We have heard of certain cooks, the Udes and Vatels of their day, whose
boast it was to manufacture the most sumptuous and luxurious repast out of
coarse and apparently insufficient materials. We will take the liberty of
comparing M. Dumas with one of these artistical _cuisiniers_, possessing in
the highest degree the talent of making much out of little, by the skill
with which it is prepared, and the piquant nature of the condiments
applied. A successful dramatist, as well as a popular romance-writer, his
dialogues have the point and brilliancy, his narrative the vivid terseness,
generally observable in novels written by persons accustomed to dramatic
composition. Confining himself to no particular line of subject, he
rambles through the different departments of light literature in a most
agreeable and desultory manner; to-day a tourist, to-morrow a novelist;
the next day surprising his public by an excursion into the regions of
historical romance, amongst the well-beaten highways and byways of which
he still manages to discover an untrodden path, or to embellish a familiar
one by the sparkle of his wit and industry of his researches. The majority
of his books convey the idea of being written _currente calamo_, and with
little trouble to himself; and these have a lightness and brilliancy
peculiar to their lively author, which cannot fail to recommend them to
all classes of readers. They are like the sketches of a clever artist, who,
with a few bright and bold touches, gives an effect to his subject which
no labour would enable a less talented painter to achieve. But M. Dumas
can produce highly finished pictures as well as brilliant sketches,
although for the present it is one of the latter that we are about to
introduce to our readers.
Every body knows, or ought to know, that M. Dumas has been in Italy, and
found means to make half a dozen highly amusing volumes out of his rambles
in a country, perhaps, of all others, the most familiar to the inhabitants
of civilized Europe--a country which has been described and re-described
_ad nauseam_, by tourists, loungers, and idlers innumerable. On his way to
the land of lazzaroni he made a pause at Marseilles to visit his friend
Méry, a poet and author of some celebrity; and here he managed to collect
materials for a volume which we can recommend to the perusal of the daily
increasing class of our countrymen who think that a book, although written
in French, may be witty and amusing without being either blasphemous or
indecent.
We have reason to believe that many persons who have not visited the
south-eastern corner of France, think of it as a "land of the cypress and
myrtle;" where troubadours wander amongst orange groves, or tinkle their
guitars under the shade of the vine and the fig-tree. There is something
in a name, and Provence, if it were only for the sake of its roses, ought,
one would think, to be a smiling and beautiful country. And so part of it
is; but in this part is assuredly not included the district around its
chief city. One hears much of the vineyards and orange groves of the south.
We do not profess to care much about vines, except for the sake of what
they produce; most of the vineyards we ever saw looked very like
plantations of gooseberry bushes, and the best of them were not so
graceful or picturesque as a Kentish hop-ground. As to olives, admirable
as they undoubtedly are when flanking a sparkling jug of claret, we find
little to admire in the stiff, greyish, stunted sort of trees upon which
they think proper to grow. But neither vines nor olives are to be found
around Marseilles. Nothing but dust; dust on the roads, dust in the fields,
dust on every leaf of the parched, unhappy-looking trees that surround the
country-houses of the Marseillais. The fruit and vegetables consumed there
are brought for miles overland, or by water from places on the coast;
flowers are scarce--objecting, probably, to grow in so arid a soil, and in
a heat that, for some months of the year, is perfectly African. Game there
is little or none; notwithstanding which, there are nowhere to be found
more enthusiastic sportsmen than at Marseilles. It is on this hint M.
Dumas speaks. His description of the manner in which the worthy burghers
of Marseilles make war upon the volatiles is rather amusing.
"Every Marseillais who aspires to the character of a keen sportsman, has
what is termed a _poste à feu_. This is a pit or cave dug in the ground in
the vicinity of a couple of pine-trees, and covered over with branches. In
addition to the pine-trees, it is usual to have _cimeaux_, long spars of
wood, of which two are supported horizontally on the branches of the trees,
and a third planted perpendicularly in the ground. These _cimeaux_ are
intended as a sort of treacherous invitation to the birds to come and rest
themselves. So regularly as Sunday morning arrives, the Marseillais
Cockney installs himself in his pit, arranges a loophole through which he
can see what passes outside, and waits with all imaginable patience. The
question that will naturally be asked, is--What does he wait for?
"He waits for a thrush, an ortolan, a beccafico, a robin-redbreast, or any
other feathered and diminutive biped. He is not so ambitious as to expect
a quail. Partridges he has heard of; of one, at least, a sort of phoenix,
reproduced from its own ashes, and seen from time to time before an
earthquake, or other great catastrophe. As to the hare, he is well aware
that it is a fabulous animal of the unicorn species.
"There is a tradition, however, at Marseilles, that during the last three
months of the year, flocks of wild pigeons pass over, on their way from
Africa or Kamschatka, or some other distant country. Within the memory of
man no one has ever seen one of these flights; but it would nevertheless
be deemed heresy to doubt the fact. At this season, therefore, the
sportsman provides himself with tame pigeon, which he fastens by a string
to the _cimeaux_, in such a manner that the poor bird is obliged to keep
perpetually on the wing, not being allowed rope enough to reach a perch.
After three or four Sundays passed in this manner, the unfortunate decoy
dies of a broken heart."
There is not nearly so much caricature in this picture as our readers may
be disposed to think. Whoever has passed a few weeks of the autumn in a
French provincial town, must have witnessed and laughed at the very
comical proceedings of the _chasseurs_, the high-sounding title assumed by
every Frenchman who ever pointed a gun at a cock-sparrow. One sees them
going forth in the morning in various picturesque and fanciful costumes,
their loins girded with a broad leathern belt, a most capacious game-bag
slung over their shoulder, a fowling-piece of murderous aspect balanced on
their arm; their heads protected from the October sun by every possible
variety of covering, from the Greek skull-cap to the broad-brimmed Spanish
sombrero. Away they go, singly, or by twos and threes, accompanied by a
whole regiment of dogs, for the most part badly bred, and worse broken
curs, which, when they get into the field, go pottering about in a style
that would sorely tempt an English sportsman to bestow upon them the
contents of both barrels. Towards the close of the day, take a stroll
outside the town, and you meet the heroes returning. "Well, what sport?"
