“One day in Yago’s presence (that was the old negro’s name) I gave way
to my feelings, bemoaned my obscurity, and bewailed my useless and
monotonous life, and I cried aloud in my despair: ‘I would willingly
give ten years of my life to be placed in the first rank of our
authors!’
“‘Ten years,’ said Yago, coolly; ‘that is much, it is paying very dear
for so little a thing; no matter, I accept your ten years; remember
your promise, I will surely keep mine.’
“I can not describe to you my great surprise on hearing him speak thus.
I believed that his mind had become enfeebled by the weight of years.
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, and took no further notice of
him. Some days afterward I left home for Paris. There I found myself
launched into the society of men of letters; their example encouraged
and stimulated me, and I soon published several works that were very
successful, which I will not now describe. All Paris rushed to see me,
the journals were filled with my praises. The new name I had taken
became celebrated, and even recently, young man, you have admired my
works.”
Here another gesture of surprise on my part interrupted this recital.
“Then you are not the Duc de C----?” cried I.
“No,” replied he, coldly. And I asked myself: “A celebrated man of
letters! Is this Marmontel? is it D’Alembert? is it Voltaire?”
The unknown sighed, a smile of regret and contempt spread over his
lips, and he continued his recital.
“This literary reputation, which had seemed to me so desirable, soon
failed to satisfy a soul so ardent as mine. I aspired to still higher
successes, and I said to Yago (who had followed me to Paris and who
kept close watch over me): ‘This is not real glory, there is no
veritable renown but that which one acquires in the career of arms.
What is an author, a poet? Nothing! Give me a great general, or a
captain in the army! Behold the destiny that I desire, and for a great
military reputation I would willingly give ten more years of my life.’
“‘I accept them,’ replied Yago, quickly. ‘I take them--they belong to
me--do not forget it.’”
At this stage of his recital the unknown paused once more on seeing the
alarm and incredulity that were depicted on my features.
“You remember, I warned you, young man,” said he, “that you could
not believe my story. It must seem to you a dream, a chimera--to me
also;--nevertheless the promotions, the honors that I soon obtained,
were no illusions. Those brave soldiers that I led into the thickest
of the fight! Those brilliant charges! Those captured flags! Those
victories which all France heard of; all that was _my_ work--all
that glory belonged to me!”
While he marched up and down the room with great strides, and spoke
thus with warmth and with enthusiasm, astonishment and fear had almost
paralyzed my senses. “Who then is this person?” thought I. “Is it
Coligny? is it Richelieu? is it the Maréchal de Saxe?”
From his state of exaltation my unknown had fallen again into deepest
dejection, and, approaching me, said with a sombre air: “Yago kept
his promise; and when, later on, disgusted with the vain smoke of
military glory, I aspired to that which is only real and positive in
this world--when at the price of five or six years of existence I
desired great riches, he gladly gave them to me. Yes, young man, I have
possessed vast wealth, far beyond my wildest dreams--estates, forests,
and châteaux. To-day, still, all this is mine, and in my power; if you
doubt me--if you doubt the existence of Yago--wait here, he is coming,
and you can see for yourself that which would confound your reason and
mine were it not unfortunately too real.”
The unknown approached the fireplace, looked at the timepiece, made a
gesture of alarm, and said to me in a deep voice:
“This morning at daybreak I felt myself so weak and so feeble that I
could scarcely rise. I rang for my _valet-de-chambre_; it was Yago
who appeared. ‘What is this strange feeling?’ asked I.
“‘Master, nothing but what is perfectly natural. The hour approaches,
the moment arrives.’
“‘And what is it?’ cried I.
“‘Can you not divine it? Heaven has destined you sixty years to live;
you were thirty when I began to obey you.’
“‘Yago!’ cried I in affright, ‘do you speak seriously?’
“‘Yes, master; in five years you have spent in glory twenty-five years
of life. You have sold them to me. They belong to me; and these years
that you have voluntarily given up are now added to mine.’
“‘What! That, then, was the price of your services?’
“‘Yes, and many others--for ages past--have paid more dearly; for
instance, Fabert, whom I protected also.’
“‘Be silent, be silent!’ cried I; ‘this is not possible; it can not be
true!’
“‘As you please; but prepare yourself; for there only remains for you a
brief half-hour of life.’
“‘You are mocking me!’
“‘Not, at all. Calculate for yourself. Thirty-five years you have had,
and twenty-five years you have sold to me--total, sixty. It is your own
count; each one takes his own.’ Then he wished to go away, and I felt
my strength diminish. I felt my life leaving me.
“‘Yago! Yago!’ I cried feebly; ‘give me a few hours, a few hours more!’
“‘No, no,’ replied he, ‘it would be taking away from myself, and I know
better than you the value of life. There is no treasure worth two hours
of existence.’
“I could scarcely speak; my eyes were set in my head, and the chill
of death congealed the blood in my veins. ‘Very well!’ said I with an
effort, ‘take back your gifts, for that which I have sacrificed all.
Four hours more and I renounce my gold, my wealth--all this opulence
that I have so much desired.’
“‘Be it so; you have been a good master, and I am willing to do
something for you. I consent.’
“I felt my strength come back, and I cried: ‘Four hours--that is very
little! Yago! Yago! Four hours more and I renounce all my literary
fame, all my works that have placed me so high in the world’s esteem.’
“‘Four hours for that!’ cried the negro with disdain; ‘it is too much.
No matter. I can not refuse your last request.’
“‘Not the last!’ cried I, clasping my hands before him. ‘Yago! Yago!
I supplicate you, give me until this evening. The twelve hours, the
entire day, and all my exploits, my victories, all my military renown
may all be effaced from the memory of men. This day, Yago, dear Yago;
this whole day, and I will be content!’
“‘You abuse my kindness,’ said he; ‘no matter, I will give you until
sunset; after that you must not ask me. This evening, then, I will come
for you’--and he is gone,” continued the unknown, in despairing accents
“and this day, in which I see you for the first time, is my last on
earth.” Then going to the glass door, which was open, and which led to
the park, he cried: “Alas! I will no longer behold the beautiful sky,
these green lawns, the sparkling fountains! I will never again breathe
the balmy air of springtime. Fool that I have been! These gifts that
God has given to all of us; these blessings, to which I was insensible,
and of which I can only now, when it is too late, appreciate and
comprehend the sweetness--and I might have enjoyed them for twenty-five
years more!--and I have used up my life! I have sacrificed it for what?
