THE FRENCH PROVINCES
Dumas' acquaintance with the French provinces was very comprehensive,
though it is of the region northeast of Paris that he was most fond; of
the beloved forest region around Crepy and Villers-Cotterets; the road to
Calais, and Picardie and Flanders. Dumas was ever fond of, and familiar
with, the road from Paris to Calais. The National Route ran through Crepy,
and the byroad through his native Villers-Cotterets. In the "Vicomte de
Bragelonne," he calls the region "The Land of God," a sentiment which
mostly has not been endorsed by other writers; still, it is a beautiful
country, and with its thickly wooded plantations, its industrious though
conglomerate population, it is to-day--save for the Cantal and the
Auvergne--that part of France of which English-speaking folk know the
least. And this, too, on the direct road between London and Paris!
Dumas, in the above-mentioned book, describes the journey through this
region which was made by Buckingham and De Wardes.
"Arriving at Calais, at the end of the sixth day, they chartered a boat
for the purpose of joining the yacht that was to convey them to England,
and which was then tacking about in full view."
The old port of Calais must have been made use of by the personages of
whom Dumas wrote, who trafficked forth between England and France.
Calais has ever been the most important terminus of cross-channel traffic,
and there be those who know, who say that the boat service is not improved
in comfort in all these ages, and certainly Calais, which most English
travellers know only by fleeting glimpses, might with profit be visited
more frequently, if only to follow in the wake of Sterne's sentimental
footsteps.
The old port, of course, exists no more; new dykes, breakwaters, and the
_gare maritime_ have taken the place of the ancient landing-places, where
royalties and others used to embark in frail sailing-vessels for the
English ports across the channel.
The old belfry still exists, and forms a beacon by day, at least, much as
it did of yore. By night the new electric-light flashes its beams twenty
odd miles across the channel on Dover Cliff, in a way which would have
astonished our forefathers in the days gone by.
It was at Calais, too, that was enacted the final scene in the life of
Mary Stuart in France.
The misfortunes of Mary Stuart formed the subject of one of the series of
"Les Crimes Celebres." In the opening words of this chapter, Dumas has
said, "Of all the names predestined to misfortune in France, it is the
name of Henri. Henri I. was poisoned, Henri II. was killed (maliciously,
so some one has said) in a tournament, Henri III. and Henri IV. were
assassinated." In Scotland it is the name of Stuart.
The chronicle concerns France only with respect to the farewell of Mary,
after having lost her mother and her spouse in the same year (1561). She
journeyed to Scotland by Calais, accompanied by the Cardinals de Guise and
de Lorraine, her uncles, by the Duc and Duchesse de Guise, the Duc
d'Aumale, and M. de Nemours.
Here took place that heartrending farewell, which poets and painters, as
well as historians and novelists, have done so much to perpetuate. "Adieu,
France!" she sobbed. "Adieu, France!" And for five hours she continued to
weep and sob, "Adieu, France! Adieu, France!" For the rest, the well-known
historical figures are made use of by Dumas,--Darnley, Rizzio, Huntley,
and Hamilton,--but the action does not, of course, return to France.
Not far south of Calais is Arras, whence came the Robespierre who was to
set France aflame.
"The ancestors of the Robespierres," says Dumas, "formed a part of those
Irish colonists who came to France to inhabit our seminaries and
monasteries. There they received from the Jesuits the good educations they
were accustomed to give to their pupils. From father to son they were
notaries; one branch of the family, that from which this great man
descends, established himself at Arras, a great centre, as you know, of
noblesse and the church.
"There were in this town two _seigneurs_, or, rather, two kings; one was
the Abbe of St. Waast, the other was the Bishop of Arras, whose palace
threw one-half the town into shade."
The former palace of the Bishop of Arras is to-day the local _musee_. It
is an extensive establishment, and it flanks an atrocious Renaissance
cathedral of no appealing charm whatever, and, indeed, the one-time
bishop's palace does not look as though it was ever a very splendid
establishment.
Still farther to the southward of Calais is the feudal Castle of
Pierrefonds, so beloved of Porthos in "Vingt Ans Apres." It is, and has
ever been since its erection in 1390 by Louis d'Orleans, the brother of
Charles VI., one of the most highly impregnable and luxurious chateaux of
all France.
[Illustration: CASTLE OF PIERREFONDS]
Four times it was unsuccessfully besieged, and came finally, in 1617, to
be dismantled.
The great Napoleon purchased it after the Revolution, and finally, through
the liberality of Napoleon III.,--one of the few acts which redound to his
credit,--it was restored, by Viollet-le-Duc, at a cost of over five
million francs.
In "Pauline," that fragment which Dumas extracted from one of his
"Impressions du Voyage," the author comes down to modern times, and gives
us, as he does in his journals of travel, his "Memoires," and others of
his lighter pieces of fiction, many charming pen-portraits of localities
familiar not only to his pen, but to his personal experiences.
He draws in "Pauline" a delightful picture of the old fishing-village of
Trouville--before it became a resort of fashion. In his own words he
describes it as follows:
"I took the steamer from Havre, and two hours later was at Honfleur; the
next morning I was at Trouville."