"_Pas mal, mon cher_. Not so bad," is the reply, in a tone of
ill-concealed triumph; and plunging his hand into his game-bag, the
chasseur produces--a phthisical snipe, a wood pigeon, an extenuated quail,
and perhaps something which you at first take for a deformed blackbird,
but which turns out to be a water-hen. As far as our own observations go,
we do aver this to be a very handsome average of a French sportsman's
day's shooting. If by chance he has knocked down a red-legged partridge,
(grey ones are very scarce in France,) his exultation knows no bounds. The
day on which such a thing occurs is a red-letter day with him for the rest
of his life. He goes home at once and inscribes the circumstance in the
family archives.
But this state of things, it will perhaps be urged, may arise from the
scarcity of game in France, as probably as from the sportsman's want of
skill. True; but the worst is to come. After you have duly admired and
examined snipe, pigeon, quail, and water-hen, your friend again rummages
in the depths of his _gibecière_, and pulls out--what?--a handful of
tomtits and linnets, which he has been picking off every hedge for five
miles round. "_Je me suis rabattu sur le petit gibier_," he says, with a
grin and a shrug, and walks away, a proud man and a happy, leaving you in
admiration of his prowess.
M. Dumas expresses a wish to make the acquaintance of one of these modern
Nimrods, and his friend Méry arranges a supper, to which he invites a
certain Monsieur Louet, who plays the fourth bass in the orchestra of the
Marseilles theatre. The conversation after supper is a good specimen of
_persiflage_. After doing ample justice to an excellent repast, during
which he had scarcely uttered a word,
"Monsieur Louet threw himself back in his chair and looked at us all, one
after the other, as if he had only just become aware of our presence,
accompanying his inspection with a smile of the most perfect benevolence;
then, heaving a gentle sigh of satisfaction--'Ma foi! I have made a
capital supper!' exclaimed he.
"'M. Louet! A cigar?' cried Méry: 'It is good for the digestion.'
"'Thank you, most illustrious poet!' answered M. Louet; 'I never smoke. It
was not the fashion in my time. Smoking and boots were introduced by the
Cossacks. I always wear shoes, and am faithful to my snuff-box.'
"So saying, M. Louet produced his box, and offered it round. We all
refused except Méry, who, wishing to flatter him, attacked his weak side.
"'What delicious snuff, M. Louet! This cannot be the common French snuff?'
"'Indeed it is--only I doctor it in a particular manner. It is a secret I
learned from a cardinal when I was at Rome.'
"'Ha! You have been to Rome?' cried I.
"'Yes, sir; I passed twenty years there.'
"'M. Louet,' said Méry, 'since you do not smoke, you ought to tell these
gentlemen the story of your thrush-hunt.'
"'I shall be most happy,' replied M. Louet graciously, 'if you think it
will amuse the company.'
"'To be sure it will,' cried Méry. 'Gentlemen, you are going to hear the
account of one of the most extraordinary hunts that has taken place since
the days of Nimrod the mighty hunter. I have heard it told twenty times,
and each time with increased pleasure. Another glass of punch, M. Louet.
There! Now begin.--We are all impatience.'
"'You are aware, gentlemen,' said M. Louet, 'that every Marseillais is
born a sportsman.'
"'Perfectly true,' interrupted Méry 'it is a physiological phenomenon
which I have never been able to explain; but it is nevertheless quite
true.'
"'Unfortunately,' continued M. Louet, 'or perhaps I should say fortunately,
we have neither lions nor tigers in the neighbourhood of Marseilles. On
the other hand, we have flights of pigeons.'
"'There!' cried Méry, 'I told you so. They insist upon it.'
"'Certainly,' replied M. Louet, visibly vexed; 'and, whatever you may say
to the contrary, the pigeons _do_ pass. Besides, did you not lend me the
other day a book of Mr Cooper's, the _Pioneers_, in which the fact is
authenticated?'
"'Ah, yes! Authenticated in America.'
"'Very well! If they pass over America why should they not pass over
Marseilles? The vessels that go from Alexandria and Constantinople to
America often pass here.'
"'Very true!' replied Méry, thunderstruck by this last argument. 'I have
nothing more to say. M. Louet, your hand. I will never contradict you
again on the subject.'
"'Sir, every man has a right to his opinion.'
"'True, but I relinquish mine. Pray go on, M. Louet.'
"'I was saying, then, that instead of lions and tigers we have flights of
pigeons.' M. Louet paused a moment to see if Méry would contradict him.
Méry nodded his head approvingly.
"'True,' said he, 'they have flights of pigeons.'"
Satisfied by this admission M. Louet resumed.
"'You may easily imagine that at the period of the year when these flights
occur, every sportsman is on the alert; and, as I am only occupied in the
evening at the theatre, I am fortunately able to dispose of my mornings as
I like. It was in 1810 or '11, I was five-and-thirty years of age; that is
to say, gentlemen, rather more active than I am now. I was one morning at
my post, as usual, before daybreak. I had tied my decoy pigeon to the
_cimeaux_, and he was fluttering about like a mad thing, when I fancied I
saw by the light of the stars something perched upon my pine-tree.
Unfortunately it was too dark for me to distinguish whether this something
were a bat or a bird, so I remained quite quiet, waiting for the sun to
rise. At last the sun rose and I saw that it was a bird. I raised my gun
gently to my shoulder, and, when I was sure of my aim, I pulled the
trigger. Sir, I had omitted to discharge my gun on returning from shooting
the evening before. It had been twelve hours loaded, and it hung fire.
"'Nevertheless I saw by the way in which the bird flew that he was touched.
I followed him with my eyes till he perched again. Then I looked for my
pigeon; but by an extraordinary chance a shot had cut the string which
tied him, and he had flown away. Without a decoy I knew very well it was
no use remaining at the post, so I resolved to follow up the thrush. I
forgot to tell you, gentlemen, that the bird I had fired at was a thrush.
"'Unluckily I had no dog. When one shoots with a decoy, a dog is worse
than useless--it is a positive nuisance. I was obliged, therefore, to beat
the bushes myself. The thrush had run along the ground, and rose behind me
when I thought I still had him in front. At the sound of his wings I
turned and fired in a hurry. A shot thrown away, as you may suppose.
Nevertheless I saw some feathers fall from him.'
"'You saw some feathers?' cried Méry.
"'Yes, sir. I even found one, which I put in my buttonhole.'
"'In that case,' said Méry, 'the thrush was hit?'
