Collaboration
I had to let a few days go by before I had the courage to return to
my own verses after having heard and re-read those of Hugo. I felt
inclined to do to _Charles VII._ what Harel had asked me to do to
_Christine_: to put it into prose. Finally, I gathered together some
friends at my house, and read them my new drama. But, whether I read
badly or whether they came to me with biased minds, the reading did
not have the effect upon them that I expected. This want of success
discouraged me. Two days later, I had to read to Harel, who had already
sent me my premium of a thousand francs, and also to Georges, to whom
the part of Bérengère was allotted. I wrote to Harel not to count on
the play and I sent him back his thousand francs. I decided not to have
my drama played. Harel believed neither in my abnegation nor in my
honesty. He came rushing to me in alarm. I laid my reasons before him,
taking as many pains to depreciate my work as another would have done
to exalt his. But to everything I said Harel took exception, repeating--
"It is not that ... it is not that ... it is not that!"
"What, then, is it?" I exclaimed.
"The Théâtre-Français had offered you five thousand francs premium!"
"Me?"
"I know it."
"Me, five thousand francs premium?"
"I tell you I know it, and in proof ..." He drew five one-thousand
franc notes from his pocket.
"The proof lies here in the five thousand francs I bring you." And he
held out the five notes to me.
I took one of them.
"All right," I said, "there is nothing to change in the programme; I
will read it the day after to-morrow. Only, tell Lockroy to be at the
reading."
"Well, what about the remaining four thousand francs?"
"They do not belong to me, my dear fellow; therefore you must take them
back."
Harel scratched his ear and looked at me sideways. It was evident he
did not understand.
Poor Harel! how sharp he was!
Two days later, before Harel, Georges, Janin and Lockroy I read the
play with immense success. It was at once put in rehearsal and was to
appear soon after a drama of _Mirabeau_, which was being studied. I
would fain say what the drama of _Mirabeau_ was like, but I cannot now
remember. All I know is that the principal part was for Frédérick, and
that they thought a great deal of the work.
_Charles VII._ was distributed as follows:--Savoisy, Ligier; Bérengère,
Georges; Yaqoub, Lockroy; Charles VII., Delafosse: Agnes Sorel, Noblet.
This business of the distribution done, I immediately turned to
_Richard_; its wholly modern colouring, political theme, vivid and
rather coarse treatment was more in accord with my own age and special
tastes than studies of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Let me
hasten to say that I was then not anything like as familiar with those
periods as I am now.
I wrote to Goubaux that I was at his disposition if it pleased him
to come, either next day to breakfast at my house, or at his own if
he preferred. We had become neighbours; I had left my lodgings in
the rue de l'Université and had taken a third floor in the square
d'Orléans, a very fine house just built in the rue Saint-Lazare, 42,
where several of my friends already lived, Zimmermann, Étienne Arago,
Robert Fleury and Gué. I believe Zimmermann and Robert Fleury still
live there: Gué is dead and Étienne Arago is in exile. Goubaux, who
lived at No. 19 rue Blanche, fixed a rendezvous there for six in
the evening. We were to dine first and talk of _Richard Darlington_
afterwards. I say _talk_, because, at the time of reading, it was found
that hardly anything had been written. However, Goubaux had found
several guide-posts to serve as beacons for our three acts. There were,
pre-eminently, traits of character to suit ambitious actors. One of
the principal was where Dr. Grey recalls to Richard and Mawbray, when
Richard is about to marry Jenny, the circumstances of the famous night
which formed the subject of the prologue, relating how a carriage
stopped at the door. "Had that carriage a _coat of arms?_" asked
Richard. Another item, still more remarkable, was given me to make what
I liked of it: the daughter of Da Sylva, Caroline, Richard's mother,
has married a Lord Wilmor; it is his daughter who is to marry Richard,
led away by the king determined to divorce Jenny. Only, Caroline, who
sees no more in Richard than an influential Member of Parliament, one
day destined to become a minister, demands an interview with Richard
to reveal a great secret to him; the secret is the existence of a
boy who was lost in the little village of Darlington, and who, being
her son, has the right to her fortune. Richard listens with growing
attention; then, at one particular passage, Wilmor's recital coincides
so remarkably with that of Mawbray as to leave no room for doubt in his
mind; but, instead of revealing himself, instead of flinging himself
into the arms of the woman who confesses her shame and weeps, asking
for her child back again, he gently disengages himself from her in
order to say to himself in a whisper, "She is my mother!" and to ask
himself, still in a whisper, "Who can my father be?" Finally, Richard
accepts the king's proposals; he must get rid of his wife, no matter
at what price, even were it that of a crime. This is about as far as
the work had progressed at our first talk with Goubaux. I kept my word
and brought the prologue entirely finished. I had done it exactly
as Goubaux had imagined it should be written; I had, therefore, but
to take courage and to continue. While Goubaux talked, my mind was
gathering up all the threads he held, and, like an active weaver, in
less than an hour, I had almost entirely sketched out the plan on my
canvas. I shared my mental travail with him, all unformed as it was.
The divorce scene between Richard and his wife, in especial, delighted
me immensely. A scene of Schiller had returned to my memory, a scene of
marvellous beauty and vigour. I saw how I could apply the scene between
Philip II. and Elizabeth, to Richard and Jenny. I will give the two
scenes in due course. All this preparatory work was settled between
us;--in addition to this, it was decided that Goubaux and Beudin should
write the election scene together, for which I had not the necessary
data, while Beudin had been present at scenes of this nature in London.
Then Goubaux looked at me.
"Only one thing troubles me now," he said.
"Only one?"
"Yes; I see all the rest of the play, which cannot fail to turn out all
right in your hands."
"Then what is the thing that troubles you?"
"The _dénoûment._"
"Why the _dénoûment?_ We have got that already."
Mawbray comes forward as witness and says to Richard, who is about to
sign: 'You are my son, and I am the executioner!' Richard falls to the
ground and a fit of apoplexy sends him to the devil, which is the right
place for him."
"No, that is not it at all," said Goubaux, shaking his head.
"What is it then?"
"It is the way in which he gets rid of his wife."
"Ah!" I said. "And you have no idea how that is to be done?"
"I had indeed some idea of making him put poison in her tea."
It was now my turn to shake my head.
"The death of Jenny must be caused by something in the situation, an
act of frenzy, not by premeditation."
"Oh, yes! I am well aware of that ... but think of a dagger thrust ...
Richard is not an Antony, he does not carry daggers about in his coat
pockets!"
"Then," said I, "he shall not stab her."
"But if he does not poison her or stab her what shall he do?"
"Chuck her out of the window!"
"What?"
I repeated my phrase.
"I must have misunderstood you," said Goubaux.
"No."
"But, my dear friend, you must be out of your mind."
"Leave it to me."
"But it is impossible!"
"I see the scene ... just when Richard thinks Jenny has been carried
off by Tompson, he finds her hidden in the cupboard of the very room
where they are going to sign the contract; at the same moment he
hears the steps of Da Sylva and his daughter on the staircase. In
order not to be surprised with Jenny, there is but one way out of the
difficulty--to throw her out of the window. So he throws her out of the
window."
"I must confess you frighten me with your methods of procedure! In the
second act, he breaks Jenny's head against the furniture; in the third
act he flings her out of the window. . . . Oh! come, come!"
"Listen, let me finish the thing as I like--then, if it is absurd, we
will alter it."
"Will you listen to reason?"
"I? Set your mind at rest; when I am convinced, I will, if necessary,
reconstruct the whole play from beginning to end."
"When will the first act be ready?"
"What day of the week is this?"
"Monday."
_"_ Come and dine with me on Thursday: it will be done."
"But your rehearsals at the Odéon?"
"Bah! The parts are being collated to-day; for a fortnight they will
read round a table or rehearse with the parts in their hands. By the
end of the fortnight Richard will be finished."
_"Amen!_"
"Adieu."
"Are you going already?"
"I must get to work."
"At what?"
"Why at _Richard_, of course! Do you think I have too much time? Our
first act is not an easy one to begin."
"Don't forget the part of Tompson!"
"You needn't be anxious, I have it ... When we come to the scene where
Mawbray kills him we will give him a Shakespearian death!"
"Mawbray kills him then?"
"Yes ... Did I not tell you that?"
"No."
"The deuce! does it displease you, then, that Mawbray kills Tompson?"
"I? Not the slightest."
"You will leave it to me? Tompson?"
"Certainly."
"Then he is a dead man. Adieu."
I ran off and got into bed. At that time I still maintained the
habit of writing my dramas in bed. Whilst I wrote the first scene of
the first act, Goubaux and Beudin did the election scene, a lively,
animated scene, full of character. When Goubaux came to dine with me,
on the following Thursday, everything was ready and the two scenes
could be fitted together. I then began on the second act, that is to
say, upon the vital part of the drama. Richard's talent has caused him
to reach the front rank of the Opposition, and he refuses all offers
made him by the ministers; but he is cleverly brought in contact with
an unknown benefactor, who makes him such offers and promises that
Richard sells his conscience to become the son-in-law of Lord Wilmor
and to be a minister. It is in the second scene of that act that
the divorce incident takes place between Richard and Jenny, which
was imitated from Schiller. On the Tuesday following we had a fresh
meeting. All went swimmingly, except the scene between the king and
Richard. I had completely failed in this, and so Goubaux undertook to
remould it, and he made it what it is, that is to say, one of the best
and cleverest in the work. Here is the scene imitated from Schiller--
"ACTE IV.--SCENE IX.
LE ROI.--Je ne me connais plus moi-même! je ne respecte
plus aucune voix, aucune loi de la nature, aucun droit des
nations!
LA REINE.--Combien je plains Votre Majesté!
LE ROI.--Me plaindre? La pitié d'une impudique!
L'INFANTE, _se jetant tout effrayée dans les bras de sa
mère._--Le roi est en colère, et ma mère chérie pleure! (_Le
roi arrache l'infante des bras de sa mère._)
LA REINE, _avec douceur et dignité mais à une voix
tremblante._--Je dois pourtant garantir cette enfant des
mauvais traitements!... Viens avec moi, ma fille! (_Elle la
prend dans ses bras._) Si le roi ne veut pas te reconnaîtra,
je ferai venir de l'autre côté des Pyrénées des protecteurs
pour défendre notre cause!
(_Elle veut sortir._)
LE ROI, _trouble._--Madame!
LA REINE.--Je ne puis plus supporter ... C'en est trop!
(_Elle s'avance vers la porte, mais s'évanouit et tombe avec
l'infante._)
LE ROI, _courant a elle avec effroi._--Dieu! qu'est-ce donc?
L'INFANTE, _avec des cris de frayeur._--Hélas! ma mère
saigne! (_Elle s'enfuit en pleurant._)
LE ROI, _avec anxiété._--Quel terrible accident! Du sang!
... Ai-je mérité que vous me punissiez si cruellement?...
Levez-vous! remettez-vous ... On vient ... levez-vous ...
On vous surprendra ... levez-vous!... Faut-il que toute ma
cour se repaisse de ce spectacle? Faut-il donc vous prier de
vous lever?..."
Now to _Richard._ Richard wants to force Jenny to sign the act of
divorce and she refuses.
"JENNY.--Mais que voulez-vous donc, alors? Expliquez-vous
clairement; car tantôt je comprends trop, et tantôt pas
assez.
RICHARD.--Pour vous et pour moi, mieux vaut un consentement
mutuel.
JENNY.--Vous m'avez donc crue bien lâche? Que, moi, j'aille
devant un juge, sans y être traînée par les cheveux,
déclarer de ma voix, signer de ma main que je ne suis pas
digne d'être l'épouse de sir Richard? Vous ne me connaissez
donc pas, vous qui croyez que je ne suis bonne qu'aux soins
d'un ménage dédaigné; que me croyez anéantie par l'absence;
qui pensez que je ploierai parce que vous appuierez le poing
sur ma tête; Dans le temps de mon bonheur, oui, cela aurait
pu être; mais mes larmes ont retrempé mon cœur; mes nuits
d'insomnie ont affermi mon courage? le malheur enfin m'a
fait une volonté! Ce que je suis, je vous le dois, Richard;
c'est votre faute; ne vous en prenez donc qu'a vous ...
Maintenant, voyons! à qui aura le plus de courage, du faible
ou du fort. Sir Richard, je ne veux pas!
RICHARD.--Madame, jusqu'ici, je n'ai fait entendre que des
paroles de conciliation.
JENNY.--Essayez d'avoir recours à d'autres!
RICHARD, _marchant à elle._--Jenny!