To-day the fly-by-day tourist does the whole journey in a couple of
hours--if he does not linger over the attractions of "Les Petits Chevaux"
or "Trente et Quarante," at Honfleur's pretty Casino.
"You know the little town with its population of fisher-folk. It is one of
the most picturesque in Normandy. I stayed there a few days, exploring the
neighbourhood, and in the evening I used to sit in the chimney-corner with
my worthy hostess, Madame Oseraie. There I heard strange tales of
adventures which had been enacted in Calvados, Loiret, and La Manche."
Continuing, the author, evidently having become imbued with the local
colour of the vicinity, describes, more or less superficially, perhaps,
but still with vividness, if not minuteness, those treasure-chests of
history, the towns and villages of Normandy:--Caen, Lisieux, Falaise, the
cradle of the Conqueror William, "the fertile plains" around Pont Audemer,
Havre, and Alencon.
Normandy, too, was the _locale_ of the early life of Gabriel Lambert, the
unappealing leading-man of that dramatic story of a counterfeiter's life,
which bears the same title.
Dumas' first acquaintance with the character in real life,--if he had any
real personality, as one is inclined to think he had,--was at Toulon,
where the unfortunate man was imprisoned and made to work in the galleys.
In the course of the narrative the scene shifts from prisons, galleys, and
chain-gangs, backward and forward, until we get the whole gamut of the
criminal's life.
Gabriel, in the days of his early life at Trouville, had acquired the art
of skilled penmanship, and used it wherever he could for his own
advantage, by fabricating the handwriting of others--and some honest work
of a similar nature.
Finally the call of Paris came strong upon him, and he set forth by Pont
l'Eveque and Rouen to the metropolis, where his downfall was speedily
consummated, to the sorrow and resentment of his old friends of the little
Norman fishing-village, and more particularly to Marie Granger, his
country sweetheart, who longed to follow him to Paris, not suspecting the
actual turn affairs had taken.
In "The Count of Monte Cristo," Dumas again evinces his fondness for, and
acquaintance with, the coast of Normandy.
It is a brief reference, to be sure, but it shows that Dumas had some
considerable liking for the sea, and a more or less minute knowledge of
the coast of France. This is further evinced by the details into which he
launches once and again, with reference to the littoral of the
Mediterranean, Belle Ile, and its surroundings, and the coasts of
Normandy, Brittany, and the Pas de Calais.
In "The Count of Monte Cristo," Dantes says to his companion, Bertuccio:
"'I am desirous of having an estate by the seaside in Normandy--for
instance, between Havre and Boulogne. You see, I give you a wide range. It
will be absolutely necessary that the place you may select have a small
harbour, creek, or bay, into which my vessel can enter and remain at
anchor. She merely draws fifteen feet water. She must be kept in constant
readiness to sail immediately I think proper to give the signal. Make the
requisite inquiries for a place of this description, and when you have met
with an eligible spot, visit it, and if it possess the advantages desired,
purchase it at once in your own name. The corvette must now, I think, be
on her way to Fecamp, must she not?'"
With Brittany, Dumas is quite as familiar. In "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne,"
he gives minute, though not wearisome, details of Belle Ile and the Breton
coast around about. Aramis, it seems, had acquired Belle Ile, and had
risen to high ecclesiastical rank, making his home thereon.
[Illustration: NOTRE DAME DE CHARTRES]
Dumas' love and knowledge of gastronomy comes to the fore again here. When
D'Artagnan undertook his famous journey to Belle Ile, on the coast of
Brittany, as messenger of Louis XIV., whom he called his sun, after he had
bought that snuff-coloured _bidet_ which would have disgraced a
corporal, and after he had shortened his name to Agnan,--to complete his
disguise,--he put in one night at La Roche-Bernard, "a tolerably important
city at the mouth of the Vilaine, and prepared to sup at a hotel." And he
did sup; "off a teal and a _torteau_, and in order to wash down these two
distinctive Breton dishes, ordered some cider, which, the moment it
touched his lips, he perceived to be more Breton still."
On the route from Paris to the mouth of the Loire, where D'Artagnan
departed for Belle Ile, is Chartres. Its Cathedral de Notre Dame has not
often appeared in fiction. In history and books of travel, and of artistic
and archaeological interest, its past has been vigorously played.
Dumas, in "La Dame de Monsoreau," has revived the miraculous legend which
tradition has preserved.
It recounts a ceremony which many will consider ludicrous, and yet others
sacrilegious. Dumas describes it thus:
"The month of April had arrived. The great cathedral of Chartres was hung
with white, and the king was standing barefooted in the nave. The
religious ceremonies, which were for the purpose of praying for an heir to
the throne of France, were just finishing, when Henri, in the midst of
the general silence, heard what seemed to him a stifled laugh. He turned
around to see if Chicot were there, for he thought no one else would have
dared to laugh at such a time. It was not, however, Chicot who had laughed
at the sight of the two chemises of the Holy Virgin, which were said to
have such a prolific power, and which were just being drawn from their
golden box; but it was a cavalier who had just stopped at the door of the
church, and who was making his way with his muddy boots through the crowd
of courtiers in their penitents' robes and sacks. Seeing the king turn, he
stopped for a moment, and Henri, irritated at seeing him arrive thus,
threw an angry glance at him. The newcomer, however, continued to advance
until he reached the velvet chair of M. le Duc d'Anjou, by which he knelt
down."