"'That was my opinion at the time. I had not lost sight of him, and I
continued the pursuit; but the bird was scared, and this time flew away
before I got within range. I fired all the same. There is no saying where
a stray shot may go.'
"'A stray shot is not enough for a thrush,' said Méry, shaking his head
gravely. 'A thrush is a very hard-lived bird.'
"'Very true, sir; for I am certain my two first shots had wounded him, and
yet he made a third flight of nearly half a mile. But I had sworn to have
him, and on I went. Impossible to get near him. He led me on, mile after
mile, always flying away as soon as I came within fifty or sixty paces. I
became furious. If I had caught him I think I should have eaten him alive,
and the more so as I was beginning to get very hungry. Fortunately, as I
had calculated on remaining out all day, I had my breakfast and dinner in
my game-bag, and I eat as I went along.'
"'Pardon me,' said Méry, interrupting M. Louet; 'I have an observation to
make. Observe, my dear Dumas, the difference between the habits of the
human race in northern and southern climes. In the north the sportsman
runs after his game; in the south he waits for it to come to him. In the
first case he takes out an empty bag and brings home a full one; in the
other he takes it out full and brings it home empty. Pray, go on, my dear
M. Louet. I have spoken.' And he recommenced puffing at his cigar.
"'Where was I?' said M. Louet, who had lost the threat of his narrative
through this interruption.
"'Speeding over hill and dale in pursuit of your thrush.'
"'True, sir. I cannot describe to you the state of excitement and
irritation I was in. I began to think of the bird of Prince Camaralzaman,
and to suspect that I, too, might be the victim of some enchantment. I
passed Cassis and La Ciotat, and entered the large plain extending from
Ligne to St. Cyr. I had been fifteen hours on my feet, and I was half dead
with fatigue. I made a vow to Our Lady of La Garde to hang a silver thrush
in her chapel, if she would only assist me to catch the living one I was
following; but she paid no attention to me. Night was coming on, and in
despair I fired my last shot at the accursed bird. I have no doubt he
heard the lead whistle, for this time he flew so far that I lost sight of
him in the twilight. He had gone in the direction of the village of St.
Cyr. Probably he intended to sleep there, and I resolved to do the same.
Fortunately there was to be no performance that night at the Marseilles
theatre.'"
The worthy basso goes to the inn at St. Cyr, and relates his troubles to
the host, who decides that the object of his pursuit must have halted for
the night in a neighbouring piece of brushwood. By daybreak M. Louet is
again a-foot, accompanied by the innkeeper's dog, Soliman. They soon get
upon the scent of the devoted thrush.
"'Every body knows that a true sporting dog will follow any one who has a
gun on his shoulder. "Soliman, Soliman!" cried I; and Soliman came. Sir,
the instinct of the dog was remarkable: we had hardly got out of the
village when he made a point--such a point, sir!--his tail out as straight
as a ramrod. There was the thrush, not ten paces from me. I fired both
barrels--Poum! Poum! Powder not worth a rush. I had used all my own the
day before, and this was some I had got from my host. The thrush flew away
unhurt. But Soliman had kept his eye on him, and went straight to the
place where the bird was. Again he made a most beautiful point; but
although I looked with all my eyes, I could not see the thrush. I was
stooping down in this manner, looking for the creature, when suddenly it
flew away, and so fast, that before I got my gun to my shoulder, it was
out of reach. Soliman opened his eyes and stared at me; as much as to say,
"What is the meaning of all this?" The expression of the dog's face made
me feel quit humiliated. I could not help speaking to him. "Never mind,"
said I, nodding my head, "you will see next time." You would have thought
the animal understood me. He again began to hunt about. In less than ten
minutes he stopped as if he were cut out of marble. I was determined not
to lose this chance; and I went right before the dog's nose. The bird rose
literally under my feet; but I was so agitated that I fired my first
barrel too soon, and my second too late. The first discharge passed by him
like a single ball; the second was too scattered, and he passed between it.
It was then that a thing happened to me--one of those things which I
should not repeat, but for my attachment to the truth. The dog looked at
me for a moment with a sort of smile upon his countenance: then, coming
close up to me while I was reloading my gun, he lifted his left hind leg,
made water against my gaiter, and then turning round, trotted away in the
direction of his master's house. You may easily suppose, that if it had
been a man who had thus insulted me, I would have had his life, or he
should have had mine. But what could I say, sir, to a dumb beast which God
had not gifted with reason?'"
This canine insult only acts as a spur to the indefatigable chasseur, who,
dogless as he finds himself, follows up his thrush till he reaches the
town of Hyères. Here he loses all trace of the bird, but endeavours to
console himself by eating the oranges which grow in the garden of his
hotel. Whilst thus engaged, a thrush perches on a tree beside him, and the
first glance at the creature's profile satisfied him that it is the same
bird whose society he has been rejoicing in the for the last two days.
Unfortunately his gun is in the house, of which the thrush seems to be
aware, for it continues singing and dressing its feathers on a branch
within ten feet of his head. Afraid of losing sight of it, M. Louet waits
till the landlord comes to announce supper, and then desires him to bring
his gun. But there is a punishment of fine and imprisonment for whoever
fires a shot, between sunset and sunrise, within the precincts of the town;
and although the enthusiastic sportsman is willing enough to run this risk,
the hotel-keeper fears to be taken for an accomplice, and refuses to fetch
the gun, threatening to drive away the bird if M. Louet goes for it
himself. At last they come to terms. M. Louet sups and sleeps under the
tree, the bird roosts on the same; and at the first stroke of the matin
bell, mine host appears with the fowling-piece. Our chasseur stretches out
his hand to take it, and--the bird flies away.
M. Louet throws down the price of his supper, and scales the garden wall
in pursuit. He follows his intended victim the whole of that day, and at
last has the mortification of seeing it carried away before his eyes by a
hawk. Foot-sore and tired, hungry and thirsty, the unfortunate musician
sinks down exhausted by the side of a road. A peasant passes by.
"'My friend,' said I to him, 'is there any town, village, or house in
this neighbourhood?'
"'_Gnor si_,' answered he, '_cé la citta di Nizza un miglia avanti_.'
"The thrush had led me into Italy."
At Nice M. Louet is in great tribulation. In the course of his long ramble
his money has worked a hole in his pocket, and he discovers that he is
penniless just at the moment that he has established himself at the best
hotel, and ordered supper for three by way of making up for past
privations. He gets out of his difficulties, however, by giving a concert,
which produces him a hundred crowns; and he then embarks for Toulon, on
board the letter of marque, La Vierge des Sept Douleurs, Captain Garnier.