JENNY, _froidement._--Richard!
RICHARD.--Malheureuse! savez-vous ce dont je suis capable?
JENNY.--Je le devine.
RICHARD.--Et vous ne tremblez pas?
JENNY.--Voyez.
RICHARD, _lui prenant les mains._--Femme!
JENNY, _tombant à genoux de la secousse._--Ah!...
RICHARD.--A genoux!
JENNY, _les mains au ciel._--Mon Dieu, ayez pitié de lui!
(_Elle se releve._)
RICHARD.--Ah! c'est de vous qu'il a pitié, car je m'en vais
... Adieu, Jenny; demandez au ciel que ce soit pour toujours!
JENNY, _courant à lui, et lui jetant les bras autour du
you._--Richard! Richard! ne t'en va pas!
RICHARD.--Laissez-moi partir.
JENNY.--Si tu savais comme je t'aime!
RICHARD.--Prouvez-le-moi.
JENNY.--Ma mère! ma mère!
RICHARD--Voulez-vous?
JENNY.---Tu me l'avais bien dit!
RICHARD.--Un dernier mot.
JENNY.--Ne le dis pas.
RICHARD.--Consens-tu?
JENNY.--Écoute-moi.
RICHARD.--Consens-tu? (_Jenny se tait._) C'est bien. Mais
plus de messages, plus de lettres ... Que rien ne vous
rappelle à moi, que je ne sache même pas que vous existez!
Je vous laisse une jeunesse sans époux, une vieillesse sans
enfant.
JENNY.--Pas d'imprécations! pas d'imprécations!
RICHARD.--Adieu!
JENNY.--Vous ne partirez pas!
RICHARD.--Damnation!
JENNY.--Vous me tuerez plutôt!
RICHARD.--Ah! laissez-moi! (_Jenny, repoussée, va tomber la
tête sur l'angle d'un meuble._)
JENNY.--Ah!... (_Elle se relève tout ensanglantée._) Ah!
Richard!... (_Elle chancelle en étendant les bras de son
côté, et retombe._) Il faut que je vous aime bien! (_Elle
Évanouit._)
RICHARD.--Évanouie!... blessée!... du sang!...
Malédiction!... Jenny!... Jenny! (_Il la porte sur
un fauteuil._) Et ce sang qui ne s'arrête pas ... (_Il
l'étanche avec son mouchoir._) Je ne peux cependant pas
rester éternellement ici. (_Il se rapproche d'elle._) Jenny,
finissons ... Je me retire ... Tu ne veux pas répondre?...
Adieu donc!..."
There remained the last act; it was composed of three scenes: the first
takes place in Richard's house in London, the second in a forest,
the third in Jenny's chamber. My reader knows the engagement I had
undertaken, to have Jenny thrown out of the window. Very well, I boldly
prepared myself to keep it, and I wrote the scene in my bed, as usual.
This is the situation: Mawbray has killed Tompson, who carried Jenny
off, and has brought her into the room where in the second act the
scene between her and her husband took place. This room has only two
doors: one leading to the stairs, the other into a cupboard, and one
window, the view from which looks deep down into a precipice. Scarcely
is Jenny left alone with her terror,--for she has no doubt that it is
her husband who has had her carried off,--than she hears and recognises
Richard's step. Not able to flee she takes refuge in the cabinet.
Richard enters.
"RICHARD.--J'arrive à temps! À peine si je dois avoir, sur
le marquis et sa famille, une demi-heure d'avance.--James,
apportez des flambeaux, et tenez-vous à la porte pour
conduire ici les personnes qui arriveront dans un instant
... Bien ... Allez! (_Tirant sa montre._) Huit heures!
Tompson doit être maintenant à Douvres, et, demain matin,
il sera à Calais. Dieu le conduise!... Voyons si rien
n'indique que cet appartement a été habité par une femme.
(_Apercevant le chapeau et le châle que Jenny vient de
déposer sur une chaise._) La précaution n'était pas inutile
... Que faire de cela? Je n'ai pas la clef des armoires
... Les jeter par la fenêtre: on les retrouvera demain ...
Ah! des lumières sur le haut de la montagne ... C'est sans
doute le marquis; il est exact ... Mais où diable mettre ces
chiffons? Ah! ce cabinet ...j'en retirerai la clef. (_Il
ouvre le cabinet._)
JENNY.--Ah!
RICHARD, _la saisissant par le bras._--Qui est là?
JENNY.--Moi, moi, Richard ... Ne me faites point de mal!
RICHARD, _l'attirant sur le théâtre_.--Jenny! mais c'est
donc un démon qui me la jette à la face toutes les fois que
je crois être débarrassé d'elle?... Que faites-vous ici?
qui vous y ramène? Parlez vite ...
JENNY.--Mawbray!
RICHARD.--Mawbray! toujours Mawbray! Où est-il, que je ma
venge enfin sur un homme?
JENNY.--Il est loin ... bien loin ... reparti pour Londres
... Grâce pour lui!
RICHARD.--Eh bien?
JENNY.--Il a arrêté la voiture.
RICHARD.--Après?... Ne voyez-vous pas que je brûle?
JENNY.--Et moi, que je ...
RICHARD.--Après? vous dis-je?
JENNY.--Ils se sont battus.
RICHARD.--Et?...
JENNY.--Et Mawbray a tué Tompson.
RICHARD.--Enfer!... Alors, il vous a ramenée ici?
JENNY.--Oui ... oui.. pardon!
RICHARD.--Jenny, écoutez!
JENNY.--C'est le roulement d'une voiture.
RICHARD.--Cette voiture ...
JENNY.--Eh bien?
RICHARD.--Elle amène ma femme et sa famille.
JENNY.--Votre femme et sa famille!... Et moi, moi, que
suis-je donc?
RICHARD.--Vous, Jenny? vous?... Vous êtes mon mauvais
génie! vous êtes l'abîme où vont s'engloutir toutes mes
espérances! vous êtes le démon qui me pousse à l'échafaud,
car je ferai un crime!
JENNY.--Oh! mon Dieu!
RICHARD.--C'est qu'il n'y à plus a reculer, voyez-vous! vous
n'avez pas voulu signer le divorce, vous n'avez pas voulu
quitter l'Angleterre ...
JENNY.--Oh! maintenant, maintenant, je veux tout ce que vous
voudrez.
RICHARD.--Eh! maintenant, il est trop tard!
JENNY.--Qu'allez-vous donc faire alors?
RICHARD.--Je ne sais ... mais priez Dieu!
JENNY.--Richard!
RICHARD, _lui mettant la main sur la bouche._--Silence!
ne les entendez-vous pas? ne les entendez-vous pas? Ils
montent!... ils montent!... ils vont trouver une femme
ici!"
Here I stopped short. I had gone as far as I could go. But there was
the question of keeping my promise to Goubaux. I leapt out of my bed.
It is impossible! I cried out to myself, and Goubaux said well. Richard
is to be forced to take his wife, and drag her towards the window;
she will defend herself; the public will not bear the sight of that
struggle and it will be perfectly right ... Besides, when he lifts
her up over the balcony, Richard will give the spectators a view of
his wife's legs: the spectators will laugh, which is much worse than
if they hissed ... Decidedly I am a fool. There must be some way out
of the difficulty!... But it was not easy to find means. I racked my
brains for a fortnight all in vain. Goubaux had no notion of the time
it took me to compose the third act. He wrote me letter after letter.
I did not wish to tell him the real cause of my delay; I made all
sorts of excuses: I was busy with my rehearsals; I had gone to see my
daughter at her nurse's house; I had a shooting party and all sorts
of other things;--all pretexts nearly as valid as those which Pierre
Schlemihl gave in excuse for not having a shadow. Finally, one fine
night, I woke up with a start, crying like Archimedes Ευρηκα! and in
the same costume as he, I ran, not through the streets of Syracuse,
but into the corners and recesses of my bedroom to find a tinder-box.
When the candles were lit, I got back into bed and took hold of my
pencil and manuscript, shrugging my shoulders in disgust at myself.
Good Heavens! said I, it is as simple as Christopher Columbus's egg;
only, one must break the end off! The end was broken; there was no
more difficulty, Jenny no longer would have to risk showing her ankles
and Richard would still throw his wife out of the window. Behold the
mechanism thereof! After the words: "Ils vont trouver une femme ici!"
Richard ran to the door, closed it and double-locked it. Meanwhile,
Jenny ran to the window and cried from the balcony, "Help! help!"
Richard followed her precipitately; Jenny fell on her knees. A noise
was heard on the stairs; Richard closed the two shutters of the window
on himself, shutting himself out with Jenny on the balcony. A cry was
heard. Richard, pale and wiping his brow, reopened the two shutters
with a blow of his fist; he was alone on the balcony; Jenny had
disappeared! The trick was taken.
By eight o'clock next morning I was writing the last line of the third
act of _Richard_, and, by nine, I was with Goubaux; by ten, he had
acknowledged that the window was, indeed, Jenny's only way of exit.
BOOK IV
CHAPTER I
The feudal edifice and the industrial--The workmen of
Lyons--M. Bouvier-Dumolard--General Roguet--Discussion
and signing of the tariff regulating the price of the
workmanship of fabrics--The makers refuse to submit to
it--_Artificial prices_ for silk-workers--Insurrection
of Lyons--Eighteen millions on the civil list--Timon's
calculations--An unlucky saying of M. de Montalivet
During this time three political events of the gravest importance took
place: Lyons broke into insurrection ; the civil list was debated; the
Chamber passed the law abolishing the heredity of the peerage. We will
pass these three events in review as rapidly as possible, but we owe it
to the scheme of these Memoirs to make a note of the principal details.
It must be clear that every time the country has been in trouble we
have listened to its cry. Let us begin with Lyons.
Everybody knows Lyons, a poor, dirty town with a canopy of smoke and a
jumble of wealth and misery, where people dare not drive through the
streets in carriages, not for fear of running over the passengers but
for fear of being insulted; where for forty thousand unfortunate human
beings the twenty-four hours of the day contain eighteen hours of work,
noise and agony. You remember Hugo's beautiful comparison in the fourth
act of _Hernani_--
"Un édifice avec deux hommes au sommet,
Deux chefs élus auxquels tout roi-né se soumet.
. . . . . Être ce qui commence,
Seul, debout au plus haut de la spirale immense,
D'une foule d'États l'un sur l'autre étagés
Être la clef de voûte, et voir sous soi rangés
Les rois, et sur leurs fronts essuyer ses sandales,
Voir, au-dessous des rois, les maisons féodales,
Margraves, cardinaux, doges, ducs à fleurons;
Puis évêques, abbés, chefs de clans, hauts barons;
Puis clercs et soldats; puis, loin du faite où nous sommes,
Dans l'ombre, tout au fond de l'abîme, les hommes."
Well, in comparison with this aristocratie pyramid, crowned by _those
two halves of God, the Pope and the Emperor_, resplendent with gold
and diamonds on everyone of its stages, put the popular pyramid, by
the aid of which we are going to try to make you understand what
Lyons is like, and you will have, not an exact pendant to it but, on
the contrary, a terrible contrast. So, imagine a spiral composed of
three stages: at the top, eight hundred manufacturers; in the middle,
ten thousand foremen; at the base, supporting this immense weight
which rests entirely on them, forty thousand workmen. Then, buzzing,
gleaning, picking about this spiral like hornets round a hive, are
the commissionaires, the parasites of the manufacturers, and those
who supply raw materials to the trade. Now, the commercial mechanism
of this immense machine is easy to understand. These commissionaires
live on the manufacturers; the manufacturers live on the foremen; the
foremen live on the workpeople. Add to this the Lyonnais industry, the
only one by which these fifty to sixty thousand souls live, attacked at
all points by competition--England producing and striking a double blow
at Lyons, first because she has ceased to supply herself from there,
and, secondly, because she is producing on her own account--Zurich,
Bâle, Cologne and Berne, all setting up looms, and becoming rivals
of the second town of France. Forty years ago, when the continental
system of 1810 compelled the whole of France to supply itself from
Lyons, the workman earned from four to six francs a day. Then he could
easily provide for his wife and the numerous family which nearly always
results from the improvidence of the working-man. But, since the fall
of the Empire, for the past seventeen years wages have been on the
decline, from four francs to forty sous, then to thirty-five, then to
thirty, then to twenty-five. Finally, at the time we have now reached,
the ordinary weaving operative only earns eighteen sous per day for
eighteen hours work. One son per hour!... It is a starvation wage.