For a vain and sterile glory, which has not made me happy, and which
dies with me! Look!” said he to me, pointing to some peasants who
traversed the park, singing on their way to work. “What would I not
give now to share their labors and their poverty! But I have no longer
anything to give, or to hope for here below, not even misfortune!”
Just then a ray of sunlight (the sun of the month of May) shone through
the casement and lit up his pale and distracted features. He seized my
arm in a sort of delirium, and said to me: “See! see there! is it not
beautiful? the sun!--and I must leave all this! Ah! at least I am still
alive! I will have this whole day--so pure, so bright, so radiant--this
day which for me has no morrow!” he then ran down the steps of the open
door, and bounded like a deer across the park, and at a detour of the
path he disappeared in the shrubbery, before I hardly realized that
he was gone, or could detain him. To tell the truth, I would not have
had the strength. I lay back on the couch, stunned, dazed, and weak
with the shock of all I had heard. I arose and walked up and down the
room, to assure myself that I was awake, that I had not been under the
influence of a dream. Just then the door of the boudoir opened and a
servant announced: “Here is my master, the Duc de C----.”
A man of sixty years and of distinguished presence advanced toward me,
and, giving me his hand, apologized for having made me wait so long.
“I was not in the château. I had gone to seek my younger brother, the
Comte de C----, who is ill.”
“And is he in danger?” interrupted I.
“No, monsieur. Thanks to heaven,” replied my host; “but in his youth
ambitious dreams of glory exalted his imagination, and a serious
illness that he has had recently (and which he deemed fatal) has upset
his mind, and produced a sort of delirium and mental aberration, by
which he persuades himself always that he has but one day to live. It
is insanity.”
All was explained to me.
“Now,” continued the duke, “let us come to you, young man, and see what
can be done for your advancement. We will depart at the end of the
month for Versailles. I will present you at court.”
I blushed and replied: “I appreciate your kindness, Monsieur le Duc,
and I thank you very much; but I will not go to Versailles.”
“What! would you renounce the court and all the advantages and
promotions which certainly await you there?”
“Yes, Monsieur--”
“But do you realize that with my influence you can rise rapidly, and
that with a little assiduity and patience you can become distinguished
in ten years?”
“Ten years lost!” I cried in terror.
“What!” replied he, astonished. “Ten years is not much to pay for
fortune, glory, and honors? Come, come, my young friend. Come with me
to Versailles.”
“No, Monsieur le Duc. I am determined to return to Brittany, and I beg
of you to receive my profound gratitude, and that of my family.”
“What folly!” cried he.
And I, remembering what I had listened to, said: “It is wisdom!”
The next day I was en route, and with what exquisite delight did I
behold my beautiful château of Roche-Bernard, the grand old trees in my
park, and the bright sunshine of Brittany. I found again my vassals, my
mother, my sisters, my fiancée, and my happiness, which I still retain,
for one week later I married Henriette.
NAPOLEON AND POPE PIUS VII
BY ALFRED VICTOR, COMTE DE VIGNY
[Illustration]
_In 1835, “in one of the most distinguished books of modern
literature,” as Edmund Gosse says, De Vigny exemplified the
illusion of military glory in three episodes. The story here
given is the great scene in the third episode which mocks the
illusion of active glory._
_Alfred de Vigny was born at Loches in 1799. In 1828 he
resigned his commission in the army, where he had been fighting
and writing since 1815, having already published his masterly
poem “Möise,” and the historical novel “Cinq-Mars,” after
the manner of Walter Scott. His one dramatic success was
“Chatterton.” His last days were passed in solitude, and he
died at Paris in 1863._
_De Vigny rings the changes on the stupidity of men, the
impassibility of nature, the silence of God; so careful and
laborious a writer that he has produced only some forty works,
a few of these of the very flower of French literature. De
Vigny is an idealist, but, as it has lately been discovered,
whenever he says “I” his statements are true._
[Illustration]
NAPOLEON AND POPE PIUS VII
BY ALFRED DE VIGNY
Translated by J. Matthewman.
Copyright, 1896, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
We were at Fontainebleau. The Pope had just arrived. The Emperor had
awaited him with great impatience, as he desired the Holy Father to
crown him. Napoleon received him in person, and they immediately
entered the carriage--on opposite sides, at the same time, apparently
with an entire neglect of etiquette, but this was only in appearance,
for the movement was thoroughly calculated. It was so arranged that
neither might seem to yield precedence or to exact it from the other.
The ruse was characteristically Italian. They at once drove toward
the palace, where all kinds of rumors were in circulation. I had left
several officers in the room which preceded that of the Emperor; and I
was quite alone in his apartment.
I was standing looking at a long table, which was of Roman mosaic
work, and which was absolutely loaded, covered with heaps of papers.
I had often seen Napoleon enter, and submit the pile of documents to
a strange system of decision. He did not take the letters either by
hazard or in order; but when the number irritated him, he swept them
off the table with his hand--striking right and left like a mower,
until he had reduced the number to six or seven, which he opened.
Such disdainful conduct had moved me singularly. So many letters of
distress and mourning cast underfoot as if by an angry wind; so many
useless prayers of widows and orphans having no chance except that of
being spared by the consular hand; so many groaning leaves, moistened
by the tears of so many families, trampled under his heel with as
little compunction as if they were corpses on a battlefield--all these
seemed to represent the fate of France. Although the hand that acted so
ruthlessly was strong, it seemed always that such brutal strength was
anything but admirable, and it seemed wrong that so much should be left
to the caprice of such a man. Moreover, had a little consideration been
shown, Napoleon would have had so many more buttresses for his power
and authority. I felt my heart rise against the man--but feebly, like
the heart of one who was his slave. I thought of the letters which had
been treated with such cruel contempt; cries of anguish came from the
envelopes; and having read some of the petitions I constituted myself
judge between the man and those who had sacrificed themselves so much
for him, upon whose necks he was going to fasten the yoke tighter that
very day. I was holding one of the papers in my hand, when the beating
of the drums informed me of the arrival of Napoleon. Now you know that
just as one always sees the flash from a cannon before one hears the
report, one always saw him as he was heard to be approaching; he was
so active, and seemed to have so little time. When he rode into the
courtyard of the palace, his attendants were scarcely able to keep up
with him. The sentry had barely time to salute before the Emperor had
got down from his horse and was hurrying up the staircase. This time
he had left the Pope in the carriage in order to be able to enter the
palace alone, and had galloped on ahead. I heard the sound of his spurs
at the same time as the drums. I had only just time enough to throw
myself into an alcove where there was an old-fashioned high bedstead
which was used by no one, and which was, fortunately, concealed by
curtains.
