In the story of “Albert Savarus” Balzac drew a picture of the hero which, with slight modifications, might have served as his own.

He was tall and somewhat stout. His hands were those of a prelate, and his head was that of a Nero. His hair was black and dense, and his forehead, furrowed by sabre-cuts of thought, was high and massive. His complexion was of an olive hue; his nose was prominent and slightly arched; his mouth was sympathetic, and his chin firm. But his most remarkable characteristic was the expression of his gold-brown eyes, which, eloquent with interrogations and replies, seemed, instead of receiving light from without, to project jets of interior flame.

His many vicissitudes had endowed him with an air of such calm tranquillity as might have disconcerted a thunderbolt; while his voice, at once penetrating and soft, had the charm attributed to Talma’s.

In conversation persuasive and magnetic, he held his auditors breathless in a torrent of words and gesture. He convinced almost at will, and his imagination, once unbridled, was sufficient to cause a vertigo. “He frightens me,” said GÉrard de Nerval; “he is enough to drive one crazy.”

“He possessed,” Gautier said, “a swing, an eloquence, and a brio which were perfectly irresistible. Gliding from one subject to another, he would pass from an anecdote to a philosophical reflection, from an observation to a description. As he spoke, his face flushed, his eyes became peculiarly luminous, his voice assumed different inflections, while at times he would burst out laughing, amused by the comic apparitions which he saw before describing, and announced, in this way, by a sort of fanfare, the entrance of his caricatures and witticisms. The misfortunes of a precarious existence, the annoyances of debt, fatigue, excessive work, even illness, were unable to change this striking characteristic of continual and Rabelaisian joviality.”

Friends, enemies, editors, strangers, money-lenders, and usurers, all with whom he came in contact, were fascinated and coerced by the extraordinary magnetism which he exerted without effort, and the most vigorous intellects were bewildered by his projects of fortune and dreams of glory.

Attracted by the mine of wealth which the theatre opens to the popular playwright; and burdened with a real or imaginary weight of debt, from which one or two dramas, if favorably received, would free him entirely; and desirous, moreover, of experiencing the delirious intoxication which the plaudits of the gallery bring to the successful dramatist, Balzac’s inflammable imagination became a veritable whirlwind of plots and epigrams whenever a new play was well received.

But for the playwright, as for the mechanic, an apprenticeship is obligatory, and, though Balzac’s novels contained action and analysis, drama and observation, it was not, as we have seen, until after a long and laborious preparation that he was enabled to attract the attention of the public; and it is evident that the heights which he then scaled were so fatiguing and time-consuming that his life, wearied by the struggle, was not of sufficient duration to permit his winning equal triumphs on the stage.

From his early schooldays, however, in which, it will be remembered, he commenced a tragedy on the Incas, which was afterwards followed by a drama in blank verse entitled “Cromwell,” the stage had possessed an irresistible attraction for him; and if therein he was not at first successful, it was perhaps from the very cause which brought to him his original popularity, and the superabundance of his ideas, paradoxical as it at first appears, was undoubtedly his greatest stumbling-block.

To imagine a plot was nothing, the scenes were but details, and the outline of a melodrama was to him the work of as little labor as would be required in the conception of a pleasing menu; but when the general plan was sketched, each scene would suggest a dozen others, and the Coliseum of Vespasian would not have been large enough to present the simultaneous action which the play, at once interminable and impossible, would have demanded.

Another reason for his lack of immediate success was the jealousy of his colleagues and the hatred of the critics; and as at that time the existence of a play depended entirely upon the manner in which the first representation was received, it was not very difficult to create a cabal against this usurper, who, not content with his legitimate celebrity, seemed, at the bare mention of a play, to meditate a universal literary monarchy, in which he would reign supreme; and while the conquest of both spheres has been effected by Hugo, Voltaire, and others of like ilk, yet these authors were careful to fortify their progress with a book in one hand and a play in the other, whereas it was not until Balzac had reached his apogee that he began a serious attack on the stage.

It was in the year 1840 that Balzac submitted “Vautrin,” his first drama, to the director of the Porte-St.-Martin. The play was at once accepted; for the author’s reputation was not only gigantic, but the Porte-St.-Martin had almost foundered in successive tempests, and to the director, who was as penniless as he was appreciative, the offer was little less than a godsend. An agreement was signed forthwith, and Balzac abandoned Les Jardies for more convenient quarters, where he could attend to the rehearsals and remodel the scenes on the stage itself, which, it may be added, he continued to do up to the very last moment.

During these preparations, the boulevards were agog with excitement. The actors and the director, accompanied by Balzac’s friends, wandered daily from the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle to Tontoni’s and the CafÉ Riche, exciting the curiosity of the flaneurs by their reticence or murmured confidences; and Balzac’s ingress and egress from the theatre were, it is said, watched and waited for by curious crowds.

Never in the history of the drama had a first representation been so impatiently awaited; and Balzac, foreseeing the immense sale which the seats would have, bought up the entire house, and then, while endeavoring that the tickets should circulate only among his friends and their acquaintances, sold the better part of it over again at a large advance.