* * * * *
But a step from Chartres, on the Loire,--though Orleans, the "City of the
Maid," comes between,--is Blois.
In "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne," the last of the D'Artagnan series, the
action comes down to later times, to that of the young king Louis XIV.
In its opening lines its scene is laid in that wonderfully ornate and
impressive Chateau of Blois, which so many have used as a background for
all manner of writing.
Dumas, with his usual directness, wasting no words on mere description,
and only considering it as an accessory to his romance, refers briefly to
this magnificent building--the combined product of the houses whose arms
bore the hedgehog and the salamander.
"Toward the middle of the month of May, 1660, when the sun was fast
absorbing the dew from the _ravenelles_ of the Chateau of Blois, a little
cavalcade entered the city by the bridge, without producing any effect
upon the passengers of the quai-side, except a movement of the tongue to
express, in the purest French then spoken in France (Touraine has ever
spoken the purest tongue, as all know), 'There is Monsieur returning from
the hunt.'... It should have been a trifling source of pride to the city
of Blois that Gaston of Orleans had chosen it as his residence, and held
his court in the ancient chateau of its states."
It was in the Castle of the States of Blois that Louis XIV. received that
unexpected visit from "His Majesty Charles II., King of England, Scotland,
and Ireland," of which Dumas writes in the second of the D'Artagnan
series.
"'How strange it is you are here,' said Louis. 'I only knew of your
embarkation at Brighthelmstone, and your landing in Normandy.'...
"Blois was peaceful that morning of the royal arrival, at which
announcement it was suddenly filled with all the tumult and the buzzing of
a swarm of bees. In the lower city, scarce a hundred paces from the
castle, is a sufficiently handsome street called the Rue Vieille, and an
old and venerable edifice which, tradition says, was habited by a
councillor of state, to whom Queen Catherine came, some say to visit and
others to strangle."
Not alone is Blois reminiscent of "Les Mousquetaires," but the numberless
references in the series to Langeais, Chambord,--the chateaux and their
domains,--bring to mind more forcibly than by innuendo merely that Dumas
himself must have had some great fondness for what has come to be the
touring-ground of France _par excellence_.
From "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne," one quotes these few lines which,
significantly, suggest much: "Do you not remember, Montalais, the woods of
Chaverney, and of Chambord, and the numberless poplars of Blois?" This
describes the country concisely, but explicitly.
Beyond Blois, beyond even Tours, which is Blois' next neighbour, passing
down the Loire, is Angers.
[Illustration: CASTLE OF ANGERS--CHATEAU OF BLOIS]
In "La Dame de Monsoreau," more commonly known in English translations
as "Chicot the Jester," much of the scene is laid in Anjou.
To Angers, with its wonderful fairylike castle, with its seventeen
black-banded towers (recalling, also, that this is the "Black Angers" of
Shakespeare's "King John"), repaired the Duc d'Anjou, the brother of
Charles IX. and Henri III., who then reigned at Paris.
To this "secret residence" the duc came. Dumas puts it thus:
"'Gentlemen!' cried the duke, 'I have come to throw myself into my good
city of Angers. At Paris the most terrible dangers have menaced my
life.'... The people then cried out, 'Long live our seigneur!'"
Bussy, who had made the way clear for the duc, lived, says Dumas, "in a
tumble-down old house near the ramparts." The ducal palace was actually
outside the castle walls, but the frowning battlement was relied upon to
shelter royalty when occasion required, the suite quartering themselves in
the Gothic chateau, which is still to be seen in the debris-cluttered
lumber-yard, to which the interior of the fortress has to-day descended.
In other respects than the shocking care, or, rather, the lack of care,
which is given to its interior, the Castle of Angers, with its battalion
of _tours_, now without their turrets, its deep, machicolated walls, and
its now dry _fosse_, presents in every way an awe-inspiring stronghold.
Beyond Angers, toward the sea, is Nantes, famous for the Edict, and, in
"The Regent's Daughter" of Dumas, the massacre of the four Breton
conspirators.
Gaston, the hero of the tale, had ridden posthaste from Paris to save his
fellows. He was preceded, by two hours, by the order for their execution,
and the reprieve which he held would be valueless did he arrive too late.
"On reaching the gates of Nantes his horse stumbled, but Gaston did not
lose his stirrups, pulled him up sharply, and, driving the spurs into his
sides, he made him recover himself.
"The night was dark, no one appeared upon the ramparts, the very sentinels
were hidden in the gloom; it seemed like a deserted city.
"But as he passed the gate a sentinel said something which Gaston did not
even hear.
"He held on his way.
"At the Rue du Chateau his horse stumbled and fell, this time to rise no
more.
"What mattered it to Gaston now?--he had arrived....
