[4] “Phèdre,” by Racine.
[5] “Le Cid,” by Corneille.
[6] “Cinna,” a tragedy by Corneille.
THE BEAUTY-SPOT
BY ALFRED LOUIS CHARLES DE MUSSET
[Illustration]
_Alfred de Musset, the great poet of love, the most
spontaneous, sincere, moving, spiritual, ironic, lucid,
impertinent, disdainful of rime, was born at Paris in 1810.
He was a dandy, the spoiled child of the Romantic movement,
with a voluptuous and sombre imagination. But he made a too
great sacrifice to fashion and so-called Byronism when he wrote
“Rolla.” The crisis of his life came when, with a broken heart,
he returned to Paris in 1833, leaving George Sand at Venice.
Not until then did he produce his poetical masterpieces, “La
Nuit de Mai,” etc., and his prose romance, “The Confession of a
Child of the Age,” and those exquisite little theatrical pieces
not intended for the theatre, such as “The Chandelier,” etc._
_Later, in his “Letters of Dupin and Cotinet,” which he
wrote for the “Revue des Deux Mondes,” De Musset broke with
Romanticism. He died at Paris in 1857._
[Illustration]
THE BEAUTY-SPOT
BY ALFRED DE MUSSET
I
In 1756, when Louis XV, wearied with the quarrels between the
magistrature and the grand council, about the “two sous tax,”[7]
determined upon holding a special _lit de justice_, the members of
Parliament resigned. Sixteen of these resignations were accepted, and
as many exiles decreed. “But,” said Madame de Pompadour to one of the
presidents, “could you calmly stand by and see a handful of men resist
the authority of the King of France? Would you not have a very bad
opinion of such a policy? Throw off the cloak of petty pretense, M. le
President, and you will see the situation just as I see it myself.”
It was not only the exiles that had to pay the penalty of their want
of compliance, but also their relatives and friends. The violation of
mail-secrets was one of the King’s amusements. To relieve the monotony
of his other pleasures, it pleased him to hear his favorite read all
the curious things that were to be found in his subjects’ private
correspondence. Of course, under the fallacious pretext of doing his
own detective work, he reaped a large harvest of enjoyment from the
thousand little intrigues which thus passed under his eyes; but whoever
was connected, whether closely or in a remote degree, with the leaders
of the factions, was almost invariably ruined.
Every one knows that Louis XV, with all his manifold weaknesses, had
one, and only one, strong point: he was inexorable.
One evening, as he sat before the fire with his feet on the
mantelpiece, melancholy as was his wont, the marquise, looking through
a packet of letters, suddenly burst into a laugh and shrugged her
shoulders. The King wished to know what was the matter.
“Why, I have found here,” answered she, “a letter, without a grain
of common sense in it, but a very touching thing for all that--quite
pitiable in fact.”
“Whose is the signature?” said the King.
“There is none, it is a love-letter.”
“And what is the address?”
“That is just the point. It is addressed to Mademoiselle d’Annebault,
the niece of my good friend, Madame d’Estrades. Apparently it has been
put in among these papers on purpose for me to see.”
“And what is there in it?” the King persisted.
“Why, I tell you it is all about love. There is mention also of Vauvert
and of Neauflette. Are there any gentlemen in those parts? Does your
Majesty know of any?”
The King always prided himself upon knowing France by heart, that
is, the nobility of France. The etiquette of his court, which he had
studied thoroughly, was not more familiar to him than the armorial
bearings of his realm. Not a very wide range of learning; still nothing
beyond it did he reckon worthy the study; and it was a point of vanity
with him, the social hierarchy being, in his eyes, something like the
marble staircase of his palace; he must set foot on it as sole lord
and master. After having pondered a few moments, he knitted his brow,
as though struck by an unwelcome remembrance; then, with a sign to the
marquise to read, he threw himself back in his easy chair, saying with
a smile:
“Read on--she is a pretty girl.”
Madame de Pompadour assumed her sweetest tone of raillery and began to
read a long letter, which, from beginning to end, was one rhapsody of
love.
