In France, even before the Revolution, less regard was paid to the
decisions of a court of law, than to public opinion. That tyrant of our
modern days had already seized the throne, and his legitimate authority
and divine right were never doubted by the most anti-monarchical of the
sons of liberty. The only check on the insolence of the noblesse, and
the only compensation for the venality of the judges, was found in a
recourse to the printer. A marquis was made to imitate the manners of a
gentleman by fear of an epigram; a defeated party in a lawsuit consoled
himself by satirizing the court; and from Voltaire down to Palissot, all
the people who could write, and could borrow ink and paper, had pen in
hand, ready to appeal from prejudiced juries, overbearing nobles, or
even _lettres de cachet_ and the Bastile itself, to the reading,
talking, gossiping, laughing, quick-witted, cold-hearted citizens of
Paris. The consequence was that the whole city was overrun with
pamphlets. Ministers of state, marshals, and princes of the blood, were
as busy as any Grub-street garretteer. Literary squabbles employed the
lifetime of all the literary men--and some of them, indeed, are only
known by their squibs and lampoons on their more popular brethren. But
so great at last seems to have been the rage for calling in the public,
that it was not even expelled from the consulting chambers of counsel
learned in the law. If a case came before an advocate that gave any
scope for his talents as a pamphleteer, his opinion immediately took the
shape of a little _historiette_, and in a few days was in print. The
attorney was no less literary in getting up his brief; and innumerable
were the sage labours of _avocats_ and _procureurs_ which rushed into
type before the trial was over, and did duty, very much to the reader's
satisfaction, as a tale of fashionable life. In fact, a very amusing
collection might be made, of the memorials of counsel which appeared in
Paris about the middle of last century. The writings, for instance,
which secured the fame of witty Beaumarchais among the gossips of the
capital, were not the _Barber of Seville_, or his comedies, but the
briefs which he composed in his lawsuit with the Goezmans and the Sieur
Bertrand. All the laughers were on his side; and though he was beat in
the trial, his triumph was complete; for it was not in the nature of
Parisian public opinion to believe a man guilty who was so prodigal of
bon-mots; or that the opposite party had right or justice on their side,
whose pleadings were as uninteresting as a sermon. But Beaumarchais was
not the only author who owed his notoriety to his legal proceedings. One
of the great lyric poets of France, who is placed by his countrymen upon
the same level as Pindar--Denis Leonchard Lebrun--was the town-talk for
several years, during his action against his wife for the restitution of
conjugal rights. And as his _Memoire_, or pleading, gives a view of
French life at the period, (1774,) of a grade in society omitted in the
_Memoires_ and _Souvenirs_ of dukes and princesses, we propose to give
some account of it, and also of the hero of the process, whose strange
eventful history was not drawn to a close till 1807. He was born in
1729, in the house of the Prince de Conti, in whose service his father
was. His talents soon recommended him to the notice of the prince; and,
before he was thirty, he had established his reputation as a poet of the
first order by an ode on the earthquake at Lisbon. Acknowledged as a man
of genius, and feared as a man of wit--for his epigrams were even more
celebrated than his lyrics--and placed in easy circumstances by the
kindness of his master, who bestowed on him the title and salary of his
"Secretaire des Commandemens," nothing seemed wanting to his felicity
but a wife to share his glory; and, accordingly, in the year 1760, he
married. If we believe his own account, he was the happiest of Benedicts
for fourteen years; but all of a sudden, without warning, without
reason, and (though she was a poetess) without even rhyme, his
household gods were broken, and all his happiness engulfed. It was a
second edition of the Lisbon earthquake. The opposite party denied the
fourteen years' felicity, and talked wonderful things about cuffs and
kicks bestowed on the spouse--and maledictions of more force than
elegance; but both sides agree that the matter came to a crisis when a
certain Sieur Grimod--a sort of Cicisbeo--Platonic of course--was
requested to leave the house, and discontinue his visits to Madame
Lebrun. This simple proceeding let loose all the winds of heaven; poor
Lebrun was pounced upon by the whole female sex. Even his old mother
turned against him; even his sister, a sour vestal of thirty-seven,
sided with her injured sister-in-law; and what had the wretched poet to
say for himself? He suspected nothing improper--a good easy man--he
adored his "Fanny"--he wanted her to come back--but that horrid fellow
Grimod!--he would not have Grimod within his door. So Fanny would not go
within it either; and off to the _avocat_ rushed Lebrun, to force her to
come back by legal process; and off went Madame, accompanied of course
by the Sieur Grimod, to _her avocat_, to resist the demand; and then
followed paper upon paper--love, regrets, promisings, courtings, on one
side; hatred, defiance, and foul names, _ad libitum_, on the other. And,
finally, the whole case was put into a _Memoire_, with the help of
Monsieur Hardoin de la Regnerie, _avocat_; and every tea-table--but
there was no tea in those days--every card-table in Paris was as well
able to decide the cause as the Parliament itself.