“My dear friend,” he wrote to Dablin, “if among your acquaintances there are any who wish to assist at the first representation of ‘Vautrin,’ let me know who they are, as I prefer to let the boxes to those whom I know about, rather than to those who are unknown to me. I particularly wish to have handsome women present. The demand for boxes is greater than the supply. The journalists are to be sacrificed.”

To Gozlan he wrote,—

“I have sent you a ticket for the stalls. The rehearsals have almost killed me. You will witness a memorable failure. I have been wrong, I think, to summon the public.

“Morituri te salutant, CÆsar!”

Unfortunately, the interval between the sale of the seats and the first representation was sufficiently great to permit of two thirds of the tickets falling into the hands of those who were unknown or hostile to Balzac; and consequently, when the great day arrived, the critics sharpened their knives, and in place of the indulgent friends and handsome women whom Balzac had expected to welcome his play the theatre was crowded with malevolent faces.

The title-rÔle was taken by FrÉdÉric LemaÎtre, and while the first three acts were received without any demonstrations, either of approval or disapprobation, over the fourth there burst a tempest which, since the birth-night of “Hernani,” was unequaled in the annals of the stage; for LemaÎtre, reappearing in the costume of a Mexican general, seemed—whether by accident or design, it has never been clearly understood—to present an insulting resemblance to Louis Philippe, whose eldest son happened to be in one of the most conspicuous boxes.

The entire house, from pit to gallery, re-echoed with hisses and catcalls. Threats and even blows were exchanged, for here and there, in spite of the general indignation, a few still remained faithful to Balzac.

Through LemaÎtre’s eccentricity, the battle was lost and the drama killed. Further representations were prohibited by the government; and though, a few days later, M. de RÉmusat called upon Balzac, and offered in the name of the state an indemnity for the pecuniary loss which he had sustained, it was haughtily refused. “If my play was justly prohibited, there is,” he said, “no reason why I should be indemnified; if it be otherwise, I can accept nothing, unless an indemnity be also made to the manager and actors of the Porte-St.-Martin.”

Two years after the failure of “Vautrin,” and entirely unaffected by its sudden collapse, Balzac knocked at the door of the OdÉon which was at that time under the management of Lireux. By this gentleman Balzac was received with the greatest cordiality; for while his first play had fallen flat, yet it had fallen with such a crash that, in the lapse of time, it was difficult to distinguish its failure from success. Moreover, the OdÉon was bankrupt, and as Balzac, with his customary enthusiasm, offered nothing less than a Golconda in his manuscript, he was fÊted, caressed, and altogether received with open arms.

From the office to the green room, from the door-keeper to the scene-shifters, smiles, compliments, and welcomes were showered upon him, and he was unanimously requested to read his play at once. As soon, therefore, as the actors were assembled and silence obtained, Balzac began to read “Les Ressources de Quinola.” At first thick and embarrassed, his voice gradually grew clearer, and expressed the most fugitive undulations of the dialogue. His audience laughed and wept by turns, and Balzac laughed and wept with them; the entire troop was fascinated, and applauded as only actors can. Suddenly, however, at the end of the fourth act, Balzac stopped short, and explained in the simplest and most unaffected manner that, as he had not yet written the fifth, he would be obliged to recite it to them.

The stupor and surprise of his audience can be more readily imagined than described: for the fifth act of “Quinola” is the unraveling of all the tangled threads, the union of all the joints; it is the climax and logical termination of all that has gone before; and Balzac, as he calmly rolled up his manuscript and tied it with a bit of string, easily, fluently, and unhesitatingly continued the drama through the six final scenes, and without a break, without a pause, through a torrent of varied intonations, led his listeners by a magnificent tour de force to the very fall of the curtain.

Lireux was bewildered and entranced. “The rehearsals shall commence to-morrow,” he said. “But to what address, M. de Balzac, shall I send the announcements?”

“It is unnecessary to send any,” Balzac replied. “I can come without them.”

“Ah, no, that is impossible. There will be a rehearsal one day, and none the next; and I never know until the morning at what hour a rehearsal is to take place. What is your address?”

But Balzac had not the least intention of telling where he lived, and either because he was playing hide-and-go-seek with his creditors, or else was at that time possessed of one of the inexplicable manias which caused him at times to keep his habitat a secret even from his most intimate friends, he refused flatly to impart the wished-for information.

“I do not see what we can do,” Lireux murmured helplessly, “unless we use a carrier pigeon.”

“I do,” replied Balzac, ever fertile in expedients. “Listen to me. Send a messenger up the Champs-ÉlysÉes with the notice every morning at nine o’clock. When he reaches the Arc de l’Étoile, let him turn to the left, and he will see a man beneath the twentieth tree, who will pretend to be looking up in the branches for a sparrow.”

“A sparrow?”

“A sparrow or any other bird.”

“My pigeon, perhaps.”

“Let me continue. Your messenger will approach my sentinel, and will say to him, ‘I have it.’ Thereupon my sentinel will reply, ‘Since you have it, what are you waiting for?’ Then your messenger will hand the notice to him, and immediately go away, without once looking behind him. I will attend to the rest.”