The Emperor was in a state of great excitement, and strode about the
room as if waiting for some one with great impatience. Having darted
across the room several times, he went to the window and began to drum
on the panes. A carriage rolled into the court; he ceased beating a
tattoo on the glass, and stamped with his foot as if the sight which he
saw in the courtyard was anything but agreeable to him. Then he tore
across the room to the door, which he opened for the Pope.
Pius VII entered unattended. Bonaparte hastily closed the door after
the old man with the care of a jailer. I will confess that I was in
a state of mortal terror at being the third of the party. However, I
remained motionless, listening eagerly to every word that was said.
The Pope was tall; his face was long, yellow, and had traces of great
suffering, but bore the imprint of a goodness of soul and nobility of
spirit which knew no bounds. He had fine, big, black eyes, and his
mouth was sweetened by a smile which lent something spirituelle and
vivacious to his countenance. It was a smile in which one could detect
nothing of the cunning of the world, but which was full to overflowing
of Christian goodness. On his head he wore a skull cap, from under
which escaped locks of his silver-streaked hair. A red velvet cloak
hung negligently on his stooping shoulders, and his robe dragged at
his feet. He entered slowly, with the calm and prudent step of an aged
man, sank down into one of the big Roman armchairs, which were gilded
and covered with eagles, lowered his eyes, and waited to hear what the
other Italian had to say to him.
What a scene that was! I can see it still. It was not the genius of
the man which I noticed, but his character. Bonaparte was not then as
you knew him afterward; he had not grown gross--he had not the swollen
face, the gouty legs, nor was he so ridiculously stout as he afterward
became. Unfortunately, in art he is almost always represented by a sort
of caricature, so that he will not be handed down to posterity as he
really was. He was not ungainly then, but nervous and supple, lithe
and active, convulsive in some of his gestures, in some gracious; his
chest was flat and narrow--in short, he looked just as I had seen him
at Malta.
He did not stop stalking round the room when the Pope entered. He
wandered round the chair of the latter like a cautious hunter; then
suddenly halting in front of Pius, he resumed a conversation which had
been commenced in the carriage, and which he was evidently anxious to
continue.
“I tell you again, Holy Father, I am not a free-thinker; and I don’t
agree with those who are forever reasoning about religious matters. I
assure you that in spite of my old republicans I shall go to mass.”
The last words he threw bruskly, as it were, in the Pope’s
face--incense of flattery undisguised. Then he suddenly stopped and
examined the Pope’s countenance to catch the result, which he seemed
to expect to be great. The old man lowered his eyes and rested his
hands on the heads of the eagles which formed the arms of the chair. He
seemed to have assumed the attitude of a Roman statue purposely, as if
wishing to express: I resign myself to hearing all the profane things
that he may choose to say to me!
Bonaparte took a turn round the room, and round the chair which was
in the middle, and it was plain to be seen that he was not satisfied
either with himself or with his adversary, and that he was reproaching
himself for having resumed the conversation so rashly. So he began
to talk more connectedly as he walked round the room, all the time
watching narrowly the reflection of the pontiff’s face in the mirror,
and also eying him carefully in profile as he passed; but not venturing
to look him full in the face for fear of appearing too anxious about
the effect of his words.
“There is one thing that hurts me very much, Holy Father,” said he,
“and that is that you consent to the coronation as you formerly
consented to the Concordat--as if you were compelled to do so, and not
as of free will. You sit there before me with the air of a martyr,
resigned to the will of heaven, and suffering for the sake of your
conscience. But that is not the fact. You are not a prisoner. You are
as free as the air.”
Pius VII smiled and looked his interlocutor in the face. He realized
that the despotic nature with which he had to contend was not satisfied
with obedience unless one seemed willing, even anxious, to obey.
“Yes,” continued Bonaparte, “you are quite free. You may return to Rome
if you like. The road is open and no one will stop you.”
Without uttering a word, the Pope sighed and raised his hand and his
eyes to heaven; then very slowly he lowered his eyes and studied the
cross on his bosom attentively.
Bonaparte continued to walk round the room and to talk to his captive,
his voice becoming sweeter and more wheedling.
“Holy Father, were it not for the reverence I have for you I should be
inclined to say that you are a little ungrateful. You seem to ignore
entirely the services which France has rendered you. As far as I am
able to judge, the Council of Venice, which elected you Pope, was
influenced somewhat by my campaign in Italy, as well as by a word which
I spoke for you. I was very much troubled at the time that Austria
treated you so badly. I believe that your Holiness was obliged to
return to Rome by sea for fear of passing through Austrian territory.”
He stopped for the answer of his silent guest; Pius VII made simply
the slightest inclination of the head, and remained plunged in a
melancholy reverie which seemed to prevent him from hearing Napoleon.
Bonaparte then pushed a chair near to that of the Pope. I started, for
in seeking the chair he had come very near my hiding-place, he even
brushed the curtains which concealed me.
“It was as a Catholic really that I was so afflicted about your
vexations. I have never had much time to study theology, it is true,
but I maintain a great faith in the Church. She has a wonderful
vitality, Holy Father, although Voltaire did you some little harm,
certainly. Now if you are only willing we can do a great deal of work
together in the future.”
He assumed a caressing, wheedling air of innocence.
“Really, I have tried to understand your motives, but I can’t for the
life of me see what objection you can have to making Paris your seat.
I’ll leave the Tuileries to you if you like. You’ll find your room
waiting for you there. I scarcely ever go there myself. Don’t you see,
Father, it is the capital of the world. I’ll do whatever you want me
to; and really, after all, I am not as bad as I am painted. If you’ll
leave war and politics to me you may do as you like in ecclesiastical
matters. In fact, I would be your soldier. Now wouldn’t that be a
grand arrangement? We could hold our councils like Constantine and
Charlemagne--I would open and dissolve them; and then I would put the
keys of the world into your hands, for as our Lord said: ‘I came with a
sword,’ and I would keep the sword; I would only bring it to you for
your blessing after each new success of our arms.”
The Pope, who until then had remained as motionless as an Egyptian
statue, slowly raised his head, smiled sadly, lifted his eyes to
heaven, and said, after a gentle sigh, as if he were confiding the
thought to his invisible guardian angel:
“Commediante!”