The unfortunate workmen struggled in silence for a long time, trying,
as each quarter came round, to move into smaller rooms, to more noxious
quarters; trying, day by day, to economise something in the shape of
their meals and those of their children. But, at last, when they came
face to face with the deadening effect of bad air and of starvation
for want of bread, there went up from the Croix-Rousse,--appropriate
names, are they not?--that is to say, from the working portion of the
city--a great sob, like that which Dante heard when he was passing
through the first circle of the Inferno. It was the cry of one hundred
thousand sufferers. Two men were in command at Lyons, one representing
the civil power, the other the military: a préfet and a general. The
préfet was called Bouvier-Dumolard; the general's name was Roguet. The
first, in his administrative capacity, came in contact with all classes
of society, and was able to study that dark and profound misery; a
misery, all the more terrible, because no remedy could be found for
it, and because it went on increasing every day. As for the general,
since he knew his soldiers had five sous per day, and that each of them
had a ration sufficiently ample for a _canut_ (silk-weaver) to feed
his wife and children upon, he never troubled his head about anything
else. The cry of misery of the poor famished creatures therefore
affected the general and the préfet very differently. They made
their separate inquiries as to the cause of this cry of misery. The
workpeople demanded a tariff. General Roguet called a business meeting
and demanded repressive measures. M. Bouvier-Dumolard, on the contrary,
seeing the tradespeople in council, asked them for an increase of
salary. On 11 October this council issued the following minute:--
"As it is a matter of public notoriety that many of the
manufacturers actually pay for their fabrics at too low a
rate, it is advisable that _a minimum_ tariff be fixed for
the price of fabrics."
Consequently, a meeting was held at the Hôtel de la Préfecture on 15
October. The tariff was discussed on both sides by twenty-two workmen
appointed by their comrades, and twenty-two manufacturers who were
appointed by the Chamber of Commerce.
That measure, presuming that it needed a precedent before it could be
legalised, had been authorised in 1789, by the Constituent Assembly,
in 1793 by the Convention and, finally, in 1811 by the Empire. Nothing
was settled at the first meeting. On 21 October a new assembly was
convoked at the same place, and with the same object. The manufacturers
were less pressing than the workmen: that is conceivable enough: they
have to give and the workmen to receive; they have to lose and the
workmen to gain. The manufacturers said that having been officially
appointed they could not bind their confrères. A third meeting was
arranged to give them time to obtain a power of attorney. Meanwhile
workpeople died of hunger. This meeting was fixed for 25 October. The
life or death of forty thousand operatives, that of their fathers and
mothers, their wives and their children, the very existence of over one
hundred thousand persons was to be discussed at that sitting. So, the
unusual, lamentable and fearful spectacle was to be seen, at ten in the
morning, of this unfortunate people waiting outside in the place de la
Préfecture to hear their sentence. But there was not a single weapon
to be seen among those thousands of supplicants! A weapon would have
prevented them from joining their hands together, and they only wanted
to pray.
The préfet, terrified by that multitude, terrified of its very silence,
came forward. Amongst all that sixty to eighty thousand persons of all
ages and of both sexes, there were nearly thirty thousand men.
"My good people," said the préfet to them, "I beg you to withdraw--it
will be to your own interests to do so. If you stay there the tariff
will seem to have been imposed by your presence. Now, in order to be
valid, the deliberations must be doubly free: free in reality and free
in appearance."
All these famished voices with laboured breathings summoned strength to
shout, "Vive le préfet!" Then they humbly retired without complaint or
comment.
The tariff was signed: the result was an increase of twenty-five per
cent--not quite five sous per day. But five sous per day meant the
lives of two children. So there was great joy throughout that poor
multitude: the workmen illuminated their windows, and sang and danced
far into the night. Their joy was very innocent, but the manufacturers
thought the songs were songs of triumph and the Carmagnole dances
meant a second '93. And they were made the means of refusing the
tariff. A week had not gone before there were ten or a dozen refusals
to carry it out. The Trades Council censured those who refused. The
manufacturers met and decided that instead of a partial refusal they
would all protest. And so a hundred and four manufacturers protested,
declaring that they did not think themselves compelled to come to the
assistance of men who were bolstered up by _artificial prices_ (_des
besoins factices_). _Artificial prices_, at eighteen sous per day! what
sybarites! The préfet, who was a goodhearted fellow but vacillating,
drew back before that protest. The Trades Council in turn drew back
when they saw that the préfet had given way. Both Trades Council and
préfet declared that the tariff was not at all obligatory, and that
those of the manufacturers who wished to avoid the increase of wage
imposed had the right to do it. Six to seven hundred, out of the
eight hundred manufacturers, took advantage of the permission. The
unfortunate weavers then decided to go on strike for a week, during
which time they walked the town as unarmed suppliants, making no
demonstration beyond affectionate and grateful salutations to those
of the manufacturers who were more humane than the others and had
observed the tariff. This humble attitude only hardened the hearts of
the manufacturers: one of them received a deputation of workmen with
pistols on his table; another, when the wretched men said to him, "For
two days we have not had a morsel of bread in our stomachs," replied,
"--Well then, we must thrust bayonets into them!" General Roguet, also,
who was ill and, consequently, in a bad temper, placarded the Riot Act.
The préfet realised all the evils that would accrue from putting such
a measure into force, and went to General Roguet to try to get him to
withdraw it. General Roguet declined to receive him. There are strange
cases of blindness, and military leaders are especially liable to such
fits.
Thirty thousand workpeople--unarmed, it is true, but one knows how
rapidly thirty thousand men can arm themselves--were moving about
the streets of Lyons; General Roguet had under his command only the
66th regiment of the line, three squadrons of dragoons, one battalion
of the 13th and some companies of engineers: barely three thousand
soldiers in all. He persisted in his policy of provocation. It was 19
November; the general, under the pretext of a reception for General
Ordomont, commanded a review on the place Bellecour to be held on
the following day. It was difficult not to see an underlying menace
in that order. Unfortunately, those threatened had begun to come to
the end of their patience. What one of their number had said was no
poetic metaphor--many had not tasted food for forty-eight hours. Two
or three more days of patience on the part of the military authority,
and they need have had no more fear: the people would be dead. On
21 November--it was a Monday--four hundred silk-workers gathered at
the Croix-Rousse. They proceeded to march, headed by their syndics,
and with no other arms but sticks. They realised things had come to
a crisis and they resolved to go from workshop to workshop, and to
persuade their comrades to come out on strike with them until the
tariff should be adopted in a serious and definitive manner. Suddenly,
as they turned the corner of a street, they found themselves face to
face with sixty or so of the National Guard on patrol. An officer,
carried away by a war-like impulse, shouted when he saw them, "Lads,
let us sweep away all that _canaille._" And, drawing his sword, he
sprang upon the workmen, the sixty National Guards following him with
fixed bayonets. Twenty-five of the sixty National Guards were disarmed
in a trice; the rest took to flight. Then, satisfied with their
first victory, without changing the wholly peaceful nature of their
demonstration, the workmen took each other's arms again and, marching
four abreast, began to descend what is known as la Grante-Côte. But the
fugitives had given the alarm. A column of the National Guard of the
first legion, entirely composed of manufacturers, took up arms in hot
haste, and advanced resolutely to encounter the workmen. These were two
clouds, charged with electricity, hurled against each other by contrary
currents and the collision meant lightning.
The column of the National Guard fired; eight workmen fell. After that,
it was a species of extermination--blood had flowed. At Paris, in 1830,
the people had fought for an idea, and they had fought well; at Lyons,
in 1831, they were going to fight for bread and they would fight better
still. A terrible, formidable, great cry went up throughout the whole
of the labour quarter of the city: To arms! They are murdering our
brothers!
Then anger set that vast hive buzzing which hunger had turned dumb.
Each household turned into the streets every man that it contained old
enough to fight; all had arms of one sort or another: one had a stick,
another a fork, some had guns. In the twinkling of an eye barricades
were constructed by the women and children; a group of insurgents,
amidst loud cheers, carried off two pieces of cannon belonging to the
National Guard of the Croix-Rousse; the National Guard not only let the
cannon be taken but actually offered them. If it did not pursue the
operatives into their intrenchments it would remain neutral; but if the
barricades were attacked it would defend them with guns and cartridge.
Next evening, forty thousand men were armed ready, hugging the banners
which bore these words, the most ominous, probably, ever traced by the
bloody hand of civil war--
VIVRE EN TRAVAILLANT
OU
MOURIR EN COMBATTANT!
They killed each other through the whole of the night of the 21st,
and the whole day of the 22nd. Oh! how fiercely do compatriots,
fellow-citizens and brothers kill one another! Fifty years hence civil
war will be the only warfare possible. By seven o'clock at night all
was over, and the troops beat a retreat before the people, vanquished
at every point. At midnight, General Roguet, lifted up bodily on
horseback, where he shook with fever, left the town, which he found
impossible to hold any longer. He withdrew by way of the faubourg
Saint-Clair, under a canopy of fire, through a hail of bullets. The
smell of powder revived the strength of the old soldier: he sat up on
his horse, and rose in his stirrups--
"Ah!" he said, "now I can breathe once more! I feel better here than in
the Hôtel de Ville drawing-rooms."
Meantime, the people were knocking at the doors of that same Hôtel de
Ville which the préfet and members of the municipality had abandoned.
When at the Hôtel de Ville, that palace of the people, the people felt
they were the masters. But they scarcely realised this before they
were afraid of their power. This power was deputed to eight persons:
Lachapelle, Frédéric, Charpentier, Perenon, Rosset, Garnier, Dervieux
and Filliol. The three first were workmen whose only thought was to
maintain the tariff; the five others were Republicans who thought of
political questions and not merely of pecuniary. The next day after
that on which the eight delegates of the people had established a
provisional administration, the provisional administrators were at the
point of killing one another. Some wanted boldly to follow the path of
insurrection; others wanted to join the party of civil authority. The
latter carried the day, and M. Bouvier-Dumolard was reinstalled. On 3
December, at noon, the Prince Royal and Maréchal Soult took possession
once more of the second capital of the kingdom, and re-entered with
drums beating and torches lit. The workpeople were disarmed and fell
back to confront their necessities and the _besoins factices_ they had
created, at eighteen sous per diem. The National Guard was disbanded
and the town placed in a state of siege. M. Bouvier-Dumolard was
dismissed.
What was the king doing during this time? His ministers, at his
dictation, were preparing a minute in which he asked the Chamber for
eighteen million francs for the civil list, fifteen hundred thousand
francs per month, fifty thousand francs per day; without reckoning his
private income of five millions, and two or three millions in dividends
from special investments.
M. Laffitte had already, a year before, submitted to the committee of
the Budget a minute proposing to fix the king's civil list at eighteen
million francs. The committee had read the minute, and this degree of
justice should be given to it: it had been afraid to bring it forward.
Even that minute had left a very bad impression, so disturbing, that
it had been agreed between the minister and the king, that the king
should write a confidential letter to the minister, saying he had
never thought of so high a sum as eighteen millions, and that the
demand should be attributed to too hasty courtiers, whose devotion
compromised the royal power they thought to serve. That confidential
letter had been shown in confidence and had produced an excellent
effect. But when it was learnt at court that the revolt at Lyons was
not political, and that the _canuts_ were only rising because they
could not live on eighteen sous per twenty-four hours, it was deemed
that the right moment had come to give the king his fifty thousand
francs per day. They asked for one single man that which, a hundred and
twenty leagues away, was sufficient to keep fifty-four thousand men. It
was thirty-seven times more than Bonaparte had asked as First Consul,
and a hundred and forty-eight times more than the President of the
United States handled. The time was all the more ill chosen in that, on
1 January 1832,--we are anticipating events by three months,--the Board
of Charity of the 12th Arrondissement published the following circular--
"Twenty-four thousand persons are inscribed on the registers
of the 12th Arrondissement of Paris as in need of food and
clothing. Many are asking for a few trusses of straw on
which to sleep."
True, the request for eighteen millions of Civil List were stated to
be for royal necessities,--people's necessities differ. Thus, whilst
five or six thousand wretched people of the 12th Arrondissement were
asking for a few trusses of straw on which to sleep, the king _was in
need of_ forty-eight thousand francs for the medicaments necessary to
his health; the king _was in need of_ three million seven hundred and
seventy-three thousand five hundred francs for his personal service;
the king _was in need of_ a million two hundred thousand francs to
provide fuel for the kitchen fires of the royal household.
