simpler."
"Are you aware how epigrammatic you have become since your success?"
"No; it is only that I can now say aloud what I formerly thought unspoken."
"Well, I see clearly that you mean to have the last word."
"Of course; try and find a word to which I cannot fit an answer. Au revoir!"
"Adieu!"
Two days later, Oudard called me in again; he had discovered a post that would suit me much better than being librarian: namely, to be reader to Madame la Duchesse d'OrlÉans. I thanked Oudard; but I assured him that I still held to my first idea of being librarian or nothing at all.
We parted rather more coldly than at first. Two days later, I received a third letter; this time, he had found something that would suit me best of all. They would make me chevalier d'honneur to Madame AdÉlaÏde! I persisted obstinately that I wanted to be librarian. Finally, I received a fourth invitation, and I paid a fourth visit. They had decided to grant my request, and I was appointed assistant librarian, at a salary of 1200 francs.
As I had announced beforehand that the question of money was not of any consequence, they had taken advantage of it to suggest to monseigneur to pay me 300 francs less as librarian than they had paid me as a clerk. That didn't matter; but listen, and may Harpagon and Grandet hang themselves for not having invented what the people devised who arranged the affairs of M. le Duc d'OrlÉans and myself. As they had not paid me any salary for six months, they antedated my nomination by six months. Consequently, as I had a salary of 1500 francs as clerk and 1200 francs as librarian, they saved, by paying me for these six months as a librarian, the sum of 150 francs, which, added to my unpaid up bonuses of 1829, saved them 350 francs; and the 350 francs, added to the 50 francs cut off my bonus of 1828, amounted to a net total of 400 francs more into the princely coffers. It will be admitted, will it not? that the Duc d'OrlÉans was surrounded by men of large views!
When I was installed at the Library, I became acquainted with Vatout and Casimir Delavigne, who, as Oudard had warned me, did not welcome my advent with much warmth. Casimir Delavigne in particular, who, although he made it up with me afterwards, at first could not forgive me the success I had had with Henri III. Indeed, my success with Henri III. continued throughout the year, and, as there is a proverb to the effect that two successes, on the stage, never come together, the success of Henri III. prevented the success of Marino Faliero, which was awaiting its turn, and in which Mademoiselle Mars was to play HÉlÉna. But Mademoiselle Mars was engaged for three long months in Henri III.; then came her two months' holiday; so Marino Faliero was put off until the coming winter. This did not in the least suit Casimir Delavigne.
I have related how Casimir Delavigne's dramatic affairs were conducted: a family council was called on account of Marino Faliero, and it was decided that the Doge of Venice should migrate to the Porte-Saint-Martin; that Madame Dorval, whose reputation had begun to spread, should replace Mademoiselle Mars and that Ligier should be seduced from the OdÉon to play Marino Faliero. This migration made a great sensation. Casimir at the Porte-Saint-Martin! It was Coriolanus among the Volscians; all the papers wailed aloud and made moan over this exile of the national bard, and people began to look on me as a usurper who had risen up to drive out a crowned and anointed king from his legitimate throne. The situation was complicated by an event as novel as it was unexpected. A petition to the king appeared, entreating His Majesty to do for Corneille, MoliÈre and Racine—who stood on their marble pedestals in the foyer unmoved by this agitation—what His Majesty's august predecessor had done for King Ferdinand VII. when he was expelled by the Cortes:—to re-establish them on their thrones. Alas! no one was ever less ambitious to snatch other people's thrones than I.... I was willing enough to take a seat or a comfortable arm-chair, ay, an elevated one, well in
How very logical! I was a bastard of Shakespeare, of Goethe and of Schiller, because I had just composed Henri III., a play so pre-eminently French, that, if it were open to any reproach, it would be that I had represented the manners of the end of the sixteenth century too faithfully. And as the thing really sounds incredible, we will place before our readers' own eyes the petition of these gentlemen:—
"SIRE,—The glory of letters is not the least brilliant among French glories, and the glory of our theatre is not the least brilliant of our literary glories. So thought your ancestors when they honoured the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais with a special protection; so thought Louis XIV., to whom it owed its first organisation. That regal protector of letters, persuaded that the chefs d'oeuvre which his reign had produced could not be represented too perfectly, decreed that the best actors who were scattered about in the various companies which the capital then possessed should be united into one company, to be called the Comedians in Ordinary to the King. He gave rules to this select company, granted them rights and, among
others, the exclusive privilege of representing tragedy and high comedy; and he added to these favours that of endowment. His object in doing this, sire, as you are aware, was not solely to reward those actors who had the good fortune to please him, but also to encourage them in the exercise of an art which by its elevation should be in harmony with his royal spirit; also to perpetuate the prosperity of that art, and to establish a model theatre on a solid foundation, for both actors and authors. For a long while, the intentions of Louis XIV. were fulfilled by his successors, in whom there was no falling off, either in good taste or in generosity; the two arts that he loved, and to which the French stage owed its dignity and its superiority, have reigned there in almost undisputed sway. Such was the condition of things at the time of the decease of your august brother; why must it be confessed that it is no longer the same to-day? The death of the actor whose talents vied with those of the most perfect artist of any epoch, has brought about more than one injury to the noble art which he upheld. Whether from depravity of taste or from consciousness of their inability to take his place, certain associates of the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais have pretended that the method of art in which Talma excelled could no longer be beneficially carried on; they are seeking to exclude tragedy from the stage and to substitute for it plays composed in imitation of the most eccentric dramas that foreign literature affords—dramas which no one had ever dared before to reproduce except in our lowest theatres. It is quite conceivable that third-rate actors should pursue these tactics, which are in accordance with their indifferent performances; and that, since they are incapable of rising to the height of tragedy, they should wish to lower art to the level of their talent; but it is almost inconceivable, sire, that this attitude should be encouraged by those who should combat it. They not only violate the privileges granted them in order to advance, on every possible occasion, the particular method of art to which they have become attached; but, in order to satisfy the exigencies of this method, which seeks less to elevate the soul, entice the heart and occupy the mind, than to dazzle the eyes by material means, by the distraction of vain show and by stage effect, they are exhausting the capital of the theatre, increasing its debt and bringing about its ruin. And, in addition, as tragedy still struggles, and struggles with some success, against its ignoble rival, in spite of all that is done to prevent it, the authorities, not satisfied with refusing to undertake necessary expenses and supply the apparatus needed, are doing their best to discourage tragic representations altogether, and only give subsidies to the principal actors in subjects of which the public disapproves; far worse still, in order to make all tragic acting henceforth impossible, in anticipation of the time when the two leading exponents of tragedy, Mademoiselle Duchesnois and M. Lafond, shall have retired from the stage, they have compelled them to submit to an exile of a year, under cover of a holiday, during which time they promise themselves to complete the absolute ruin of the theatre of Racine, Corneille and Voltaire. "Sire, are the agents in whom you have placed confidence, to watch over and control the theatre, responding properly to your beneficent designs? Was it intended that the liberty with which they were entrusted was to be used to advance the cause of melodrama to the detriment of tragedy? Ought the funds placed, by your liberality, at their disposal, in order to advance the cause of good taste, to be squandered over their own particular fancies, which tend to make the greatest names in Art subservient to the Melpomene of the boulevards, and to reduce their sublime art to the condition of a vile trade? We are convinced, sire, that the glory of your reign is concerned in the preservation of all sources of French glory, and we therefore consider it our duty to call your attention to the degradation by which the foremost of our theatres is threatened. Sire, the evil is already grave! In a few months' time it will be past redress; in a few months' time the theatre founded by Louis le Grand will be entirely closed to works which have been the delight of the most polite of courts, the most enlightened of nations; it will have fallen below the level of the meanest of stages, or, rather, the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais will have ceased to exist.
"(Signed) A. V. ARNAULT, N. LEMERCIER, VIENNET,
JOUY, ANDRIEUX, JAY, O. LEROY"
This curious epistle was capped by another quite as strange—or, more correctly speaking, it was preceded by it. The letter of Mademoiselle Duchesnois, which we shall produce in its entirety, in the same way that we have produced the petition
My readers will recall the visit M. Lafond paid me in my office, to ask me if I had a smart, well-groomed fellow in my play who could say to Queen Christine, "Sacrebleu! your Majesty has not the right to assassinate this poor devil!" It will be remembered that I told him I had not. Whereupon M. Lafond had turned daintily upon his heels, remarking that his visit was, therefore, fruitless.
After the reading of Henri III., M. Lafond had said to himself that the part of that extremely well set up courtier, the Duc de Guise, would be his by right; but, alack, he had seen the rÔle given to Joanny, who played it strikingly well although he was not irreproachable. It had been just as bad for poor Mademoiselle Duchesnois: she had seen successively the rÔle of Christine and that of the Duchesse de Guise pass over her; she had done me the honour of wishing to act them both, and each time, with infinite trouble, I had had to explain to her how impossible it was for her to undertake either rÔle; consequently, she was furious. Now, anger is a bad counsellor, so it came about that Mademoiselle Duchesnois wrote the following letter under its sway:—
"MONSIEUR,—I should have preferred to keep out of the quarrel which is engaging the attention of the newspapers concerning the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais; but, inasmuch as the defence of a system which is compromising our social existence is based upon erroneous facts, I have thought it my duty to the public to offer certain explanations which will show the question in its true light. Unquestionably, the first duty of the French Comedians should be to retain the favour of the public, and we cannot be reproached with respect to this, since, during the past three years, we have successively produced, at a very heavy expense, all the works of the new school; in consequence, our shares have fallen from sixteen thousand to seven thousand francs, and we have contracted, in the interim, a debt estimated at a hundred thousand francs. However, the old repertoire and works based on those of the old masters, such as Tartufe, PhÈdre, ZaÏre, Germanicus, Sylla, Pierre de
Portugal, Marie Stuart, l'École des Vieillards, Blanche, le Roman while they no longer glorify the stage, still bring some money to our pockets, and help to provide for the terrible expenses of the scenery and properties required for the dramas. In spite of the ruin of our prosperity and the increase of our liabilities, I should have kept silence if the rumour had not spread abroad that we were about to dissolve our Association in order to prepare ourselves for a new management, and to raise a so-called Romantic theatre on our ruins. These reports have gained enough strength to be repeated by several papers, and it has been noticed that the usual supporters of the Commissary Royal have gone out of their way to point out the advantages of such an absurd proposition, instead of denying it. The tragic actors, who, since the arrival of M. Taylor, have been the object of an animadversion for which, until recently, they have not been able to find a cause, were attacked in these same papers with unheard-of bitterness, and with the catchword of the moment, The public does not want any more tragedies. There is no denying that tragedy no longer brings in the enormous sums of the prosperous days of Talma and of the first fifteen years of my theatrical career; but, without dwelling upon its importance and its necessity, it can be seen by the receipts—not those obtained from the Commissary Royal, but the actual receipts entered on the registre des pauvres (which I am having looked out, at this very moment, in order to their publication)—that tragedy would again see prosperous days if the Government would grant it the protection that is its due, rather than persecute the actors and authors who are still its supporters. It would be a difficult task to enumerate all the instances of M. Taylor's ill-will: here are one or two which will be enough to convince you. Three young actors who were taken away from the OdÉon showed some interest and aptitude for tragedy. M. Taylor tried to drive them away from the ComÉdie-FranÇaise. He succeeded with regard to MM. Ligier and Victor; and, if M. David has been saved to us, it was because a decision of the court overruled the Commissary Royal. M. Beauvallet, a young man who roused high hopes among the friends of dramatic art, has been obliged to take an engagement at a secondary theatre. Nor is this all; my presence and that of M. Lafond were obstacles in the way of carrying out the plans of the Romantic school. So we received, this winter, an intimation, almost tantamount to acommand, to leave Paris for a year, without having solicited anything of the kind, as certain wrongly informed journals have announced. It is under these circumstances, monsieur, that distinguished literary men who, by their connection with actors, are much better acquainted with the situation at the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais than are the writers of many articles, have felt it their duty to present a memorial to the King, not in order to exclude the new style of drama (a pleasantry invented by M. Taylor's friends to hold up to ridicule a perfectly justifiable proceeding), but to claim a protection for authors who belong to the Classical school and for the actors who support them, at least equal to that given to the Romantic school. "I beg you, monsieur, to have the goodness to announce that I have just cited MM. Taylor and the Vicomte de la Rochefoucauld before the courts to answer for their violation of the rules of our company, by means of which they have prorogued a committee for the past four years, a third part of which, according to the terms of our statutes, ought to have been renewed annually. I beg you also to be so good as to announce, in my name, that the article contained in the Journal de Paris of this morning is incorrect in all its statements and in all its calculations, and that I shall hasten to put the proofs of this statement before the public with the least possible delay. Allow me at the same time to contradict the false statement that any one of those who signed the petition wished to withdraw or to disown his signature; on the contrary, I know that several of our most distinguished authors are preparing to make public their adhesion to the memorial to the King.—I am, etc.,
J. DUCHESNOIS"
We said before that under a clever ministry everybody, even the king, has his wits sharpened.
The king made answer to his petitioners as follows:—
"GENTLEMEN,—I cannot do anything in the matter you desire; I only occupy one seat in the theatre, like every other Frenchman."
Now, I shall be asked how it was that M. Arnault reconciled this demand directed against me with his friendliness towards me? How could he receive me intimately at his house and
"Dumas, when you intend dining with us, tell us beforehand; for otherwise you will run the risk of dining tÊte-À-tÊte with me, as to-day, which is not very entertaining for you."
I took the hint, and I never returned there again.
The success of Henri III., therefore, it will be seen, brought in its train all the advantages and all the drawbacks of great successes. I was the fashionable author for the rest of the winter of 1829; I received invitations innumerable, and M. SosthÈne de la Rochefoucauld, Minister of the King's Household, wrote me a letter, giving me free entry to all the royal theatres, being shrewd enough to see that, if he did not give me the privilege, I was just the sort of man to take it. DevÉria made a lithograph of me; David d'Angers, a medallion. It will be seen that nothing was wanting to complete my triumph, not even the ridiculous side which always accompanies a rising reputation.
Then a crowd of anecdotes were related about me, each more absurd than the last. It was said that, after the representation of Henri III., when the lights in the house had all been put out, a sabbatical dance took place round the bust of Racine (it is set against the wall!), by the light of the dying fires in the green-room, similar to Boulanger's magnificent dance; that the spectral dancers were heard to utter the sacrilegious refrain, "Racine is fallen!" and that even shouts for blood were raised by a young fanatic of the name of Amaury Duval, who demanded the heads of the Academicians—a parricidal cry, since this unfortunate creature was the son of M. Amaury Duval of the Institut, and nephew of M. Alexandre Duval of the AcadÉmie franÇaise.
Further, a rabid Romantic, to whom God had sent one of the seven plagues of Egypt in punishment for his sins, was
This fanatic was called Gentil.
Stories like these, told by the fireside, were enough, it may well be imagined, to make the hair of all respectable people stand on end, and the Constitutionnel, which has always been the literary and political representative of respectable people, was particularly shocked.
It was from this period that every worthy man gave himself up to hatred of all ideas which did not date back a half-century, and of every author who was not at least sixty years of age—a style of writing which lasted from 1830 to 1850—the vigorous style of hatred to which Alceste refers, and which, we think, eats far more readily into the hearts of weak-minded, wicked and jealous people, than into the hearts of men of goodwill.
People waited in daily expectation of a new St. Bartholomew's Eve, and poor M. Auger, who had just killed himself under such sad circumstances, was congratulated on having escaped a general massacre by means of suicide. So great was the consternation that the whole of the Classical party only produced one play—which was a failure. This was Elisabeth d'Angleterre, by M. Ancelot. For we do not call Casimir Delavigne's Marino Faliero, pompously christened a melodrama in verse, a classical production. The very choice of subject, Marino Faliero, and the imitation of Byron's principal scenes, formed a twofold concession to foreign genius and to modern taste.
Casimir Delavigne, as we have remarked elsewhere, was born fifteen years too soon to take part whole-heartedly in the new school; his style seemed ever hampered, and incessantly vacillating between Voltaire and Byron, ChÉnier and Shakespeare, never succeeding in clothing his ideas in a definite manner. Still, nothing had been neglected to make Marino Faliero a success. The papers had made much of the ingratitude of the members of the ComÉdie-FranÇaise and of the transfer of M. Ligier to the Porte-Saint-Martin. It was
The play was produced on 30 May, and was very successful; but, strange to relate, the author's most elaborately conceived rÔle was not the most applauded one, nor did the actor's chief success fall to the share of Ligier or of Madame Dorval: it fell to Gobert, who played the rÔle of IsraËl Bertuccio.
The work was mounted with great sumptuousness and scrupulous care, especially with regard to the costumes. M. Delaroche, having deemed it desirable, in order to lend a more picturesque effect to his designs, that they should be wafted by the wind, the theatrical costumier devised the ingenious notion of sewing air into the mantles.
I have elsewhere given my opinion of this play.
CHAPTER III
Mesmerism—Experiment during a trance—I submit to being mesmerised—My observation upon it—I myself start to mesmerise—Experiment made in a diligence—Another experiment in the house of the procureur de la RÉpublique of Joigny—Little Marie D——Her political predictions—I cure her of fear
Between the representation of my play and Casimir Delavigne's, the scientific world was much taken up with an important event which established the power of magnetism, that had been under dispute since Mesmer's day.
One of the cleverest surgeons of the time, Jules Cloquet, had just performed an operation on Madame Pl—— for cancer in the breast, without her feeling the least pain, she having been put into a trance by mesmerism.
One word about mesmerism. Let us leave actualities and turn to abstractions.
Madame Pl——, upon whom this strange experiment had just been made, was between sixty-four and sixty-five years of age; she had been a widow ten years and had suffered for two or three years from glandular swellings on the right breast. Doctor Chap—— was her medical adviser; he had practised magnetism for some time and found himself apt at it. He attempted to apply it to the cure of Madame Pl——, but the disorder had gone too far, and he decided to try if it might be possible to lessen her pain while the operation was being performed. Jules Cloquet was consulted, and it was proposed that he should operate on the sleeping patient. He consented, welcoming the opportunity of seeing for himself a phenomenon concerning which he was sceptical, and also, at the same time, glad to be able to spare the patient the
"It seemed as though he were operating on a dead body; save that, when the operation was over and the patient's wound was being bathed with a sponge, she twice cried out, without coming out of her state of trance, 'Be quick and finish, and do not tickle me like that!'"
When the operation was over, Madame Pl—— was brought out of her trance: she did not remember anything, had not felt any pain and showed profound astonishment that the operation was over. The dressing was done in the usual way, and the wound showed every symptom of quick healing. At the end of a week's time Madame Pl—— drove out in a carriage. The suppuration was decreased and the wound was making rapid progress towards healing, when, about the evening of the fifteenth day, the patient complained of feeling great oppression, and swellings began to show in the lower extremities.
All this is nothing but the simple truth: now comes in the marvellous. Madame Pl—— had a daughter who came from the country to nurse her mother. Dr. Chap——, having seen that she had a very clear mind, put her into a magnetic sleep and consulted her about her mother's condition. At the first attempt she made to see, her face grew troubled and tears rose to her eyes.
Then she announced that the peaceful but inevitable death of her mother would take place the next morning. When questioned upon the internal state of her mother's chest, she said that the right lung was quite dead, that it was empty, suppurating on the side nearest the lower portion of the spine and bathed in serous fluid; that the left lung was sound and alone supported life. As for the abdominal viscera, the liver,
These depositions were taken down in the presence of witnesses.
The next day, at the given hour, Madame Pl—— died. The autopsy was made in the presence of deputies from the AcadÉmie, and the state of the body was found to conform precisely with the description given by the mesmerised girl.
This was what was reported in the papers, stated in the official return, related to me and confirmed by Jules Cloquet himself, one day when we were talking together—before the discovery of chloroform—of the great mysteries of nature which baffle human intelligence. Later, when I was preparing my book Joseph Balsamo, being interested to fathom the often debated question of the power or impotence of magnetism, I decided to make some personal experiments, not relying upon those produced by foreigners interested in accrediting magnetism. So I studied magnetism first hand, and the result of my investigations was as follows:—
I was endowed with great magnetic powers, and this power, as a rule, took effect on two out of every three persons upon whom I experimented. Let me hasten to state that I never practised it except upon young girls or women. This power in connection with physical phenomena is incontestable. A woman who has once submitted to magnetic sleep is the slave of the man who sent her to sleep. Even after she has waked she remembers or forgets what passed during her sleep, according to the will of the magnetiser. She could be made to kill someone during her sleep and, if he willed that she should be totally ignorant of having committed her crime, she would never know anything about it. The mesmeriser can make his victim feel pain of any kind in any part; he has only to touch the place with the tip of his finger, the end of a stick, or the end of an iron rod. He can cause a sensation of warmth with ice, a sensation of cold with fire; he can cause drunkenness with a glass of water, or even with an empty glass. He can put an arm, a leg or the whole body
I believe all these things come under the domain of physical phenomena. Even the brain can be impelled to such a pitch of excitement as to make an ordinary being a poet, a child of twelve possess the ideas, feelings and manner of expressing them of a person of twenty or twenty-five.
In 1848, I made a tour in Burgundy. My daughter and I were in the same coach with a very charming lady of thirty to thirty-two; we only exchanged a few words; it was eleven o'clock at night; and one of the things she had told me was that she never slept when she was travelling. Ten minutes later, she was not only asleep, but asleep with her head on my shoulder. I waked her up; she was extremely surprised to find she had fallen asleep, and fallen asleep in the position in which she found herself. I renewed the experiment two or three times during the night, and my strength of will was sufficient, without my needing to touch my neighbour, to be successful in every instance.
When the coach stopped at the posting-house and horses were being changed, I woke her abruptly and asked her what time it was; she opened her eyes and tried to pull out her watch.
"Never mind that," I said to her; "tell me the time by your watch without looking at it."
"Three minutes to three o'clock," she replied immediately
We called the postillion, and by the light of his lantern we verified that it was exactly three minutes to three.
These were nearly all the experiments I tried upon that lady; they yielded the results I have just related, and, with the exception of the time being told without looking at the watch, they all appertain to the order of physical phenomena.
At Joigny, I made an official call on M. Lorin, the procureur de la RÉpublique, whom I had never met before. It was just about the time of the publication of Balsamo, which had made magnetism quite the rage. I rarely entered a
"Magnetic power exists; it can be practised, but its scientific basis is not yet known. It is in a similar condition to that of air balloons: we can send them up, but no means of directing them have yet been devised."
Doubts were then expressed by persons present, and especially by women. I asked one of these ladies, Madame B——, if she would allow me to put her to sleep; she refused in such a manner as to convince me that she would not be overweeningly angry if I did it without her leave. Nevertheless, I assumed an attitude of submission to her; but, five minutes later, having got up as though to look at an engraving hanging above her arm-chair, I summoned to my aid all my magnetic power and for five minutes I persistently willed her to go to sleep; at the end of that five minutes she was asleep. Then I began a series of extremely curious experiments on this lady, who was a total stranger to me, in a house which I had never entered before or have since re-entered. Madame B——, in spite of her will, obeyed both my expressed mandates and also my mute wishes. Every ordinary sensation in her was reversed: fire felt like ice, ice like fire. She complained of a bad headache: I bound her forehead with an imaginary bandage which I told her contained snow, and she immediately experienced a delicious sensation of coolness; then, a moment later, she wiped away from her forehead the water from the imaginary bandage, as though the heat of her head were melting the supposititious snow; but, soon, her handkerchief was not enough for the operation; she borrowed a friend's; finally, the demand for a handkerchief was followed by that for a serviette; then, her dress and the rest of her clothes being damp, she asked to be allowed to go to a room to change everything. I let her feel this sensation of cold till she shivered; then, suddenly, I gave the order for her clothes to dry themselves, and they dried themselves. The whole thing, of course, was in the imagination of the lady mesmerised. She had an extremely fine voice, of a fairly wide range, but
Her eyes were open and her face, which was a very lovely one, assumed an admirable stage expression, as beautiful as that of Miss Faucit when she is acting the sleep-walking scene in Hamlet. The procureur de la RÉpublique was terrified at the thought of such a power, which could urge a person to a crime, in spite of herself. When I had willed Madame B—— back to calmness, I tried to make her see things at a distance. When Colonel S. M——, who was a friend of mine, had been staying in Joigny with his regiment, she had made his acquaintance, so I asked where the colonel was at that hour, and what he was doing.
She replied that Colonel S. M—— was in garrison at Lyons and at that moment, at the officers' cafÉ, where he was standing talking with the lieutenant-colonel, near the billiard-table. Then, suddenly, she saw the colonel grow pale, totter and sit down on a bench. He had just been seized with rheumatics in his knee. I touched her on the knee and willed that she should feel the same pain herself: she uttered a cry, grew rigid and shed many tears. We were so alarmed by this fictitious grief, which showed every symptom of real trouble, that I woke her up. As soon as she was awakened, she remembered what I wished her to remember, and forgot the things I commanded her to forget.
Then began another series of experiments on the woman when she was awake.
I enclosed her within an imaginary circle, which I drew with a stick, and I left the room, forbidding her to quit the circle. In five minutes' time I came back, and found her seated in the centre of the salon, waiting my permission to regain her liberty. She sat in one corner of the room, and I placed myself at the opposite end; I told her to do her utmost to resist coming over to me, and at the same time I commanded her to come to me. She clung tight to her arm-chair, but, drawn by an irresistible force, she was obliged to release her hold; then she sat down on the floor to resist the attraction, but the precaution was useless: she came, dragging herself along. When she was at my feet, I only had to stretch out my hand to her head and slowly lift my hand; she rose obediently, and in spite of her efforts, she stood before me. She asked for a glass of water; she tasted it, and it was really water; then, before she had put the glass down, or it had left her hands, I told her the water was Kirsch: she knew perfectly well it was not, and yet, at the first draught she swallowed, she cried out that it was burning her mouth. Poor woman! She was a charming young creature, who has since experienced an even profounder mystery—that of death! I wonder whether she remembers or has forgotten what happened when she was on the earth?
I have not yet done with the subject of magnetism; on the contrary, I have another most extraordinary incident of this kind to relate which took place in the presence of twelve to fifteen people. What follows is a simple recital, drawn up in the form of a legal report by two of the witnesses and signed at the time by us all.
During my stay at Auxerre, I was received into the house of M. D——. He had two children, a boy of six and a girl of eleven years of age. Marie was the name of the daughter, and she was a lovely child, like an angel, for her cheeks were pale and her eyes were black and almost austere. She was an exquisitely delicate creature, but, of course, she only possessed the intelligence and qualities usual to a child of her age, and I had, accordingly, paid very little attention to her, beyond remarking
"I should not believe in mesmerism," Madame D—— said to me, "unless, for instance (and she tried to think of the most unlikely subject she could find),—unless you could send my daughter Marie into a trance."
"Call Mademoiselle Marie and let her sit down to her usual place at the table; give her a biscuit and some fruit, and while she is eating I will try and put her into a trance."
"There is no danger, is there?"
"Of what?"
"It will not injure my daughter's health?"
"Not in the least."
"Marie!"
They called the child, and she ran up; they put some greengages and a biscuit on her plate and told her to eat them, where she was. Her seat was near me, on my left. While everyone continued talking, as though nothing were going on, I stretched out my hand behind the child's head and was the only one to keep silence, my will being concentrated on making the child go to sleep. In half a minute, she had stopped every
"What is the matter, Marie?" asked her mother.
The child did not reply: she was asleep.
The thing had come about so rapidly that I could hardly believe it myself. I made her lean her head against the back of the chair without touching her, just by my power of attraction; her face looked the picture of perfect peace. I made some passes with my hand, up and down in front of her eyes, to make her open them. She opened her eyes, her eyeballs lifted skywards, a light iridescent film appearing beneath them,—the child was in a state of trance. When in this condition the eyelids do not flinch, and objects can be brought quite close to the pupil without causing the slightest movement. My daughter drew her portrait, while she was in this trance, as a companion to the other. There was such a striking likeness in the second portrait to that of an angel, that she added wings to it, and the drawing looked like a study after Giotto's or Perugino's lovely angel-heads. The child was in a trance: it now remained to find out if she could speak. A simple touch of my hand on hers gave her her voice: a simple invitation to get up and walk about endowed her with movement. But her voice was plaintive and toneless; her movements were more like those of an automaton than of a living creature. Whether her eyes were closed or open, whether she walked forward or backward, she moved with the same ease and sense of safety. I began by isolating her from others, so that she only heard me and only replied to me. The voices of her father and mother ceased to reach her; a simple wish on my part I expressed by a sign, changed her state of isolation and put the child again in touch with whatsoever person I chose to select as her interrogator. I transmitted several questions to her, to which she responded so accurately, so intelligently and so concisely that the idea suddenly came into her uncle's head to say to me—
"Question her upon political subjects."
The child, let me repeat, was eleven years old. All political
I will put down an exact account of the proceedings of that strange cross-examination, without putting the least faith in any of the predictions the child uttered; they were predictions, I confess, which I should be extremely sorry to see fulfilled, and I can only attribute them to the feverish state into which the hypnotic sleep had thrown her brain.
I will devote the following pages to the dialogue and give the exact terms in which it was conducted.
"In what social State are we at the present time, my child?"
"We are a Republic, monsieur."
"Can you explain to me what a Republic is?"
"It is the sharing of rights equally between every class of people of which the nation is composed, without distinction of rank or birth or circumstances."
We all stared at one another, amazed at this beginning; the answers had come without any hesitation and as though she had learnt them beforehand. I turned to her mother.
"Shall we proceed any further, madame?" I asked.
She was almost struck dumb with astonishment.
"Oh! Heavens!" she said, "I am afraid it will exhaust the poor child too much to answer such questions as those; they are far beyond the range of her age and understanding. The way she answers them," added the mother, "terrifies me."
I turned again to the child.
"Does the hypnotic sleep tire you, Marie?"
"Not in the slightest, monsieur."
"You think, then, that you can answer my questions easily?"
"Certainly."
"Yet they are not the usual questions that are addressed to a child of your age."
"God is willing that I should understand them."
We again looked at each other.
"Continue," said the mother.
"Go on," all the rest of the company exclaimed, in eager curiosity.
"Will the present form of government continue?"
"Yes, monsieur; it will last for several years."
"Will Lamartine or Ledru-Rollin be its bulwark?"
"Neither the one nor the other."
"Then we shall have a president?"
"Yes."
"And after this president whom shall we have?"
"Henri V."