Napoleon leaped from his chair like a wounded tiger. He was in one of
his “yellow tempers.” At first he stamped about without uttering a
word, biting his lips till the blood came. He no longer circled round
his prey cautiously, but walked from end to end of the room with firm
resounding steps, and clinking his spurs noisily. The room shook; the
curtains trembled like trees at the approach of a storm; I thought that
something terrible would surely happen; my hair began to bristle, and
I put my hand to my head unwittingly. I looked at the Pope. He did not
stir, but simply pressed the heads of the eagles with his hands.
The storm burst violently.
“Comedian! What? I, a comedian? Indeed, I’ll play some comedies for
you that will set you all a-weeping like women and children! Comedian,
forsooth! You are mistaken if you think that you may insult me with
impunity. My theatre is the world; the rôle that I play is the double
one of master and actor; I use all of you as comedians, popes, kings,
peoples, and the string by which I work you--_you_ my puppets--is
fear. You would need to be a much heavier man than you are, Signor
Chiaramonti, to dare to applaud or hiss me. Do you know that if it
be my will you will become a simple _curé_? As for you and your
tiara, France would mock at you if I did not seem to be serious in
saluting you.
“Only four years ago nobody dared speak of Christ. Had that state of
things continued who would have cared for the Pope, I should like to
know? Comedian! You gentlemen are a little too ready at getting a
foothold among us. And now you are dissatisfied because I am not such a
fool as to sign away the liberties of France as did Louis XIV. But you
had better not sing to me in that tune. It is I who hold you between
my thumb and finger; it is I who can carry you from north to south and
then back again to the north like so many marionettes; it is I who give
you some stability because you represent an old idea which I wish to
resuscitate; and you have not enough wit to see that, and to act as if
you were not aware of the fact. Now I’ll speak to you frankly. Trouble
your head with your own affairs and don’t interfere in what you don’t
understand and with what doesn’t in the least concern you. You seem to
think that you are necessary, you set yourselves up as if you were of
some weight, and you dress yourselves in women’s clothes. But I’ll let
you know that you don’t impose on me with all that; and if you don’t
change your tactics very soon I’ll treat your robes as Charles XII did
that of the Grand Vizier--I’ll tear them with my spur.”
Then he ceased. I scarcely dared breathe. I advanced my head a little,
not hearing his voice, to see if the poor old priest was dead with
fright. The same absolutely calm attitude, the same calm expression on
his face. For the second time he raised his eyes to heaven, again he
sighed, and smiled bitterly as he murmured:
“Tragediante!”
Bonaparte was at the farther end of the room, leaning against a marble
chimney which was as high as he was tall. Like an arrow shot out of a
bow, he rushed straight at the old man; I thought he was going to kill
him as he sat. But he suddenly stopped short, seized a Sèvres vase on
which the Capitol was painted, threw it on the hearth and ground it
under his heels. Then he remained terribly quiet.
I was relieved, for I felt that his reason had got the better of his
temper. He became sad, and when he finally spoke in a deep voice, it
was evident that in the two words uttered by the Pope he had recognized
his true portrait.
“Miserable life!” he said. Then he fell into reverie, and without
speaking tore the brim of his hat. When his voice again was heard he
was talking to himself:
“It’s true. Tragedian or comedian, I am always playing a part--all is
costume and pose. How wearying it all is, and how belittling! Pose!
pose! always pose! In one case full face, in another profile--but
invariably for effect. Always trying to appear what others worship,
so that I may deceive the fools, keeping them between hope and fear.
Dazzling them by bulletins, by prestige. Master of all of them and not
knowing what to do with them. That’s the simple truth after all. And
to make myself so miserable through it all! It really is too much.
For,” continued he, sitting down in an armchair and crossing his
legs, “it bores me to death, the whole farce. As soon as I sit down I
don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t even hunt for three days
in succession at Fontainebleau with being weary of it. I must always
be moving and making others move. I speak quite frankly. I have plans
in my life which would require the lives of forty emperors to carry
out, and I make new ones every morning and evening; my imagination is
always on the _qui vive_; but before I have carried out two of
them I shall be exhausted in body and mind; for our poor lamp of life
doesn’t burn long enough. And I must confess that if I could carry
them out I should not find that the world was one whit better than it
is now; but it _would_ be better though, for it would be united.
I am not a philosopher. I don’t understand many theories. Life is too
short to stop. As soon as I have an idea I put it into execution.
Others will find reasons after me for praising me if I succeed and for
abusing me if I fail. Differences of opinion are active--they abound
in France--but I keep them down while I am alive--afterward--Well, no
matter! It is my business to succeed, and that I intend to do. Every
day I make an Iliad by my actions--every day.”
Thereupon he rose quickly. In that moment he was lively and natural,
and was not thinking of posing as he afterward did in St. Helena; he
did not strive to make himself ideal or to pose for effect--he was
himself outside of himself. He went back to the Pope, who had remained
seated, and paced in front of him. Getting warmed up, he spoke with a
dash of irony, at an incredible rate:
“Birth is everything. Those who come into the world poor and neglected
are always desperate. That desperation turns to action or suicide
according to character. When they have courage to attempt something
as I have done, they raise the devil. But what else is to be done?
One must live. One must find one’s place and make one’s mark. I have
carried everything before me like a cannon-ball--all the worse for
those who happened to be in my way. But what else could I have done?
Each man eats according to his appetite, and I have an insatiable
one. Do you know, Holy Father, at Toulon I had not wherewithal to buy
myself a pair of epaulets, in place of which I had a mother and I don’t
know how many brothers on my shoulders. They are all satisfactorily
settled at present. Josephine married me out of pity in spite of her
old notary, who objected that I owned nothing but my cap and cape, and
now we are going to crown her. The old man was right, though, as to
what I possessed at that time. Imperial mantle! Crown! what does all
that mean? Is it mine? Costume! Actor’s costume! I will put them on for
an hour and then I shall have had enough of them. Then I shall don my
officer’s uniform, and ‘To horse’; all my life on horseback. I couldn’t
pass a single day resting, without being in danger of falling out of
the chair. I am to be envied? Eh?
“I repeat, Holy Father; there are only two classes of men in the world:
those who have and those who gain.