It must be admitted that these were a fair number of remedies for a
king whose health had become proverbial, and who knew enough about
medicine to pass a doctor's degree, in his ordinary indispositions; it
was a great luxury for a king who had suppressed the offices of chief
equerry, master of the hounds, master of ceremonies and all the great
state expenses, and who had set forth the programme, new to France,
of a small court half-bourgeois and half-military; also it was a good
deal of wood and coal to allow a king who possessed the finest forests
in the state, either by right of inheritance or as appanage. True,
it was calculated that the sale of wood annually made by the king,
which would be sufficient to warm a tenth part of France, was not
sufficient to warm the underground kitchen fires of the Palais-Royal.
People calculated differently. It was the time of calculations. There
was, at that period, a great calculator, since dead, called Timon the
misanthrope. Ah! if only he were still alive!... He reckoned that
eighteen millions of Civil List amounted to the fiftieth part of
the Budget of France; the contribution of three of our most densely
populated departments,--Seine, Seine-Inférieure and Nord; the land
tax paid to the state by eighteen other departments; four times
more than flowed into the state coffers from Calais, Boulonnais,
Artois and their six hundred and forty thousand inhabitants, by way
of contributions of every kind in a year; three times more than the
salt tax brought in; twice more than the government winnings from
its lottery; half what the monopoly of the sale of tobacco produced;
half what is annually granted for the upkeep of our bridges, roads,
harbours and canals--an expenditure which gives work to over fifteen
thousand persons; nine times more than the whole budget for public
education, including its support, subsidies, national scholarships;
double the cost of the foreign office, which pays thirty ambassadors
and ministers-plenipotentiary, fifty secretaries to the embassies
and legations, one hundred and fifty consuls-general, consuls,
vice-consuls, dragomans and consular agents; ninety head clerks and
office clerks, under-clerks, employees, copyists, translators and
servants; the pay of an army of fifty-five thousand men, officers
of all ranks, noncommissioned officers, corporals and soldiers, a
third more than the cost of the whole staff of the administration of
justice;--note that in saying that justice is paid for, we do not
mean to say that it ought to be given up. In short, a sum sufficient
to provide work for a whole year to sixty-one thousand six hundred
and forty-three workmen belonging to the country!... Although the
bourgeoisie were so enthusiastic over their king, this calculation none
the less made them reflect.
Then, as if it seemed that every misfortune were to be piled up because
of that fatal Civil List of 1832, M. de Montalivet must needs take upon
himself to find good reasons for making the contributors support the
Budget by saying in the open Chamber--
"If luxury is banished from the king's palace, it will soon be banished
from the homes of his _subjects!_"
At these words there was a prompt and loud explosion, as though the
powder magazine at Grenelle had been set on fire.
"Men who make kings are not the subjects of the kings they create!"
exclaims M. Marchal.
"There are no more subjects in France."
"There is a king, nevertheless," insinuates M. Dupin, who held a salary
direct from that king.
"There are no more subjects," repeats M. Leclerc-Lasalle. "Order!
order! order!"
"I do not understand the importance of the interruption," replies M. de
Montalivet.
"It is an insult to the chamber," cries M. Labôissière.
"Order! order! order!" The president rings his bell.--"Order!! order!!
order!!"
The president puts his hat on. "Order!!! order!!! order!!!"
The president breaks up the sitting. The deputies go out, crying
"Order! order! order!"
The whole thing was more serious than one would have supposed at the
first glance: it was a slur on the bourgeois reputation which had made
Louis-Philippe King of France. On the same day, under the presidency
of Odilon Barrot, a hundred and sixty-seven members of the Chamber
signed a protest against the word _subject._ The Civil List was reduced
to fourteen millions. A settlement was made on the queen in case of
the decease of the king; an annual allowance of a million francs was
granted to M. le duc d'Orléans. This was a triumph, but a humiliating
triumph; the debates of the Chamber upon the word _subject_, M. de
Cor's letters--Heavens! what were we going to do? We were confusing
Timon the misanthrope with M. de Cormenin!--the letters of Timon,
Dupont (de l'Eure's) condemnation, the jests of the Republican papers,
all these had in an important degree taken the place of the voice of
the slave of old who cried behind the triumphant emperors, "Cæsar,
remember that thou art mortal!" At the same time a voice cried,
"Peerage, remember that thou art mortal!" It was the voice of the
_Moniteur_ proclaiming the abolition of heredity in the peerage.
CHAPTER II
Death of _Mirabeau_--The accessories of _Charles VII._--A
shooting party--Montereau--A temptation I cannot
resist--Critical position in which my shooting companions
and I find ourselves--We introduce ourselves into an empty
house by breaking into it at night--Inspection of the
premises--Improvised supper--As one makes one's bed, so
one lies on it--I go to see the dawn rise--Fowl and duck
shooting--Preparations for breakfast--Mother Galop
It will be seen the times were not at all encouraging for literature.
But there was through that highly strung period such a vital
turgescence that enough force remained in the youth of the day, who had
just been making a political disturbance on the boulevard Saint-Denis
or the place Vendôme, to create a literary disturbance at the Théâtre
Porte-Saint-Martin or the Odéon. I think I have said that _Mirabeau_
had been played, and had passed like a shadow without even being
able, when dying, to bequeathe the name of its author to the public:
the company of the Odéon, therefore, was entirely at the disposal of
_Charles VII._
Whether Harel had returned to my opinion, that the play would not make
money, or whether he had a fit of niggardliness, a rare happening, I
must confess, when Mademoiselle Georges was taking part in a play, he
would not risk any expense, not even to the extent of the stag that
kills Raymond in the first act, not even for the armour which clothes
Charles VII. in the fourth. The result was that I was obliged to go to
Raincy myself to kill a stag, and to get it stuffed at my own expense;
then I had to go and borrow a complete set of armour from the Artillery
Museum, which they obligingly lent me in remembrance of the service
that I had rendered their establishment on 29 July 1830, by saving a
portion of the armour of Francis I. However, the rehearsals proceeded
with such energy that, on 5 September, the opening day of the shooting
season having arrived, I had no hesitation about leaving _Charles VII._
to the strength of the impetus that I had given it, and, as M. Étienne
would say, I went to woo Diana at the expense of the Muses. True, our
Muses, if the illustrious Academician is to be believed, were but sorry
ones!
I had decided to undertake this cynegetic jollification because of
an unlimited permission from Bixio. That permission had been given
to us by our common friend Dupont-Delporte, who, by virtue of our
discretionary powers, we had just made sub-lieutenant in the army,
together with a delightful lad called Vaillant, who, with Louis
Desnoyers, managed a paper called the _Journal Rose_, and also the son
of Mademoiselle Duchesnois, who, I believe, died bravely in Algeria.
As to Vaillant, I know not what became of him, or whether he followed
up his military career; but, if he be still living, no matter where
he may be, I offer him greeting, although a quarter of a century
has rolled by. Now this permission was indeed calculated to tempt a
sportsman. Dupont-Delporte introduced us to his father, and begged him
to place his château and estates at our disposition. The château was
situated three-quarters of a league from Montigny, a little village
which itself was three leagues from Montereau. We left by diligence at
six o'clock on the morning of 4 September, and we reached Montereau
about four in the afternoon. I was not yet acquainted with Montereau,
doubly interesting, historically, by reason of the assassination of the
Duke of Burgundy Jean Sans-Peur, and from the victory which, in the
desperate struggle of 1814, Napoléon won there over the Austrians and
the Würtemburgers. Our caravan was made up of Viardot, author of the
_Histoire des Arabes en Espagne_, and, later, husband of that adorable
and all round actress called Pauline Garcia; of Bessas-Lamégie, then
deputy-mayor of the 10th arrondissement; of Bixio, and of Louis
Boulanger. Whilst Bixio, who knew the town, went in search of a
carriage to take us to Montigny, Boulanger, Bessas-Lamégie, Viardot and
I set to work to turn over the two important pages of history embedded
in the little town, written four centuries ago. The position of the
bridge perfectly explained the scene of the assassination of the Duke
of Burgundy. Boulanger drew for me on the spot a rough sketch, which
served me later in my romance of _Isabeau de Bavière_, and in my legend
of the _Sire de Giac._ Then we went to see the sword of the terrible
duke, which hung in the crypt of the church. If one formed an idea of
the man by the sword one would be greatly deceived: imagine the ball
swords of Francis II. or of Henri III.! When we had visited the church
we had finished with the memories of 1417, and we passed on to those of
1814. We rapidly climbed the ascent of Surville, and found ourselves
on the plateau where Napoléon, once more an artilleryman, thundered,
with pieces of cannon directed by himself, against the Würtemburgers
fighting in the town. It was there that, in getting off his horse and
whipping his boot with his horse-whip, he uttered this remarkable
sentence, an appeal from Imperial doubt to Republican genius--
"Come, Bonaparte, let us save Napoléon!"
Napoléon was victor, but was not saved: the modern Sisyphus had the
rock of the whole of Europe incessantly falling back upon him.
It was five o'clock. We had three long leagues of country to cover;
three leagues of country, no matter in what department, were it even in
that of Seine-et-Marne, always means five leagues of posting. Now, five
leagues of posting in a country stage-waggon is at least a four hours'
journey. We should only arrive at M. Dupont-Delporte's house, whom not
one of us knew, at nine or half-past nine at night. Was he a loving
enough father to forgive us such an invasion, planting ourselves on him
at unawares? Bixio replied that, with the son's letter, we were sure
to be made welcome by the father, no matter at what hour of the day or
night we knocked at his door.
We started in that belief, ourselves and our dogs all heaped together
in the famous stage-waggon in question, which very soon gave us a
sample of its powers by taking an hour and a quarter to drive the first
league. We were just entering upon the second when, in passing by a
field of lucerne, I was seized with the temptation to go into it with
the dog of one of my fellow-sportsmen. I do not know by what misfortune
I had not my own. My companions sang out to me that shooting had not
yet begun; but my sole reply was that that was but one reason more
for finding game there. And I added that, if I succeeded in killing a
brace of partridges or a hare, it would add some sauce to the supper
which M. Dupont-Delporte would be obliged to give us. This argument
won over my companions. The waggon was stopped; I took Viardot's dog
and entered the field of lucerne. If any sort of gamekeeper appeared,
the waggon was to proceed on its way, and I undertook to outdistance
the above-mentioned gamekeeper. Those who knew my style of walking had
no uneasiness on this score. The journey I made there and back from
Crépy to Paris, shooting by the way with my friend Paillet, will be
recalled to mind. Scarcely had I taken twenty steps in the field of
lucerne before a great leveret, three-quarters face, started under the
dog's nose. It goes without saying that that leveret was killed. As no
gamekeeper had appeared on the scene at the noise of my firing, I took
my leveret by its hind legs and quietly remounted the stage-waggon.
What a fine thing is success! Everybody congratulated me, even the most
timorous. Three-quarters of a league farther on was a second field of
lucerne. A fresh temptation, fresh argument, and fresh yielding. At the
very entrance into the field the dog came across game, and stopped,
pointing. A covey of a dozen or so of partridges started up; I fired
my first shot into the very middle of the covey: two fell, and a third
fell down at my second shot. This would make us a roast which, if not
quite sufficient, would at least be presentable. Again I climbed into
the coach in the midst of the cheering of the travellers. You will see
directly that these details, trivial as they may appear at the first
glance, are not without their importance. I had a good mind to continue
a hunt which seemed like becoming the parallel to the miraculous
draught of fishes; but night was falling, and compelled me to content
myself with my leveret and three partridges. We drove on for another
couple of hours, until we found ourselves opposite a perfectly black
mass. This was the château of M. Dupont-Delporte.
"Ah!" said the driver, "here we are."
"What, have we arrived?"
"Yes."
"Is this the château d'Esgligny?"
"That is the château d'Esgligny."
We looked at one another.
"But everybody is asleep," said Bessas.
"We will create a revolution," added Viardot.
"Messieurs," suggested Boulanger, "I think we should do well to sleep
in the carriage, and only present ourselves to-morrow morning."
"Why! M. Dupont-Delporte would never forgive us," said Bixio, and,
jumping down from the carriage, he resolutely advanced towards the door
and rang.
Meanwhile the driver, who was paid in advance, and who had shuddered
at Boulanger's suggestion of using his stage-waggon for a tent,
quietly turned his horse's head towards Montigny, and suddenly
departed at a trot which proved that his horse felt much relieved at
getting rid of his load. For a moment we thought of stopping him, but
before the debate that began upon this question was ended, driver,
horse and vehicle had disappeared in the darkness. Our boats were
burned behind us! The situation became all the more precarious in
that Bixio had rung, knocked, flung stones at the door, all in vain,
for nobody answered. A terrifying idea began to pass through our
minds: the château, instead of containing sleeping people, seemed to
contain nobody at all. This was a melancholy prospect for travellers
not one of whom knew the country, and all of whom had the appetites
of ship-wrecked men. Bixio ceased ringing, ceased knocking, ceased
throwing stones; the assault had lasted a quarter of an hour, and had
not produced any effect: it was evident that the château was deserted.
