Rarely, in these days of profuse and unscrupulous scribbling, do we find
an author giving the essence, not a dilution, of his wit, learning, and
imagination, dispensing his mental stores with frugal caution, instead
of lavishing them with reckless prodigality. Such a one, when met with,
should be made much of, as a model for sinners in a contrary sense, and
as a bird of precious plumage. Of that feather is Monsieur Prosper
Merimee. He plays with literature, rather than professes it; it is his
recreation, not his trade; at long intervals and for a brief space, he
turns from more serious pursuits to coquet with the Muse, not frankly to
embrace her. Willing though she be, he will not take her for a lawful
spouse and constant companion, but courts her _par amours_. The
offspring of these moments of dalliance are buxom and _debonair_, of
various but comely aspect. In two-and-twenty years he has written less
than the average annual produce of many of his literary countrymen. In
several paths of literature, he has essayed his steps and made good a
footing; in not one has he continuously persevered, but, although
cheered by applause, has quickly struck into another track, which, in
its turn, has been capriciously deserted. His "Studies of Roman history"
give him an honourable claim to the title of historian; his "Notes of
Archaeological Rambles" are greatly esteemed; he has written plays; and
his prose fictions, whether middle-age romance or novel of modern
society, rank with the best of their class. He began his career with a
mystification. His first work greatly puzzled the critics. It professed
to be a translation of certain comedies, written by a Spanish actress,
whose fictitious biography was prefixed and signed by Joseph L'Estrange,
officer in the Swiss regiment of Watteville. This imaginary personage
had made acquaintance with Clara Gazul in garrison at Gibraltar. Nothing
was neglected that might perfect the delusion and give success to the
cheat; fragments of old Spanish authors were prefixed to each play,
showing familiarity with the literature of the country; the style, tone,
and allusions were thoroughly Spanish; and, through the French dress,
the Castilian idiom seemed here and there to peep forth, confirming the
notion of a translation. Clara was an Andalusian, half gipsy, half Moor,
skilled in guitars and castanets, saynetes and boleros. L'Estrange makes
her narrate her own origin.
"'I was born,' she told us, 'under an orange-tree, by the roadside, not
far from Motril, in the kingdom of Granada. My mother was a
fortune-teller, and I followed her, or was carried on her back, till the
age of five years. Then she took me to the house of a canon of Granada,
the licentiate Gil Vargas, who received us with every sign of joy.
Salute your uncle, said my mother. I saluted him. She embraced me, and
departed. I have never seen her since.' And to stop our questions, Dona
Clara took her guitar and sang the gipsy song, _Cuando me pario mi
madre, la gitana_."
Biography and comedies were so skillfully got up, the deception was so
well combined, that the reviewers were put entirely on a wrong scent.
Two years later, M. Merimee was guilty of another harmless literary
swindle, entitled La Guzla, a selection of Illyrian poems, said to be
collected in Bosnia, Dalmatia, &c., but whose real origin could be
traced no further than to his own imagination. Although the name was a
manifest anagram of Gazul, the public were gulled. The deceit was first
unmasked in Germany, we believe, by Goethe, to whom the secret had been
betrayed. Thenceforward the young author was content to publish under
his own name works of which he certainly had no reason to be ashamed.
One of the earliest of these was, "La Jacquerie"--a sort of long
melodrama, or series of scenes, illustrating feudal aggressions and
cruelties in France, and the consequent peasant revolts of the
fourteenth century. It shows much historical research and care in
collection of materials, is rich in references to the barbarous customs
and strange manners of the times, and, like the "Chronicle of Charles
IX.," another historical work of M. Merimee's, has, we suspect, been
found very useful by more recent fabricators of romances.
Educated for the bar, but not practising his profession, M. Merimee was
one of the rising men of talent whom the July revolution pushed forward.
After being _chef de cabinet_ of the Minister of the Interior, Count
d'Argout, he held several appointments under government, amongst others,
that of Inspector of Historical Monuments, an office he still retains.
In 1844 he was elected to a chair in the French Academy, vacant by the
death of the accomplished Charles Nodier. He has busied himself much
with archaeological researches, and the published results of his travels
in the west of France, Provence, Corsica, &c., are most learned and
valuable. In the intervals of his antiquarian investigations and
administrative labours, he has thrown off a number of tales and
sketches, most of which first saw the light in leading French
periodicals, and have since been collected and republished. They are all
remarkable for grace of style and tact in management of subject. One of
the longest, "Colomba," a tale of Corsican life, is better known in
England than its author's name. It has been translated with accuracy and
spirit, and lately has been further brought before the public, on the
boards of a minor theatre, distorted into a very indifferent melodrama.
The Corsican Vendetta has been taken as the basis of more than one
romantic story, but, handled by M. Merimee, it has acquired new and
fascinating interest; and he has enriched his little romance with a
profusion of those small traits and artistical touches which exhibit the
character and peculiarities of a people better than folios of dry
description. "La Double Meprise," another of his longer tales, is a
clever _novelette_ of Parisian life. According to English notions its
subject is slippery, its main incident, and some of its minor details,
improbable and unpleasant, although so neatly managed that one is less
startled when reading them than shocked on after-reflection. It
certainly requires skilful management to give an air of probability to
such a scene as is detailed in chapter five. A French _gentleman_, a man
of fortune and family, mixing in good society, is anxious for an
appointment at court, and to obtain it he reckons much on the influence
and good word of a certain Duke of H----. There is a benefit night at
the Opera, and the young wife of the aspirant to court honours has a
box. Between the acts her husband, who has unwillingly accompanied her,
rambles about the house, and discovers the Duke in an inconvenient
corner, where he can see nothing. His grace is not alone, but in the
society of his kept-mistress. To propitiate his patron, the unscrupulous
husband introduces him and his companion into the box of his
unsuspecting wife! The sequel may be imagined; the stare and titter of
acquaintances, the supercilious gratitude of the Duke, the astonishment
of the lady at the singular tone of the pretty and elegantly dressed
woman with whom she is thus unexpectedly brought in contact, and whose
want of _usage_ bespeaks, as she imagines, the newly arrived provincial.