"Henri V.?... But you know quite well, my child, that he is in exile!"
"Yes, but he will return to France."
"How will he return to France? By force?"
"No; by the consent of the French people."
"And where will he re-enter France?"
"At Grenoble."
"Will he have to fight to gain an entry?"
"No; he will come by way of Italy; from Italy he will enter DauphinÉ, and one morning it will be reported, 'Henri V. is in the citadel of Grenoble.'"
"So there is a citadel at Grenoble?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Can you see it?"
"Yes, on a height."
"And the town?"
"The town is low down, in the valley."
"Is there a river in the town?"
"There are two."
"Are their waters of the same colour?"
"No; one is white and the other is green."
We looked at each other in still greater astonishment than at first. Marie had never been to Grenoble and they did not think she even knew the name of the capital of DauphinÉ when she was in her ordinary senses.
"But are you quite sure that the Duc de Bordeaux will be at Grenoble?"
"As sure as though his name were written here"; and she pointed to her forehead.
"What does he look like? Come, give us a description of him."
"He is of medium height, rather stout; he is auburn; his eyes are blue and his hair is fashioned in the same way as that of the angels drawn by Mademoiselle Marie Dumas."
"Well, as he passes before your eyes, do you notice anything peculiar about his gait?"
"He limps."
"And where will he go from Grenoble?"
"To Lyons."
"Will they not oppose his entrance at Lyons?"
"They will try to do so at first, but I can see a number of workpeople going before him, leading him in."
"Are there no shots fired?"
"Oh yes, monsieur, several; but not much harm is done."
"Where are those shots fired?"
"On the road from Lyons to Paris."
"By which suburb will he enter Paris?"
"By Saint-Martin."
"But, my child, what will be the good of Henri V. becoming King of France, since he has no children...." I added hesitatingly, "and they say that he cannot have any?"
"Oh! that is not his fault, monsieur; it is his wife's."
"It comes to the same thing, my dear Marie, since divorce is not permitted."
"Oh yes! but something will happen that is now only known to God and myself."
"What is it?"
"His wife will die of consumption."
"And whom will he marry? Some Russian or German princess, I suppose?"
"No; he will say, 'I have returned by the will of the French people, so I will marry a daughter of the People.'"
We laughed: divination was beginning to intermingle with prophecy.
"And where will he find this daughter of the People, my child?"
"He will say, 'Seek the young girl I saw at No. 42 in the faubourg Saint-Martin, where she had climbed up on a street-post ; she was clad in a white dress and was waving a green bough in her hand.'"
"Well, will they go to the faubourg Saint-Martin?"
"Certainly."
"Will they find the young girl?"
"Yes, at No. 42."
"To what family does she belong?"
"Her father is a joiner."
"Do you know the name of this future queen?"
"LÉontine."
"And the prince will marry this young girl?"
"Yes."
"He will have a son by her?"
"He will have two."
"What will the eldest be called—Henri or Charles?"
"Neither. Henri V. will say that these two names have brought too much misfortune to those who have borne them: they will call the boy LÉon."
"How long will Henri V. reign?"
"Between ten and eleven years."
"How will he meet his death?"
"He will die of pleurisy, contracted from drinking cold water from a fountain, one day, when he is out hunting in the forest of Saint-Germain."
"But remember, my child, that you are making this prophecy before twelve to fifteen people: one of us here may warn the prince and then, if he is told that he will die if he drinks cold water, he will refrain from drinking it."
"He will be warned, but he will drink it, all the same; for he will say he has eaten many an ice when he was hot, so he can surely drink cold water."
"Who will warn him?"
"Your son, who will be one of his intimate friends."
"What! my son one of the intimate friends of the prince?"
"Yes, you are well aware that your son's opinions differ from yours."
My daughter and I exchanged glances and burst out laughing, for Alexandre and I are eternally squabbling over politics.
"And when Henri V. is dead LÉon I. will succeed to the throne?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"What will happen during his reign?"
"I cannot see any further: wake me."
I made haste to awake her, but she did not remember anything when she was awakened; I asked her a few questions about Lamartine, Ledru-Rollin, Grenoble, Henri V. and LÉon I., and she burst out laughing. I passed two thumbs across her forehead to will her to remember, and she remembered instantly; I begged her to begin the story over again, and she repeated it faithfully, in exactly the same terms, so that the person who had written down my questions and her answers while she uttered them was able to correct the first narration by the second.
I have since, upon several occasions, carried out other experiments on this child; there seemed to be no limits to the power which mesmerism had in or, rather, upon her; I could make her dumb, blind, or deaf at will; and, by a word, I could give her back all her faculties and excite them to a degree of perfection which seemed to exceed the limits of mortal knowledge. For instance, if I sent her to the piano—asleep or awake, it mattered little—she would begin a sonata; some person present would hum in a low voice to me an air that the child was desired to play, instead of the sonata; the sonata would instantly cease, and directly I stretched out my hand towards her the child would play the required tune. We tried this experiment a score of times before the most incredulous people, and she never failed.
Marie's father's house was built on the site of an old cemetery; several burial inscriptions could be deciphered even on the stones of the garden wall; and, because of these,
"Marie, your mother has just given me some peaches for my journey; go and fetch me a few vine leaves from the garden to wrap them in."
It was nine o'clock at night, and very dark. The child went out and returned singing; she brought back the vine leaves which she had gathered from the very spot where the tombstones were which caused her such terror by day. From that hour, she showed no hesitation in going into the garden or to any other part of the house, at any time of the night and even without a light.
I returned to Auxerre three months later; I had not announced my journey to anyone. Two days before my arrival, they wanted little Marie to have a tooth drawn.
"No, mother dear," she said, "wait; M. Dumas will be here the day after to-morrow: he will take hold of my little finger, while they take out my tooth, and then I shall not feel the pain."
I came on the day she said; I held the child's hand in mine during the operation, which was accomplished without her feeling the least pang of pain.
If I am asked for an explanation of the phenomena I have just related I cannot give any. I simply state what has happened. I am not an advocate of magnetism, I only use it when people compel me to do so, and it always fatigues me excessively. I believe a dishonourable person might put magnetism to evil uses, and I doubt whether a well-intentioned person does the least good by the practice of it. Magnetism is a pastime, it has not yet become a science.
CHAPTER IV
Fresh trials of newspaper editors—The Mouton enragÉ—Fontan—Harel's witticism concerning him—The Fils de l'Homme before the Police Court—The author pleads his cause in verse—M. Guillebert's prose—Prison charges at Sainte-PÉlagie—Embarrassment of the Duc d'OrlÉans about a historical portrait—The two usurpations
We left the Government busy imprisoning BÉranger for nine months, about the close of the year 1828; we now find it in July 1829 prosecuting the Corsaire at the Police Court, and sentencing M. Vremiot, its manager, to fifteen days' imprisonment and to a fine of 300 francs, for an article entitled Sottise des deux parts. The same month it prosecuted Fontan for an article in the Album called the Mouton enragÉ; and BarthÉlemy for his poem Fils de l'Homme. As both these trials made a great sensation, and as it was the general opinion that, by making it unpopular, they took part in the fall of the Government, we will go into the matter more fully.
On 20 June 1829, Fontan, who had had a tragedy called Perkin Warbeck acted at the OdÉon a year or two before, published in the old Album, edited by Magallon, an article entitled the Mouton enragÉ. The Public Minister believed this article was meant as an insult to the person of the king and referred the matter to the Police Court.
The following passages are those particularly specified in the accusation:—
"Picture to your imaginations, a pretty white sheep, combed, curled and washed every morning; with goggle-eyes, long ears, spindle-shanked legs, the lower jaw (or, in other words, the lower lip) heavy and hanging down; in short, a true Berry
sheep. He walks at the head of the flock of which he is pretty nearly the monarch; an immense meadow is his pasture-land and that of his fellow-sheep; some of the acres of this meadow devolved upon him by right. And here grew the tenderest grass, and he waxed fat upon it, which delighted his soul! What a nice thing it is to inherit an estate! Our sheep is called Robin; he responds with gracious salutations to the compliments paid him; and shows his teeth as evidence of his pleasure. In spite of his gentle appearance, he can be disagreeable when roused; he can then bite like any other animal. I have been told that a ewe which was related to him bit him every time she met him, because she considered he did not govern his flock with sufficient despotism. I tell you this under the seal of secrecy,—poor Robin-Mouton is mad! His madness is not apparent; on the contrary, he strives his utmost to conceal it; if he feels a fit approaching, and a longing to satisfy an evil thought, he takes good care to look first to see if anybody is watching him; for Mouton-Robin knows the lot that is destined for animals touched with this malady—he lives in dread of bullets does our Robin-Mouton! And besides, he is conscious of his weakness. If only he were a bull, ah! how he would use his horns! he would soon let you see. How he would insist upon his prerogatives among the sheep-folk of his acquaintance! He might possibly even be brave enough to declare war against a neighbouring flock. But, alas! he comes of a stock that is not very fond of fighting, and however alluring the amenities of conquest may be to him, he arrives at the bitter conclusion that he has but the blood of a sheep running through his veins. This fatal idea makes him desperate.—Never mind, Robin, you have not much to complain of; all you have to do is to lead a luxurious life of idleness. What have you to do from morning to night? Nothing. You eat, you drink, and you sleep: your sheep faithfully carry out your commands and satisfy your smallest caprices; they leap to do your bidding; what more can you desire? Believe what I tell you and do not attempt to quit your state of animal tranquillity; crush these vast ideas of glory, which are too great for that narrow brain of yours; vegetate in the same way your fathers have vegetated before you; Heaven made you a sheep, die a sheep! I tell you frankly you would be quite a charming quadruped if, in petto, you were only sane!"
Fontan was condemned to ten years' imprisonment and a fine of 10,000 francs. The sentence was rather too severe, and it caused a great outcry. It will be admitted that the article was not good enough to deserve this severe treatment. The result was to raise Fontan to the height of a martyr. And Fontan, who was of an energetic and headstrong character, made no attempt to justify himself before his judges.
"Messieurs," he said simply, "whether or not I intended my article to bear the interpretation you put upon it, I have the right of withholding any explanation of the subject; I allow no man to examine the inner sanctuary of my conscience. I wished to write an article about a mad sheep and I did it; that is the only explanation I ought or desire to give you."
I used to know Fontan very well at M. Villenave's house—he was a great friend of ThÉodore—an unpolished sort of man, who nevertheless did not lack some poetic feeling. He was unclean to the point of cynicism, and less aristocratic than Schaunard in the Vie de bohÈme; instead of having one pipe for continual smoking and a finer one when he went out, he had but one cutty pipe which never left his mouth, which smelt vilely when alight and between his teeth, but which smelt far worse when it was extinguished and in his pocket.
This condemnation made Fontan's name notorious. I believe the revolution of July found him at Poissy. He reappeared amidst a certain measure of popularity, but it was only the transient popularity of persecution.
Harel, who was the manager of the OdÉon, quickly conceived the notion of turning this popularity to account by asking Fontan to write a play for him. Fontan complied, and wrote Jeanne la Folle, but it was a failure, or, at any rate, only a partial success. Harel came up to me after the representation and said—
"Unmistakably I have been deceived in Fontan. There is more of the prison about him than of talent!"
This was, unfortunately, true. Poor Fontan died quite young and left nothing remarkable behind him; he published a volume of poetry and saw two or three dramas or tragedies put on the stage.
BarthÉlemy's sentence was less severe; he had three months' imprisonment and was fined 1000 francs.
We will give the reasons that led to his trial. We have already entertained our readers with the dÉbuts of BarthÉlemy and MÉry. They are aware how these two poets came together and how the VillÉliade, the PeyronnÉide, the CorbiÉrÉide and a host of other pieces were concocted which kept public attention spell-bound for a couple of years. The most important of these poems was NapolÉon en Égypte. It took tremendously, and ran into ten editions in less than six months' time.
MÉry, who had pined for sunshine, had gone to find warmth and sea breezes, those two opposing elements which are, however, admirably combined at Marseilles. BarthÉlemy, left alone, conceived the idea of going to Vienna to offer a copy of a poem to the young Duke of Reichstadt, wherein his father figured as the hero. To use Benjamin Constant's words, as the father had been allowed to die of political cancer, so the son was by way of being allowed to die of a disease of the chest. A charming dancer and a beautiful archduchess were the two strange doctors that Austria deputed to follow the progress of the prince's malady, which, three years later, became simply a matter of history.
BarthÉlemy's journey was, of course, useless: he was not allowed to approach the prince, and he brought back his poem without having been suffered to offer it to him. But BarthÉlemy's Odyssey had furnished him with the subject of a new poem entitled the Fils de l'Homme, and this was the poem that was denounced by the law. BarthÉlemy proclaimed beforehand his intention of defending himself in verse. Of course, such a proclamation as this filled the Police Court where this poetical trial was to be held, from eight o'clock in the morning. BarthÉlemy kept his word. Here are some of the
"Messieurs," he began,—
"VoilÀ donc mon dÉlit! sur un faible poËme
La critique en simarre appelle l'anathÈme;
Et ces vers, ennemis de la France et du roi,
TÉmoins accusateurs, se dressent contre moi!
HÉlas! durant les nuits dont la paix me conseille,
Quand je forÇais mes yeux À soutenir la veille,
Et que seul, aux lueurs de deux mourants flambeaux,
De ce pÉnible Écrit j'assemblais les lambeaux,
Qui m'eÛt dit que cette oeuvre, en naissant ÉtouffÉe,
D'un greffe criminel dÉplorable trophÉe,
Appellerait un jour sur ces bancs ennemis
Ma muse, vierge encor des arrÊts de ThÉmis?
Peut-Être ai-je failli; mais, crÉdule victime,
Moi-mÊme, j'ai bien pu m'aveugler sur mon crime,
Puisque des magistrats, vieux au mÉtier des lois
M'ont jugÉ non coupable une premiÈre fois.
Aussi, je l'avoÛrai, la foudre inattendue,
Du haut du firmament À mes pieds descendue,
D'une moindre stupeur eÛt frappÉ mon esprit,
Que le soir si funeste À mon livre proscrit
OÙ d'un pouvoir jaloux les sombres Émissaires
Se montraient en Écharpe À mes pÂles libraires,
Et, craignant d'ajourner leur gloire au lendemain,
Cherchaient le Fils de l'homme, un mandat À la main.
Toutefois, je rends grÂce au hasard tutÉlaire
Qui, sauvant un ami de mes torts solidaire,
Sur moi seul de la loi suspend l'arrÊt fatal.
Triste plus que moi-mÊme, au rivage natal
Il attend aujourd'hui l'heure de la justice.
S'il eÛt ÉtÉ prÉsent, il serait mon complice.
Éternels compagnons dans les mÊmes travaux,
Forts de notre union, frÈres et non rivaux,
Jusqu'ici, dans l'arÈne À nos forces permise,
Nos deux noms enlacÉs n'eurent qu'une devise,
Et jamais l'un de nous, reniant son appui,
N'eÛt voulu d'un laurier qui n'eÛt ÉtÉ qu'À lui.
Trois ans, on entendit notre voix populaire
Harceler les gÉants assis au ministÈre;
Trois ans, sur les Élus du conseil souverain
Nos bras ont agitÉ le fouet alexandrin;
N'arrÊta nos Élans par des rÉquisitoires.
Mais, dÈs le jour vengeur oÙ, captive longtemps,
La foudre du ChÂteau gronda sur les titans,
Suspendant tout À coup ses longues philippiques,
Notre muse plus fiÈre, osant des chants Épiques,
Évoqua du milieu des sables africains
Les soldats hasardeux des temps rÉpublicains,
Et montra rÉunis en faisceau militaire,
Les drapeaux lumineux du Thabor et du Caire;
De nos coeurs citoyens lÀ fut le dernier cri;
Notre muse se tut, et, tandis que MÉry
Allait sous le soleil de la vieille PhocÉe
Ressusciter un corps usÉ par la pensÉe,
'J'osai, vers le Danube Égarant mon essor,
A la cour de Pyrrhus chercher le fils d'Hector.'
Je portais avec soin, dans mes humbles tablettes,
Ces dons qu'aux pieds des rois dÉposent les poËtes,
Et, poËte, j'allais pour redire À son fils
L'histoire d'un soldat, aux plaines de Memphis.
VoilÀ tout le complot d'un long pÈlerinage.
Un pouvoir soupÇonneux repoussa mon hommage,
Et, moi, loin d'un argus que rien n'avait flÉchi,
Je repassai le Rhin, imprudemment franchi."
The above was his defence as regarded facts. When he had defended its theme BarthÉlemy went on to its form; he complained of the method of interpretation which judges of all times have pushed to extremes, so that they persecute whether under the elder or the younger branch of the Bourbons, whether under M. Cavaignac or under M. Louis-Bonaparte; he said—
"Pourtant, voilÀ mon crime! Un songe, une ÉlÉgie
Me condamne moi-mÊme À mon apologie!
Partout, sur ce vÉlin, je frissonne de voir
Des vers sÉditieux soulignÉs d'un trait noir;
Le doigt accusateur laisse partout sa trace,
Et je suis criminel jusque dans ma prÉface;
Ah! du moins, il fallait, moins prompt À me juger
Pour me juger, tout lire et tout interroger;
Il fallait, surmontant les ennuis de l'ouvrage,
Jusqu'au dernier feuillet forcer votre courage,
Et, traversant mon livre un scalpel À la main,
Avancer hardiment jusqu'au bout du chemin.
Combien peu d'Écrivains seraient dignes de vivre!
Qu'on pourrait aisÉment trouver de noirs desseins
Jusque dans l'Évangile et les ouvrages saints!
Ma prose est toujours prÊte À disculper ma muse;
La note me dÉfend quand le texte m'accuse;
D'un tissu rÉgulier pourquoi rompre le fil?
De quel droit venez-vous, annotateur subtil,
DÉdaignant mon histoire, attaquer mon poËme,
Prendre comme mon tout la moitiÉ de moi-mÊme,
Et, fort de ma pensÉe arrÊtÉe au milieu,
Diviser contre moi l'indivisible aveu?
Mais j'ose plus encor, fort de mon innocence,
ArmÉ du texte seul, j'accepte la dÉfense;
Seulement, n'allez pas, envenimant mes vers,
D'un sens clair et prÉcis extraire un sens pervers!
Gardez-vous de chercher, trop savant interprÈte,
Sous ma lucide phrase une Énigme secrÈte!
Ainsi, quand vous lirez: 'qu'À mes yeux Éblouis,
La gloire a dÉrobÉ les fils de saint Louis;
Qu'aveuglÉment soumis aux droits de la puissance,
Je ne me doutais pas, dans mon adolescence,
Que l'hÉritier des lys, exilÉ de Mittau,
RÉgnait chez les Anglais dans un humble chÂteau,
Et que, depuis vingt ans, sa bontÉ paternelle!
RÉdigeait pour son peuple une charte Éternelle!'
Lisez de bonne foi comme chacun me lit.
Pourquoi vous tourmenter À flairer un dÉlit,
A tourner ma franchise en coupable ironie,
A voir un seul cÔtÉ de mon double gÉnie?
Voulez-vous donc me lire aux lueurs du fanal
Dont la sainte Gazette escorte son journal,
Et, serrant vos deux mains À nuire intÉressÉes,
Exprimer du poison en tordant mes pensÉes?"
Those are certainly the well-turned lines of a very clever versifier if not of a great poet. At Athens, before the Areopagitica where Æschylus pleaded his cause, M. BarthÉlemy would have been acquitted! But what could he expect? We are not Athenians, and our judges are by no means archons.
The poet proceeded, nevertheless, although it was easy to read, in the frowning faces of the judges, their want of sympathy with the defence of the accused.
Again let us listen to BarthÉlemy:—
"Jusqu'ici, l'on m'a vu, d'un tranquille visage,
ConquÉrir pour ma cause un facile avantage.
J'ai vengÉ sans effort, dans mon livre semÉs,
Quelques vers, quelques mots par ThÉmis dÉcimÉs.
Redoublons de courage: un grand effort nous reste;
Abordons sans pÂlir ce passage funeste,
De l'un À l'autre bout chargÉ de sombres croix!
LÀ, sapant par mes voeux le palais de nos rois,
Ébranlant de l'État la base lÉgitime,
D'un sang usurpateur j'appelle le rÉgime,
J'invoque la Discorde aux bras ensanglantÉs!
Est-il vrai? Suis-je donc si coupable?... Écoutez!
'Il sait donc dÉsormais, il n'a plus À connaÎtre
Ce qu'il est, ce qu'il fut et ce qu'il pouvait Être.
Oh! que tu dois souvent te dire et repasser
Dans quel large avenir tu devais te lancer!
Combien dans ton berceau fut court ton premier rÊve
Doublement protÉgÉ par le droit et le glaive,
Des peuples rassurÉs espoir consolateur,
Petit-fils d'un CÉsar, et fils d'un empereur,
LÉgataire du monde, en naissant roi de Rome,
Tu n'es plus aujourdhui rien que le fils de l'homme!
Pourtant, quel fils de roi contre ce nom obscur
N'Échangerait son titre et son sceptre futur?
Mais quoi! content d'un nom qui vaut un diadÈme,
Ne veux-tu rien, un jour, conquÉrir par toi-mÊme?
La nuit, quand douze fois ta pendule a frÉmi,
Qu'aucun bruit ne sort plus du palais endormi,
Et que, seul au milieu d'un appartement vide,
Tu veilles, obsÉdÉ par ta pensÉe avide,
Sans doute que parfois sur ton sort À venir
Un dÉmon familier te vient entretenir.
Oui, tant que ton aÏeul, sur ton adolescence,
De sa noble tutelle Étendra la puissance,
Les jaloux archiducs, comprimant leur orgueil,
Du vieillard tout-puissant imiteront l'accueil;
Mais qui peut garantir cette paix fraternelle?
Peut-Être en ce moment la mort lÈve son aile;
TÔt ou tard, au milieu de ses gardes hongrois,
Elle mettra la faulx sur le doyen des rois.
Alors, il sera temps d'expliquer ce problÈme
D'un sort mystÉrieux ignorÉ de toi-mÊme.
Entre deux avenirs il faudra faire un choix.
Puisses-tu, dominÉ par le sang de ta mÈre,
Bannir de ta pensÉe une vaine chimÈre,
Et de l'ambition Éteindre le flambeau!
Le destin qui te reste est encore assez beau;
Les rois ont grandement consolÉ ton jeune Âge;
Le duchÉ de Reichstadt est un riche apanage,
Et tu pourras, un jour, colonel allemand,
Conduire À la parade un noble rÉgiment!
Qu'À ce but dÉsormais ton jeune coeur aspire;
Borne lÀ tes dÉsirs, ta gloire et ton empire.
Des rÈgnes imprÉvus ne gardons plus l'espoir,
Ce qu'on vit une fois ne doit plus se revoir!'"
Not so, O poet! We shall never see again what we have seen; the phantom child which you have invoked from its premature grave was only to be seen by history as a pale spectre held up to view in a dim poetic distance, as Astyanax or Britannicus; the days that have been we shall know no more. But the future was reserving a still more extraordinary vision for us, which was to confirm the words Dr. Schlegel said to me in 1838: "History has been invented to prove the futility of the examples she sets before us."
Meanwhile BarthÉlemy was being sentenced to three months' imprisonment and a fine of 1000 francs, in spite of, or perhaps because of, his pleading. But if the prisoner had not done with Justice, neither had Justice done with the prisoner. BarthÉlemy was hardly inside the prison before he received the following letter from M. Guillebert, Registrar:—
"PARIS, 6 May 1830
"MONSIEUR,—I had the honour of asking you in my letter of 22 March last, to settle the fines and expenses which you were sentenced to pay by order of the Royal Court on 7 January last, amounting to:—
francs
Fine 1,000 00
Ten per cent 100 00
Legal expenses and appeal ditto 81 45
Total, 1,181 45
"I repeat my request, as I made a mistake in my first application, for 1208 francs 95 centimes. I beg you to discharge these payments by the 10th instant, to avoid the putting into execution of legal methods according to Article 52 of the Code pÉnal.
"I have the honour to remain
"GUILLEBERT, Registrar"
And M. Guillebert, who would have been as polite to any prisoner but would, undoubtedly, not have been so punctilious with him if he had not been a poet, had the complaisance to put that 52nd Article of the Code pÉnal, to which he alluded so delicately, in a postscript. This is the article which, I suppose, has remained unaltered under the government of King Louis-Philippe I., and under that of M. Bonaparte:—
Article 52
"Distraining for fines, restitutions, damages and interest, and for costs, can be enforced by means of imprisonment."
To this letter BarthÉlemy replied, on 9 May 1830, by an epistle entitled La Bourse ou la Prison. But in comparison with Fontan and Magallon, BarthÉlemy had nothing to complain of: he was lodged in a palace. The palace was rent free, but he gives us the tariff for the cost of furnishing it:—
Ordinary bed, two mattresses, sheets, one blanket and
bolster 4 50
For every extra blanket 6 50
One pillow 9 50
One chair 6 50
One table 6 50
Total, 33 50
And it was by these actions that the Government was alienating itself from the people by the scandalous trials of Carbonneau, Pleignies and Tolleron successively; from the army by the executions of Bories, Raoul, Goubin and Pommier; from the high military aristocracy by the assassination
Now, a Government which has the people, the army, the middle classes and literature opposed to it is in a very bad way, and this Government was therefore in a very bad way on 31 July 1829, on which day it pronounced its sentence on BarthÉlemy; exactly a year later, to the day, it was defunct.
Finally, an anecdote I am just about to relate will prove that I partially foresaw the trend of coming events. My new position in the library of the Duc d'OrlÉans (a post which, as I have already pointed out to my readers, was more honorary than lucrative) possessed the great advantage to me of affording me an immense office, where I could carry on my literary and historical researches nearly as well as, and far more comfortably than, in the BibliothÈque royale. So I was more regular in my attendance than either of my two confrÈres, Vatout and Casimir Delavigne. Accordingly, one day, when the Duc d'OrlÉans came in, humming a tune from one of the masses—a habit of his when he was in a good temper, which, I must say, he nearly always was—he remarked:
"So! are you by yourself, M. Dumas?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
The Duc d'OrlÉans took two or three turns round the library, still continuing his singing. Then he went on, a moment later—
"Neither Vatout, nor Casimir, nor Tallencourt?..."
"MM. Vatout and Casimir have not come, monseigneur, and Tallencourt has gone out."
Twice again he perambulated round the library, still humming to himself. He evidently wished to enter into conversation, so I ventured to ask him—
"Does monseigneur want anything I can do in the absence of the other gentlemen?"
"No; I wanted to show Vatout an historic portrait and to ask his opinion."
"Unhappily, as monseigneur needs advice, I am afraid I am no substitute for M. Vatout."
"Come with me, nevertheless," said the duke.
I bowed and followed the prince from the library to the picture gallery.
Upon an easel rested a portrait that had just been brought back from the framer; it was waiting for the name of the original to be painted on the frame. It was a portrait of the emperor, painted by Manzaisse. To find, in 1829, a portrait of the emperor in the palace of the first prince of the blood royal was such a novel species of boldness that I could do nothing but wonder at it.
"What do you think of that portrait?" asked the Duc d'OrlÉans.
"I am "not very fond of the paintings of M. Mauzaisse, monseigneur."
"Ah, true, I forgot you were a romanticist in painting and in literature. You admire the painting of M. Delacroix?"
"Yes, monseigneur; also of M. Delacroix, M. Scheffer, M. Granet, M. Decamps, M. Boulanger, M. EugÈne DevÉria—oh! we allow a wide margin!"
"Excellent! I am aware you know all about these gentlemen—but that is not to my present purpose. This is a portrait which I have just had painted for my gallery; and there is nothing wanting, as you see, except the insertion of the name. Ought I to put Bonaparte? It would look like affectation only to recognise the First Consul. Ought I to put NapolÉon? It would seem an affectation to call him emperor; that was the point on which I wished to consult Vatout."
"But," I replied, "it seems a very simple matter to me; put NapolÉon Bonaparte, monseigneur."
"Yes; but that still implies the emperor.... Napoleon, if my memory serves me correctly, was unjust to your family and you have no love for him, I believe."
"Monseigneur, I must confess that where that great man is
"He was a great man; but there were two terrible blots on his character—one was a crime, the other a fault—his assassination of the Duc d'Enghien, and his marriage with Marie-Louise."
"Does monseigneur pardon his usurpation?"
"I did not say so."
"Monseigneur knows the MÉdecin malgrÉ lui?"
"Yes, I admire it immensely."
"Well, in the MÉdecin malgrÉ lui Sganarille remarks that there are fagots and fagots."
"Meaning, I presume ...?"
"That there are usurpations and usurpations."
"Bah!"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"I do not understand your meaning."
"I mean to say—and you who are so fair-minded, monseigneur, will readily understand me—that there is a usurpation which substitutes one dynasty for another dynasty by the instrumentality of violence, breaking up all the roots of the old dynasty throughout the country, all the interests connected with it, leaving raw open wounds for long enough among the aristocracy and the middle and lower classes, which are slow to heal; and there is the usurpation which purely and simply substitutes one man for another, a green bough for a withered branch, and popularity for unpopularity—that is what I mean, monseigneur, by my two usurpations."
The Duc d'OrlÉans laughingly lifted up his hand, as though to stop me; but he let me finish, all the same.
"M. Dumas," he said to me, "that is a somewhat subtle question, and one which, if you must have it answered, should be referred to a council and not to a prince of the blood. However, you are right about the portrait; I will put NapolÉon Bonaparte."
I bowed and withdrew to the library.
The duke remained in the picture gallery lost in thought.
CHAPTER V
The things that are the greatest enemies to the success of a play—The honesty of Mademoiselle Mars' as an actress—Her dressing-room—The habituÉs at her supper-parties—Vatout—DenniÉe—Becquet—Mornay—Mademoiselle Mars in her own home—Her last days on the stage—Material result of the success of Henri III.—My first speculation—The recasting of Christine—Where I looked for my inspiration—Two other ideas
At the thirty-fifth representation of Henri III. Mademoiselle Mars was obliged to take her holiday. She did her utmost to persuade the ComÉdie-FranÇaise to compensate her for this holiday; she gave them every possible facility, but the ComÉdie-FranÇaise would not listen to anything. The success of Henri III. served certain interests but wounded certain amour-propres. At the ComÉdie-FranÇaise one suffers from a peculiarity unknown, or very nearly so, in any other theatre. The author whose piece is being acted makes enemies of all the actors who are not taking part in it.