“Just see,” said the writer, “how the fates persecute me! At first
everything seemed to work for the fulfilment of my wishes, and you
yourself, my sweet one, had you not given me reason to hope for
happiness? I must, however, renounce this heavenly dream, and that
for no fault of mine. Is it not an excess of cruelty to have let me
catch a glimpse of paradise, only to dash me into the abyss? When
some unfortunate wretch is doomed to death, do they take a barbarous
pleasure in placing before his eyes all that would make him love life
and regret leaving it? Such is, however, my fate: I have no other
refuge, no other hope, than the tomb, for, in my dire misfortune, I can
no longer dream of winning your hand. When fate smiled on me, all my
hopes were that you should be mine; to-day, a poor man, I should abhor
myself if I dared still to think of such blessedness, and, now that I
can no longer make you happy, though dying of love for you, I forbid
you to love me--”
The Marquise smiled at these last words.
“Madame,” said the King, “this is an honorable man. But what prevents
him from marrying his lady-love?”
“Permit me, sire, to continue.”
“--This overwhelming injustice from the best of kings surprises me.
You know that my father asked for me a commission as cornet or ensign
in the Guards, and that on this appointment depended the happiness of
my life, since it would give me the right to offer myself to you. The
Duc de Biron proposed my name; but the King rejected me in a manner the
memory of which is very bitter to me. If my father has his own way of
looking at things (admitting that it is a wrong one) must I suffer for
it? My devotion to the King is as true, as unbounded, as my love for
you. How gladly would I give proof of both these sentiments, could I
but draw the sword! Assuredly I feel deeply distressed at my request
being refused; but that I should be thus disgraced without good reason
is a thing opposed to the well-known kindness of his Majesty.”
“Aha!” said the King, “I am becoming interested.”
“--If you knew how very dull we are! Ah! my friend! This estate of
Neauflette, this country-house of Vauvert, these wooded glades!--I
wander about them all day long. I have forbidden a rake to be used; the
sacrilegious gardener came yesterday with his iron-shod besom. He was
about to touch the sand. But the trace of your steps, lighter than the
wind, was not effaced. The prints of your little feet and of your red
satin heels were still upon the path; they seemed to walk before me, as
I followed your beautiful image, and that charming fantom took shape at
times as though it were treading in the fugitive prints. It was there,
while conversing with you by the flower-beds, that it was granted me to
know you, to appreciate you. A brilliant education joined to the spirit
of an angel, the dignity of a queen with the grace of a nymph, thoughts
worthy of Leibnitz expressed in language so simple, Plato’s bee on the
lips of Diana, all this enfolded me as in a veil of adoration. And,
during those delicious moments, the darling flowers were blooming about
us, I inhaled their breath while listening to you, in their perfume
your memory lived. They droop their heads now; they present to me the
semblance of death!”
“This is all Rousseau and water,” said the King. “Why do you read such
stuff to me?”
“Because your Majesty commanded me to do so, for the sake of
Mademoiselle d’Annebault’s beautiful eyes.”
“It is true, she has beautiful eyes.”
“--And when I return from these walks, I find my father alone, in the
great drawing-room, near the lighted candle, leaning on his elbow, amid
the faded gildings which cover our moldy wainscot. It is with pain
that he sees me enter. My grief disturbs his. Athénaïs! At the back
of that drawing-room, near the window, is the harpsichord over which
flitted those sweet fingers that my lips have touched but once--once,
while yours opened softly to harmonies of celestial music--opened
with such dainty art that your songs were but a smile. How happy
are they--Rameau, Lulli, Duni, and so many more! Yes, yes, you love
them--they are in your memory--their breath has passed through your
lips. I too seat myself at that harpsichord, I strive to play one of
those airs that you love;--how cold, how monotonous they seem to me!
I leave them and listen to their dying accents while the echo loses
itself beneath that lugubrious vault. My father turns to me and sees me
distressed--what can he do? Some boudoir gossip, some report from the
servants’ hall has closed upon us the gates that lead into the world.
He sees me young, ardent, full of life, asking only to live in this
world, he is my father, and can do nothing for me.”
“One would think,” said the King, “that this fellow was starting for
the hunt, and that his falcon had been killed on his wrist. Against
whom is he inveighing, may I ask?”
“--It is quite true,” continued the Marquise, reading in a lower tone.
“It is quite true that we are near neighbors, and distant relatives, of
the Abbé Chauvelin....”
“That is what it is, is it?” said Louis XV, yawning. “Another nephew
of the _enquêtes et requêtes_. My Parliament abuses my bounty; it
really has too large a family.”
“But if it is only a _distant_ relative!”
“Enough; all these people are good for nothing. This Abbé Chauvelin is
a Jansenist; not a bad sort of fellow, in his way; but he has dared to
resign. Please throw the letter into the fire, and let me hear no more
about it.”