The _Memoire_ commences with some general reflections on the advantages
possessed by a pretty woman, in all cases of a quarrel with a man. And
when, in addition to her prettiness, she has the art to appear ill-used,
there is no resisting her attacks. A halo of sympathy gathers round her,
while a cloud envelopes the unfortunate antagonist; and people at last
think that they are performing an act of pure and disinterested justice,
when they kick him into the Seine. Impressed with this disagreeable
conviction, (from which we gather that Madame Lebrun was a handsome
woman, while the husband was nothing to boast of--at all events compared
to the Sieur Grimod,) he hurries on to the facts--and they rather alter
the appearance of affairs.
It was in the year 1760, as we have said, that the Sieur Lebrun married
the Demoiselle de Surcourt. Interest and ambition had nothing to do with
the match. Love was the only fastener of the bond. The Sieur Lebrun and
the Demoiselle de Surcourt had been acquainted--had been lovers--for
three years. And that passion, born of a sympathy of tastes and
sentiments, had grown in mystery--a secret correspondence was its
aliment and interpreter--a delicious correspondence--where the
Demoiselle de Surcourt knew how to combine the sallies of imagination
with the soft outpourings of the soul, or the burning expressions of her
love! Pardon the Sieur Lebrun if he transcribes a few passages from her
letters; Madame Lebrun, above all, ought to excuse him. It is not
betraying her secrets; it is recalling her to herself, and to a
sentiment she would never have forsworn, if she had been allowed to
follow the dictates of her heart:--
"From my bed, this Tuesday evening.
"If it is flattering to be loved by those we love, it is still more so
when the loved object is you, my dear Misis. 'Twould make me vain to
think I pleased you really as much as you say I do; but I feel my
happiness too truly to give way to pride on account of it. Is it true,
then, that you think of me, and prefer my remembrance to the gaieties of
society? Ah! why am I not in the room where you remain for my sake? You
make me wish more--I wish I could be with you wherever you think of me.
You are right in saying our hearts are made for one another; they have
the same sentiments, they burn with the same fires. That charming
harmony is the work of love; but nature had created a sympathy between
them that seems to tell us they were made to love and to be united. Yes,
my dear Misis, they must love for ever; but in the mean time will you
consent to languish in absence and constraint? I would not remind you
of your unhappiness, since you have interdicted me from the subject, if
you did not complain yourself; and your complaints make me wretched.
They reveal to me your sufferings, and awaken all my affection. Do you
think, if I had an opportunity of seeing you, that I would not seize it?
Ah! you ought to feel assured of all I would do for you if I had it in
my power. But we can't help hoping what we desire so much. Reproach me,
therefore, no more; tell me rather again that you are convinced of my
affection, and promise to love me all your life. I ought to be sure of
it already; but every time you reproach me, I make you repeat the
promise by way of expiating your fault. Good-night, my dear Misis; I
hope you will think of me in your dreams. Why must I say good-night so
far from you?"