When this affair which had occupied him so intensely for almost six weeks

was definitely settled, Beaumarchais seems to have given it no further

consideration, but to have turned his attention to the business

negotiations with which he was charged, and to the life of gaiety and

pleasure which his brilliant gifts opened to him. In speaking of this

period, Loménie says, “Scarcely arrived at Madrid, we see him plunging

into the whirlpool of industrial enterprises, pleasures, festivals,

gallantries, of music and of song, which was his element. He is in the

flower of his age; all his esprit, all his imagination, all his gaiety, in

a word all his faculties, are at the highest point of their development.”

Soon we find him writing to his father, “I follow my affairs with a

determination which you know me to possess; but all business between the

French and the Spanish is hard to bring to success. I shall have long

details to give you when I get back to warm myself at your fire. I work,

I write, I confer, I draw up documents, that is my life. I promise you

that whether I succeed or not in all that I have undertaken, I will at

least bring with me the esteem of all those in this country with whom I

have to deal. Take care of your health and believe that my greatest

happiness will be to enable you to share whatever good comes to me.”

A little later he wrote, “I am now at the flower of my age. It is for me

to work and for you to repose yourself. I may perhaps be able to relieve

you entirely from all your engagements. To this object I devote all my

energy. I will not tell you all now, but understand that I shall not go to

sleep over the project which I have always had in my mind to put you on a

level with all that is about you. Take care of yourself, my dear father,

and live. The moment will come when you will be able to enjoy your old

age, free from debts, and satisfied with your children. I have just had

your son-in-law appointed paid engineer to the king. If you receive news

of me from any inhabitant of Madrid they will say, your son amuses himself

like a king; he passes all his evenings at the Russian Ambassador’s,--with

my lady Rochford; he dines four times a week with the Commander of the

engineers, and drives with six mules all about Madrid; then he goes to the

_sitio real_ to see M. de Grimaldi and other Ministers. He takes one meal

a day at the French ambassador’s so that his stay is not only charming,

but very inexpensive. All this is true as far as amusements go,--but you

must not suppose that I neglect my business. I attend to every detail

myself. It is in the high society for which I was born that I find the

means which I require--and when you see what I have written, you will

admit that I have not been walking but running toward my goal.”

One of the chief enterprises which Beaumarchais had undertaken was the

establishment of a Louisiana Company modeled on that of the British East

India Company, which had for its object the securing for France the right

to trade in that territory for the next thirty years.

He had a project for the colonization of the Sierra Morena Mountains in

Spain, a third for the introduction of a new and more practical method of

providing the army with the necessary supplies; then there were

innumerable minor schemes for the improvement of agriculture, commerce,

industry, and things generally in Spain. Upon all of these subjects, he

addresses innumerable memoirs to the Spanish ministers, and, in a word,

does his utmost to infuse some of his own energy into that unenterprising

nation. Although he almost succeeds in stirring things into a semblance of

life, yet it will not be thought surprising when we consider the nation

with which he had to deal, that notwithstanding his assiduous efforts,

many of his projects failed completely, and others met with but partial

success.

There is a lengthy letter given by Loménie addressed by Beaumarchais to

his father in which the son goes into minute details about his project for

supplying the Spanish army with provisions. It shows, amongst other

things, his mastery of calculation on a gigantic scale, and that no

enterprise was too vast for his comprehensive intellect.

True to the dictates of his generous soul, here as elsewhere, it is the

thought of the ease and comfort which he will be enabled to give to those

dear to him that fills his heart with gladness. Still to his father he

wrote: “I finish, my dear father, by recommending the care of your health

as the most precious thing that I have in this world and I reiterate the

tender and respectful attachment with which I have the honor of being,

Monsieur and very dear father, your very humble and very obedient servitor

and affectionate son, Beaumarchais.” ... (Then in postscript) “I might be

able to find ten days that I would employ with a rare satisfaction in

procuring you a consultation with M. Tronchon so as to get at the bottom

of your malady. This idea consoles me in advance. It may be that before I

go to Lyons, I shall pass by Paris, in which case I will take you with me

and the rest will follow of itself. Your health becomes more and more dear

to me, as I feel myself able to augment your satisfaction by my

advancement and by the care that I will give to render your old age

agreeable in procuring comfort for all those who are dear to you.”

But to return to the social life which Beaumarchais was leading at Madrid.

We have spoken already of his distaste for card playing. Loménie gives a

very characteristic letter of Beaumarchais to his sister Julie, where he

paints with rare force and vividness of coloring the scene about a _table

de jeu_ in the salon of the Russian Ambassador. The center of the life and

movement is naturally himself. With his usual frankness he writes to

Julie, “Evenings we have cards or music and then supper, of all of which I

seem to be the soul. The society has been increased by all the

Ambassadors, who before my arrival lived rather isolated. They say now

they have charming evenings because I am there.” Then follows a vivid

description of the mad playing which ends by Beaumarchais’s lending this

time, not thirty louis, but two hundred and thirty, besides three hundred

and fifty which he had gained at the play, but which were not forthcoming.

The debtors in this case were the Russian Ambassador and his wife. As

Beaumarchais was now winning he rose and refused to play any longer. The

Ambassador and his wife who were excited over their losses, failed in

their duties as host and hostess; the matter made a good deal of noise and

for ten days coolness reigned in all the social life of Madrid,

Beaumarchais vowing that he had played for the last time. During the

whole affair he carried himself with so much dignity and showed so much

moderation that he won great credit among all the Princes and Ambassadors

of that high society. Finally the matter was adjusted, the joyful evenings

recommenced, but with grand music instead of cards, and Beaumarchais adds:

“Word of honor, let no one ever speak to me of playing again, let us

amuse ourselves with other things which do not entail such serious

consequences.” And a little further on, “the friendship is stronger than

ever; balls, concerts, but no more cards. I have written some French words

to a Spanish air that is very much admired; I have had two hundred copies

made. I will save one to send with the music of the one I sent to my

father. Good night, I will write Tuesday to my Pauline and her aunt.”

But not only the Russian Ambassador rejoiced in the pleasure of the

intimate friendship of Beaumarchais, but also--in the words of Loménie:

“Lord Rochford dotes upon him, goes to the Prado with him, sups with him,

sings duets with him and becomes astonishingly jovial for an English

diplomat.

“But this is not all his life at the Capital. In the midst of his

industrial enterprises and his aristocratic pleasures, the future author

of the _Barbier de Séville_ appears to be continually occupied with his

humble family, now displaying a rare tact and without compromising his

patrician bearing to force great ladies at Madrid to pay the bills which

they had long owed the elder Caron; and with fraternal bonhomie, entering

into all the details of the life of his sisters at home, or leaving the

salons of the Capital for the modest dwelling of his sisters at Madrid.”

That he was not ashamed of their station in life is admirably shown by the

following letter addressed to his father. He wrote: “I have seen Drouillet

(a French banker established in Madrid). He and his wife called soon

after my arrival, but I have not entered into their society although

Drouillet is himself an estimable man. The reason I have kept away is the

ridiculous airs of his wife, who because she possesses a few more _écus_

than your daughters considers herself above them. She has tried to attract

me there by attentions and invitations of every sort but never mentioned

my sisters, which made me reply that I was making too short a stay in

Madrid to give my time to any but my family. It is the same everywhere,

this ridiculous feeling belongs to every country. There are here great and

little France. My sisters are too well brought up to belong to the latter

and they are not considered rich enough to be admitted to the former, so

that the visits of the Drouillets were for me alone; at which Monsieur

your son, took the liberty of putting Madame Drouillet in her place; and

so she says that I am _malin_. You know what that means, my dear father,

and whether there is malice in seeing things clearly and then in saying

what one thinks.”

In relation to the debtors of the elder Caron at Madrid, allusions

frequently occur in the letters. For instance, the father writes, “I see

what you have done and what you are doing among my debtors from whom I

would never have drawn a farthing but for you.” At another time

Beaumarchais writes, “I am in a way to receive payment from all of your

grandees--their self esteem is so mixed up with it that I think I shall

manage to get all they owe you. My letters to them are polite but proud.

The duke and duchess do not seem to want to be under any obligation to me,

fearing that I will boast of it and that the length of the credit will be

divulged. Let me manage it in my own way.”

Here is a sample of his manner of approaching these creditors of his

father. “Knowing that a number of idle people do me the honor of

disturbing themselves regarding the motives of my stay in Spain, it has

seemed to me my duty to tranquilize them by employing my time in

soliciting the debts of my house. In consequence I have the honor to

demand of your excellency the permission”--here follows a statement of the

debt owed to the elder Caron. One of these individuals of quality thus

addressed being in no way anxious to pay, revenged herself by trying to

show up Beaumarchais as an adventurer. Immediately the latter wrote home

and received from his sister Julie by return post, a beautifully printed

decree drawn from the “Cabinet rose” by the chimney. There are four great

pages containing fifteen articles reinforced by legal terms and extracts

of ordinances--the whole surmounted with a beautiful ornament made of

acanthus leaves and bearing the following inscription, “Made at the castle

of the Louvre by Monsieur Pierre-August Caron de Beaumarchais, Equerry

Councilor of the King, _lieutenant-général des chasses aux bailliage et

capitainerie de la varenne du Louvre, grande vennerie, fauconnerie of

France_, having session in the chamber of council, Tuesday, January 17th,

1764, signed de Vitry, chief registrar.” For fear the list was not long

enough, knowing well that one can never have too many titles in Spain, his

brother-in-law added, “Equerry Councilor, secretary of the king,

_contrôleur_ of the house of the king, lieutenant-general, etc.”

But it is impossible to touch upon all the details of that correspondence

so faithfully sustained on both sides for more than a year, during his

stay in Spain. These letters are the chief source from which we have to

draw in estimating Beaumarchais the son, brother and friend, as well as

the man of the world and the man of business. Fortunately nearly all these

letters have been preserved; we shall have occasion to return to them when

treating of another phase of the life of Beaumarchais in relation to a

connection formed before his sudden departure from Paris. As this incident

with its connections takes us away from the outside world and conducts us

into the inmost sanctuary of the home established in the rue de Condé, all

the letters which touch upon it seem to belong to the next chapter.

It is there we shall see Beaumarchais playing at first the part of the

happy and accepted lover of his charming Pauline, but a little later

assuming the rather astonishing rôle of victim, for in the words of

Loménie, “In the end he is really the victim, and we shall see that he

does his best to be furious. He is here the antithesis of Clavico. It is

Pauline who will be Clavico, or rather there will be a Clavico who will

carry off Pauline.”

CHAPTER IV

“_Figure charmante, organe flexible et touchant! de l’âme surtout...._”

_“Les deux amis,” Act 1, Scene 1._

The Beautiful Creole, Pauline--Beaumarchais the Judge, the

Lover, the Friend--Mademoiselle de Boisgarnier Marries Janot

de Miron--The Père Caron’s Second Marriage.

Before entering into a consideration of the rôle played by Beaumarchais as

lover, a few more touches are necessary to represent him as he was before

the world. We already have spoken of his various appointments at court,

and mentioned the fact that in 1763 he had bought the very honorable

charge of _lieutenant-général des chasses aux bailliage et capitainerie de

la varenne du Louvre_.

In order that it may be quite clear to the reader what were the functions

assumed in acquiring this office we may explain that the _capitaineries_

were territorial circumscriptions in which the right of hunting was

reserved exclusively for the king. That known as “_la varenne du Louvre_”

extended for some fifty or sixty miles about Paris. There was a special

tribunal called “the tribunal to conserve the pleasures of the king” which

tried all cases connected with infringements of the regulations belonging

to the _capitaineries_. The audiences of the particular one in question

were held once a week at the Louvre. They were presided over by the duke

de la Vallière, whose chief officer Beaumarchais now became.

When the duke was absent, which M. de Loménie assures us was almost

invariably the case, Beaumarchais himself presided. Under the latter were

many subordinates, some of them noblemen of high rank, so that it is easy

to understand the prestige of such an office.

There were innumerable regulations, many of them very trying to private

individuals, which it became the duty of the lieutenant-general to

enforce. In the territory belonging to the _capitainerie_, no game could

be shot, no garden or other wall be constructed without special

authorization from the tribunal which presided over these matters. So

annoying were these regulations that in 1789 the suppression of the

_capitaineries_ was one of the most popular measures voted by the

_Assemblée Constituante_. In 1763, however, no one had thought as yet of

the possibility of doing without them, so that we shall see Beaumarchais

entering with his usual ardor into the exact and circumspect performance

of his new duties.

To think of Beaumarchais as he appears later in life, attacking with the

audacity which belongs to him alone, the very foundations of feudal

despotism in his inimitable _Mariage de Figaro_, and to see him now in his

long judicial robes seated upon the _fleur de lis_, gravely judging “pale

humans” apropos of rabbits, is a contrast which hardly can be met with in

any other career, and certainly not in any other century. That he took his

functions seriously and that he also knew how to guard such rights as

individuals then possessed is clearly shown in the following

characteristic anecdote which we quote from Gudin.