All this, which might pass muster in a novel depicting the manners and
morals of the Regency, is rather violent in one of our day; but yet, so
cleverly are the angles of improbability draped and softened down, the
reader perseveres. The plot is very slight; the tale scarcely depends on
it, but is what the French call a _tableau de moeurs_, with less
pretensions to the regular progress and catastrophe of a novel, than to
be a mirror of everyday scenes and actors on the bustling stage of Paris
life. The characters are well drawn, the dialogues witty and dramatic,
the book abounds in sly hits and smart satire; but its bitterness of
tone injured its popularity, and, unlike its author's other tales, it
met little success. The opening chapter is a picture of a lively
Parisian _menage_, such as many doubtless exist; a striking example of a
_mariage de convenance_, or mis-match.
"Six years had elapsed since the marriage of Julie de Chaverny, and
five years and six months, or thereabouts, since she had discovered that
it was impossible for her to love her husband, and very difficult to
esteem him. He was not a bad man, neither could he be called stupid, nor
even silly; she had once thought him agreeable; now she found him
intolerably wearisome. To her every thing about him was repulsive and
unpleasant. His most trifling actions, his way of eating, of taking
coffee, of talking, gave her umbrage and irritated her nerves. Except at
table, the pair scarcely saw or spoke to each other; but they dined
together several times a-week, and that sufficed to keep up the sort of
hatred Julie entertained towards her husband.
"As to Chaverny, he was rather a handsome man, a little too corpulent
for his time of life, with a fresh complexion, full-blooded, and by no
means subject to those vague uneasinesses which sometimes torment
persons of more intellectual organisation. Piously convinced that his
wife's sentiments towards him were those of tender friendship, the
conviction caused him neither pleasure nor pain. Had he known Julie's
feelings to be of an opposite nature, it would have made little
difference to his happiness. He had served several years in a cavalry
regiment, when he inherited a considerable fortune, became disgusted
with garrison life, resigned his commission, and took a wife. It seems
difficult to explain the marriage of two persons who had not an idea in
common. On the one hand, a number of those officious friends and
relations, who, as Phrosine says, would marry the republic of Venice to
the Grand Turk, had taken much pains to arrange it: on the other,
Chaverny was of good family; before his marriage he was not too fat; he
was gay and cheerful, and what is called a _good fellow_. Julie was glad
to see him at her mother's house, because he made her laugh with
anecdotes of his regiment, droll enough, if not always in the best
taste. She found him amiable, because he danced with her at every ball,
and was always ready with excellent reasons to persuade her mother to
remain late at theatre or party, or at the _Bois de Boulogne_. Finally,
she thought him a hero, because he had fought two or three creditable
duels. But what completed his triumph, was the description of a certain
carriage, to be built after a plan of his own, and in which he was to
drive Julie, as soon as she consented to become Madame de Chaverny.
"A few months of married life, and Chaverny's good qualities had lost
much of their merit. He no longer danced with his wife--that of course.
His funny stories had long been thrice told. He complained that balls
lasted too late; at the theatre he yawned; the custom of dressing for
the evening he found an insufferable bore. Laziness was his bane; had he
endeavoured to please, perhaps he would have succeeded, but the least
exertion or restraint was torture to him, as to most fat persons. He
found it irksome to go into society, because there the manner of one's
reception depends on the efforts one makes to please. A rude joviality
suited him better than refined amusements; to distinguish himself
amongst persons of a similar taste to his own, he had only to talk and
laugh louder than his companions--and that he did without trouble, for
his lungs were remarkably vigorous. He also prided himself on drinking
more champagne than most men could support, and on leaping his horse
over a four-foot wall in true sporting style. To these various
accomplishments he was indebted for the friendship and esteem of the
indefinable class of beings known as 'young men,' who swarm upon our
_boulevards_ towards eight in the evening. Shooting parties, country
excursions, races, bachelors' dinners and suppers, were his favourite
pastimes. Twenty times a-day he declared himself the happiest of
mortals; and when Julie heard the declaration, she cast her eyes to
heaven, and her little mouth assumed an expression of indescribable
contempt."
We turn to another of M. Merimee's books, in our opinion his best, an
historical romance, entitled 1572, a "Chronicle of the Reign of Charles
the Ninth." "In history," says the author in his preface, "I care only
for the anecdotes, and prefer those in which I fancy I discover a true
picture of the manners and characters of a particular period. This is
not a very elevated taste; but I own, to my shame, that I would
willingly give the whole of Thucydides for an authentic memoir of
Aspasia, or of one of Pericles' slaves. Memoirs, the familiar gossip of
an author with his reader, alone supply those individual portraits that
amuse and interest me. It is not from Mezerai, but from Montlue,
Brantome, D'Aubigne, Tavannes, La Noue, &c., that one forms a just idea
of the French of the sixteenth century. From the style of those
contemporary authors, we learn as much as from the substance of their
narratives. In L'Estoile, for instance, I read the following concise
note. 'The demoiselle de Chateau-neuf, one of the king's _mignonnes_,
before he went to Poland, having espoused, _par amourettes_, the
Florentine Antinotti, officer of the galleys at Marseilles, and
detecting him in an intrigue, slew him stoutly with her own hand.' By
the help of this anecdote, and of similar ones, which abound in
Brantome, I make up a character in my head, and resuscitate a lady of
Henry the Third's court." The "Chronicle" is the result of much reading
and combination of the kind here referred to; and M. Merimee has even
been accused of adhering too closely to reality, to the detriment of the
poetical character of his romance. He does not make his heroes and
heroines sufficiently perfect, or his villains sufficiently atrocious,
to suit the palate of some critics, but depicts them as he finds
evidence of their having existed--their virtues obscured by the coarse
manners and loose morality, their crimes palliated by the religious
antipathies and stormy political passions of a semi-civilised age. He
declines judging the men of the sixteenth century according to the ideas
of the nineteenth. And, with regard to minor matters, he does not, like
some of his contemporaries, place in the mouth of a Huguenot leader, or
a _Guisarde_ countess, the tame and dainty phrase appropriate enough in
that of an equerry, or lady of the bed-chamber at the court of the
Citizen King. Eschewing conventionality, and following his own judgment,
and the guidance of the old chroniclers, in whose quaint records he
delights, he has written one of the best existing French historical
romances.