We put our heads together in council, and each advanced his own view.
Bixio persisted in his of entering, even if it meant scaling the walls;
he answered for M. Dupont-Delporte's approval of everything he did.
"Look here," I said to him, "will you take the responsibility on
yourself?"
"Entirely."
"Will you guarantee us, if not judicial impunity, at all events civil
absolution?"
"Yes."
"Very well; will somebody light a bit of paper to give me light?"
A smoker (alas! from about that period there were smokers to be found
everywhere) drew a match--box from his pocket, twisted up half a
newspaper, and lighted me with his improvised beacon. In a trice I
had pulled off the lock, by the help of my screw--driver. The door
opened by itself when the lock was off. We found ourselves inside the
park. Before going farther we thought we ought to put back the lock
in its place. Then, feeling our way through the tortuous walks, we
attained the main entrance. By chance the emigrants, probably counting
on the first door to be a sufficient obstacle, had not shut that of
the château. So we entered the château and wandered about among the
salons, bedrooms and kitchens. Everywhere we found traces of a hasty
departure, and that it had been incomplete owing to the haste with
which it had been undertaken. In the kitchen the turnspit was in
position, and there were two or three saucepans and a stove. In the
dining-room were a dozen chairs and a table; eighteen mattresses were
in the linen-room; and, in the cupboard of one room thirty pots of
jam! Each fresh discovery led to shouts of joy equal to those uttered
by Robinson Crusoe on his various visits to the wrecked vessel.
We had the wherewithal to cook a meal, to sit down and to sleep;
furthermore, there were thirty pots of jam for our dessert. It is
true we had nothing for our supper. But at that moment I drew my hare
and the partridges from my pocket, announcing that I was prepared to
skin the hare if the others would pluck the partridges. When hare and
partridges were skinned and plucked I undertook to put them all in the
spit. We only wanted bread. Here Boulanger came on the scene with a
shout of joy. In order to draw the view of the bridge of Montereau, or,
rather, in order to rub out the incorrect lines in his sketch, he had
sent an urchin to fetch some crumbly bread. The lad had brought him a
two-pound loaf. The loaf had been stuffed into someone or other's game
bag. We searched all the game bags, and the loaf of bread was found in
Bessas-Lamégie's bag. At this sight we all echoed Boulanger's shout of
joy. The two pounds of bread were placed under an honourable embargo;
but, for greater security, Bixio put in his pocket the key of the
sideboard in which the bread was enclosed. After this I began to skin
my hare, and my scullion-knaves began to pluck the partridges.
Bessas-Lamégie, who had announced that he had no culinary proclivities,
was sent with a lantern to find any available kind of fuel. He brought
back two logs, stating that the wood-house was abundantly stocked, and
that consequently we need not be afraid of making a good fire. The
hearth-place flamed with joy after this assurance. In a kitchen table
drawer we found a few old iron forks. We were not so particular as to
insist upon silver ones. The table was laid as daintily as possible. We
each had our knife, and, what was more, a flask full of wine or brandy
or kirsch. I, who drink but little wine and am not fond of either
brandy or kirsch, had gooseberry syrup. I was therefore the only one
who could not contribute to the general stock of beverages; but they
forgave me in virtue of the talents I showed as cook. They saw clearly
that I was a man of resource, and they praised my adroitness in killing
the game and my skill in roasting it. It was nearly one in the morning
when we lay down in our clothes on the mattresses. The Spartans took
only one mattress; the Sybarites took two. I was the first to wake,
when it was scarcely daylight. In the few moments that elapsed between
the extinction of the light and the coming of sleep I had reflected
about the future, and promised myself as soon as I waked to look
about for a village or hamlet where we could supply ourselves with
provisions. Therefore, like Lady Malbrouck, I climbed up as high as I
could get, not, however, to a tower, but to the attics. A belfry tower
was just visible in the distance, through the trees, probably belonging
to the village of Montigny. The distance at which it was situated
inspired me with extremely sad reflections, but just then, dropping my
eyes, melancholy-wise towards the earth, I saw a fowl picking about in
a pathway; then, in another path, another fowl; then a duck dabbling
in a kind of pond. It was evident that this was the rear-guard of a
poultry yard which had escaped death by some intelligent subterfuge.
I went downstairs into the kitchen, got my gun, put two charges of
cartridges in my pocket, and ran out into the garden. Three shots gave
me possession of the duck and fowls, and we had food for breakfast.
Furthermore, we would dispatch two of our party to a village for
eggs and bread, wine and butter. At the sound of my three shots the
windows opened, and I saw a row of heads appear which looked like
so many notes of interrogation. I showed my two fowls in one hand
and my duck in the other. The result was immediate. At the sight of
my simple gesture shouts of admiration rose from the spectators. At
supper the night before, we had had roast meats; at breakfast, we were
going to have both roast and stew. I thought I would stew the duck
with turnips, as it seemed of a ripe age. Enthusiasm produces great
devotion: when I suggested drawing lots as to who should go to the
village of Montigny to find butter, eggs, bread and wine, two men of
goodwill volunteered from the ranks. These were Boulanger and Bixio,
who, not being either shooters or cooks, desired to make themselves
useful to society according to their limited means. Their services
were accepted; an old basket was discovered, the bottom of which was
made strong with twine! Bixio set the example of humility by taking
the empty basket,--Boulanger undertook to carry back the full basket.
I set the rest of my people to work to pluck the fowls and the duck,
and I undertook a voyage of discovery. It was impossible that a château
so well provisioned, even in the absence of its owners, should not
include among its appurtenances an orchard and a kitchen-garden. It was
necessary to discover both. I was without a compass, but, by the aid of
the rising sun, I could make out the south from the north. Therefore
the orchard and the kitchen-garden would, naturally, be situated to
the south of the park. When I had gone about a hundred yards I was
walking about among quantities of fruit and vegetables. I had but to
make my choice. Carrots and turnips and salads for vegetables--pears,
apples, currants for fruit. I returned loaded with a double harvest.
Bessas-Lamégie, who saw me coming from afar, took me for Vertumnus, the
god of gardens. Ten minutes later the god of gardens had made room for
the god of cooking. An apron found by Viardot round my body, a paper
cap constructed by Bessas on my head, I looked like Cornus or Vatel. I
possessed a great advantage over the latter in that, not expecting any
fish, I did not inflict on myself the punishment of severing my carotid
artery because the fishmonger was late. To conclude, my scullion lads
had not lost anytime; the fowls and the duck were plucked, and a
brazier of Homeric proportions blazed in the fireplace.
Suddenly, just at the moment when I was spitting my two fowls, loud
cries were heard in the courtyard, then in the ante-chamber, then on the
stairs, and a furious old woman, bonnet-less and thoroughly scared, ran
into the kitchen. It was Mother Galop.
CHAPTER III
Who Mother Galop was--Why M. Dupont-Delporte was absent--How
I quarrelled with Viardot--Rabelais's quarter of an
hour--Providence No. 1.--The punishment of Tantalus--A
waiter who had not read Socrates--Providence No. 2--A
breakfast for four--Return to Paris
Mother Galop was M. Dupont-Delporte's kitchen-maid; she was specially
employed to go errands between the château and the village, and they
called her Mother Galop because of the proverbial rapidity with which
she accomplished this kind of commission. I never knew her other name,
and never had the curiosity to inquire what it was. Mother Galop had
seen a column of smoke coming out of the chimney in comparison with
which the column that led the children of Israel in the desert was
but as a vapour, and she had come at a run, never doubting that her
master's château was invaded by a band of incendiaries. Great was her
astonishment when she saw a cook and two or three kitchen-lads spitting
and plucking chickens. She naturally asked us who we were and what we
were doing in _her kitchen._ We replied that M. Dupont-Delporte's son,
being on the eve of marrying, and intending to celebrate his nuptials
at the château, had sent us on in advance to take possession of the
culinary departments. She could believe what she liked of the story; my
opinion is that she did not believe very much of it; but what did that
matter to us? She was not able to prevent us; we could, indeed, have
shown her Dupont-Delporte's letter, but two reasons prevented us from
doing so. In the first place, because Bixio had it in his pocket and
had carried it off to the market; secondly, because Mother Galop did
not know how to read! We in our turn interrogated Mother Galop, with
all the tact of which we were capable, concerning the absence of all
the family, and the desertion of the château.
M. Dupont-Delporte, senior, had been appointed préfet of
Seine-Inférieure, and he had moved house rapidly a week ago, leaving
his château and what remained therein under the surveillance of
Mother Galop. As has been seen, Mother Galop fulfilled her orders
scrupulously. The arrival of Mother Galop had its good side as well
as its bad: it was a censorship; but, at the same time, it meant a
housekeeper for us. The upshot of it was that, in consideration of
a five-franc piece which was generously granted her by myself, we
had both plates and serviettes at our dejeuner. Bixio and Boulanger
arrived as the fowls were accomplishing their final turn on the spit,
and as Mother Galop was serving up the stewed duck. An omelette of
twenty-four eggs completed the meal. Then, admirably fortified, we set
off on our shooting expedition. We had not fired four shots before
we saw the gamekeeper running up in hot haste. This was just what we
hoped would happen; he could read: he accepted our sub-lieutenant's
letter as bona-fide, undertook to take us all over the estate, and to
reassure Mother Galop, whom our metamorphoses from cooks to sportsmen
had inspired with various fresh fears in addition to those which had
troubled her at first, and which had never been entirely allayed. A
sportsman minus a dog (it will be recollected that this was my social
position) is a very disagreeable being, seeing that, if he wants to
kill anything, he must be a Pollux or a Pylades or a Pythias to some
shooter who has a dog. I began by giving the dubious advantage of my
proximity to Bessas-Lamégie, the shooting companion with whom I was the
most intimately connected. Unluckily, Bessas had a new dog which was
making its first début, and which was in its first season. Generally,
dogs--ordinary ones at least--hunt with their noses down and their
tails in the air. Bessas's dog had adopted the opposite system. The
result was that he looked as though he had come from between the legs
of a riding-master, and not from the hands of a keeper; to such an
extent that, at the end of an hour's time, I advised Bessas to saddle
his dog or harness him, but not to shoot with him any more. Viardot,
on the other hand, had a delightful little bitch who pointed under the
muzzle of the gun, standing like a stock and returning at the first
call of the whistle. I abandoned Bessas and began to play with Viardot,
whom I knew least, the scene between Don Juan and M. Dimanche! In the
very middle of the scene a covey of partridges started up. Viardot
fired two shots after them and killed one. I did the same; only, I
killed two. We continued to shoot and to kill in this proportion. But
soon I made a mistake. A hare started in front of Viardot's dog. I
ought to have given him time to fire his two shots, and not to have
fired until he had missed. I drew first and the hare rolled over before
Viardot had had time to put his gun to his shoulder. Viardot looked
askance at me; and with good reason. We entered a field of clover.
I fired my two shots at a couple of partridges, both of which fell
disabled. The services of a dog were absolutely necessary. I called
Viardot's; but Viardot also called her, and Diane, like a well-trained
animal, followed her master and took no notice of me and my two
partridges. No one is so ready to risk his soul being sent to perdition
as a sportsman who loses a head of game: with still greater reason
when he loses two. I called the dog belonging to Bessas-Lamégie, and
Romeo came; that was his name, and no doubt it was given him because
he held his head up, searching for his Juliet on every balcony. Romeo
then came, pawed, pranced about and jumped, but did not deign for an
instant to trouble himself about my two partridges. I swore by all the
saints of Paradise,--my two partridges were lost, and I had fallen
out with Viardot! Viardot, indeed, left us next day, pretending he
had an appointment to keep in Paris which he had forgotten. I have
never had the chance of making it up with him since that day, and
twenty years have now passed by. Therefore, as he is a charming person
with whom I do not wish any longer to remain estranged, I here tender
him my very humble apologies and my very sincere regards. Next day
it was Bessas who left us. He had no need to search for an excuse;
his dog provided him with a most plausible one. I again advised him
to have Romeo trained for the next steeple-chase, and to bet on him
at Croix-de-Berny, but to renounce working him as a shooting dog. I
do not know if he took my advice. I remained the only shooter, and
consequently the only purveyor to the party, which did me the justice
to say that, if they ran any risk of dying of hunger, it would not be
at the château d'Esgligny. But it was at Montereau that this misfortune
nearly happened to us all. We had settled up our accounts with Mother
Galop; we had liquidated our debt with the gamekeeper; we had paid
the peasants the thousand and one contributions which they levy on
the innocent sportsman, for a dog having crossed a potato field, or
for a hare which has spoiled a patch of beetroot; we had returned
to Montereau: here we had supped abundantly; finally, we had slept
soundly in excellent beds, when, next day, in making up our accounts,
we perceived that we were fifteen francs short, even if the waiter was
not tipped, to be even with our host. Great was our consternation when
this deficit was realised. Not one of us had a watch, or possessed the
smallest pin, or could lay hands on the most ordinary bit of jewellery.