“Soon after his return from Spain, Beaumarchais had a quarrel with the

Prince of Condé, on the subject of the privileges of the chase, in

connection with a certain garden wall which the Prince had torn down and

which Beaumarchais as the protector of the rights of the individual had

caused to be rebuilt. The Prince was very angry. M. de Beaumarchais

mounted on a horse and went to find him while the nobleman was out

hunting.

“‘I have come,’ said Beaumarchais, ‘to give an account of my conduct.’

“A discussion at once arose; the Prince had a good deal of _esprit_ and

what is rarer still in one of his rank, he had liberal ideas.

“‘Certainly,’ Beaumarchais said to him, ‘your Highness can obtain anything

you wish. Your rank, your power--’

“‘No,’ replied the Prince, ‘it is as lawyer that I pretend to be in the

right.’

“‘In that case,’ said Beaumarchais, ‘I demand of your Highness leave to be

the lawyer on the opposite side and to plead before you. You shall be the

judge.’

“He then proceeded to expose the affair with so much clearness, precision,

eloquence, energy, and regard for the Prince that the latter avowed he was

in the wrong and from that moment felt for Beaumarchais the greatest

affection.” And the devoted biographer hastens to add, “It was difficult

to see him without loving him; the Dauphin, Mesdames, the Duke de la

Vallière, the Duke de Chaulnes and nearly all those with whom he came in

contact have experienced the same sentiment.”

During Beaumarchais’s sojourn in Spain the functions of this office, when

not presided over by the Duke in person, were necessarily left to

subordinates. Beaumarchais however retained his charge until a period just

prior to its final abolishment in 1789.

When in the spring of 1765, Beaumarchais returned from Spain he found the

court plunged in mourning, for the Dauphin was very near his end. Concerts

for Mesdames were not to be thought of, so very naturally he found

himself drifting farther and farther from the social atmosphere of Court

life. We soon shall see him employing his spare moments in literary work

but before attempting to study Beaumarchais as an author, let us pause to

contemplate him as the lover.

Like most romances connected with the life of this unusual character, the

affair which we are now about to consider is not a romance pure and

simple, but has also a very prosaic, business-like, matter-of-fact side.

It would seem that the story has come down to us only because there was a

question of money involved, and of money never repaid to Beaumarchais. In

the words of Loménie, “We thank heaven that there was really a matter of

business, that is to say, a debt at the end of this love affair, or else

it would have met the fate of other episodes of the same nature, the

papers relating to which have been destroyed, and so it is in the august

character of _pièces justicatives_ that some very tender letters of an

amiable young lady have been able to traverse the years.”

The amiable young lady in question, Pauline, was a charming creole, born

on the island of Santo Domingo, then belonging to France. She had lost her

parents in early infancy and was brought to Paris, where she was received

by an aunt who became a second mother to the young girl. The family estate

was estimated to be worth two million francs, but as it was heavily

encumbered with debts and in a run-down condition Pauline was no such

heiress as at first it would appear.

She was beautiful, however, and is described by those who knew her as

tender, delicate, and childlike, with a bewitching voice and good musical

ability. The family of Pauline at Paris became intimate with that of the

Carons about the time that Beaumarchais made his first acquaintance with

Paris du Verney.

From the first, Beaumarchais was much attracted to the beautiful girl,

then about eighteen years of age, and as may be imagined had little

difficulty in arousing in her a corresponding sentiment. Before demanding

her hand in marriage, however, he decided to send a commissioner to Santo

Domingo to look carefully into the condition of her affairs and to see

what would be best to do for the re-establishment of the estate. An uncle

of Beaumarchais, M. Pichon, accepted the commission and set out for Santo

Domingo provided with 20,000 francs in money and a cargo of merchandise of

which he was to dispose to the best advantage possible. Having taken this

step, Beaumarchais wrote the following letter to Pauline in which prudence

shows itself quite as clearly as sentiment.

“You thought me sad, my dear and amiable Pauline; I was only preoccupied;

I had a thousand things to say to you which seem so serious, so important,

that I have thought it wise to put them upon paper so that you can better

grasp their import. You could not have doubted, my dear Pauline, that a

sincere and lasting attachment was the true cause of all that I have done

for you. Although I have been discreet enough not to seek your hand in

marriage until I was in a situation to give you your proper station, my

whole conduct must have proved to you that I had designs upon your future

and that they were honorable. To-day, now that my funds are engaged for

the re-establishment of your affairs I am hoping for the sweet fruits of

my labors; I even said something to your uncle yesterday, who seemed

favorably disposed toward me. I must avow to you that I took the liberty

of assuring him that I believed that your consent would not be refused me

and I explained clearly to him my intentions. Pardon, my dear Pauline, it

was without presumption that I was led to make the avowal to him. It

seemed to me that your constant friendship for me was the guarantee of

what I advanced. Do you disavow it?

“There is one thing, however, which still deters me, even though, my

amiable Pauline, with proper management and a reasonable economy, it is

probable that the actual state of my affairs is such that I have enough to

make your destiny agreeable, which is the only desire of my heart; yet if

through some terrible misfortune all the money which I send to Santo

Domingo should be engulfed in the ruinous condition of an affair of which

we as yet know nothing but from the testimony of others, these funds

deducted from my fortune will no longer permit me to support a condition

such as I would have given you; and what would be my sorrow if that were

the case!

“This disquietude is the only reason that has forced me to retard the

demand for your hand, after which I have sighed for so long a time.

“I do not know what claims you have upon the property of your dear uncle,

either in regard to the dowry of your late aunt or for the debts of which

I have heard indirectly spoken. It seems very improper for me to broach

this subject to you or to him. I revolt at the thought. Nevertheless, my

dear Pauline, in order to pass a happy life, one must be without

uneasiness as to the future, and no sooner should I have you in my arms

than I must begin to tremble lest some misfortune should cause the loss of

the funds which I have sent to America; because I have placed no less than

80,000 francs aside for this purpose.

“This then, my dear Pauline, is the cause of my silence which must have

seemed strange after all I have done.

“There are two ways out of this difficulty if you accept my proposal; the

first is to have patience until the entire success of my plans and the

security of my capital permits me to offer you something assured; the

second is that you engage your aunt to sound your uncle upon what

dispositions he intends to make in regard to you. Far, however, from

wishing to diminish his comfort in order to augment yours, I am entirely

ready to make sacrifices on my part, to render his old age more agreeable

if the actual condition of his own affairs holds him in restraint. But if

the tenderness which he feels for you leads him to favor your interests,

my intentions would never be to permit him to transfer to you anything

during his lifetime, but since in case of his death he would be no longer

able to enjoy the use of it himself, it does not seem improper to make a

similar request of an uncle who takes the place of a father to you, and

who has the right to expect your care and your attentions to make his old

age agreeable. Assured from this side, we could then conclude our happy

marriage, my dear Pauline, and look upon the money sent away as a _pierre

d’attente_, thrown out into the future, to render it more agreeable if it

succeeds, but which the future benevolence of your uncle would make good

in case of loss.

“Reflect seriously upon what I have written you. Give me your advice in

reply. My tenderness for you will always have the ascendency over my

prudence. My fate is in your hands; yours is in the hands of your uncle.”

This must have seemed a very solemn and business-like letter for a young

colonial unused to the minute exactitude of a French _ménagère_. Her reply

shows that the heart had discovered what it most desired to know, but that

the mind was confused by the mass of detail on the matter of her fortune

which after all must have seemed to her a matter of but secondary

importance.

She wrote in reply: “Your letter, Monsieur, my good friend, has thrown me

into extreme distress; I did not feel strong enough to reply myself; nor

did I feel either that I ought to communicate it to my aunt, her

tenderness for me which is her chief merit in regard to me, could not help

me in the least. You will no doubt be very much astonished when you learn

the intrepid act which I decided upon; the moment was favorable, your

letter urgent, my embarrassment more inspiring than the most prudent

counsel. I went and threw myself into the arms of my uncle, I opened to

him my heart without reserve, I implored his advice and his tenderness. At

last I dared to show him your letter, although without your permission my

good friend; all this was done on the impulse but how glad I am that I

overcame my timidity, so that he could read into my soul! It seemed to me

that my confidence in him augmented his fondness for me. In truth, my good

friend, I did well to go to him. I acquired in reasoning with him the

certitude of his attachment for me, and what pleases me still more I found

him full of esteem for you and he also renders you all the justice which I

am sure you merit. I love my uncle a thousand times more because of this.

As to the business of your letter, he wishes to confer with you himself. I

should manage this too badly to undertake it. He wishes to see you very

soon. You have written me that your fate is in my hands, and that mine is

in the hands of my uncle; in my turn I give my interests over to you, if

you love me as I believe, you will be able to cause a little of your ardor

to pass over to my uncle; he complains that he is bound already.

“My good friend, in this conversation, your heart and your mind must work

at the same time; nothing resists you when you really set your heart upon

it. Give me this proof of your tenderness. I shall regard your success in

this as the most convincing proof of the zeal which you have for what you

so sweetly call your happiness and which your Pauline could not read

without a fearful beating of the heart. Adieu, my good friend, I hope that

your first visit when you come back from Versailles, will be to my uncle.

Think of all the respect which you owe him if he is to be yours. I stop,

for I feel myself ready to write foolishly. _Bonsoir, méchant!_”

Whatever may have taken place at the meeting between Beaumarchais and the

uncle, the results were not such as permitted an immediate marriage. It

was therefore postponed until the Santo Domingo matter cleared itself. In

the meantime, the lovers saw each other frequently and in the intervals

letters were exchanged. Those of Beaumarchais are in every tone; sometimes

a lengthy and profound dissertation on the nature of love which accords

well with the philosophic side which is by no means the least developed in

his surprisingly complex character; others reveal some touch of a longing

for the deeper sentiment of a pure affection which shall be all his own;

while others totally at variance with these are in a light jovial vein.

The following presents an epistle of this type:

“_Bonjour_, my aunt; I embrace you, my amiable Pauline; your servitor, my

charming Perrette. My little children, love one another; this is the

precept of the apostle word for word. May the evil that one of you wishes

another fall back upon his own head; this is the malediction of the

prophet. This part of my discourse is not made for tender, feeling souls

like yours, I know it, and I never think without an extreme satisfaction

how nature, which has made you so amiable, has given you such a portion of

sensibility, of equity, and of moderation which permits you to live so

happily together and me to be in the midst of so charming a society. This

one will love me as a son, that one as a friend and my Pauline, uniting

all these sentiments in her good little heart, will inundate me with a

deluge of affection, to which I will reply following the power given by

Providence to your zealous servitor, your sincere friend, your future....

_Peste!_ what a serious word I was going to pronounce! It would have

passed the limits of the profound respect with which I have the honor to

be, Mademoiselle, etc., etc.”

Matters were at this pass when Beaumarchais left Paris for Madrid. Soon

after his arrival there, news of an alarming nature began to reach France

from Santo Domingo. The uncle had met with an unscrupulous relative of

Pauline and very soon money and merchandise were lost, and as a crowning

misfortune the uncle suddenly died.

The elder Caron, in writing to his son, seems to have intimated a

suspicion of foul play, for the son replies from Madrid, after quoting a

line from his father’s letter, “What do you mean by that? If it is simply

that our funds are lost that is a misfortune no doubt, but truly the other

thought is far worse. My heart aches to think of my poor uncle who, having

a presentiment of misfortune and death, went to meet his fate with so much

good grace; but do not believe that anyone has hastened his end, for we

have no proof and the suspicion is the most odious that can enter into the

mind of man; the climate alone, even where there are no worries or

enfeeblement, carries off two-thirds of the men and it is certainly

sufficient calamity for us to feel that we have sent him to a natural

death, without gnawing our hearts out by the dreadful idea that we sent

him there to be a victim.

“My sisters at Madrid know nothing of my real sorrow. I could have wished

that you yourself might have been spared the knowledge of it.”

That Beaumarchais conceived the idea of himself going to the West Indies,

is proved by a passage in one of his letters to his father in which he

speaks of his design to sell his appointment at court and go with Pauline

to settle in Santo Domingo.

Through some of the letters of the elder Caron we have a picture of the

delightful home life of the family and the gaiety of the sisters of this

brilliant brother. On the 22nd of January, the father writes, “Nothing

more beautiful than the festival at Beaufort could be imagined.

Boisgarnier and Pauline shone with their usual brilliancy. They danced

until two, after the concert and the supper; there was nothing wanting but

our Beaumarchais.”

Julie also wrote to a friend. “We played comedies and we made love, there

was a company of forty-five persons and your Julie pleased generally in

all her rôles. Everyone declared her one of the best actresses. What I say

here is not to praise her, because every one knows how modest she is; it

is only because of your weakness, and to justify your choice in having

made her your friend. We are preparing another more agreeable festival for

the return of my brother.”

Of Julie’s manner of love-making we shall permit her to tell us, a little

later, in her own way. For the moment, let it suffice to state the fact,

that a certain Chevalier du S----, a gifted young man with no fortune, but

with a name and a position of honor, had been for some time very assiduous

in his attention to the favorite sister of Beaumarchais. He had been well

received by the family and had asked her hand in marriage. He was also a

native of Santo Domingo, though in no way connected with Pauline, whom he

met for the first time at the home of his friends, in rue de Condé.

It does not concern us in the study which we are making to enter very

deeply into the merits of this young man since in the end he does not ally

himself with the family; we shall, however, be forced to speak of him

later, as it is he who turns out to be the other Clavico, who deserts

Julie and carries off Pauline. In how far these two are justified for

their double desertion, the reader may judge if he has the patience to

follow the story to its completion. For the present, let us turn our

attention to another pair of lovers, less romantic, perhaps, at least so

far as the hero is concerned,--but possessed of more sterling qualities.

It will be remembered that the youngest sister of Beaumarchais,

Mademoiselle de Boisgarnier, was rather an attractive, though slightly

affected, little body. A certain young man, Janot de Miron, had been

introduced into the home of the Caron family and had fallen much in love

with the rather disdainful young woman in question.

She seems in the beginning to have been but slightly touched by his ardent

addresses. She did not find him elegant enough for her fastidious taste.

But Miron was a tenacious young man whose ardor was only stimulated by the

coldness and disdain of her whose heart he never despaired of conquering.

Beaumarchais, unconscious of this and seeing his sister’s indifference,

had written from Madrid proposing another alliance. Miron, learning of the

interference of his friend, promptly grew furious and wrote an indignant

letter in which he indulged freely in injurious personalities.

The reply of Beaumarchais is so characteristic and shows so clearly the

crude strength of his nature as well as his sense of justice that we take

from it a rather long extract. The affair once settled, true to the

instincts of his warm heart, the matter was not only forgiven but also

completely forgotten.

Beaumarchais wrote: “It is my turn to reply, my dear Miron, to the very

astounding letter which I have just received from you.... I want to tell

you now, that long ago I was tired of sacrifices and that my one desire

has been that everyone around me should be happy; you alone seem to

imagine that you have the right to complain of my proceedings. I am not

touched by your reproaches, I have done my duty by everyone. I do not need

to prove this, that does not concern me now--but to refute the most heavy,

awkward, disagreeable jesting which is the tone of your letter, my friend.

I am most astonished that those Sapphos of sisters of mine did not prevent

your putting such impertinence into the post. It is a fact that you are

not made for jesting but for more serious matters. Nothing could be more

ridiculous than to see you attempt the lighter vein, which does very well

for the little dog of La Fontaine, but which is disgusting in more solid

animals. More than this, your ideas are based upon a foundation so false

and so equivocally set forth that they fill me with pity.... As far as my

sister is concerned, I shall be very happy if I find her married as her

heart dictates when I return; if I find her unmarried, I shall put no

obstacle in the way of her happiness. I have two left for whom I will

provide according to the turn which my affairs take on.... I am in no

haste for either of them for I have certain ideas about the future which

make me feel that the longer they wait the less they will regret not

having been in too much of a hurry.

“And now since I do not pretend to give myself airs in disposing of any of

my family without their consent, it would have been easy to draw from me

an explanation which would have made your letter unnecessary. I am

returning the missive to you that you may have the pleasure of regaling

yourself thereon if by chance you have not kept a copy.

“For the rest, your desire to marry my sister is an honor to her--I repeat

it--and she is entirely free to choose you if you satisfy her; far from

trying to prevent it I give my consent from to-day forth--but always with

the understanding that you never confound the rights which you will

acquire over her as her husband, with those which you can never have over

me. This is what I wish to tell you once for all in order that nothing of

this kind may ever again happen between us.

“I take the liberty of begging you to keep to the only tone which will

pass with me--that of friendship. I have need neither of a preceptor who

pretends to explore into the motives of my actions, nor of a pedagogue who

takes it upon himself to instruct me.

“I do not know why Julie should have communicated to you that which I

wrote, and I am still more astonished that she has imagined that your

ridiculous letter could affect me. It is my intention never to return to

this subject, therefore I beg her by this letter, never again to suffer in

her presence that anyone fails in the respect which is due me. I am so

indulgent truly, that this need not be denied me.

“You will receive this letter by the way of my father, who sent me yours,

so that _All The Family_ may be the witnesses of the way in which I accept

your jesting.

“It is not very agreeable to me to think that my sisters, not wishing to

take with me an improper tone, make it their business to pass on to me

your words, to relieve themselves of the restraint they have before me.

“After this, jest on as much as you like, you will receive nothing from me

to engage a serious quarrel. When you know so little of my life, however,

you will spare me your commentaries.

“I am none the less, my dear Miron, your servant and friend

“Beaumarchais.”

As he himself has said, “with good hearts, anger is only a pressing need

for pardon,” so the matter was not difficult to settle. August 27th, 1764,

he writes to Julie, “How is everybody, the christian pedagogue first of

all?” and Oct. 26th of the same year, “I have received your letter of the

9th by which you confirm all that has been told me of the moderation of

Boisgarnier. I thank her sincerely. Miron has written to me, but while

reading, I felt like saying, ‘Miron, what do you want of me with this

beautiful letter? A month ago my anger was all gone and all this seems to

me but tiresome repetition.’”

In spite of her moderation the youngest sister seems to have sided with

her brother at her lover’s expense, for we soon find the former pleading

with her in a letter addressed to his father from Madrid, dated January

14, 1765.

“Monsieur and very dear father:

“I have received your last letter dated December 31st--and that of

Boisgarnier. Her reply gave me much pleasure. She is a droll creature, but

she has a good deal of intelligence and rectitude of character; now, if I

am in any way the cause of the coldness between her and her friend, I say

in advance that I have entirely given up my resentment and she will do

well to follow my example. For whatever opinion he may have of me, I am

determined not to quarrel with him.

“The only thing that can hurt me is that he should speak ill of my heart,

I don’t care what he says of my mind. The first will always be at his

service and the second ready to give him a drubbing if he needs it....

[Illustration: Princess de Lamballe]

“I am indeed sorry if they cannot agree, for Miron is a man who does not

lack a single quality which should make an honest woman happy; and if my

Boisgarnier is less touched by these qualities than by the defects of a

few frivolous attractions (which for my part I do not deny him) then I

should say that she is a child who has not yet acquired that experience

which prefers happiness to pleasure. To say absolutely what I think, I am

convinced that he is right to prefer his qualities to mine, for there are

many points where I do not feel that I possess either his virtue or his

constancy, and these things are of great price when it is a question of a

union for life.

“Therefore I invite my Boisgarnier not to think of our friend except in

regard to what there is of him which is infinitely estimable, and soon the

matter will adjust itself. I was furious with him for twenty-four

hours--nevertheless there is no other man whom I would prefer to be

associated with as a brother-in-law.

“I understand all that Boisgarnier would say--yes, he plays on the

hurdy-gurdy, that is true, his heels are half an inch too high, he has a

nasal twang when he sings--he eats raw apples at night, he is cold and

didactic when he talks,--he has a certain awkwardness of manner in

everything he does; but still the good people of the rue Condé ought not

to be offended at such things;--a wig, a waist coat, a pair of clogs ought

not to drive anyone away when he excels in matters of the heart and his

mind is in keeping. Adieu Boisgarnier, here is a long article for thee.”

It is interesting to find Beaumarchais candidly acknowledging the lack of

certain qualities in himself which at least he knows how to appreciate in

others. In his relations with Pauline it will be seen that whatever her

real motives may have been, she uses what she considers his inconstancy as

a pretext later for her break with him. However, to do him justice, it

must be affirmed that there is no evidence that he ever for a moment

entertained an idea of abandoning her, or that in his heart he meant to be

untrue; yet the fact remains that other women did not lose their charm for

him because of her, and while at Madrid he was far from denying himself

consolation for being deprived of her society. His letters to her were by

no means frequent enough, nor ardent enough to satisfy the longings of a

romantic young girl.

Already before his departure for Madrid, he seems to have given ground for

complaint, as we find Julie accusing him of levity in a letter to a friend

while at the same time she paints in her merriest vein the love-sick

condition of the family.

“Our house,” she wrote, “is a dovecote where everyone lives on love and

hope; I am the one who laughs more than the others, because I am the least

in love; Beaumarchais is a perverse being who by his levity teases and

grieves Pauline. Boisgarnier and Miron discuss sentiment till one loses

one’s breath, and impassion themselves with order up to the point of a

sublime disorder. The Chevalier and I are worse than all that; he is as

loving as an angel, passionate as a seraph, while I am as gay as a linnet,

and malicious as a demon. Love does not make me lon-lan-la like the

others, and yet in spite of my madness I could not keep from tasting of

it. More’s the pity!”

Beaumarchais wrote from Madrid, “I have this afternoon been to the French

Ambassador’s in the _carosse_ of Madame the Marquise de La Croix, who has

the goodness to drive me everywhere with her six mules. She is a charming

lady who has great credit here by her rank, but still more by reason of

her intelligence and the graces which make her dear to all the world. Her

society dissipates the dust, the inaction, the ennui, the impatience which

seize everyone who remains long in this place. I should die in this dull

city if it were not for this delicious company.”

It is quite evident that Beaumarchais is thinking little of Pauline and he

will soon find to his chagrin, that she has ceased to think any longer so

tenderly of him.

He has not, however, forgotten her interests in Santo Domingo nor his

project of going there to settle in case the turn of his affairs should

point to that move as the best solution of the difficulties, but in the

meantime, he amuses himself in his moments of leisure in the pleasantest

way that offers itself.

But not only were the sisters of Beaumarchais living on hope and love, the

elder Caron himself was entertaining the same guests as is proved by the

following letter written by his son from Madrid.

“Monsieur and very dear father:--

“I am not surprised at your attachment for Madame Henry; she is

cheerfulness itself, and has one of the best hearts that I know. I could

wish you might have been happy enough to inspire a more lively return of

affection. She would make you happy and you would certainly render

agreeable this union founded upon reciprocal affection and an esteem which

has lasted twenty-five years. If I were you, I know very well how I should

go about it, and if I were she, I know also very well how I should reply;

but I am neither the one nor the other and it is not for me to clear up

this affair of yours, I have enough of my own.”

To which the elder Caron replied, September 19th, 1764, “We supped

yesterday with my dear and good friend who laughed heartily when she saw

the article in your letter, imagining as she very well could, the way in

which you would go about this affair if you were in my place, so that as

she says, she only embraces you with all her heart, because you are nine

hundred miles away.”

But though the amiable Madame Henry was quite ready to laugh at the

article in the son’s letter she does not appear to have been in any hurry

to change the relationship which had so long existed between herself and

the elder Caron, for shortly before his return from Madrid we find

Beaumarchais writing in relation to the same matter: “A man ought not to

be alone. One must hold to something in this life, and the society of your

sons and daughters can only be sacrificed to another much sweeter, but

which you do not seem on the point of acquiring. I precede my arrival by a

picture of what should be, so that you may have time to determine what you

ought to do before my return, which will be soon. What happiness for me,

if on reaching there I could on the same day see assured the felicity of

my father and my sister.”

Unfortunately for us, Beaumarchais returned from Spain in May, 1765, so

that the correspondence ceased and with it, our means of following in

detail the lives of those in whom we have begun to take so warm an

interest. The “felicity” of the father we know, however, to have been

consummated, for on January 15, 1766, he was united in marriage with the

woman of his choice, Madame Henry, she being then sixty years of age and

he sixty-eight. After two years of happy married life, Madame Caron died

and we find her husband again returning to the rue Condé to live with his

dearly loved son.

In the meantime, Mademoiselle de Boisgarnier had taken the advice of her

brother, and we cannot for a moment doubt that she acted wisely; for her

lover, Janot de Miron, seems to have been a man of exceptionally fine

character. Referring to the letter already quoted in which Beaumarchais

pleads with his sister for her friend, M. de Loménie says, “In reading

this eulogy of poor Miron, where his moral qualities are exalted rather to

the detriment of his brilliant ones, we have need to remember that

Beaumarchais previously had declared his friend was not wanting in

external accomplishments; and truly he was not. Miron, judging from his

letters was rather pedantic, but in no way stupid. The taste for poetry

and art, which reigned in the Caron family was no stranger to him. After

several years of torment, he succeeded in touching that disdainful little

heart and thus his constancy was rewarded. Mademoiselle de Boisgarnier,

suitably endowed by her brother, married in 1767 M. de Miron, whom the

influence of Beaumarchais later succeeded in having appointed _Secrétaire

des Commandements du Prince de Conti_.

In all these matters it will be seen that Beaumarchais did not set himself

up to be dictator in his family but was actuated solely by the desire to

see consummated the dearest wish of those about him. Pauline he accepted

as a settled fact of his existence, treating her as though he were her

brother rather than her lover. His taste led him naturally to women more

mature in years and experience, and he was far less sentimental than

Pauline.

We shall see presently, as we come to treat of Beaumarchais as an author,

that though through flashes of inspiration he may at times attain the

heights of the heroic, yet he has in reality small sympathy with it,

either in life or literature. At no time, do we find him possessed of one

of those absorbing passions which devour all lesser ones and which alone

make sacrifice, not only necessary but easy; sacrifice is always

distasteful to him. He has an intense desire to be happy and to have all

about him happy. We must not expect, in this wise to find him a hero.

Beaumarchais is pre-eminently a modern man, and it is no accident that he

should have been an instrument to aid in laying the foundations of that

modern nation, which more than any other, has brought case and comfort

within the reach of every class and condition of men.

CHAPTER V

_“Les serments

Des amants

Sont légers comme les vents,

Leur air enchanteur,

Leur douceur

Sont des pièges trompeurs

Cachés sous des fleurs.”_

_Séguedille de Beaumarchais_

New study of Beaumarchais by Lintilhac--Beaumarchais’s Return

from Madrid--The Lover of Julie Carries off Pauline--the

_Règlement de compte_ which Terminated this Romantic Chapter

of the Life of Beaumarchais.

Among the numerous studies of the life of Beaumarchais which the admirable

and scholarly work of M. de Loménie stimulated into being, none takes a

higher place than that of Eugène Lintilhac. Fired into enthusiasm by the

work of Loménie, and having as he has said, his curiosity rather

stimulated than satisfied thereby, he demanded of the descendants of

Beaumarchais leave to examine for himself the entire mass of manuscript

which had served as the foundation of that great work. He was also

actuated, as he tells us, by the sentiment so forcibly expressed by Gudin,

“I soon found that I could not love him moderately when I came to know him

in his home,” and it was this sentiment which made him desire to refute

from direct evidence some unsympathetic writings which had appeared,

writings in which the character of Beaumarchais is inverted and all his

great and disinterested actions viewed from the standpoint of whatever was

ordinary about him, or whatever could be tortured into appearing so, thus

making everything seem petty and contemptible, as when a telescope is

reversed and all its power directed towards diminishing the objects upon

which it is turned.

Many of the letters which we have already quoted were first published by

him, and we shall have occasion, more than once to have recourse to his

volume. In the family correspondence M. Lintilhac found several fragments

of letters written by friends and especially by one M. de la Chataignerie,

a man at that time well advanced in years, but devoted to the interests of

his friend and who had been left with a certain oversight of the family.

He wrote: “The dear sister, who though slightly indisposed, conserves her

reason, at least so far as essentials go, begs you to bring everything

that you find which is good in all the places where you pass, even the

hams of Bayonne. Time presses because the little dog of a Boisgarnier

drives me to despair, and beats me--it is true that I deserve no better.

Adieu, adieu--deliver me from my guardianship!”

And M. Lintilhac continues: “Nevertheless the care does not rest

altogether on him, the main part falls on Julie--who keeps the purse,

which is no small matter, for we find that, by the 17th of November she

already had given out from 7000 to 8000 francs. We must believe that they

were well expended because she no doubt followed the programme traced for

her by her brother. ‘I recommend to you economy as the mother of comfort,’

and he adds without joking, ‘modesty as the amiable companion of great

success.’ He wishes that the family, ‘think of him a little in his

absence.’ ‘Men are vain,’ he adds, ‘they like to be flattered.’”

Beaumarchais, just before leaving Spain, wrote: “So I am putting my whole

mind on my business, my Father, while my misfortune causes me to lose 2000

_écus_ of income from the provisions of France which dissolve especially

to ruin me, the King of Spain and the Ministers cast their eyes on me to

be at the head of those in Spain, as my old Du Verney is of those in

France. There is talk of joining to this the furnishing in general of all

the grain needed for Spain as well as the fabrication of saltpetre and

powder, so that I may find myself suddenly at the head of a company for

providing provisions, subsistencies, munitions and agricultural products.

“Keep this for the family and see that my prospects, honest as they are,

are known only by their success.”

And Julie replied in her tenderest vein, “My Beaumarchais, my amiable

genius, I have seen your letters, your projects, your work and nothing

surprises me, not even your philosophizing over our sad news. When any one

appreciates you as I do, one has the right to count upon astonishing

things. Assuredly we will keep the secret; but when do you return? My

heart rebels at your long absence.”

M. Lintilhac continues: “We know his grand projects did not receive the

aid and sanction of the ministry, but they were dismissed with flattering

compliments for him. All his plans, however, had not proved abortive as

has so often been said, because on returning to France he writes to his

father from Bordeaux, April 2nd, 1765, ‘I am now at Bordeaux, I don’t know

whether I shall leave to-morrow or the next day. My Spanish business

requires certain information which I can obtain only here, or in some

other seaport.

“‘I received a letter from Durand at Madrid very satisfactory in regard to

the obliging regrets of the honest people of Madrid as well as for the

affairs to which I have there attached him. I am absolutely alone, my

valet de chambre stayed at Bayonne with a groom and three beautiful

horses, which at Paris ought to pay the price of their journey as well as

my own.’”

No record has come down to us of the meeting of Beaumarchais and his

family after their long separation, but now that we know them all so

intimately it is not difficult to reconstruct the scene, the venerable

father pressing his son to his bosom, the tears of tenderness welling to

his eyes, the sisters rushing to embrace him, the friends and domestics

even, eager to clasp his hand, and all radiant with the thought of having

him in their midst. Then this outburst of affection over, what gaiety and

mirth follow, and all that human expansiveness which comes so

spontaneously from the heart!

But though the family tie remained as strong as ever, a decided change had

come already into the situation between him and Pauline. Nevertheless,

matters were smoothed over and the marriage was definitely decided upon.

Misunderstandings, however, continued from time to time, and in the midst

of these troubles, a rumor reached the ears of Beaumarchais, that the

Chevalier du S. had intentions upon Pauline. Beaumarchais, furious, wrote

a letter to the Chevalier who in turn defended himself in a letter which

is as follows: “It seems to me, Monsieur, that a counterfeit story ought

to find less credit in your eyes than in those of others, since you have

been all your life the butt of such reports. For the rest, I beg you to

believe that I do not write to obtain grace, but because I owe to Mlle. de

L. B.--to make known the truth upon a point which compromises her, and

because it would be hard and very hard for me to lose your esteem.”

Pauline replied to the same charge with an indifference which shows a

great change of sentiment on her part.

“As I was ignorant of the project of M. le Chevalier before I received

your letter, and as I know nothing of the matter, you will permit me to

inform myself before I reply. As to the reproach which you make in regard

to Julie, I do not feel that I merit it, if I have not sent to know how

she is, it is because I have been assured that she was very much better

and had been seen at her window, which made me think that it was true. If

my aunt were not ill, which prevents my leaving, I would assuredly go to

see her. I embrace her with all my heart.”

M. de Loménie says: “The two were perhaps innocent at that moment, if I

can judge from a letter of a cousin of Pauline’s and a friend of

Beaumarchais, very badly treated by the latter in regard to this affair,

‘When you have a more tranquil mind so that you will do me justice,’ says

the cousin, ‘I will speak openly with you and prove to you that you, who

condemn others so easily, are more culpable than those you believe to be

dissimulating and perfidious. Nothing is so pure as the heart of the dear

Pauline, nothing nobler than that of the Chevalier, or more sincere than

my own, and you look upon all three as though we were monsters.’”

The above letter of November 8, 1765, is all we have to fix the date of

the previous one. During the interval which follows, it is impossible to

determine exactly what happened, but true it is that by February 11th,

1766, the definite rupture had taken place and even the cousin undertakes

no longer to shield the “dear Pauline.” As to the Chevalier, who a year

before had written of Julie, “She is the unique object of my tenderest

desires,” it may be that Julie herself had much to do with his

estrangement, for in a letter already quoted we have her own authority for

believing that she was never very deeply in love, and her “maliciousness,”

may have helped to cool the ardor of the Chevalier. Certain it is, that

Julie with all her warmth and expansiveness was not by nature any more

formed for absorbing passions than was her brother. A letter belonging to

a very much earlier period, proves that love was at no time a very serious

matter with her, while it paints to the life the gaiety of her character.

She writes, “You must know, my dear Lhénon upon what terms of folly I am

with your brother. His air of interest for me, of which I wrote a month

ago, has developed singularly and beautified itself since our friends have

gone to the country. He comes nearly every evening to supper and stays

till midnight or one o’clock. Ah my dear Lhénon, you should hear him

recounting to me, and me retorting in the same tone with that air of

_folie_ that you have always known me to possess; but in the midst of all

these pleasantries I have sometimes found a happy way of expressing

myself, so as to persuade him seriously that I do not love him, and I

believe him convinced, although I have never said half as many sweet

things to him as I do now, because of an agreement which we have to love

each other two days of the week, he has chosen Monday and Saturday, and I

took Thursday and Sunday. On those days we say very tender things,

although it is agreed that there shall always be one _farouche_ when the

other loves.”

This to be sure was a girlish fancy, but the character of Julie retained

to the end much of the _folie_ of which she here speaks, without,

however, in the least impairing its real seriousness. But whatever the

cause, the fact remains that the Chevalier du S. declared himself to

Pauline, who in turn disengaged herself from Beaumarchais. The

correspondence ended with two long letters from the latter and one short,

dry note from Pauline. M. de Loménie in speaking of the letters of

Beaumarchais observes, “In novels each impulse of the human heart is

ordinarily painted separately with vivid colors, well marked and without

blending. In reality, things seldom pass that way; when one impulse is not

strong enough to stifle all the others, which generally is the case, the

human heart presents a confused medley where the most diverse sentiments,

often directly opposite, speak at the same time.” It is thus that in the

letters which are given, one can discern in the heart of Beaumarchais, to

quote Loménie, “a remnant of love reawakening, excited by jealousy and

restricted in its expression by vanity, scruples of delicacy and honor,

the fears of ‘what they will say,’ the need to prove that he has no

reproach to make to himself, the determination to wed, and yet perhaps a

certain fear of being taken at his word, because, although these letters

contain a very formal offer of marriage, they also contain certain

passages sufficiently mortifying, so that the pride of Pauline would reply

by a refusal. Again it is evident that Beaumarchais fears a refusal and

whether from love or self esteem he wishes to triumph.”

“You have renounced me,” he wrote to Pauline, “and what time have you

chosen to do it? The very moment which I had announced to your friends and

mine, would be that of our union. I have seen the perfidy which has caused

everything to turn against me, even to my offers. I have seen you, you who

have so often sighed at the injustice which others have done me, join

yourself to them to create wrongs of which I never thought. If I had not

had the intention of marrying you, would I have put so little form into

the services which I rendered you? Would I have assembled your friends and

mine two months before your refusal, to announce to them my resolution?

Everything has turned against me. The conduct of a friend, two-faced and

perfidious, in giving me a cruel lesson, has taught me that there is no

woman so honest and so tender who cannot be seduced and made to change.

Also the contempt of all those who have seen him act, is his just

recompense. Let us come back to you. It is not without regret that I have

turned my thoughts from you, since the first heat of my resentment has

passed, and when I insisted that you should write formally that you

refused my offer of marriage, there was mixed with my chagrin, an obscure

curiosity to see whether you would take this last step with me; to-day I

must know absolutely how I stand. I have received very advantageous

propositions of marriage, on the point of accepting I felt myself suddenly

arrested; I do not know what scruple of honor, what return toward the

past, made me hesitate. I have every reason to feel myself free and

disengaged from you after all that has passed; nevertheless, I am far from

tranquil, your letters do not say formally enough what is most important

for me to know. Reply truly, I beg of you. Have you so completely

renounced me that I am free to contract with another woman? Consult your

heart upon this point, while my delicacy questions you. If you totally

have cut the knot which should unite us, don’t fear to tell me so. In

order that your _amour-propre_ be completely at ease upon the demand which

I make, I add this, that in writing to you I have put back everything to

where it was before all these storms. My demand would not be just if,

setting a trap for you, I did not give you the liberty of choice in your

reply. Let your heart answer alone. If you do not give me back my liberty,

write me that you are the same Pauline, sweet and tender for life, whom I

used to know, and that you believe yourself happy to belong to me,

instantly I break with everything that is not you. If your heart is turned

to another, and invincibly estranged from me, do me the justice of

admitting that I have been honest with you. Give to the bearer of this,

the declaration which frees me and I shall feel that I have accomplished

my duty and shall have no reproach to make myself. Adieu, I am, up to the

moment of your reply, under whatever title it shall please you to choose,

Mademoiselle, your very humble servant, etc.

De Beaumarchais.”

A few hours later followed a second letter: “I send you back the package

of your letters, if you keep them, join mine to your reply. The reading of

your letters has moved me deeply, I do not wish again to experience that

pain, but before replying examine well what is the best for you, as well

for your fortune as for your happiness. My intent is that, forgetting

everything, we pass our days in tranquillity and happiness. Do not let the

fear of living with the members of my family who do not please you arrest

your sensibility, if another passion has not extinguished it. My home is

so arranged that whether it be you, or whether it be another, my wife

shall be the peaceful and happy mistress there. Your uncle laughed in my

face when I reproached him with having opposed me. He told me that his

opinion was that I need not fear a refusal or else that his niece’s head

had been turned. It is true that at the moment of renouncing you forever,

I felt an emotion which showed me that I held more strongly to you than I

thought. What I write therefore is from the sincerest faith in the world.

Don’t flatter yourself ever to give me the chagrin to see you the wife of

a certain man. He must be very daring to think of raising his eyes before

the public if he proposes to accomplish this double perfidy. Pardon me if

I grow warm! Never has that thought entered my mind that all my blood has

not boiled in my veins.

“But whatever your resolution, don’t keep me waiting, because I have

suspended all my business to give myself over once more to you. Your uncle

tried to convince me that this marriage with you was not all to my

advantage, but I am very far from occupying myself with these

considerations. I wish to possess you only for yourself, and that it be

for life.... I admit that it would be sweet to me, if while the enemies

slept, peace should be concluded between us. Re-read your letters and you

will understand that I found again in the depths of my heart all the

sentiments that they had there called into being.”

Loménie remarks: “The reply of Pauline is much more laconic and much more

direct. With her there is no conflict of sentiments: she does not love

Beaumarchais any more; that is very simple and very clear.

“‘I can only repeat, Monsieur, what I said to Mademoiselle your sister,

that my stand is taken not to return, therefore I thank you for your

offers, and I desire with my whole heart that you may marry the person who

will make you happy; I assured Mademoiselle your sister of this. My aunt

and I feel it our duty to tell you how unhappy we are that you should fail

in respect to us in treating so badly a man whom we consider as our

friend. I know better than anyone else that you have no right to call him

perfidious. I said once more this morning to Mademoiselle your sister,

that a demoiselle who used to live with my aunt was the cause of what

happens to-day. You have still several of my letters which I ask you to

return. I will beg one of our friends to arrange with you about everything

which remains to be adjusted. I am, very perfectly, Monsieur, your very

humble and obedient servant,

L. B----.’”

Still quoting Loménie: “Pauline who used to sign herself, ‘I am for life

thy faithful Pauline’ now signs politely her family name, and so this

correspondence ends like so many others of the same nature, by, ‘I have

the honor to be,’ or ‘I am very perfectly’ which succeed the protestations

of an eternal love.”

And now follows a second letter from the cousin in relation to this

unhappy affair, “All is said, my dear Beaumarchais, and without hope of

return. I have notified Madame G. (the aunt of Pauline) and Mlle. Le

B---- of your dispositions, they ask nothing better than to come to an

honorable arrangement in this rupture. It remains now to regulate the

account between Mlle. Le B---- and you, and to take measures to secure for

you the sum which is due. These ladies beg you to give back all the papers

which you have concerning the affairs of Mlle. Le B----. You cannot tell

how unhappy I am not to have been able to unite two hearts which for so

long have seemed to me made for each other, but man proposes and God

disposes. I flatter myself that on both sides the justice which I feel

belongs to me, will be rendered. I have let you read in my heart, and you

must have seen that I know neither disguisement nor artifice. Adieu, my

friend, I will go to see you as soon as I can; in the meantime write to

me. I embrace you, I am as always,

“Your sincere friend P----

“February 11th, 1766--”

In the words of Loménie, “Let us accord this worthy cousin, whose

sentences are more consoling than new, the justice which he claims, and

acknowledge that he is a stranger to the perfidy of the Chevalier. If we

were writing a romance we would stop here, or else end with the death of

Beaumarchais, he killing himself in despair, or by the death of the

Chevalier, immolated by the fury of his rival; but as we are writing a

history we are obliged above all else to be exact and instead of stating

that the adventure ends by a suicide or a duel we are forced to state that

it terminates much more prosaically, by a _règlement de comptes_ where the

future author of the _Mariage de Figaro_ makes an amusing enough figure in

his rôle of betrayed lover and uneasy creditor.”

There is, we must admit, an indefinable humor in the idea of the brilliant

genius Beaumarchais, deserted by his Pauline, seating himself, _le coeur

gros_, the tears of anger and mortification welling to his eyes, intent

upon regulating, with the same minute exactitude that he showed in making

the watch to be set as a jewel in a lady’s ring, the account existing

between him and Pauline.

As a matter of fact, he had been far less prudent in his generous advances

of money than in the expression of his sentiments as a lover, for not only

had he risked large sums on the Santo Domingo property, but he had been in

the habit of advancing money both to Pauline and to her aunt without

keeping any special count. To return to the account of Loménie, “He groups

the capital with the interest and presents a bill of the most scrupulous

rectitude. The Chevalier, who has no time to bother with such vile

details, and who has gone to pass his honeymoon I don’t know where, sends

to Beaumarchais his older brother, the abbé du S----, respectable, but a

little quick tempered, who not only quibbles over the bill, but permits

himself sometimes to deepen a bleeding wound by opposing the lover to the

creditor. From that come stormy discussions, of which the following letter

of Beaumarchais to the abbé will serve as illustration.

“‘Monsieur l’abbé,

“‘I beg you to notice that I never have been lacking in politeness towards

you, but that I owe nothing but contempt for him whom you represent, as I

have had the honor of saying to you twenty times, and as I strongly would

have desired to say to him if he had been as exact in showing himself as

he has been clever in taking my place. The proof that Mlle. Le B----

wished well of me, of my affection, of my counsels, of my money, is that

without your brother she would still make use of all my gifts which I

lavished upon her as long as they were agreeable and useful to her. It is

true that she bought my services very dear, since she owes to our

affection for your brother the happiness of having married him, which she

would not have done, if he had remained without knowing us in the place

where he then vegetated. I do not understand the secret of the phrase

about the apology, so I am dispensed with replying to it. I regret that he

is absent, only because I would have the greatest pleasure to testify to

him in person, what he can now only know through proxy. I shall not cease

to prepare myself for atrocities and injustices by benevolent acts. It

always has agreed with me very well to do good in the expectation of evil,

and your counsel adds nothing to my disposition in that regard.

“‘Since you admit that you have lost your temper with me, it would be out

of place for me to reproach you with it. It is sufficient that you accuse

yourself, for me not to hold any resentment.

“‘I do not know why you have underlined the words, “your sister,” in

recalling to me that I said that it was in this way that I loved Mlle. Le

B----. Does this irony fall back on her, on me, or on your brother? Just

as you please, for that matter. Although the fate of Mlle. Le B----

interests me no longer, it would be out of place for me, in speaking

of her, to use other terms than those which I have employed. It is not her

that I blame; she is as you have said, young and without experience and

although she has very little fortune, your brother has used well his

experience and has made a good affair in marrying her.

“‘Remember, I beg you, Monsieur l’abbé, that all which is addressed to him

has nothing to do with you. It would be too humiliating for a man of your

station to be suspected of having had any part in the perfidy of your

brother in my regard; let him bear the blame, and do not take up those

things which do not deserve to have a defender as honest as yourself.

“‘I have the honor to be, etc.

“‘Beaumarchais.’”

The matter finally was adjusted and the account reduced to 24,441 livres,

4 sous, 4 deniers.

One would almost think that after making such important reductions the sum

might have been rounded off by the omission of the 4 sous, 4 deniers. Not

so Beaumarchais--the whole debt might go unpaid for he was not a man to

make much trouble about that, but in any case, the matter must stand in

its absolute exactitude. M. de Loménie terminates this interesting

chapter of the life of Beaumarchais in the following manner: “And now I

demand pardon of the shade of the charming Pauline, but it seems certain

that this debt, recognized and accepted by her, was never paid. Not only

do I find it amongst papers of a later date classed as almost hopeless

debts, but the touching solicitude of the cashier Gudin, after the death

of his master, for the least letter of Pauline, is sufficient to

demonstrate that this too must be ranged amongst those debts recognized

but not dissolved, where so many amiable women, poets, and great lords

have left their traces in the papers of Beaumarchais. It is true that

Pauline was left a widow a year after her marriage, and this misfortune no

doubt spoiled the arrangement of her affairs--and I conclude that if the

young and beautiful Creole left her debt unpaid, it must have been because

the habitation of Santo Domingo was seized by the other creditors, or

plundered by the blacks or swallowed up by an earthquake.”

For our part let us hasten to add that we are very grateful to the

Chevalier du S---- for carrying off Pauline. Charming as she was, she did

not possess those sterling qualities which alone could have enabled her to

be a real helpmeet to him in the terrible trials, which were preparing for

him. Overwhelmed as we shall presently see him, a nature like hers would

have been as a millstone about his neck, and he inevitably must have

succumbed. As we shall see, the woman who eventually comes to share his

life was of a very different mould. Misfortune and all the terrors of the

Revolution only served to bring into more striking relief the vigor of a

character already pronounced in its strength and womanliness.

Our gratitude to the Chevalier du S---- is no less great, in that by

abstracting Pauline, he left to Beaumarchais the truest support of his

life, the woman who better than any one else understood the inmost

recesses of his nature, and who at no moment of his career failed in

giving him the affection, the encouragement, which he needed, and that

served as the solid basis upon which he could build. In leaving to

Beaumarchais the undisputed possession of his sister Julie, the Chevalier

du S---- has won our undying gratitude, and so in all sincerity we say,

_requiescat in pace_.

CHAPTER VI

_“Je laisserai sans réponse tout ce qu’on a dit contre l’ouvrage, persuadé

que le plus grand honneur qu’on ait pu lui faire, après celui de s’en

amuser au théâtre, a été de ne pas le juger indigne de toute critique.”_

_Beaumarchais in “Essai sur le genre dramatique

sérieux,” prefixed to the edition of “Eugénie.”_

“_Eugénie_”--“_Les deux Amis_”--Second Marriage of

Beaumarchais--The Forest of Chinon--Death of Madame de

Beaumarchais.

The immediate effect of Pauline’s desertion of Beaumarchais was to turn

his thoughts from the gay world in which he was so brilliant and so

striking a figure, to the more sober realms of literature. His talent as

an author already had manifested itself by several farces and charades

written for his colleague, M. Lenormant d’Étioles, the husband of Madame

de Pompadour, at whose château d’Étioles they were produced.

The very spicy charade, “_John Bête à la Foire_,” was written in 1762 for

a special festival given at this château in the forest of Senart. On this

occasion and on all similar occasions the farces of Beaumarchais found no

more spirited interpreters than his own sisters. Fournier says, “The

youngest played comedies with a surprising _verve de gaillardise_, and it

would seem, was not frightened by the most highly seasoned of her

brother’s productions. She and the Countess of Turpin played the leading

parts. Comedies and charades were also played enchantingly by Julie who

frequently arranged them in her own style; several scenes and not the

least spicy, according to family tradition, passing as her own

production.”

But this vein of true Gallic wit which was later to carry its possessor to

almost unprecedented heights of fame was not in keeping with the spirit in

which Beaumarchais found himself during the winter of 1766.

The entire family as we have seen possessed in an unusual degree a warm

life blood which burst spontaneously into joyful expression, but it showed

itself also in sentimental sallies. The English novelist, Richardson, was

a favorite with them all and we find Julie writing in her diary, about

this time, “I see in Beaumarchais a second Grandison; it is his genius,

his goodness, his noble and superior soul, equally sweet and honest. Never

a bitter sentiment for his enemies arises in his heart. He is the friend

of man. Grandison is the glory of all who surround him, and Beaumarchais

is their honor.”

The father writing to his son during an illness said: “In the intervals

when I suffer less I read Grandison and in how many things I have found a

just and noble resemblance between him and my son. Father of thy sisters,

friend and benefactor of thy father, ‘if England,’ I said to myself, ‘has

her Grandison; France has her Beaumarchais; with this difference, that the

English Grandison is the fiction of an amiable writer, while the French

Beaumarchais really exists to be the consolation of my days.’”

It was, therefore, Beaumarchais, as Grandison, whom we now find seriously

occupying himself with the thought of literature. Nor shall we be

surprised later to find those of the literary profession preparing to meet

him in very much the same spirit as did in the beginning M. Lepaute,

watchmaker, and a little later, _Messieurs les Courtisans_ at Versailles.

So long as his literary ambition limited itself to charades, farces, and

comic songs the antagonism of men of letters was not aroused; but that he

who had received no regular training in the schools should presume, _de se

mêler_, with serious literary productions was quite another matter.

Lintilhac says: “But our immature author, shaking his _tête carrée_ braved

this danger like all the rest, arming himself with patience and _esprit_;

let us see him at his work.

“A literary instinct had from the beginning led him straight to those

Gallic writers whose race he was destined to continue. We find him

studying Montaigne; he extracts notes and imitates Marot, translates in

verse and sets to music one of the hundred and twenty romances of the Cid

going against the Moors in the eleventh century.

“But his taste for the ancestor of the _esprit français_ is not exclusive;

he is happy to find it among their direct descendants: Regnier, whom he

quotes abundantly, La Fontaine, of whom he is a disciple, Molière and

Pascal, who furnish the models of his chefs-d’oeuvre. More than that, he

goes back to their antique masters. The rudiments of Latin which he

learned at school serve to help him to read Lucrece, Catulle, Tibulle,

Horace, Ovid, and Seneca, and to take from them that salt of _citation_

with which he heightens so effectively the sallies of his Gallic wit.”

Among the manuscripts of the Comédie-Française are a number of pages

covered with Latin citations, elegantly translated, which Beaumarchais

adapted to the circumstances of his life and works, with a precision which

could not have been the result of chance.

“This is the serious side of his education, but it was not all; the

unfolding and development of his talents must have been deeply influenced

by that society of which he was the _bout-en-train_, and where the Prince

de Conti and the Countess de Boufflers, _la divine Comtesse_, restored the

ancient traditions of epicurean esprit. What did he not owe to

conversation, often free, always piquant, of the aristocratic and

bourgeois salons, to the foyers of the theaters and cafés which he

frequented, and in which he was past-master, fencing with such skilled

champions as Chamfort, as Sophie Arnould, those little kings _de

l’esprit_! We must therefore give to these brilliant contemporaries of our

author the honor of having shaped his genius.” (M. de Loménie.)

We have spoken already of Beaumarchais’s natural aversion to the heroic in

literature, all his instincts led him toward the new dramatic school which

was then appearing in France, and whose master was Diderot. In this school

the old heroic tragedy was replaced by a domestic tragedy in which the

ordinary events of daily life formed the theme. By the side of this, there

was to be a serious comedy, not clearly defined from the tragic element,

but which was to take the place of the “gay comedy” of the past.

More than a century of democratic ideas has so far removed the present

generation from the ideas of the past, that it is difficult for us to

appreciate the magnitude of the innovation made by this new style of

literature when it first appeared in France. It was, however, but the

natural outgrowth of that new order of things which was year by year

becoming more pronounced, in which the bourgeoisie of France rises to a

state of self-consciousness which demands expression. The splendor of the

monarchy as upheld by Louis XIV had faded from men’s minds. The people

were beginning to realize that they themselves, with their joys and

sorrows, their loves and hates, belonged to the realm of art.

Beaumarchais forcibly expresses the new ideas when in his essay “_Sur le

Genre Sérieux_,” he says, “If our heart enters into the interest taken in

tragic personages, it is less because they are heroes and kings than

because they are human beings and miserable. Is it the Queen of Messina

that touches me in Méropé? No, it is the mother of Égiste. Nature alone

has right over our hearts.--The true relation of the heart is, therefore,

always from man to man, and never from man to king. The brilliancy of rank

far from augmenting the interest which we feel in a tragic personage, on

the contrary destroys it. The nearer to mine the condition of him who

suffers, the more touched am I by his woes. It belongs to the essence of

the serious drama to offer a more pressing interest, a more direct

morality than that of the heroic tragedy, and there should be something

more serious than mere gay comedy.” After developing this theme for a

considerable length he terminates thus, “The morality of comedy is nil,

the reverse of what should be in the theater.”

Beaumarchais, a few years later, yielding with his usual suppleness to the

inevitable, when he found the public refusing to be interested in his

serious mediocrities, abandoned the _genre sérieux_, which in the

beginning he so warmly defended. He did not leave it, however, without a

last thrust at his critics.

In his preface to the “_Barbier de Seville_,” which he published eight

years later, he thus alludes to these earlier productions: “I had the

weakness, Monsieur, to present to you at different times two poor dramas,

monstrous productions as is very well known, because between tragedy and

comedy no one is any longer ignorant that nothing exists, that is a point

settled.... As for myself, I am so completely convinced of the truth of

this that if I wished again to bring on the scene, a mother in tears, a

betrayed wife, a forlorn sister, a son disinherited, in order to present

them decently to the public, I should begin by placing them in a beautiful

kingdom where they had done their best to reign, and I should situate it

near one of the archipelagoes, or in some remote corner of the world....

The spectacle of men of medium condition, crushed and suffering, how

absurd! Ridiculous citizens and unhappy kings, there is nothing else the

theatre will permit.”

For those of Beaumarchais’s admirers who consider the creation of _Figaro_

as his highest title to fame, it is no matter of regret that after

imperfect success with his first drama, and almost failure with his

second, he should have made the transition to gay comedy. _Figaro_,

however, as we shall see, did not come before the public simply for its

amusement, he came as the announcement of that complete change which

already was taking place in the social institutions of modern Europe,

first breaking out in France, so that his apparition, therefore, was no

mere accident, but a momentous event.

At the present moment in 1766, no one could be farther than Beaumarchais

from the possibility of such a creation, for although he had brought with

him from Spain the crude outline of the “_Barbier_,” he lacked as yet all

that experience which was to give political significance to the play, and

which was destined to enable him to voice for all time the right of the

individual to be heard in his own cause. In 1766 he not only imagined

himself to be, but was, one of the most loyal, one of the most respectful

subjects of the king. His life of adventure apparently was over. He asked

for nothing better than the fortune and position he had acquired already.

At heart he was above everything else domestic and was therefore warmly

attracted toward the new literary school. Loménie says, “He precipitated

himself with his ordinary fervor into the _drame domestique et bourgeois_,

which seemed to him an unknown world of which Diderot was the Christopher

Columbus, and of which he hoped to be the Vespucius.”

In speaking of Beaumarchais’s attraction for this school Gudin says:

“Struck with the new beauties which the French stage displayed from day to

day, drawn on by his own talent he descended into the arena, to mix with

the combatants who disputed the palms of the scenic plays.

“Never before had been seen such an assemblage of excellent actors; the

theater was not simply a place of amusement, it was a course in public

instruction; here were displayed the customs of all nations and the

principal events of history; all the interests of humanity were there

developed with that truth which convinces, and arouses thought in every

mind.

“Diderot proposed to paint upon the scene the different duties of the

social condition, the father of the family, the magistrate, the merchant,

in order to show the virtues which each requires. It was certainly a new

point of view which he offered to the public. Beaumarchais felt his heart

deeply touched, and yielding to the impulse which he felt, he composed,

almost in spite of himself, his touching _Eugénie_.

“This is the picture of a virtuous girl infamously seduced by a great

lord. No piece ever offered a more severe morality, or more direct

instruction to fathers of vain women, who allow themselves to be blinded

by titles and great names. It is the duty of every author to attack the

vices of his own century. This duty the Greeks first understood. But in

France a thousand voices were raised against the innovation. Beaumarchais,

whom nothing intimidated, dared in his first play to attack the vice so

common among great lords, especially under Louis XV.

“Certainly this ought to have made him applauded by every friend of

virtue. The opposite occurred. The friends kept silence. Those who were

guilty of similar vice cried out against the play, their flatterers cried

still louder, journalists and the envious authors hissed and cried out

that it was detestable, scandalous, badly conceived and executed, immoral.

Not one applauded the energetic audacity of the author who dared to raise

his voice against the luxurious vice permitted by the monarchy and even by

the magistrates. Beaumarchais, however, had the public on his side, the

piece remained upon the stage and was constantly applauded.”

Although the fastidious French taste, apart from all the enmity aroused by

the many-sided success of its author, found much to criticise in the

production, _Eugénie_, or _la Vertu malheureuse_, the piece retains its

place upon the repertoire of the Théâtre-Français and is still

occasionally given.

Outside France it met with a much warmer reception. The German writer,

Bettleheim, assures us that it was at once translated into most of the

Kultur-Sprachen of Europe and was produced in the principal theatres

everywhere. In England, through the support of Garrick, then director of

the Drury Lane theater, and in Austria, through that of Sonnenfels, it met

with an astounding success.

In Germany the translation was very soon followed by an imitation called

“_Aurelie, oder Triumph der Tugend_.”

Of the English play Garrick writes to Beaumarchais: “_The School for

Rakes_, which is rather an imitation than a translation of your _Eugénie_,

has been written by a lady to whom I recommended your drama, which has

given me the greatest pleasure and from which I thought she could make a

play which would singularly please an English audience; I have not been

deceived, because with my help, as stated in the advertisement, which

precedes the piece, our _Eugénie_ has received the continual applause of

the most numerous audiences.”

In Italy the success of _Eugénie_ was scarcely less pronounced. It was

first produced in Venice in 1767, and in the criticism which follows the

publication of the translation we read: “The whole city was in great

expectancy when it was known that this drama was to appear upon the scene.

The impressions made upon the hearts of the spectators corresponded with

the fame which had preceded it and instead of diminishing this constantly

continued to increase in such a manner that the whole of Italy, although

rich in her own productions, has not grown weary of praising the piece.”

But for Beaumarchais the important thing was to win recognition from his

own country. This was no easy matter; he, however, did not despair, and

set about it with his usual tenacity of purpose, infinitude of resource

and versatility of genius.

M. de Loménie says: “Beaumarchais worked with all his energy to prepare a

success for his play; we are indeed, far from 1784, at which time the

author of the _Mariage de Figaro_ only had to hold back the feverish

impatience of a public that awaited the performance of the piece as one of

the most extraordinary events. We are in 1767, Beaumarchais is completely

unknown as an author. He is a man of business, a man of pleasure who has

been able to push himself somewhat at court, about whom people talk very

differently, and whom men of letters are disposed to consider, as did the

courtiers, an intruder. From this arose the necessity for him to push

ahead, to arouse curiosity and to secure from all ranks supporters for

his play. This is what he does with that aptitude which distinguishes him.

“When, for instance, it is a question of obtaining the privilege of

reading his drama before Mesdames, he poses as a courtier who has

condescended to occupy himself with literature in the interest of virtue

and good manners. He assumes a celebrity which he has not yet acquired and

on the whole seems endowed with a rare presumption; here is the letter:

“‘Mesdames:

“‘The comedians of the Comédie-Française are going to present in a few

days, a drama of a new kind which all Paris is awaiting with lively

impatience. The orders which I gave to the comedians in making them a

present of the work, that they should guard the secret of the name of the

author, have not been obeyed. In their unfortunate enthusiasm, they

believed that they rendered me a service in transgressing my wishes. As

this work, child of my sensibility, breathes the love of virtue, and tends

to purify our theater and make it a school of good manners, I have felt

that I owe a special homage to my illustrious protectresses. I come,

therefore, Mesdames, to beg you to listen to a reading of my play. After

that, if the public at the representation carries me to the skies, the

most beautiful success of my drama will be to have been honored by your

tears, as the author has always been by your benefits.’

“With the duke of Noailles, to whom he had read the piece, and who had

shown an interest, Beaumarchais poses as a statesman who has missed his

calling. The letter to the Duke of Noailles is as follows:

“‘It is only in odd moments, Monsieur le duc, that I dare give way to my

taste for literature. When I cease for one moment to turn the earth and

cultivate the garden of my advancement, instantly what I have cleared is

covered with brambles so that I must recommence unceasingly. Another of

the follies from which I have been forced to tear myself is the study of

politics, a subject thorny and repulsive for most men, but quite as

attractive as useless for me. I loved it to madness, and I have done

everything to develop it, the rights of respective powers, the pretentions

of princes, by which the mass of mankind always is kept in commotion, the

action and reaction of governments, all these are interests made for my

soul. Perhaps there is no one who has felt so much the disadvantage of

being able to see things _en grand_, being at the same time the smallest

of men. Sometimes I have gone so far as to murmur in my unjust humor that

fate did not place me more advantageously in regard to those things for

which I believed myself suited, especially when I consider that the

missions which kings and ministers give to their agents, have the power to

confer the grace of the ancient apostleship, which instantly made sublime

and intelligent men of the most insignificant brains.’”

To the duke of Nivernais, Beaumarchais was indebted for a useful criticism

of the weak side of his play. It probably may be due to that nobleman’s

observations that he made the important change of transporting the scene

to England, and giving the characters English names. As the play now

stands, after decided modifications made immediately following the first

representations, the story is this:

[Illustration: _Eugénie_]

Eugénie, the daughter of a Welsh gentleman, supposes herself the wife of

Lord Clarendon, nephew of the Minister of War. Clarendon, however, basely

has deceived her by a false marriage in which his steward plays the rôle

of chaplain, and he prepares to marry a wealthy heiress the very day that

his victim arrives in London.

The weakness of the play consists in this, that while the character of

Eugénie in its delicate, sweet womanliness, enlists our entire sympathy

and admiration, we are not sufficiently prepared at the end of the fifth

act to see the man who has so deceived her, pardoned and re-accepted on

his giving up his intended marriage along with the ambitious schemes of

his powerful uncle, even though the old baron utters the sublime truth

that “he who has sincerely repented is farther from evil than he who has

never known it.”

In the words of the Duke of Nivernais, “In the first act Clarendon is a

scoundrel who has deceived a young girl of good family by a false

marriage, he prepares to wed another, and this is the man, who in the end

finds grace in the eyes of Eugénie, a being who interests us. It requires

a great deal of preparation to arrive at this conclusion.” This was the

whole difficulty, and though Beaumarchais retouched as best he could the

character of Clarendon, making as much as possible of the extenuating

circumstances, and emphasizing his hesitation and remorse, the play

remains weak in this respect.

The English imitation before spoken of, rectifies this difficulty by

altering the rôle of Clarendon. In the advertisement, the author says,

however, “I have not dared to deviate from the gentle, interesting Eugénie

of Beaumarchais.”

The play finally was given for the first time, January 29th, 1767. In the

“_Année Littéraire_” of that year this passage occurs: “_Eugénie_, played

for the first time January the 29th of this year, was badly received by

the public and its reception had all the appearance of a failure; it has

raised itself since with brilliancy, through omissions and corrections; it

occupied the public for a long time and this success greatly honors the

comedians.”

“The changes made by Beaumarchais between the first and second

representations were sufficient,” says Loménie, “to bring into relief the

first three acts, which contain many beautiful parts, and which announced

already a rare talent of _mise en scène_ and of dialogue. The refined,

distinguished acting of an amiable young actress, Mlle. Doligny, who

represented Eugénie, contributed not a little to save the drama and make

it triumph brilliantly over the danger that threatened its first

representation.”

Beaumarchais had gained the public ear, but not the critics. As Lintilhac

says: “The enterprise did not proceed without scandal, for at the second

representation instead of hissing, the public weeps. The critic enraged at

the success of the piece cried, ‘It is all the fault of the women--talk to

them of _Eugénie_; it is they who have perverted the taste of our dear

young people.’ Nevertheless the piece endures in the face of censures and

cabals.--He managed his dramatic affairs quite as cleverly as the others.

Abuse goes along with success, _tant mieux!_ So much the better, it gives

him the opportunity of lashing criticism with witty replies, which he

prints with his play in a long preface of justification.”

“Into what a wasps’ nest you have put your head,” said Diderot to him.

Gudin observes, “He was not one to be frightened at their buzzing, or to

stop on his way to kill flies. He was busying himself with a new drama.”

That this first production, “This child of my sensibility,” as he called

it, was always dear to his heart is proved by the fact that years

afterwards Beaumarchais gave the name of Eugénie to his only daughter, of

whom we shall have much to say later on.

But in the meantime, an event occurred which for a period of two years had

an important bearing on his life. To quote Gudin: “It was about this time

that Madam B., celebrated for her beauty, came one day to find the sister

of Beaumarchais and asked her what her brother was doing as she had not

seen him for a long time.

“‘I do not know if he is at home, but I believe he is working on his

drama.’

“‘I have something to say to him.’

“He was called. He appeared looking like a hermit, his hair in disorder,

his beard long, his face illumined by meditation.

“‘Well, my friend, what are you busying yourself with when an amiable

woman, recently a widow, sought already by several pretendants, might

prefer you? I am to ride with her to-morrow in that secluded avenue of the

Champs Élysées, which is called _l’allée des Veuves_; mount on horseback,

we will meet you there as if by chance; you will speak to me, and then you

shall both see whether or not you are suited to one another.’

“The next day Beaumarchais, followed by a domestic, appeared mounted on a

superb horse which he managed with grace. He was seen from the coach in

which the ladies were riding long before he joined them. The beauty of the

steed, the bearing of the cavalier worked in his favor; when he came near,

Madam B. said she knew the horseman. Beaumarchais came up and was

presented to the lady.

“This meeting produced a very vivid impression; the veil, the crèpe, the

mourning costume served to bring into relief the fairness of the

complexion and the beauty of the young widow. Beaumarchais soon left his

horse for the carriage, and as no author dialogued better for the stage so

no man ever brought more art into his conversation. If at first it was

simply sallies of wit, it became by degrees more interesting and finished

by being attractive. Beaumarchais finally proposed that the ladies should

come and dine at his home. Madam B. persuaded the young woman to consent,

although she refused several times. He sent back his horse by his domestic

which was the signal arranged with his sister in order that she might

prepare to receive the ladies, one of whom was an entire stranger.

“It is very different seeing a man out riding and seeing him in his own

home. It is there that one must follow him in order to judge him rightly

and so it was on entering that unpretentious, though elegant and

convenient home, seeing Beaumarchais surrounded by his old domestics,

seated between his father and sister, the latter a young woman of much

intelligence and proud of such a brother, the young woman could not but

realize that it would be an honor to have him for her husband. The table

disposes to confidence, the heart opens and discloses itself; they had not

left it before each was sure of the other and they had but one desire,

never to separate. They were married in April, 1768. His fortune was

increased by that of his wife, and his happiness by the possession of a

woman who loved him passionately.”

His wife’s name was Madame Lévêque, _née_ Geneviève Madeleine Watebled.

She was possessed of an ample fortune which added to that of Beaumarchais

made their position in every way desirable. The world at last seemed ready

to smile upon him and he quite content to settle down to peaceful

enjoyment of all the blessings with which his life was now crowned.

Gudin says, “Happy in love and in his friends, he amused himself in

painting the effects of these passions in a drama, ‘_Les Deux Amis_.’” The

following year a son was born to him, the happiness of being a father was

the only happiness which had hitherto been denied him.

The new drama, “_Les Deux Amis_,” although he himself says of it, “It is

the most powerfully composed of all my works,” was not a success before

the Parisian public. In the provinces and in the most of Europe it met

with a very different reception, long retaining its favor with the public

there.

It is the story of two friends who live in the same house, Malac _père_,

collector of rents for a Parisian company, and Aurelly, merchant of Lyons,

where the scene is laid. Aurelly is expecting from Paris certain sums to

enable him to meet a payment which must be made in a few days. Malac

_père_ learns that the money from Paris will not arrive and to save his

friend turns into the latter’s case all which he has in his possession as

collector of rents, allowing his friend to think that the money from Paris

has arrived. At this moment the agent-general of the Paris company appears

demanding the rents. During two acts Malac _père_ allows himself to be

suspected of having appropriated the money, meekly accepting the disdain

of the friend whose credit he has saved.

The real situation discloses itself at last and through the heroism of

Pauline, the niece of Aurelly, and the curiosity of the agent-general, St.

Alban, the threatened ruin is averted.

In connection with the main action, Beaumarchais has joined a charming

episode of the loves of Pauline and Malac _fils_. The play opens with a

pleasing scene, where the young girl is seated at the piano playing a

sonata while the young man accompanies her with the violin; the scene and

the conversation which follows are a touching souvenir of the early days

of Beaumarchais’s attachment for the beautiful creole, Pauline.

The piece was produced January 13, 1770, and was given ten times. Loménie

says, in explaining the reason for the short duration of the play: “Each

one of us suffers, loves and hates in virtue of an impulse of the heart,

but very few have a clear idea of what is felt by one exposed to

bankruptcy or supposed guilty of misappropriating money. These situations

are too exceptional to work upon the soul, too vulgar to excite the

imagination, they may well concur in forming the interest of a drama, but

only on condition that they figure as accessories. Vainly did Beaumarchais

blend the loves of Pauline and Malac _fils_, trying to sweeten the aridity

of the subject. Several spiritual or pathetic scenes could not save the

too commercial drama of ‘_Les Deux Amis_.’”

The author having, as he said, the advantage over his sad brothers of the

pen in that he could go to the theater in his own _carosse_, and making

perhaps a little too much of this advantage, the effect of the failure of

his drama was to call out many witticisms. It is said that at the end of

the first representation a wag of the parterre cried out, “It is question

here of bankruptcy; I am in it for twenty sous.”

Several days afterward Beaumarchais remarked to Sophie Arnould, apropos of

an opera _Zoroaster_ which did not succeed, “In a week’s time you will not

have a person, or at least very few.”

The witty actress replied, “_Vos Amis_ will send them to us.”

Finally the capital fault of the play is very well drawn up in the

quatrain of the time,

_“I have seen Beaumarchais’s ridiculous drama,

And in a single word I will say what it is;

It is an exchange where money circulates,

Without producing any interest.”_

Lintilhac remarks, “He gave in this crisis a double proof of his genius;

in the first place, he allowed his piece to fall without comment, and in

the second he did not despair of his dramatic vocation.”

Already Beaumarchais was meditating his _Barbier de Séville_ but in the

meantime he was seriously occupied with a new and extensive business

transaction. The fortune of his wife had enabled him to enter into a

partnership with old Du Verney in the acquisition of the vast forest of

Chinon, which they bought from the government. A letter to his wife, dated

July 15, 1769, shows him at his work.

“De Rivarennes.

“You invite me to write, my good friend, and I wish to with all my heart,

it is an agreeable relaxation from the fatigues of my stay in this

village. Misunderstandings among the heads of departments to be

reconciled, complaints, and demands of clerks to be listened to, an

account of more than 100,000 _écus_, in sums of from 20 to 30 _sous_ to

regulate, and of which it was necessary to discharge the regular cashier,

the different posts to be visited, two hundred workmen of the forest whose

work must be examined, two hundred and eighty acres of wood cut down whose

preparation and transportation must be looked after, new roads to be

constructed into the forest and to the river, the old roads to be mended,

three or four hundred tons of hay to be stacked, provisions of oats for

thirty dray horses to be arranged for, thirty other horses to be brought

for the transport of all the wood for the navy before winter, gates and

sluices to be constructed in the river Indre in order to give us water all

the year at the place where the wood is discharged, fifty vessels which

wait to be loaded for Tours, Saumur, Angers and Nantes, the leases of

seven or eight farms to sign, beside the provision for housing thirty

persons; the general inventory of our receipts and expenses for the last

two years to regulate, _voilà_, my dear wife, briefly the sum of my

occupations of which part is terminated and the rest _en bon train_.”

After two more pages of details Beaumarchais terminates his letter thus:

“You see, my dear friend, that one sleeps less here than at Pantin, but

the forced activity of this work does not displease me, since I have

arrived in this retreat inaccessible to vanity, I have seen only simple

people with unpretentious manners, such as I often desire myself to be. I

lodge in my office which is a good peasant farm, between barnyard and

kitchen garden, surrounded with a green hedge. My room with its four

white-washed walls has for furniture an uncomfortable bed where I sleep

like a top, four rush-bottomed chairs, an oaken table and a great

fireplace without ornament or shelf; but I see from my window on writing

you, the whole of the Varennes or prairies of the valley which I inhabit,

full of robust, sunburned men who cut and cart hay with yokes of oxen, a

multitude of women and girls each with a rake on the shoulder or in the

hand, all singing songs whose shrill notes reach me as I write. Across the

trees in the distance I see the tortuous course of the Indre and an

ancient castle flanked by towers which belongs to my neighbor Madame de

Roncée. The whole is crowned with wooded summits which multiply as far as

the eye can see, the highest crests of which surround us on all sides in

such a manner that they form a great spherical frame to the horizon, which

they bound on every side. This picture is not without charm. Good coarse

bread, the most modest nourishment with execrable wine composes my

repasts. In truth, if I dared wish you the evil of lacking everything in a

desolate country I should deeply regret not having you by my side. Adieu,

my friend. If you think that these details might interest our relatives

and friends you are free to read my letters to them. Embrace them all for

me and good night--it seems hard to me sometimes not to have you near--and

my son, my son! how is he? I laugh when I think that it is for him that I

work.”

In January, 1770, Beaumarchais could easily afford the ill success of his

drama, for he was one of the best placed men in France. As we see him at

this moment nothing seems lacking to complete his happiness. All his

ambitions either are satisfied, or submerged. Of fierce trials,

overwhelming calamities, of revolutions, and ignominy worse than death, he

had as yet no idea. In 1767, he had written in his preface to his

_Eugénie_, “What does it matter to me, peaceful subject of a monarchial

state of the eighteenth century, the revolution of Athens and Rome? Why

does the story of the earthquake which has engulfed the city of Lima with

all its inhabitants, three thousand miles away, fill me with sorrow, while

the judicial murder of Charles committed at the Tower only makes me

indignant? It is because the volcano opened in Peru might explode in Paris

and bury me in its ruins, while on the other hand I can never apprehend

anything in the least similar to the unheard of misfortune which befell

the king of England.” This from the pen of Beaumarchais! Beaumarchais, who

in 1784 was to produce his famous _Mariage de Figaro_, of which Napoleon

said it was, “The Revolution in action.” Yes the Revolution, but not at

all like the Revolution in England whose results were only political, but

one which went down to the very foundation of the human soul changing the

psychology of every individual man, woman and child in the fair land of

France and from thence spreading its influence over the entire civilized

world! Here again we have a startling proof of what already has been

advanced, namely that the great actions in the life of Beaumarchais do not

come from his own willing or contriving. In the sublime naïveté of his

genius he became the instrument of those mysterious forces, so gigantic,

which first manifested themselves in France, and whose revolutionary power

continues to be felt over the whole world to-day. For the moment, however,

his thoughts and interests were all for the restricted circle of his

family and friends. He laughed when he thought of the son for whom he was

working. But alas, as no happiness had been denied, so no human calamity

was to escape him, he must drink his cup of grief and abasement to the

dregs.

Already the wife whom he cherished was attacked by a fatal malady which

only could end in the grave, the son for whom he worked so gaily was soon

to follow her; his property was to be seized, his aged father and dearly

loved sister were to be turned adrift. Deprived of his liberty, entangled

in the meshes of a criminal lawsuit and under circumstances so desperate

that no lawyer could be found bold enough to plead his cause, it was then

that the true force and grandeur of his soul were to be made manifest; it

was then that he found himself caught on the crest of that giant wave of

public opinion now forming itself in France, his petty personal affair was

to become the affair of the nation. It was not to be himself as a private

individual who opposed his wrongs against despotic power, but the people

of France found through him a voice crying aloud for vengeance.

But the time was not yet ripe. Beaumarchais, happy in the bosom of his

family, thought only of sweetening the remainder of that life which was

perishing in his arms.

[Illustration: Le Jardin du Petit-Trianon]

“Before his second marriage, Madam Beaumarchais realizing to the full how

difficult it was to see him without loving him,” says Gudin, “and knowing

how much he cherished women in general, said to him, ‘You are a man of

honor, promise me that you will never give me cause for jealousy and I

will believe you.’ He promised her and kept his word.” Gudin further says,

“When she was stricken with a fatal and contagious disease, he was even

more assiduous than before in his devotion. Reading in her eyes the fears

that devoured her, he sought to dissipate them by his care and that host

of little attentions which have so great a price for the hearts which

understand each other. She received them with all the more gratitude in

that she could not fail to realize that she had lost those charms which

had made her attractive, leaving only the memory of what she had been,

joined to the sentiments of a pure soul already on the point of escaping

from a frail body.

“Father, sisters, all the relatives of Beaumarchais, alarmed at his

attachment, trembled lest he too should contract the malady and follow her

to the tomb. She died on the 21st of November, 1770, leaving him the one

son before mentioned. Her fortune, which had consisted almost entirely of

a life income, was cut off with her death.”

Paris du Verney had died the same year. The moment had arrived when the

storm so long gathering was about to break. The first part of the career

of Beaumarchais was over, the dream of a quiet, peaceful life vanished

forever, while stern and unending conflict entered to take its place.

CHAPTER VII

“_La calomnie, Monsieur! vous ne savez guère ce que vous dédaignez; j’ai

vu des plus honnêtes gens prêts d’en être accablés. Croyez qu’il n’y a pas

de plâte méchanceté, pas d’horreurs, pas de conte absurde, qu’on ne fasse

adopter aux oisifs d’une grande ville en s’y prenant bien.... D’abord un

bruit léger rasant le sol comme hirondelle avant l’orage, +pianissimo+

murmure et file, et sème en courant le trait empoisonné. Telle bouche le

recueille, et +piano+, +piano+, vous le glisse en l’oreille adroitement.

Le mal est fait; il germe, il rampe, il chemine et +rinforzando+ de bouche

en bouche il va le diable; puis tout à coup on ne sait comment, vous voyez

la calomnie se dresser, siffler, s’enfler, grandir à vue d’oeil. Elle

s’élance, étend son vol, tourbillonne, enveloppe, arrache, entraine,

éclate et tonne, et devient, grace au ciel, un cri général, un +crescendo+

public, un +chorus+ universel de haine et de proscription. Qui diable y

résisterait?”_

_“Le Barbier de Séville,” Act II, Scene VII._

The Death of Paris Du Verney--The Lawsuit La Blache--Judgment

Rendered in Favor of Beaumarchais--The Comte de La Blache--

Appeals to the New Parliament--Private Life of Beaumarchais

at This Period.

As will be remembered, it was in 1760 that Beaumarchais entered into

relationship with Paris du Verney. During the ten years which followed

there had been considerable movement of capital between the two, very many

business transactions more or less sustained by the old financier,

numerous loans of money, and finally the partnership in the forest of

Chinon, without their ever having arrived at a definite settlement.

Beaumarchais, always minutely careful in matters where money was

concerned, realizing the advanced age of du Verney often had urged upon

his friend the necessity of such a settlement. Finally in April, 1770,

after several years of correspondence, an act was drawn up in duplicate by

Beaumarchais, dated, signed, and sealed by du Verney.

By this act, after a long and detailed enumeration of the rights on both

sides, Beaumarchais gave back to his old friend 160,000 francs of the

latter’s notes and consented to the dissolution of the partnership in the

Forest of Chinon.

Du Verney, on his side, declared Beaumarchais absolved from all debts

against him, recognized that he owed the latter 15,000 francs and obliged

himself to loan 75,000 francs without interest, for eight years.

Du Verney died before the last two clauses had been executed, so that it

was to his heir, the Comte de la Blache, that Beaumarchais presented the

act demanding its execution.

This was the moment for which the count had been so long waiting. Already

for years he had been saying of Beaumarchais, “I hate that man as a lover

loves his mistress.”

M. de Loménie, after giving reasons natural enough for the hatred of an

heir presumptive for a person constantly receiving benefits from an old

man whose fortune he was to inherit, has said, “The Comte de la Blache had

very particular motives for hating Beaumarchais. This latter was closely

united with another nephew of du Verney’s, M. Paris de Meyzieu, a man

distinguished in every way, who had powerfully aided his uncle in the

founding of the École Militaire, but being very much less skillful in the

difficult and painful matter for a man of heart, to secure to himself a

succession to the property--had withdrawn from the contest allowing

himself to be sacrificed to a more distant relative.”

Beaumarchais, finding this sacrifice unjust, had not ceased to combat the

weakness of his old friend du Verney, and to plead for M. de Meyzieu with

a frankness and a vivacity proved by his letters, of which I will only

cite a fragment, but which has relation precisely to the settlement in

question.

“I cannot endure,” he wrote to du Verney on the date of March 9, 1770,

“that in case of death you place me vis-à-vis with M. le Comte de la

Blache, whom I honor with all my heart but who, since I have seen him

familiarly at the house of Madame d’Hauteville, never has given me the

honor of a salutation. You make him your heir, I have nothing to say to

that, but if I must, in case of the greatest misfortune which I could

imagine, be his debtor, I am your servant for the arrangement. I will not

dissolve our partnership. But place me vis-à-vis with my friend Meyzieu,

who is a gallant man, and to whom you owe, my good friend, reparation for

debts of long standing. It is not apologies which an uncle owes to a

nephew, but kindness and above all some benevolent act, when he knows that

he has done him wrong. I never have hidden my opinion in this matter from

you. Put me vis-à-vis with him. This is my last word; you, or in your

absence Meyzieu, or else no dissolution. I have other motives in relation

to this last point, which I will reserve till the time when I can give

them by word of mouth. When do you wish to see me? Because I notify you

that from now until then, things shall remain as they are.”

It is evident from this and similar letters that Beaumarchais had no

illusions as to the difficulties of his situation. With the increasing

failure of the old man’s faculties, his cunning nephew so exercised his

ascendency that it was with the greatest difficulty that Beaumarchais

could obtain an interview with his old friend. Du Verney, it would seem,

hid, so far as possible, all connection which he had with his nephew. This

state of affairs, M. de Loménie assures us, accounted for the absence of

the duplicate acts and all letters in relation to the matter, which alone

could make a lawsuit possible.

When after du Verney’s death, Beaumarchais presented the act, demanding

its execution, the Comte de la Blache coolly replied that he did not

recognize his uncle’s signature and that he believed it false.

The matter was taken to law. Not daring, however, directly to accuse

Beaumarchais of forgery, he demanded that the act be annulled, declaring

that it contained in itself proofs of fraud. Again to quote Loménie, “Thus

Beaumarchais found himself caught in the meshes of an odious snare,

because while not daring to attack him openly for forgery, the Comte de la

Blache did not cease to plead indirectly this possibility and after an

infamous discussion he had the audacity to take advantage of this very act

which he declared false and turned it against his adversary.

“Thus refusing to pay the 15,000 francs recognized by the act signed by du

Verney, he demanded of Beaumarchais payment of 139,000 francs from which

the act discharged him.”

“In this way,” said Master Caillard, a very ingenious lawyer chosen by the

Comte de la Blache, “justice will be avenged, and honest citizens will see

with satisfaction a similar adversary taken in the snares which he has

himself set.”

Not to enter too deeply into the tedious details of this suit, we will

content ourselves with a few pages taken from the account of M. de Loménie

as giving a sufficiently clear idea of its nature as a whole.

He says, “Let us suppose that Beaumarchais had wished to fabricate a false

act, would he have given it the form of this one? It is a great sheet of

double paper, very complicated details of the settlement written by the

hand of Beaumarchais fill the first two pages, at the end of the second

page it is signed on the right by Beaumarchais, and on the left dated and

signed by the hand of du Verney, the third page contains a résumé of the

same settlement. What did the lawyer of the Comte de la Blache say of

this? He discussed it with the facility of a lawyer. At times he

insinuated that the signature of du Verney was false, then when summoned

to plead the falsity of the act he declared that if it was true, that it

belonged to a date earlier than 1770, ‘at which time,’ he said, ‘the old

du Verney had a trembling hand, while the one at the foot of the act is a

bold writing from a hand firm and light.’

“Here the lawyer pretended not to see that just above the signature was

written in the same hand these words, ‘At Paris, the 1st of April, 1770,’

that is to say that du Verney had not only signed, but dated the act in

question, which obliged one to suppose that the old financier had amused

himself in his youth or in mature years in signing and dating in advance,

blank signatures for the period of his old age. Repelled on this side the

lawyer insinuates that the paper must be a blank signature signed and

dated by du Verney in 1770, secured and filled by Beaumarchais.”

Feeling the weakness of his arguments, the lawyer came back to the clauses

which were complicated, diffuse, and mixed with observations foreign to

the settlement in question; this was true, but in favor of Beaumarchais,

because had he been fabricating an act, it would have been brief,

methodical, and clear, while in regulating a long account with an old man

of eighty-seven this act must necessarily correspond to the prolixity, or

the fantasies of, this advanced age.

But one will say, why, when he had only to contend against such feeble

arguments, was it possible for Beaumarchais, after gaining his suit in the

first instance to lose it in the second, as we shall presently see him do?

The story is long and involved, and many pictures are needed to convey the

scene in all its intensity and intricacy.

A sentence dated February 22, 1772, rejects the demand of the Comte de la

Blache, and a second dated March 4th, 1772, orders the execution of the

act. Upon this the adversary appeals to the grand chamber of Parliament.

Although victorious in his struggle, Beaumarchais was vilified by the

crafty Caillard to the extent of the latter’s power. The credit and

influence of the Comte de la Blache excited against him a swarm of

writers, and the gazettes, especially the foreign periodicals, made the

most of all the atrocious calumnies which had been set going regarding his

character. The sudden death of his two wives served as a pretext for the

most infamous accusations. All the confusing details of this disastrous

lawsuit have been fully investigated and the whole matter clearly exposed

by M. de Loménie and we know that the final decision rendered at Aix in

1778 exonerated Beaumarchais from every semblance of fault or dishonorable

action. That which concerns us at this time is to learn what effect all

these infamous machinations had upon a character which we have recognized

already as strong, elevated, and free.

From the bitterness of the attacks of his enemies, let us turn to the

refreshing and faithful picture which his devoted friend Gudin makes of

him at this time.

He writes: “It was in the winter of 1771 that I met Madame de Miron,

sister of Beaumarchais, at the home of a woman of my acquaintance. She had

been invited to a reading of one of my poems. In the beginning she showed

no interest, but as I read, her face became animated and at the end she

was as prodigal of her praise, as at first she had been indifferent. She

spoke to me of her brother. She found me without prejudice for his dramas,

but naturally biased in regard to his character of which I had heard much

adverse criticism.

“Satisfied with my discourse, she resolved to conquer me for her brother

and accordingly invited me to dine with her at a time when the abbé

Délille was to read some verses still unknown to the public.

“Given to study and retirement, rather reserved in my friendships, and not

desiring to make new ones, I refused at first; she urged my acceptance

with so much grace, however, that I could not persist in my refusal.

“I went to her home, I found the abbé, I applauded his verses as all Paris

has since done, but I did not see the brother of the mistress of the

house....

“At last one evening, while I was visiting Madame de Miron, he came in.

She presented him to me and begged me to recite some verses of the poem

which had made her wish to interest me in him.

“He showed the same indifference as his sister had done at the beginning,

but glowed with even finer interest as I proceeded. He wished to take me

at once to sup with him with Madame le Comtesse de Mir.... I refused

absolutely, and did not yield to any of his solicitations although they

were very ardent. I did not wish that my first step should give him the

idea of a frivolous man who could be disposed of lightly.

“The next morning he called on me and brought me an invitation from Madame

le Comtesse de Mir ... and in the evening he came for me. Two days later

he invited me to his house, presented me to his father, to the one sister

who lived with him, and whom I had never met.