It would have been easy for a less able writer than M. Merimee to have
extended the "Chronique" to thrice its present length. It is not a
complete romance, but a desultory sketch of the events and manners of
the time, with a few imaginary personages introduced. Novel readers who
require a regular _denoument_ will be disappointed at its conclusion.
There is not even a hint of a wedding from the first page to the last;
and the only lady who plays a prominent part in the story, a certain
countess Diane de Turgis, is little better than she should be. And yet,
if we follow M. Merimee's rule, and judge her according to the ideas and
morals of the age she flourished in, she was rather an amiable and
proper sort of person. True, she sets her lovers by the ears, and feels
gratified when they cut each other's throats: she even challenges a
court dame, who has taken the precedence of her, to an encounter with
sword and dagger, _en chemise_, according to the prevailing mode amongst
the _raffines_, or professed duellists of the time; and she writes
seductive billets-doux in Spanish, and gives wicked little suppers to
the handsome cavalier on whom her affections are set. But, on the other
hand, she goes to mass, and confesses, and does her best to save her
Huguenot lover's body and soul, and obtain the remission of her own sins
by converting him from his heresy. So that, as times went in the year
1572, she was to be reckoned amongst the righteous. The handsome
heretic, in whose present safety and future salvation she takes so
strong an interest, is one Bernard de Mergy, who has come to Paris to
take service with the great chief of his co-religionists, Admiral
Coligny. His brother, George de Mergy, has deserted the creed of Calvin,
and is consequently in high favour at the Louvre, but under the ban of
his father, a stern old Huguenot officer, who will not hear the name of
his renegade son. Bernard, whilst regretting his brother's apostasy,
does not deem it necessary to shun his society. On the road he has been
cajoled or robbed of his ready cash by a pretty gipsy girl, and his
good horse has been stolen by one of the hordes of German lanzknechts,
whom the recent civil war had brought to France. He reaches Paris with
an empty purse, and is not sorry to meet his brother, who welcomes him
kindly, and supplies his wants, but refuses to recant, and attempts to
justify his backsliding. In the course of his defence he gives an
insight into the prevalent corruption of the time, and shows how the
private vices of great political leaders often marred the fortunes of
their party.
"'You were still at school,' said De Mergy, 'learning Latin and Greek,
when I first donned the cuirass, girded the Huguenot's white scarf, and
took share in our civil wars. Your little Prince of Conde, who has led
his party into so many errors, looked after your affairs when his
intrigues left him time. A lady loved me; the prince asked me to resign
her to him; I refused, and he became my mortal enemy. From that hour he
lost no opportunity of mortifying me.
Ce petit prince si joli
Qui toujours baise sa mignonne,
held me up to the fanatics of the party as a monster of libertinism and
irreligion. I had only one mistress; and as to the irreligion,--I let
others do as they like, why attack me?'
"'I thought the prince incapable of such baseness,' said Bernard.
"'He is dead,' replied his brother, 'and you have deified him. 'Tis the
way of the world. He had great qualities; he died like a brave man, and
I have forgiven him. But then he was powerful, and on the part of a poor
gentleman like myself, it was guilt to resist him. All the preachers and
hypocrites of the army set upon me, but I cared as little for their
abuse as for their sermons. At last one of the prince's gentlemen, to
curry favour with his master, called me libertine, before all our
captains. I struck him: we fought--and he was killed. At that time there
were a dozen duels a day in the army, and no notice taken. In my favour
an exception was made; I was fixed upon by the prince to serve as an
example. The entreaties of the other leaders, including the Admiral,
procured my pardon. But the prince's rancour was not yet appeased. At
the fight of Jazeneuil, I commanded a company: I had been foremost in
the skirmish; my cuirass battered and broken by bullets, my left arm
pierced by a lance, showed that I had not spared myself. I had only
twenty men left, and a battalion of the king's Swiss guards advanced
against us. The Prince of Conde ordered me to charge them; I asked for
two companies of _reitres_, and--he called me coward.'
"Mergy rose and approached his brother with an expression of strong
interest. The Captain continued--his eyes flashing with anger at the
recollection of the insult:--
"'He called me coward before all those popinjays in gilt armour who
afterwards abandoned him on the battle-field of Jarnac. I resolved to
die, and rushed upon the Swiss--vowing, if I escaped with life, never
again to draw sword for that unjust prince. Grievously wounded, thrown
from my horse, one of the Duke of Anjou's gentlemen, Beville--the mad
fellow whom we dined with to-day--saved my life, and presented me to the
duke. He treated me well. I was eager for vengeance. They urged me to
take service under my benefactor, the Duke of Anjou; they quoted the
line--
Omne solum forti patria est, ut piscibus aequor.
I was indignant to see the Protestants summoning foreigners to their
assistance. But why disguise the real motive that actuated me? I
thirsted for revenge, and became a Catholic, in hopes of meeting the
Prince of Conde in fair fight, and killing him. A coward forestalled me,
and the manner of the prince's death almost made me forget my hatred. I
saw his bloody corpse abandoned to the insults of the soldiery; I
rescued it from their hands, and covered it with my cloak. I was pledged
to the Catholics; I commanded a squadron of their cavalry; I could not
leave them. I have happily been able to render some service to my former
party; I have done my best to soften the fury of religious animosities,
and have been fortunate enough to save several of my friends.'