Towards the close of the run of Henri III. I noticed Monrose, an excellent comedian whose talents should have raised him above the paltry jealousies of those of lesser genius, come into the green-room, rubbing his hands together and exclaiming gleefully—
"Ah! we have taken five hundred francs less to-night than at the last representation!"
I was present—he had not perceived me at first, and, when he caught sight of me, he pretended not to have seen me, and went away.
Mademoiselle Mars was on the point of renouncing her holiday, so reluctant was she to interrupt the success of the run.
Mademoiselle Mars was an exceedingly straightforward, honest actress, I nearly said an honest man, and punctiliously accurate; everyone did his duty when connected with her, because she did hers as carefully as a pupil during her first year at a boarding-school. Once only was she a few minutes late at a rehearsal.
"I beg your pardon for being a quarter of an hour late," she said as she came in; "but I have just lost forty thousand francs.... Let us be quick and begin." And she rehearsed as though nothing had happened.
Once, when she was going on the stage, she had a sort of apoplectic fit; but, instead of interrupting the play, as any other actress would have done, she sent for leeches, and between the first and third acts she took advantage of the second act, in which she did not have to appear, to apply them to her chest. When I entered her dressing-room after the play, she was covered with blood down to her slippers.
Mademoiselle Mars had a very large room—the same that Mademoiselle Rachel now has. At the end of each performance the room was always filled with people. Mademoiselle Mars did not trouble herself in the least about her visitors being present; she would undress and take off her paint and rouge with a modest dexterity quite remarkable: she had in particular a way of changing her chemise while talking, without showing anything of her person beyond her finger tips, that was a tour de force. When her toilet was complete, those who wished to accompany her home went with her and found a supper ready. The regular attenders at these suppers were Vatout, Romieu, DenniÉe, Becquet and myself, among men, and Julienne, her lady-companion—a character—the beautiful Amigo, the fair Madame Mira, and sometimes an old lady named Fusil.
Mornay called every evening to conduct Mademoiselle Mars to the theatre, or saw her safely home.
My readers are acquainted with Romieu; I introduced him in company with his friend Rousseau. So as I have nothing fresh to tell about him, I will pass him over.
But I have hardly as yet described Vatout; Madame Valmore took him off well when she dubbed him a "butterfly in top-boots." Vatout was full of small defects and great qualities. He would superciliously hold out a finger to you if you offered to shake hands with him, and he put on the airs of a grand seigneur without ever succeeding in being mistaken for a grand seigneur. He had a good heart in spite of his uppish manners; and a charming mind behind his awkward appearance. He had a way of saying certain things that did not sit at all well on him. One of his monstrous affectations was to try and resemble the Duc D'OrlÉans; I have even been assured that, in confidence, he let people draw conclusions about this resemblance. The Duc d'OrlÉans was very fond of him and, when king, maintained his friendship with him. At the Cour Citoyenne they quoted his quips and sang his chansons. There was one in particular about the Mayor of Eu, which became the rage. Will our modest readers allow us to insert it here? for, to our way of thinking, it constituted his worthiest claim to the AcadÉmie. Do not let us do injustice to poor Vatout.
LE MAIRE D'EU
AIR—À faire
"L'ambition, c'est des bÊtises;
Ça vous rend triste et soucieux;
Mais, dans le vieux manoir des Guises.
Qui ne serait ambitieux?...
TourmentÉ du besoin de faire
Quelque chose dans ce beau lieu,
J'ai briguÉ l'honneur d'Être maire,
Et l'on m'a nommÉ maire d'Eu!
Notre origine n'est pas claire ...
Rollon nous gouverna jadis;
Mais CÉsar fut-il notre pÈre,
OÙ descendons-nous, de Smerdis?
Dans l'embarras de ma pensÉe,
Un mot peut tout concilier:
Nous sommes issus de PersÉe;
Voyez plutÔt mon mobilier!
Je ne suis pas fort À mon aise:
Ma mairie est un petit coin,
Et mon trÔne une simple chaise
Qui me sert en cas de besoin;
Mes habits ne sentent pas l'ambre:
Mon Équipage brille peu;
Mais que m'importe! un pot de chambre
Suffit bien pour un maire d'Eu!
On vante partout ma police;
Ce qu'on fait ne m'Échappe pas.
A tous je rends bonne justice;
J'observe avec soin tous, les cas.
On ne peut ni manger ni boire
Sans que tout passe sous mes yeux;
Mais c'est surtout les jours de foire
Qu'on me voit souvent sur les lieux.
GrÂce aux roses que l'on recueille
Dans mon laborieux emploi,
Je prÉfÈre mon portefeuille
A celui des agents du roi.
Je brave les ordres sinistres
Qui brise leur pouvoir tout net;
Et, plus puissant que les ministres,
J'entre, en tout temps, au cabinet.
Je me complais dans mon empire;
Il ne me cause aucun souci;
Moi, j'aime l'air que l'on y respire;
On voit, on sent la mer d'ici!
Partout l'aisance et le bien-Être;
Ma vie est un bouquet de fleurs..
Aussi j'aime beaucoup mieux Être
Maire d'Eu que maire d'ailleurs!
Beau chÂteau bÂti par les Guises,
Mer d'azur baignant le TrÉport,
Lieux oÙ Lauzun fit des bÊtises,
Je suis À vous jusqu'À la mort;
Je veux, sous l'Écharpe franÇaise,
Mourir en sÉnateur romain,
Calme et tranquille sur ma chaise
Tenant mes papiers À la main!'
Vatout was also the author of the famous mot said to an official who, accompanying the king down a by-street which the latter was determined to penetrate, made excuses at each step for the obstructions they encountered. Many hens had laid there, of the type of which Henri IV. had remarked, "Stop, stop, mother! I much prefer to see the hen than the egg!"
"Oh, sire," said the poor fellow,—"oh, sire, had I only known your Majesty intended passing this way, I would have had them all cleared away."
"You would not have had the right to do that, M. le maire," Vatout gravely remarked; "they have their papers!"
Between 1821 and 1822 Vatout wrote a book which was an enormous success. It was about the adventures of la Charte and was entitled Histoire de la fille d'un Roi. Later, he wrote IdÉe fixe, which was scarcely read; then, some sort of a novel called the Conspiration de Cellamare; finally, various publications about the royal chÂteaux. In all, nothing very striking; but nevertheless he was consumed with the desire to become an Academician, Scribe urging him to it. He reached his goal, poor fellow; but in the interval between his nomination and his reception, being as faithful to the royal cause during its exile as he had been in the heyday of its powerfulness, he went to pay a visit to the exiles at Claremont, where he was taken ill after dinner, and died twenty-four hours later! He died without having had the joy of sitting once in the AcadÉmie! Poor Vatout! No one, I am sure, did him greater justice or regretted him more than I did. I obtained Hugo's vote for him with much difficulty.
The whole of Parisian society knew DenniÉe, ex-ordonnateur-general, who, man of wit and pleasure-seeker as he was, talked as though his mouth were full of nutshells, and told a host of stories and anecdotes, each more strange and amusing than the last, with such a defective pronunciation that they acquired a convincing air of originality. He worshipped Mademoiselle Mars, who was very fond of him in return. If three days went Dy without DenniÉe being seen at her house,
Becquet was as well known as DenniÉe: perhaps he was even better known. He was one of the weekly contributors to the Journal des DÉbÂts. He was exceedingly clever; but, as he got drunk regularly once a day, his intellect gradually became dulled. Two often quoted sayings of his will serve to illustrate the sort of respect and filial affection he had for his father. Once when Becquet the elder took his son to task concerning his unfortunate habit of drunkenness, saying to him.
"See, you wretch, how it is ageing you; you will be taken for my father, and I shall outlive you by ten years!"
"Ah!" Becquet languidly retorted, "why do you always say such disagreeable things to me?"
Becquet possessed another habit, that of contracting debts. He owed money to everybody, and this widespread indebtedness reduced his father to despair.
"Wretch!" he said to him, on another occasion,—this was old Becquet's usual term for his son, sometimes used as an adjective, at others as a substantive,—"Wretch!" he said, "by God and the devil, I cannot conceive how you can live like this."
"Stay, father," Becquet replied, "you have just mentioned the only two powers to whom I do not owe anything."
The day his father died—it is sad to relate that it was a festival-day for Becquet, who made merry in heart and purse—he dined at the cafÉ de Paris and ordered his menu like a man who is regardless of cost; but, when it came to the wine, he called the waiter; some doubt had probably arisen in his mind, and he wished the opinion of an expert.
"Waiter," he asked, "is the Bordeaux in mourning?"
Two hours later, they carried Becquet home.
One night, I met Becquet in one of those marvellous states of intoxication that he alone could carry off in such lordly style. It was on the 21st of January.
"What!" said I to him, "drunk on this day of all days, Becquet?"
"May I ask if there is, perchance, any day on which a man may not be drunk if he likes?" asked the author of Mouchoir bleu in amazement.
"Certainly, I should have thought there was, especially for you who are a Royalist, it being the anniversary of the death of Louis XVI."
Becquet seemed to reflect for an instant over the gravity of my observation; then, placing a hand on my shoulder—
"If they had not cut off the head of good King Louis XVI., do you suppose he would be dead now?"
"It is more than probable."
"Well, then," said Becquet, carelessly snapping his fingers, "how can you say anything to me?"
And off he went with the aplomb of the drunkard, who, from long practice, has learnt to be superior to the general run of drinkers in being always able to walk straight when intoxicated.
It was when dead-drunk, after having left the house of Mademoiselle Mars, that Becquet wrote the famous article for the Journal des DÉbats which concluded with the following words, and which overthrew the monarchy:—
"Malheureuse France! Malheureux roi!" "Unfortunate France! Unfortunate King!"
Becquet died of drink and died whilst drinking. For the last six months of his life he was never sober: his eyes became dull and expressionless; his actions were involuntary and instinctive; his hand mechanically felt for the bottle to pour wine into his glass, which he had not sufficient strength to empty. To the last moment, Mademoiselle Mars received him with the whole-hearted friendship that was one of her finest virtues. When Becquet died, she had not the heart to regret him although she shed tears at the news.
Mornay formed a singular contrast to all those of whom I have been speaking. Mornay was elegant and aristocratic, he
Mademoiselle Mars at the theatre, and Mademoiselle Mars in her private home, were two quite different beings. On the stage, her voice was entrancing, almost like a song, and her looks were endearing and soft, full of bewitching charm. At home, her voice was harsh, she looked almost hard and her movements were brusque and impatient. Her theatrical voice was acquired, an instrument on which she had been taught to play and which she played marvellously well, but she rightly mistrusted it when she had to express great crises of passion, or to give effect to great heights of poesy; she was afraid then of straining her gentle notes, and she almost envied Madame Dorval her hoarse, raucous voice which enabled her to utter piteous cries that went straight to the heart. I never knew anyone who was more modest about her talents than was Mademoiselle Mars: she never spoke of herself, her triumphs, or her creations; she admired her father, Mouvel, profoundly; she was his pupil, and it gave her evident pleasure to talk of him. She was also a great admirer of Mademoiselle Contat, and it was odd to hear her confessing her inferiority to this great actress, in regard to certain points of art. I cannot say if all the tales told about the age of Mademoiselle
In common with Talma, Mademoiselle Mars saw her reputation go on increasing to the very day on which she finally left the stage. Her last creation, Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle, was one of her happiest performances. I was her latest supporter at the theatre and, in all probability, I had the good fortune of prolonging her career for two or three years.
The latter days of her period at the ComÉdie-FranÇaise were tinged with bitterness. One day, at an extra performance, someone threw a crown of immortelles at her feet, such as are placed upon tombs. It had been put together in one of the very boxes of the theatre, and I could, if I chose, mention in whose. When she left the stage the same thing occurred as after the loss of Talma. Everyone believed himself capable of replacing Talma, and everyone hoped to replace Mademoiselle Mars: they attempted it in their old rÔles; they invented new ones. Managers and papers did
Although Henri III. did not bring any very great wealth to our household, it had, nevertheless, produced a considerable change: first and foremost it had freed us from debt; it had repaid Porcher and M. Laffitte; it had permitted us to quit our humble lodgings in the rue Saint-Denis and to hire for my mother a set of rooms on the ground floor, with a garden, at No. 7 rue Madame. She had been recommended to have air and exercise, and I chose that street and quarter so as to be close to Mesdames Villenave and Waldor, who from family reasons had left their house in the rue de Vaugirard and taken a suite of apartments at No. 11 rue Madame. I had hired a separate room for myself, on the fourth floor, at the corner of rue de l'UniversitÉ and the rue du Bac, and, as my new position brought me visitors from among the ladies and gentlemen of the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais, I made this room as pretty as I could afford.
As I had learnt from past experience never to trust too much to the future, I had compounded for my food for one year, paying 1800 francs in advance; or, to be more exact, I paid for 365 breakfast coupons and 365 dinner tickets, wine not included. Unluckily, a month after I had made this arrangement, the CafÉ Desmares went bankrupt, and I lost my year's payment and meals. It was my first speculation, and it turned out badly, it will be seen.
Meanwhile, I had been receiving reproaches from an exceedingly charming young lady at the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais, who grumbled because, after having had an insignificant part in Henri III. there was none at all for her in Christine—for I still flattered myself with the hope that my Christine would yet be played at the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais, in spite of the delay owing to M. Brault, who had died meanwhile; and now the ComÉdie-FranÇaise was not in a hurry to take up either. Her reproaches went home, as they were deserved, and I felt I owed her a double reparation. I therefore replied—
"Set your mind at rest: I will recast Christine in order to make it more dramatic and up to date, and something shall come out of the transformation that will, I hope, satisfy you."
The mind of a worker is often full of singular prejudices, which are sometimes odd enough to border upon mania: at times he imagines he can only conceive his schemes in such and such a place; at others, that he can only write his play on some special kind of paper. I got it into my head that I could only evolve a fresh Christine out of my old Christine if I took a short journey, and was rocked by the motion of a carriage. As I was not yet rich enough to go in a carriage, I chose a diligence; it did not matter where the diligence was going, provided I had the coupÉ, the inside or the rotonde to myself. I went to the cour des Messageries and, after a couple of hours' waiting, I found what I wanted, a coach with no passenger in the coupÉ. The diligence was bound for Havre. This was, indeed, a chance for me, for I had never been to a seaport, and I should be killing two birds with one stone. In those days it took fully twenty hours to go from Paris to Havre; this, again, suited me well enough. Inspiration would have plenty of time to work, or it would never come at all. I set off and, as imagination, naturally, plays a principal part in works of art, when my imagination had what it wanted in the way of external conditions for working, it began to work. By the time I reached Havre, my play was recast; I had divided the scenes between Stockholm, Fontainebleau and Rome, and the character of Paula rose out of this fresh genesis. It meant a complete overhauling and rewriting of the entire play, and very little was left of the original one. Although I was in great haste to set to work, I did not start back again to Paris before I had seen the sea. I stayed at Havre just long enough to eat some oysters, to have a sail on the sea, and to buy a couple of china vases which I could have got cheaper in Paris, and then I got into the diligence. In seventy-two hours I had been my journey and reconstructed my play.
I have spoken of the strange prejudices which imperiously
It was different in the case of Capitaine Paul: I needed sea, a wide horizon, clouds scudding across the sky, and breezes whistling through the rigging and masts of ships. I went a voyage to Sicily and anchored my little boat for a couple of hours at the entrance to the Straits of Messina. In two days' time Capitaine Paul was finished.
On my return, I found a letter from Hugo. The success of Henri III. had inspired him with the desire to write a drama, and he invited me to go and hear it read at the house of DevÉria. That drama was Marion Delorme.
CHAPTER VI
Victor Hugo—His birth—His mother—Les Chasseboeuf and les Comet—Captain Hugo—The signification of his name—Victor's godfather—The Hugo family in Corsica—M. Hugo is called to Naples by Joseph Bonaparte—He is appointed colonel and governor of the province of Avellino—Recollections of the poet's early childhood—Fra Diavolo—Joseph, King of Spain—Colonel Hugo is made a general, count, marquis and major-domo—The Archbishop of Tarragona—Madame Hugo and her children in Paris—The convent of Feuillantines
We will now devote a few pages to the author of Marion Delorme, Notre-Dame de Paris and Orientales; for we deem he is well worth the digression.
Victor Hugo was born on 26 March 1803. Where and under what conditions the poet himself tells us on the first page of his Feuilles d'Automne:—
"Ce siÈcle avait deux ans; Rome remplaÇait Sparte;
DÉjÀ NapolÉon perÇait sous Bonaparte,
Et du premier consul, trop gÊnÉ par le droit,
Le front de l'empereur brisait le masque Étroit.
Alors, dans BesanÇon, vieille ville espagnole,
JetÉ comme la graine au grÉ de l'air qui vole,
Naquit, d'un sang breton et lorrain À la fois,
Un enfant sans couleur, sans regard et sans voix;
Si dÉbile, qu'il fut, ainsi qu'une chimÈre,
AbandonnÉ de tous, exceptÉ de sa mÈre,
Et que son cou, ployÉ comme un frÊle roseau,
Fit faire, en mÊme temps, sa biÈre et son berceau.
Cet enfant que la vie effaÇait de son livre,
Et qui n'avait pas mÊme un lendemain À vivre,
C'est moi...."
The child was, indeed, so weak that, fifteen months after his birth, he could not even hold up his head on his shoulders,
The poet continues:—
Je vous dirai peut-Être, quelque jour,
Quel lait pur, que de soins, que de voeux, que d'amour,
ProdiguÉs pour ma vie, en naissant condamnÉe,
M'ont fait deux fois le fils de ma mÈre obstinÉe."
His mother, of Breton blood, who persevered in battling with death for the life of her child, like a true mother and a Bretonne, was the daughter of a rich ship-owner of Nantes, and granddaughter of one of the leaders of the bourgeoisie in that land of opposition. Furthermore, she was cousin-german to Constantin FranÇois, Count of Chasseboeuf, who renounced that grand feudal name, reminiscent of the barons pasteurs of the Middle Ages, for that of Volney, which would merely remind one of the name of a provincial comedian, if the gentleman who had the strange fancy of taking that name had not made it famous by putting it at the beginning of his Voyage en Égypte, and at the end of his Ruines; she was, besides, cousin of another imperial celebrity, Comte Cornet, who was less literary in his tastes than political. Comte Cornet, whose name is now, perhaps, forgotten, was deputy for Nantes and one of the Conseil des Cinq-Cents; he took part in the doings of the famous 18 brumaire, which changed the aspect of France for half a century. Instead of defending the privileges of the Assembly, he supported Bonaparte's pretensions; and Napoleon, ont of gratitude, made him senator—the usual reward for such services—then count; and so that he should possess everything—in quantity if not in quality—that the members of the old nobility possessed, who had rallied round the Empire, he gave him a coat of arms; but, through one of those pleasantries which a crowned soldier sometimes permits himself, this coat of arms, which recalled the somewhat plebeian origin of the person whom it was intended to ennoble, was azure with three cornets argent.
Madame Hugo's name was Sophie TrÉbuchet. She had, as we have seen, two peerages in her family, that of Comte Volney and that of Comte Cornet. Please remember this fact, for we shall have occasion again to refer to it. The Lorraine blood of which the poet sings came from his father, Joseph-LÉopold-Sigisbert Hugo. From this side noble descent was quite undoubted; it sprang from an ancient German source.
His grandfather, Georges Hugo, was captain of the guards to some duke of Lorraine, and had been ennobled in 1531, by letters patent dated at Lillebonne, in Normandy, by this duke, who bestowed on him as coat of arms, on a field azure, au chef d'argent, two martlets in sable. Three martlets are, as is well known, the arms of the House of Lorraine. So the duke could not have done more for his captain; another martlet, and he would have put him on the same level with himself. But those who wish for fuller details than we give on this subject, and a greater authority, should consult Hozier, register IV., under the heading of Hugo. However, as we believe in the magic of names, we will give some information that Hozier does not give—namely, that the old German word hugo is equivalent to the Latin word spiritus, and means breath, soul, spirit!
The feebler a babe is, the more need there is for haste to baptize it. Major Sigisbert Hugo, in command at that time at BesanÇon, which was the depot of a Corsican regiment, seeing his third son was so delicate, looked round and selected Victor Faneau de la Horie for godparent, who was shot in 1812 for being the instigating spirit of the conspiracy of which Mallet was the active agent. And from him the poet received his Christian name of Victor, which, added to his surname, no matter whether it precedes or follows it, can be translated in no other way than to mean—
"Conquering spirit—triumphant soul—victorious breath!"
The poet never thought of calling himself by any other name than the accident of his birth had decreed, as had his maternal cousin Chasseboeuf, and we shall even see later that, when the addition would have been useful to him, he declined to call himself Hugo-Cornet.
Victor's father was one of the rough champions bred by the Revolution; he took up arms in 1791, and did not sheathe his sword until 1815. Others kept theirs in use until 1830 and 1848, but it was rarely that it brought them good fortune. In 1795 he was a lieutenant and fought in the VendÉan War. It was his company which formed part of the detachment, led by Commandant Muscar, that took Charette in the forest of la ChabotiÈre. By a strange coincidence, it was Colonel Hugo who captured Fra Diavolo in Calabria, and General Hugo who took Juan Martin, otherwise known as the Empecinado, on the banks of the Tagus; they were the three principal leaders of that great period of wars which lasted more than a quarter of a century. Of course it will be well understood that we do not compare the noble and loyal Charette with the Calabrian brigand or the Spanish bandit. Charette was shot, Fra Diavolo hung and Juan Martin garroted. After the peaceful settlement of la VendÉe the lieutenant got his captaincy, left the Loire for the Rhine and civil war for foreign campaigns, and became attached to the general staff of Moreau, with whom he made the campaign of 1796; he next went into Italy, to serve in MassÉna's army corps.
In connection with my father, I have mentioned what an antipathy Bonaparte felt towards officers who came to him already distinguished by their actions in the armies of the West and the Pyrenees and the North. Captain Sigisbert Hugo was yet another instance. At the battle of Caldiero, he was commanded by MassÉna to hold the head of the bridge, with his company, and he was the pivot on which the fate of the whole battle turned; MassÉna accordingly expected to be able to recompense this magnificent feat of arms by obtaining Captain Hugo his majority (chef de bataillon). But he had not reckoned for the general-in-chief's hatred. Bonaparte asked whence Captain Hugo had come, and when he learnt that he had belonged to the Army of the Rhine, he cancelled the nomination. King Louis-Philippe did pretty much the same injustice to the general as Bonaparte had to the captain: the name of the battle of Caldiero is on the Triumphal Arch at
"Quand ma pensÉe ainsi, vieillissant ton attique,
Te fait de l'avenir un passÉ magnifique,
Alors, sous ta grandeur je me courbe effrayÉ;
J'admire! et, fils pieux, passant que l'art anime,
Je ne regrette rien devant ton mur sublime,
Que Phidias absent, et mon pÈre oubliÉ!"
However, as Captain Hugo was not among the number of those who are beaten in their career, he obtained his majority at last, but under what circumstances I am not aware. However that may be, he was a major, and happened to be in garrison at LunÉville when the conferences for the ratification of the treaty of Campo-Formio were begun in that town. At these conferences Joseph Bonaparte, who was later King of Naples, then King of Spain and the Indies, was plenipotentiary of the Republic. I knew this King of Naples and Spain well at Florence. His disposition was more gentle than elevated, more placid than bold; like his brothers Louis and Lucien, and we might even say like his brother Napoleon, he had had at first a passion for literature; the others had written memoirs, comedies and epic poems, he had written novels. His daughter, Princess ZenaÏde, who is now Princess of Canino, was, I believe, named after one of her father's heroines. Joseph Bonaparte, as plenipotentiary, became intimate with Major Hugo, who, as we have mentioned, joined the depot of the Corsican regiment at BesanÇon when the conferences were concluded. And we have also stated that it was there the famous poet was born of whom we are now writing.
Some months after his birth, the depot of which his father was in command received orders to undertake garrison duty on the isle of Elba. And on that island, where Napoleon began his decline and fall, the author of the Ode À la Colonne, or, rather, of the Odes À la Colonne, began to grow strong.
The first tongue that the child, who was predestined to be so
In 1806 the plenipotentiary Joseph was made King of Naples; he then remembered his friend the major of LunÉville; he inquired what had become of him, learnt that he was living on the isle of Elba, and that he had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant-colonel, or, as it was still called in 1806, gros-major. He wrote to him and proposed he should come and join fortunes with him, and aid him in the establishment of his throne in the beautiful city which all ought to see before they die, and leave in order to die as soon as they have seen it. But no one dared venture on such military escapades without the permission of the master. Lieutenant-Colonel Hugo asked leave of the Emperor Napoleon to attach himself to King Joseph. The Emperor Napoleon condescended to reply that he not only authorised this change of service, but that he should be pleased to see a French element in his brother's armies, which were only the wings of his own army.
Frenchmen never take service in a foreign army without certain feelings of regret, but this army was destined to be one of the wings of the National Army. And to ameliorate so far as he could the hardships of this exile, the newly made king promoted gros-major Hugo a colonel, made him an aide-de-camp and appointed him governor of the province of Avellino. When installed in his governorship, the husband sent for his wife and children, whom he longed to have near him. So, in 1807, Madame Hugo and her three sons set out for Naples; and the child continued the life of wandering which had begun in his cradle, and which, continued through
"Enfant, sur un tambour ma crÈche fut posÉe;
Dans un casque pour moi l'eau sainte fut puisÉe;
Un soldat, m'ombrageant d'un belliqueux faisceau
De quelque vieux lambeau d'une banniÈre usÉe,
Fit les langes de mon berceau.
Parmi les chars poudreux, les armes Éclatantes,
Une muse des camps m'emporta sous les tentes.
Je dormis sur l'affÛt des canons meurtriers;
J'aimai les fiers coursiers aux criniÈres flottantes,
Et l'Éperon froissant les rauques Étriers.
Avec nos camps vainqueurs, dans l'Europe asservie,
J'errai; je parcourus la terre avant la vie,
Et, tout enfant encor, des vieillards recueillis
M'Écoutaient, racontant d'une bouche ravie
Mes jours si peu nombreux et dÉjÀ si remplis.
Je visitai cette Île en noirs dÉbris fÉconde,
Plus tard premier degrÉ d'une chute profonde!
Le haut Cenis, dont l'aigle aime les rocs lointains,
Entendit, de son antre oÙ l'avalanche gronde,
Ses vieux glaÇons crier sous mes pas enfantins.
Vers l'Adige et l'Arno, je vins des bords du RhÔne;
Je vis de l'Occident l'auguste Babylone:
Rome, toujours vivante au fond de ses tombeaux,
Reine du monde encor sur un dÉbris de trÔne,
Avec une pourpre en lambeaux.
Puis Turin; puis Florence, aux plaisirs toujours prÊte;
Naple, aux bords embaumÉs oÙ le printemps s'arrÊte,
Et que VÉsuve en feu couvre d'un dais brÛlant,
Comme un guerrier jaloux qui, tÉmoin d'une fÊte,
Jette, au milieu des fleurs, son panache sanglant?"
Happy, a hundred times happy, is the man who is able to embroider the web of his life with such magic characters! I too have had recollections similar to those of my literary
Hugo, who had only once been across beautiful Italy, often talked to me about the grand pictures of it that remained on his memory; they were as present to his mind as though he had been my companion during my fifteen or twenty journeys therein! But he never remembered things in their normal conditions; they always recurred to him in connection with some momentary incident or accident that happened to have changed their ordinary aspect. Thus, Parma was remembered as surrounded by a flood; Acquapendente's volcanic peak stood out lit with the lightnings of a storm; the Trajan column in connection with the excavations that were being carried on round it. And yet his recollection was as exact as it could be. Florence, with its embattled inns, its massive palaces, its granite fortresses; Rome, with its leaping fountains, its obelisks which make it look like a town of ancient Egypt, and its colonnade of Bernino, twin-sister to that of the Louvre; Naples, with its promenades, its Pausilippe, its rue de Toledo, its bay, its isles and its Vesuvius. The three children had amused themselves on the long journey by making crosses with straw and putting them in the cracks between the glass doors and the grooves they ran in. When the Italian peasants, especially those who lived in the neighbourhood of Rome, saw these simple Calvaries, faithful in their worship of images, they would kneel down or at least make the sign of the Cross. The young travellers had been much terrified at the sight of bandits' heads stuck on poles by the roadsides, shrivelling up in the sun. For a long time the poor children refused to believe they were really human heads, and persisted that they were bewigged masks like those hung outside all hairdressers' shops at that period; but when they were taken down and shown them, in all their hideous
In the case of a man like Hugo, a genius out of the common run, who has already played and will still play a great part in the literary and political history of his country, it is the duty of those who knew him to depict him for his contemporaries and successors, in the light and shade which formed the character of the man and the genius of the poet. Let us hope that the genius of the poet will stand out flawless throughout our narrative: the character of the man will speak for itself by his line of conduct and his accomplished actions.
A home for Madame Hugo and her sons was not prepared for them at Naples, but at Avellino, capital of the province over which Colonel Hugo had been appointed governor. This home was in a palace, a palace of marble, like most palaces in that country, where marble is more common than stone; but this palace possessed a strange peculiarity which was certain to attract the attention and to remain in the memory of a child.
One of those shocks of earthquake which are common in the Italian peninsula had just shaken Calabria from end to end; the marble palace of Avellino had been shaken like the rest of the buildings; yet, being on a more solid foundation than they, after oscillating and trembling in the balance for a moment, it kept upright, but remained cracked from roof to base. The crack extended diagonally across the wall of Victor's bedroom, so that he could see the country through this most original opening almost as plainly as through his window. The palace was built on a sort of precipice, lined with great nut trees, which produce the enormous nuts called avelines (filberts) from the name of the district in which they are grown. When these nuts reached maturity, the children spent their days wandering among the trees, hung over the abyss, to gather the bunches. No doubt this taught Hugo that familiarity with high places, that scorn of precipices and that indifference to empty space, which he possessed beyond
About this time, one of the bitterest enemies of the French was Michel Pezza, nicknamed Fra Diavolo, about whom my confrÈre Scribe composed a comic opera, although the life of the original was a most terrible drama! Fra Diavolo had begun as a brigand chief, something after the fashion of Cartouche, but with more cruelty. He practised that romantic profession, until Cardinal Ruffo, another brigand chief, only in a higher sphere of society, conceived the idea of reconquering Naples for his beloved sovereign Ferdinand I., who had abandoned his capital, disguised as a lackey, in consequence of the French invasion, which was provoked by his insolent proclamations.