We gazed at one another dumbfounded; each of us knew well that he had
come to the end of his own resources, but he had reckoned upon his
neighbour. The waiter came to bring us the bill, and wandered about
the room expecting his money. We withdrew to the balcony as though to
take the air. We were stopping at the _Grand Monarque!_--a magnificent
sign-board represented a huge red head surmounted by a turban. We had
not even the chance, seized by Gérard, at Montmorency, of proposing
to our host to paint a sign for him! I was on the point of frankly
confessing our embarrassment to the hotel-keeper, and of offering
him my rifle as a deposit, when Bixio, whose eyes were mechanically
scanning the opposite house, uttered a cry. He had just read these
words, above three hoops from which dangled wooden candles--
CARRÉ, DEALER IN GROCERIES
In desperate situations everything may be of importance. We crowded
round Bixio, asking him what was the matter with him.
"Listen," he said, "I do not wish to raise false hopes; but I was at
school with a Carré who came from Montereau. If, by good fortune, the
Carré of that sign happens to be the same as my Carré, I shall not
hesitate to ask him to lend me the fifteen francs we need."
"Whilst you are about it," I said to Bixio, "ask him for thirty."
"Why thirty?"
"I presume--you have not reckoned that we must go on foot?"
"Ah! good gracious! that is true! Here goes for thirty, then!
Gentlemen, pray that he may be my Carré; I will go and see."
Bixio went downstairs, and we stayed behind upon the balcony, full
of anxiety; the waiter still hanging round. Bixio went out of the
hotel, passed two or three times up and down in front of the shop
unostentatiously; then, suddenly, he rushed into it! And, through the
transparent window-panes, we saw him clasp a fat youth in his arms, who
wore a round jacket and an otter-skin cap. The sight was so touching
that tears came into our eyes. Then we saw no more; the two old
school-fellows disappeared into the back of the shop. Ten minutes later
both came out of the shop, crossed the street and entered the hotel. It
was evident that Bixio had succeeded in his borrowing; otherwise, had
he been refused, we presumed that the Rothschild of Montereau would not
have had the face to show himself. We were not mistaken.
"Gentlemen," said Bixio, entering, "let me introduce to you M. Carré,
my school friend, who not only is so kind as to get us out of our
difficulty by lending us thirty francs, but also invites us to take a
glass of cognac or of curaçao at his house, according to your several
tastes."
The school friend was greeted enthusiastically. Boulanger, whom we
had elected our banker, who for half an hour enjoyed a sinecure,
settled accounts with the waiter, generously giving him fifty centimes
for himself, and put fourteen francs ten sous into his pocket in
reserve for the boat. Then we hurried down the steps, extremely happy
at having extricated ourselves even more cleverly than M. Alexandre
Duval's _Henri V._ The service which we had just received from our
friend Carré--he had asked for our friendship, and we had hastened
to respond--did not prevent us from doing justice to his cognac, his
black-currant cordial and his curaçao; they were excellent. In fact,
we took two glasses of each liqueur to make sure that it was of good
quality. Then, as time was pressing, we said to our new friend, in the
phrase made famous by King Dagobert: "The best of friends must part,"
and we expressed our desire to go to the boat. Carré wished to do us
the honours of his natal town to the last, and offered to accompany
us. We accepted. It was a good thing we did. We had been misinformed
about the fares of places in the boat: we wanted nine francs more to
complete the necessary sum for going by water. Carré drew ten francs
from his pocket with a lordly air, and gave them to Bixio. Our debt had
attained the maximum of forty francs. There remained then twenty sous
for our meals on board the boat. It was a modest sum; but still, with
twenty sous between four people, we should not die of hunger. Besides,
was not Providence still over us? Might not one of us also come across
his Carré? Expectant of this fresh manifestation of Providence, we each
pressed Bixio's friend in our arms, and we passed from the quay to the
boat. It was just time; the bell was ringing for departure, and the
boat was beginning to move. Our adieux lasted as long as we could see
each other. Carré flourished his otter-skin cap, while we waved our
handkerchiefs. There is nothing like a new friendship for tenderness!
At length the moment came when, prominent objects though Carré and his
cap had been, both disappeared on the horizon.
We then began our examination of the boat; but after taking stock of
each passenger we were obliged to recognise, for the time being at any
rate, that Providence had failed us. That certainty led to all the
greater sadness among us, as each stomach, roused by the exhilarating
morning air, began to clamour for food. We heard all round us, as
though in mockery of our wretchedness, a score of voices shouting--
"Waiter! two cutlets!... Waiter! a beefsteak!... Waiter! _un thé
complet!_"
The waiters ran about bringing the desired comestibles, and calling out
in their turn as they passed by us--
"Do not you gentlemen require anything? No lunch? You are the only
gentlemen who have not asked for something!"
At last I replied impatiently: "No; we are waiting for some one who
should join us at the landing-stage of Fontainebleau." Then, turning to
my companions in hunger, I said to them--
"Upon my word, gentlemen, he who sleeps dines; now, the greater
includes the less, so I am going to take my lunch sleeping."
I settled myself in a corner. I had even then the faculty which I have
since largely perfected, I can sleep pretty nearly when I like. Hardly
was I resting on my elbow before I was asleep. I do not know how long
I had been given up to the deceptive illusion of sleep before a waiter
came up to me and repeated three times in an ascending scale--
"Monsieur! monsieur!! monsieur!!!"
I woke up.
"What is it?" I said to him.
"Monsieur said that he and his friends would breakfast with a person he
expected at the landing-place at Fontainebleau."
"Did I say that?"
"Monsieur said so."
"You are sure?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"Well then, it; is time monsieur ordered his lunch, seeing that we are
approaching Fontainebleau."
"Already?"
"Ah! monsieur has slept a long time!"
"You might have left me to sleep still longer."
"But monsieur's friend ..."
"Monsieur's friend would have found him if he came."
"But is not monsieur sure, then, of meeting his friend?"
"Waiter, when you have read Socrates you will know how rare a friend
is, and, consequently, how little certainty there is of meeting one!"
"But monsieur can still order lunch for three; if monsieur's friend
comes, another cover can be added."
"You say we are nearing Fontainebleau?" I replied, eluding the question.
"In five minutes we shall be opposite the landing-stage."
"Then I will go and see if my friend is coming."
I went up on the deck, and mechanically glanced towards the
landing-stage. We were still too far off to distinguish anything;
but, assisted by tide and steam, the boat rapidly advanced. Gradually
individuals grouped on the bank could be separately distinguished.
Then outlines could be more clearly seen, then the colour of their
clothes, and, finally, their features. My gaze was fastened, almost in
spite of myself, upon an individual who was waiting in the middle of
ten other persons, and whom I believed I recognised. But it was most
unlikely!... However, it was very like him, ... if it were he, what
luck.... No, it seemed impossible.... Nevertheless, it was, indeed, his
shape and figure and physiognomy. The boat approached nearer still.
The individual who was the object of my attention got into the boat to
come on board the steamer, which stopped to take up passengers. When
half-way to the steamer the individual recognised me and waved his hand
to me.
"Is that you?" I shouted.
"Yes, it is I," he replied.
I had found my Carré, only his name was Félix Deviolaine; and, instead
of being just an ordinary school-fellow, he was my cousin. I ran to the
ladder and flung myself into his arms with as much effusion as Bixio
had into Carré's.
"Are you alone?" he asked me.
"No; I am with Bixio and Boulanger."
"Have you lunched?"
"No."
"Well, shall I have lunch with you?"
"Say, rather, may we have lunch with you?"
"It is the same thing."
"Nothing of the kind."
I explained the difference between his lunching with us and we with
him. He understood perfectly. The waiter stood by, serviette in hand;
the amusing fellow had followed me as a shark follows a starving ship.
"Lunch for four!" I said, and, provided that it includes two bottles
of burgundy, eight cutlets, a fowl and a salad, you can then add what
you like in the way of hors-d'œuvre and entremets. Lunch lasted until
we reached Melun. At four that afternoon we landed at the quay of the
Hôtel de Ville, and next day I resumed my rehearsals of _Charles VII._
CHAPTER IV
_Le Masque de fer_--Georges' suppers--The garden
of the Luxembourg by moonlight--M. Scribe and
the _Clerc de la Basoche_--M. d'Épagny and _Le
Clerc et le Théologien_--Classical performances
at the Théâtre-Français--_Les Guelfes_, by M.
Arnault---Parenthesis--Dedicatory epistle to the prompter
In those days nothing had yet tarnished the spirit of that juvenile
love of the capital which had induced me to overcome many obstacles
in order to transport myself thither. Three or four days spent away
from the literary and political whirlpool of Paris seemed to me a long
absence. During the month I had stayed at Trouville I felt as though
the world had stood still. I took but the time to fly home to change
my shooting dress,--as regards the game, my travelling companions had
seen to that,--to make inquiries about things that might have happened
affecting myself, and then I went to the Odéon. It took me a good
half-hour's fast walking, and an hour in a fly, to go from my rue
Saint-Lazare to the Odéon Theatre. Railways were not in existence then,
or I might have followed the method pursued by a friend of mine who
had an uncle living at the barrière du Maine. When he went to see his
uncle--and this happened twice a week, Thursdays and Sundays--he took
the railway on the right bank and arrived by the railway on the left
bank. He only had Versailles to cross through, and there he was at his
uncle's house!
They had rehearsed conscientiously, but the rehearsals had not been
hurried at all. The last piece to be performed was the _Masque de
fer_, by MM. Arnault and Fournier. Lockroy had been magnificent in
it, and although the play was acted _without Georges_ it brought in
money. I say, although it was played _without Georges_, because it
was a superstition at the Odéon, a superstition accredited by Harel,
that no piece paid if Georges was not acting in it. Ligier, a most
conscientious actor, though almost always compelled to struggle against
the drawback of being too small in figure and having too coarse a
voice, had been a genuine success in his part, greater than I can
remember any actor to have had in a rôle created by himself. What a
capital company the Odéon was at that period! Count up on your fingers
those I am about to name, and you will find six or eight players
of the first rank: Frédérick-Lemaître, Ligier, Lockroy, Duparay,
Stockleit, Vizentini, Mademoiselle Georges, Madame Moreau-Sainti
who was privileged always to remain beautiful, and Mlle. Noblet who
unfortunately was not equally privileged to remain for ever virtuous.
Mlle. Noblet, poor woman, who had just played Paula for me, and who was
about to play Jenny; Mlle. Noblet, whose great dark eyes and beautiful
voice and melancholy face gave birth to hopes which now are so utterly
quenched at the Théâtre-Français that, although she is still young,
people have not known for the past ten years whether she, who was so
full of promise, is still alive or dead!
Why were these eclipses of talent so frequent at the theatre of
Richelieu? This is a question which we will examine on the first
suitable opportunity that presents itself. Let Bressant, who has played
the Prince of Wales admirably for me in _Kean_ during the past fifteen
or sixteen years, look to his laurels and cling tight to his new
repertory, or probably he will be lost sight of like the others.
I stayed behind to supper with Georges. I have already said how very
charming her supper-parties were,--very unlike those of Mlle. Mars,
although often both were attended by the same people. But, in this
case, the guests in general took their cue from the mistress of the
house. Mademoiselle Mars was always a little stiff and somewhat formal,
and she seemed as though she were putting her hand over the mouths of
even her most intimate friends, not letting them give vent to their
wit beyond a certain point. While Georges, a thoroughly good sort
beneath her imperial airs, allowed every kind of wit, and laughed
unrestrainedly, Mlle. Mars, on the other hand, for the greater part
of the time, only smiled half-heartedly. Then, how scatter-brained,
extravagant, abandoned we were at Georges' suppers! How evident it
was seen that all the convivial spirits--Harel, Janin, Lockroy--did
not know how to contain themselves! When Becquet, who was a leading
light at Mlle. Mars', adventured into our midst at Mlle. Georges', he
passed into the condition of a mere looker-on. And the type of mind
was entirely different--Harel's, caustic and retaliating; Janin's,
good-natured and merry; Lockroy's, refined and aristocratic. Poor
Becquet! one was obliged to wake him up, to prick him and to spur
him. He reminded one of a respectable drunkard asleep in the midst of
fireworks. Then, after these suppers, which lasted till one or two
in the morning, we went into the garden. The garden had a door in it
leading out on the Luxembourg and the Chamber of Peers, the key of
which Cambacérès lent Harel on the strength of his having once been his
secretary. The result was that we had a royal park for the discussion
of our dessert. Gardens of classical architecture, like Versailles,
the Tuileries and the Luxembourg are very fine seen by night and by
the light of the moon. Each statue looks like a phantom; each fountain
of water a cascade of diamonds. Oh! those nights of 1829 and 1830 and
1831! Were they really as glorious as I think them? Or was it because I
was only twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age that made them seem
so fragrant, so peaceful and so full of stars?...
But to return. The Théâtre-Français, to our great joy, continued,
by its failures, to afford a melancholy contrast to the success of
its confrères of the boulevards and the outre-Seine. They had just
played a five-act piece entitled the _Clerc et le Théologien_, which
had simply taken as its subject the death of Henri III., a subject
treated with much talent by Vitet in his _Scènes historiques._ Those
who have forgotten the _États de Blois_ and the _Mort d'Henri III._ can
re-read the two works, that have had a great influence on the literary
renascence of 1830, which, according to the amiable M. P---- has yet
to produce its fruit. M. P---- is a gentleman whom I propose to take by
the collar and give a thorough good shaking, when I happen to have eau
de Cologne on my handkerchief and gloves on my hands.
A strange incident preceded the performance of the _Clerc et le
Théologien._ The play, written in collaboration by MM. Scribe and
d'Épagny, and accepted by the Odéon Theatre, had been stopped by the
censor of 1830. Good old Censorship! It is the same in all ages! There
indeed come moments when it cuts its fingers with its own scissors;
but censors are a race of polypii,--their fingers merely grow again.
The censor had, then, stopped MM. Scribe and d'Épagny's drama. The
vessel which bore their twofold banner, upon which the Minister of the
Interior had put his embargo by the medium of his custom officers, was
at anchor in the docks of the rue de Grenelle. The Revolution of 1830
set it afloat again.
We have said that Harel received the work in 1829. Becoming possessed
of his own work again by the events of the revolution of July, Scribe
thought no more of Harel and took his play to the Théâtre-Français. But
Scribe, who usually reckoned carefully, had this time reckoned without
Harel. Harel had far too good a memory to forget Scribe. He pursued
author and play, writ in hand and a sheriff's officer behind him. It
need hardly be said that the officer stopped both the play and the
author just when they were turning the corner of the rue de Richelieu.
Sheriff's officers are very fast runners! A law-suit ensued, and Harel
lost. But the trial inspired Scribe's imagination; in that twofold
insistence of the Théâtre-Français and the Théâtre-Odéon he saw a means
of killing two birds with one stone and of making one play into two.
In this way M. Scribe would have his drama, M. d'Épagny his drama;
the Théâtre-Français its drama, and the Odéon its drama. The play,
consequently, was reduplicated like a photograph: the Théâtre-Français,
which was down on its luck, came in for the _Clerc et le Théologien_
by M. d'Épagny; Harel drew Scribe aside by his coat-tails just as the
_Clerc de la Basoche_ and he were entering, _à reculons_, on the second
French stage. It is to be understood that I use this rather ambitious
locution, the _seconde scène française_, to avoid putting _Odéon_ so
close to _reculons._ Both the dramas were failures, or pretty nearly
so. I did not see either of them, and I shall therefore take good care
to refrain from expressing my opinion upon them.
But our true fête days--I hope I may be forgiven for this harmless
digression--were when it was the turn of one of the gentlemen from the
Institute--Lemercier, Viennet or Arnault--to produce a work. Then there
was general hilarity. We would all arrange to meet in the orchestra of
the Théâtre-Français to be present at the spectacle of a work falling
flat, sometimes with very little assistance, at others gently aided
in its fall by a bitter blast of hisses; a spectacle sad enough for
the author's friends, but very exhilarating to his enemies, and the
gentlemen above mentioned had treated us as enemies.
M. Arnault was the cleverest of the three authors I have just named, a
man, as I have said elsewhere, of immense worth and eminent intellect.
But everyone has his own hobby-horse, as Tristram Shandy says, and
M. Arnault's hobby-horse was tragedy. But his hobby was roaring,
broken-winded, foundered, to such an extent that, in spite of its legs
being fired by the _Constitutionnel_, it could rarely get to the last
line of a fifth act!
We asked that these gentlemen's pieces should be played with as much
fervour as they employed in stating that ours should not. They, on
their side, clamoured loudly to be played, and, as they had the
government to back them up, specially since the July Revolution, their
turn to be represented arrived, in spite of the timid opposition of the
Théâtre-Français, in spite, too, of sighs from members of the staff and
the groans of the cashier. True, the torture did not last long; it was
generally restricted to the three customary performances, even if it
attained to three. Often the first performance was not ended; witness
_Pertinax_ and _Arbogaste._ It was very strange, in this case, to see
the excuses which these gentlemen made up for their failure. Those
made by M. Arnault were delightful, since nobody could possibly have
a readier wit than he. For instance, he had made the Théâtre-Français
take up again an old piece of his, played, I believe, under the Empire
the _Proscrit_, or _les Guelfes et les Gibelins._ The piece fell flat.
Who did the furious Academician blame for it?--Firmin! Why Firmin?
Firmin, delightful, enthusiastic and conscientious player, who enjoyed
much lasting favour from the public, although his memory began to fail
him,--Firmin played the part of Tébaldo, head of the Ghibellines and
brother of Uberti, head of the Guelfs, in the play. The other parts
were played by Ligier, Joanny and Duchesnois. So, we see, M. Arnault
had nothing to grumble at: the Comédie-Française had lent him of its
best; perhaps it had a conviction it would not be for long. Very well,
M. Arnault made Firmin's memory, or, rather, want of memory, the excuse
for this failure, and he dedicated his play to the prompter. We have
this curious dedication before us, and are going to quote it; it will,
we hope, have for our readers at least the attraction of a hitherto
unpublished fragment. This time we are not afraid of being mistaken in
the name of the author _du factum_ as not long since happened to us
concerning an article in the _Constitutionnel_ reproduced by us, which,
by a copyist's error, we ascribed to M. Étienne, whilst it was only by
M. Jay.[1]
And, by the way, as a relation of M. Étienne, a son-in-law or rather,
I think, it was a nephew,--protested in the papers, let me be allowed
a word of explanation, which will completely re-establish my good
faith. I live part of my life in Brussels, part in Paris; the rest
of the time I live in the railway between Brussels and Paris, or
Paris and Brussels. Besides, I have already said that I am writing my
Memoirs without notes. The consequence is that, when I am in Paris,
I have my information close at hand; but when I am in Brussels I am
obliged to have it sent from Paris. Now, I needed the article that
had been published against _Antony_ the very morning of the day it
was to have been played at the Théâtre-Français. I wrote to Viellot,
my secretary--a delightful fellow who never thought of spreading the
report that he was any collaborator,--to unearth the _Constitutionnel_
from the catacombs of 1834, to copy out for me the above-mentioned
article and to send it me. Viellot went to the Bibliothèque, that great
common grave where journals of all sorts of parties and colours and
times are entered. He borrowed the file from the rag-merchant of Pyat
who was taking it away, and who, when he learnt what was wanted, would
not let it off his hook for love or money until he was told that it was
in order to do me a service; then he lent it, and Viellot picked off
from its curved point the _Constitutionnel_ for 28 April 1834. Then
he returned home and copied out the article. Only, in copying it I do
not know what hallucination he was possessed with, whether the style
flew to his head, or the wit got into his brain, or the form upset his
senses, anyhow, he imagined that the article was by M. Étienne, and
signed it with the name of the author of _Brueys et Palaprat_ and of
the _Deux Gendres._ I, seeing the copy of the article, believed,--I
was at a distance of seventy leagues from the scene of action, as they
say poetically in politics,--the signature to be as authentic as the
rest; I therefore fell upon the unfortunate article, and rent it in
pieces--I was going to say tooth and nail, but no, I am too cautious
for that!--with might and main, both article and signature. My error,
though involuntary, was none the less an error on that account, and
deserved that I should acknowledge it publicly. Thereupon, reparation
be made to M. Étienne, and homage paid to M. Jay! Honour to whom honour
is due!
Let us return to M. Arnault and his dedication, which, I remember, at
the time made my poor Firmin so unhappy that he wept over it like a
child!
"DEDICATORY EPISTLE
TO THE PROMPTER OF THE THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS[2]
"MONSIEUR,--Authors are by no means all ungrateful beings.
I know some who have paid homage for their success to the
player to whom they were particularly indebted. I imitate
this noble example: I dedicate the _Guelfes_ to you.
Mademoiselle Duchesnois, M. Joanny, M. Ligier have, without
doubt, contributed to the success of that work by a zeal as
great as their talent; but whatever they may have done for
me, have they done as much as you, monsieur?
"'_To prompt is not to play_,' M. Firmin will say, who is
even stronger at the game of draughts than at the game of
acting.[3] To that I reply with Sganarelle: 'Yes and no!'
When the prompter merely gives the word to the actor, when
he only jogs the memory of the player, no, certainly, _to
prompt is not to play!_ But when the player takes everything
from the prompter, everything from the first to the last
line of his part; when your voice covers his; when it is
yours alone which is heard whilst he gesticulates, certainly
this is _playing through the prompter!_ Is it not this,
monsieur, which has happened, not only at the first, but
even at every performance of the _Guelfes?_ Is it not you
who really played M. Firmin's part?
"'His memory,' he says, 'is of the worst.' It is
conceivable, according to the system which places the seat
of memory in the head.[4] But, under the circumstances,
does not M. Firmin blame his memory for the infirmity of
his will? And why, you will say to me, is M. Firmin wanting
in kindly feeling towards you, who feel kindly disposed to
everybody? Towards you, who, from your age, perhaps also
from your misfortunes, if not on account of past successes,
had a right at least to that consideration which is not
refused to the scholar who makes his first appearance? Such
are indeed the rights which I knew M. Firmin's good nature
would accord you, rights which I thought to strengthen
in him by offering one of the most important parts in my
tragedy, the part that you have prompted, or that you
have played: it is a case of six of one and a half-dozen
of another. I was, indeed, far from suspecting that the
honour done to M. Firmin's talent was an insult to his
expectations. Yet that is what has happened.
"The succession to Talma was open for competition. When
the empire of the world came to be vacant, all who laid
claim to the empire of Alexander were not heroes: I ought
to have remembered this; but does one always profit by the
lessons of history? I did not imagine that the heir to the
dramatic Alexander would be the one among his survivors who
least resembled him. Nature had shown great prodigality
towards Talma. His physical gifts corresponded with his
moral endowments, a glowing soul dwelt in his graceful body;
a vast intellect animated that noble head; his powerful
voice, with its pathetic and solemn intonation, served as
the medium for his inexhaustible sensitiveness, for his
indefatigable energy. Talma possesses everything nature
could bestow; besides all that art could acquire. Although
M. Firmin has eminent gifts, does he combine in himself all
perfections? His somewhat slender personal appearance does
not ill-become all youthful parts, but does it accord with
the dignity required by parts of leading importance? His
voice is not devoid of charm in the expression of sentiments
of affection; but has it the strength requisite for serious
moods and violent emotions? His intellect is not wanting
in breadth; but do his methods of execution expand to that
breadth when he wants to exceed the limits with which nature
has circumscribed him? The pride of the eagle may be found
in the heart of a pigeon, and the courage of a lion in that
of a poodle. But, by whatever sentiment it is animated, the
rock-pigeon can only coo, the cur can but howl. Now, these
accents have not at all the same authority as the cry of
the king of the air, or the roar of the king of the forests.
"After these sage reflections, distributing the part of my
tragedy to the actors who have abilities that are the most
in keeping with the characters of those parts, I gave that
of Uberti to M. Ligier, an actor gifted with an imposing
figure and voice, and I reserved the part of the tender
impassioned Tébaldo for M. Firmin. What the deuce possessed
me? Just as every Englishman says whenever he comes across
salt water, '_This belongs to us!_' so does M. Firmin say
whenever he comes across a part made for the physiognomy
of Talma, _This belongs to me_![5] The part of Uberti was
intended for Talma, and I did not offer it to M. Firmin!
The part of Uberti was claimed by M. Firmin, and I did not
take it from M. Ligier! A twofold crime of _lèse-majesté._
Alas! How the majesty of M. Firmin has punished me for
it! He accepted the rôle that I offered him. Knowing the
secrets of the Comédie, you know, monsieur, what has been
the result of that act of complacency. Put into study in
April, _Les Guelfes_ might have been produced in May, under
the propitious influence of spring; it was only performed in
July, during the heat of the dog-days. Thus had M. Firmin
decided. Oh! the power of the force of inertia! When several
ships sail in company, the common pace is regulated by that
of the poorest sailer. The common pace in this case was
regulated by the memory of M. Firmin, which unfortunately
was regulated by his good will. Now, this good will thought
fit to compromise the interests of my reputation. But
everything has to be paid for. At what point, monsieur, did
it not serve the interests of your fame? All the newspapers
kept faithful to it. Did it not exhume you from the pit,
where hitherto you had buried your capacities, and reveal
them to the public? Did it not, when raising you to the
level of the actors behind whom you had hitherto been
hidden, give them a mouthpiece in you?
"Declaiming, whilst M. Firmin gesticulated, you have,
it is true, transferred from the boulevards to the
Théâtre-Français an imitation of that singular combination
of a declamatory orator who does not let himself be seen,
and a gesticulator who does not let himself be heard,
co-operate in the execution of the same part. People of
scrupulous taste are, it is true, offended by it; but what
matters that to you? It is not you, monsieur, who, in these
scenes, play the buffoon: and what does it matter to me,
since, acting thus, you have saved my play? Moreover, is it
the first borrowing, and the least honourable borrowing,
that your noble theatre has made from those of the
boulevards?[6]
"Thanks to that admirable agreement, the _Guelfes_ has had
several representations. But why has not the run, suspended
by a journey taken by Mademoiselle Duchesnois, been resumed
upon her return, as that great actress requested it should
be, and as the play-bills announced.[7]
"M. Firmin refused to proceed. The part of Tébaldo, he says,
has slipped out of his memory. For that matter, it might as
well never have entered it. But, after all, what is it to
you or to me whether he knows his part or not? Can he not
make the same shift in the future as he has in the past?
Need his memory fail him so long as you do not fail him? Is
his memory not at the tip of your tongue, which, one knows,
is by no means paralysed? But do not these difficulties,
monsieur, that are said to come from M. Firmin, come from
yourself? Accustomed to working underground, was it not
you who stirred them up in secret? You have not the entire
part, like M. Firmin; paid for prompting when you take the
part of an actor, and of a principal actor, did you not get
tired, at the last, of becoming out of breath for glory
alone, and did you not behind the scenes oppose the revival
of a play during the performance of which you had not time
to breathe? Justice, monsieur, justice! No doubt M. Firmin
owes you an indemnity: claim it, but do not compromise the
interests of the Théâtre-Français by impeding his services
in preventing him from doing justice to an author's rights;
that may lead to consequences, remember: the number of
authors dissatisfied with him on just grounds is already
but too great; be careful not to increase it. The second
Théâtre-Français, although people are doing their best to
kill it, is not yet dead. Would it be impossible to put it
on its feet again? Will not the players who have been drawn
off to block the first theatre (which pays them less for
playing at it than for not playing any part at all) grow
tired in the end of a state of things which reduces them
from the status of parish priests to that of curates, or,
rather, from being the bishops they were degrades them to
the rank of millers? In conclusion, is there not a nucleus
of a tragedy-playing company still left at the Odéon? And
are there no pupils at the school of oratory who could swell
the number?
"Think of it, monsieur, the tragedy which they seem to wish
to stifle in the rue de Richelieu might find a home in the
faubourg Saint-Germain, which was its cradle and that also
of the Théâtre-Français. You would not do badly to drop
a hint of this to the members of the committee. Further,
happen what may, remember, monsieur, the obligations that I
owe you will never be erased from my memory, which is not as
ungrateful as that of M. Firmin.
"If only I could express my gratitude to you by some homage
more worthy your acceptance!--Dedicate a tragedy to you, a
tragedy in verse, written at top speed![8] But each must pay
in his own coin: monsieur, do not refuse to take mine.
"Remember, monsieur, that Benedict XIV. did not scorn the
dedication of _Mahomet._ I am not a Voltaire, I know; but
neither are you a Pope. All things considered, perhaps the
relation between us is equivalent to that which existed
between those two personages. Meanwhile, take this until
something better turns up. Classic by principle and by habit
I have not hitherto believed myself possessed of sufficient
genius to dispense with both rhyme and reason. But who
knows? Perhaps, some day, I shall be in a condition to try
my hand at the romantic _guerre_: if I put myself at a
distance from the age when people rave extravagantly I shall
draw nearer to that of dotage. Patience then!--I am, with
all the consideration which is due to you, monsieur, your
very humble and very obedient servant,
"ARNAULT"
[1] See p. 277 and footnote.
[2] Three persons are honoured with this title; they differ, however,
in importance, not by reason of the relative importance of their
duties, which are always the same, but according to that of the kind
of work to which their talents are applied. Given the case of a work
of a special nature, a romantic work like _Louis IX._ or _Émilia_,
the prompter-in-chief takes the manuscript, and not a trace of that
noble prose reaches the ears of the players before it has passed
through his lips; but if it is a question of a classical work, a work
in verse, standing then on his dignity, like the executioner who
would only execute gentle folk, he says: you can carry through this
bit of business, you fellows, passing the plebeian copy-book to his
substitutes. When it is a question of high comedy he delegates his
duties to the second prompter, and tragedy is given over to a third,
that is to say to the industrious and modest man to whom this letter is
dedicated.
[3] The game of draughts (_les dames_)--it is the game that is
meant--is in fact this actor's ruling passion, although he is not a
first-rate player. He knows, however, how to reconcile that passion
with his duties, and is scarcely less eager to quit his game in
order to go upon the stage when it is a public performance that is
in question, than to quit the stage to resume his game; when merely
authors are concerned, it is true, he does not exercise so much
alacrity; but as it is only a matter of rehearsals, does he not always
arrive quite soon enough ... when he does come?
[4] The seat of memory varies according to the individual. It lay in
the stomach of that comedian to whom Voltaire sent his _Variantes_ in a
pâté. Mademoiselle Contat placed it in her heart, and her memory was an
excellent one.
[5] In consequence of this right, M. Firmin is preparing to play
Hamlet. He has even bought for it, they tell me, the dress Talma wore
in that part. Fancy his dreaming of such a thing. That costume was not
made for his figure, and besides, all who wear lions' skins are not
always taken for lions.
[6] _Louis XI._ and _Émilia_, whose merits we fully appreciate, seem
indeed to have been borrowed, if not actually robbed, from the theatres
of the boulevards. If, during the performance of these pieces, the
orchestra perchance woke out of its lethargy, whether to announce by a
fanfare of trumpets the entrance or departure of exalted personages,
whether to explain by a short symphony what speech had failed to make
clear, and even when one was in the precincts consecrated to Racine,
Corneille and Voltaire, one was willing enough to fancy oneself at
the Ambigu-Comique or at the Gaieté: it needed nothing more than this
to complete the illusion. Let us hope that the regenerators of this
theatre will take kindly to the remark and will profit by it for the
perfecting of the French stage.
[7] For the last six months, and even to-day, the bill announces:
"Until the performance of _Les Guelfes et Les Gibelins_"; probably
to-morrow it will no longer contain the announcement.
[8] It is especially against tragedies in verse that the umpires of
good taste to-day protest. Their repugnance in respect of poetry
ever outweighs their love for romanticism. If, in that series of
chapters--entitled scenes--whose whole forms a novel called a drama,
which is sold under the title of _Louis XI._; if, in _Louis XI._, the
Scottish prose of Sir Walter Scott had been put into rhymed verse;
that drama would not have been more kindly received by them than a
posthumous tragedy of Racine, although common sense would be scarcely
more respected there than in a melodrama. It is to the absence of rhyme
also that _Émilia_ owes the favour with which these gentlemen have
honoured it. When he had heard the reading of that work, one of the
most influential members of the tribunal by which it had been judged,
exclaimed: "_The problem is solved! The problem is solved!_ _We have
at last a tragedy in prose!_" The Comédiens Français formerly gave a
hundred louis to Thomas Corneille for putting a comedy of Molière's,
_Le Festin de Pierre_, into verse. The Comédiens Français will, it is
said, to-day give a thousand louis to an academician for putting the
tragedies of Corneille, Racine and of Voltaire into prose. Is it indeed
necessary that they should address themselves to an academician for
that? Do not a good many of them perform that parody every day of their
lives?
Verse and rhyme are not natural, say lovers of nature. Clothes,
gentlemen, are not natural, and yet you wear them to distinguish
yourself from the savage; furthermore, you wear clothes of fine
materials to distinguish yourselves from the rabble, and, when you are
rich enough to enable you to do so, you adorn them with trimmings to
distinguish yourself even from well-to-do people. That which one does
for the body permit us to do for the intellect; allow us to do for the
mind that which you do for matter.
CHAPTER V
M. Arnault's _Pertinax_--_Pizarre_, by M. Fulchiron--M.
Fulchiron as a politician--M. Fulchiron as magic poet--A
word about M. Viennet--My opposite neighbour at the
performance of _Pertinax_--Splendid failure of the
play--Quarrel with my _vis-à-vis_--The newspapers take it
up--My reply in the _Journal de Paris_--Advice of M. Pillet
Alas! there are two things for which I have searched in vain! And
verily, God knows, how thoroughly I search when I begin! These
are Firmin's answer to M. Arnault and the tragedy of _Pertinax._
Neither answer nor tragedy exist any longer. Why _Pertinax?_ What is
_Pertinax?_ And what is the successor to Commodus doing here? Rather
ask what the unfortunate being was doing at the Théâtre-Français! He
fell there beneath the hissings of the pit, as he fell beneath the
swords of the prætorians. Here is the history of his second death, his
second fall. After a lapse of seventeen years I cannot say much about
the first; but, after an interval of twenty-four years, I can relate
the second, at which I was present.
After those unlucky _Guelfes_ had obstinately remained on the bills for
nine months they finally disappeared. M. Arnault demanded compensation
for Firmin's defective memory. The committee decided that, although
_Pertinax_ had only been received eleven years ago, it should be put in
rehearsal.
Eleven years ago? You repeat, and you think I am mistaken, do you not?
But it is you who are mistaken. _Arbogaste_, by M. Viennet, received in
1825, was only played in 1841! _Pizarre_, by M. Fulchiron, received in
1803, has not yet been played! Let me put in a parenthesis in favour of
poor _Pizarre_ and the unfortunate M. Fulchiron.
M. Fulchiron, you know him well?--Yes. Well, then, he had had a
tragedy, _Pizarre_, received at the Comédie-Française in the month
of August 1803--Ah! really? And what has the Comédie-Française been
doing the last fifty years?--It has not played M. Fulchiron's tragedy.
And what did this same M. Fulchiron do during those fifty years?--He
asked to have his piece played. Come! come! come!--What more could you
expect? Hope supported him! They had promised it, when they accepted
it, that it would have its turn.
Those are the actual words! Look at the registers of the
Comédie-Française if you don't believe me. True, the police of the
Consulate suspended the work; but the censorship of the Empire was
better informed as to the tragedy and returned it to its author.
Hence it arose that, contrary to the opinion of many people who
preferred the First Consul to the Emperor, M. Fulchiron preferred the
Emperor to the First Consul.
During the whole of the Empire,--that is to say, from 1805 to
1814--during the whole of the Restoration--that is to say, from 1815
to 1830--M. Fulchiron wrote, begged, prayed with, it must be admitted,
that gentleness which is indissolubly bound up with his real character.
In 1830, M. Fulchiron became a politician. Then he had an excuse to
offer. To his friends--M. Fulchiron actually took those people for his
friends! think of it!--who asked him--
"Why, then, dear Monsieur Fulchiron, did you not get your _Pizarre_
played when so many good things had been said about it for a long time?"
He replied--"Because I am a politician, and one cannot be both a
politician and a man of letters at the same time."
"Bah! look at M. Guizot, M. Villemain, M. Thiers!"
"M. Guizot, M. Villemain and M. Thiers have their own ideas on the
subject; I have mine."