"'Oliver de Basseville tells every body he owes you his life.'
"'Behold me then a Catholic,' continued George, in a calmer voice. 'The
religion is as good as another: and then it is an easy and pleasant one.
See yonder pretty Madonna: 'tis the portrait of an Italian courtesan;
but the bigots praise my piety when I cross myself before it. My word
for it, I get on vastly better with Rome than Geneva. By making trifling
sacrifices to the opinions of the _canaille_, I live as I like. I must
go to mass--very good! I go there and stare at the pretty women. I must
have a confessor--_parbleu!_ I have one, a jolly Franciscan and
ex-dragoon, who for a crown-piece gives me a ticket of confession, and
delivers my billets-doux to his pretty penitents into the bargain. _Mort
de ma vie! Vive la messe!_'
"Mergy could not restrain a smile.
"'There is my breviary,' continued the Captain, throwing his brother a
richly-bound book, fastened with silver clasps, and enclosed in a velvet
case. 'Such a missal as that is well worth your prayer-books.'
"Mergy read on the back of the volume, _Heures de la Cour_.
"'The binding is handsome,' he said, disdainfully returning the book.
"The Captain smiled, and opening it again handed it to him. Mergy then
read upon the first page: _La vie tres-horrifique du grand Gargantua,
pere de Pantagruel: composee par M. Alcofribas, abstracteur de
Quintessena._"
Thus, in a single page, does M. Merimee place before us a picture of the
times, with their mixture of fanaticism and irreligion, their shameless
political profligacy and private immorality. Bernard de Mergy cannot
prevail with his brother to return to the conventicle: so he accompanies
him to mass--not to pray, but hoping to obtain a glimpse of Madame de
Turgis, whom he has already seen masked in the street, and whose
graceful form and high reputation for beauty have made strong impression
on the imagination of this novice in court gallantries. On entering the
sacristy, they find the preacher, a jolly monk, surrounded by a dozen
young rakes, with whom he bandies jokes more witty than wise.
"'Ah,' cried Beville, 'here is the Captain! Come, George, give us a
text. Father Lubin has promised to preach on any one we propose.'
"'Yes,' said the monk; 'but make haste. _Mort de ma vie!_ I ought to be
in the pulpit already.'
"'Peste! Father Lubin, you swear like the king,' cried the Captain.
"I bet he would not swear in his sermon,' said Beville.
"'Why not, if the fancy took me?' stoutly retorted the Franciscan.
"'Ten pistoles you do not.'
"'Ten pistoles? Done.'
"'Beville,' cried the Captain, 'I go halves in your wager.'
"'No, no!' replied his friend, 'I will not share the reverend's money;
and if he wins, by my faith! I shall not regret mine. An oath in pulpit
is well worth ten pistoles.'
"'They are already won,' said Father Lubin; 'I begin my sermon with
three oaths. _Ah! Messieurs les Gentilhommes_, because you have rapier
on hip, and plume in hat, you would monopolise the talent of swearing.
We will see.'
"He left the sacristy, and in an instant was in his pulpit. There was
silence in the church. The preacher scanned the crowded congregation as
though seeking his bettor; and when he discovered him leaning against a
column exactly opposite the pulpit, he knit his brows, put his arms
akimbo, and in an angry tone thus began:
"'My dear Brethren,
"_'Par la vertu!--par la mort!--par le sang!'_--
"A murmur of surprise and indignation interrupted the preacher, or, it
were more correctly said, filled up the pause he intentionally left.
"---- 'de Dieu,' continued the Franciscan, in a devout nasal whine, 'we
are saved and delivered from punishment.'
"'A general burst of laughter interrupted him a second time. Beville
took his purse from his girdle, and shook it at the preacher, as an
admission that he had lost."
The sermon that follows is in character with its commencement. Whilst
awaiting its conclusion, Bernard de Mergy in vain seeks the Countess de
Turgis; it is only when leaving the church that his brother points her
out to him. She is escorted by a young man, of slight figure and
effeminate mien, dressed with studied negligence. This is the terrible
Count de Comminges, the duellist of the day, the chief of those
_raffines_ who fought on every pretext, and often on no pretext at all.
He had had nearly a hundred duels, and a challenge from him was held
equivalent to a ticket for the hospital, if not to sentence of death.
"Comminges once summoned a man to the Pre-aux-Clercs, then the classic
duelling-ground. They stripped off their doublets, and drew their
swords. 'Are you not Berny of Auvergne?' inquired Comminges. 'Certainly
not,' replied his antagonist; 'my name is Villequier, and I am from
Normandy.' 'So much the worse,' quoth Comminges, 'I took you for another
man; but since I have challenged you, we must fight.' They fought
accordingly, and the unlucky Norman was killed." Since the death of a
Monsieur de Lannoy, slain at the siege of Orleans, Madame de Turgis is
without a lover. Comminges aspires to the vacant post; his attentions
are rather tolerated than encouraged; but he seems determined that if he
does not succeed, nobody else shall, for he has constituted himself her
constant attendant, and a wholesome dread of his formidable rapier keeps
off rivals. He has sworn to kill all who present themselves.
By the interest of Coligny, whom Charles the Ninth affects to favour
whilst he plots his death, Bernard de Mergy receives a commission in the
army preparing for a campaign in Flanders. He goes to court to thank the
king, and the following scene passes.
"The court was at the Chateau de Madrid. The queen-mother, surrounded by
her ladies, waited in her apartment for the king to come to breakfast.
The king, followed by the princes, slowly traversed the gallery, in
which were assembled the nobles and gentlemen who were to accompany him
to the chase. With an absent air he listened to the remarks of his
courtiers, and made abrupt replies. When he passed before the two
brothers, the Captain bent his knee, and presented the newly-made
officer. Mergy bowed profoundly, and thanked his majesty for the favour
shown him before he had earned it.
"'Ha! it is you of whom my father the Admiral spoke! You are Captain
George's brother?'
"'Yes, sire.'
"'Catholic or Protestant?'
"'Sire, I am a Protestant.'
"'I ask from idle curiosity. The devil take me if I care of what
religion are those who serve me well.'
"And having uttered these memorable words, the king entered the queen's
apartments. A few moments later, a swarm of ladies spread themselves
over the gallery, as if sent to enable the gentlemen to wait with
patience. I shall speak but of one of the beauties of that court, where
they so greatly abounded; of the Countess de Turgis, who plays an
important part in this history. She wore an elegant riding-dress, and
had not yet put on her mask. Her complexion, of dazzling but uniform
whiteness, contrasted with her jet-black hair; her well-arched
eye-brows, slightly joining, gave a proud expression to her physiognomy,
without diminishing its graceful beauty. At first, the sole expression
of her blue eye seemed one of disdainful haughtiness; but when animated
in conversation, their pupils, dilated like those of a cat, seemed to
emit sparks, and few men, even of the most audacious, could long sustain
their magical power.
"'The Countess de Turgis--how lovely she looks!' murmured the courtiers,
pressing forward to see her better. Mergy, close to whom she passed, was
so struck by her beauty, that he forgot to make way till her large
silken sleeves rustled against his doublet. She remarked his emotion
without displeasure, and for a moment deigned to fix her magnificent
eyes on those of the young Protestant, who felt his cheek glow under her
gaze. The Countess smiled and passed on, letting one of her gloves fall
before our hero, who, still motionless and fascinated, neglected to pick
it up. Instantly a fair-haired youth, (it was no other than Comminges,)
who stood behind Mergy, pushed him rudely in passing before him, seized
the glove, kissed it respectfully, and presented it to Madame de
Turgis. Without thanking him, the lady turned towards Mergy with a look
of crushing contempt; and, observing Captain George at his side,
'Captain,' said she, very loud, 'where does that great clown spring
from? He must be some Huguenot, judging from his courtesy.'
"The laughter of the bystanders completed the embarrassment of the
unlucky Bernard.
"'He is my brother, madam,' was George's quiet reply; 'he has been three
days at Paris, and, by my honour! he is not more awkward than Lannoy
was, before you undertook his education.'
"The Countess coloured slightly. 'An unkind jest, Captain,' she said:
'Speak not ill of the dead. Give me your hand; I have a message to you
from a lady whom you have offended.'
"The Captain respectfully took her hand, and led her to the recess of a
distant window. Before she reached it, she once more turned her head to
look at Mergy.
"Still dazzled by the apparition of the beautiful Countess, whom he
longed to look at, but dared not, Mergy felt a gentle tap upon his
shoulder. He turned and beheld the Baron de Vaudreuil, who drew him
aside, to speak to him, as he said, without fear of interruption.
"'My dear fellow,' the Baron began, 'you are a stranger at court, and
are probably not yet acquainted with its customs?'
"Mergy looked at him with astonishment.
"'Your brother is engaged, and not able to advise you; if agreeable to
you I will replace him. You have been gravely insulted; and seeing you
in this pensive attitude, I doubt not you meditate revenge.'
"'Revenge?--on whom?' cried Mergy, reddening to the very white of his
eyes.
"'Were you not just now rudely pushed aside by little Comminges? The
whole court witnessed the affront, and expect you to notice it
suitably.'
"'But,' said Mergy, 'in so crowded a room as this an accidental push is
nothing very extraordinary.'
"'M. de Mergy, I have not the honour to be intimate with you: but your
brother is my particular friend, and he will tell you that I practise as
much as possible the divine precept of forgiveness of injuries. I do not
wish to embark you in a bad quarrel, but at the same time it is my duty
to tell you that Comminges did not push you accidentally. He pushed you,
because he wished to insult you; and if he had not pushed you, you would
still be insulted; for, by picking up Madame de Turgis's glove, he
usurped your right. The glove was at your feet, _ergo_ it was for you
alone to raise and return it. And you have but to look around; you will
see Comminges telling the story and laughing at you.'
"Mergy turned about. Comminges was surrounded by five or six young men,
to whom he laughingly narrated something which they listened to with
curious interest. Nothing proved that his conduct was under discussion;
but at the words of his charitable counsellor, Mergy felt his heart
swell with fury.
"'I will speak to him after the hunt,' he said, 'and he shall tell me--'
"'Oh! never put off a good resolution; besides, you offend Heaven much
less in challenging your adversary immediately after the offence than in
doing it when you have had time to reflect. In a moment of irritation,
which is but a venial offence, you agree to fight; and if you afterwards
fulfil your agreement, it is only to avoid committing a far greater sin,
that of breaking your word. But, I forget that you are a Protestant.
Nevertheless, arrange a meeting with him at once. I will bring you
together.'
"'I trust he will not refuse to make a fitting apology.'
"'Undeceive yourself, comrade. Comminges never yet said, I was wrong.
But he is a man of strict honour, and will give you every satisfaction.'
"Mergy made an effort to suppress his emotion and assume an indifferent
air.
"'Since I have been insulted,' he said, 'I must have satisfaction. And
whatever kind may be necessary, I shall know how to insist upon it.'
"'Well spoken, my brave friend; your boldness pleases me, for you of
course know that Comminges is one of our best swordsmen. _Par ma foi!_
he handles his blade right cunningly. He took lessons at Rome, of
Brambilla, and Petit-Jean will fence with him no longer.' And whilst
speaking, Vaudreuil attentively watched the countenance of Mergy, who
was pale, but from anger at the offence offered him rather than from
apprehension of its consequences.
"'I would willingly be your second in this affair, but I take the
sacrament to-morrow, and, moreover, I am engaged to M. de Rheincy, and
cannot draw sword against any but him.'[B]
"'I thank you, sir. If necessary, my brother will second me.'
"'The Captain is perfectly at home in these affairs. Meanwhile, I will
bring Comminges to speak with you.'
"Mergy bowed, and turning to the wall, did his best to compose his
countenance and arrange what he should say. There is a certain grace in
giving a challenge, which habit alone bestows. It was our hero's first
affair, and he was a little embarrassed; he was less afraid of a
sword-thrust than of saying something unbecoming a gentleman. He had
just succeeded in composing a firm and polite sentence, when Baron de
Vaudreuil, taking him by the arm, drove it out of his head.
"'You desire to speak to me, sir?' said Comminges, hat in hand, and
bowing with an impertinent politeness, which brought an angry flush upon
Mergy's countenance.
"'I hold myself insulted by your behaviour,' the young Protestant
instantly replied, 'and I desire satisfaction.'
"Vaudreuil nodded approvingly; Comminges drew himself up, and placing
his hand on his hip, the prescribed posture in such circumstances,
replied with much gravity:
"'You constitute yourself demander, sir, and, as defendant, I have the
choice of arms.'
"'Name those you prefer.'"
Comminges reflected for an instant. "'The _estoc_,' he at last said, 'is
a good weapon, but it makes ugly wounds; and at our age,' he added, with
a smile, 'one is not anxious to appear before one's mistress with a
scarred countenance. The rapier makes a small hole, but it is enough.'
And he again smiled, as he said, 'I choose rapier and dagger.'
"'Very good,' said Mergy, and he took a step to depart.
"'One moment!' cried Vaudreuil; 'you forget the place of meeting.'
"'The Court uses the Pre-aux-Clercs,' said Comminges; 'and if the
gentleman has no particular preference----'
"'The Pre-aux-Clercs--be it so.'
"'As to the time, I shall not be up before eight o'clock, for reasons of
my own--you understand--I do not sleep at home to-night, and cannot be
at the Pre before nine.'
"'Let nine be the hour.'
"Just then Mergy perceived the Countess de Turgis, who had left the
Captain in conversation with another lady. As may be supposed, at sight
of the lovely cause of this ugly affair, our hero threw into his
countenance an additional amount of gravity and feigned indifference.
"'Of late,' said Vaudreuil, 'it is the fashion to fight in crimson
drawers. If you have none, I will send you a pair. They look clean, and
do not show blood. And now,' continued the Baron, who appeared quite in
his element, 'nothing remains but to fix upon your seconds and thirds.'
"'The gentleman is a new comer at Court' said Comminges, 'and perhaps
might have difficulty in finding a third. Out of consideration for him I
will content myself with a second.'
"With some difficulty, Mergy contracted his lips into a smile.
"'Impossible to be more courteous,' said the Baron. 'It is really a
pleasure to deal with so accommodating a cavalier as M. de Comminges.'
"'You will require a rapier of the same length as mine,' resumed
Comminges; 'I can recommend you Laurent, at the Golden Sun, Rue de la
Feronnerie; he is the best armourer in Paris. Tell him you come from me,
and he will treat you well.' Having thus spoken, he turned upon his
heel, and rejoined the group he had lately left.
"'I congratulate you, M. Bernard,' said Vaudreuil; 'you have acquitted
yourself admirably. Exceedingly well, indeed. Comminges is not
accustomed to hear himself spoken to in that fashion. He is feared like
fire, especially since he killed Canillac; for as to St Michel, whom he
killed a couple of months ago, he did not get much credit by that. St
Michel was not particularly skilful, whilst Canillac, had already slain
five or six antagonists, without receiving a scratch. He had studied at
Naples under Borelli, and it was said that Lansac had bequeathed him the
secret thrust with which he did so much harm. To be sure,' continued the
Baron, as if to himself, 'Canillac had pillaged the church at Auxerre,
and trampled on the consecrated wafers: no wonder he was punished.'
"Mergy, although far from amused by this conversation, thought himself
bound to continue it, lest a suspicion offensive to his courage should
occur to Vaudreuil.
"'Fortunately,' he replied, 'I have pillaged no church, and never
touched a consecrated wafer in my life; so I have a risk the less to
run.'
"'Another caution. When you cross swords with Comminges, beware of one
of his feints, which cost Captain Tomaso his life. He cried out that the
point of his sword was broken. Tomaso instantly guarded his head,
expecting a cut; but Comminges's sword was perfect enough, for it
entered, to within a foot of the hilt, Tomaso's breast, which he had
exposed, not anticipating a thrust. But you fight with rapiers, and
there is less danger.'
"'I will do my best.'
"'Ah! one thing more. Choose a dagger with a strong basket-hilt; it is
very useful to parry. I owe this scar on my left hand to having gone out
one day without a poniard. Young Tallard and myself had a quarrel, and
for want of a dagger, I nearly lost my hand.'
"'And was he wounded?' inquired Mergy.
"'I killed him, thanks to a vow I made to St Maurice, my patron. Have
some linen and lint about you, it can do no harm. One is not always
killed outright. You will do well also to have your sword placed on the
altar during mass. But you are a Protestant. Yet another word. Do not
make it a point of honour not to retreat; on the contrary, keep him
moving; he is short-winded; exhaust his breath, and, when you find your
opportunity, one good thrust in the breast and your man is down.'
"There is no saying how long the Baron would have continued his valuable
advice, had not a great sounding of horns announced that the King was
about to take horse. The door of the apartment opened; and his Majesty
and the Queen-mother made their appearance, equipped for the chase.
Captain George, who had just left his lady, joined his brother, and
clapped him joyously on the shoulder.
"'By the mass!' he cried, 'thou art a lucky rogue! Only see this
youngster, with his cat's mustache; he has but to show himself, and all
the ladies are mad after him. The handsome Countess has been talking
about you for the last quarter of an hour. Come, good courage! During
the hunt, keep by her stirrup, and be as gallant as you can. But what
the devil's the matter with you? Are you ill? You make as long a face as
a preacher at the stake. _Morbleu!_ cheer up, man!'
"'I have no great fancy to hunt to-day,' said Bernard; 'and I would
rather--'
"'If you do not hunt,' whispered Vaudreuil, 'Comminges will think you
are afraid.'
"'I am ready,' said Mergy, passing his hand across his burning brow, and
resolved to wait till after the hunt to inform his brother of his
adventure. 'What disgrace,' thought he, 'if Madame de Turgis suspected
me of fear; if she supposed that the idea of an approaching duel
prevented my enjoying the chase.'
"During the hunt, Bernard swerves not from the side of the Countess, who
accords him various marks of favour, and finally dismisses Comminges,
who has also escorted her, and has a _tete-a-tete_ ride with her new
admirer. She well knows that a duel is in the wind, and dreads it, for
Mergy's sake. Hopeless of his escape with life from the projected
combat, she tries at least to save his soul, and makes a bold attempt at
his conversion. But on that head he is deaf even to _her_ voice.
Baffled, she essays a compromise.
"'You heretics have no faith in relics?' said Madame de Turgis.
"Bernard smiled.
"'And you think yourselves defiled by touching them?' she continued.
'You would not carry one, as we Roman Catholics are wont to do?'
"'We hold the custom useless, to say the least.'
"'Listen. A cousin of mine once attached a relic to his hound's neck,
and at twelve paces fired at the dog an arquebuse charged with slugs.'
"'And the dog was killed?'
"'Not touched.'
"'Wonderful! I would fain possess such a relic.'
"'Indeed!--and you would carry it?'
"'Undoubtedly--since the relic saved the dog, it would of course--But
stay, is it quite certain that a heretic is as good as a Catholic's
dog?'
"Without listening to him, Madame de Turgis hastily unbuttoned the top
of her closely fitting habit, and took from her bosom a little gold box,
very flat, suspended by a black ribbon. 'Here,' she said,--'you promised
to wear it. You shall return it me one day.'
"'Certainly. If I am able.'
"'But you will take care of it? No sacrilege! You will take the greatest
care of it!'
"'I have received it from you, madam.'
"She gave him the relic, and he hung it round his neck.
"'A Catholic would have thanked the hand that bestowed the holy
talisman.'
"Mergy seized her hand, and tried to raise it to his lips.
"'No, no! it is too late.'
"'Say not so! Remember, I may never again have such fortune.'
"'Take off my glove,' said the lady. Whilst obeying, Mergy thought he
felt a slight pressure. He imprinted a burning kiss on the white and
beautiful hand."
"Frank and free were the dames of the ninth Charles's court. Faithless
in the virtues of the relic, feverishly excited by the novelty of his
situation, and by the preference the Countess has shown him, which has
given life a tenfold value in his eyes, Mergy passes an agitated and
sleepless night. When the Louvre clock strikes eight, his brother enters
his apartment, bringing the necessary weapons, and vainly endeavouring
to conceal his sadness and anxiety. Bernard examines the sword and
dagger, the manufacture of the famous Luno of Toledo.
"'With such good arms,' he said, 'I shall surely be able to defend
myself.' Then showing the relic given him by Madame de Turgis, and which
he wore concealed in his bosom, 'Here too,' he added with a smile, 'is a
talisman better than coat of mail against a sword-thrust.'
"'Whence have you the bauble?'
"'Guess.' And the vanity of appearing favoured by the fair, made him for
a moment forget both Comminges and the duelling sword that lay naked
before him.
"'I would wager that crazy Countess gave it you! May the devil confound
her and her box!'
"'It is a relic for protection in to-day's encounter.'
"'She had better have worn her gloves, instead of parading her fine
white fingers.'
"'God preserve me,' cried Mergy, blushing deeply, 'from believing in
Papist relics. But if I fall to-day, I would have her know that I died
with this upon my heart.'
"'Folly!' cried the Captain, shrugging his shoulders.
"'Here is a letter for my mother,' said Mergy, his voice slightly
tremulous. George took it without a word, and approaching the table,
opened a small Bible, and seemed busy reading whilst his brother
completed his toilet. On the first page that offered itself to his eyes,
he read these words in his mother's handwriting; '1st May 1549, my son
Bernard was born. Lord, conduct him in thy ways! Lord, shield him from
all harm!' George bit his lip violently, and threw down the book.
Bernard observed the gesture, and imagining that some impious thought
had come into his brother's head, he gravely took up the Bible, put it
in an embroidered case, and locked it in a drawer, with every mark of
great respect.
"'It is my mother's Bible,' he said.
"The Captain paced the apartment, but made no reply."
According to the established rule in such cases--a rule laid down for
the especial behoof, benefit, and accommodation of romance writers--the
hero of a hundred duels falls by the maiden sword of the tyro, who
escapes with a slight wound. So signal a triumph makes the reputation of
Mergy. His wound healed, and all danger of persecution by the powerful
family of Comminges at an end, he reappears at court, and finds that he
has in some sort inherited the respect and consideration formerly shown
to his defunct rival. The politeness of the _raffines_ is as
overpowering as their envy is ill concealed; and, as to the ladies, in
those days the character of a successful duellist was a sure passport to
their favour. The raw provincial, so lately unheeded, has but to throw
his handkerchief, now that he has dabbled it in blood. But the only one
of these sanguinary sultanas on whom Mergy bestows a thought, is not to
be found. In vain does he seek, in the crowd of beauties who court his
gaze, the pale cheek, blue eyes, and raven hair of Madame de Turgis.
Soon after the duel, she had left Paris for one of her country seats, a
departure attributed by the charitable to grief at the death of
Comminges. Mergy knows better. Whilst laid up with his wound, and
concealed in the house of an old woman, half doctress, half sorceress,
he detected a masked lady, whom he recognised as De Turgis, performing
for his cure, with the assistance of the witch, certain mysterious
incantations. They had procured Comminges's sword, and rubbed it with
scorpion oil, "the sovereign'st thing on earth" to heal the wound the
weapon had inflicted. And there was also a melting of a wax figure,
intended as a love charm; and from all that passed, Bernard could not
doubt that the Countess had set her affections on him. So he waits
patiently, and one morning, whilst his brother is reading the "Vie
tres-horrifique de Pantagruel," and he himself is taking a guitar lesson
from the Signor Uberto Vinibella, a wrinkled duenna brings him a scented
note, closed with a gold thread, and a large green seal, bearing a Cupid
with finger on lips, and the Spanish word, _Callad_, enjoining silence.
The best picture of the massacre of St Bartholomew we have read in a
book of fiction, is given by M. Merimee, in small compass and without
unnecessary horrors. Less than an hour before its commencement, the
Countess informs her lover of the fate reserved for him and all of his
faith. She urges and implores him to abjure his heresy; he steadfastly
refuses--and she, her love redoubled by his courageous constancy,
conceals him from the assassins. In the disguise of a monk, he escapes
from Paris, and makes his way to La Rochelle, the last stronghold of the
persecuted Protestants. On the road, he falls in with another refugee,
the _lanzknecht_ Captain Dietrich Hornstein, similarly disguised and
bound to the same place. There is an excellent scene at a country inn,
where four ruffians, their hands reeking with Protestant blood, compel
the false Franciscans to baptise a pair of pullets by the names of carp
and perch, that they may not sin by eating fowl on Friday. Mergy at last
loses patience, and breaks a bottle over one of their heads; and a fight
ensues, in which the bandits are worsted. The two Huguenots reach La
Rochelle, which is soon afterwards besieged by the king's troops. In a
sortie, Bernard forms an ambuscade, into which his brother unfortunately
falls, and receives a mortal wound. Taken into La Rochelle, he is laid
upon a bed to die; and, refusing the spiritual assistance of Catholic
priest and Protestant minister, he accelerates his death by a draught
from Hornstein's wine flask, and strives to comfort Bernard, who is
frantic with remorse.
"He again closed his eyes, but soon re-opened them and said to Mergy:
'Madame de Turgis bade me assure you of her love.' He smiled gently.
These were his last words. In a quarter of an hour he died, without
appearing to suffer much. A few minutes later Beville expired in the
arms of the monk, who afterwards declared that he had distinctly heard
in the air the cries of joy of the angels who received the soul of the
penitent, whilst subterraneous demons responded with a yell of triumph
as they bore away the spiritual part of Captain George."
"It is to be seen in any history of France, how La Noue left La
Rochelle, disgusted with civil wars and tormented by his conscience,
which reproached him for bearing arms against his king; how the Catholic
army was compelled to raise the siege, and how the fourth peace was
made, soon followed by the death of Charles IX.
"Did Mergy console himself? Did Diana take another lover? I leave it to
the decision of the reader, who thus will end the romance to his own
liking."
By his countrymen, M. Merimee's short tales are the most esteemed of his
writings. He produces them at intervals much too long to please the
editor and readers of the periodical in which they have for some time
appeared,--the able and excellent _Revue des Deux Mondes_. Once in
eighteen months, or two years, he throws a few pages to the public,
which, like a starved hound to whom a scanty meal is tossed, snaps
eagerly at the gift whilst growling at the niggardliness of the giver:
and the publisher of the _Revue_ knows that he may safely print an extra
thousand copies of a number containing a novel by Prosper Merimee. Now
and then, M. Merimee comes out with a criticism of a foreign book. His
last was a review of "Grote's Greece," and he has also written a paper
on "Borrow's Spanish Rambles." A man of great erudition and extensive
travel, he is thoroughly master of many languages, and, in writing about
foreign countries and people, steers clear of the absurd blunders into
which some of his contemporaries, of respectable talents and
attainments, not unfrequently fall. His English officer and lady in
Colomba are excellent; very different from the absurd caricatures of
Englishmen one is accustomed to see in French novels. He is equally
truthful in his Spanish characters. A great lover of things Spanish, he
has frequently visited, and still visits, the Peninsula. In 1831 he
published, in the _Revue de Paris_, three charming letters from Madrid.
The action of most of his tales passes in Spain or Corsica, or the South
of France, although he now and then dashes at Parisian society. With
this he has unquestionably had ample opportunity to become acquainted,
for he is a welcome guest in the best circles of the French capital.
Still we must hope there is some flaw in the glasses through which he
has observed the gay world of Paris. The "Vase Etrusque" is one of his
sketches of modern French life, in the style of the "Double Meprise,"
but better. It is a most amusing and spirited tale, but unnecessarily
immoral. Had the heroine been virtuous, the interest of the story would
in no way have suffered, so far as we can see; and that which attaches
to her, as a charming and unhappy woman, would have been augmented. This
opinion, however, would be scoffed at on the other side of the Channel,
and set down as a piece of English prudery. And perhaps, instead of
grumbling at M. Merimee for making the Countess Mathilde the mistress of
Saint Clair--which nothing compelled him to do--we ought thankfully to
acknowledge his moderation in contenting himself with a quiet intrigue
between unmarried persons, instead of favouring us with a flagrant case
of adultery, as in the "Double Meprise," or initiating us into the very
profane mysteries of _operatic figurantes_, as in "Arsene Guillot." Even
in France, where he is so greatly and justly admired, this last tale was
severely censured, as bringing before the public eye phases of society
that ill bear the light. Fidelity to life in his scenes and characters
is a high quality in an author, and one possessed in a high degree by M.
Merimee; but he has been sometimes too bold and cynical in the choice
and treatment of his subjects. "_La Partie de Tric-trac_," and
"_L'Enlevement de la Redoute_," are amongst his happiest efforts. Both
are especially remarkable for their terse and vigorous style. We have
been prodigal of extracts from "Charles IX."--for it is a great
favourite of ours--and, although well known and much esteemed by all
habitual readers of French novels, it is hitherto, we believe,
untranslated into English. But we shall still make room for--