Everyone knows the terrible story of the Two Sicilies, the orgies of blood presided over by two courtesans, in which a whole generation disappeared, and in which, in order to prevent the ruin of the State, they were obliged to give fixed salaries to the executioners, who had been having ten ducats per execution.
Fra Diavolo joined his band to Cardinal Ruffo's army, with which he marched upon Naples, recapturing it in company with the cardinal, and finally being made colonel (and even count, so I understand) by Ferdinand I. Nevertheless, Ferdinand I. returned to Sicily later, not only a fugitive before the French invasion, but also before a brother of the emperor; and Fra Diavolo, with his rank of colonel and his title of count, started afresh his guerilla warfare and his brigandage. Colonel Hugo was commissioned to take him, and the price of 20,000 ducats was put on his head. He had already escaped once through a prodigious feat of audacity and address. He was pursued, hounded out and hemmed in on every side, with two hundred and fifty to three hundred men, the remnant of his band; but he hoped to be able to escape by a defile that he believed was known only to himself. So he had directed his course towards this defile, but, to his great surprise, he found this final way of escape guarded like the rest. His last hope had vanished!
"Come along, then; we have but one way left us!..." exclaimed Fra Diavolo. "Perhaps they may let us take it! Bind me hand and foot to a horse.... You have taken me prisoner, and are leading me to the French colonel to obtain your twenty thousand ducats, the price of my head. Leave the rest to my lieutenant and do as he does."
They had to hasten, for they were within sight of the French detachment, which was growing uneasy as to who the troop of men might be; moreover, they were accustomed, especially in desperate circumstances, to follow Fra Diavolo's instructions with blind obedience. In a second he was strapped and bound down, like Mazeppa, on a horse, and the cortÈge continued its way, making straight for the French detachment. This detachment was composed of five or six hundred men and was commanded by a major. When they saw the troop marching to them, the French battalion marched to meet it and the two corps came to close quarters. The Calabrian troop halted within a hundred feet of the French, and only the lieutenant, clad like a simple peasant, stepped forward out of the ranks and advanced towards the major.
"What is your business and who is the man you have strapped there?" demanded the major.
"That strapped man is Fra Diavolo," replied the lieutenant, "whom we have caught ... and we want the twenty thousand ducats promised for his head."
Instantly, the name of Fra Diavolo was passed from mouth to mouth.
"You have taken Fra Diavolo?" exclaimed the major.
"Yes," the lieutenant went on, "and, as proof, there he is, bound hand and foot and strapped to the horse."
Fra Diavolo's eyes flashed fire.
"How did you take him?" asked the major.
The lieutenant invented a fable, to the effect that Fra Diavolo, hunted, pursued, hemmed about, had sought shelter in a village which he believed to be friendly to him; but he
"Bandits! wretches! traitors!" exclaimed Fra Diavolo.
The explanation was all sufficient for the major; besides, the chief thing was that Fra Diavolo was caught; any accompanying explanations concerning the capture were mere questions of curiosity.
"Very good!" he said; "hand me over your bandit."
"Certainly; but first hand over to us the twenty thousand ducats."
"How is it likely I should have twenty thousand ducats with me?" retorted the major.
"In that case," said the lieutenant, "no money, no Fra Diavolo!"
"Humph!..." said the major.
"Oh! I am well aware that you are the stronger force," remarked the lieutenant, "and that you can take us if you wish; but, if you do take us, you will have stolen twenty. thousand ducats from our pockets."
The major was a logical soul, and he realised the justice of the reasoning.
"Very well," he said, "take your prisoner to the headquarters; I will give you a hundred men to accompany you."
The lieutenant and Fra Diavolo exchanged a sly glance which implied that the major had played into their hands.
The hundred men of the escorting party and the two hundred and fifty Calabrian peasants set off for the headquarters six leagues away. But the headquarters never received news of Fra Diavolo, and the hundred men of the escort never reappeared. When a defile was reached, the hundred Frenchmen were slaughtered, and Fra Diavolo and his two hundred and fifty men regained the mountains! Colonel Hugo meant to go on with the pursuit; and, from henceforth, there was a constant series of outwittings and marches and counter-marches between him and the Calabrian chief, which ended in Fra Diavolo being defeated. Taken a second time, Fra Diavolo was sent to Naples, where his
"Hung!" The word sounded odd to French ears. Colonel Hugo at once started off for Naples and obtained an audience of the king, from whom he wished to solicit a commutation, not of the penalty, but of the manner of execution. He asked that, as Fra Diavolo had been a soldier, he might be shot. Unluckily, Fra Diavolo had been a bandit before he became a soldier, and he had served his own ends before enlisting in the services of Cardinal Ruffo and Ferdinand I. The documentary evidence shown to Colonel Hugo by King Joseph was so crammed with wilful crimes, murders and incendiary fires that Colonel Hugo was the first to withdraw his proposition. Consequently, Colonel Michel Pezza, otherwise Fra Diavolo, and Count of I know not what title, was summarily hung.
In 1808, Napoleon having declared that the Bourbons of Spain had ceased to reign, Joseph Bonaparte passed from the throne of the Two Sicilies to that of Spain, where Colonel Hugo followed him. Upon his arrival in Madrid, Colonel Hugo was made brigadier-general, governor of the Cours de Tagus, first major-domo and first aide-de-camp to the king, a grandee of Spain, Count of Cogolludo and Marquis of Cifuentes and of SiguenÇa! These were high proofs of favour; but there was one among them all which Colonel Hugo accepted with some aversion: and that was the title of marquis.
"Sire," he said to Joseph, when the King of Spain condescended to announce his intentions towards him, "I thought that the emperor had abolished the title of marquis?"
"Not in Spain, my dear colonel ... only in France."
"Sire," insisted the new general, "if the emperor has only abolished it in France, MoliÈre has abolished it everywhere else."
And General Hugo contented himself with using the title of count, and never bore that of marquis. But, in spite of
The archbishop respectfully saluted the king; then, turning to the major-domo, he said in the purest French, with a faultless accent—
"I thank you, general!"
In the precarious state of unsettlement through which Spain was then passing, General Hugo felt it to be out of the question, when he left Naples, to bring his family with him. So Madame Hugo, Abel, EugÈne and Victor returned to France. Directly Madame Hugo returned to Paris, she took an old convent that had belonged to the Feuillantines; for, during the two years spent in the palace of Avellino, she had learnt to appreciate the effect on the health of her children of an airy residence, where they had room to run wild and play at liberty. We shall see, later, in connection with this convent, what recollections its large garden, its glorious sunshine and its cool shade left on the mind of the poet. Here the three children were allowed full liberty, as I had been allowed in the great park of Saint-Remy whose splendours I have described. Here Hugo managed to avoid going through the university treadmill, and learnt his Latin fairly well and his
"Il savait le latin trÈs-bien, trÈs-mal le grec!" his pupil said of him, in a scrap of verse yet unpublished.
Madame Hugo dwelt in this retreat, which sheltered her fine brood, from 1808 until 1811. In the early part of 1811 she received a letter from her husband. The government of King Joseph seemed settled, and therefore it became necessary to go to Madrid, where her three children could be attached to the court as pages.
CHAPTER VII
Departure for Spain—Journey from Paris to Bayonne—The treasure—Order of march of the convoy—M. du Saillant—M. de Cotadilla—Irun—Ernani—Salinas—The battalion of ÉcloppÉs (cripples)—Madame Hugo's supplies of provisions—The forty Dutch grenadiers—Mondragon—The precipice—Burgos—Celadas—Alerte—The queen's review
As we are about to see, it was then a great business to travel to Madrid. First, there was France to cross from Paris to Bayonne. This was merely a question of time. A century ago it took five weeks, and forty years ago it took nine days, to cover a distance that, later, was accomplished in fifty hours, and now is done in fifteen or eighteen. One used to sleep at Blois, at AngoulÊme and at Bordeaux. Then there was Spain to cross, from Bayonne to Madrid. In due course, we shall see what an uncomfortable business it was to cross Spain from Bayonne to Madrid in the year of grace 1811, in the seventh year of the reign of Napoleon. Madame Hugo hired the whole diligence to take herself, her children and her servants across France. Diligences, at that time, and during the whole of the period, bore the emperor's livery; they were large coaches, painted green; the interior held six and the cabriolets de cuir three seats—a total of nine places. The whole of the luggage was put behind and above. Six persons only occupied the vast ark, which started on its journey at the accustomed hour, and rolled heavily away towards the frontier. At Poitiers, two passengers wished to take their seats in the coach, a Frenchman and a Spaniard. They were told that the whole diligence was taken by a French lady; but they appeared to be so disappointed that Madame Hugo offered
Meantime, Madame Hugo had had plenty of time to complete her preparations; she had purchased a carriage, the only one, moreover, there was for sale in Bayonne. It was one of those large trunk-like conveyances only to be seen nowadays in the drawings of Piranesi and also, perhaps, occasionally in the procession of a pontifical gala in the streets of Rome. Picture to yourself an enormous chest, hung between two poles, upon colossal straps, with steps united to these poles, so that you began to climb over the pole, and ended by descending into the carriage. This vehicle had one advantage, however, since, at a push, it could be converted into a fortress, its sides being shot-proof, and only destructible by bullets or grape-shot. Before starting, grave dispute arose concerning the course to take during the march. There were about three hundred carriages and five or six hundred passengers waiting, like Madame Hugo, for the reassuring escort; and it was no easy matter to enforce rules of etiquette in such a crowd as this, composed, besides, almost exclusively of men or women attached to the highest offices in the State, or members of the oldest families of Spain.
Casting a glance over the order of the march, it will be seen that the desirable places, concerning which everyone put forth his own special claims, possessed a value which make the persistency with which they were quarrelled for excusable. This is how the march of the convoy was arranged, with its escort of a detachment of three thousand men:—
First, at the head as advance-guard, marched five hundred men, with loaded arms. Next came the waggons containing the treasure, twenty-five or thirty carriages, surrounded by a thousand men placed five deep. Then came the travellers, according to their rank, title, grade and, especially, according to
Madame Hugo, who had to protect herself and her three children at the same time, advanced her claim not as a fearful woman, but as an anxious mother. Several grand ladies of Spain of very old family, and, among them, the Duchess of Villa-Hermosa, had a right, if they had chosen to enforce it, of taking precedence over Madame Hugo; but as Madame Hugo was the wife of a French general, aide-de-camp to the king, she took precedence of all others and went first, in spite of the protests, recriminations and complaints of the grandees of Spain, male and female, her superiors. She had, also, been wonderfully helped in her claim by the arrival at Bayonne of an aide-de-camp from her husband, M. le Marquis du Saillant, son of that sister of Mirabeau whom the famous orator loved and held in sufficiently high esteem to acquaint with his political sayings and doings, in one of the most curious letters he has written.
The escort was commanded, first, by the Duc de Cotadilla, a man of noble name, great fortune and huge appetite, who had thrown in his lot with Joseph; and, secondly, by Colonel de Montfort, a young man of thirty, who looked charming in his hussar's uniform, and belonged to the race of curled
"Claude Gueux was a great eater; it was a peculiarity of his constitution; he possessed a stomach made in such a fashion that the food supply for two men was hardly sufficient to last him one day. M. de Cotadilla had a similar appetite and laughed at it: but what may be a matter of mirth to a grand-duke of Spain who possessed 500,000 sheep is a burden to a working man and a misfortune to a prisoner."
There is no other mention either before or after this paragraph of the Duc de Cotadilla in Claude Gueux; so we see that this illustrious Spanish grandee left a very special mark on Victor Hugo's memory.
I do not know whether Hugo has anywhere spoken of Colonel Montfort; but he will do so, some day or other, for the earliest memories of childhood are bound to break forth sooner or later.
The Marquis du Saillant was a man of fifty or fifty-five, who loved taking life easily, always courageous, but bravest of all if anyone disturbed him at a meal or during his sleep, since nothing being more disagreeable to him than to be disturbed, he thereupon did his very best to make the enemy suffer for disturbing him.
Well, at last the huge cavalcade was set in motion and crossed the Bidassoa in view of the isle des Faisans, the famous political and matrimonial island. The first night they slept at Irun. The child's mind was vividly impressed by the fresh style of architecture, strange manners and different tongue. He ever remembered that halt at Irun, and
"L'Espagne me montrait ses couvents, ses bastilles;
Burgos, sa cathÉdrale aux gothiques aiguilles;
Irun, ses toits de bois; Vittoria, ses tours;
Et toi, Valladolid, tes palais de familles,
Fiers de laisser rouiller des chaÎnes dans leurs cours.
Mes souvenirs germaient dans mon Âme ÉchauffÉe;
J'allais chantant des vers d'une voix ÉtouffÉe,
Et ma mÈre, en secret observant tous mes pas,
Pleurait et souriait, disant: 'C'est une fÉe
Qui lui parle et qu'on ne voit pas!'"
The manner of travelling, too, made a deep impression on the brain of the child who, as a man, was to possess the descriptive faculty in the very highest degree! How well one can picture the five hundred men who formed the advance-guard; the thousand escorting the heavy, noisy waggons; the great carriage with its gilding half worn off, that came next, drawn by six mules, reinforced, in difficult places, by two and even four oxen, led by a mayoral,
The first day they went three leagues! The second day, they halted for the night at the village of Ernani. In the poet's recollections, the name of the village is changed to that of a man. Everyone knows the romantic bandit, lover of DoÑa Sol, adversary of Charles V., and rival of Ruy Gomez. On the third day, a curious spectacle met the travellers' gaze: a battalion of ÉcloppÉs. A battalion of ÉcloppÉs was a gathering of soldiers of all arms, the dÉbris of a score of combats, or, may be,
Our cortÈge, then, met one of these battalions at Salinas. It was composed of Light Infantry, Cuirassiers, Carabineers and Hussars. Not a man among them but had lost an arm or a leg, a nose or an eye; but they were gay, and sang and shouted "Vive l'empereur!" The children were particularly struck by the fact that every man carried a parroquet or a monkey on his shoulder or at his saddle-bow; some even had both. They had come from Portugal, where they had left their limbs behind them, and whence they had brought this menagerie.
At Mondragon, two or three leagues before Salinas, thanks to the devotion of the soldiers, they escaped a very serious danger. By "they," I mean Madame Hugo and her three children. But a slight explanation will be necessary before giving an account of this incident. The soldiers received their rations every three days; according to their usual custom, they consumed the three days' rations in the first twenty-four hours, or flung away what food burdened them; so that the whole cortÈge usually fasted one day, at least, out of three. This fast was the more painful to bear—especially in the matter of liquids, which were not thrown away but usually consumed prematurely—as they journeyed over arid plains, under a burning sun and in suffocating air. They started at break of day, to avail themselves of the cool air, halted at noon, to eat and drink and then they set off again and travelled till nightfall. The soldiers camped round the waggons; the officers and travellers lodged in the villages or towns on billet;
Mondragon is left by a dark and steep tunnel which forms the gate of the town; the roadway through this tunnel takes a sudden turn on the right, by the side of a precipice. Some slight palings were placed at the edge of the roadway to give any vehicles being carried over the abyss a last chance to pull themselves up, if they happened, by chance, to knock up against one of these barriers. Whether the mayoral and zagales were unacquainted with the geography of the district, or whether they were unable to control the heavy coach, when the vehicle came out of the dark tunnel it was advancing at a rapid pace, carried away by its own weight, towards the precipice, when the Dutch grenadiers, perceiving Madame Hugo's danger, rushed to the heads of the mules and, forcing them quickly to turn round, stopped the carriage just as one of the wheels had begun to roll over the edge of the
After about twelve or fourteen days' journey, they reached Burgos. They had had frequent alarms since they left Bayonne, but had often found that what they took for guerilleros were only quiet mule-drivers, united into bands for their own protection. This mistake was easily made, since the mule-drivers were armed almost like soldiers and could not be distinguished from such, on account of the dust raised round them, except at close quarters, when it would be seen they rode mules, not horses. At Burgos a halt of three or four days was made, and Madame Hugo took the opportunity these days offered to show her children the cathedral, that wonderful pile of Gothic architecture, the gate of Charles V. and the tomb of the Cid.
Of the tomb of the Cid, the soldiers had made a rifle-target. The child left Burgos dazed and breathless with wonder. Young as he was, he already possessed a passionate admiration for the chefs-d'oeuvre of architecture; and the cathedral of Burgos, with its sixty or eighty bell-towers, is, indeed, a masterpiece of its kind. By a strange coincidence, General Hugo, who was in command of the Spanish retreat in 1813, knocked down three of these bell-towers when he blew up the citadel of the town of Burgos, of which he was the last governor.
The farther they advanced, the more frequent did traces of destruction become apparent. After Burgos, they stopped at a village which had once been Celadas; it was a heap of ruins from one end to the other; and, as though it had been feared that the place might revive, the ruins had been thoroughly set
We have forgotten to mention that there were specimens of all kinds of humanity in the convoy, including six or eight Councillors of State, whom Napoleon was sending ready-made to his brother! So a doctor was easily found. The doctor attended to the child and, luckily, the shock had been worse than the actual blow; the wound was therefore more terrifying to look at than dangerous and, although the mark of the cut can even to-day be plainly seen, where Hugo parts his hair, by the next day the child had forgotten all about it; and like KlÉber after the capture of Alexandria, he was ready to take part in besieging a fresh town.
So far, nothing serious had disturbed the march of the caravan. Occasionally, a bullet from a hidden guerillero would bury itself in the thickness of the panels of one of the carriages, or break the glass of a door; and Colonel Montfort would send a score of hussars to search among the undergrowth from whence the stray shot had come; but it was easy enough in that part of the country through which the travellers were then passing for the culprit to slip down the sides of a ravine or gain a mountain gorge and put himself beyond reach.
One night, however, they had a genuine alarm, and expected this time that they were really face to face with a formidable enemy. They had traversed nearly two-thirds of their way and had reached the small town of Valverde, a collection of sombre-looking houses with high walls and no windows, looking like a nest of fortresses of the time of Louis XIII. As usual, the escort had set up its camp at the entrance to the town, sentinels had been posted in all directions and the travellers and officers had received their billeting papers for the houses of the principal inhabitants. Madame Hugo, as usual, lodged with the Alcade. As he left her, the Duc de Cotadilla said—
"Be on your guard, madame; we are in the heart of the insurrection, and your host has not only a very bad reputation but also a very evil-looking face."
Madame Hugo could only judge of the face, and her opinion thereon entirely coincided with that of the Duc de Cotadilla. Moreover, the inside of the house accorded with the appearance of the town and with her host: doors were barred with iron and lined with sheet-lead; there were severe-looking vestibules as dark as the passages in a convent, huge bare-walled rooms with only the earth for flooring on the ground floor and bricks on the first floor; and the furniture was composed of wooden benches and leather arm-chairs. When Madame Hugo had seen over the whole house to select the rooms that suited her best, she decided on an immense low room on the ground floor, lighted by a branch of pinewood burning in an iron hand which
In spite of reflections like these, dispiriting enough to a mother who is answerable to her husband for the safety of herself and their three children, Madame Hugo began to fall asleep, envying the tranquillity of Colonel du Saillant, who had been asleep a long time in the recess they had discovered adjoining this low room, when, suddenly, the cry "To arms!" and the noise of sharp firing roused her. She had gone to bed with very few clothes off, especially after the warning she had received, and she was up in an instant. The fusillade went on continuously, though somewhat irregularly directed, and the cries "To arms!" redoubled. In the midst of these cries,
"It is I, madame," he said, "Colonel Montfort, who have the honour to address you. The enemy has attacked us, but we have taken measures to give it a warm reception, therefore be tranquil. In any case, please barricade yourself in here, and only open to the Duc de Cotadilla or to myself."
Madame Hugo thanked Colonel Montfort for his attentive care; M. du Saillant went out to him, and she shut the door fast behind him, barricaded it, with every available precaution, and waited further developments. The firing continued for some time, and even occasionally seemed to increase; finally it decreased and gradually died out. Which had been victorious? French or Spaniards? She did not know as yet, but she had good hopes that the French had won, and soon there came a fresh rapping on the shutters, and, amidst shouts of laughter, which Madame Hugo recognised as coming from the Duc de Cotadilla, Colonel Montfort and her husband's aide-de-camp, she was asked to open the great door. This done, the three officers entered.
A trumpeter of the hussars had discovered, just outside the town, a bit of meadow where he thought that his horse, to which he was greatly attached, could find a little fresh grass when the sentinels had been placed, he had picketed his horse in this tiny oasis. A peasant had noticed and wondered at this confidence and, when night fell, he had slipped from bush to bush, in order to steal the horse; the animal had allowed him to approach until he felt the picket detached, when, with a violent shake, he freed himself from his thief, and rushed off neighing and rearing back to the French camp. The sentinel advanced shouting, "Who goes there?" And the horse, of course, went past him without replying. The sentinel fired and fell back on the first outpost, crying, "To arms!" The first outpost fired and cried, "To arms!" and then the soldiers
Nobody dreamt of trying to sleep again for the remainder of that night, so Madame Hugo and the three officers spent it together, and next morning, at daybreak, they continued their march.
The following day, another scene almost as grotesque as the alarming incident of the previous night, was in preparation for the travellers, under the rays of the hot noontide sun. They were halting at that hour in the middle of a great plain. The soldiers were covered with dust, and streaming with perspiration, under a sun of 35 degrees Centigrade, having finished their meal, when a courier arrived for the Duc de Cotadilla, to announce that the queen, who was also on her way under an escort to rejoin her husband, would soon pass by the cortÈge. The Duc de Cotadilla thanked the courier for his information and, when he had learnt the time that they were likely to meet the queen, and found they could still count on nearly an hour, he sent the courier on his way. Then he went to the door of Madame Hugo's coach, where, we know, he was accustomed to hold converse.
"Madame," he said, "I venture to ask you to lower your blinds, first on account of the sun, and next because of the sights you would see going on among the escort. The queen is going to pass by in an hour's time, and I desire to show her due deference by making my men dress themselves in parade attire; and, to do this, they will have to change everything, from their collars to their leggings. During this transformation, which will be even more extensive than I have described, there will be evolutions which may be all right for a general or a colonel to see, but which are more unseemly for a lady to look upon. I have warned you, madame, and I am now going to warn the Duchesse de Villa-Hermosa and the other ladies."
And, with his usual politeness, the Duc de Cotadilla took
The orders of the Duc de Cotadilla were that the men should at once put on parade dress to line the route for the queen. The men quickly formed single line along the whole of the roadside, piled arms, opened knapsacks and began their toilet. They had just reached the most delicate part of their toilet, on account of which the Duc de Cotadilla had cautioned the ladies to lower their carriage blinds, when a huge cloud of dust appeared on the top of a mountain five hundred feet off, and cries of "The queen! The queen!" rang through the air. The queen had come half an hour sooner than the courier had announced. A stronger head than that of the Duc de Cotadilla might have been upset by such an accident as this; moreover, in no book on the art of warfare had provision been made for such a contingency. So he kept silence, and, left to their own inspiration, the drums beat the call to arms, the soldiers shouldered their weapons and the non-commissioned officers yelled, "Fall in!"
Thus it fell ont that the Queen of Spain held a review such as no other queen or empress, were she even Marguerite of Burgundy or Catherine II., had ever held; and, as she learnt later that M. de Cotadilla had been forewarned of her arrival, nothing removed the idea from her mind that the nakedness of those three thousand men was a joke which the illustrious duke had prepared for her.
The queen went by, and, as the parade dress was of no further use, they resumed their everyday uniform, restored their fine clothes to their knapsacks, the signal for starting was given and the journey was resumed.
CHAPTER VIII
Segovia—M. de Tilly—The Alcazar—The doubloons—The castle of M. de la CalprenÈde and that of a Spanish grandee—The bourdaloue—Otero—The Dutchmen again—The Guadarrama—Arrival at Madrid—The palace of Masserano—The comet—The College—Don ManoËl and Don Bazilio—Tacitus and Plautus—Lillo—The winter of 1812 to 1813—The Empecinado—The glass of eau sucrÉe—The army of merinoes—Return to Paris
At length they reached Valladolid; then, after a few days' stay there, they proceeded from Valladolid to Segovia across steep mountains, sometimes sharp peaked, sometimes leading by gentler slopes to high summits from which they could see vast plains basking in the June sunshine.
The Count of Tilly was governor of Segovia. He belonged to the old court, was page to Louis XVI. and left Memoirs which are not wanting in a certain picturesqueness of their own—a much rarer quality at that epoch than the quality of arousing interest. He came to the door of Madame Hugo's carriage to welcome her, installed her in a palace and looked after her and her children during their stoppage at Segovia.
The event that struck the young poet most and remained most vividly in his memory during his sojourn in this town was his visit to the Alcazar—that splendid fairy palace, less famous but as beautiful as those of Granada and Seville, with its gallery containing portraits of all the Moorish kings painted in the trefoils and on backgrounds of gold. We need not explain to our readers that these pictures are later than Arabian times, the religion of the Arabs forbidding them to paint images. The Alcazar at that time was also used as the Mint. M. de Tilly took Madame Hugo and her children into
They waited eight days for reinforcements; for they dared not risk setting ont for Madrid without a fresh escort; when this new escort arrived, they resumed their journey to rejoin the convoy party on the Madrid road. At Segovia, Madame Hugo, as we know, had, through the intervention of Count Tilly, been lodged in the palace of a Spanish grandee. As in M. de la CalprenÈde's palace, everything was of silver, chandeliers, plates, basins, washing-bowls, everything, even to the chamber articles. One of the pieces of furniture that especially charmed Madame Hugo with its beauty and originality of shape was a delightful little bourdaloue.
Here I shall be pulled up and asked why a night commode should have been associated with the name of the celebrated pupil of the Jesuits and why a chamber utensil should have been named after a preacher. I will explain, after I have done with Madame Hugo's fascination for this little article of furniture and the consequences that ensued.
Well, Madame Hugo was so delighted with the form of the charming bourdaloue that she asked the master of the house in which she was staying if she might buy it of him. But, like a true Spaniard, the old Castillian was an implacable enemy to our nation, so he replied that Madame Hugo could have the coveted object if she wished, but that he never sold anything to the French. As, in this case, to take it was equivalent to stealing it, Madame Hugo refrained, supposing the bourdaloue to form part of a collection which it would be a pity to spoil. Now let us explain why those little elongated vessels are called bourdaloues. The famous preacher gave such interminably long sermons that ladies were compelled to take certain precautions against their length which we think we need not explain more fully. More happy than Christopher Columbus, who gave his name to a new continent, the pillar of Christian eloquence gave his name to a new article of furniture,
Now that we think we have cleared up this historical question to the satisfaction of our readers, we will rejoin the convoy on its journey to Madrid. It had reached within a league of Otero, where they were to pass the night and whose towers they could already discern, when, because one of the spokes of a back wheel of Madame Hugo's gigantic coach snapped in two, they had to make an enforced halt on the high-road, which was paved with enormous pieces of rock. Faithful to his courteous habits, the Duc de Cotadilla had ordered a general halt, causing an outburst of objections. A general halt at seven in the evening! a halt which might last a couple of hours and allow the convoy to be overtaken by nightfall! The duke could hardly have done more even if the accident had happened to one of the waggons containing the treasure, and he was exceeding his duties altogether when it was only for the wife of a French general, a lady who had been a member of the Spanish aristocracy for barely three years! So there was a great clamour throughout the convoy. There had been precedents in similar cases, and the unfortunate carriage had been left behind bag and baggage to the mercy of Providence! The Duc de Cotadilla wished to keep his word, but he had to give way before the chorus of complaints. The convoy meant to continue its way to Otero; but help on which she had not counted was to be given to Madame Hugo and her poor abandoned coach. The forty Dutch grenadiers asked to be allowed the favour of remaining by her coach as escort until the wheel could be mended and it was possible to continue the journey. This favour was granted them. The convoy moved off and gradually, like a receding tide, left the coach stranded on the highway. But never did shipwrecked people alone on a desert island set themselves to work with greater energy to construct a raft than did the forty Dutch grenadiers to the mending of the wheel. It was completed in an hour or so. When they set off again, the rear of the convoy had long been lost to sight and darkness had begun to
They reached the chain of the Guadarrama Mountains and began to climb them; ascending the highest summit, they made a halt at the foot of the gigantic lion which turns its back on Old Castile, and, with one paw on the scutcheon of the Spains, looks to New Castile; then they descended towards the campagna round Madrid. The campagna of Rome is bare and gloomy, but flecked with glorious sunshine, and looks alive, if one may so put it, in spite of its loneliness. The campagna of Madrid is bare, arid and grey, and like a cemetery. And the Escurial rises up at the end of the plain like a tomb. This, indeed, was the impression it left on me, and also the impression it left on Hugo, who visited it thirty-five years before I did.
"L'Espagne m'accueillit livrÉe À la conquÊte;
Je franchis le Burgare oÙ mugit la tempÊte;
De loin y pour un tombeau, je pris l'Escurial,
Et le triple aqueduc vit s'incliner ma tÊte
Devant son front impÉrial.
LÀ, je voyais les feux des haltes militaires
Noircir les murs croulants des villes solitaires;
La tente de l'Église envahissait le seuil;
Les rires des soldats, dans les saints monastÈres,
Par l'Écho rÉpÉtÉs, semblaient des cris de deuil!"
The convoy wound over the plain from the Escurial to Madrid like a long snake; they only slept once on the road, at Galapagar. Next day, by six in the evening, they had reached Madrid. They had scarcely entered its streets before
The palace of Masserano was in the Calle de la Reyna. It was a vast building of the seventeenth century, in all the splendour and severity of that period; it had no garden but a multitude of little square courtyards paved with marble, each with a fountain in the centre. These courtyards could only be entered through a kind of postern gateway; the sun never reached down into them, for the walls enclosing them were some forty to fifty feet high; and they were only just large enough for a wolf to walk round the fountain; in fact, they were simply store-places of shade and coolness. So far as Victor's memory carried him, the interior of the palace was of incredible magnificence; especially the dining-room, which had large glass windows on each of its four sides, the light through which showed up in all their glory splendid paintings by Fra Bartolommeo, Velasquez, Murillo, SÉbastian del Piombo, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael and Michael Angelo. This dining-room led into a large salon, upholstered in red damask, which led into another salon upholstered in blue damask, which in its turn led to what was called the princess's room, an immense chamber, upholstered and furnished in blue figured silk and silver. On the other side of the dining-room, through an anteroom, ornamented solely with oak chests which were meant to serve as seats for attendants, you entered a large gallery which contained a collection of full-length portraits of the Counts of Masserano, in court dress, also of princes of the same name; the principality, by the way, only dated back as far as the middle of the seventeenth century. It was in these great galleries that the children played hide-and-seek with the sons of General Lucotte, in rooms a hundred and fifty feet long, and among Chinese vases and porcelain ornaments
One morning an escort of Westphalian cavalry arrived, accompanying a messenger bearing a letter from General Hugo. The general was unable to come to Madrid, being busily engaged in warfare on the banks of the Tagus. The main purpose of the letter was to recommend the best college for the education of the three children. They were to be placed in the SÉminaire des Nobles, where they would be prepared as pages of the king. It was not usual to take boys under thirteen, but, although Abel was only twelve, EugÈne but ten and Victor only eight, an exception was made in their favour and a license from the king provided for their immediate admission. They had to leave the splendid Masserano palace, with its beautiful paintings by old masters, its splendid tapestries, its interminable galleries decorated with Chinese vases and the walls whereon three generations of counts and princes seemed to come to life again in their state costumes or in their trappings of war, for the gloomy seminary in the Calle San-Isidro. The SÉminaire des Nobles was, indeed, a formidable and severe-looking edifice, with its great treeless courts, and one might almost go so far as to say its vast schoolrooms without scholars. There were twenty-five pupils, not including the three new-comers in this seminary, which had contained three hundred before the French invasion. This was, approximately, the proportion of the aristocracy of Spain that had rallied round Joseph Bonaparte. And besides the twenty-five scholars there was, as we have said, the three sons of General Hugo and a Spanish prisoner. The seminary looked indeed a gloomy place to the poor children when they entered it. Imagine those schoolrooms and dormitories and lavatories and refectories intended to meet the needs of three hundred pupils, now containing but twenty-five unhappy scholars, who looked lost therein. Virgil's phrase, rari nantes, seemed entirely to meet the case. The establishment was
The studies which these two Jesuits set their pupils were ridiculous. They were so feeble that, in a college composed of young people of eighteen to twenty years of age, a special class had to be started for the new arrivals of whom the oldest was but twelve. They actually judged of the children's capacities by their size when they began to examine them, and gave Abel a Quintus Curtius, and EugÈne De Viris, and little Victor an Epitome. But at sight of this book, with which he had finished a long time before, the child rebelled and boldly asked for Tacitus. The fathers looked at one another in stupefaction and, refraining from punishing the audacious boy who had delivered himself of this ill-timed jest, they brought him the book. Victor opened it and immediately translated
"HÉlas! j'ai compris ton sourire,
Semblable au ris du condamnÉ
Quand le mot qui doit le proscrire
A son oreille a rÉsonnÉ!
En pressant ta main convulsive,
J'ai compris ta douleur pensive,
Et ton regard morne et profond,
Qui, pareil À l'Éclair des nues,
Brille sur des mers inconnues,
Mais ne peut en montrer le fond."
The young poet noticed one custom peculiar to Spanish manners, namely, these children, whose ages varied from
Among these young folk—and to be exact in our figures we ought to reduce the number of these juvenile nobilities to twenty-one—was one who was neither knight, baron, count, marquis, duke nor prince, and who nevertheless was not the least remarkable inmate of the college. This was a young Spanish officer named Lillo, aged fifteen, who had been taken prisoner at the siege of Badajoz. He had fought like a demon, had killed a French grenadier with his own hand and had been taken only after a heroic defence. They were about to shoot him when Marshal Soult happened to pass by, and, having inquired and been informed what was being done, had him despatched to Madrid, with orders that he should be placed in the college. The order was carried out, and Lillo was sent to the college, but in the twofold capacity of pupil and prisoner. The lad, who had borne the rank of second lieutenant, had commanded grown men, had faced battle in open field, equipped as a soldier, took badly to the college discipline full of Jesuitical chicaneries, to which he had to submit like all the others, save in the matter of the common dormitory, where, however, each pupil had his own cubicle. He therefore, as far as he was permitted, kept to himself in solitude, rage burning at his heart's core, and in his relations with the other young lads he was cold, melancholy and haughty. Of course, the three French boys were the object of his particular aversion, and he was constantly picking quarrels with one and sometimes with all three of the sons of the general attached to Joseph, he a soldier of Ferdinand VII. Once he called Napoleon Napoladron before EugÈne—true, nearly every Spaniard called the conqueror of Austerlitz by that nickname, but EugÈne was none the less sensitive? to the insult on that account, and he retorted that Lillo had been
"And the young fellow was right: he was standing up for his country ... but children do not understand that."
The living at the SÉminaire des Nobles was cloistral; probably no monastery throughout Spain kept severer rules. Once a fortnight they went for a walk, but even this was restricted, and they might not even go to the DÉlices (corresponding to our Champs-ÉlysÉes), for fear of guerilla bands. These twenty or twenty-five lads would have been a great prize, and worth a good ransom, belonging, as they did, not only to the first families in Madrid, but also to the families which had thrown in their lot with the brother of Napoladron, as Lillo had called him.
From time to time, the boys would look up at the sound of an opening door and they would see a vision out of the seventeenth century appear in the beginning of the nineteenth. One day, when in the refectory, eating their meal in silence, while a junior master, seated on a raised chair in the midst of an immense hall, was reading to them in Spanish out of a pious book, suddenly, the door opened, after a couple of knocks, as though a prince, cardinal or Spanish grandee were outside. The four little Benavente boys had not seen their mother for over a year, and it was the Princess of Benavente. She advanced a few steps into the room and waited. Then her four sons rose, ranged themselves according to their age, eldest first, second next, and so on, and, without taking one step faster than another, advanced ceremoniously and kissed their mother's hand in turn from the tallest to the
At the end of six months' sojourn at the SÉminaire des Nobles, Abel attained his twelfth year and was allowed by special privilege to enter as a page at that age.
Then came the winter and famine. It was cold everywhere during the fatal winter of 1812-1813, although it was nothing compared with the severity experienced in Russia.
It was the fate of Napoleon to attract and concentrate the attention of the world upon him during his reverses as during his victories.
The twenty-five pupils buried in that vast SÉminaire des Nobles, in the dormitories, schoolrooms and refectories intended for three hundred inmates, were perished with cold. Nothing could warm those great rooms wherein there was not a single fireplace; braziers placed in the middle of the rooms only served to emphasise winter's triumph. Besides this, the children were not only perishing of cold, but, worse still, were dying of starvation. The wealthiest in Madrid could not get bread in 1812. And King Joseph himself—probably to set a good example—ordered that nothing but soldiers' bread should be served at his table. People were constantly found in the streets who had not even as much warmth as the braziers at the SÉminaire des Nobles, or King Joseph's army bread, lying down on the thresholds of the great in tattered cloaks and dying of hunger and cold. If they were still alive, every effort was made to feed and warm them; if they were dead, they were removed and buried. Bread was as scarce at the SÉminaire des Nobles as elsewhere, and the lads complained bitterly of hunger; to the less patient, father ManoËl would say—
"Make the sign of the Cross on your stomachs, and that will feed you."
The boys made many crosses, and, although the action warmed them a little, it certainly did not nourish them. But
All this while, General Hugo was waging war along the banks of the Tagus against the famous Juan Martin, nicknamed the Empecinado, as he had against Charette in the VendÉe and against Fra Diavolo in Calabria. He has himself given a modest and learned account of the strategic movements of that fine campaign, which concluded with the capture and execution of the captain of the guerilla hordes which he combatted. We will select a few only of the picturesque accounts of dangers incurred—those fragments which History drops from her robe and which chroniclers carefully collect for their Memoirs.
One day, General Hugo and a hundred men came to a village situated on one of the many little streams that run into the Tagus. In order to avoid rousing needless alarm, he entered the village with only his two aides-de-camp, to obtain from the inhabitants some information of which he stood in need. He came from his camp, which included some five to six thousand men, who were a league lower down the river. To obtain the desired information, he applied to the proprietor of a large sugar-refining factory, who, seeing him accompanied by only two aides-de-camp, said never a word. General Hugo was thirsty. Unable to get his information, he thought he might at any rate get some refreshment and asked for a glass of water.
"Water?" said the proprietor of the sugar refinery. "There is plenty in the river."
And he shut the door in the general's face. The general waited a moment to see if the door would be reopened. Instead of the door, it was a window that was opened, the muzzle of a gun slyly protruded, fired, and a bullet whizzed past. At the sound of the gunshot, the detachment which had remained outside the town rushed in; and when the soldiers learnt what had just happened they wanted to demolish the sugar factory and burn the village. General Hugo
On another occasion, also when they were marching by the banks of the Tagus, in the place where I myself—I will tell the story in due course—sojourned thirty years later, one wretched night, on the great plains of Old Castile, between Toledo and Aranjuez, and it was just such a burning sun as made Sancho bitterly regret he had not an excellent curd cheese at hand, suddenly, the scouts fell back at full gallop on the advance-guard to warn General Hugo that what appeared to be an army corps of the enemy, of considerable number, was marching to encounter the French army. And, indeed, so great a cloud of dust was to be seen on the horizon as only a great body of men or the simoom could produce. This dust shone like those clouds of crimson and gold which appear in the atmosphere during the hottest of the dog-days. General Hugo gave orders for a halt. He then rode on in advance with a hundred men to examine the enemy's position himself, and if possible to divine its intentions. There was no doubt about it—it was an immense troop to judge by the space it occupied and the dust it raised, and it was marching towards him with one of its wings on the right bank of the Tagus. The infantry instantly received orders to prepare for battle, the artillery to plant their batteries
"Well, what is it?" asked the general. "Who is our enemy?"
"General," replied the aide-de-camp, "our enemy is a flock of three hundred thousand merino sheep being driven by two hundred dogs, conducted by a dozen shepherds, and belonging to M. Quatrecentberger."
"What tomfoolery is this, monsieur?" said the general, frowning.
"I am not joking, general," said the officer, "and in ten minutes you will see that I have had the honour to tell you the precise truth."
A flock of 300,000 sheep! It made the mouths of the soldiers water! What a suitable aftermath to the barrels of eau sucrÉe which the general had provided for them!
The army corps consisted of 4000 men; each soldier could have at least a sheep to himself, and each began considering what kind of sauce he would serve to his own dish.
At the announcement of this strange news, M. Hugo advanced to the front. And there he saw through the dust first a dozen men on horseback, armed with long sticks studded with nails, like lances; behind these came the impenetrable front of 300,000 sheep; and upon the heels of these 300,000 sheep two hundred barking, biting dogs darting hither and thither. It looked like the migration of a great Arab tribe, in the time of Abraham. The story was quite correct, except the name of the owner, which the officer had taken the liberty of mispronouncing slightly to suit the occasion. The proprietor's name was not Quatrecentberger (four hundred shepherds), but Katzenberger. It will be seen that the difference in pronunciation
It was an odd incident! The flock reached France without any serious accident, and by this almost unexpected good fortune M. Katzenberger doubled, trebled and quadrupled his fortune. His first action was to offer General Hugo a sum of money proportionate to the service he had rendered him. General Hugo's first and final decision was to decline the offered sum. I believe it was 300,000 francs—a franc per sheep.
And here let us state that General Hugo, who held a high position for four years during the wars in Spain, who was given the charge of conducting the retreat from Madrid to Bayonne, a position which always allowed a general great facilities for enriching himself, died without any picture gallery, or a single Murillo or Velasquez or Zurbaran, possessing no other fortune but his retiring pension. It seems incredible, does it not? And yet so it was. But, the directors of the MusÉe will ask me, or those millionaire collectors who bought pictures for 600,000, 200,000, 50,000 and even 25,000 francs, at the sale after the decease of the late Marshal Soult, what benefit did he derive from his disinterested conduct towards M. Katzenberger? He was the gainer by an annual dinner which M. Katzenberger came from Strasbourg on purpose to give him and all the members of his family in Paris, on the
During the winter of 1812 and the early months of 1813, in consequence of our misfortunes in Russia, matters began to assume such a threatening aspect in Spain that General Hugo felt it was dangerous to keep his wife and children at Madrid. Therefore Madame Hugo and her two youngest sons were put under the protection of quite as strong an escort as the one we have described, and they made the return journey from Madrid to Bayonne on their way to Paris, as successfully as they had travelled between Bayonne and Madrid. Madame Hugo had thought it best to keep the convent of the Feuillantines, so the two children returned to their old nest with its light and shade, its recollections of work and of play, and, furthermore, the abbÉ LariviÈre and his Tacitus. Abel Hugo, a soldier boy of thirteen, remained with his father.
CHAPTER IX
The college and the garden of the Feuillantines—Grenadier or general—Victor Hugo's first appearance in public—He obtains honourable mention at the Academy examination—He carries off three prizes in the Jeux Floraux—Han d'Islande—The poet and the bodyguard—Hugo's marriage—The Odes et Ballades—Proposition made by cousin Cornet
That wretched year 1813 was a strange period of introspection. Un jour ... But we will let the poet himself describe matters, in the verses below:—
"J'eus, dans ma blonde enfance, hÉlas, trop ÉphÉmÈre,
Trois maÎtres: un jardin, un vieux prÊtre et ma mÈre.
Le jardin Était grand, profond, mystÉrieux,
FermÉ par de hauts murs aux regards curieux,
SemÉ de fleurs s'ouvrant ainsi que des paupiÈres,
Et d'insectes vermeils qui couraient sur les pierres;
Plein de bourdonnements et de confuses voix;
Au milieu presqu'un champ, dans le fond presqu'un bois.
Le prÊtre, tout nourri de Tacite et d'HomÈre,
Était un doux vieillard; ma mÈre Était ma mÈre.
Ainsi, je grandissait sous un triple rayon!
Un jour ... Oh! si Gauthier me prÊtait son crayon,
Je vous dessinerais d'un trait une figure
Qui, chez ma mÈre, un soir entra, fÂcheux augure!
Un docteur au front pauvre, au maintien solennel;
Et je verrais Éclore a vos bouches sans fiel,
Portes de votre coeur qu'aucun souci ne mine,
Ce rire Éblouissant qui parfois m'illumine.
Lorsque cet homme entra je jouais au jardin,
Et rien qu'en le voyant je m'arrÊtai soudain.
C'Était le principal d'un collÈge quelconque;
Les tritons que Coypel groupe autour d'une conque,
Les faunes que Watteau dans les bois fourvoya,
Les sorciers de Rembrandt, les gnomes de Goya,
Dont Callot, en riant, taquine saint Antoine,
Sont laids mais sont charmant; difformes, mais remplis
D'un feu qui, de leur face, anime tous les plis,
Et parfois, dans leurs yeux, jette un eclair rapide!
Notre homme Était fort laid, mais il Était stupide!
Pardon, j'en parle encor comme un franc Écolier;
C'est mal; ce que j'ai dit, tachez de l'oublier.
Car de votre Âge heureux, qu'un pedant embarrasse,
J'ai gardait la colÈre et j'ai perdu la grÂce.
Cet homme chauve et noir, trÈs effrayant pour moi,
Et dont ma mÈre aussi d'abord eut quelque effroi,
Tout en multipliant les humbles attitudes,
Apportait des avis et des sollicitudes:
Que l'enfant n'Était pas dirigÉ; que, parfois,
Il emportait son livre en rÊvant dans les bois;
Qu'il croissait au hasard dans cette solitude;
Qu'on devait y songer, que la sÉvÈre Étude
Était fille de l'ombre et des cloÎtres profonds;
Qu'une lampe pendue À de sombres plafonds,
Qui de cent Écoliers guide la plume agile,
Éclairait mieux Horace et Catulle et Virgile,
Et versait À l'esprit des rayons bien meilleurs
Que le soleil qui joue À travers l'arbre en fleurs;
Et qu'enfin, il fallait aux enfants, loin des mÈres,
Le joug, le dur travail, et les larmes amÈres.
LÀ dessus le collÈge, aimable et triomphant,
Avec un doux sourire, offrait au jeune enfant,
Ivre de libertÉ, d'air, de joie et de roses,
Ses bancs de chÊne noir, ses longs dortoirs moroses,
Les salles qu'on verrouille et qu'À tous leurs pilliers
Sculpte avec un vieux clou l'ennui des Écoliers;
Les magisters qui font, parmi les paperasses,
Manger l'heure du jeu par les pensums voraces,
Et, sans eau, sans gazon, sans arbres, sans fruits mÛrs,
Sa grande cour pavÉe, entre quatre grands murs!"
Here I would fain break off the quotation and continue in prose; but, to tell the truth, I have not the courage to do so. Oh! what fine lines yours are, my friend, and what a joy it is to me, not simply to cause them to be read—all the world
"Soupir qui va vers toi sur la brise du soir,
Fait d'un quart de tristesse et de trois quarts d'espoir."
Let us pick up the thread of Hugo's lines, into the middle of which I had the temerity to venture to put a couple of my own:—
"L'homme congÉdiÉ, de ses discours frappÉe,
Ma mÈre demeura triste et prÉoccupÉe.
—Que faire? que vouloir? qui donc avait raison,
Ou le morne collÈge ou l'heureuse maison?
Qui sait mieux de la vie accomplir l'oeuvre austÈre,
L'Écolier turbulant ou l'enfant solitaire?—
ProblÈmes! questions! Elle hÉsitait beaucoup.
L'affaire Était bien grave. Humble femme aprÈs tout,
Ame par le destin non pas les livres faite,
De quel front repousser ce tragique prophÈte
Au ton si magistral, aux gestes si certains,
Qui lui parlait au noms des Grecs et des Latins?
Le prÊtre Était savant, sans doute; mais, que sais-je,
Apprend-on par le maÎtre ou bien par le collÈge?
Et puis enfin,—souvent ainsi nous triomphons,—
L'homme le plus vulgaire a de grands mots profonds;
II est indispensable! il convient! il importe!
Qui trouble quelquefois la femme la plus forte ...
Pauvre mÈre, lequel choisir des deux chemins?
Tout le sort de son fils se pesait dans ses mains.
Tremblante, elle tenait cette lourde balance,
Et croyait bien la voir, par moment, en silence,
Pencher vers le collÈge, hÉlas! en opposant
Mon bonheur À venir À mon bonheur prÉsent.
Elle songeait ainsi, sans sommeil et sans trÊve;
C'Était l'ÉtÉ vers l'heure ou la lune se lÈve,
Par un de ces beaux soirs qui ressemblent au jour,
Avec moins de clartÉ, mais avec plus d'amour.
Dans son parc, oÙ jouaient le rayon et la brise,
Elle errait toujours triste et toujours indÉcise,
Questionnant tout has l'eau, le ciel, la forÊt,
Écoutant au hasard les voix qu'elle entendrait.
C'est dans ces moments lÀ que le jardin paisible,
Le scarabÉe, ami des feuilles, le lÉzard
Courant au clair de lune au fond du vieux puisard,
La faÏence À fleur bleue oÙ vit la plante grasse,
Le dÔme oriental du sombre Val-de-GrÂce,
Le cloÎtre du couvent, brisÉ mais doux encore,
Les marroniers, la verte allÉe aux boutons d'or,
La statue oÙ sans bruit se meut l'ombre des branches,
Les pÂles liserons, les pÂquerettes blanches,
Les cent fleurs du buisson, de l'arbre, du roseau,
Qui rendent en parfums les chansons À l'oiseau,
Se mirent dans la mare ou se cache sous l'herbe,
Ou qui, de l'ÉbÉnier chargeant le front superbe,
Au bord des clairs Étangs, se mÊlant au bouleau,
Tremblent en grappes d'or dans les moires de l'eau,
Et le ciel scintillant derriÈre les ramÉes,
Et les toits rÉpandant de charmantes fumÉes;
C'est dans ces moments-lÀ, comme je vous le dis,
Que tout ce beau jardin, radieux paradis,
Tous ces vieux murs croulants, toutes ces jeunes roses,
Tous ces objets pensifs, toutes ces douces choses
ParlÈrent À ma mÈre avec l'onde et le vent,
Et lui dirent tout has: 'Laisse-nous cet enfant!'
Laisse-nous cet enfant, pauvre mÈre troublÉe;
Cette prunelle ardente, ingÉnue, ÉtoilÉe,
Cette tÊte au front pur qu'aucun deuil ne voilÀ,
Cette Âme neuve encor, mÈre, laisse-nous la,
Ne va pas la jetter au hasard dans la foule:
La foule est un torrent qui brise ce qu'il roule.
Ainsi que les oiseaux, les enfants ont leurs peurs.
Laisse À notre air limpide, À nos moites vapeurs,
A nos soupirs lÉgers comme l'aile d'un songe,
Cette bouche oÙ jamais n'a passÉ le mensonge,
Ce sourire naÏf que sa candeur dÉfend.
O mÈre au coeur profond, laisse-nous cet enfant!
Nous ne lui donnerons que de bonnes pensÉes;
Nous changerons en jours les lunes commencÉes;
Dieu deviendra visible À see yeux enchantÉs;
Car nous sommes les fleurs, les rameaux, les clartÉs;
Nous sommes la nature, et la source Éternelle
OÙ toute soif s'Étanche, oÙ se lave toute aile;
Et les bois et les champs, du sage seul compris,
Font l'Éducation de tous les grands esprits;
Laisse croÎtre l'enfant parmi nos bruits sublimes,
NÉs du souffle cÉleste Épars dans tout beau lieu,
Qui font sortir de l'homme et monter jusqu'À Dieu,
Comme le chant d'un luth, comme l'encens d'un vase,
L'espÉrance, l'amour, la priÈre et l'extase!
Nous pencherons ses yeux vers l'ombre d'ici bas,
Vers le secret de tout entr'ouvert sous ses pas.
D'enfant nous ferons homme, et d'homme poËte;
Pour former de ses sens la corolle inquiÈte,
C'est nous qu'il faut choisir, et nous lui montrerons
Comment, de l'aube au soir, du chÊne aux moucherons;
Emplissant tout, reflets, couleurs, brumes, haleines,
La vie aux mille aspects rit dans les vertes plaines;
Nous te le rendrons simple et des cieux Ébloui,
Et nous ferons germer de toute part en lui,
Pour l'homme, triste d'effet, perdu sous tant de causes
Cette pitiÉ qui naÎt du spectacle des choses.
Laisse-nous cet enfant, nous lui ferons un coeur
Qui comprendra la femme; un esprit non moqueur,
OÙ naÎtront aisÉment le songe et la chimÈre;
Qui prendra Dieu pour livre et les champs pour grammaire;
Une Âme pour foyer de secrÈtes faveurs,
Qui luira doucement sur tous les fronts rÊveurs,
Et, comme le soleil dans les fleurs fÉcondÉes,
Jettera des rayons sur toutes les idÉes.'
Ainsi parlaient, À l'heure oÙ la ville se tait,
L'astre, la plante et l'arbre,—et ma mÈre Écoutait.
Enfant! ont-ils tenu leur promesse sacrÉe?
Je ne sais, mais je sais que ma mÈre adorÉe
Les crut, et m'Épargnant d'ennuyeuses prisons,
Confia ma jeune Âme À leur douces leÇons!"
We see from what the poet tells us himself, what a struggle his mother had to keep up (having for ally the beautiful garden of the Feuillantines) against a master of the college, sent by M. de Fontanes, who was uneasy, after the fashion of Napoleon, that a child should grow up wild in the depths of an old cloister, thus escaping the university training which, in all ages and in every reign, has had for its object the breaking in of high-stepping colts. Thus, at fifteen, the old convent of the Feuillantines had fulfilled its promises, and made the child a poet. We shall see more of this presently, but for the moment let us go back to General Hugo, who, at the very
When the remnant of the army of Spain returned to France they found a French corps d'observation awaiting them with Imperial orders to incorporate the Spanish army with the French army. But those four years of service in Spain, that arduous campaign during which they had had to struggle not only against two armies, but also against the entire population; those dreadful sieges rivalled only in ancient warfare, when women and children defended every corner of the ramparts, every home and every stone, with musket and poignard in hand; those sierras, recalling the wars of the Titans, when fires were lit on every high peak; those jagged mountains taken by charges of cavalry; those rock fortresses defended and carried one after another; those scores of passes each like another ThermopylÆ; that butchery in which torture and death awaited anyone taken prisoner, all went for nothing, was forgotten, had ceased to exist, had never existed directly Spain was evacuated. It might have been asked of Napoleon why he evacuated Russia. But it had taken a very god to bend the invincible one beneath him; like Thor, son of Odin, he had struggled with Death itself; he had not been vanquished like Xerxes, he had been crushed like Cambyses. The distinction is subtle, but one no more dreamt of disputing with the conqueror of Austerlitz than with the hero vanquished at Beresina. So the services of the French in Spain were regarded as of naught, and—except the 200,000 men left upon the battlefields of Talavera, Saragossa, Bayleu, Salamanca and Vittoria—all was as though nothing had occurred.
Consequently, General Hugo found this order addressed to himself at Bayonne:—
"Major Hugo will at once put himself under the command of General Belliard."
On the following day, General Hugo presented himself at the house of General Belliard in the uniform of an ordinary grenadier with woollen epaulettes. Belliard did not recognise him. General Hugo gave his name.
"What does this private soldier's uniform mean?" Belliard inquired.
"Grenadier or general," was Hugo's response.
And Belliard flung his arms round him. That very day he sent back the order to the emperor. It was returned with this correction in the margin in Napoleon's handwriting:—
"General Hugo will immediately take up the command at Thionville."
History has related the details of that siege in which General Hugo defended the citadel and governed the town. The citadel of Thionville was one of the latest to float the tricoloured flag. But it had to yield, though to the Bourbons, not to the enemy. General Hugo could not stop in Paris: there were too many heart-breaking scenes for the old soldier in the capital, where women strewed flowers in front of the Cossacks, where the people shouted "Vivent les allies!" and where the statue of the emperor was dragged through the gutters.
He bought the chÂteau of Saint-Lazare at Blois and retired there. Means did not allow of the beautiful convent of the Feuillantines being kept any longer. Madame Hugo remained at Paris in modest apartments, to look after her children, EugÈne and Victor being placed in the abbÉ Cordier's boarding school, rue Sainte-Marguerite No. 41. Abel, an officer exempt from these things, was left free. EugÈne and Victor were destined for the École polytechnique.
We have already pointed out that the convent of the Feuillantines had kept its word and turned Victor into a poet. Now let us hear about the boy's first attempts.
How grateful would I have been to-day to any contemporary
It was just at the height of the Restoration. The AcadÉmie had announced as the subject for its annual prize, to be awarded on 25 August, Saint Louis's Day, "The happiness that study brings in all situations of life."
Victor went in for the competition without saying a word to anyone about it. He put his name down, according to the rules of the competition, in a sealed paper together with his piece of verse; but, after his name, he added his age, fourteen and a half. Besides giving his age thus, there were these lines in the course of the poem:—
"Moi qui, toujours fuyant les citÉs et les cours,
De trois lustres À peine ai vu finir le cours."
Think of this future philosopher, who, at fourteen, had fled from cities and courts! What delicious childish naÏvetÉ! But, strange to relate, it was this admission of fourteen years of age that condemned the poet, and prevented him from winning the prize. M. Raynouard, the rapporteur, declared that the competitor, by allowing himself trois lustres À peine—this was the method of counting in 1817 and is still used by the AcadÉmie—had intended to make game of the AcadÉmie. And, as though it were not a customary thing for the AcadÉmie to be made fun of, the prize was divided between Saintine and Lebrun. However, they read the whole piece composed by the impudent person who made fun of the AcadÉmie by speaking of his fourteen years and a half. The assembly, which enjoyed the AcadÉmie being thus made game of, highly applauded the lines of the young poet, who at the very moment he was being praised at the AcadÉmie was playing prisoners'-base in the college courtyard.
The following stanza was specially applauded, and would have been encored if encores were allowed at the AcadÉmie:—
"Mon Virgile À la main, bocages verts et sombres,
Que j'aime À m'Égarer sous vos paisibles ombres!
A pleurer sur Didon, À plaindre ses amours!
LÀ, mon Âme, tranquille et sans inquiÉtude,
S'ouvre avec plus de verve aux charmes de l'Étude;
LÀ, mon coeur est plus tendre et sait mieux compatir
A des maux que peut-Être il doit un jour sentir."
It had been a remarkable contest; for, among the competitors, besides those we have named who won the prize—Saintine and Lebrun—were Casimir Delavigne, Loyson, Who has since acquired a certain popularity which has been interrupted by death, and Victor Hugo. Loyson obtained the accessit, and Victor Hugo, in spite of M. Raynouard's contention that he had made game of the AcadÉmie, was the first to have honourable mention.
Casimir Delavigne, who had really committed the crime of poking fun at the AcadÉmie by treating the subject in exactly the opposite way, had a separate honourable mention apart from the competition.
Victor was playing at prisoners'-base, as we have said, whilst he was being applauded at the AcadÉmie. The first news he heard of his success was brought him by Abel and by Malitourne, who came rushing in, leapt on him and told him what had just happened and that he would in all probability have obtained the prize if the AcadÉmie had been ready to admit that a poet of fourteen could have written the lines. The supposition—not that he had wished to mock the AcadÉmie, but that he could lie—hurt the child exceedingly, and he procured his birth-certificate and sent it the AcadÉmie.
Vide pedes! vide latus!
They then had to believe it. And the indignation of that worthy grandmother changed to admiration.
M. Raynouard, the perpetual secretary, sent the honoured poet a characteristic letter. There was a deliciously fine mistake in spelling in the letter sent by the perpetual secretary: he told Victor Hugo that he should be pleased to make (fairait) his acquaintance. Two other members of the AcadÉmie wrote to the young poet without suggestion
"Tendre ami des neuf soeurs, mes bras vous sont ouverts,
Venez, j'aimie toujours les vers!"
wrote FranÇois de NeufchÂteau.
"L'esprit et le bon goÛt nous ont rassasiÉs;
J'ai rencontrÉ des coeurs de glace
Pour des vers pleins de charme et de verve et de grÂce
Que MalfilÂtre eut enviÉs!"
wrote Campenon.
And Chateaubriand called Hugo "l'Enfant sublime." The appellation stuck to him.
From that moment the youth was no longer his own master, but was given over to that consuming tyrant we call Poetry.
In those days, people still went in for the Jeux Floraux, and Hugo competed in two successive years, 1818 and 1819. He won three prizes. The successful pieces were MoÏse sur le Nil, the Vierges de Verdun and the Statue de Henri IV. Besides these, he published two satires and an ode. The satires were the TÉlÉgraphe and the Racoleur politique; the ode was the Ode sur la VendÉe. He published these three things at his own expense and, strange to relate, they brought him in 800 francs.
Poetry sold in those days: society was greedy for novelties and, when anything new was offered it, eagerly put its lips to the cup.
Meanwhile, two years of rhetoric in Latin, two years of philosophy and four years of mathematics had prepared the student for entrance at the École polytechnique.
He now began to face the future seriously, for the first time, and it terrified him. The vocation for which he was being educated was not the one for which he was fitted.
Just when he was about to take the leap and present himself for examination, he wrote to his father that he had found a profession: he was a poet and did not wish to enter the École;
While he was writing Han d'Islande Victor's mother died—an event that influenced the sombre tone of his work considerably. This was his first sorrow and he never forgot it. From the day that that deep sorrow settled on his life, Victor never wore anything but black clothes or a black coat, and he never sealed his letters with aught but black sealing-wax.
And, indeed, we who have seen him grow up, from his childish days at the Feuillantines, at Avellino and at the SÉminaire des Nobles, can guess how much his mother was to him. One day, in one of those moments of profound grief when the sorrowful heart seeks for surroundings in harmony with its own mourning, the youth went to Versailles, that most sorrowful and mournful of all places. He breakfasted at the cafÉ, holding a paper in his hand which he was not reading, for he was deep in thought. A life-guardsman, who was not given to thought and wanted to read, took the paper out of his hands. Victor at nineteen was fair and delicate of complexion and he looked only fifteen. The life-guardsman thought he was dealing with a boy, but he had insulted a man—a man who was in one of the dark crises of life, when danger often comes as a blessing. So the young man accepted the quarrel that was thrust upon him, coarse and foolish though it was. They fought with swords, almost there and then, and Victor received a slash in the arm. This contretemps hindered the appearance of Han d'Islande for a fortnight. Happily, his grief-stricken heart had its star as every dark night has, and its
The first volume of poetry Victor published at this time was printed by Guiraudet, No. 335 rue Saint-HonorÉ and sold by PÉlissier, place du Palais-Royal; it brought him in 900 francs, which were to be spent on luxuries. And out of these 900 francs the poet bought the first shawl he gave his young wife. Other women, wives of bankers and princes, have had more beautiful Cashmere shawls than yours, Madame Hugo, but none were woven out of more precious and valuable tissue!
This first volume was an immense success. I remember hearing about it when I was in the provinces.
Lamartine's first volume, MÉditations poÉtiques, had appeared in 1820. It had an enormous and deserved success, and sooner or later it was destined to be superseded by another successful rival. It chanced this time that the rival proved equally successful, and the two successes kept pace with one another, hand in hand supporting each other. Nothing happened that could set the poets at variance, their styles were so unlike; nor did politics, thirty years later, succeed in severing the two men, no matter how different their opinions were.
The wedding took place at the house of M. Foucher, the father of the bride, who lived at the War Office. The wedding feast took place in the very hall where, by a strange coincidence to which we shall presently return, General la Horie, Victor's godfather, was sentenced.
Han d'Islande, which we have most unfairly deserted,
Meanwhile, a competence amounting almost to a fortune, had come to the young housekeepers: the first edition of Han d'Islande, which was sold for 1000 francs, had run out, and just when Thiers was making his literary dÉbut, under cover of the name of FÉlix Bodin, with his Histoire de la RÉvolution, Victor was selling his second edition of Han d'Islande for 10,000 francs. Lecointre and Durey were the publishers who thus showered gold upon the nuptial bed of the young people. Honours now knocked at their door. We have spoken before
He had another cousin, Comte Volney, who nearly made him a similar proposal to become his heir; but, unluckily, he discovered that Han d'Islande had been written by the same hand as the Odes et Ballades, so he shook his head and buttoned his peer's robes over his own shoulders more tightly than before.
CHAPTER X
LÉopoldine—The opinions of the son of the VendÉenne—The Delon conspiracy—Hugo offers Delon shelter—Louis XVIII. bestows a pension of twelve hundred francs on the author of the Odes et Ballades—The poet at the office of the director-general des postes—How he learns the existence of the cabinet noir—He is made a chevalier of the LÉgion d'honneur—Beauchesne—Bug-Jargal—The Ambassador of Austria's soirÉe—Ode À la Colonne—Cromwell—How Marion Delorme was written
In 1824, at the same time as the appearance of a fresh volume of Odes, delightful little LÉopoldine was born, whose death he witnessed later under such sad circumstances in front of the chÂteau de Villequier, drowned with her husband, on a fine day, by a sudden gust of wind. It was a cruel stroke of destiny, perhaps intended to prove the temper of the father's heart, which was to be severely tried during the days of civil strife that were in preparation for him. All these Odes bore the impress of Royalist opinions. The young man, scarcely past childhood, was the son of his VendÉenne mother, that saintly woman who saved the lives of nineteen priests in the civil war of 1793. General Hugo's friends, who held what were called at that time "Liberal opinions," without openly belonging to the Opposition, were yet often concerned at these ultra-monarchical tendencies; but the general shook his head and answered them smilingly.
"Leave things to time," he said. "The boy holds his mother's opinions; the man will hold his father's."
Here is a statement of the poet himself, which sets forth the promise made by his father, not only to a friend, but to France, to the future and to the whole world:—
"December 1820
"The callow youths who succeed nowadays to political ideas are in a strange predicament: our fathers are generally Bonapartists and our mothers Royalists. Our fathers only see in Napoleon the man who bestowed epaulettes upon them; our mothers only see in Bonaparte the man who took their sons away from them. Our fathers see in the Revolution the grandest result that the genius of a National Assembly could produce; the Empire, the greatest thing that the genius of a man could devise.
"To our mothers, the Revolution only meant the guillotine, and the Empire a sword. We children who were born under the Consulate have all been brought up at our mothers' knees,—our fathers were in camp,—and since they were often deprived of their husbands and brothers through the vagaries of the conquering Man, they riveted their hopes on us, young schoolboys of eight and ten years of age, and their gentle motherly eyes would fill with tears at the thought that by 1820 we should be eighteen, and by 1825 be either colonels, or else killed. The acclamation that greeted Louis XVIII. in 1814 was the delighted cry of our mothers. There are very few adolescents of our generation but have sucked in, with their mothers' milk, a hatred of the two periods of violent upheaval which preceded the Restoration. Robespierre was the bogey that frightened the children of 1803; and Bonaparte the bogey that terrified the children of 1815. I was lately strongly upholding my VendÉen opinions in my father's presence. He listened to me in silence, then he turned to General L——, who was with him, and remarked, 'Leave things to time: the child holds his mother's opinions; the man will follow his father's.' This prophecy set me to thinking. Whatever the case may be, and even admitting that, up to a certain point, experience modifies the impressions that we receive during our early years, the honest-minded man is sure not to be led astray if he submits all these modifications to the severe criticism of his conscience. A good conscience kept ever awake saves him from all the devious pitfalls wherein his honesty might go astray. In the Middle Ages people believed that any liquid in which a sapphire had rested was a preservative against plague, carbuncles, leprosy and every kind of disease. Jean-Baptiste de Rocoles said, 'Conscience is a similar sapphire!'"
These few lines completely explain Victor's political conduct at different periods of his life. Meantime, the Royalist opinions which he revealed in his beautiful verses to those who looked upon such opinions as heresy were absolved by good deeds.
Let us mention a fact that will also serve to show the poet's life from an original aspect. In 1822 the Berton conspiracy burst forth, and all eyes were turned towards Saumur. Among the conspirators,—besides Berton, who died bravely, and CafÉ, who opened his veins like a hero of old with a scrap of broken glass,—was a young man called Delon. I had caught occasional glimpses of this young man at the house of M. Deviolaine, to whom he was related, either carrying little Victor on his shoulder or jumping the future poet up and down on his knees. He was the son of an old officer who had served under General Hugo's orders. In the famous trial of the Chauffeurs this officer was the captain rapporteur; in the equally famous trial of Malet he was major rapporteur, and, in both trials, without making any distinction between the accused, he had pronounced sentence of death on them. So General la Horie, Victor's godfather, of whom mention has been already made, was shot by Delon's orders. It was a strange coincidence that the son of the man who had pronounced sentence of death on others for conspiracy, should be doomed to death for the same cause! Since the day on which Major Delon had delivered sentence on General la Horie, instead of declining to adjudicate in the case, there had been a complete rupture between the Hugo and Delon family.
But although intercourse between the fathers was broken off, there had not been any rupture between the children. Victor lived then at No. 10 rue de MÉziÈres. One morning he read in the papers the terrible story of the conspiracy of Saumur. Nearly all those concerned were arrested, with the exception of Delon, who had escaped. Very soon, childish recollections, strong and indelible, rose to the poet's mind; he seized his writing materials and, forgetting
"MADAME,—I learn that your son is proscribed and a fugitive; we hold different opinions, but that is only another reason why he would not be looked for at my house. I shall expect him; at whatever hour of day or night he comes he will be welcome. I am sure that no other place of refuge can be safer for him than the share of my room which I offer him. I live in a house without a porter's lodge, in the rue de MÉziÈres No. 10, on the fifth floor. I will take care that the door shall be kept unlocked day and night.
"Accept my most respectful greetings, dear madame, and believe me, yours, VICTOR HUGO"
When this letter was written, with the guilelessness of a child, the poet entrusted it to the post. To the post! A letter addressed to the mother of a man for whom the whole police force was in search! Well, when it was posted, Victor crept out every night at twilight to explore the neighbourhood, expecting to find Delon in each man who was leaning against a wall. Delon never appeared. But something else appeared, to the immense surprise of the poet, who had not made any move towards it whatever, namely, a pension of 1200 francs which the author of Odes et Ballades received one morning in his small room in the rue de MÉziÈres, the grant being signed by Louis XVIII. It could not have arrived at a more opportune time, for the poet had just married.
On 13 April 1825, Hugo went to the hÔtel des Postes to engage three places on the mail coach for himself, his wife and a servant. They were going to Blois. He was anxious to secure these three seats in advance, but, unfortunately, this was not an easy thing: the mail went as far as Bordeaux, and to save places as far as Blois meant risking the emptiness of the seats from Blois to Bordeaux. However, the favour which Victor required could be granted by one man, and that man was M. Roger, the Postmaster-general. M. Roger was by way of being a literary man, he belonged to the AcadÉmie and might possibly grant Victor Hugo his desire. So Victor
"By the way," M. Roger suddenly burst out in the middle of the conversation, "do you know to what you owe your pension of twelve hundred francs, my dear poet?"
"Why, I probably owe it to my small efforts in literature," Victor answered laughingly.
"Yes, of course," replied the Postmaster-general; "but would you like me to tell you exactly how you got it?"
"Certainly, I should be glad to know, I must confess."
"Do you remember the conspiracy of Saumur?"
"Of course."
"Do you recollect a young man named Delon who compromised himself in that conspiracy?"
"Perfectly well."
"You remember writing to him or, rather, to his mother, offering the outlaw half your room at No. 10 rue de MÉziÈres?"
Victor made no answer this time; he stared at the Postmaster-general with startled eyes, not amazed at the magnificence of the worthy M. Roger, but at his powers of penetration. He had written that letter alone, between his own four walls: he had not told a single soul about it. Not even his own nightcap—that confidant which Louis XI. thought ought to be burned, since it had been the recipient of certain secrets—knew anything about it, seeing he never wore a nightcap.
"Well," continued the Postmaster-general, "that letter was laid before King Louis XVIII., who already knew you as
"But," Victor finally stammered out, "how did my letter get to the notice of King Louis XVIII.?"
The Postmaster-general burst into shouts of Homeric laughter. And, simple-minded though the poet was, at last he understood.
"But," he exclaimed, "what became of the letter?"
"Why, naturally, it was replaced in the post."
"And reached its destination?"
"Probably."
"But if Delon had accepted my offer and had come to me, what would have happened?"
"He would have been arrested, tried and probably executed, my dear poet."
"So that my letter would have been regarded as a deathtrap for him; and if he had been arrested, tried and executed ... the pension I have received would have been blood-money! Oh!..."
Victor uttered a cry of horror at what might have happened, clapped his hands to his head and rushed out into the antechamber, where M. Roger followed him, laughing greatly, telling him he had left his hat behind him and saying—
"Remember that the mail coach is entirely at your service, for the day after to-morrow, April 15."
His horror at what might have happened gradually subsided into calmness, and Hugo breathed again when he realised that Delon was in safety in England. But he began to believe in the existence of that famous black cabinet that he had looked on as a fable, and he vowed never again to offer an outlaw shelter through the medium of the ordinary post.
When the day of departure for Blois arrived, he and Madame Hugo and her lady's-maid went to the hÔtel des Postes and, just as he was about to enter the coach, an orderly officer, who was very nearly too late, rode up at full gallop and placed a letter
"Precisely because they are so famous, monsieur," replied Charles X., "in order that they may not be confounded with other names. You must present me with a separate report for MM. Lamartine and Hugo."
The warrant was accompanied by an official letter from M. le Comte SosthÈne de la Rochefoucauld and by a friendly letter from his secretary, M. de Beauchesne.
M. de Beauchesne, or rather Beauchesne, was a true guide to M. de la Rochefoucauld in every piece of good work he did, and it should be mentioned that the Director of the Fine Arts, who was greatly taunted by the Opposition papers at that time—I am not referring to political matters—did excellent work in the way of encouraging literary efforts. Let me repeat, however, that Beauchesne was his guide in these matters. Beauchesne was then a charming fellow of twenty-four or twenty-five, and has since developed into a charming poet. So loyal a heart was his that he seemed to have taken for his motto, "Video nec invideo"; and, indeed, what more could he have wanted? All who were great called him brother, and all who were good called him friend. A free and loyal Breton when the true monarchy fell, but Beauchesne remained faithful to its ruins. I shall relate in its proper place how once we very nearly had a duel over politics, and I shall maintain that we were never better friends than then, when we faced each other sword in hand. Dear Beauchesne! He disappeared quite
"Beauchesne, vous avez une douce retraite;
Moi, je suis sans abri pour les jours de malheur!
Que votre beau castel, pour reposer sa tÊte,
Garde dans son grenier, une place au poËte,
Qui vous garde en Échange une place en son coeur."
I lost sight of Beauchesne a second time. A catastrophe happened to me which left me indifferent, but which most people look upon as a great misfortune. I opened a letter full of tender sympathy. It was from Beauchesne. I did not answer it then; I will answer it to-day. As this is by no means the last time I shall mention dear Beauchesne I will not bid him adieu but au revoir ! ...
So Hugo received his brevet of chevalier, and M. de la Rochefoucauld's official letter, with Beauchesne's friendly one, at the same time. He buttoned them all three next to his heart, climbed upon the coach and composed the whole of the ballad of the Deux Archers during the drive between Paris and Blois. When he arrived at Blois he joyfully laid his brevet in his father's hands. The old soldier took off from an ancient coat, that had received the dust of many lands, one of his old decorations that had faced the fire of many battles, and tied it to his son's buttonhole, wiping away a tear—I strongly suspect that every father's eye is capable of that weakness. During this visit to Blois the poet received a private letter from Charles X., inviting him to
At Rheims he found Lamartine, with whom he became acquainted. They each acknowledged the king's hospitality, Lamartine by his Chant du sacre; Hugo by his Ode À Charles X.
In 1826 Bug-Jargal appeared. Just as Christine had been composed before Henri III., so Bug-Jargal had been finished before Han d'Islande. I do not know why this chronological transposition was made in the publication.
In 1827 the Austrian Ambassador gave a grand soirÉe, to which he invited all the most illustrious persons in France, and all the most illustrious persons in France, who are always eager to attend soirÉes, went to that of the ambassador. The marshals were there among the rest of the people, and a singular thing happened at this particular soirÉe. At the door of the salon was the customary lackey to announce the names of the visitors who had been deemed worthy of an invitation. When Marshal Soult arrived, the lackey asked him, "What name shall I announce?"
"The Duc de Dalmatie," replied the marshal.
"M. le marÉchal Soult," announced the lackey, who had received his orders.
This might very well have been thought to be a mistake, so the illustre ÉpÉe (as he had been called since the time of Louis-Philippe, who, probably, did not care to call him the Duc de Dalmatie any more than did the Austrian Ambassador) paid no attention to the matter.
Marshal Mortier came next.
"What name shall I give?" asked the lackey.
"The Duc de TrÉvise."
"M. le marÉchal Mortier," called out the lackey.
The eyes of the two old comrades of the emperor flashed lightnings of interrogation across at one another; but they did not know what to reply, for it was not yet quite clear what would be the best course to take.
Marshal Marmont came third.
"What name shall I announce?" asked the lackey.
"The Duc de Raguse."
"M. le marÉchal Marmont," announced the lackey.
This time there could not be any mistake about it; so the two first arrivals joined the third and told him of their difficulty. But they all three decided to wait a while longer.
The Duc de Reggio, the Duc de Tarente and all the other dukes of the Imperial creation came, one after another, and, although they all gave their ducal titles, they were only announced by their family names.
The insult was open and patent, and offered publicly, and yet the insulted men silently withdrew, to nurse the insult they had endured. Not one of them thought of striking the insulter. But a poet was ready to demand redress and to obtain it on their behalf! Three days after this insult had been offered to the whole of the army, in the person of its chiefs, the Ode À la Colonne appeared.
ODE À LA COLONNE
"O monument vengeur, trophÉe indÉlÉbile!
Bronze qui, tournoyant sur ta base immobile,
Sembles porter au ciel ta gloire et ton nÉant,
Et de tout ce qu'a fait une main colossale,
Seul es restÉ debout! ruine triomphale
De l'Édifice du gÉant!
DÉbris du grand empire et de la grande armÉe,
Colonne d'oÙ si haut parle la renommÉe!
Je t'aime; l'Étranger t'admire avec effroi,
J'aime tes vieux hÉros sculptÉs par la victoire,
Et tous ces fantÔmes de gloire
Qui se pressent autour de toi.
J'aime À voir sur tes flancs, colonne Étincelante!
Revivre ces soldats qu'en leur onde sanglante
Ont roulÉs le Danube, et le Rhin, et le PÔ;
Tu mets, comme un guerrier, le pied sur ta conquÊte,
J'aime ton piÉdestal d'armures et ta tÊte,
Au bronze de Henri, mon orgueil te marie.
J'aime À vous voir tous deux, honneur de la patrie,
Immortels, dominant nos troubles passagers,
Sortir, signes jumeaux d'amour et de colÈre,
Lui, de l'Épargne populaire,
Toi, des arsenaux Étrangers.
Que de fois, tu le sais, quand la nuit sous ses voiles
Fait fuir la blanche lune, ou trembler les Étoiles,
Je viens, triste, Évoquer tes fastes devant moi,
Et d'un oeil enflammÉ, dÉvorant ton histoire,
Prendre, convive obscur, ma part de tant de gloire
Comme un pÂtre au banquet d'un roi!
Que de fois j'ai cru voir, Ô colonne franÇaise!
Ton airain ennemi rugir dans la fournaise;
Que de fois, ranimant des combattants Épars,
Heurtant sur tes parois leurs armees dÉrouillÉes,
J'ai ressuscitÉ ces mÊlÉes
Qui s'assiÈgent de toutes parts!
Jamais, Ô monument! mÊme ivres de leur nombre,
Les Étrangers sans peur, n'ont passÉ sur ton ombre;
Leurs pas n'Ébranlent point ton bronze souverain,
Quand le sort une fois les poussa vers nos rives;
Ils n'osaient Étaler leurs parades oisives
Devant tes batailles d'airain.
Mais, quoi! n'entend-je point, avec de sourds murmures,
De ta base À ton front bruire les armures?
Colonne! il m'a semblÉ qu'Éblouissant mes yeux,
Tes bataillons cuivrÉs cherchaient À redescendre;
Que tes demi-dieux, noirs d'une hÉroÏque cendre,
Interrompaient soudain leur marche vers les cieux.
Leurs voix mÊlaient des noms À leur vieille devise:
TARENTE, REGGIO, DALMATIE ET TRÉVISE,
Et leurs aigles, sortant de leur puissant sommeil,
Suivaient d'un bec ardent cette aigle À double tÊte
Dont l'oeil, ami de l'ombre oÙ son essor s'arrÊte,
Qu'est-ce donc, et pourquoi, bronze envie de Rome,
Vois-je tes lÉgions frÉmir comme un seul homme?
Quel impossible outrage À ta hauteur atteint?
Qui donc a rÉveillÉ ces ombres immortelles,
Ces aigles qui, battant ta base de leurs ailes,
Dans leur ongle captif pressent leur foudre Éteint?
Je comprends: l'Étranger, qui nous croit sans mÉmoire,
Veut, feuillet par feuillet, dÉchirer notre histoire,
Écrite avec du sang, À la pointe du fer ...
Ose-t-il, imprudent, heurter tant de trophÉes?
De ce bronze, forgÉ de foudres ÉtouffÉes,
Chaque Étincelle est un Éclair.
Est-ce NapolÉon qu'il frappe en notre armÉe?
Veut-il, de cette gloire en tant lieux semÉe,
Disputer l'hÉritage À nos vieux gÉnÉraux?
Pour un fardeau pareil il a la main dÉbile:
L'empire d'Alexandre et les armes d'Achille
Ne se partagent qu'aux hÉros.
Mais non; l'Autrichien, dans sa fiertÉ qu'il dompte,
Est content si leurs noms ne disent que sa honte;
Il fait de sa dÉfaite un titre À nos guerriers,
Et, craignant des vainqueurs moins que des feudataires,
Ils pardonne aux fleurons de nos ducs militaires,
Si ne sont que des lauriers.
Bronze! il n'a donc jamais, fier pour une victoire,
Subi de tes splendeurs l'aspect expiatoire?
D'oÙ vient tant de courage À cet audacieux?
Croit-il impunÉment toucher À nos annales?
Et comment donc lit-il ces pages triomphales
Que tu dÉroules dans les cieux?
Est-ce un langage obscur À ses regards timides?
Eh! qu'il s'en fasse instruire au pied des Pyramides,
A Vienne, au vieux Kremlin, au morne Escurial;
Qu'il en parle À ces rois, cour dorÉe et nombreuse,
Qui naguÈre peuplaient, d'une tente poudreuse,
A quoi pense-t-il donc, l'Étranger qui nous brave?
N'avions nous pas hier l'Europe pour esclave?
Nous, subir de son joug l'indigne talion!
Non, au champ du combat nous pouvons reparaÎtre.
On nous a mutilÉs, mais le temps a peut-Être
Fait croÎtre l'ongle du lion....
De quel droit viennent-ils dÉcouronner nos gloires?
Les Bourbons ont toujours adoptÉ des victoires;
Nos rois t'ont dÉfendu d'un ennemi tremblant,
O trophÉe! A leur pieds tes palmes se dÉposent;
Et si tes quatre aigles reposent,
C'est À l'ombre du drapeau blanc.
Quoi! le globe est Ému de volcans Électriques,
DerriÈre l'OcÉan grondent les AmÉriques,
Stamboul rugit, HellÉ remonte aux jours anciens;
Lisbonne se dÉbat aux mains de l'Angleterre;
Seul, le vieux peuple franc s'indigne que la terre
Tremble a d'autres pas que les siens.
Prenez garde, Étrangers! nous ne savons que faire;
La paix nous berce en vain dans son oisive sphÈre,
L'arÈne de la guerre a pour nous tant d'attrait!
Nous froissons dans nos mains, hÉlas! inoccupÉes.
Des lyres À dÉfaut d'ÉpÉes;
Nous chantons comme on combattrait.
Prenez garde! la France, oÙ grandit un autre Âge,
N'est pas si morte encor, qu'elle souffre un outrage;
Les partis pour un temps voileront leur drapeau.
Contre une injure, ici, tout grandi, tout se lÈve,
Tout s'arme, et la VendÉe aiguisera son glaive
Sur la pierre de Waterloo.
Vous dÉrobez des noms! Quoi donc, faut-il qu'on aille
Lever sur tous vos champs des titres de bataille?
Faut-il, quittant ces noms par la valeur trouvÉs,
Pour nos gloires chez vous chercher d'autres baptÈmes;
Sur l'airain de vos canons mÊmes
L'Étranger briserait le blason de la France!
On verrait, enhardi par notre indiffÉrence.
Sur nos fiers Écussons tomber son vil marteau!
Ah! comme ce Romain qui remuait la terre,
Vous portez, Ô FranÇais, et la paix et la guerre
Dans les plis de votre manteau!
Votre aile en ce moment touche, À sa fantaisie,
L'Afrique par Cadix et par Moscou l'Asie;
Vous chassez en courant Anglais, Russes, Germains;
Les tours croulent devant vos trompettes fatales,
Et de toutes les capitales
Vos drapeaux savent les chemins.
Quand leur destin se pÈse avec vos destinÉes,
Toutes les nations s'inclinent dÉtrÔnÉes;
La gloire pour vos noms n'a point assez de bruit;
Sans cesse autour de vous les États se dÉplacent
Quand votre astre paraÎt tous les autres s'effacent;
Quand vous marchez, l'univers suit.
Que l'Autriche en rampant, de noeuds vous environne,
Les deux gÉants de France ont foulÉ sa couronne;
L'histoire, qui des temps ouvre le PanthÉon,
Montre, empreints aux deux fronts du vautour d'Allemagne,
La sandale de Charlemagne,
L'Éperon de NapolÉon.
Allez, vous n'avez plus l'aigle qui, de son aire,
Sur tous les fronts trop hauts portait votre tonnerre
Mais il vous reste encor l'oriflamme et le lys;
Mais c'est le coq gaulois qui rÉveille le monde,
Et son cri peut promettre À votre nuit profonde
L'aube du soleil d'Austerlitz.
C'est moi qui me tairais! moi qu'enivrai naguÈre
Mon nom saxon mÊlÉ parmi des cris de guerre;
Moi qui suivais le vol d'un drapeau triomphant;
Qui, joignant aux clairons ma voix entrecoupÉe,
Eus pour premier hochet le noeud d'or d'une ÉpÉe;
Non, frÈres! non, FranÇais de cette Âge d'attente!
Nous avons tous grandi sur le seuil de la tente;
CondamnÉs À la paix, aiglons bannis des cieux,
Sachons du moins, veillant aux gloires paternelles,
Garder de tout affront, jalouses sentinelles,
Les armures de nos aÏeux."
This was the first sign of opposition against the Government of the Bourbons of the older branch that Hugo had given.
In the course of that same year, 1827, Cromwell was published. The poem itself did not raise so much discussion as the preface, which was a novelty in the poetic world. In 1828 appeared the Orientales and the Dernier jour d'un condamnÉ. Finally, on 16 February 1829, as I have said, Henri III. was played.
Hugo and Lamartine were almost entirely responsible for the revolution in the poetical world, but the revolutionising of the whole of the drama had yet to come. Happily Henri III. began the work with its bold and new style. Besides, this representation, the full details of which I have already given, delighted Hugo, and gave him much encouragement. We saw each other after the play and he held out his hand to me.
"Ah!" I cried, "at last I have the chance of grasping your hand!"
I was very happy over my success, but the right to clasp those hands was the most precious thing I had won.
"Now," said Hugo, "it will be my turn next!"
"When the day comes don't forget me...."
"You shall be at the first reading."
"Is that a promise?"
"It is a definite engagement!"
With that we parted.
And, indeed, the very next day Hugo chose the drama of Marion Delorme from among the different subjects that were already in his mind. For, just as a mother carries her babe within her until it is ripe for birth, so we mental creators carry our subjects in our brains before they are brought forth. Then, one day, he said to himself, "On 1 June 1829 I
On the 19th, he had completed the first three acts. On the 20th, at break of day, as the sun rose and filled his window with its golden rays, lighting up his room in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, he composed the first lines of his fourth act:—
"LE DUC DE BELLEGARDE.
CondamnÉ?
LE MARQUIS DE NANGIS.
CondamnÉ!
LE DUC DE BELLEGARDE.
Bien!... mais le roi fait grÂce?..."
Next day, just twenty-four hours later, when the sun was again paying his accustomed visit, he wrote the last line—
"On peut bien, une fois, Être roi par mÉgarde!"
During those twenty-four hours he had neither eaten, nor drunk, nor slept; but he had written an act containing nearly six hundred lines—an act which I take to be a masterpiece; six hundred lines which to my thinking are among the finest in the French language.
On 27 June Marion Delorme was finished.
CHAPTER XI
Reading of Marion Delorme at the house of DevÉria—Steeplechase of directors—Marion Delorme is stopped by the Censorship—Hugo obtains an audience with Charles X.—His drama is definitely interdicted—They send him the brevet of a pension, which he declines—He sets to work on Hernani, and completes it in twenty-four days
Hugo had no need to write to Nodier as I had done, and to wait for an appointment with Taylor: he was already as famous before Marion Delorme as I was unknown before Henri III.
As I have already mentioned, Hugo notified me of a reading at DevÉria's house, and invited Taylor to this reading, together with de Vigny, Émile Deschamps, Sainte-Beuve, Soumet, Boulanger and Beauchesne—in fact, the whole Pleiades; and so the reading began.
The first act of Marion Delorme is a masterpiece; there is nothing in it to which one can take exception, apart from Hugo's mania for making his characters enter by windows instead of by doors, which here betrayed itself for the first time. No one could be more free from envious feelings than I am. So I listened to this first act with the profoundest admiration, intermingled, however, with some sadness. I felt how far behind his style I was, and how long it would be before I attained to it, if I ever should at all. Then came the second and the last three acts successively. I was seated next to Taylor, and at the last line of the play he leant over to me and said—
"Well, what do you think of that?"
I replied that I would be hanged if Victor had not shown us his finest piece of work. And I added, "I am certain he has."
"Why do you think so?"
"Because Marion Delorme shows all the qualities of the work of a mature man and none of the faults of a young one. Progress is impossible to one who begins by perfect work or work very nearly perfect."
I am interested to find I was right, whether from conceit or not; I still believe that Marion Delorme is, if not quite his best piece of work, yet one of his best. I congratulated him very heartily and very sincerely; I had never heard anything to compare with the lines of Marion Delorme. I was overwhelmed by the splendour of their style, I who lacked style throughout my work. If I had been asked to exchange ten years of my life in return for some day attaining such a style as that, I should not have hesitated for one moment, I should have given them instantly! One thing offended me greatly in the fifth act: Didier goes to his death without forgiving Marion. I entreated Hugo to substitute a more humane spirit for that inflexible character. Sainte-Beuve agreed with me and, between us, we obtained poor Marion's pardon.
Now came the question of the Censorship. None of us believed that it would pass the character of Louis XIII., though admirably drawn, simply because of its accurate drawing and the vividness of its colouring. True, the act which contained Louis XIII. could have been taken out without in any way spoiling the interest of the piece, and Crosnier many times omitted it at the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin, without the public perceiving the omission. It was what critics of petty words and petty things call a superfetation, a hors d'oeuvre. What a magnificent hors d'oeuvre it was! What a sublime superfetation! I would allow anyone to take their choice among my dramas, if I might but have written the fourth act of Marion Delorme. For that matter, it was a great failing with Victor Hugo, for a time, to compose his fourth acts so that they could be taken out like separate episodes. The fourth act of Hernani, which contains the stupendous monologue of Charles V., can be taken out without injury to the play, and it is the same with the fourth act of Ruy Blas. But,
Reports of the reading leaked out in Paris, and there was quite a steeplechase of theatrical managers to the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs to obtain Marion Delorme. Harel came first. Directly he entered, he seized hold of the manuscript and, regardless of everything, began writing on it below the title, "Received by the OdÉon theatre, 14 July 1829." It was the anniversary of the taking of the Bastille, and Harel thought he would take Marion Delorme by surprise as the Bastille had been taken by our fathers! Harel was repulsed with loss; but, as his name was on the manuscript, he stuck to it that he had taken possession of it.
A day or two after Harel's attempt, M. Crosnier was announced and introduced into the drawing-room. Hugo was reading a newspaper; he rose and showed M. Crosnier to a seat. When M. Crosnier took it, Hugo himself resumed his seat and waited. But, as M. Crosnier kept silence, Hugo took up his paper again; which course decided M. Crosnier to open his mouth.
"Monsieur," he said, addressing Hugo, "I have come to see your father; I was told he lived here. If it is not taking too much advantage of your kindness, would you be so good as to tell him I am here?"
"Alas I monsieur," Hugo replied, "my father died a year ago, and I presume it is with me you desire to speak."
"I wish to speak to M. Victor Hugo."
"I am he, monsieur."
Crosnier could not believe that this slightly built, fresh-coloured young man, who looked nothing but a boy of twenty, could be the man about whom there had already been so much stir for the past five or six years. However, he revealed the object of his visit. He had come to ask Marion Delorme for the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin. Hugo smiled and gave
"Monsieur Hugo," he said, "allow me to inscribe my acceptance under that of my confrÈre."
"Write what you please, monsieur," said Hugo; "but you must remember that there are already two acceptances before yours."
"No matter, monsieur; I wish to take my place. For, bless me! who knows? I may be the one to bring out your play in spite of its having been already accepted twice!"
And he wrote under Harel's acceptance—
"Received by the Porte-Saint-Martin theatre, 16 July 1829."
Supported by this twofold acceptance, Marion Delorme was presented to the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais and was received with unanimous applause. I recollect that as we were leaving the reading, full of enthusiasm over what we had all heard, Émile Deschamps pointed to a bill which announced the evening's play and, shrugging his shoulders, exclaimed compassionately, at the sight of Racine's chef-d-oeuvre—
"And they are going to play Britannicus!..."
None of us to-day, not even Émile Deschamps, would confess to having given utterance to the above mot. I am certain that we should all have said it in 1829, and more than one who has since paid his visit to the thirty-nine Academicians envied him the phrase at the moment.
The play was distributed, and immediately after its reception began to be rehearsed. Mademoiselle Mars played Marion; Firmin, Didier; Joanny, Nangis; Menjaud, Saverny, etc. But, one morning, the dreadful news spread abroad that the play had been stopped by the Censor! The same thing had happened to Henri III.; the Censor always stopped everything; it was his business, and then the sentence could afterwards be relaxed, if the work justified its existence, or the author clamoured loudly enough. I had remonstrated and
"Que le gÉant de notre gloire
PÛt y passer sans se baisser!"
He saw what looked like a monkey, yet without a monkey's grace; a kind of mummy, with its face perpetually contorted with neuralgia, crossing the hall, responding to all the bows and greetings and homage with a deep growl, from which you could not make out one single word clearly. And that was the conqueror of the Trocadero! the pacificator
"C'Était le sept aoÛt.—O sombre destinÉe!
C'Était le premier jour de leur derniÈre annÉe!
Seuls, dans un lieu royal, cÔte À cÔte marchant,
Deux hommes, par endroits du coude se touchant,
Causaient.... Grand souvenir qui dans mon coeur se grave!
Le premier avait l'air fatiguÉ, triste et grave,
Comme un trop faible front qui porte un lourd projet.
Une double Épaulette À couronne chargeait
Son uniforme vert À ganse purpurine,
Et l'ordre et la toison faisaient, sur sa poitrine,
PrÈs du large cordon moirÉ de bleu changeant,
Deux foyers lumineux, l'un d'or, l'autre d'argent.
C'Était un roi, vieillard À la tÊte blanchie,
PenchÉ du poids des ans et de la monarchie!
L'autre Était un jeune homme Étranger chez les rois,
Dans un coin, une table, un fauteuil de velours
Miraient dans le parquet leurs pieds dorÉs et lourds;
Par une porte en vitre, au dehors, l'oeil, en foule,
Apercevait au loin des armoires de Boule,
Des vases du Japon, des laques, des Émaux
Et des chandeliers d'or aux immenses rameaux.
Un salon rouge ornÉ de glaces de Venise,
Plein de ces bronzes grecs que l'esprit divinise,
Multipliait sans fin ses lustres de cristal;
Et, comme une statue À lames de mÉtal,
On voyait, casque au front, luire, dans l'encoignure,
Un garde argent et bleu, d'une fiÈre tournure.
Or, entre le poËte et le vieux roi courbÉ,
De quoi s'agissait-il?
D'un pauvre ange tombÉ
Dont l'amour refaisait l'Âme avec son haleine:
De Marion, lavÉe ainsi que Madeleine,
Qui boitait et traÎnait son pas estropiÉ,
La censure, serpent, l'ayant mordue au pied.
Le poËte voulait faire, un soir, apparaÎtre
Louis-Treize, ce roi sur qui rÉgnait un prÊtre;
Tout un siÈcle: marquis, bourreaux, fous, bateleurs;
Et que la foule vÎnt, et qu'À travers les pleurs,
Par moments, dans un drame Étincelant et sombre,
Du pÂle cardinal on crÛt voir passer l'ombre.
Le vieillard hÉsitait.—Que sert de mettre À nu
Louis-Treize, ce roi, chÉtif et mal venu?
A quoi bon remuer un mort dans une tombe?
Que veut-on? oÙ court-on? sait-on bien oÙ l'on tombe?
Tout n'est-il pas dÉjÀ croulant de tout cÔtÉ?
Tout ne s'en va-t-il pas dans trop de libertÉ?
N'est-il pas temps plutÔt, aprÈs quinze ans d'Épreuve,
De relever la digue et d'arrÊter le fleuve?
Certe, un roi peut reprendre alors qu'il a donnÉ.
Quant au thÉÂtre, il faut, le trÔne Étant minÉ,
Étouffer des deux mains sa flamme trop hardie;
Car la foule est le peuple, et d'une comÉdie
Peut jaillir l'Étincelle aux livides rayons
Qui met le feu dans l'ombre aux rÉvolutions!
Puis il niait l'histoire, et, quoi qu'il en puisse Être,
L'accueillant bien, d'ailleurs; bon, royal, gracieux,
Et le questionnant sur ses propres aÏeux.
Tout en laissant aux rois les noms dont on les nomme,
Le poËte luttait fermement, comme un homme
Épris de libertÉ, passionnÉ pour l'art,
Respectueux pourtant pour ce noble vieillard.
Il disait: 'Tout est grave, en ce siÈcle oÙ tout penche.
L'art, tranquille et puissant, veut une allure franche.
Les rois morts sont sa proie; il faut la lui laisser.
Il n'est pas ennemi; pourquoi le courroucer
Et le livrer, dans l'ombre, À des tortionnaires,
Lui dont la main fermÉe est pleine de tonnerres?
Cette main, s'il l'ouvrait, redoutable envoyÉ,
Sur la France Éblouie et le Louvre effrayÉ,
On s'Épouvanterait—trop tard, s'il faut le dire,—
D'y voir subitement tant de foudres reluire!
Oh! les tyrans d'en has nuisent au roi d'en haut.
Le peuple est toujours lÀ qui prend la muse au mot,
Quand l'indignation, jusqu'au roi qu'on rÉvÈre,
Monte du front pensif de l'artiste sÉvÈre!
Sire, À ce qui chancelle est-on bien appuyÉ?
La censure est un toit mauvais, mal ÉtayÉ,
Toujours prÊt À tomber sur les noms qu'il abrite.
Sire, un souffle imprudent, loin de l'Éteindre, irrite
Le foyer, tout À coup terrible et tournoyant,
Et, d'un art lumineux, fait un art flamboyant.
D'ailleurs, ne cherchÂt-on que la splendeur royale,
Pour cette nation moqueuse mais loyale,
Au lieu des grands tableaux qu'offrait le grand Louis,
Roi-soleil fÉcondant les lis Épanouis,
Qui, tenant sous son sceptre un monde en Équilibre,
Faisait Racine heureux, laissait MoliÈre libre,
Quel spectacle, grand Dieu! qu'un groupe de censeurs
ArmÉs et parlant has, vils esclaves chasseurs,
A plat ventre couchÉs, Épiant l'heure oÙ rentre
Le drame, fier lion, dans l'histoire, son antre!'
Ici, voyant vers lui, d'un front plus inclinÉ,
Se tourner doucement le vieillard ÉtonnÉ,
Il hasardait plus loin sa pensÉe inquiÈte,
Et, laissant de cÔtÉ le drame et le poËte,
Attentif, il sondait le dessein vaste et noir
—Se pourrait-il? quelqu'un aurait cette espÉrance?
Briser le droit de tous! retrancher À la France,
Comme on Ôte un jouet À l'enfant dÉpitÉ,
De l'air, de la lumiÈre et de la libertÉ!
Le roi ne voudrait pas, lui? roi sage et roi juste!
Puis, choisissant les mots pour cette oreille auguste,
Il disait que les temps ont des flots souverains;
Que rien, ni ponts hardis, ni canaux souterrains,
Jamais, exceptÉ Dieu, rien n'arrÊte et ne dompte
Le peuple qui grandit ou l'OcÉan qui monte;
Que le plus fort vaisseau sombre et se perd souvent,
Qui veut rompre de front et la vague et le vent,
Et que, pour s'y briser, dans la lutte insensÉe,
On a derriÈre soi, roche partout dressÉe,
Tout son siÈcle, les moeurs, l'esprit qu'on veut braver,
Le port mÊme oÙ la nef aurait pu se sauver!...
Charles-Dix, souriant, rÉpondit: 'O poÈte!'
Le soir, tout rayonnant de lumiÈre et de fÊte.
Regorgeant de soldats, de princes, de valets,
Saint-Cloud, joyeux et vert, autour du fier palais
Dont la Seine, en fuyant, reflÈte les beaux marbres,
Semblait avec amour presser sa touffe d'arbres;
L'arc de triomphe, ornÉ de victoires d'airain;
Le Louvre, Étincelant, fleurdelysÉ, serein,
Lui rÉpondaient de loin du milieu de la ville;
Tout ce royal ensemble avait un air tranquille,
Et, dans le calme aspect d'un repos solennel,
Je ne sais quoi de grand qui semblait Éternel!"
The day after this interview and the refusal—for Charles X. refused to allow Marion Delorme to be played—Victor Hugo's pension, which had been 2400 francs, was raised to 6000 livres, in compensation. Everybody knows how the poet refused—we will not say scornfully, but with dignity—this increase of his pension. A great deal of discussion has since raged round this refusal. Certain puritans even now hold to the opinion of the senator of M. Louis Bonaparte, and blame the poet for keeping his original pension of 2400 francs after the interdiction of Marion Delorme by Charles X. God have mercy on them! They are now in the Halls of Elysium and
One day, in a club, I was speaking of Prince Louis Bonaparte, and I called him "Monseigneur." It was at the time of Prince Louis Bonaparte's exile. A voice shouted to me—
"There is no longer any Monseigneur."
"I always speak of those who are exiled by that title," I replied.
And my voice was drowned by applause.
When Hugo returned from Saint-Cloud, he found Taylor awaiting him. The news he brought back was bad enough, like the news of Madame Malbrouck's page. Taylor was in despair.
"We have nothing else in our portfolios!" he repeated.
At that time the ComÉdie-FranÇaise had ten plays of M. Viennet, four or five of M. Delrieu, two or three of M. Lemercier, without reckoning M. Arnault's Pertinax and M. de Jouy's Julien, etc. etc. And that was what Taylor called having nothing in his portfolios!
"We were building on Marion Delorme for the winter season," he said, "and now our winter season will be ruined!"
Hugo let him go on lamenting and then asked—
"When did you hope to play Marion Delorme?"
"Why, either in January or February."
"Ah, good! then we shall have a margin.... Very well...." and he fell to making a calculation. "This is the 7th of August: come back to me on the 1st of October."
Taylor returned on the 1st of October. Hugo picked up a manuscript and gave it to him. It was Hernani. Hugo had
CHAPTER XII
The invasion of barbarians—Rehearsals of Hernani—Mademoiselle Mars and the lines about the lion—The scene over the portraits—Hugo takes away from Mademoiselle Mars the part of DoÑa Sol—Michelot's flattering complaisance to the public—The quatrain about the cup-board—Joanny
There was this time nothing to fear from the Censorship: unless it were on the ground of modesty, there was nothing in Hernani to which it could take exception. I really believe I have spoken of the modesty of the Censorship! Upon my word, how shocking of me! but since I have said it, let it stay!
The piece naturally took the place of his first-born, Marion Delorme; it was read for form's sake, received with shouts of hurrahs and acclamation—Hugo read very well, especially his own works—the parts were allotted and the rehearsals started at once. I do not state the fact of Hugo's fine reading here because I think his manner of reading had any influence either way on the enthusiasm of his reception, but because, never having heard him speak at the Tribune, I cannot form any idea of the style of his public speaking from the very different opinions I have heard expressed concerning his oratorical style. I can only say that his speeches when read always seemed to me to be masterpieces of language and logic.
With the rehearsals began the worries. No one at the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais felt much real sympathy with the Romantic school save old Joanny; the rest (and Mademoiselle Mars was first among their number, in spite of the splendid success she had just achieved in the Duchesse de Guise) really looked
The play—by which we mean the leading parts—was distributed between the four principal actors of the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais whom we have just mentioned. Mademoiselle Mars played DoÑa Sol; Joanny, Ruy Gomez; Michelot, Charles V.; and Firmin, Hernani. I have said that Mademoiselle Mars felt no sympathy with our style of literature; but I ought to add or, rather, to repeat that, in her theatrical dealings, she was strictly honourable, and, when she had gone through her first representation of a part and endured the fire of applause or of hissings that had greeted the fall of the curtain, no matter what the play was in which she was acting, she would have died rather than give in; she would submit to a martyrdom rather than—we will not say deny her faith, because our School was not included in her creed—break her word.
But, before this point was reached, there were between fifty and sixty rehearsals to be gone through, at which an incalculable number of observations were hazarded at the expense
Things happened somewhat after this fashion. In the middle of the rehearsal Mademoiselle Mars would suddenly stop.
"Excuse me, my friend," she would say to Firmin or Michelot or Joanny, "I want a word with the author."
The actor to whom she addressed her remark would bow his assent and stand motionless and silent where he happened to be.
Mademoiselle Mars would come up close to the footlights, with her hand shading her eyes, although she knew well
"M. Hugo?" she would ask. "Is M. Hugo here?".
"I am here, madame," Hugo would reply, as he rose from his seat.
"Ah! that is all right!—thanks.... Will you please tell me, M. Hugo...."
"Madame?"
"I have this line to say—
'Vous Êtes, mon lion, superbe et gÉnÉreux!'"
"Yes, madame; Hernani says to you—
'HÉlas! j'aime pourtant d'une amour bien profonde!
Ne pleure pas ... Mourons plutÔt! Que n'ai-je un monde,
Je te le donnerais! Je suis bien malheureux!'
And you reply to him—
"Vous Êtes, mon lion, superbe et gÉnÉreux!'"
"Do you like that phrase, M. Hugo?"
"Which?"
'"Vous Êtes, mon lion!'"
"That was how I wrote it, madame; so I think it is all right."
"Then you stick to your lion?"
"I may or may not, madame. If you can find something better, I will insert it instead."
"It is not my place to do so; I am not the author."
"Very well, then, madame; if that be so, leave what is written exactly as you find it."
"Really it does sound to me very comic to call M. Firmin mon lion!"
"Oh! that is because while acting the part of DoÑa Sol you think of yourself as Mademoiselle Mars. If you were a true pupil of Ruy Gomez de Sylva, a noble Castilian of the sixteenth century, you would only see Hernani in M. Firmin; you would look upon him as a terrible robber-chief, who made
"Very well! if you stick to your lion we will say no more. It is my duty to say what is written, and as the manuscript has 'mon lion!' I will say 'mon lion!' Of course, it is all one to me. Let us go on, Firmin!
'Vous Êtes, mon lion, superbe et gÉnÉreux!'"
And the rehearsal would be resumed.
But, the next day, when Mademoiselle Mars reached the same place, she stopped as on the day before and, as on the day before, she approached the footlights, again going through the pretence of looking for the author with her hands shading her eyes.
"M. Hugo?" she would say in her harsh voice, the voice of Mademoiselle Mars and not of CÉlimÈne. "Is M. Hugo there?"
"Here I am, madame," Hugo would reply with the same placidity.
"Oh! that is all right. I am glad you are here."
"I had the honour of presenting you my compliments before the rehearsal, madame."
"True.... Well, have you thought over it?"
"Over what, madame?"
"Over what I said to you yesterday."
"You did me the honour of saying a great many things to me yesterday."
"Yes, that was so ... but I mean about that famous hemistich."
"Which?"
"Oh, good gracious! you know quite well the one I mean!"
"I swear I do not, madame; you make so many neat and valuable suggestions that I confuse one with the other."
"I mean the line about the lion."
"Ah yes! 'Vous Êtes, mon lion!' I remember...."
"Well, have you found another line?"
"I confess I have not tried to think of one."
"You do not then think the line risky?"
"What do you mean by risky?"
"Anything that is likely to be hissed."
"I have never presumed to claim exemption from being hissed."
"That may be; but you should avoid being hissed as much as possible."
"So you think the lion phrase will be hissed?"
"I am certain of it!"
"Then, madame, it will be because you have not rendered it with your usual talent."
"I shall say it as well as I can.... All the same, I should prefer...."
"What?"
"To say something different...."
"What?"
"To have it altered altogether!"
"For what?"
"To say"—and Mademoiselle Mars made a show of trying to find the word which she had really been turning over in her mind for three days—"to say, for instance ... ahem!... say ... ahem!
'Vous Êtes, monseigneur, superbe et gÉnÉreux!'
Monseigneur enables the line to be scanned just the same as mon lion, does it not?"
"Quite so, madame; only mon lion lightens the line, and monseigneur makes it heavy."
"I would much rather be hissed for a good line than applauded for a bad one. Very well, very well ... we will not bother any longer about it.... I will say your good line without changing anything in it! Come, Firmin, my friend, let us go on....
'Vous Êtes, mon lion, superbe et gÉnÉreux!'"
It is a well-known fact that, on the day of the first representation, Mademoiselle Mars said, "Vous Êtes, monseigneur!" instead of "Vous Êtes, mon lion!"
The line was neither applauded nor hissed: it was not worth either notice.
A little farther on, Ruy Gomez, after having surprised Hernani and DoÑa Sol in one another's arms, at the announcement of the king's coming hides Hernani in a room, the door of which is hidden by a picture. Then begins the famous scene known by the title of the scÈne des portraits, which is composed of seventy-six lines and takes place between Don Carlos and Ruy Gomez, the scene in which DoÑa Sol listens as mute and motionless as a statue, in which she only takes part when the king wishes to have the duke arrested; when she tears off her veil and flings herself between the duke and the guards, exclaiming—
"Roi don Carlos, vous Êtes
Un mauvais roi!..."
This long silence and absence of movement had always been an offence to Mademoiselle Mars. The ThÉÂtre-FranÇais was used to the traditions of MoliÈre's comedies or the tragedies of Corneille and was up in arms against the mise en scÈne of the modern drama, neither understanding, as a whole, the passion of action nor the poetry of stillness. The consequence was that poor DoÑa Sol did not know what to do with herself during these seventy-six lines. One day she decided to have the matter out with the author. You know her way of interrupting the rehearsals and of advancing to the footlights. The author was in front of the orchestra and Mademoiselle Mars was behind the footlights.
"Are you there, M. Hugo?"
"Yes, madame."
"Ah, good!... Do me a service."
"With the greatest pleasure.... What is it?"
"Tell me what I am to do here."
"Where?"
"On the stage, while M. Michelot and M. Joanny are holding their dialogue."
"You are to listen, madame."
"Yes! I am to listen.... I know that; but I find listening rather tedious."
"Yet you know the scene was originally much longer and I have already cut it down by twenty lines."
"Yes, but could you not cut out another twenty lines?"
"Impossible, madame!"
"Or, at all events, arrange that I take some sort of part in it."
"But you naturally take part by your very presence. It is a question of the man you love whose life or death is being debated; it seems to me that the situation is sufficiently moving and strong to enable you to wait in patient silence to the close."
"All the same ... it is long!"
"I do not feel it so, madame."
"Very good! then we will say no more about it.... But the public are certain to ask, 'What is Mademoiselle Mars supposed to be doing with her hand upon her breast? It was not necessary to give her a part just to remain standing still, with a veil over her eyes, without saying a word for half an act!'"
"The public will say that under the hand of DoÑa Sol—not of Mademoiselle Mars—her heart is beating; that, beneath the veil of DoÑa Sol—not of Mademoiselle Mars—her face is crimsoning with hope or turning pale with terror; that, during the silence—not of Mademoiselle Mars but—of DoÑa Sol, Hernani's lover, the tempest is gathering in her heart which bursts forth in these words, none too respectful from a subject to her sovereign—
'Roi don Carlos, vous Êtes
Un mauvais roi!...'
And, believe me, madame, it will be sufficient for the public."
"If that is your idea, well and good. It is not on my account I am troubling myself about it: if they hiss during the scene it will not be at me they are hissing, as I do not speak one word.... Come on, Michelot; come on, Joanny; let us proceed.
'Roi don Carlos, vous Êtes
Un mauvais roi!..
There, does that satisfy you, M. Hugo?"
"Perfectly, madame." And Hugo bowed and sat down with his imperturbable serenity.
The next day, Mademoiselle Mars stopped the rehearsal at the same place, came up to the footlights and, shading her eyes with her hand, said, in exactly the same voice as that of the day before—
"Are you there, M. Hugo?"
"I am here, madame."
"Well, have you found me something to say?"
"Where?"
"Why, you know where ... in the famous scene where these gentlemen say a hundred and fifty lines while I stare at them and do not utter a word.... I know they are charming to contemplate, but a hundred and fifty lines take a long time to say."
"In the first place, madame, the scene is not a hundred and fifty lines in length, it is only seventy-six, for I have counted them; then, I did not make you any promise to put in something for you to say, since, on the contrary, I tried to prove to you that your silence and immobility, from which you emerge with terrible Éclat, is one of the beauties of the whole scene."
"Beauties, beauties!... I am much afraid the public will not agree with you."
"We shall see."
"Yes, but you may see a little too late.... So you definitely mean to have your way in not giving me anything to say through the whole scene?"
"I do."
"It is all one to me; I will go to the back of the stage and let these gentlemen talk over their business in the front of it."
"You can retire to the back of the stage if you wish, madame, but as the affairs under discussion are as much yours as theirs, you will spoil the scene.... When it suits you, madame, the rehearsal shall be proceeded with."
And the rehearsal was continued.
But, every day, there were some interruptions of the kind to which we have just drawn attention; this annoyed Hugo greatly, for he was still only at the outset of his dramatic career, and imagined that the greatest difficulty was the creation of the play and the most vexatious that of putting it into proper form; he now discovered that all this was child's play compared with the rehearsals. At last, one day, he lost patience and, when the rehearsal was over, he went on the stage and, approaching Mademoiselle Mars, he said—
"Madame, may I be allowed the honour of a few words with you?"
"With me?" replied Mademoiselle Mars in astonishment at this solemn beginning.
"With you."
"Where?"
"Where you will."
"Come this way, then"; and, walking first, Mademoiselle Mars led Hugo into what in those days was called the petit foyer (small green-room), which was, I believe, situated where nowadays is the salon belonging to the manager's box. Louise DesprÉaux was seated in a corner by herself.
We have mentioned that Louise DesprÉaux was one of the pet aversions of Mademoiselle Mars, Madame Menjaud being her favourite. I have described, in due course, the scene I had with Mademoiselle Mars over Louise DesprÉaux concerning the distribution of the part of page to the Duchesse de Guise. When she saw Mademoiselle Mars and Hugo enter, she discreetly rose and left the room; although I have strong suspicions that, with the inquisitiveness of seventeen years of
Mademoiselle Mars leant against the mantelpiece, holding her part in her hand.
"Well, what do you wish to say to me?" she asked.
"I wished to tell you, madame, that I have just made a resolution."
"What is it, monsieur?"
"To ask you to give up your part."
"My part!... Which?"
"The one you asked for in my drama, to my great honour."
"What! the part of DoÑa Sol," exclaimed Mademoiselle Mars, astounded; "do you mean this part?" ... And she pointed to the roll of paper which she held in her hand, frowning her black eyebrows over those eyes which could on occasion assume an incredibly hard expression.
Hugo bowed.
"Yes," he said, "the part of DoÑa Sol which you hold in your hand."
"Ah! that is it, is it?" said Mademoiselle Mars; and she struck the marble chimneypiece with the roll, and stamped on the floor with her foot. "This is the first time an author has ever asked me to give up my part!"
"Very well, madame; I think it is time an example should be set and I will set it."
"But why do you want to take it from me?"
"Because I believe I am right in saying, madame, that when you honour me with your remarks you appear totally to forget to whom you are speaking."
"In what way, monsieur?"
"Oh! I am aware that you are a highly talented lady ... but there is one point, I repeat, upon which you seem to be ignorant, to which I ought to call your attention; namely, that I also, madame, am a talented person: take this fact into consideration, I beg of you, and treat me accordingly."
"You think, then, that I shall act your part badly?"
"I know that you will play it admirably well, madame, but I also know that, from the beginning of the rehearsals, you have been extremely rude to me—conduct that is unworthy both of Mademoiselle Mars and of M. Victor Hugo."
"Oh!" she muttered, biting her pale lips, "you do indeed deserve to have your part given back to you!"
Hugo held out his hand.
"I am ready to take it, madame," he said.
"And if I do not play it, who will?"
"Oh! upon my word, madame, the first person that comes to hand.... Why, Mademoiselle DesprÉaux, for instance. She, of course, does not possess your talent, but she is young and she is pretty, and so will fulfil two out of the three conditions the part demands; then, too, she will yield me the deference to which I am entitled, of the lack of which, on your part, I have had to complain."
And Hugo stood with his arm stretched out and his hand open, waiting for Mademoiselle Mars to give him back the part.
"Mademoiselle DesprÉaux! Mademoiselle DesprÉaux!" muttered Mademoiselle Mars. "Ah! indeed that is a good joke!... So it seems you are paying attentions to Mademoiselle DesprÉaux?"
"I? I have never spoken a word to her in my life!"
"And you definitely and formally ask me to give you back my part?"
"Formally and definitely I ask you to give me back the part."
"Very well; I shall keep the rÔle.... I shall play it, and as no one else would play it in Paris, I swear."
"So be it. Keep the rÔle; only, do not forget what I have said to you with regard to the courtesy that should obtain between people of our distinction."
And Hugo bowed to Mademoiselle Mars and left her utterly overcome by that haughty dignity to which the authors of the Empire had not accustomed her; they had grovelled
From that day, Mademoiselle Mars was cold but polite to Hugo and, as she had promised him, when the night of the first representation came, she played the part to perfection.
Michelot, a very different person from Mademoiselle Mars, was polite almost to the verge of sycophancy; but as he detested us in his heart of hearts, when the hour of the struggle came, instead of fighting loyally and valiantly, as Mademoiselle Mars did, he slyly went over to the enemy and gave the sharpshooters in the pit the hint where, at the most opportune moments, they might find our weakest places. Many liberties were taken with Michelot's part which an actor who had cared less for popular opinion would never have allowed himself to take. As a matter of fact, before the representation, we had waged rude warfare against the risky passages in the part of Don Carlos; I remember among others having very regretfully made Hugo cut out a quatrain to which Michelot seemed to cling tenaciously: I have since discovered why. These four lines were of that charmingly quaint turn which is natural to Hugo and to no one else.
When Ruy Gomez de Sylva goes back to his niece's house and is on the point of taking Don Carlos and Hernani by surprise, the latter, fearful for the reputation of DoÑa Sol, wishes to hide the king and himself in the very narrow cupboard which Don Carlos was about to vacate, wherein he was sufficiently uncomfortable by himself; but the king rebelled against the suggestion. Is it, indeed, he says—
"Est-ce donc une game À mettre des chrÉtiens?
Nous nous pressons un peu; vous y tenez, j'y tiens.
Le duc entre et s'en vient vers l'armoire oÙ nous sommes,
Pour y prendre un cigare.... Il y trouve deux hommes!"
For these lines to have their comic effect, they ought to be flung off with the lightheartedness and easy bearing of a king who numbers only nineteen years, and who is in the heyday of prosperity (notice that Charles V. was but nineteen when
"Si j'avais À rÉpondre À d'autres que Topyre,
Je ne ferais parler que le Dieu qui m'inspire;
Le glaive et l'Alcoran, dans mes terribles mains,
Imposeraient silence au reste des humains!"
It was perfectly idiotie! so, on my persuasion, and in spite of Michelot's objections, who privately hoped those lines would produce their effect, the erasure was decided on and pitilessly adhered to.
I have said that it was very different with Joanny: he was an old soldier, the soul of honour and openness, who came to the fourth rehearsal without his manuscript, for he already knew his part thoroughly; so if one had to find any fault with him at all, it was that he became blasÉ, by the thirty to forty general rehearsals, before the first public performance of the piece.