“Those who are in the first class rest, the others are restless. As I
learnt that lesson at an early age and to some purpose I shall go a
long way. There are only two men who have done anything before they
were forty years old; Cromwell and Jean-Jacques; if you had given one
a farm, and the other twelve hundred francs and his servant, they
would neither have commanded nor preached nor written. There are
workmen in buildings, in colors, in forms, and in phrases; I am a
workman in battles. It’s my business. At the age of thirty-five I have
manufactured eighteen of them, which are called ‘Victories.’ I must be
paid for my work. And a throne is certainly not extravagant payment.
Besides, I shall always go on working. You will see that all dynasties
will date from mine, although I am a mere parvenu. I am elected as you
are, Holy Father--and drawn from the multitude. On this point we can
well shake hands.”
And, approaching the Pope, Napoleon held out his hand. Pius took the
hand which was offered to him, but shook his head sadly, and I saw his
fine eyes cloud with tears.
Bonaparte cast a hurried glance at the tears which he had wrung from
the old Pope, and I surprised even a rapid motion in the corners of his
mouth much resembling a smile of triumph. At that moment his intensely
powerful and overbearing nature seemed to me less admirable than
that of his saintly adversary; I blushed for all my past admiration
of Napoleon; I felt a sadness creep over me at the thought that the
grandest policy appears little when stained by tricks of vanity. I saw
that the emperor had gained his end in the interview by having yielded
nothing and by having drawn a sign of weakness from the Pope. He had
wished to have the last word, and without uttering another syllable, he
left the room as abruptly as he had entered. I could not see whether he
saluted the Pope or not, but I do not think he did.
CLAUDE GUEUX
BY VICTOR MARIE HUGO
[Illustration]
_Victor Hugo, greatest and most versatile of the French
poets of the nineteenth century, was born at Besançon in 1802.
He published a succession of monumental romances, plays,
poems, until he was elected in 1844 to the Academy. After that
he threw himself into the political turmoil of the period,
becoming chief of the opponents of Louis Bonaparte and of the
reconstruction of the Empire, and was exiled for eighteen
years to Jersey and Guernsey, where he wrote, in 1862, “Les
Misérables.”_
_All contemporary poetry has been said to take its
inspiration from Victor Hugo. Besides a wonderfully fertile and
monumental mind, dignified, dramatic, satiric, he had a special
genius for expressing by the sound of a phrase what could not
be directly expressed in words._
_“Claude Gueux,” which means ragamuffin and simpleton,
written about 1828, is an indignant pleading in favor of the
numerous classes of outcasts who would be useful citizens if
not led to crime by misery._
[Illustration]
CLAUDE GUEUX
BY VICTOR HUGO
Claude Gueux was a poor workman, living in Paris about eight years
ago, with his mistress and child. Although his education had been
neglected, and he could not even read, the man was naturally clever
and intelligent, and thought deeply over matters. Winter came with
its attendant miseries--want of work, want of food, want of fuel. The
man, the woman, and the child were frozen and famished. The man turned
thief. I know not what he stole. What signifies, as the result was the
same? To the woman and child it gave three days’ bread and warmth; to
the man, five years’ imprisonment. He was taken to Clairvaux--the abbey
now converted into a prison, its cells into dungeons, and the altar
itself into a pillory. This is called progress.
Claude Gueux, the honest workman, who turned thief from force of
circumstances, had a countenance which impressed you--a high forehead
somewhat lined with care, dark hair already streaked with gray,
deep-set eyes beaming with kindness, while the lower part clearly
indicated firmness mingled with self-respect. He rarely spoke, yet
there was a certain dignity in the man which commanded respect and
obedience. A fine character, and we shall see what society made of it.
Over the prison workshop was an inspector, who rarely forgot that
he was the jailer also to his subordinates, handing them the tools
with one hand, and casting chains upon them with the other. A tyrant,
never using even self-reasoning; with ideas against which there
was no appeal; hard rather than firm, at times he could even be
jocular--doubtless a good father, a good husband, really not vicious,
but _bad_. He was one of those men who never can grasp a fresh
idea, who apparently fail to be moved by any emotion; yet with hatred
and rage in their hearts look like blocks of wood, heated on the one
side but frozen on the other. This man’s chief characteristic was
obstinacy; and so proud was he of this very stubbornness that he
compared himself with Napoleon--an optical delusion, like taking the
mere flicker of a candle for a star. When he had made up his mind to a
thing, however absurd, he would carry out that absurd idea. How often
it happens, that, when a catastrophe occurs, if we inquire into the
cause we find it originated through the obstinacy of one with little
ability, but having full faith in his own powers.
Such was the inspector of the prison workshop at Clairvaux--a man of
flint placed by society over others, who hoped to strike sparks out
of such material; but a spark from a like source is apt to end in a
conflagration.
The inspector soon singled out Claude Gueux, who had been numbered and
placed in the workshop, and, finding him clever, treated him well.
Seeing Claude looking sad (for he was ever thinking of her he termed
his wife), and being in a good humor, by way of pastime to console
the prisoner he told him the woman had become one of the unfortunate
sisterhood, and had been reduced to infamy; of the child nothing was
known.
After a time Claude had accustomed himself to prison rule, and by his
calmness of manner and a certain amount of resolution clearly marked in
his face, he had acquired a great ascendency over his companions, who
so much admired him that they asked his advice, and tried in all ways
to imitate him. The very expression in his eyes clearly indicated the
man’s character; besides, is not the eye the window of the soul, and
what other result could be anticipated than that the intelligent spirit
should lead men with few ideas, who yield to the attraction as the
metal does to the lodestone? In less than three months Claude was the
virtual head of the workshop, and at times he almost doubted whether
he was king or prisoner, being treated something like a captive pope,
surrounded by his cardinals.
Such popularity ever has its attendant hatred; and though beloved by
the prisoners, Claude was detested by the jailers. To him two men’s
rations would have been scarcely sufficient. The inspector laughed
at this, as his own appetite was large; but what would be mirth to
a duke, to a prisoner would be a great misfortune. When a free man,
Claude Gueux could earn his daily four-pound loaf and enjoy it; but as
a prisoner he daily worked, and for his labor received one pound and
a half of bread and four ounces of meat: it naturally followed that he
was always hungry.
He had just finished his meagre fare, and was about to resume his
labors, hoping in work to forget famine, when a weakly looking young
man came toward him, holding a knife and his untasted rations in his
hand, but seemingly afraid to address him.
“What do you want?” said Claude, roughly.
