[Illustration]
_Eugène Scribe was born in 1791, at Paris, where he died in
1861. He soon tired of the law as a profession and between 1820
and 1825 wrote farces and little comedies._
_Then begins the second period of his career, during which he
wrote the librettos, masterpieces themselves, of the familiar
operas, “La Dame Blanche,” “Robert Le Diable,” “Les Huguenots,”
“Fra Diavolo,” etc., and the serious comedy “Valerie,” in which
he shows a most delightful and unique genius in prolonging
interestingly his situations. With “Bertrand and Raton,” a
five-act comedy, produced at the Theatre Français in 1833, he
commenced a series of historical and political comedies. In
all, Scribe wrote some three hundred and fifty pieces. In 1836
he was elected a member of the Academy._
_In style, Scribe is delicate and graceful, with an
indescribable “charm,” as in his first manner, or lively and
natural, as in his second; but he is not to be relied upon for
the truth._
[Illustration]
THE PRICE OF A LIFE
BY EUGÈNE SCRIBE
Translated by Linda de Kowalewska.
Copyright, 1893, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
Joseph, opening the door of the salon, came to tell us that the
post-chaise was ready. My mother and my sister threw themselves into my
arms. “There is yet time,” said they. “It is not too late. Give up this
journey and remain with us.” I replied: “My mother, I am a gentleman. I
am twenty years old, my country needs me, I must win fame and renown;
be it in the army, be it at court, I must be heard of, men must speak
of me.”
“And when you are far away, tell me, Bernard, what will become of me,
your old mother?”
“You will be happy and proud to hear of your son’s successes--”
“And if you are killed in some battle?”
“What matters it? What is life? Only a dream. One dreams only of glory
at twenty, and when one is a gentleman; but do not fear, you will see
me return to you in a few years, a colonel, a maréchal-de-camp, or,
better still, with a fine position at Versailles.”
“Indeed! When will that be?”
“It will come, and I shall be respected and envied by all--and
then--every one will take off his hat to me--and then--I will marry my
cousin Henriette, and I will find good husbands for my sisters, and we
shall all live together tranquil and happy on my estates in Brittany.”
“Why not do all that to-day, my son? Has not your father left you
the finest fortune in the country? Where is there, for ten leagues
around, a richer domain, or a more beautiful château than that of
Roche-Bernard? Are you not loved and respected by your vassals? When
you walk through the village, is there a single one who fails to salute
you and take off his hat? Do not leave us, my son; remain here with
your friends, near your sisters, near your old mother, whom perhaps
you will not find here when you return. Do not waste in search of vain
glory or abridge by cares and torments of all kinds the days which
already go so swiftly. Life is sweet, my child, and the sun of Brittany
is so bright!” So saying she led me to the open window and pointed to
the beautiful avenues of my park; the grand old chestnut trees were in
full bloom, and the air was sweet with the fragrance of the lilacs and
the honeysuckles, whose leaves sparkled in the sunlight.
All the house-servants awaited me in the anteroom. They were so sad and
quiet that they seemed to say to me: “Do not go, young master, do not
go.” Hortense, my eldest sister, pressed me in her arms, and my little
sister Amélie, who was in one corner of the room occupied in looking at
some engravings in a volume of La Fontaine, came to me, and, handing me
the book, cried: “Read, read, my brother!” It was the fable of “The Two
Pigeons.”
But I repulsed them all and said: “I am twenty years old. _Je suis
gentilhomme._ I _must_ in honor and glory. Let me go.” And I
hastened to the courtyard, and got into the post-chaise, when a woman
appeared at the landing of the stairs. It was my beautiful cousin
Henriette! She did not weep, she did not say a word--but, pale and
trembling, she could scarcely stand. She waved me an adieu with her
white handkerchief, then fell unconscious. I ran to her, raised her,
put my arms around her, and swore to her eternal love; and the moment
she recovered consciousness, leaving her in my mother’s care, I ran to
the chaise, and, without turning my head, drove away.
If I had looked at Henriette I might have wavered. A few moments
afterward we were rolling along the grand route.
For a long while I thought of nothing but Henriette, my mother, and my
sisters, and all the happiness I had left behind me; but these thoughts
were effaced in the measure that the towers of Roche-Bernard faded from
my view, and soon ambitious dreams of glory spread over my spirit.
What projects! What _châteaux en Espagne_! What glorious deeds I
performed in that chaise! Riches, honors, dignities, rewards of all
kinds! I refused nothing. I merited them, and I accepted all; at last,
elevating myself as I advanced on my journey, I was duke--governor of
a province--and no less a personage than a maréchal of France when I
arrived in the evening at my destination. The voice of my valet, who
addressed me modestly as Monsieur le Chevalier, forced me to abdicate
for the time being, and I was obliged to return to the earth and to
myself.
The following day I continued my journey and dreamed the same dreams,
for the way was long. At last we arrived at Sédan, where I expected
to visit the Duc de C----, an old friend of our family. He would (I
thought) surely take me with him to Paris, where he was expected at
the end of the month, and then he would present me at Versailles, and
obtain for me, at the very least, a company of dragoons.
I arrived in Sédan in the evening--too late to present myself at the
château of my friend (which was some distance from the city), so I
delayed my visit until the next day, and put up at the “Armes de
France,” the best hotel in the place.
I supped at the table d’hôte and asked the way to take on the morrow to
the château of the Duc de C----.
“Any one can show you,” said a young officer who sat near me, “for it
is well known the whole country round. It was in this château that
died a great warrior, a very celebrated man--Maréchal Fabert!” Then
the conversation fell, as was natural between young military men, on
the Maréchal Fabert. They spoke of his battles, his exploits, of his
modesty, which caused him to refuse letters of nobility and the collar
of his order offered him by Louis XIV. Above all, they marveled at the
good fortune which comes to some men. What inconceivable happiness
for a simple soldier to rise to the rank of maréchal of France--he,
a man of no family, the son of a printer! They could cite no other
case similar to his, and the masses did not hesitate to ascribe his
elevation to supernatural causes. It was said that he had employed
magic from his childhood, that he was a sorcerer, and that he had a
compact with the devil; and our old landlord, who had all the credulity
of our Breton peasants, swore to us that in this château of the Duc de
C----, where Fabert died, there had frequently been seen a black man
whom no one knew; and that the servants had seen him enter Fabert’s
chamber and disappear, carrying with him the soul of the maréchal,
which he had bought some years before, and which, therefore, belonged
to him; and that even now, in the month of May, on the anniversary of
Fabert’s death, one can see at night a black man bearing a light, which
is Fabert’s soul.
This story amused us at dessert, and we gaily drank a bottle of
champagne to the familiar demon of Fabert, praying for his patronage,
and help to gain victories like those of Collioure and of La Marfée.
The next day I arose early and set out for the château, which proved
to be an immense Gothic manor house, having nothing very remarkable
about it. At any other time I would not have viewed it with any great
interest; but now I gazed at it with feelings of curiosity as I
recalled the strange story told us by the landlord of the “Armes de
France.”
The door was opened by an old valet, and when I told him I wished to
see the Duc de C----, he replied that he did not know whether his
master was visible or not or if he would receive me. I gave him my
name and he went away, leaving me alone in a very large and gloomy
hall, decorated with trophies of the chase and family portraits.
I waited some time, but he did not return. The silence was almost
oppressive; I began to grow impatient and had already counted two or
three times all the family portraits, and all the beams in the ceiling,
when I heard a noise in the wainscot.
It was a door which the wind had blown open. I looked up, and perceived
a very pretty boudoir lighted by two great casements and a glass door
which opened on a magnificent park. I advanced a few steps into the
apartment, and paused suddenly at a strange spectacle. A man (his back
was turned to the door through which I had entered) was lying on a
couch. He arose, and, without perceiving me, ran quickly to the window.
Tears rolled down his cheeks and profound despair was imprinted on his
features. He remained some time immovable, his head resting on his
hands, then he commenced to walk with great strides across the room;
turning, he saw me, stopped suddenly, and trembled. As for myself,
I was horror-struck, and dazed in consequence of my indiscretion. I
wished to retire, and murmured some incoherent apologies.
“Who are you? What do you want?” said he, in a deep voice, catching me
by the arm.
I was very much frightened and embarrassed, but replied: “I am the
Chevalier Bernard de la Roche-Bernard, and I have just arrived from
Brittany.”
“I know! I know!” said he, and, throwing his arms around me, he
embraced me warmly, and leading me to the couch made me sit near him,
spoke to me rapidly of my father and of all my family, whom he knew so
well that I concluded that it was the master of the château.
“You are Monsieur de C----, are you not?” asked I. He arose, looked at
me with a strange glance, and replied: “I was, but I am no longer. I am
no longer anybody.” Then seeing my astonishment he said: “Not a word,
young man, do not question me.”
I replied, blushing: “If, Monsieur, I have witnessed, without wishing
it, your chagrin and your sorrow, perhaps my devotion and my friendship
can assuage your grief?”
“Yes, yes, you are right; not that you can change my condition, but you
can receive, at least, my last wishes and my last vows. It is the only
service that I ask of you.”
He crossed the room, closed the door, then came and sat down beside
me, who, agitated and trembling, awaited his words. They were somewhat
grave and solemn, and his physiognomy, above all, had an expression
that I had never before seen. His lofty brow, which I examined
attentively, seemed marked by fate. His complexion was very pale,
and his eyes were black, bright, and piercing: and from time to time
his features, altered by suffering, contracted under an ironical and
infernal smile.
“That which I am about to relate to you,” said he, “will confound your
reason; you will doubt, you will not believe me, perhaps; even I often
doubt still. I tell myself it can not be; but the proofs are too real;
and are there not in all that surrounds us, in our organization even,
many other mysteries that we are obliged to submit to, without being
able to comprehend?” He paused a moment, as if to gather together his
thoughts, passed his hand over his brow, and continued: “I was born in
this château. I had two elder brothers, to whom fell the wealth and
honors of our house. I had nothing to expect, nothing to look forward
to but an abbé’s mantle; nevertheless, ambitious dreams of glory and
power fermented in my head and made my heart throb with anticipation.
Miserable in my obscurity, eager for renown, I thought only of means to
acquire it at any price, and these ideas made me insensible to all the
pleasures and all the sweetness of life. To me the present was nothing;
I only existed for the future, and this future presented itself to me
under a most sombre aspect. I reached my thirtieth year without having
accomplished anything;--then there arose in the capital literary lights
whose brilliance penetrated even to our remote province. Ah! thought
I, if I could at least make for myself a name in the world of letters,
that might bring renown, and therein lies true happiness. I had for a
confidant of my chagrins an old servant, an aged negro, who had served
in my family many years before my birth; he was the oldest person on
the estate, or for miles around, for no one could recall his first
appearance, and the country folk said that he had known the Maréchal
Fabert, was present at his death, and that he was an evil spirit.”
At that name, I started with surprise; the unknown paused and asked me
the cause of my embarrassment.
“Nothing,” said I; but I could not help thinking that the black man
must be the one spoken of by the old landlord of the “Armes de France”
the previous evening.