"He passed right through the castle, when he perceived the esplanade, a
scaffold, and a crowd. He tried to cry, but no one heard him; to wave his
handkerchief, but no one saw him.... Another mounts the scaffold, and,
uttering a cry, Gaston threw himself down below.... Four men died who
might have been saved had Gaston but arrived five minutes before, and, by
a remarkable contretemps, Gaston himself shared the same fate."
In "The Regent's Daughter," Dumas describes the journey to Nantes with
great preciseness, though with no excess of detail. The third chapter
opens thus:
"Three nights after that on which we have seen the regent, first at
Chelles, and then at Meudon, a scene passed in the environs of Nantes
which cannot be omitted in this history; we will therefore exercise our
privilege of transporting the reader to that place.
"On the road to Clisson, two or three miles from Nantes,--near the convent
known as the residence of Abelard,--was a large dark house, surrounded by
thick, stunted trees; hedges everywhere surrounded the enclosure outside
the walls, hedges impervious to the sight, and only interrupted by a
wicket gate.
"This gate led into a garden, at the end of which was a wall, having a
small, massive, and closed door. From a distance this grave and dismal
residence appeared like a prison; it was, however, a convent, full of
young Augustines, subject to a rule lenient as compared with provincial
customs, but rigid as compared with those of Paris.
"The house was inaccessible on three sides, but the fourth, which did not
face the road, abutted on a large sheet of water; and ten feet above its
surface were the windows of the refectory.
"This little lake was carefully guarded, and was surrounded by high wooden
palisades. A single iron gate opened into it, and at the same time gave a
passage to the waters of a small rivulet which fed the lake, and the water
had egress at the opposite end."
From this point on, the action of "The Regent's Daughter" runs riotously
rapid, until it finally culminates, so far as Nantes is concerned, in the
quintuple execution before the chateau, brought about by the five minutes'
delay of Gaston with the reprieve.
* * * * *
Dumas' knowledge of and love of the Mediterranean was great, and he knew
its western shores intimately.
In 1830 he resolved to visit all the shores of the Mediterranean in a
yacht, which he had had specially built for the purpose, called the
_Emma_.
He arrived in Sicily, however, at the moment of the Garibaldian struggle
against the King of Italy, with the result that the heroic elements of
that event so appealed to him, that he forewent the other more tranquil
pleasure of continuing his voyage, and went over to the mainland.
In "The Count of Monte Cristo" is given one of Dumas' best bits of
descriptive writing. At any rate, it describes one of the aspects of the
brilliantly blue Mediterranean, which is only comparable to one's personal
contemplation of its charms. It is apropos of the voyage to the island of
Monte Cristo--which lies between Elba and Corsica, and has become fabled
in the minds of present-day readers solely by Dumas' efforts--that he
wrote the following:
"It was about six o'clock in the evening; an opal-coloured light, through
which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, descended on the blue sea. The
heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze arose, seeming
like the respiration of nature on awakening from the burning siesta of the
south; a delicious zephyr played along the coasts of the Mediterranean,
and wafted from shore to shore the sweet perfume of plants, mingled with
the fresh smell of the sea.
"A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst the
first dews of night over the immense lake, extending from Gibraltar to the
Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The motion resembled that of a swan
with its wings opened toward the wind, gliding on the water. It advanced,
at the same time, swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering
track. By degrees the sun disappeared behind the western horizon; but, as
though to prove the truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen mythology, its
indiscreet rays reappeared on the summit of each wave, seeming to reveal
that the god of fire had just enfolded himself in the bosom of Amphitrite,
who in vain endeavoured to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle."
Of the island of Monte Cristo itself, Dumas' description is equally
gratifying. In the earlier chapters he gives it thus:
"The isle of Monte Cristo loomed large in the horizon.... They were just
abreast of Mareciana, and beyond the flat but verdant isle of La Pianosa.
The peak of Monte Cristo, reddened by the burning sun, was seen against
the azure sky.... About five o'clock in the evening the island was quite
distinct, and everything on it was plainly perceptible, owing to that
clearness of the atmosphere which is peculiar to the light which the rays
of the sun cast at its setting.
"Edmond gazed most earnestly at the mass of rocks which gave out all the
variety of twilight colours, from the brightest pink to the deepest blue;
and from time to time his cheeks flushed, his brow became purple, and a
mist passed over his eyes.... In spite of his usual command over himself,
Dantes could not restrain his impetuosity. He was the first who jumped on
shore; and had he dared, he would, like Lucius Brutus, have 'kissed his
mother earth.' It was dark, but at eleven o'clock the moon rose in the
midst of the ocean, whose every wave she silvered, and then, 'ascending
high,' played in floods of pale light on the rocky hills of this second
Pelion.
"The island was familiar to the crew of _La Jeune Amelie_--it was one of
her halting-places. As to Dantes, he had passed it on his voyages to and
from the Levant, but never touched at it."
It is unquestionable that "The Count of Monte Cristo" is the most popular
and the best known of all Dumas' works. There is a deal of action, of
personality and characterization, and, above all, an ever-shifting
panorama, which extends from the boulevards of Marseilles to the faubourgs
of Paris, and from the island Chateau d'If to the equally melancholy
_allees_ of Pere la Chaise, which M. de Villefort, a true Parisian,
considered alone worthy of receiving the remains of a Parisian family, as
it was there only that they would be surrounded by worthy associates.