“A favor at your hands,” timidly replied the young man.
“What is it?” said Claude.
“Help me with my rations; I have more than I can eat.”
For a moment Claude was taken aback, but without further ceremony he
divided the food in two and at once partook of one-half.
“Thank you,” said the young man; “allow me to share my rations with you
every day.”
“What is your name?” said Claude.
“Albin.”
“Why are you here?” added Claude.
“I robbed.”
“So did I,” said Claude.
The same scene took place daily between this man old before his time
(he was only thirty-six) and the boy of twenty, who looked at the
most seventeen. The feeling was more like that of father and son than
one brother to another; everything created a bond of union between
them--the very toil they endured together, the fact of sleeping in the
same quarters and taking exercise in the same courtyard. They were
happy, for were they not all the world to each other? The inspector of
the workshop was so hated by the prisoners that he often had recourse
to Claude Gueux to enforce his authority; and when a tumult was on the
point of breaking out, a few words from Claude had more effect than
the authority of ten wardens. Although the inspector was glad to avail
himself of this influence, he was jealous all the same, and hated the
superior prisoner with an envious and implacable feeling--an example of
might over right, all the more fearful as it was secretly nourished.
But Claude cared so much for Albin that he thought little about the
inspector.
One morning as the warders were going their rounds one of them summoned
Albin, who was working with Claude, to go before the inspector.
“What are you wanted for?” said Claude.
“I do not know,” replied Albin, following the warder.
All day Claude looked in vain for his companion, and at night, finding
him still absent, he broke through his ordinary reserve and addressed
the turnkey. “Is Albin ill?” said he.
“No,” replied the man.
“How is it that he has never put in an appearance to-day?”
“His quarters have been changed,” was the reply.
For a moment Claude trembled, then calmly continued, “Who gave the
order?”
“Monsieur D----.” This was the inspector’s name.
On the following night the inspector, Monsieur D----, went his rounds
as usual. Claude, who had perceived him from the distance, rose, and
hastened to raise his woolen cap and button his gray woolen vest to the
throat--considered a mark of respect to superiors in prison discipline.
“Sir,” said Claude, as the inspector was about to pass him, “has Albin
really been quartered elsewhere?”
“Yes,” replied the inspector.
“Sir, I can not live without him. You know the rations are insufficient
for me, and Albin divided his portion with me. Could you not manage to
let him resume his old place near me?”
“Impossible; the order can not be revoked.”
“By whom was it given?”
“By me.”
“Monsieur D----,” replied Claude, “on you my life depends.”
“I never cancel an order once given.”
“Sir, what have I ever done to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Why, then,” cried Claude, “separate me from Albin?”
“Because I do,” replied the inspector, and with that he passed on.
Claude’s head sank down, like the poor caged lion deprived of his
dog; but the grief, though so deeply felt, in no way changed his
appetite--he was famished. Many offered to share their rations with
him, but he steadily refused, and continued his usual routine in
silence--breaking it only to ask the inspector daily, in tones of
anguish mingled with rage, something between a prayer and a threat,
these two words: “And Albin?”
The inspector simply passed on, shrugging his shoulders; but had
he only observed Claude he would have seen the evident change,
noticeable to all present, and he would have heard these words, spoken
respectfully but firmly:
“Sir, listen to me; send my companion to me. It would be wise to do so,
I can assure you. Remember my words!”
On Sunday he had sat for hours in the courtyard, with his head bowed
in his hands, and when a prisoner called Faillette came up laughing,
Claude said: “I am judging some one.”
On the 25th of October, 1831, as the inspector went his rounds, Claude,
to draw his attention, smashed a watch-glass he had found in the
passage. This had the desired effect.
“It was I,” said Claude. “Sir, restore my comrade to me.”
“Impossible,” was the answer.
Looking the inspector full in the face, Claude firmly added: “Now,
reflect! To-day is the 25th of October; I give you till the 4th of
November.”
A warder remarked that Claude was threatening Monsieur D----, and ought
at once to be locked up.
“No, it is not a case of blackhole,” replied the inspector smiling
disdainfully; “we must be considerate with people of this stamp.”
The following day Claude was again accosted by one of the prisoners
named Pernot, as he was brooding in the courtyard.
“Well, Claude, you are sad indeed; what are you pondering over?”
“I fear some evil threatens that good Monsieur D----.” answered Claude.
Claude daily impressed the fact on the inspector how much Albin’s
absence affected him, but with no result save four-and-twenty hours’
solitary confinement.
On the 4th of November he looked round his cell for the little that
remained to remind him of his former life. A pair of scissors, and an
old volume of the “Émile,” belonging to the woman he had loved so well,
the mother of his child--how useless to a man who could neither work
nor read!
As Claude walked down the old cloisters, so dishonored by its new
inmates and its fresh whitewashed walls, he noticed how earnestly the
convict Ferrari was looking at the heavy iron bars that crossed the
window, and he said to him: “To-night I will cut through these bars
with these scissors,” pointing to the pair he still held in his hand.
Ferrari laughed incredulously, and Claude joined in the mirth. During
the day he worked with more than ordinary ardor, wishing to finish a
straw hat, which he had been paid for in advance by a tradesman at
Troyes--M. Bressier.
Shortly before noon he made some excuse to go down into the carpenters’
quarters, a story below his own, at the time the warders were absent.
Claude received a hearty welcome, as he was equally popular here as
elsewhere.
“Can any one lend me an ax?” he said.
“What for?”
Without exacting any promises of secrecy he at once replied: “To kill
the inspector with to-night.”
Claude was at once offered several; choosing the smallest, he hid it
beneath his waistcoat and left. Now, there were twenty-seven prisoners
present, and not one of those men betrayed him; they even refrained
from talking upon the subject among themselves, waiting for the
terrible event which must follow.
As Claude passed on, seeing a young convict of sixteen yawning idly
there, he strongly advised him to learn how to read. Just then
Faillette asked what he was hiding.
Claude answered unhesitatingly: “An ax to kill Monsieur D---- to-night;
but can you see it?”
“A little,” said Faillette.
At seven o’clock the prisoners were locked in their several workshops.
It was then the custom for the warders to leave them, until the
inspector had been his rounds.
In Claude’s workshop a most extraordinary scene took place, the only
one of the kind on record. Claude rose and addressed his companions,
eighty-two in number, Claude included, in the following words:
“You all know Albin and I were like brothers. I liked him at first for
sharing his rations with me, afterward because he cared for me. Now I
never have sufficient, though I spend the pittance I earn in bread.