Lireux saw no objection to this fantastic whim, and contented himself by expressing the hope that if the twentieth tree should be destroyed by lightning M. de Balzac would see no insuperable objection to posting his sentinel at the twenty-first.

“No,” Balzac answered, “but I should prefer the nineteenth; the number is more quaint.”

This plan amicably arranged, the actors agreed upon, and the date of the first representation settled, Balzac proceeded to talk finance.

“Beside the customary royalty, I wish the entire house for the first three nights.”

“But what shall I get?” Lireux timidly inquired.

“Half the profits, which will be incalculable.”

Lireux reflected for a moment. “Very good,” he said; “I accept.”

From the first rehearsal Balzac recommenced with “Quinola” the treatment to which “Vautrin” had been subjected. Sometimes a phrase was altered, sometimes a scene, while at others an entire act was remodeled. That which pleased him one day displeased him the next, and each rehearsal brought fresh corrections and alterations, until the original manuscript was entirely obliterated with erasures and new ideas.

Besides undergoing the mental and physical labor attendant on these rehearsals, Balzac undertook the entire charge of the sale of the seats, or rather the entire charge of refusing seats to all comers; for the box office was opened merely for form’s sake, and tickets were to be had only of Balzac in person. To obtain one was not so much a question of money as of position and influence. The orchestra stalls he reserved for the nobility, the avant-scÈnes for the court circle; the boxes in the first gallery were for the ambassadors and plenipotentiaries; the second gallery was for the statesmen, the third for the moneyed aristocracy, the fourth for the select bourgeoisie. “As for the critics,” he said, “they can buy their seats, if there are any left, and there will be none.”

As a rule, therefore, when any one asked for a box, Balzac would reply, “Too late: last one just sold to the Princesse de Machin and the Grande Duchesse de Chose.” During the first few days of the sale, seats were in consequence sold at extraordinary prices; but later on the anxiety to obtain them decreased, and during the week preceding the first performance Balzac was very glad to dispose of them to any one at the regular rates.

On the 6th of March, 1842, thirteen days before the play was to be performed, he wrote to a friend as follows:—

“Dear Sofka,—Send me the address of the Princess Constantine Razumovska, that I may learn from her whether she wishes a box. Let me know also whether the two Princesses TroubetskoÏ want boxes, whether KraÏeska wishes one, whether the Malakoffs, and the Countess LÉon, and the Countess Nariskine,—seven boxes in all. I must know, too, whether they want them in the upper or lower tier of the first gallery. I wish the handsome women in front.... It is a favor to be admitted to this solemnity. There are at the theatre a hundred and fifty applications for boxes from people whom I do not know and who will get nothing.”

On the 12th he wrote to the same person: “The avant-scÈnes are for the king and the cabinet; they take them by the year. I can only give, therefore, to the Princess TroubetskoÏ a box in the first gallery, but it is one of the best in the house.... The costumes have cost 20,000 francs; the scenery is entirely new. Every one insists that the play is a masterpiece, and that makes me shudder. In any event, it will be a terrible solemnity. Lamartine has asked for a box; I will place him among the Russians. Every morning I receive thirty or forty applications, but I will have no one whom I do not know about.... Tell your Russian friends that I must have the names and addresses, each accompanied by a written and personal recommendation of those of their friends (men) who wish stalls. There are over fifty people a day who come under assumed names and refuse to give their address; they are enemies, who wish to ruin the piece. In a week I shall not know what I am about. We are obliged to observe the most severe precautions. I am intoxicated with the play.”

The severe precautions resulted on the night of the first representation in a half-empty house.

Few imagined that seats could really be had, and it was even reported that Balzac had been obliged to refuse a seat to the Duc de Nemours. The amateurs resigned themselves, therefore, almost without a struggle, and determined that as they could not obtain seats for the first performance they would find solace in the second or third; but on reading the articles which appeared the next day they felt little need of consolation, for the fate of “Vautrin” had been repeated, and “Quinola” had fallen flat. The most sympathetic of all the criticisms which then appeared was one contained in Le National for the 16th of March, 1842. It runs as follows:—

“The subject of M. de Balzac’s drama was excellent, but unfortunately, through eccentricity or negligence, he passed but to one side of the idea, without resolutely entering it and extracting all its wealth.

“The OdÉon is the theatre of tumultuous representations, but never has this terrible battle-field offered such a conglomeration of exclamations and confusing cries. The pit, like a sharp-shooter, took up an ambush behind the substantives and verbs, and slaughtered the play while it maimed the actors, who, brave though wounded, struggled on to the end with a praiseworthy and melancholy courage. At times the comedy, through its sudden flashes of originality and abrupt cannonades of wit, seemed about to rout the enemy and wave aloft a tattered but victorious flag. The faults, however, were too numerous and the errors too grave, and in spite of many advantages the battle, in the end, was fairly lost.”

But in spite of the derision, insults, and abuse with which the first representation was received, in spite of the financial and dramatic shipwreck, after the commotion had subsided and the audience had dispersed, Balzac, superior to destiny and indifferent to fate, was found fast asleep and snoring in his box.^[18]

In addition to “Vautrin” and “Quinola,” three other plays of Balzac’s have been produced, namely, “PamÉla Giraud,” “La MarÂtre,” and “Le Faiseur” (“Mercadet”), of which the first was performed at the GaietÉ in September, 1843, and enjoyed a moderate success. Concerning the second, M. Hostein, formerly director of the ThÉatre-Historique, has offered some curious information.^[19] Balzac, it appears, called upon him one day, and explained that for some time past he had been thinking over an historical drama for the ThÉatre-Historique.

“I shall call it,” he said, “‘Pierre et Catharine,’ Peter the Great and Catharine of Russia. That, I think, would be an excellent subject.”

“Treated by you, it could not be otherwise. But are you far advanced, M. de Balzac?”

“It is all here,” Balzac answered, tapping his forehead. “I have but to write it out, and, if you care to, the first tableau can be rehearsed the day after to-morrow.”

“Can you give me an idea of this first tableau?” I asked.

“Certainly. We are in a Russian inn. You can see it from here. In this inn plenty of action: the troops are passing by; soldiers come in, drink, chat for a moment, and then off again, but everything is done rapidly. Among the people of the inn is a servant-girl, young, active, and alert,—pay attention to her: her figure is good; she is not handsome, but she is peculiarly attractive. The soldiers jest with her; she smiles at every one, but her admirers are obliged to be careful, for any familiarity is answered with a slap, which is as good as a blow.

“A soldier enters who is more daring than the others. He is charged with a particular mission; his time, therefore, is his own. He can drink at his ease and chat with the servant, if she pleases him; for that matter, she pleases him at first sight, and she likes the soldier, too. ‘Here,’ he says, catching hold of her arm, ‘sit down at this table and drink with me.’

“The soldier takes a seat, and the girl does the same. Noticing, however, some objection on the part of the innkeeper, he rises angrily, and strikes the table with his fist. ‘If any one interferes with what I do, I will burn the whole shanty down.’

“And he would have done it, too. He is a good soldier, but terrible with his inferiors. The old innkeeper motions to the girl to obey. The soldier sits down again. He places one arm tenderly about the girl’s neck, and then, having drunk deeply, he whispers, ‘I will give you a better home than this.’ While they are talking together, inattentive to the others, the door at the back opens. An officer enters, and every one rises, with respect. The soldiers make the regulation salute, and stand motionless. The soldier and the servant alone remain seated. The officer notices this, and grows angry. He looks at the girl and advances toward the table; having reached the soldier, he raises his arm, and lets it fall with a terrible force on the shoulder of the poor devil, who bends beneath the shock.

“‘Up, rascal!’ the officer cries. ‘Go write your name and regiment, and bring the paper to me.’

“At the first moment, that is to say on receiving the blow, without knowing by whom it had been directed, the soldier turns to avenge himself; but on recognizing his superior he rises automatically, salutes the officer, and goes to another table to obey the command. The officer, on his part, examines the servant with renewed attention. Her appearance pleases and calms him. The soldier returns, and respectfully presents his paper.

“‘Very good,’ the officer says, as he returns it to him. ‘Off with you.’

“The soldier salutes him again, turns right about face, and marches off, without even looking at the girl. The officer, however, smiles at her, and she smiles at him.

“‘A good-looking man,’ she thinks.

“The good-looking man takes the seat previously occupied by the soldier, orders the best that the inn affords, and invites the servant to keep him company. She accepts without hesitation. The conversation begins, and they are soon quite friendly. A stranger appears at the doorway. He is enveloped in a long cloak. At his entrance, men and women fall on their knees; some of them even bend their foreheads to the ground. As was the case with the soldier, the officer does not notice what is going on behind him. His seductive companion has captivated him completely. In a moment of enthusiasm, the officer exclaims, ‘You are divine! I will take you with me. You shall have a beautiful apartment, where it will be always warm.’

“From afar the stranger scrutinizes the couple, and, in spite of himself, the girl’s sympathetic appearance attracts his attention. He approaches the table, and, throwing open his cloak, stands with his arms crossed on his breast.

“The officer looks around, and, immediately rising, bends on one knee, and stammers these words:—

“‘Your pardon, sire!’

“‘Rise.’

“Like the soldier, the officer then stands erect, awaiting the good pleasure of his master. The master, meanwhile, is engaged in looking at the servant, and she, in turn, is fearlessly admiring the all-powerful Czar.

“‘You may go,’ he says to the officer. ‘I will keep this woman. She shall have a palace.’

“It was in this way that Peter the Great met for the first time the woman who afterwards became Catharine of Russia....

“And now tell me, what do you think of my prologue?”

“Very curious, very original; but the rest of it?”

“That you shall have in a little while; in the mean time, I am planning an entirely novel mise-en-scÈne. Russia is for our theatres, and especially for yours, an unexplored and fecund mine. We will be the first to introduce it.”

Balzac left me in a state of great enthusiasm, and I built mountains of hopes on the inevitable success of “Pierre et Catharine.”

When I saw him again, however, everything had changed. He had given up the Russian drama for the moment, but promised to complete it later on. He had, he said, thought it over. It was a colossal undertaking, in which nothing should be neglected; and as the details concerning certain ceremonies were wanting, he proposed to take a trip to Moscow during the winter, and study the subject on the ground itself. He begged me, therefore, not to insist upon its immediate production, and offered another play in the place of the one thus postponed.

In spite of my disappointment, I could, of course, do nothing but submit, and in sheer despair I asked him to tell me something of his new piece.

“It will be horrible,” Balzac contentedly replied.

“How, horrible?”

“Understand me: it is not a question of a heavy melodrama, in which the villain burns the house down, and runs the inmates through and through,—not at all. My play is to be a simple comedy, in which everything is calm, tranquil, and pleasing. The men play placidly at whist, the women laugh and chat over their worsted work, everything announces harmony and order; but beneath this calm surface passions are at work, and the drama ferments, till at last it bursts forth like the flame of a conflagration.”

“You are in your element, sir. Then your plot is found?”

“Completely. It was chance, our habitual collaborateur, that furnished me with it. I know a family,—whom I will not name,—composed of a husband, a daughter by a first marriage, and a stepmother, still young and childless. The two women adore each other. The little attentions of the one and the caressing tenderness of the other are admired by all who know them. I, too, thought it charming, at first; then I became surprised, not that a stepdaughter and stepmother should love each other,—for there is nothing unnatural in such an affection,—but that they should love each other so dearly. Excess spoils all things. I began, therefore, to observe them more closely, and a few trivial incidents served to confirm my impression that all was not as it appeared. Finally, a few evenings ago, all doubt on the subject was removed. When I entered the drawing-room, it was almost deserted, and I saw the daughter leaving the room without having seen me; in so doing, she glanced at her stepmother, and what a look she gave her! It was like the thrust of a dagger. The stepmother was engaged in putting out the candles on the whist-table. She turned to the girl; their eyes met, and the most gracious of smiles played on their lips. The door closed on the girl, and the expression on the stepmother’s face changed suddenly to one of bitter contraction. All this, you will readily understand, passed like a flash of lightning; but I had seen quite enough, and I said to myself, Here are two creatures who loathe each other. What had happened? I do not know, and I never want to; but from that moment the entire drama unrolled before me.”

“And for the first representation, you will, of course, offer a box to these ladies, that they may profit by the moral which your play will necessarily point?”

“Assuredly I shall do so; and since you mention it, I will be obliged if you will reserve an extra box for me. I have not, however, the slightest intention of teaching them a lesson, and I consider that a novelist or dramatist would be highly presumptuous did he write with such an object. An author should influence only through instinct or chance. To return, however, to these ladies: that they play a comedy of tenderness is to me beyond a doubt, but as between ourselves matters will, in all probability, rest where they are. My ferocious deductions are but the fruit of my imagination, and will never, I trust, have anything in common with the realities of their existence; but in the event of their disunion containing the germs of a violent climax, it is very possible that my play will pull them up with a round turn.”

The months rolled on. Balzac went to Russia, and as soon as I heard of his return I called upon him at his residence in the Rue FortunÉe. A servant in a red vest took my card, and a few moments later I was ushered into a low-ceilinged room. Balzac was at the other end of it, and cried out from afar, “Here is your manuscript!” Then I saw my author standing by his work-table, clothed in a long, monkish robe of white linen, with one hand resting on a mass of paper. I ran to him.

On the first page Balzac had written in large characters, “Gertrude, tragÉdie bourgeoise en cinq actes, en prose.” On the back was the proposed distribution of the play. Melingue was designated for the rÔle of Ferdinand, the lover of the stepmother and daughter; Madame Dorval was to play Gertrude; and the other parts were to be filled by Mathis, BarrÉ, etc.

Beneath these names the author had minutely indicated everything which concerned the play,—the action, the furniture, and the decorations; he had even given the measure for the double carpet which he judged indispensable to the mise-en-scÈne.

It was then agreed that the play should be read the next day in the presence of Madame Dorval and Melingue. When, therefore, we had all assembled at the appointed time, he read it through from beginning to end, without stopping, and then quietly remarked, “It is much too long; it must be cut down a quarter.” Not only did he cut it down, but he changed the title to that of “La MarÂtre,” which it has since so gloriously borne.

It was first represented in June, 1848, in the midst of the most disastrous political circumstances.... The theatres were necessarily abandoned, but such is the power of genius that all the bold and brave in literature who remained in Paris gathered that night, and received Balzac’s work with the sympathy and applause which it so richly merited.

The next morning I paid him a visit. “We had quite a victory last night!” I joyously exclaimed.

“Yes,” he answered; “a victory like that of Charles XII.”

On taking leave of him, I asked where he had been during the representation. “Why,” he answered, with a smile, “I was in a box with those ladies. They were greatly interested in the play. At the moment when Pauline poisons herself, that her stepmother may be accused of assassinating her, the young girl screamed with terror; the tears were in her eyes, and she looked reproachfully at me. Then she grasped her stepmother’s hand, and raised it to her lips with a movement”—

“Of sincerity?”

“Ah, yes, indeed.”

“You see, then, that your play may serve as a lesson.”

Balzac’s last play, “Le Faiseur,” was produced for the first time at the Gymnase, a year after his death, under the title of “Mercadet.” Its success was immediate, and its hundredth performance was the occasion of an article by AlbÉric Second in “Le Constitutionnel,” 18 June, 1852, which is at once so graceful and fantastic that its reproduction here cannot fail to afford some pleasure to the readers of the “ComÉdie Humaine:”—

The hundredth performance of “Mercadet” was given the other evening at the Gymnase-Dramatique. “Mercadet” is, it will be remembered, the posthumous piece of M. de Balzac, which at the time of its production excited such great curiosity. Without any previous agreement, but none the less certain of meeting, a dozen of us, all passionate admirers of the illustrious deceased, found ourselves, that evening, intermingled with the line which from six o’clock in the evening had been undulating from the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle to the door of the theatre. We had all assisted ten months before at the first representation of the play, and we piously reassembled at this jubilee of glory and genius in the same manner as we had gone the year before, and in the same manner that each year we shall go, on the 18th of August, to wreathe with immortelles the tomb of the great writer.

M. de Balzac was not one of those who inspire lukewarm affection, and they who have had the honor of knowing him preserve his memory religiously in their hearts. That life of his, full of struggles incessantly renewed, the hourly and truceless combat which he waged, sum up so completely the existence of the literary men of the nineteenth century that it is impossible for us to consider his grand and mournful figure otherwise than as the personification of an entire class. It is for this reason that God, who is sovereignly just, will accord to him hereafter a glory as great and incontestable as his life was tormented and sad. It is for this reason that it behooves us, who are the humble sacristans of the temple in which he was the radiant high priest, to see that his altars are ever adorned with fresh flowers and that the incense ceaselessly burns in the censers.

When we entered the theatre, it was, with the exception of a few boxes and a number of orchestra stalls which had been sold in advance, entirely filled. My seat was next to that of a gentleman apparently about forty-five years old. His bearing was exceedingly aristocratic; he was dressed with the most exquisite elegance, and his buttonhole bloomed with a rosette in which were intermingled in harmonious confusion all the orders of Europe and every shade of the rainbow. My neighbor was carelessly turning the pages of the “Entr’acte,” and I took great pleasure in studying his well-poised head; wondering the while whether I had not met him somewhere before, and what his name might be. When he had finished reading he rose, turned his back to the stage, drew an opera-glass from his pocket, and began to examine the house; an E and an R, surmounted by a count’s coronet, were engraved in letters of gold on the case which he placed on his seat. From time to time he bowed and waved his hand. My eyes mechanically followed the direction of his own, and I was not a little surprised at noticing that his smiles and salutations were addressed exclusively to the unoccupied boxes. When he passed all the boxes in review he turned his attention to the orchestra stalls, and the strange phenomenon was repeated. His opera-glass, flitting from stall to stall, stopped only at the empty ones; he would then bow, or make an almost imperceptible sign with the ends of his delicately gloved fingers. Dominated by that detestable pride which causes us to consider as insane all those whose actions or remarks are unintelligible to us, I murmured to myself, He is crazy. Then, as though he wished to remove the slightest doubt which I might have retained on this point, my neighbor bent over toward the seat at his left, and appeared to exchange a few words with an imaginary spectator. This seat was one of those which had been let in advance, and it was probable that its tenant, who was still absent, was interested only in the great play. I have omitted to state that the performance began with a little vaudeville.

At this moment one of my friends entered the orchestra, passed before me, shook my hand, and called me by name. My neighbor immediately turned around, gazed attentively at me for a moment or two, and then said,—

“Why, my dear fellow countryman,—for you are from La Charente, I believe,—I am delighted to see you.”

“To whom have I the honor of speaking?” I asked, in great surprise.

My neighbor drew from his pocket a card, which he gallantly presented to me. My astonishment was so great that I almost screamed aloud; fortunately, however, I preserved my presence of mind. On the card, I read these words:—

“Le Comte EugÈne de Rastignac.”

“M. de Rastignac?” I repeated, incredulously.

“In person.”

“The one who was born at Ruffec?”

“Precisely.”

“The cousin of Madame de BeausÉant?”

“Himself.”

“Is it you who lived at the boarding-house kept by Madame Vauquer, nÉe De Conflans?”

“Exactly.”

“And who knew the PÈre Goriot and Vautrin?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“You exist, then?” I stupidly inquired.

M. de Rastignac began to smile.

“Do you think that I present the appearance of a phantom?” he asked, as he gracefully twirled his moustache.

“Sir,” I said, “I can readily understand that M. de Balzac should have borrowed your personality and extracted a great deal therefrom for the edification of his readers; but that he should have taken your name!—that, indeed, is something that I cannot believe.”

“I had authorized him so to do.”

“You?”

“Not only I did so, but all my friends did the same.”

“All, you say?”