This first representation was an important affair for our party. I had won the Valmy of the literary revolution; Hugo must win the Jemmapes in order that the new school might be well on the way to victory. So, when the time comes to speak of the first reproduction of Hernani, we will give it the full attention it deserves. But for the moment we must be slaves to chronology and pass from Victor Hugo to de Vigny, from Hernani to Othello.
CHAPTER XIII
Alfred de Vigny—The man and his works—Harel, the manager at the OdÉon—Downfall of SouliÉ's Christine—Parenthesis about Lassailly—Letter of Harel, with preface by myself and postscript by SouliÉ—I read my Christine at the OdÉon—Harel asks me to put it into prose—First representation of the More de Venise—The actors and the papers
Whilst the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais was waiting for the famous 1st of October, on which Hugo had engaged to provide the unnamed drama at which he was working, in place of Marion Delorme, they decided to rehearse Shakespeare's Othello, translated by Alfred de Vigny, which, in common with Henri III. and Marion Delorme, had been received with enthusiastic acclamation at its reading before the committee.
Alfred de Vigny completed the poetic trinity of the period, although his work was of a lower order: people talked of Hugo and Lamartine, or Lamartine and Hugo, and spoke of Alfred de Vigny as of the next rank. Alfred de Vigny possessed very little imagination, but he had a fine and correct style; he was known by his romance Cinq-Mars, which would only have met with a medium success had it appeared nowadays, but, coming as it did at a time of dearth in literature, it had a great run.
When Hugo read Marion Delorme de Vigny had whispered to his friends—this sort of thing is always said to one's friends—that Didier and Saverny, the two principal characters in the drama, were an imitation of Cinq-Mars and de Thou. But I am convinced that, when Hugo wrote his play, he never even thought of de Vigny's romance.
Besides the novel Cinq-Mars, de Vigny had composed
De Vigny was a very singular man; he was polite and affable and gentle in all his dealings, but he affected the most utter unworldliness—an affectation, moreover, that accorded perfectly with his charming face, its delicate and refined features, encased in long fair curly hair, making him look like a brother of the cherubim. De Vigny never descended to earthly things if he could avoid it; if perchance he folded his wings and rested on the peak of a mountain, it was a concession which he made to humanity, because, after all, it was useful to him when he held his brief intercourse with us. Hugo and I used to marvel greatly at his utter unconsciousness of the material needs of our nature, which many of us, Hugo and I among the number, satisfied not only without any feeling of shame but with a certain sensual enjoyment. None of us had ever surprised de Vigny at table. Dorval, who for seven years of her life had passed several hours a day with him, declared to us with an astonishment almost amounting to terror, that she had never even seen him eat a radish! Now even Proserpine, a goddess, was not so abstemious as that; carried off by Pluto to the lower regions, she had, from the first, in spite of the preoccupation of mind to which her unappetising sojourn had naturally disposed her, managed to eat seven pomegranate seeds! Nevertheless, these characteristics did not prevent de Vigny from being an agreeable companion, a gentleman to his finger-tips, always ready to do you a kindness and totally incapable of doing you a bad turn. Nobody exactly knew de Vigny's age; but, judging approximately, as it was known that de Vigny had served in the guards on the return of Louis XVIII., and supposing he was eighteen at the time he entered the service, say in 1815, he must have been thirty-two in 1829.
It will be observed that all these great revolutionaries were very young and that the revolutionary poets were very much like the three generals of the Revolution of whom I have, I believe, spoken, who commanded the army of Sambre-et-Meuse, and whose combined ages reckoned seventy years: Hoche, Marceau and my father.
The coming representation of Othello made a great stir. We all knew de Vigny's translation, and although we should have preferred to have been supported by national troops and a French general, rather than by this poetical condottiere, we realised that we must accept all the arms we could against our enemies, especially when such arms came from the arsenal of the great master of us all—Shakespeare. Mademoiselle Mars and Joanny were allotted the principal parts. They were powerful auxiliaries, but they were not precisely the kind we wanted. Mademoiselle Mars and Joanny looked a little awkward in the habiliments which (dramatically speaking) were not suitable to their figures. Mademoiselle Mars was a charming woman of the Empire period, refined, light, delicate, graceful, satirical, possessing none of the gentle, innocent melancholy of the Moor's mistress; and Joanny, with his retroussÉ nose À la Odry and his gestures with no grandeur or majesty in them, did not recall the gloomy and terrible lover of Desdemona. The part of Iago that Ducis had replaced by that of Pezarre, as one replaces a flesh-and-bone leg by a wooden one, fell to the lot of Perrier, and was to make its appearance in full daylight for the first time.
So the representation was looked forward to with much impatience; but, whilst awaiting this solemn occasion, which, as we have mentioned, was to take place at the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais, another production was being prepared at the OdÉon which was of special importance to me, namely, the Christine À Fontainebleau by FrÉdÉric SouliÉ. M. Brault's Christine died a few days after its birth, as I have said in due course, and had disappeared without leaving any trace!
The OdÉon had been recently reorganised on new lines. Harel, whom we have seen attempting to seize Marion
I had not seen FrÉdÉric since the night upon which we had parted with feelings of coldness towards one another and had each—decided to go on with our own Christines. Henri III. and its success and all the renown it had brought with it had passed without my hearing mention of SouliÉ's name. His Christine was finished and that was the last I heard of him. He had sent me two seats in the gallery for his Juliette and I had sent him two balcony tickets for my Henri III., and that was the extent of our exchange of politeness. I expected seats to be sent me for Christine, but, to my great astonishment, I did not receive them. Later, I found out that this was due to Harel, who feared I should do the play an ill turn, and so opposed tickets being sent me.
As I had no seat for the first production I made no effort to procure one for myself; and I went to bed quite satisfied that I should hear first thing next morning whether the play had been received with applause or hissed at. As a matter of fact, one of my good friends, a lad who had done nothing then beyond showing promise of talent but who has since made his mark, Achille Comte, came to my room at seven next morning. Poor Christine had fallen quite flat. SouliÉ, apparently, had conceived the notion of introducing an Italian bandit in the forest of Fontainebleau, and this had produced
The reading of Marion had not only impressed me deeply, but it had done me immense service: it had opened out to me hitherto undreamed-of poetic suggestions; it had revealed to me possibilities in the way of treating poetry of which I had never thought; finally, it had given me my first idea for Antony. The day after the reading of Marion Delorme I set to work with unusual courage. Before the music of the lines I had listened to the previous night had ceased ringing in my ears, I had started, inspired by the harmony of their dying strains; and the new Christine opened its eyes to the strains of the distant and melodious echo which still lived in my spirit, although the sound itself had ceased.
I must be allowed a brief digression on the subject of Christine: I give it as a study in manners and customs and I hope it will not be mistaken for boasting.
There was in those days, outside the literary world, a big fellow who was half an idiot, with a long crooked nose and legs like Seringuinos in the Pilules du Diable. He was, I believe, the son of an OrlÉans apothecary and he played the young Don Juan to chambermaids and daughters of the porter, whom he transformed into baronesses and duchesses in his elegies and sonnets; he wrote a novel which was published but, I am certain, was never read. This novel was entitled the Roueries de Trialph. His name was Lassailly.
There are certain people who acquire the odd privilege of introducing the grotesque into the most mournful and heartrending of scenes, and Lassailly was one of the most highly favoured of these purveyors of the ridiculous. Once, I had gone to bed and was writing the first scene between Paula and Monaldeschi and had got to these lines—
"Oh! garde-moi! je serai ta servante!
Tout ce qu'une amour pure ou dÉlirante invente
Quand tu me maudiras, moi, je te bÉnirai—
J'aurai des mots d'amour qui guÉriront ton Âme;
Garde-moi! Je consens qu'une autre soit ta femme;
Je promets de l'aimer, d'obÉir À sa loi;
Mais, par le Dieu vivant, garde-moi! garde-moi!..."
Suddenly I heard the door of my sitting room open and a howling being of some sort or other approached my bedroom; next I saw my bedroom door open and Lassailly entered, flinging himself on the carpet and tearing his hair. The apparition was so unexpected, so strange and even so terrifying that I stretched out my hand for the double-barrelled pistols I kept in a recess at the head of my bed. When I saw that it was Lassailly, I pushed the pistols back and awaited an explanation of this exhibition of buffoonery. The explanation was sad enough: the poor devil's father had thrown himself into the river and Lassailly had just learned both that his father had been drowned and that his body, after having been taken out of the water, was exposed at the OrlÉans Morgue, whence it could not be taken away without the payment of a certain sum of money. Lassailly had not a halfpenny towards this sum and he had come to ask it of me. At the sight of the son weeping for his father, who had met with his death in this deplorable manner, I could only visualize one mental picture: I was not so much impressed by the son's grief, which, however extravagant in expression, to the point of grotesqueness, was still, perhaps, sincere at bottom; but by the thought of the real, unforeseen and irreparable misery of the poor wretch that had been drawn from the waters of the Loire, pale and streaming, and sad, with eyes dimmed by death, and face smeared with river weeds, now laid on the damp stones of the Morgue. I did not attempt to console Lassailly: one does not offer comfort unless people ask for it. Rachel weeping for her children in Ramah, and filling the air with her lamentations, would not be comforted, because they were not.
"My friend," I said, "let us get to the most pressing part of the business. You want to go to OrlÉans, do you not? To
Lassailly tried to throw himself into my arms, made an attempt to embrace me and called me his saviour; but I gently pushed him away, pointed with my hand to the drawer and repeated—
"There, there ... take it; ... take a hundred and thirty francs, and leave me five."
He took the sum and left, and when he had gone I resumed and finished my scene between Paula and Monaldeschi. A fortnight later, the first, and to be accurate also the last, number of a little paper was brought to me. A critic announced in a prefatory article that it meant to tell the truth for the first time about the various high-flown false reputations that sprang up in a night. The article went on to say that it meant at last to put men and things in the places God had intended them to occupy.
I This series of the avengers of justice, these literary executions, began with Alexandre Dumas. The article was signed "Lassailly," and had brought him in a hundred francs! The man who brought me the paper was acquainted with what I had done for Lassailly a fortnight before.
"Well," he asked, "what do you say to that?"
"Poor boy!" I replied; "he has perhaps had to bury his mother!"
And I stuffed the journal into the chiffonier drawer from whence he had taken the hundred and thirty francs which he never paid back. Lassailly has since died, and the paper was never resuscitated.
Let us now return to the two Christines. Directly, as I have said, I learnt the failure of SouliÉ's, I finished mine within a month almost, and it then had the form it now bears. I went, that same day, to find the manager of the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais,
"MY DEAR DUMAS,—What do you think of this idea of Mademoiselle Georges? To play your Christine immediately, on the same stage and with the same actors as those who played SouliÉ's Christine? The conditions to be settled by yourself. You need not trouble your head with the idea that you will strangle a friend's work, because it yesterday died a natural death.—Yours ever, HAREL"
I called my servant, and on the epistle which I have above transcribed I wrote the words—
"MY DEAR FRÉDÉRIC,—Read this letter. What a rascal your friend Harel is!—Yours, ALEX. DUMAS"
My servant took the letter to the sawmill at la Gare and, an hour later, he brought me back this answer at the bottom of the same letter. FrÉdÉric had written—
"MY DEAR DUMAS,—Harel is not my friend, he is a manager. Harel is not a rascal, only a speculator. I would not do what he is doing, but I would advise him to accept. Gather up the fragments of my Christine—and I warn you there are plenty of them—throw them into the basket of the first rag-and-bone man that passes your way and get your own piece played.—Yours ever, F. SOULIÉ"
It will be admitted that Harel's letter was a very curious document, with its preface and its postscript. With this authorisation, I did not see any difficulty in the way of accepting Harel's offers. My sole stipulation was that, whether my play were received or not at the reading of the committee, it should be proceeded with within six weeks of the date of the agreement.
The reading before the committee was fixed for the following Saturday and the reading before the actors for Sunday night. I had my reasons for being suspicious of the committee: it had received me under reservation of correction and, as the committee of the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais had given me Samson as reviser, the committee of the OdÉon appointed MM. Tissot and Sainte-Beuve as their advisers. As CavÉ rose to leave, he declared that the play contained some fine passages, but that it was not suitable for acting. And he was the only friend I had on the committee!
Harel was completely staggered; for, although he was an able man, he could not distinguish good poetry from bad, and did not know what was great or beautiful.
I wish it to be thoroughly understood that I do not mean these remarks to apply to his doubts about Christine, but only to his judgment generally. He worshipped Voltaire, and, before he died, he had the happiness to be decorated for his eulogium on the author of ZaÏre. While I strongly admired Voltaire as a philosopher and narrator, on the other hand I thought but little of him as a poet, and specially as a dramatic poet; as a dramatist, his methods are ordinary, worn-out and melodramatic; as a writer, his lines are poor, sententious and badly rhymed. It is unfortunate for the philosopher of Ferney, but it must be, confessed that it is only in his infamous poem the Pucelle that he is well-nigh unapproachable; and even those who are revolted by the impiety, historical calumny and patriotic ingratitude of it are compelled to admire the work, for it is a masterpiece.
In spite of CavÉ's opinion and Harel's perturbation, the
I read to the actors—that class of people which, taking all things into consideration, is the quickest at judging beforehand of the effect of a piece, although every actor, in general, listens to the work that is being read to him from his own particular point of view, thinks mainly of the effect of his own part and does not worry himself over those of his neighbours. The reading was a great success, but Harel was none the less troubled by an idea that he did not reveal until next day. He came to me at break of day to propose to me, in all simplicity, to put Christine into prose. And this was how Harel exhibited himself to me in all his glory at the very outset. Of course I laughed in his face and, after laughing at him, I showed him the door.
The following day, the first rehearsal took place, as though no such suggestion had ever been made. The piece was capitally mounted: Georges played Christine; Ligier, Sentinelli; Lockroy, Monaldeschi; and Mademoiselle Noblet, whose dÉbut it almost was, played Paula. It had been decreed on high that the person for whom the latter rÔle had been made was not to play it! "Man proposes, God disposes." Even the two slight parts of the assassins of Monaldeschi were played by two actors of the very highest merit, Stockleit and Duparay.
Just as my rehearsals began, Alfred de Vigny's ended. Our relative partisans were exasperated with us, and with some
The first representation of the More de Venise was introduced with every appearance of a battle. Mademoiselle Mars had gone over bag and baggage from the old style of comedy to the new modern school of drama; we had won over Joanny, Perrier and Firmin, and in short there was not an actor down to the excellent David, who had accepted the small part of Cassio, who would not be acting in the Shakespearian exhibition that was preparing. The rage of the men who for thirty years had monopolised the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais had to be seen, before an idea could be conceived of the howls and curses that were flung at us. These gentlemen only seemed acquainted with Shakespeare through what Voltaire had said about him, and Schiller by means of M. Petitot. When M. Lebrun and M. Ancelot had borrowed their Maria Stuart and Fiesque from the German Shakespeare, they decided that MM. Ancelot and Lebrun had done Schiller great honour thereby, and a host of articles had demonstrated that very indifferent works—works only fit for the stage of a fair—were real classical masterpieces! This time, the public was not going to see Shakespeare corrected, castrated and docked, but—save for the loss he must necessarily sustain from translation—the giant himself, who had kept the crowning place in England during the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. If these sacrilegious exhibitions continued, what could ZaÏre say confronted with Desdemona, Ninus with Hamlet or the Deux Gendres with King Lear? Such pale and sickly counterfeits of nature and truth must fail and come to nothing or suffer by comparison!
I opened a paper by chance and in it I read:—
"The representation of the More de Venise is being prepared for as though there were going to be a battle to decide some great literary question. It is to settle whether Shakespeare, Schiller and Goethe are to drive Corneille, Racine and Voltaire from the French stage."
This was a delicious lapse from truth and exquisitely spiteful; for, thanks to the notion of the expulsion of the masters, it excited the bourgeois classes, and the question, which was entirely beside the mark, by the very form it took, gave justification to those who put it.
No! indeed no! These masters of art were no more driven from their time-honoured Parnassus than the bourgeoisie drove out the aristocracy from the positions they had occupied since the beginning of the monarchy. No, we did not say to these great masters, "Retire and give up your places to us!" but, "Allow us to aspire to the same rights with you, if we deserve to do so. The heathen Olympus was large enough to contain six thousand gods, make then a little space, ye gods of old France, for the Scandinavian and Teutonic gods. The religion of MoliÈre, of Corneille and of Racine was ever that of the State; but let liberty for all religions be proclaimed!"
But they were too narrow and exclusive, and, instead of welcoming these new gods, instead of hailing all that was lofty in them and only criticising what was unworthy in them, the political exiles of yesterday wanted to-day to enforce a literary proscription. It seems incredibly strange and mysterious, but nevertheless so it was!
In spite of violent opposition, Othello succeeded. The groans of the jealous African were heard for the first time, and people were moved and shivered and trembled under the sobs of that terrible wrath. Joanny, carried away by his part, was often remarkable in his acting, and once or twice he was sublime. I never saw anything more picturesque than that great African figure as it strode the stage in the darkness of night, draped like a spectre in its large white burnous, whispering in a gloomy voice, with arms extended towards Desdemona's dwelling—
"... Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returned forthwith ..."
Mademoiselle Mars, who was of a much wider discernment in her art than Joanny, was uniformly excellent;
"He will not say so."
I am writing all this from memory, as will be readily guessed, so I quote only the parts that stand out most clearly in my mind, after an interval of twenty-two years. I may therefore be pardoned for not quoting more than these two instances.
Well, the strange part of the situation was that the Liberal papers, those which cried up movement and progress in politics, were the reactionaries in literature; while the Royalist papers, those which took the side of stagnation and conservatism in politics, were the revolutionaries in literature. It was still more difficult to comprehend if one did not know that the Constitutionnel, the Courrier franÇais and the Pandore were edited by MM. Jay, Jouy, Arnault, Étienne, Viennet, etc., whilst the Quotidienne, the Drapeau blanc and the Foudre were under the management of Merle, ThÉaulon, Brisset, Martainville, Lassagne, Nodier and MÉly-Jeannin. The one set worked for the ThÉÂtre-FranÇais and, having usurped the position, meant to keep it; the others, in general, had only worked for the boulevard theatres, and these were eager to have a breach made in the classical ramparts to give access to themselves. Merle was, besides, the husband of Madame Dorval, whose talent was just beginning to make a sensation and who had created with incontestable success the rÔles of AmÉlie in Trente Ans ou la Vie d'un Joueur and of Charlotte Corday in Sept Heures, also of Louise in l'Incendiaire. We need not mention the part of HÉlÉna in Marino Faliero, for the part was poor and Madame Dorval was not able to transform a bad part into a good one.
I have mentioned that the rehearsals of Christine had begun. Let us leave them to pursue their course and take a peep into the world of city-life, which we have deserted for a very long time for the world of the stage. Whilst changing scenes, we will nevertheless conduct our reader to the house of a comedian
CHAPTER XIV
Citizen-general Barras—Doctor Cabarrus introduces me to him—Barras's only two regrets—His dinners—The Princess de Chimay's footman—Fauche-Borel—The Duc de Bordeaux makes a mess—History lesson given to an ambassador—Walter Scott and Barras—The last happiness of the old directeur—His death
I have related how my successful play Henri III. had launched me in the world and the curiosity there was excited over its author. Barras was among the number of those who wanted to be introduced to me. The name which I inherited from my father was of special historic significance to the Man of the Convention, the Directoire, 9 thermidor and 13 vendÉmiaire.
The history of Barras is known by heart. He was the son of an ancient ProvenÇal family, and he had entered the army early; he had been sent to the isle of France and to India, where he had valiantly taken part in the defence of Pondicherry. He left the service with the rank of captain, and had come to Paris, where he had led an extremely dissipated life. Taken from this life of pleasure by his fellow-citizens of Var, who made him their dÉputÉ, in 1792, he had been a member of the Convention amongst the Montagnards; was charged with a mission, the following year, to suppress both the Federalist and Royalist movement which was agitating the South; had assisted at the recapture of Toulon from the English; and here had become acquainted with Major Bonaparte, thus being able to judge the advantage such a man would be to any party. On 9 thermidor, he was made commander of the armed forces of Paris: he it was who seized Robespierre and gave him up to the scaffold. Some days later, he was himself
The events on 18 brumaire having squashed the Bourbon counter-revolution, Barras, being proscribed by his former protector, retired to Brussels and then to Rome. He only returned to France in 1816; settling down at Chaillot, where he had since dwelt, and where, thanks to an income of 200,000 livres which he had saved out of the various shipwrecks of his political career, he kept a charming and very luxurious household, waited on by a large retinue of servants. I specially refer to the number of servants, because Barras always had at his sumptuous table as many servants as guests, and several times I have dined there when there were twenty to twenty-five guests.
I was introduced to the old dictator by one of my oldest and best friends, a man whom I was always delighted to see when I was well and still more pleased to see if I were ill, namely, Doctor Cabarrus, son of the handsome Madame Tallien. Cabarrus was then, and indeed still is, a fine strongly built man, with a sympathetic face and a character to accord. Endowed with a charming nature, sound learning and untiring observation, Cabarrus had, less by his social position than by his own personal work, been thrown into the midst of all the aristocratic circles—the aristocracies of birth, talent and science. No one could tell a story better than he, or, rarer gift still, be a better listener than he: he had a fine, delicate smiling mouth, and showed a lovely set of teeth when he laughed, which lit up his face. Barras was very fond of him, which
So it was Cabarrus who took me, one Wednesday morning, to Barras's house. I had been warned that the old dictator was always addressed as Citizen-general; there was no compulsion in the matter, of course, but that was the title which pleased him best.
Barras received us seated in a great arm-chair, which he vacated as rarely during the last years of his life as Louis XVIII. left his. He remembered my father perfectly well and the accident that had prevented his taking command of the armed forces on 13 vendÉmiaire, and I recollect that several times that day he repeated over to me this sentence which I give word for word:—
"Young man, do not forget what an old Republican says to you: I have but two regrets, I ought rather to call them remorses, which will be the only ones present at my bedside when I come to die. I have the two-edged remorse of having, overthrown Robespierre by the 9 thermidor, and of having raised Bonaparte to power by the 13 vendÉmiaire."
It will be observed that I have not forgotten what Barras said to me, although on one of the two points (I will leave my reader to guess which) I am not entirely of his opinion.
Wednesday was Barras's reception day. Cabarrus had chosen it hoping that the "Citizen-general" would keep me to dinner, where I should meet with various representatives of the end of the last century and of the early days of the present one—representatives who, by the way, whatever they might be, when inside Barras's house, became subdued to the Republican spirit, and were simply citizens, whether male or female. Cabarrus was not disappointed: the old dictator invited us to stay dinner and, if we did not wish to return to Paris, offered us the use of a carriage to take us a drive in the woods until the dinner-hour came. Cabarrus had his business to attend to, and I had mine; so we accepted the invitation to dinner, but declined the carriage, and took leave of Barras.
In 1829, Barras was an extremely fine-looking old man of
We returned to dinner. I have dined with Barras three times, and at each dinner I witnessed an unusually odd incident. On the first occasion—the one of which I am speaking—we were between twenty and twenty-five in number. Among the guests was Madame Tallien, who became the Princess of Chimay. She came accompanied by a footman whose marvellous plumes were the admiration of the whole company. We had been introduced into the salon, where the first comers did the honours of the house to those who arrived later. Barras never appeared except at the dinner-table. When the dinner-hour arrived, the folding doors were flung open into the dining-room and each guest found the place that had been put for him; the bedroom door was then opened and Barras was wheeled to the centre of the table; then the guests sat down and attacked the delicate repast with good appetite. Barras's own meal was very odd: a huge leg of mutton was brought to him and carved in such a fashion as to bring out all the gravy; the joint was then carried back to the kitchen, and the gravy was left in Barras's deep plate. He sopped bread in the gravy and this concoction formed his meal. I never saw him eat anything else on the three occasions I dined with him.
On this particular day, in the middle of dinner, a great noise was heard in the kitchen as though a fight were going on, and we could hear shouts mingled with bursts of laughter. Barras was accustomed to be admirably waited on and in an unusually silent manner. Not a single one of the servants who waited behind the guests ever breathed a word or rattled a plate or jingled the silver. Apart from the luxuriousness of
"Courtand!" Barras asked, frowning, "what is all that noise?"
"I do not know, citizen-general," Courtand replied, himself as greatly astonished at this infraction of the rules of the house; "I will go and see."
Courtand went out and, five seconds later, re-entered, every face turning to the door to look at him.
"Well?" asked Barras.
"Oh! it is nothing, citizen-general," Courtand replied, laughing.
"But what was it about?"
"The servants belonging to the citizens present"—and Courtand pointed towards the guests, who, it should be said, mostly belonged to Republican opinion—"are plucking feathers from citizen Tallien's footman and the poor devil shrieks because they pinch his skin a bit while they are doing it."
"And what has he done to deserve to be plucked alive by the other servants?" asked Barras.
"He called his mistress Madame la Princesse de Chimay!"
"Then he deserves his punishment: his mistress is not called the Princesse de Chimay, she is called citizen Tallien."
On another occasion—this, too, happened at table—one place remained empty. The guest who was late was the famous Royalist agent with whom you are acquainted, Fauche-Borel, who, six months later, was reduced to misery by the ingratitude of the Bourbons, and committed suicide by throwing himself from a window at NeuchÂtel. He was very intimate at Barras's house and it was said that it was through his mediation that the abortive negotiations were entered into in 1792 between the Bourbons and the old dictator. Well! Fauche-Borel was late: he arrived at the roast course,
"Ah! here you are, my dear Fauche-Borel," Barras exclaimed. "Why are you so late as this?"
"Ah! citizen-general, rather ask why I am so upset."
"Well, my dear fellow, what is the matter?"
"Oh, general, I have seen the most touching, the most moving, the most instructive spectacle ... I have just come from the Tuileries ..."
"Ah! ah!—and was it there you saw this touching, moving, instructive scene? You were very lucky, my friend, to have managed to fall on your feet! Come, tell us what you saw, so that we too may be moved and softened and edified."
"Well, citizen-general, M. le Duc de Bordeaux spilt some water on the floor of the great salon where he was playing."
"Really!"
"And the Duc de Damas said to him, 'Monseigneur, you have made a mess on the floor; I am much distressed about it, but you must wipe it up.' 'What! I must wipe it up!' the young prince exclaimed. 'Why are there no servants here?' 'There are, but, as the mess was made this time by your Highness, your Highness must wipe it up.... Go and fetch a mop!' said the duke to a footman; and, when the man hesitated, he added, 'Do as I command you!' The lackey arrived with a mop five minutes later, and His Highness shed many tears; but M. de Damas was firm and Monseigneur was himself obliged to mop up the mess he had made! What do you say to that, citizen-general?"
"I should say," Barras replied, in the sarcastic tones that were habitual to him, "that the tutor of the Duc de Bordeaux did quite right to teach his pupil a trade; so that when his noble parents depart he will have something in his hands to take to."
Another time—again it happened at table—a famous general, who was an eminent soldier and a man of striking abilities, then ambassador at Constantinople, related, with bitter feeling, a scene that took place during the Revolution.
By chance, Courtand, Barras's valet and steward and a free-spoken
"General," he said, "I must stop you—it did not happen at all as you are telling it: you are slandering the Revolution!"
The general turned indignantly to Barras to call his attention to this familiarity on the part of his lackey. But Barras broke out—
"Messieurs, Courtand is right! Tell the episode as it happened, Courtand; re-establish the facts and give a lesson in history to Monsieur the ambassador."
And Courtand related the facts as they had occurred, to the great satisfaction of Barras and the amazed astonishment of the company.
When Walter Scott came to Paris to hunt up documents connected with the reign of Napoleon, whose life he was proposing to write, Barras, who had some precious papers to show him, desired to see him and begged Cabarrus—who knew the history of the Revolution as intimately as did Courtand, but could tell it better than he (we mean no offence to the memory of Citizen-general Barras)—to invite the celebrated romance-writer to come and dine with him. Cabarrus began by having a long conversation with Walter Scott, who, knowing that he was in the society of the son of Madame Tallien, talked much of all the events in which Cabarrus's mother had played a part: finally, the messenger approached the real object of his visit and transmitted Barras's invitation to the Scottish poet. But Walter Scott shook his head.
"I cannot dine with that man," he replied. "I shall write against him, and it would be said, as we say in Scotland, 'that I have flung his own dinner-plates at his head!'"
One afternoon, Cabarrus invited me to spend an hour with him in the afternoon, and I put in my appearance punctual to the time appointed.
"Barras will die to-day," he said to me; "would you like to see him for the last time before his death?"
"Certainly," I replied; for I was anxious to be able to say later to people, who had only known him by name, "I saw Barras on the day of his death."
"Very well, come with me: I am going literally for the purpose of saying good-bye to him."
We got into a carriage and went to Chaillot. We found Courtand looking very melancholy, and, when Cabarrus asked him how his master was, he only shook his head. He showed Cabarrus into the room of the dying man all the same, and, as I was with Cabarrus, let me go in too. We expected to find Barras sad and pale and weak and depressed, but he was merry and smiling and almost rosy-looking, though this colour was but the flush of fever. We began by apologising for my presence: I had met Cabarrus in the Champs-ÉlysÉes and, learning that he was going to inquire after Barras, I wished to accompany him. Barras made me a little friendly inclination with his head to indicate that I was welcome.
"But," Cabarrus exclaimed, "what did that pessimist of a Courtand tell me, general? He made out that you were worse; on the contrary, you look ever so much better!"
"Ah yes!" said Barras, "because you find me alone and cheerful ... that does not alter the fact that I shall be dead to-night, my dear Cabarrus! Do you hear that, Dumas? I am like Leonidas and shall sup to-night with Pluto! I shall be able to tell your father, who would be happy enough to see you, that I have seen you to-day."
"But what were you laughing at when we came in?" Cabarrus inquired, trying to turn the conversation from talk of death to matters of life.
"What made me laugh?" Barras replied. "I will tell you. Because I have just played a capital trick on our rulers.... As I have been a man of power, they have had their eyes on me; they know I am dying, and they have been watching for the moment of my death to seize hold of my papers. I have therefore, since the morning, been busy attaching my seal to these thirty or forty boxes. After my death, they will be seized; but I have given directions for counsel to be
"No, I confess I have not the slightest idea."
"My laundress's bills for thirty-five years ... and they will take a lot of adding up, for I have sent plenty of dirty linen to the laundries since 9 thermidor...."
Barras burst into such a frank and merry peal of laughter that he fell back exhausted, and that evening he died, as he predicted, shortly before the Revolution of 1830.