It could make no possible difference to the inspector, Monsieur D----,
that we should be together; but he chose to separate us simply from a
love of tormenting, for he is a bad man. I asked again and again for
Albin to be sent back, without success; and when I gave him a stated
time, the 4th of November, I was thrust into a dungeon. During that
time I became his judge, and sentenced him to death on November the
4th. In two hours he will be here, and I warn you I intend to kill him.
But have you anything to say?”
There was a dead silence. Claude then continued telling his comrades,
the eighty-one thieves, his ideas on the subject--that he was reduced
to a fearful extremity, and compelled by that very necessity to take
the law into his own hands; that he knew full well he could not take
the inspector’s life without sacrificing his own, but that as the cause
was a just one he would bear the consequences, having come to this
conclusion after two months’ calm reflection; that if they considered
resentment alone hurried him on to such a step they were at once to say
so, and to state their objections to the sentence being carried out.
One voice alone broke the silence which followed, saying, “Before
killing the inspector, Claude ought to give him a chance of relenting.”
“That is but just,” said Claude, “and he shall have the benefit of the
doubt.”
Claude then sorted the few things a poor prisoner is allowed, and gave
them to the comrades he mostly cared for after Albin, keeping only
the pair of scissors. He then embraced them all--some not being able
to withhold their tears at such a moment. Claude continued calmly to
converse during this last hour, and even gave way to a trick he had
as a boy, of extinguishing the candle with a breath from his nose.
Seeing him thus, his companions afterward owned that they hoped he had
abandoned his sinister idea. One young convict looked at him fixedly,
trembling for the coming event.
“Take courage, young fellow,” said Claude, gently; “it will be but the
work of a minute.”
The workshop was a long room with a door at both ends, and with windows
each side overlooking the benches, thus leaving a pathway up the centre
for the inspector to review the work on both sides of him. Claude had
now resumed his work--something like Jacques Clement, who did not fail
to repeat his prayers.
As the clock sounded the last quarter to nine, Claude rose and
placed himself near the entrance, apparently calm. Amid the most
profound silence the clock struck nine; the door was thrown open,
and the inspector came in as usual alone, looking quite jovial and
self-satisfied, passing rapidly along, tossing his head at one;
grinding words out to another, little heeding the eyes fixed so
fiercely upon him. Just then he heard Claude’s step, and turning
quickly around said:
“What are you doing here? Why are you not in your place?” just as he
would have spoken to a dog.
Claude answered respectfully, “I wish to speak to you, sir.”
“On what subject?”
“Albin.”
“Again!”
“Always the same,” said Claude.
“So then,” replied the inspector, walking along, “you have not had
enough with twenty-four hours in the blackhole.”
Claude, following him closely, replied: “Sir, return my companion to
me!”
“Impossible!”
“Sir,” continued Claude, in a voice which would have moved Satan, “I
implore you to send Albin back to me; you will then see how I will
work. You are free, and it would matter but little to you; you do not
know the feeling of having only one friend. To me it is everything,
encircled by the prison walls. You can come and go at your pleasure; I
have but Albin. Pray let him come back to me! You know well he shared
his food with me. What can it matter to you that a man named Claude
Gueux should be in this hall, having another by his side called Albin?
You have but to say ‘Yes,’ nothing more. Sir, my good sir, I implore
you in the name of Heaven to grant my prayer!”
Claude, overcome with emotion, waited for the answer.
“Impossible!” replied the inspector, impatiently; “I will not recall my
words. Now go, you annoyance!” And with that he hurried on toward the
outer door, amid the breathless silence maintained by the eighty-one
thieves.
Claude, following and touching the inspector, gently asked:
“Let me at least know why I am condemned to death. Why did you separate
us?”
“I have already answered you: because I chose,” replied the inspector.
With that he was about to lift the latch, when Claude raised the ax,
and without one cry the inspector fell to the ground, with his skull
completely cloven from three heavy blows dealt with the rapidity of
lightning. A fourth completely disfigured his face, and Claude, in his
mad fury, gave another and a useless blow; for the inspector was dead.
Claude, throwing the ax aside, cried out, “Now for the other!”
The other was himself; and taking the scissors, _his wife’s_, he
plunged them into his breast. But the blade was short, and the chest
was deep, and vainly he strove to give the fatal blow. At last covered
with blood, he fell fainting across the dead. Which of the two would be
considered the victim?
When Claude recovered consciousness he was in bed, surrounded by every
care and covered with bandages. Near him were Sisters of Charity, and
a recorder, ready to take down his deposition, who with much interest
inquired how he was. Claude had lost a great deal of blood; but the
scissors had done him a bad turn, inflicting wounds not one of which
was dangerous: the only mortal blows he had struck were on the body of
Monsieur D----. Then the interrogator commenced.
“Did you kill the inspector of the prison workshops at Clarvaux?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Why did you do so?”
“Because I did.”
Claude’s wounds assumed a more serious aspect, and he was prostrated
with a fever which threatened his life. November, December, January,
February passed, in nursing and preparations, and Claude in turn was
visited by doctor and judge--the one to restore him to health, the
other to glean the evidence needful to send him to the scaffold.
On the 16th of March, 1832, perfectly cured, Claude appeared in court
at Troyes, to answer the charge brought against him. His appearance
impressed the court favorably; he had been shaved and stood bareheaded,
but still clad in prison garb. The court was well guarded by a strong
military guard, to keep the witnesses within bounds, as they were all
convicts.
But an unexpected difficulty occurred: not one of these men would give
evidence; neither questions nor threats availed to make them break
their silence, until Claude requested them to do so. Then they in
turn gave a faithful account of the terrible event; and if one, from
forgetfulness or affection for the accused, failed to relate the whole
facts, Claude supplied the deficiency. At one time the women’s tears
fell fast.
The usher now called the convict Albin. He came in trembling with
emotion and sobbing painfully, and threw himself into Claude’s arms.
Turning to the Public Prosecutor, Claude said:
“Here is a convict who gives his food to the hungry,” and stooping, he
kissed Albin’s hand.
All the witnesses having been examined, the counsel for the prosecution
then rose to address the court. “Gentlemen of the jury, society would
be utterly put to confusion if a public prosecution did not condemn
great culprits like him, who,” etc.
After the long address by the prosecution, Claude’s counsel rose.