All travellers for the East, _via_ the Mediterranean, know well the
ancient Phoenician port of Marseilles. One does not need even the words
of Dumas to recall its picturesqueness and importance--to-day as in ages
past. Still, the opening lines of "The Count of Monte Cristo" do form a
word-picture which few have equalled in the pages of romance; and there is
not a word too much; nothing superfluous or extraneous.
"On the 28th of February, 1815, the watchtower of Notre Dame de la Garde
signalled the three-master, the _Pharaon_, from Smyrna, Trieste, and
Naples.
"As usual, a pilot put off immediately, and, rounding the Chateau d'If,
got on board the vessel between Cape Morgion and the isle of Rion.
"Immediately, and according to custom, the platform of Fort Saint-Jean was
covered with lookers-on; it is always an event at Marseilles for a ship to
come into port, especially when this ship, like the _Pharaon_, had been
built, rigged, and laden on the stocks of the old Phocee, and belonged to
an owner of the city.
"The ship drew on: it had safely passed the strait, which some volcanic
shock has made between the isle of Calasareigne and the isle of Jaros; had
doubled Pomegue, and approached the harbour under topsails, jib, and
foresail, but so slowly and sedately that the idlers, with that instinct
which misfortune sends before it, asked one another what misfortune could
have happened on board. However, those experienced in navigation saw
plainly that, if any accident had occurred, it was not to the vessel
herself, for she bore down with all the evidence of being skilfully
handled, the anchor ready to be dropped, the bowsprit-shrouds loose, and,
beside the pilot, who was steering the _Pharaon_ by the narrow entrance of
the port Marseilles, was a young man, who, with activity and vigilant eye,
watched every motion of the ship, and repeated each direction of the
pilot.
"The vague disquietude which prevailed amongst the spectators had so much
affected one of the crowd that he did not await the arrival of the vessel
in harbour, but, jumping into a small skiff, desired to be pulled
alongside the _Pharaon_, which he reached as she rounded the creek of La
Reserve."
The process of coming into harbour at Marseilles does not differ greatly
to-day from the description given by Dumas.
New harbour works have been constructed, and sailing-ships have mostly
given way to great steamers, but the channel winds and twists as of old
under the lofty brow, capped by the sailors' church of Notre Dame de la
Garde, which is to-day a tawdry, bizarre shrine, as compared with the
motive which inspired the devout to ascend its heights to pray for those
who go down to the sea in ships.
Marseilles, of all cities of France, more even than Bordeaux or Lyons, is
possessed of that individuality which stands out strong on the background
of France--the land and the nation.
In the commercial world its importance gives it a high rank, and its
_affaires_ are regulated by no clues sent each morning by post or by
telegraph from the world's other marts of trade. It has, moreover, in the
Canebiere, one of the truly great streets of the world. Dumas remarked it,
and so, too, have many others, who know its gay cosmopolitan aspect at all
the hours of day and night.
From "The Count of Monte Cristo," the following lines describe it justly
and truly, and in a way that fits it admirably, in spite of the fact that
Dumas wrote of it as it was a hundred years ago:
"The young sailor jumped into the skiff, and sat down in the stern,
desiring to be put ashore at the Canebiere. The two rowers bent to their
work, and the little boat glided away as rapidly as possible in the midst
of the thousand vessels which choke up the narrow way which leads between
the two rows of ships from the mouth of the harbour to the Quai d'Orleans.
"The ship-owner, smiling, followed him with his eyes until he saw him
spring out on the quai and disappear in the midst of the throng, which,
from five o'clock in the morning until nine o'clock at night, choke up
this famous street of La Canebiere, of which the modern Phoceens are so
proud, and say, with all the gravity in the world, and with that accent
which gives so much character to what is said, 'If Paris had La Canebiere,
Paris would be a second Marseilles.'"
The Chateau d'If, far more than the island of Monte Cristo itself, is the
_locale_ which is mostly recalled with regard to the romance of "Monte
Cristo."
Dumas has, of course, made melodramatic use of it; in fact, it seems
almost as if he had built the romance around its own restricted _pied a
terre_, but, nevertheless, it is the one element which we are pleased to
call up as representative of the story when mention is made thereof.
Not a line, not a word, is misplaced in the chapters in which Dumas treats
of Dantes' incarceration in his island prison. Description does not crowd
upon action or characterization, nor the reverse.
"Through the grating of the window of the carriage, Dantes saw they were
passing through the Rue Caisserie, and by the Quai St. Laurent and the Rue
Taramis, to the port. They advanced toward a boat which a custom-house
officer held by a chain near the quai. A shove sent the boat adrift, and
the oarsman plied it rapidly toward the Pilon. At a shout the chain that
closes the port was lowered, and in a second they were outside the
harbour.... They had passed the Tete de More, and were now in front of the
lighthouse and about to double the battery.... They had left the isle
Ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood, on the right, and were now opposite
the Point des Catalans.
"'Tell me where you are conducting me?' asked Dantes of his guard.
"'You are a native of Marseilles, and a sailor, and yet you do not know
where you are going?'
"'On my honour, I have no idea.'
"'That is impossible.'
"'I swear to you it is true. Tell me, I entreat.'
"'But my orders.'
"'Your orders do not forbid your telling me what I must know in ten
minutes, in half an hour, or an hour. You see, I cannot escape, even if I
intended.'
"'Unless you are blind, or have never been outside the harbour, you must
know.'
"'I do not.'
"'Look around you, then.' Dantes rose and looked forward, when he saw rise
within a hundred yards of him the black and frowning rock on which stands
the Chateau d'If. This gloomy fortress, which has for more than three
hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to Dantes
like a scaffold to a malefactor.
"'The Chateau d'If?' cried he. 'What are we going there for?' The gendarme
smiled.
"'I am not going there to be imprisoned,' said Dantes; 'it is only used
for political prisoners. I have committed no crime. Are there any
magistrates or judges at the Chateau d'If?'
"'There are only,' said the gendarme, 'a governor, a garrison, turnkeys,
and good thick walls. Come, come, do not look so astonished, or you will
make me think you are laughing at me in return for my good nature.' Dantes
pressed the gendarme's hand as though he would crush it.
"'You think, then,' said he, 'that I am conducted to the chateau to be
imprisoned there?'
"'It is probable.'"
The details of Dantes' horrible confinement, at first in an upper cell,
and later in a lower dungeon, where, as "No. 34," he became the neighbour
of the old Abbe Faria, "No. 27," are well known of all lovers of Dumas.
The author does not weary one, and there are no lengthy descriptions
dragged in to merely fill space. When Dantes finally escapes from the
chateau, after he had been imprisoned for fourteen years, Dumas again
launches into that concise, direct word-painting which proclaims him the
master.
"It was necessary for Dantes to strike out to sea. Ratonneau and Pomegue
are the nearest isles of all those that surround the Chateau d'If; but
Ratonneau and Pomegue are inhabited, together with the islet of Daume;
Tiboulen or Lemaire were the most secure. The isles of Tiboulen and
Lemaire are a league from the Chateau d'If....
"Before him rose a mass of strangely formed rocks, that resembled nothing
so much as a vast fire petrified at the moment of its most fervent
combustion. It was the isle of Tiboulen....
"As he rose, a flash of lightning, that seemed as if the whole of the
heavens were opened, illumined the darkness. By its light, he saw the isle
of Lemaire and Cape Croiselle, a quarter of a league distant."
In "The Count of Monte Cristo," Dumas makes a little journey up the valley
of the Rhone into Provence.
In the chapter entitled "The Auberge of the Pont du Gard," he writes, in
manner unmistakably familiar, of this land of the troubadours, the roses,
and the beautiful women; for the women of Arles--those world-famous
Arlesiennes--are the peers, in looks, of all the women of France.
Dumas writes of Beaucaire, of Bellegarde, of Arles, and of Aigues-Mortes,
but not very affectionately; indeed, he seems to think all Provence "an
arid, sterile lake," but he comes out strong on the beauty of the women of
Arles, and marvels how they can live in the vicinity of the devastating
fevers of the Camargue.
The auberge of the Pont du Garde itself--the establishment kept by the old
tailor, Caderousse, whom Dantes sought out after his escape from the
Chateau d'If--the author describes thus:
"Such of my readers as have made a pedestrian excursion to the south of
France may perchance have noticed, midway between the town of Beaucaire
and the village of Bellegarde, a small roadside inn, from the front of
which hung, creaking and flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered
with a caricature resemblance of the Pont du Gard. This modern place of
entertainment stood on the left-hand side of the grand route, turning its
back upon the Rhone. It also boasted of what in Languedoc is styled a
garden, consisting of a small plot of ground, a full view of which might
be obtained from a door immediately opposite the grand portal by which
travellers were ushered in to partake of the hospitality of mine host of
the Pont du Gard. This plaisance or garden, scorched up beneath the ardent
sun of a latitude of thirty degrees, permitted nothing to thrive or
scarcely live in its arid soil. A few dingy olives and stunted fig-trees
struggled hard for existence, but their withered, dusty foliage abundantly
proved how unequal was the conflict. Between these sickly shrubs grew a
scanty supply of garlic, tomatoes, and eschalots; while, lone and
solitary, like a forgotten sentinel, a tall pine raised its melancholy
head in one of the corners of this unattractive spot, and displayed its
flexible stem and fan-shaped summit dried and cracked by the withering
influence of the mistral, that scourge of Provence."
The great fair of Beaucaire was, and is,--though Beaucaire has become a
decrepit, tumble-down river town on the Rhone, with a ruined castle as
its chief attraction,--renowned throughout France.
It was here that the head of the house of Morrel, fearing lest the report
of his financial distress should get bruited abroad at Marseilles, came to
sell his wife's and daughter's jewels, and a portion of his plate.
This fair of Beaucaire attracted a great number of merchants of all
branches of trade, who arrived by water and by road, lining the banks of
the Rhone from Arles to Beaucaire, and its transpontine neighbour,
Tarascon, which Daudet has made famous.
Caderousse, the innkeeper, visited this fair, as we learn, "in company
with a man who was evidently a stranger to the south of France; one of
those merchants who come to sell jewelry at the fair of Beaucaire, and
who, during the month the fair lasts, and during which there is so great
an influx of merchants and customers from all parts of Europe, often have
dealings to the amount of one hundred thousand to one hundred and fifty
thousand francs (L4,000 to L6,000)."
* * * * *
That Dumas was a great traveller is well known and substantiated by the
records he has left.
When living at Toulon in the spring of 1835, as he himself tells us, he
first came into possession of the facts which led to the construction of
"Gabriel Lambert."
There was doubtless much of truth in the tale, which appears not to be
generally known to English readers, and it is more than probable that much
of the incident was originally related to Dumas by the "governor of the
port."
Dumas was living at the time in a "small suburban house," within a stone's
throw of Fort Lamalge, the prison, hard at work on his play of "Captain
Paul"--though, as he says, he was greatly abstracted from work by the
"contemplation of the blue Mediterranean spangled with gold, the mountains
that blind in their awful nakedness, and of the sky impressive in its
depth and clearness."
The result of it all was that, instead of working at "Captain Paul" (Paul
Jones), he left off working at all, in the daytime,--no infrequent
occurrence among authors,--and, through his acquaintance with the
governor, evolved the story of the life-history of "Gabriel Lambert."
* * * * *
"Murat" was the single-worded title given by Dumas to what is perhaps the
most subtle of the "Crimes Celebres." He drew his figures, of course, from
history, and from a comparatively near view-point, considering that but
twenty-five years had elapsed since the death of his subject.
Marseilles, Provence, Hyeres, Toulon, and others of those charming towns
and cities of the Mediterranean shore, including also Corsica, form the
rapid itinerary of the first pages.
For the action itself, it resembles nothing which has gone before, or
which is so very horrible. It simply recounts the adventures and incidents
in the life of the Marshal of France which befel his later years, and
which culminated in his decapitated head being brought before the King of
Naples as the only assurance which would satisfy him that Murat was not an
adventurer and intriguer.
There is a pleasant little town in the Midi of France by the name of
Cahors. It is a historic town as well; in fact, it was part of the dowry
which Henri de Navarre was to receive when he married Marguerite.
The circumstance is recounted by Dumas in "The Forty-Five Guardsmen," and
extends to some length in the most marvellously descriptive dialogue.
"The poor Henri de Navarre," as Dumas called him, "was to receive as his
wife's dowry three hundred thousand golden crowns and some towns, among
them Cahors.
"'A pretty town, _mordieu_!'
"'I have claimed not the money, but Cahors.'
"'You would much like to hold Cahors, Sire?'
"'Doubtless; for, after all, what is my principality of Bearn? A poor
little place, clipped by the avarice of my mother-in-law and
brother-in-law.'
"'While Cahors--'
"'Cahors would be my rampart, the safeguard of my religion.'
"'Well, Sire, go into mourning for Cahors; for, whether you break with
Madame Marguerite or not, the King of France will never give it to you,
and unless you take it--'
"'Oh, I would soon take it, if it was not so strong, and, above all, if I
did not hate war.'
"'Cahors is impregnable, Sire.'
"'Oh! impregnable! But if I had an army, which I have not--'
"'Listen, Sire. We are not here to flatter each other. To take Cahors,
which is held by M. de Vezin, one must be a Hannibal or a Caesar; and your
Majesty--'
"'Well?' said Henri, with a smile.
"'Has just said you do not like war.'...
"'Cahors is so well guarded, because it is the key of the south.'"
Chapter fifty-three of the above book recounts the siege itself,--as we
know it in history,--but with all that added picturesqueness which Dumas
commanded.
"'Henri will not pay me his sister's dowry, and Margot cries out for her
dear Cahors. One must do what one's wife wants, for peace's sake;
therefore I am going to try to take Cahors.'...
"Henri set off at full gallop, and Chicot followed him. On arriving in
front of his little army, Henri raised his visor, and cried:
"'Out with the banner! out with the new banner!'
"They drew forth the banner, which had the double scutcheon of Navarre and
Bourbon; it was white, and had chains of gold on one side, and
_fleurs-de-lis_ on the other.
"Again the cannon from Cahors were fired, and the balls tore through a
file of infantry near the king....
"'Oh!' cried M. de Turenne, 'the siege of the city is over, Vezin.' And as
he spoke he fired at him and wounded him in the arm....
"'You are wrong, Turenne,' cried M. de Vezin; 'there are twenty sieges in
Cahors; so, if one is over, there are nineteen to come.'
"M. de Vezin defended himself during five days and nights from street to
street and from house to house. Luckily for the rising fortunes of Henri
of Navarre, he had counted too much on the walls and garrison of Cahors,
and had neglected to send to M. de Biron....