Once on the water, there is a fine opportunity for a display of French
naval heroism, at the expense, of course, of the unfortunate English, to
whom M. Dumas bears about the same degree of affection that another
dark-complexioned gentleman is said to do to holy water. This is one of M.
Dumas's little peculiarities or affectations, it is difficult to say which.
Wherever it is possible to bring in England and the English, depreciate
them in any way, or turn them into ridicule, M. Dumas invariably does it,
and those passages are frequently the most amusing in his books. In the
present instance, it is a very harmless piece of faufarronade in which he
indulges.
The armed brig in which M. Louet has embarked, falls in which a squadron
of English men-of-war. Hearing a great bustle upon deck, our musician goes
up to enquire the cause, and finds the captain quietly seated, smoking his
pipe. After the usual salutations--
"'M. Louet, have you ever seen a naval combat?' said the captain to me.
"'Never, sir.'
"'Would you like to see one?'
"'Why, captain, to say the truth, there are other things I should better
like to see.'
"'I am sorry for it; for it you wished to see one, a real good one, your
wish would soon be gratified.'
"'What! captain,' cried I, feeling myself grow pale; 'you do not mean to
say we are going to have a naval combat? Ha, ha! I see you are joking,
captain.'
"'Joking, eh? Look yonder. What do you see?'
"'I see three very fine vessels.'
"'Count again.'
"'I see more. Four, five, there are six of them.'
"'Can you distinguish what there is on the flag of the nearest one? Here,
take the glass.'
"'I cannot make out very well, but I think I see a harp.'
"'Exactly.--The Irish harp. In a few minutes they'll play as a tune on it.'
"'But captain,' said I, 'they are still a long way off, and it appears to
me, that by spreading all those sails which are now furled upon your masts
and yards, you might manage to escape. In your place I should certainly
run away. Excuse me for the suggestion, but it is my opinion as fourth
bass of the Marseilles theatre. If I had the honour to be a sailor, I
should perhaps think differently.'"
Very sensible advice, too, M. Louet, _we_ should have thought at least,
considering the odds of six to one. But the fire-eating Frenchman thinks
otherwise.
"'If it were a man, instead of a bass, who made me such a proposal,'
replied the captain, 'I should have had a word or two to say to him about
it. Know, sir, that Captain Garnier _never_ runs away! He fights till his
vessel is riddled like a sieve, then he allows himself to be boarded, and
when his decks are covered with the enemy, he goes into the powder
magazine with his pipe in his mouth, shakes out the burning ashes, and
sends the English on a voyage of discovery upwards.'
"'And the French?'
"'The French too.'
"'And the passengers?'
"'The passengers likewise.'
"'At that moment, a small white cloud appeared issuing from the side of
one of the English ships. This was followed by a dull noise like a heavy
blow on the big drum. I saw some splinters fly from the top of the brig's
gunwale, and an artilleryman, who was just then standing on his gun, fell
backwards upon me. 'Come, my friend,' said I, 'mind what you are about.'
And, as he did not stir, I pushed him. He fell upon the deck. I looked at
him with more attention. His head was off.
"My nerves were so affected by this sight, that five minutes later I found
myself in the ship's hold, without exactly knowing how I had got there."
Thanks to a storm, the six English men of war manage to escape from the
brig, and when M. Louet ventures to re-appear upon deck, he finds himself
in the Italian port of Piombino, opposite the island of Elba. He has had
enough of the water, and goes on shore, where he bargains with a vetturino
to take him to Florence. A young officer of French hussars, and four
Italians, are his travelling companions. The former, on learning his name
and profession, asks him sundry questions about a certain Mademoiselle
Zephyrine, formerly a dancer at the Marseilles theatre, and in whom he
seems to take a strong interest.
Bad springs and worse roads render it very difficult to sleep. At last, on
the second night of their journey, M. Louet succeeds in getting up a doze,
out of which he is roused in a very unpleasant manner. We will give his
own account of it.
"'Two pistol-shots, the flash of which almost burned my face, awoke me.
They were fired by M. Ernest, (the hussar officer.) We were attacked by
banditti.'
"'_Faccia in terra! Faccia in terra!_' I jumped out of the carriage, and
as I did so, one of the brigands gave me a blow between the shoulders,
that threw me upon my face. My companions were already in that position,
with the exception of M. Ernest, who was defending himself desperately. At
length he was overpowered and made prisoner.
"My pockets were turned inside out, and my hundred crowns taken away. I
had a diamond ring on my finger, which I hoped they would not observe, and
I turned the stone inside, heartily wishing, as I did so, that it had the
power of Gyges' ring, and could render me invisible. But all was in vain.
The robbers soon found it out. When they had taken every thing from us--
"'Is there a musician amongst you?' said he who appeared the chief.
"Nobody answered.
"'Well,' repeated he, 'are you all deaf? I asked if any of you knew how to
play on an instrument.'
"'Pardieu!' said a voice, which I recognized as that of the young officer;
'there's M. Louet, who plays the bass.'
"I wished myself a hundred feet under ground.
"'Which is M. Louet?' said the brigand. 'Is it this one?' And, stooping
down, he laid hold of the collar of my shooting-jacket, and lifted me on
my feet.
"'For Heaven's sake, what do you want with me?' cried I.
"'Nothing to be so frightened about,' was the answer. 'For a week past we
have been hunting every where for a musician, without being able to find
one. The captain will be delighted to see you.'
"'What!' cried I, 'are you going to take me to the captain?'
"'Certainly we are.'
"'To separate me from my companions?'
"'What can we do with them? _They_ are not musicians.'
"'Gentlemen!' cried I, 'for God's sake, help me! do not let me be carried
off in this manner.'
"'The gentlemen will have the goodness to remain with their noses in the
dust for the space of a quarter of an hour,' said the brigand. 'As to the
officer, tie him to a tree,' continued he, to the four men who were
holding the hussar. 'In a quarter of an hour the postillion will untie him.
Not a minute sooner, if you value your life.'
"The postillion gave a sort of affirmative grunt, and the robbers now moved
off in the direction of the mountains. I was led between two of them.
After marching for some time, we saw a light in a window, and presently
halted at a little inn on a cross-road. The bandits went up stairs,
excepting two, who remained with me in the kitchen, and one of whom had
appropriated my fowling-piece, and the other my game-bag. As to my diamond
ring and my hundred crowns, they had become perfectly invisible.
"Presently somebody shouted from above, and my guards, taking me by the
collar, pushed me up stairs, and into a room on the first floor.
"Seated at a table, upon which was a capital supper and numerous array of
bottles, was the captain of the robbers, a fine-looking man of thirty-five
or forty years of age. He was dressed exactly like a theatrical robber, in
blue velvet, with a red sash and silver buckles. His arm was passed round
the waist of a very pretty girl in the costume of a Roman peasant; that is
to say, an embroidered boddice, short bright-coloured petticoat, and red
stockings. Her feet attracted my attention, they were so beautifully small.
On one of her fingers I saw my diamond ring--a circumstance which, as well
as the company in which I found her, gave me a very indifferent idea of
the young lady's morality.
"'What countryman are you?' asked the captain.
"'I am a Frenchman, your excellency.'
"'So much the better!' cried the young girl.
"I saw with pleasure that, at any rate, I was amongst people who spoke my
own language.
"'You are a musician?'
"'I am fourth bass at the Marseilles theatre.'
"'Bring this gentleman's bass,' said the captain to one of his men. 'Now,
my little Rina,' said he, turning to his mistress, 'I hope you are ready
to dance."
"'I always was,' answered she, 'but how could I without music?'
"'_Non ho trovato l'instrumento_,' said the robber, reappearing at the
door.
"'What!' cried the captain in a voice of thunder; 'no instrument?'
"'Captain,' interposed his lieutenant, 'I searched every where, but could
not find even the smallest violoncello.'
"'_Bestia_!' cried the captain.
"'Excellency,' I ventured to observe, 'it is not his fault. I had no bass
with me.'
"'Very well,' said the captain, 'send off five men immediately to Sienna,
Volterra, Grossetto--all over the country. I must have a bass by to-morrow
night.'
"I could not help thinking I had seen Mademoiselle Rina's face somewhere
before, and I was cudgeling my memory to remember where, when she
addressed the captain.
"'Tonino,' said she, 'you have not even asked the poor man if he is
hungry.'
"I was touched by this little attention, and, on the captain's invitation,
I drew a chair to the table, in fear and trembling I acknowledge; but it
was nearly twelve hours since I had eaten any thing, and my hunger was
perfectly canine. Mademoiselle Rina herself had the kindness to pass me
the dishes and fill my glass; so that I had abundant opportunities of
admiring my own ring, which sparkled upon her finger. I began to perceive,
however, that I should not be so badly off as I had expected, and that the
captain was disposed to treat me well.
"Supper over, I was allowed to retire to a room and a bed that had been
prepared for me. I slept fifteen hours without waking. The robbers had the
politeness not to disturb me till I awakened of my own accord. Then,
however, five of them entered my room, each carrying a bass. I chose the
best, and they made firewood of the others.
"When I had made my choice, they told me the captain was waiting dinner
for me; and accordingly, on entering the principal room of the inn, I
found a table spread for the captain, Mademoiselle Rina, the lieutenant,
and myself. There were several other tables for the rest of the banditti.
The room was lighted up with at least three hundred wax candles.
"The dinner was a merry one. The robbers were really very good sort of
people, and the captain was in an excellent humour. When the feasting was
over,
"'You have not forgotten your promise, Rina, I hope?' said he.
"'Certainly not,' was the reply. 'In a quarter of an hour I am ready.'
"So saying, she skipped out of the room.
"'And you, Signor Musico,' said the captain, 'I hope you are going to
distinguish yourself.'
"'I will do my best, captain.'
"'If I am satisfied, you shall have back your hundred crowns.'
"'And my diamond ring, captain?'
"'Oh! as to that, no. Besides, you see Rina has got it, and you are too
gallant to wish to take it from her.'
"At this moment Mademoiselle Rina made her appearance in the costume of a
shepherdess--a boddice of silver, short silk petticoats, and a large
Cashmere shawl twisted round her waist. She was really charming in this
dress. I seized my bass. I fancied myself in the orchestra at Marseilles.
"'What would you like me to play, Mademoiselle?'
"'Do you know the shawl-dance in the ballet of _Clary_?'
"'Certainly; it is my favourite.'
"I began to play, Rina to dance, and the banditti to applaud. She danced
admirably. The more I looked at her, the more convinced I became that I
had seen her before.
"She was in the middle of a _pirouette_ when the door opened, and the
innkeeper entering, whispered something in the captain's ear.
"'_Ove sono_?' said the latter, quietly. 'Where are they?'
"'A San Dalmazio.'
"'No nearer? Then there is no hurry.'
"'What is the matter?' said Rina, executing a magnificent _entrechat_.
"'Nothing. Only those rascally travellers have given the alarm at Florence,
and the hussars of the Grand-duchess Eliza are looking for us.'
"'They are too late for the performance,' said Rina, laughing. 'I have
finished my dance.'
"It was lucky, for the bow had fallen from my hands at the news I had just
heard. Rina made one bound to the door, and then turning, as if she had
been on the stage, curtsied to the audience, and kissed her hand to the
captain. The applause was deafening; I doubt if she had ever had such a
triumph.
"'And now, to arms!' cried the captain. 'Prepare a horse for Rina and
another for the musician. _We_ will go on foot. The road to Romagna,
remember! Stragglers to rejoin at Chianciano.'
"For a few minutes all was bustle and preparation.
"'Here I am,' cried Rina, running in, attired in her Roman peasant's
dress.
"'_Usseri, Usseri_!' said the innkeeper.
"'Off with you!' cried the captain, and every one hurried towards the
stairs.
"'The devil!' said the captain, turning to me, 'you are forgetting your
bass, I think.'
"I took the bass. I would willingly have crept into it. Two horses stood
ready saddled at the house door.
"'Well, Monsieur le Musicien,' said Rina, 'do you not help me to get on my
horse? You are not very gallant.'
"I held out my arm to assist her, and as I did so she put a small piece of
paper into my hand.
"A cold perspiration stood upon my forehead. What could this paper be? Was
it a billet-doux? Had I been so unfortunate as to make a conquest, which
would render me the rival of the captain? My first impulse was to throw
the note away; but on second thoughts I put it in my pocket.
"'_Usseri, Usseri_!' cried the innkeeper again, and a noise like that of a
distant galloping was heard. I scrambled on my horse, which two of the
robbers took by the bridle; two others led that of Mademoiselle Rina. The
captain, with his carbine on his shoulder, ran beside his mistress, the
lieutenant accompanied me, and the remainder of the band, consisting of
fifteen or eighteen men, brought up the rear. Five or six shots were fired
some three hundred yards behind us, and the balls whistled in our ears.
'To the left!' cried the captain, and we threw ourselves into a sort of
ravine, at the bottom of which ran a rapid stream. Here we halted and
listened, and heard the hussars gallop furiously past on the high-road.
"'If they keep on at that pace, they'll soon be at Grossetto,' said the
captain laughing."
This is the unfortunate musician's first essay in horsemanship, and when,
after twelve hours' march across the country, with his bass strapped upon
his shoulders, he halts at the inn at Chianciano, he is more dead than
alive. He remembers, however, to read Mademoiselle Rina's note. From this,
and a few words which she takes an opportunity of saying to him, he finds
that she is an opera-dancer named Zephyrine, who had had an engagement a
year or two previously at the Marseilles theatre. She had since
transferred herself to the Teatro de la Valle at Rome, where the bandit
captain, Tonino, happening to witness her performance, became enamoured of
her, and laid a plan for carrying her off, which had proved successful.
Her lover, however, Ernest, the same officer of hussars who had been M.
Louet's travelling companion, is in search of her; and, to assist him in
his pursuit, she writes her name, and that of the place they are next
going to, upon the window of each inn they stop at. It was for this
purpose she had secured M. Louet's diamond ring.
If contrast was Dumas' object in writing this volume, he has certainly
been highly successful in carrying out his intention. Most writers would
have contented themselves with composing the female portion of the
brigands' society, of some dark-browed Italian _contadina_, with flashing
eyes and jetty ringlets, a knife in her garter and a mousquetoon in her
brawny fist, and a dozen crucifixes and amulets round her neck. At most,
one might have expected to meet with some English lady in a green veil,
(all English ladies, who travel, wear green veils,) whose carriage had
been attacked, and herself carried off on the road from Florence to Rome.
But M. Dumas scorns such commonplace _dramatis personae_, and is satisfied
with nothing less than transporting a French ballet-dancer into the
Appenines, with all her paraphernalia of gauze drapery, tinsel decorations,
and opera airs and graces; not forgetting the orchestra, in the person of
the luckless bass player. Yet so ingeniously does he dovetail it all
together, so probable does he make his improbabilities appear, that we
become almost reconciled to the idea of finding Mademoiselle Zephyrine
Taglionizing away upon the filthy floor of a mountain _osteria_, and are
inclined to be astonished that the spectators should not be provided with
bouquets to throw at her upon the conclusion of her performance.
Several days are passed in running from one place to the other, always
followed by the hussars, from whom the banditti have some narrow escapes.
M. Louet is taken great care of in consideration of his skill as a
musician, and he on his part takes all imaginable care of his bass, which
he looks upon as a sort of a safeguard. At length they arrive at the
castle of Anticoli, a villa which the captain rents from a Roman nobleman,
and where he considers himself in perfect safety. Here M. Louet is
installed in a magnificent apartment, where he finds linen and clothes, of
which he is much in need. His toilet completed, he is conducted to the
drawing-room by a livery servant, who bears a strong resemblance to one of
his friends the banditti. But we will let him tell his story in his own
words.
"There were three persons in the room into which I was ushered; a young
lady, a very elegantly dressed man, and a French officer. I thought there
must be some mistake, and was walking backwards out of the apartment, when
the lady said--
"'My dear M. Louet, where are you going? Do you not mean to dine with us?'
"'Pardon me,' said I, 'I did not recognise you, Mademoiselle.'
"'If you prefer it, you shall be served in your apartment,' said the
elegant-looking man.
"'What, captain,' cried I, 'is it you?'
"'M. Louet would not be so unkind as to deprive us of his society,' said
the French officer with a polite bow. I turned to thank him for his
civility. It was the lieutenant. It put me in mind of the changes in a
pantomime.
"'_Al suo commodo_,' said a powdered lackey, opening the folding doors of
a magnificent dining-room. The captain offered his hand to Mademoiselle
Zephyrine. The lieutenant and I followed.
"'I hope you will be pleased with my cook, my dear M. Louet,' said the
captain, waving me to a chair, and seating himself. 'He is a French artist
of some talent. I have ordered two or three Provençal dishes on purpose
for you.'
"'Pah! with garlic in them!' said the French officer, taking a pinch of
perfumed snuff out of a gold box. I began to think I was dreaming.
"'Have you seen the park yet, M. Louet?' asked the captain.
"'Yes, Excellency, from the window of my room.'
"'They say it is full of game. Are you fond of shooting?'
"'I delight in it. Are there any thrushes in the park?'
"'Thrushes! thousands.'
"'Bravo! You may reckon upon me, captain, for a supply of game. That is,
if you will order my fowling-piece to be returned to me. I cannot shoot
well with any other.
"'Agreed,' said the captain.
"'Tonino,' said Mademoiselle Zephyrine, 'you promised to take me to the
theatre to-morrow. I am curious to see the dancer who has replaced me.'
"'There is no performance to-morrow,' replied the captain, 'and I am not
sure the carriage is in good condition. But we can take a ride to Tivoli
or Subiaco, if you like.'
"'Will you come with us, my dear M. Louet?' said Mademoiselle Zephyrine.
"'Thank you,' replied I; 'I am not accustomed to ride. I would rather have
a day's shooting.'
"'I will keep M. Louet company,' said the lieutenant.
"On retiring to my apartment that night, I found my fowling-piece in one
corner, my game-bag in another, and my hundred crowns on the chimney-piece.
Captain Tonino was a man of his word.
"Whilst I was undressing, the French cook came to know what I would choose
for breakfast. 'Count Villaforte,' he said, 'had ordered that I should be
served in my room, as I was going out shooting.' The captain, it appeared,
had changed his name as well as his dress.
"The next morning I had just dressed and breakfasted, when the lieutenant
came to fetch me, and I accompanied him down-stairs. In front of the villa
four saddle-horses were being led up and down--one for the captain, one
for Mademoiselle Zephyrine, and the two others for servants. The captain
put a brace of double-barrelled pistols into his holsters, and the
servants did the same. Master and men had a sort of fancy costume, which
allowed them to wear a couteau-de-chasse. The captain saw that I remarked
all these precautions.