“Certainly.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Of those who are in the theatre and to whom I have just bowed.”

“But where are they?”

“Ah, yes; I forgot you cannot see them.”

M. de Rastignac lightly touched my forehead with the forefinger of his right hand, and, light as was his touch, I immediately felt a violent electric shock, and it seemed as though I had undergone an operation similar to that of removing a cataract.

“Now look about you,” said M. de Rastignac, and he pointed to the boxes and stalls which I had thought were empty. They were occupied by ladies and gentlemen, laughing and talking together in a most unghostlike fashion.

“They are almost all there,” said Madame Vauquer’s former lodger. “The principal personages of the ‘ComÉdie Humaine’ have, like you, come to salute the hundredth representation of ‘Mercadet,’ and their applause is so loud, so loud, that the echo of their bravos will rejoice Balzac in his tomb.”

“Am I losing my reason?” I asked myself.

“I see that you are skeptical, my dear fellow,” M. de Rastignac continued, “but let me give you a few proofs. Here is one which will satisfy you, I imagine;” and, turning about, he called to one of the spectators:—

“Nathan!”

“Well, my dear count?”

“Where and when is your next drama?”

“It will be given at the opening of the Ambigu-Comique.”

“Will you send me a box?”

“Your name is already on the list.”

“Du Bruel!”

“What is it?”

“You are becoming lazy, now that you are a member of the AcadÉmie.”

“I? I have five acts in rehearsal at the Vaudeville and two at the VariÉtÉs.”

“That is not so bad, then. But where is your wife?”

“Tullia? She is in the third box to the left.”

“Alone?”

“With La PalfÉrine.”

“Bixion, your last caricatures were infamous.”

“Bah! I would like to see you try your hand at them, with the censure at your heels.”

“How are you, Lou de Lora? How are you, Stedman? Your exposition is superb. Ah, my friends, you are the princes of the MusÉe. But I say, Stedman, Pradier has just died: there is a fine place open.”

“Yes; but then, alas, there are men who can never be replaced.”

All these questions and answers bounded like the balls which two clever players serve and receive in a well-played game of tennis.

M. de Rastignac turned to me. “Are you as incredulous as before?” he smilingly inquired.

“I? God forbid, sir, that I should doubt your word.”

In reality, however, I knew neither what to think nor what to believe, for I had curiously examined all these people whom my celebrated compatriot had addressed, and who, through M. de Balzac, as well as through their own achievements, were known and liked throughout civilized Europe. With the exception of Bixion, who was thin, poorly dressed, and not decorated, all the others appeared to be in the most flourishing state of health and fortune. Madame Tullia du Bruel was as appetizing as ever, and La PalfÉrine, familiarly leaning on the back of her chair, exposed an ideal shirt and an impossible vest.

“Does M. de la PalfÉrine no longer visit Madame de Rochegude?” I inquired.

“He is now entirely devoted to Tullia, and asserts that, after all, Du Bruel’s cook is the finest artist in Paris.”

“Is Madame de Rochegude still living?”

“She sits in that second box to the right.”

“Who is with her?”

“Conti.”

“The celebrated musician?”

“Yes, indeed. You remember the song,—

It was with the greatest eagerness that I had turned to look at this artificial blonde, who had been so greatly beloved by the young Baron Calyste du GuÉnic. (Vide BÉatrix.) A lace scarf was twisted about her neck in such a way as to diminish its length. She appeared worn and fatigued; but her figure was a masterpiece of composition, and she offered that compound of light and brilliant drapery, of gauze and crimped hair, of vivacity and calm, which is termed the je ne sais quoi.

Conti was also an object of great interest to me. He looked vexed, out of sorts, and bored, and seemed to be meditating on the eternal truth of that aphorism, profound and sombre as an abyss, which teaches that a cigar once out should never be relighted, and an affection once buried should never be exhumed.

“Is the Baron de Nucingen here?” I asked.

“Nucingen is confined to his bed with the gout; he has not two good months out of the twelve.”

“And his wife?”

“The baroness no longer goes to the theatre. Religion, charity, and sermons occupy every instant of her time. Her father, PÈre Goriot, has now a white marble tomb and a perpetual resting-place in the cemetery of PÈre La Chaise.”

“Where is her sister, Madame de Restaud?”

“She died a few years ago, legally separated from her husband.”

“Pardon my insatiable curiosity,” I said, “but ever since I was old enough to read and think I have not ceased to live with the personages of the ‘ComÉdie Humaine.’”

“I am glad indeed,” he courteously replied, “to be able to answer your questions. Is there anything that you still care to know?”

“What has become of the ex-minister of agriculture and commerce, the Comte Popinot, whom we called the little Anselme Popinot, in the days of the greatness and decadence of CÉsar Birotteau?”

“He followed the exiled princes to England.”

“And Du Tillet?”

“Du Tillet is no longer in France.”

“Did he leave for political reasons?”

“Is it possible that you did not hear of his failure! He absconded one day, with the till, ruined by Jenny Cadine and Suzanne du Val-Noble.”

“Where are the children of Madame de Montsauf, that celestial creature, so justly called le Lys dans la VallÉe?”

“Jacques died of consumption, leaving Madeleine sole mistress of an enormous fortune. In spite of what M. de Balzac said, I always supposed that she was secretly in love with FÉlix de Vandernesse. She is in that first avant-scÈne. She is an old maid now, but is none the less an adorable woman, and the true daughter of her mother.”

“Do you know the name of that individual who has just entered her box?”

“That is Canalis.”

“Canalis, the great poet, who played such an important part in the life of Modeste Mignon?”

“Precisely.”

“I had thought that he was younger.”

“He has grown quite old during these last few years. He has turned his attention to politics, and you may notice how politics hollows the cheeks and silvers the hair of poetry. He would bankrupt Golconda, however, and he is now attempting to win Mlle. de Montsauf and her millions. But look to the left, in that first box from the door of the gallery, and see whether you do not recognize one of the most curious physiognomies of the ‘ComÉdie Humaine.’”

“Do you mean that stout woman?”

“Yes; it is Madame Nourrisau.”

“Vautrin’s aunt?”

“In flesh and blood, especially in flesh. There is the formidable hag who went one day to the son of the Baron Hulot and proposed, for fifty thousand francs, to rid him of Madame Marneffe. You must have read about it in ‘La Cousine Bette.’”

“She is not alone, I see.”

“She is with her husband.”

“Her husband? Is it possible that she found one?”

“You forget that she is five or six times millionaire, and also the general rule that where it rains millions husbands sprout. Her name is now Madame Gaudessart, nÉe Vautrin.”

“Is it the illustrious Gaudessart who is the husband of that horrible creature?”

“Legally so, I beg you to believe.”

“Speaking of the ‘Cousine Bette,’ can you tell me anything of Wencelas Steinbock and his wife?”

“They are perfectly happy. It is young Hulot who misbehaves; his wife is in that box over there, with the Steinbocks. Hulot has told them that he will join them later, and has probably stated that he had some urgent law business to attend to; but the truth is that he is behind the scenes at the opera. Hulot is not his father’s son for nothing.”

At this point M. de Rastignac smiled affectionately at a white-haired musician, who was tuning his violin.

“Is that the Cousin Pons?” I asked.

“You forget two things: first, that the Cousin Pons is dead; and secondly, that in his lifetime he always wore a green velvet coat. But though Orestes is no more, Pylades still lives. Damon has survived Pythias. It is Schmucke who sits before you. He is very poor; he has nothing but the fifty francs a month which he earns here, and the payment of a few piano lessons at seventy-five centimes each; but he will not accept any assistance, and, for my part, I have never seen tatters more proudly worn.”

“Can you not,” I asked, “show me M. Maxime de Trailles?”

“De Trailles no longer lives in Paris. When the devil grows stout he turns hermit. This retired condottiere is now a married man, the father of a family, and resides in the country. He makes speeches at the agricultural fairs, takes great interest in cattle, and represents his county at the general assembly of his department,—the late Maxime de Trailles, as he is now pleased to call himself.”

“And Des Lupeaulx?”

“Des Lupeaulx is a prefect of the first class. But in place of these gentlemen, you have before you, in that box, the Count FÉlix de Vandernesse and the Countess Nathalie de Manerville; a little beyond, the Grandvilles and the Grandlieux; then, the Duke de RhÉtorÉ, Laginski, D’Esgrignon Montreveau, Rochefide, and D’Ajuda-Ponto. Moreover, there are the Cheffrevilles; but then what a pity it is that our poor Camille Maupin is not present at this solemnity!”

“Is it of Mlle. des Touches that you speak?”

“Yes.”

“Is she still religiously inclined?”

“She died like a saint, two years ago, in a convent near Nantes. She retired from the world, you remember, after accomplishing the marriage of Calyste du GuÉnic and Sabine de Grandlieu. What a woman she was! There are none like her now.”

These last words of M. de Rastignac were covered by the three traditional knocks which precede the rise of the curtain.

“‘Mercadet’ is about to commence,” he said.

“After the first act I will continue my gossip; provided, of course, that I do not weary you with it.”

“Oh, my dear sir!” I cried. “My”—

I had not time to complete my phrase; a friendly but vigorous hand grasped my arm.

“So you come to ‘Mercadet’ to sleep, do you?” said a well-known voice.

“I? Am I asleep?”

“You are not asleep now, but you were.”

I turned quickly around.

My neighbor was a fat-faced gentleman, with blue spectacles, who was peeling an orange with the most ridiculous gravity.

In the boxes and orchestra stalls, wherever I had thought to see the personages of the “ComÉdie Humaine,” I found only insignificant faces, of the ordinary and graceless type,—a collection of obliterated medals.

At this moment the curtain rose, the actors appeared, and the great comedy of “Mercadet” was revealed, amid the applause and delight of the crowd.

I had been dreaming, therefore, and if I had been dreaming I must have been asleep. But what had provoked my somnolence? Was it the approach of a storm, the heat of the theatre, or the vaudeville with which the performance commenced?

Perhaps all three.