"During these five days and nights, Henri commanded like a captain and
fought like a soldier, slept with his head on a stone, and awoke sword in
hand. Each day they conquered a street or a square, which each night the
garrison tried to retake. On the fourth night the enemy seemed willing to
give some rest to the Protestant army. Then it was Henri who attacked in
his turn. He forced an intrenched position, but it cost him seven hundred
men. M. de Turenne and nearly all the officers were wounded, but the king
remained untouched."
* * * * *
The Pyrenean city of Pau is more than once referred to by Dumas in the
Valois romances, as was but natural, considering that its ancient chateau
was the _berceau_ of that Prince of Bearn who later married the intriguing
Marguerite, and became ultimately Henri IV.
This fine old structure--almost the only really splendid historical
monument of the city--had for long been the residence of the Kings of
Navarre; was rebuilt in the fourteenth century by the brilliant Gaston
Phoebus; and enlarged and luxuriously embellished by the beautiful
Marguerite herself in the sixteenth century, after she had become _la
femme de Henri d'Albert_, as her spouse was then known.
As might be expected, Dumas was exceedingly familiar with the suburban
topography of Paris, and made frequent use of it in his novels.
It is in "The Count of Monte Cristo," however, that this intimacy is best
shown; possibly for the reason that therein he dealt with times less
remote than those of the court romances of the "Valois" and the "Capets."
When Dantes comes to Paris,--as the newly made count,--he forthwith
desires to be ensconced in an establishment of his own. Dumas recounts the
incident thus:
"'And the cards I ordered to be engraved as soon as you knew the number of
the house?'
"'M. le Comte, it is done already. I have been myself to the best engraver
of the Palais Royal, who did the plate in my presence. The first card
struck off was taken, according to your orders, to M. le Baron Danglars,
Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin, No. 7.'...
"As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the small salon. He
was a simple-looking lawyer's clerk, elevated to the extraordinary dignity
of a provincial scrivener.
"'You are the notary empowered to sell the country-house that I wish to
purchase, monsieur?' asked Monte Cristo.
"'Yes, M. le Comte,' returned the notary.
"'Is the deed of sale ready?'
"'Yes, M. le Comte.'
"'Have you brought it?'
"'Here it is.'
"'Very well; and where is this house that I purchase?' asked the count,
carelessly, addressing himself half to Bertuccio, half to the notary. The
steward made a gesture that signified, 'I do not know.' The notary looked
at the count with astonishment.
"'What!' said he, 'does not M. le Comte know where the house he purchases
is situated?'
"'No,' returned the count.
"'M. le Comte does not know it?'
"'How should I know it? I have arrived from Cadiz this morning. I have
never before been at Paris: and it is the first time I have ever even set
my foot in France!'
"'Ah, that is different; the house you purchase is situated at Auteuil, in
the Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28.' At these words Bertuccio turned pale.
"'And where is Auteuil?' asked the count.
"'Close here, monsieur,' replied the notary; 'a little beyond Passy; a
charming situation, in the heart of the Bois de Boulogne.'
"'So near as that?' said the count. 'But that is not in the country. What
made you choose a house at the gates of Paris, M. Bertuccio?'
"'I?' cried the steward, with a strange expression. 'M. le Comte did not
charge me to purchase this house. If M. le Comte will recollect--if he
will think--'
"'Ah, true,' observed Monte Cristo; 'I recollect now. I read the
advertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title, "a
country-house."'
"'It is not yet too late,' cried Bertuccio, eagerly; 'and if your
Excellency will entrust me with the commission, I will find you a better
at Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at Bellevue.'
"'Oh, no,' returned Monte Cristo, negligently; 'since I have this, I will
keep it.'
"'And you are quite right,' said the notary, who feared to lose his fee.
'It is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine trees; a
comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time; without
reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable, now that
old things are so much sought after. I suppose M. le Comte has the tastes
of the day?'"
Whatever may have been Dumas' prodigality with regard to money matters in
his personal affairs, he was evidently a good traveller, in the sense that
he knew how to plan a journey with the greatest economy.
One sees evidences of this in the "Count of Monte Cristo," where he
describes the journey of Madame de Morcerf from Paris to Marseilles.
"'I have made inquiries,' said Albert, 'respecting the diligences and
steamboats, and my calculations are made. You will take your place in the
coupe to Chalons. You see, mother, I treat you handsomely for thirty-five
francs.'
"Albert then took a pen, and wrote:
_Frs._
Coupe to Chalons, thirty-five francs 35
From Chalons to Lyons you will go on by the
steamboat--six francs 6
From Lyons to Avignon (still by steamboat),
sixteen francs 16
From Avignon to Marseilles, seven francs 7
Expenses on the road, about fifty francs 50
----
Total 114
"'Let us put down 120,' added Albert, smiling. 'You see I am generous; am
I not, mother?'
"'But you, my poor child?'
"'I! do you not see I reserve eighty francs for myself? A young man does
not require luxuries; besides, I know what travelling is.'
"'With a post-chaise and _valet de chambre_?'"
The route is practicable even to-day, though probably not at the prices
given, and one does not go by steamboat from Chalons to Lyons, though he
may from Lyons to Avignon.