"'The police is shocking in this country, M. Louet,' said he, 'and there
are so many bad characters about, that it is well to be armed.'
"Mademoiselle Zephyrine looked charming in her riding-habit and hat.
"'Much pleasure, my dear M. Louet,' said the captain, as he got on his
horse. 'Beaumanoir, take care of M. Louet.'
"'The best possible care, count.' replied the lieutenant.
"'The captain and Zephyrine waved their hands, and cantered away, followed
by their servants.
"'Pardon me, sir,' said I, approaching the lieutenant; 'I believe it was
you whom the count addressed as Beaumanoir.'
"'It was so.'
"'I thought the family of Beaumanoir had been extinct.'
"'Very possible. I revive it, that's all.'
"'You are perfectly at liberty to do so, sir,' replied I. 'I beg pardon
for the observation.'
"'Granted, granted, my dear Louet. Would you like a dog, or not?'
"'Sir, I prefer shooting without a dog. The last I had insulted me most
cruelly, and I should not like the same thing to occur again.'
"'As you please. Gaetano, untie Romeo.'
"We commenced our sport. In six shots I killed four thrushes, which
satisfied me that the one which I had followed from Marseilles had been an
enchanted one. Beaumanoir laughed at me.
"'What!' cried he. 'Do you amuse yourself in firing at such game as that?'
"'Sir,' replied I, 'at Marseilles the thrush is a very rare animal. I have
seen but one in my life, and it is to that one I owe the advantage of
being in your society.'
"Here and there I saw gardeners and gamekeepers whose faces were familiar
to me, and who touched their hats as I passed. They looked to me very like
my old friends, the robbers, in a new dress; but I had, of late, seen so
many extraordinary things, that nothing astonished me any longer.
"The park was very extensive, and enclosed by a high wall, which had light
iron gratings placed here and there, to afford a view of the surrounding
country. I happened to be standing near one of these gratings, when M.
Beaumanoir fired at a pheasant.
"'_Signore_,' said a countryman, who was passing, '_questo castello e il
castello d'Anticoli?_'
"'Villager,' I replied, walking towards the grating, 'I do not understand
Italian; speak French, and I shall be happy to answer.'
"'What! Is it you, M. Louet?' exclaimed the peasant.
"'Yes, it is,' said I; 'but how do you know my name?'
"'Hush! I am Ernest, the hussar officer, your travelling companion.'
"'M. Ernest! Ah! Mademoiselle Zephyrine will be delighted.'
"'Zephyrine is really here, then?'
"'Certainly she is. A prisoner like myself.'
"'And Count Villaforte?'
"'Is Captain Tonino.'
"'And the castle?'
"'A den of thieves.'
"'That is all I wanted to know. Adieu, my dear Louet. Tell Zephyrine she
shall soon hear from me.' So saying, he plunged into the forest.
"'Here, Romeo, here!' cried Mr. Beaumanoir to his dog, who was fetching
the bird he had shot. I hastened to him.
"'A beautiful pheasant!' cried I. 'A fine cock!'
"'Yes, yes. Who were you talking to, M. Louet?'
"'To a peasant, who asked me some question, to which I replied, that
unfortunately I did not understand Italian.'
"'Hum!' said Beaumanoir, with a suspicious side-glance at me. Then, having
loaded his gun, 'We will change places, if you please,' said he. 'There
may be some more peasants passing, and, as I understand Italian, I shall
be able to answer their questions.'
"'As you like, M. Beaumanoir,' said I.
"The change was effected; but no more peasants appeared.
"When we returned to the house, the captain and Zephyrine had not yet come
back from their ride, and I amused myself in my room with my bass, which I
found to be an excellent instrument. I resolved, more than ever, not to
part with it, but to take it back to France with me, if ever I returned to
that country.
"At the hour of dinner, I repaired to the drawing-room, where I found
Count Villaforte and Mademoiselle Zephyrine. I had scarcely closed the
door, when it was reopened, and the lieutenant put in his head.
"'Captain!' said he, in a hurried voice.
"'Who calls me captain? Here there is no captain, my dear Beaumanoir, but
a Count Villaforte.'
"'Captain, it is a serious matter. One moment, I beg.'
"The captain left the room. When the door was shut, and I was sure he
could not hear me, I told Zephyrine of my interview with her lover. I had
just finished when the captain reappeared.
"'Well,' said Zephyrine, running to meet him. 'What makes you look so
blank? Are there bad news?'
"'Not very good ones.'
"'Do they come from a sure source?' asked she with an anxiety which this
time was not assumed.
"'From the surest possible. From one of our friends who is employed in the
police.'
"'Gracious Heaven! What is going to happen?'
"'We do not know yet, but it appears we have been traced from Chianciano
to the Osteria Barberini. They only lost the scent behind Mount Gennaro.
My dear Rina, I fear we must give up our visit to the theatre to-morrow.'
"'But not our dinner to-day, captain, I hope,' said I.
"'Here is your answer,' said the captain, as the door opened, and a
servant announced that the soup was on the table.
"The captain and lieutenant dined each with a brace of pistols beside his
plate, and in the anteroom I saw two men armed with carbines. The repast
was a silent one; I did not dine comfortably myself, for I had a sort of
feeling that the catastrophe was approaching, and that made me uneasy.
"'You will excuse me for leaving you,' said the captain, when dinner was
over; 'but I must go and take measures for our safety. I would advise you
not to undress, M. Louet, for we may have to make a sudden move, and it is
well to be ready.'
"The lieutenant conducted me to my apartment, and wished me good-night
with great politeness. As he left the room, however, I heard that he
double-locked the door. I had nothing better to do than to throw myself on
my bed, which I did; but for some hours I found it impossible to sleep, on
account of the anxieties and unpleasant thoughts that tormented me. At
last I fell into a troubled slumber.
"I do not know how long it had lasted, when I was awakened by being
roughly shaken.
"'Subito! subito!' cried a voice.
"'What is the matter?' said I, sitting up on the bed.
"'_Non capisco, seguir me_!' cried the bandit.
"'And where am I to _seguir_ you?' said I, understanding that he told me
to follow him.
"'Avanti! Avanti!'
"'May I take my bass?' I asked.
"The man made sign in the affirmative, so I put my beloved instrument on
my back, and told him I was ready to follow him. He led me through several
corridors and down a staircase; then, opening a door, we found ourselves
in the park. Day was beginning to dawn. After many turnings and windings,
we entered a copse or thicket, in the depths of which was the opening of a
sort of grotto, where one of the robbers was standing sentry. They pushed
me into this grotto. It was very dark, and I was groping about with
extended arms, when somebody grasped my hand. I was on the point of crying
out; but the hand that held mine was too soft to be that of a brigand.
"'M. Louet!' said a whispering voice, which I at once recognized.
"'What is the meaning of all this, Mademoiselle?' asked I, in the same
tone.
"'The meaning is, that they are surrounded by a regiment, and Ernest is at
the head of it.'
"'But why are we put into this grotto?'
"'Because it is the most retired place in the whole park, and consequently
the one least likely to be discovered. Besides there is a door in it,
which communicates probably with some subterraneous passage leading into
the open country.'
"Just then we heard a musket shot.
"'Bravo!' cried Zephyrine; 'it is beginning.'
"There was a running fire, then a whole volley.
"'Mademoiselle,' said I, 'it appears to me to be increasing very much.'
"'So much the better,' answered she.
"She was as brave as a lioness, that young girl. For my part I acknowledge
I felt very uncomfortable. But it appears I was doomed to witness
engagements both by land and sea.
"'The firing is coming nearer,' said Zephyrine.
"'I am afraid so, Mademoiselle,' answered I.
"'On the contrary, you ought to be delighted. It is a sign that the
robbers are flying.'
"'I had rather they fled in another direction.'
"There was a loud clamour, and cries as if they were cutting one another's
throats, which, in fact, they were. The shouts and cries were mingled with
the noise of musketry, the sound of the trumpets, and roll of the drum.
There was a strong smell of powder. The fight was evidently going on
within a hundred yards of the grotto.
"Suddenly there was a deep sigh, then the noise of a fall, and one of the
sentries at the mouth of the cave came rolling to our feet. A random shot
had struck him, and as he just fell in, a ray of light which entered the
grotto, we were able to see him writhing in the agonies of death.
Mademoiselle Zephyrine seized my hands, and I felt that she trembled
violently.
"'Oh, M. Louet.' said she, 'it is very horrible to see a man die!'
"At that moment we heard a voice exclaiming--'Stop, cowardly villain! Wait
for me!'
"'Ernest!' exclaimed Zephyrine. 'It is the voice of Ernest!'
"As she spoke the captain rushed in, covered with blood.
"'Zephyrine!' cried he, 'Zephyrine, where are you?'
"The sudden change from the light of day to the darkness of the cave,
prevented him from seeing us. Zephyrine made me a sign to keep silence.
After remaining for a moment as if dazzled, his eyes got accustomed to the
darkness. He bounded towards us with the spring of a tiger.
"'Zephyrine, why don't you answer when I call? Come!'
"He seized her arm, and began dragging her towards the door at the back of
the grotto.
"'Where are you taking me?' cried the poor girl.
"'Come with me--come along!'
"'Never!' cried she, struggling.
"'What! You won't go with me?'
"'No; why should I? I detest you. You carried me off by force. I won't
follow you. Ernest, Ernest, here!'
"'Ernest!' muttered the captain. 'Ha! 'Tis you, then, who betrayed us?'
"'M. Louet!' cried Zephyrine, 'if you are a man, help me!'
"I saw the blade of a poniard glitter. I had no weapon, but I seized my
bass by the handle, and, raising it in the air, let it fall with such
violence on the captain's skull, that the back of the instrument was
smashed in and the bandit's head disappeared in the interior of the bass.
Either the violence of the blow, or the novelty of finding his head in a
bass, so astonished the captain that he let go his hold of Zephyrine, at
the same time uttering a roar like that of a mad bull.
"'Zephyrine! Zephyrine!' cried a voice outside.
"'Ernest!' answered the young girl, darting out of the grotto.
"I followed her, terrified at my own exploit. She was already clasped in
the arms of her lover.
"'In there,' cried the young officer to a party of soldiers who just then
came up. 'He is in there. Bring him out, dead or alive.'
"They rushed in, but the broken bass was all they found. The captain had
escaped by the other door.
"On our way to the house we saw ten or twelve dead bodies. One was lying
on the steps leading to the door.
"'Take away this carrion,' said Ernest.
"Two soldiers turned the body over. It was the last of the Beaumanoirs.
"We remained but a few minutes at the house, and then Zephyrine and myself
got into a carriage and set off, escorted by M. Ernest and a dozen men. I
did not forget to carry off my hundred crowns, my fowling-piece, and
game-bag. As to my poor bass, the captain's head had completely spoiled it.
"After an hour's drive, we came in sight of a large city with an enormous
dome the middle of it. It was Rome.
"'And did you see the Pope, M. Louet?'
"'At that time he was at Fontainbleau, but I saw him afterwards, and his
successor too; for M. Ernest got me an appointment as bass-player at the
Teatro de la Valle, and I remained there till the year 1830. When I at
last returned to Marseilles, they did not know me again, and for some time
refused to give me back my place in the orchestra, under pretence that I
was not myself.'
"'And Mademoiselle Zephyrine?'
"'I heard that she married M. Ernest, whose other name I never knew, and
that he became a general, and she a very great lady."
"'And Captain Tonino? Did you hear nothing more of him?'
"'Three years afterwards he came to the theatre in disguise; was
recognised, arrested, and hung.'
"'And thus it was, sir,' concluded M. Louet, 'that a thrush led me into
Italy, and caused me to pass twenty years at Rome.'"
And so ends the thrush-hunt. One word at parting, to qualify any too
sweeping commendation we may have bestowed on M. Dumas in the early part
of this paper. While we fully exonerate his writings from the charge of
grossness, and recognise the absence of those immoral and pernicious
tendencies which disfigure the works of many gifted French writers of the
day, we would yet gladly see him abstain from the somewhat too
Decameronian incidents and narratives with which he occasionally varies
his pages. That he is quite independent of such meretricious aids, is
rendered evident by his entire avoidance of them in some of his books,
which are not on that account a whit the less _piquant_. With this single
reservation, we should hail with pleasure the appearance on our side the
Channel of a few such sprightly and amusing writers as Alexander Dumas.
* * * * *