Then followed the usual pleading for and against, which ever takes
place at the criminal court.
Claude in his turn gave evidence, and every one was astonished at
his intelligence; there appeared far more of the orator about this
poor workman than the assassin. In a clear and straightforward way
he detailed the facts as they were--standing proudly there, resolved
to tell the whole truth. At times the crowd was carried away by his
eloquence. This man, who could not read, would grasp the most difficult
points of argument, yet treat the judges with all due deference. Once
Claude lost his temper, when the counsel for the prosecution stated
that he had assassinated the inspector without provocation.
“What!” cried Claude, “I had no provocation? Indeed! A drunkard strikes
me--I kill him; then you would allow there was provocation, and the
penalty of death would be changed for that of the galleys. But a man
who wounds me in every way during four years, humiliates me for four
years, taunts me daily, hourly, for four years, and heaps every insult
on my head--what follows? You consider I have had no provocation! I had
a wife for whom I robbed--he tortured me about her. I had a child for
whom I robbed--he taunted me about this child. I was hungry, a friend
shared his bread with me--he took away my friend. I begged him to
return my friend to me--he cast me into a dungeon. I told him how much
I suffered--he said it wearied him to listen. What then would you have
me do? I took his life; and you look upon me as a monster for killing
this man, and you decapitate me; then do so.”
Provocation such as this the law fails to acknowledge, because the
blows leave no marks to show.
The judge then summed up the case in a clear and impartial
manner--dwelling on the life Claude had led, living openly with an
improper character; then he had robbed, and ended by being a murderer.
All this was true. Before the jury retired, the judge asked Claude if
he had any questions to ask, or anything to say.
“Very little,” said Claude. “I am a murderer, I am a thief; but I ask
you, gentlemen of this jury, why did I kill? Why did I steal?”
The jury retired for a quarter of an hour, and according to the
judgment of these twelve countrymen--_gentlemen of the jury_,
as they are styled--Claude Gueux was condemned to death. At the very
outset several of them were much impressed with the name of Gueux
(vagabond); and that influenced their decision.
When the verdict was pronounced, Claude simply said: “Very well; but
there are two questions these gentlemen have not answered. Why did this
man steal? What made him a murderer?”
He made a good supper that night, exclaiming, “Thirty-six years have
now passed me.” He refused to make any appeal until the last minute,
but at the instance of one of the sisters who nursed him he consented
to do so. She in her fulness of heart gave him a five-franc piece.
His fellow-prisoners, as we have already noticed, were devoted to him,
and placed all the means at their disposal to help him to escape. They
threw into his dungeon, through the air-hole, a nail, some wire, the
handle of a pail: any one of these would have been enough for a man
like Claude to free himself from his chains. He gave them all up to the
warder.
On the 8th of June, 1832, seven months and four days after the murder,
the recorder of the court came, and Claude was told that he had but one
hour more to live, for his appeal had been rejected.
“Indeed,” said Claude, coldly; “I slept well last night, and doubtless
I shall pass my next even better.”
First came the priest, then the executioner. He was humble to the
priest, and listened to him with great attention, regretting much that
he had not had the benefit of religious training, at the same time
blaming himself for much in the past. He was courteous in his manner to
the executioner; in fact he gave up all--his soul to the priest, his
body to the executioner.
While his hair was being cut, some one mentioned how the cholera was
spreading, and Troyes at any moment might become a prey to this fearful
scourge. Claude joined in the conversation, saying, with a smile,
“There is one thing to be said--I have no fear of the cholera!” He had
broken half of the scissors--what remained he asked the jailor to give
to Albin; the other half lay buried in his chest. He also wished the
day’s rations to be taken to his friend. The only trifle he retained
was the five-franc piece that the sister had given him, which he kept
in his right hand after he was bound.
At a quarter to eight the dismal procession usual in such cases left
the prison. Pale, but with a firm tread, Claude Gueux slowly mounted
the scaffold, keeping his eyes fixed on the crucifix the priest
carried--an emblem of the Saviour’s suffering. He wished to embrace the
priest and the executioner, thanking the one and pardoning the other;
the executioner simply repulsed him. Just before he was bound to the
infernal machine, he gave the five-franc piece to the priest saying,
“For the poor.”
The hour had scarcely struck its eight chimes, when this man, so noble,
so intelligent, received the fatal blow which severed his head from his
body.
A market-day had been chosen for the time of execution, as there
would be more people about; for there are still in France small towns
that glory in having an execution. The guillotine that day remained,
inflaming the imagination of the mob to such an extent that one of the
tax-gatherers was nearly murdered. Such is the admirable effect of
public executions!
We have given the history of Claude Gueux’s life, more to solve a
difficult problem than for aught else. In his life there are two
questions to be considered--before his fall and after his fall. What
was his training and what was the penalty? This must interest society
generally; for this man was well gifted, his instincts were good. Then
what was wanting? On this revolves the grand problem which would place
society on a firm basis.
_What Nature has begun in the individual, let society carry out._
Look at Claude Gueux. An intelligent and most noble-hearted man, placed
in the midst of evil surroundings, he turned thief. Society placed him
in a prison where the evil was yet greater, and he ended with becoming
a murderer. Can we really blame him, or ourselves?--questions which
require deep thought, or the result will be that we shall be compelled
to shirk this most important subject. The facts are now before us, and
if the government gives no thought to the matter, what are the rulers
about?...
A BAL MASQUÉ
BY ALEXANDRE DAVY DE LA PAILLETERIE DUMAS
[Illustration]
_The name of the author of “The Three Musketeers,” “The
Count of Monte Cristo,” etc., appears on the title-page of two
hundred and eighty-two volumes of stories, romances, and plays.
He had ten assistants, who worked out details for him, the
generals over whom he was Napoleon, to quote his own phrase._
_Alexandre Dumas, called Père, to distinguish him
from his son, the famous dramatist, was born in 1803 at
Villers-Cotterets. He was entirely self-educated, devoting
most of his time to the study of French history. He had
extraordinary genius in imparting dramatic life and action to
whatever he touched, and the whole modern school of historical
writers is largely indebted to him for inspiration, as he
himself is indebted to Walter Scott._
_The short stories of the elder Dumas are collected in two
volumes. The “Bal Masqué,” taken from the earlier volume, is an
admirable bit of story-telling, and every line seems to be a
well of thought, a vista of suggestion. Dumas died in 1870._
[Illustration]
A BAL MASQUÉ
BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS