"Oh! influence in high quarters, then!"

M. Fulchiron blushed and smiled; then, with that air which M. Viennet

puts on, when talking of Louis-Philippe, he said, _Mon illustre ami_--

"Well, yes," replied M. Fulchiron, "the king took hold of the button of

my coat, which is a habit of his, as you know."

"No, I did not know."

"Ah! that is because you are not one of the frequenters of the château."

"There are people who lay great stress on being intimates of a château!

You understand?"

"When he took me by my coat button," continued M. Fulchiron, "the king

said to me, 'My dear Fulchiron, in spite of the beauties it contains,

do not have your tragedy played.' 'But why not?' 'How can one make a

man a minister who has written a tragedy?' 'Sire, the Emperor Napoléon

said, "If Corneille had lived in my day, I should have made him a

prince!" 'I am not the Emperor Napoléon, and you are not Corneille.'

'Nevertheless, sire, when one has had a tragedy calling from the deeps

for the last thirty years ...' 'You shall read it to me, M. Fulchiron

...' 'Ah! sire, your Majesty's desires are commands. When would your

Majesty like me to read _Pizarre?_' Some day ... when all these devils

of Republicans leave me a bit of respite!'"

The Republicans never left Louis-Philippe, who, you will agree, was

an intelligent man, any respite. That is why M. Fulchiron hated

Republicans so much. What! was that the reason? Yes! You thought

that M. Fulchiron hated Republicans because they tended to usurp

power, to disturb order, to put, as Danton expressed it in his curt

description of the Republic, _à mettre dessus ce qui est dessous?_ You

are mistaken; M. Fulchiron hated Republicans because by means of all

their riots--their 5 June, _14_ April, etc. etc. etc.--upon my word,

I forget all the dates!--they prevented him from reading his play to

Louis-Philippe. So, on 24 February 1848, however devoted he seemed to

be to the established government, M. Fulchiron allowed Louis-Philippe

to fall.

See on what slender threads hang great events! If Louis-Philippe had

heard the reading of _Pizarre_, M. Fulchiron would have supported the

Government of July, and perhaps Louis-Philippe might still be on the

throne. So, after the fall of Louis-Philippe, M. Fulchiron was as

happy as the Prince of Monaco when they took away his principality from

him.

"My political career is a failure," says M. Fulchiron, "and you see me

once more a literary man! I shall not be a minister, but I will be an

academician."

"Indeed!" say you; "then why is not M. Fulchiron an academician?"

"Because _Pizarre_ has not been played."

"Good! Was not M. Dupaty received into the Academy on condition that

his tragedy _Isabelle_ should not be played?"

"Oh! really?"

"They were already sufficiently troubled by the fact that his _Seconde

Botanique_ had been played! That youthful indiscretion delayed his

entry for ten years ... But ten years are not fifty."

So M. Fulchiron began to be impatient, as impatient, that is, as he can

be. From time to time he appears at the Théâtre-Français, and, with

that smile which, it seems to me, should prevent anyone from refusing

him anything, he says--

"About my _Pizarre_, it must be high time they were putting it in hand!"

"Monsieur," says Verteuil to him--the secretary of the

Comédie-Française, a clever fellow, whom we have already had occasion

to mention, through whose hands many plays pass, but who does not

compose any himself--"Monsieur, they are even now busy with it."

"Ah! very good!"

And M. Fulchiron's smile becomes still more winning.--

"Yes, and as soon as M. Viennet's _Achille_, now under rehearsal, has

been played, _Pizarre_ will occupy the stage."

"But, if I remember rightly, M. Viennet's _Achille_ was only accepted

in 1809, and, consequently, I have the priority."

"Doubtless; but M. Viennet had two _tours de faveur_ and you only one."

"Then I was wrong to complain."

And M. Fulchiron goes away always smiling, takes his visiting-card in

person to M. Viennet, and writes in pencil on it these few words,

"Dear colleague, hasten your rehearsals of _Achille!_"

Thus he leaves his card with M. Viennet's porter, the same porter who

informed the said M. Viennet that he was a peer of France; and M.

Viennet, who is horribly spiteful, has not bowed to M. Fulchiron since

the second card. He treats the seven pencilled words of M. Fulchiron as

an epigram and says to everybody--

"Fulchiron may, perhaps, be a Martial, but I swear he is not an

Æschylus!"

And M. Fulchiron, his arms hung down, continues to walk abroad and

through life, as Hamlet says, never doubting that if he is no Æschylus

it is all owing to M. Viennet.[1]

I will close my parenthesis about M. Fulchiron, and return to M.

Arnault and _Pertinax_, which the ungrateful prompter, in spite of the

dedicatory epistle to the _Guelfes_, has never called anything but

_Père Tignace_ (Daddy Tignace).

_Pertinax_, then, was played as some compensation for the disappearance

of the _Guelfes._ Oh! what a pity it is that _Pertinax_ has not been

printed! How I would like to have given you specimens of it and then

you would understand the merriment of the pit! All I recollect is, that

at the decisive moment the Emperor Commodus called for his secretary.

I had in front of me a tall man whose broad shoulders and thick locks

hid the actor from me every time he happened to be in the line of

sight. Unluckily, I did not possess the scissors of Sainte-Foix. By his

frantic applause I gathered that this gentleman understood many things

which I did not. The upshot of it was that, when the Emperor Commodus

called his secretary, the play upon words seemed to me to require an

explanation, and I leant over towards the gentleman in front, and, with

all the politeness I could command, I said to him--

"Pardon me, monsieur, but it seems to me that this is a _pièce à

tiroirs!_" (Comedy made up of unconnected episodes.)

He jumped up in his stall, uttered a sort of roar but controlled

himself. True, the curtain was on the point of falling, and before

it had actually fallen our enthusiast was shouting with all his

might--"Author!"

Unfortunately, everybody was by no means as eager to know the author

as was my neighbour in front. Something like three-quarters of the

house--and, perhaps, among these were M. Arnault's own friends--did not

at all wish him to be named. Placed in the orchestra between M. de Jouy

and Victor Hugo, feeling, on my left, the elbows of Romanticism and, on

my right, those of _Classicism_, if I may be allowed to coin a word, I

waited patiently and courageously until they stopped hissing, just as

M. Arnault had acted towards me in turning the cold shoulder towards me

after _Henri III._, leaving me the privilege of neutrality.

But man proposes and God disposes. God, or rather the devil, inspired

the neighbour to whom I had perhaps put an indiscreet, although very

innocent question, to point me out to his friends, and, consequently,

to M. Arnault, as the Æolus at whose signal all the winds had been let

loose which blew from the four cardinal points of the theatre in such

different ways. A quarrel ensued between me and the tall man, a quarrel

which instantly made a diversion in the strife that was going on. Next

day all the journals gave an account of this quarrel, with their usual

impartiality, generosity and accuracy towards me. It was imperative

that I should reply. I chose the _Journal de Paris_ in which to publish

my reply; it was edited, at that period, by the father of Léon Pillet,

a friend of mine. Therefore, the following day, the _Journal de Paris_

published my letter, preceded and followed by a few bitter and sweet

lines. This is the exordium. After my letter will come the peroration.

"In reporting the failure which the tragedy of _Pertinax_

met with at the hands of the critics, we mentioned that

a dispute took place in the centre of the orchestra. M.

Alexandre Dumas, one of the actors in this little drama,

which was more exciting than the one that had preceded it,

has addressed a letter to us on this subject. We hasten to

publish it without wishing to constitute ourselves judges

of the accompanying accusations which the author of _Henri

III._ brings against the newspapers.

"'_Friday_, 29 _May_ 1829

'In spite of the fixed resolution I had taken and have

adhered to until to-day, of never replying to what the

papers say of me, I think it my duty to ask you to insert

this letter in your next issue. It is a reply to the short

article which forms the complement of the account in

your issue of yesterday, in which you give an account of

_Pertinax._ Your article is couched in these terms--

"'"_As we were leaving the house, a lively contest arose

in the orchestra, between an old white-haired man and a

very youthful author, in other words, doubtless, between

a 'classic' and a 'romantic.' Let us hope that that

altercation will not lead to unpleasant consequences._"

"'It is I, monsieur, who have the misfortune to be the

_very youthful author_, to whom it is of great importance,

from the very fact of his being young and an author, that

he should lay down the facts exactly as they happened. I

was in the orchestra of the Français, between M. de Jouy

and M. Victor Hugo, during the whole of the performance of

_Pertinax._ Obliged, in a manner, as a student of art and

as a student of all that which makes masters to listen, I

had listened attentively and in silence to the five acts

which had just concluded, when, in the middle of the lively

dispute that was going on between some spectators who wished

M. Arnault to be called and others who did not, I was

impudently apostrophised, whilst sitting quite silent, by a

friend of M. Arnault, who stood up and pointed at me with

his finger. I will repeat what he said word for word--

"'"_It is not surprising that they are hissing in the

orchestra when M. Dumas is there. Are you not ashamed,

monsieur, to make yourself the ringleader of a cabal?_"

"'"And when I replied that I had not said one word, he

added--

"'"_That does not matter, it is you who direct the whole

league!_"

"'As some persons may believe this stupid accusation I have

appealed to the testimony of MM. de Jouy and Victor Hugo.

This testimony is, as it was inevitable that it would be,

unanimous.

"'That is enough, I think, to exonerate myself. But, whilst

I have the pen in my hand, monsieur, as it is probably

the first and, perhaps, the last time that I write to a

newspaper.[2] I desire to add a few words relative to the

absurd attacks my drama of _Henri III._ has brought down on

me; such a favourable occasion as this one may, perhaps,

never present itself again: allow me, therefore, to take

advantage of it.

"'I think I understand, and I honestly believe that I

accept, true literary criticism as well as anyone. But,

seriously, monsieur, are the facts I have just quoted really

literary criticism?

"'The day after the reception of my drama _Henri III._ at

the Comédie-Française, the _Courrier des Théâtres_, which

did not know the work, denounced it to the censorship, in

the hope, so it was said, that the censor would not suffer

the scandal of such a performance. That seems to me rather

a matter for the police than for literature. Is it not

so, monsieur? I will not speak of a petition which was

presented to the king during my rehearsals pleading that the

Théâtre-Français should return to the road of the _really

beautiful._[3]

"'It is stated that the august personage to whom it was

addressed replied simply, "_What can I do in a question

of this nature? I only have a place in the pit, like all

other Frenchmen._" I have not really the courage to be

angered against the signatories of a denunciation which has

brought us such a reply. Besides, several of us would have

blushed, since, for what they had done, and have said that

they thought they were signing quite a different thing.

Then came the day of the representation. It will be granted

that, on that day alone, the newspapers had the right to

speak of the work. They made great use of their privileges;

but several of them, as they themselves confessed, were not

choice in their style of criticism. The _Constitutionnel_

and the _Corsaire_ said much kinder things the first day

than the play deserved. A week later, the _Constitutionnel_

compared the play with the _Pie Voleuse_, and accused the

author of having danced a round dance in the green room

of the Comédie-Française with some wild fanatics, about

the bust of Racine--which stands with its back against the

wall--shouting, "_Racine is done for_!" This was merely

ridicule, and people shrugged their shoulders. The next

day, the _Corsaire_ said that the work was a monstrosity,

and that the author was a Jesuit and a pensioner. This, it

must be admitted, was an excellent joke, addressed to the

son of a Republican general whose mother never received the

pension which, it seems, was due to her, whether from the

government of the Empire or from the king's government.

This was more than ridicule, it was contemptible. As for

the _Gazette de France_, I will do it the justice of saying

that it has not varied for an instant from the opinion that

M. de Martainville expressed in it on the first day. This

journal made out that there was a flagrant conspiracy in the

play against the throne and the altar; while the journalist

expressed the liveliest regret that he had not seen the

author appear when he was called for. "People declare," he

said, "that _his face has a typically romantic air about

it._" Now, as Romanticism is M. de Martainville's _bête

noire_, I can believe, without being too punctilious, that

he had no intention of paying me a compliment. It is not

merely impolite on M. de Martainville's part, but, worse

still, it is indelicate: M. de Martainville is very well

aware that one can make one's reputation but that one cannot

make one's own physiognomy. His own physiognomy is extremely

respectable. I could go on explaining the causes of these

alterations and insults, and make known various sufficiently

curious anecdotes concerning certain individuals; still more

could I ... But the twelve columns of your newspaper would

not suffice. I will therefore conclude my letter, monsieur,

by asking advice of you, since you have great experience.

What ought an author to do in order to spare himself the

quarrels arising out of first performances? I have had

three of this nature during the last three months;--three

quarrels, that is to say: had it been three representations

I should not have survived!

"'One concerning _Isabelle de Bavière_, with an admirer of

M. de Lamothe-Langon, who made out that I had hissed. One

at the _Élections_, with an enemy of M. de Laville, who

contended that I had applauded. Lastly, one at _Pertinax_

with a friend of M. Arnault, because I neither clapped nor

hissed. I await your kind advice, monsieur, and I give you

my word that I will follow it, if it be anyway possible for

me to do so.--I have the honour, etc.'"

After the last line of the above, the _Journal de Paris_ attempted a

sort of reply--

"As to the advice which M. Alexandre Dumas is kind enough to

ask us to give because of our experience concerning the line

of conduct he should take to avoid disputes at first-night

performances, we will reply to him that a young author,

happy in the enjoyment of a real success, and who knows

how to conceal his joyous pride beneath suitable modesty;

a _student of art_ who, like M. Dumas, gives himself up to

the study of _the works of masters_, including, therein,

the author of _Pertinax_,--does not need to fear insulting

provocations. If, in spite of these dispositions, natural,

no doubt, to the character of M. Dumas, people persist on

picking these Teuton or classic quarrels with him, I should

advise him to treat them with contempt, the quarrels, I

mean, not the Teutons or the classics. Or, indeed, there is

another expedient left him: namely, to abstain from going to

first performances."

The advice, it will be admitted, was difficult, if not impossible, to

follow. I was too young, and my heart was too near my head, I had,

as is vulgarly said, "la tête trop près du bonnet" _i.e._ I was too

hot-headed, to treat quarrels with contempt, whether with Teutons

or classics, and I was too inquisitive not to attend first nights

regularly. I have since been cured of this latter disease; but it has

been for want of time. And yet, it is not so much lack of time which

has cured me; it is the first performances themselves.

NOTE

I have an apology to make concerning M. Fulchiron. It seems

I was in error, not about the date of the reception of

_Pizarre_; not upon the turn of favour[4] which led to the

performance of that piece in 1803; not, finally, upon the

darkness of the spaces of Limbo in which it balanced with

eyes half shut, between death and life--but about the cause

which prevented it from being played in 1803.

First of all, let me say that no one claimed again in

respect of M. Fulchiron, not even he himself. If he had

claimed again, my pleasantries would have pained him, and

then, I confess, I should have been as sad as, and even

sadder than, he, to have given occasion for a protest on the

part of so honourable a man and, above all, so unexacting an

author. This is what happened.

One day, recently, when entering the green room at the

Théâtre-Français, where I was having a little comedy called

_Romulus_ rehearsed, which, in spite of its title, had

nothing to do with the founder of Rome, I was accosted by

Régnier, who plays the principal part in the work.

"Ah!" he said, "is that you?... I am delighted to see you!"

"And I to see you ... Have you some good advice to give me

about my play?"

I should tell you that, in theatrical matters, Régnier gives

the wisest advice I know.

"Not about your play," he replied, "but about yourself."

"Oh come, my dear fellow! I would have shaken hands with you

for advice about my play; but for personal advice, I will

embrace you."

"You lay great stress on being impartial?"

"Why! You might as well ask me if I am keen on living."

"And when you have been unjust you are very anxious to

repair your injustice?"

'Indeed I am!"

"Then, my dear friend, you have been unfair to M. Fulchiron:

repair your injustice."

"What! Was his tragedy by chance received in 1804, instead

of 1803, as I thought?"

"No."

"Will it be played without my knowing anything about it, as

was M. Viennet's _Arbogaste?_"

"No, but M. Fulchiron has given his turn of favour to a

young briefless barrister, who wrote a tragedy in his spare

moments. M. Raynouard was the barrister; _Les Templiers_ was

the tragedy."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

"I am going to give you proof of it."

"How will you do that?"

"Come upstairs with me to the archives."

"Show me the way."

Régnier walked in front and I followed him as Dante's

Barbariceia followed Scarmiglione, but without making so

much noise as he.

Five minutes later, we were among the archives, and

Régnier asked M. Laugier, the keeper of the records of the

Théâtre-Français, for the file of autograph letters from M.

Fulchiron. M. Laugier gave them to him. I was going to carry

them off, and I stretched out my hand with that intention,

when Régnier snatched them back from me as one snatches a

bit of pie-crust from a clever dog who does not yet know how

to count nine properly.

"Well?" I asked him.

"Wait."

He pressed the palm of his hand on M. Fulchiron's letters,

which were encased in their yellow boards. Please note

carefully that the epithet is not a reproach; I know people

who, after fifty years of age, are yellow in a quite

different sense from that of M. Fulchiron's letter-book

backs.

"You must know, first of all, my dear friend," continued

Régnier, "that formerly, particularly under the Empire, as

soon as they produced a new tragedy the receipts decreased."

"I conjecture so; but I am very glad to know it officially."

"The result is that the committee of the Comédie-Française

had great difficulty in deciding to play fresh pieces."

"I can imagine so----"

"A turn was therefore a precious possession."

"A thing which had no price!" as said Lagingeole.

"Very well, now read that letter of M. Fulchiron's."

I took the paper from Régnier's hands and read as follows--

"_To the Members of the Administrative Committee of the

Comédie-Française_

"GENTLEMEN,--I have just learnt that the préfect has given

his permission to the _Templiers._ Desiring to do full

justice and to pay all respect to that work and to its

author, which they deserve, I hasten to tell you that I give

up my turn to the tragedy; but, at the same time, I ask

that mine shall be taken up immediately after, so that the

second tragedy which shall be played, reckoning from this

present time, shall be _one of mine_; if you will have the

kindness to give me an actual promise of this in writing, it

will confirm my definite abandonment of my turn.--I remain,

gentlemen, respectfully yours,

"FULCHIRON, fils"

"Ah! but," said I to Régnier, "allow me to point out to you that the

sacrifice was not great and its value was much depreciated owing to the

precautions taken by M. Fulchiron to get one of his tragedies played."

"Wait a bit, though," resumed Régnier. "The suggestion made by M.

Fulchiron was rejected. They made him see that the injustice which

he did not wish done to himself would oppress a third party. If he

renounced his turn it would have to be a complete renunciation, and,

if M. Fulchiron fell out of rank, he must take his turn again at the

end of the file. Now this was a serious matter. Suppose all the chances

were favourable it would mean ten years at least! It must be confessed

that M. Fulchiron took but little time to reflect, considering the

gravity of the subject: then he said, "Well, gentlemen, I know the

tragedy of the _Templiers_; it is much better that it should be

performed at once; and that _Pizarre_ should not have its turn for

ten years. It was, thanks to this condescension, of which very few

authors would be capable towards a colleague, that the tragedy of the

_Templiers_ was played; and, as one knows, that tragedy was one of the

literary triumphs of the Empire. _Les Deux Gendres_ and the _Tyran

domestique_ complete the dramatic trilogy of the period. Almost as

much as eighteen hundred years ago they 'rendered to Cæsar the things

which were Cæsar's.' Why not render to M. Fulchiron the justice which

is his due?" Chateaubriand "I am not the person to refuse this," I said

to Régnier, "and I am delighted to have the opportunity to make M.

Fulchiron a public apology! M. Fulchiron did better than write a good

tragedy: he did a good deed; whilst I, by sneering at him, did a bad

action--without even the excuse of having written a good tragedy!"

[1] See note at end of chapter.

[2] Like Buonaparte on 15 Vendémiaire, I was far from being able to see

clearly into my future.

[3] I have forgotten to inscribe M. de Laville, author of

_Folliculaire_ and of _Une Journée d'Élections_, among the number of

the signers of that petition, which I have cited in another part of

these Memoirs. One of these signatories, who survives the others, has

pointed out my error to me and I here repair it.

[4] TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.--Littré defines _un tour de faveur_ as the

decision of a theatrical committee or manager by virtue of which a

piece is given precedence over others received earlier.

CHAPTER VI

Chateaubriand ceases to be a peer of France--He leaves

the country--Béranger's song thereupon--Chateaubriand as

versifier--First night of _Charles VII._--Delafosse's

vizor--Yaqoub and Frédérick-Lemaître--_The Reine

d'Espagne_--M. Henri de Latouche--His works, talent and

character--Interlude of _The Reine d'Espagne_--Preface of

the play--Reports of the pit collected by the author

People were very full at this time of the resignation and exile

of Chateaubriand, both of which were voluntary acts. The previous

government had caused his dismissal from the French peerage, by

reason of its abolition of heredity in the peerage. The author of the

_Martyrs_ exiled himself because the uproar caused by his opposition

became daily less evident and he feared that it would die away

altogether.

"Do you know, madame, that Chateaubriand is growing deaf?" I said once

to Madame O'Donnel, a witty woman, the sister and daughter of witty

women.

"Indeed!" she replied, "then it is since people have stopped talking

about him."

It must be confessed that a terrible conspiracy, that of silence, was

on foot against Chateaubriand, who had not the strength to bear it. He

hoped that the echo of his great reputation, which once upon a time had

nearly as much weight in the world as Napoléon's, would spread abroad.

The newspapers made a great stir about this voluntary exile. Béranger

made it the subject of one of his short poems, and he, Voltairian

and Liberal, addressed lines to the author of _Atala, René_ and the

_Martyrs_, a Catholic and Royalist. This poem of Béranger's it will be

remembered began with these four lines--

"Chateaubriand, pourquoi fuir la patrie,

Fuir notre amour, notre encens et nos soins?

N'entends-tu pas la France qui s'écrie:

'Mon beau ciel pleure une étoile de moins!'"

Chateaubriand had the good taste to reply in prose. The best verses

are very far below Béranger's worst. It was one of the obsessions of

Chateaubriand's life that he made such bad verses and he persisted

in making them. He shared this eccentricity with Nodier: these two

geniuses of modern prose were haunted by the demon of rhyme. Happily

people will forget _Moïse_ and the _Contes en vers_, just as one has

forgotten that Raphael played the violin. While Béranger sang, and

Chateaubriand retired to Lucerne,--where eight or ten months later,

I was to help him to _feed his chickens_,--the day for the first

performance of _Charles VII._ arrived, 20 October.

I have already said what I thought of the merits of my play: as poetry,

it was a great advance upon _Christine_; as a dramatic work it was an

imitation of _Andromaque_, the _Cid_ and the _Camargo._ Ample justice

was done to it: it had a great success and did not bring in a sou!

Let us here state, in passing, that when it was transferred to the

Théâtre-Français, it was performed twenty or twenty-five times, and

made a hundred louis at each performance. The same thing happened

later with regard to the _Demoiselles de Saint-Cyr._ That comedy,

represented in 1842 or 1843 with creditable but not every remunerative

success--although it then had Firmin, Mesdemoiselles Plessy and

Anaïs as its exponents--had, at its revival, six years later, twice

the number of performances which it had had when it was a novelty,

making an incredible amount of money during its odd Saint Martin's

summer. But let us return to _Charles VII._ We have mentioned what

success the work met with; a comic incident very nearly compromised

it. Delafosse, one of the most conscientious comedians I ever knew,

played the part of Charles VII. As I have said, Harel did not want to

go to any expense over the play (this time, indeed, he acted like a

wise man); to such a degree that I had been obliged, as is known, to

borrow a fifteenth-century suit of armour from the Artillery Museum;

this cuirass was, on a receipt from me, taken to the property room

at the Odéon; there, the theatrical armourer had occasion,--not to

clean it, for it shone like silver,--but to oil the springs and joints

in order to bring back the suppleness which they had lost during a

state of rigidity that had endured for four centuries. By degrees,

the obliging cuirass was, indeed, made pliable, and Delafosse, whose

shell at the proper moment it was to become, was able, although in an

iron sheath, to stretch out his legs and move his arms. The helmet

alone declined all concessions; its vizor had probably not been

raised since the coronation of Charles VII.; and, having seen such a

solemnity as this it absolutely refused to be lowered. Delafosse, a

conscientious man, as I have already indicated, looked with pain upon

the obstinacy of his vizor, which, during the whole time of his long

war-like speech did him good service by remaining raised, but which,

when the speech was ended, and he was going off the stage, would give

him when lowered a formidable appearance, upon which he set great

store. The armourer was called and, after many attempts, in which he

used in turn both gentle and coercive measures, oil and lime, he got

the wretched vizor to consent to be lowered. But, when this end was

achieved, it was almost as difficult a task to raise it again as it

had been to lower it. In lowering, it slipped over a spring, made in

the head of a nail, which, after several attempts, found an opening,

resumed its working, and fixed the vizor in such a way that neither

sword nor lance-thrusts could raise it again; this spring had to be

pressed with a squire's dagger before it could be pushed back again

into its socket, and permit the vizor to be raised. Delafosse troubled

little about this difficulty; he went out with lowered vizor and

his squire had plenty of time to perform the operation in the green

room. Had Henri II. but worn such a vizor he would not have died at

the hand of Montgomery! Behold on what things the fate of empires

depend! I might even say the same about the fate of plays! Henri II.

was killed because his vizor was raised. Charles VII. avoided this

because his vizor remained lowered. In the heat of delivery, Delafosse

made so violent a gesture that the vizor fell of itself, yielding,

doubtless, to the emotion that it felt. This may have been its manner

of applauding. Whatever the cause, Delafosse suddenly found himself

completely prevented from continuing his discourse. The lines began in

the clearest fashion imaginable; they were emphasised most plainly,

but ended in a lugubrious and unintelligible bellowing. The audience

naturally began to laugh. It is said that it is impossible for our

closest friend to refrain from laughter when he sees us fall. It is

no laughing matter, I can tell you, when a play fails, but my best

friends began to laugh. Luckily, the squire of King Charles VII., or,

rather, Delafosse's super (whichever you like), did not forget on the

stage the part he played behind the scenes; he rushed forward, dagger

in hand, on the unfortunate king; the public only saw in the accident

that had just happened a trick of the stage and, in the action of

the super, a fresh-incident. The laughter ceased and the audience

remained expectant. The result of the pause was that in a few seconds

the vizor rose again, and showed Charles VII., as red as a peony and

very nearly stifled. The play concluded without any other accident.

Frédérick-Lemaître was angry with me for a long time because I did not

give him the part of Yaqoub; but he was certainly mistaken about the

character of that personage, whom he took for an Othello. The sole

resemblance between Othello and Yaqoub lies in the colour of the face;

the colour of the soul, if one may be allowed to say so, is wholly

different. I should have made Othello--and I should have been very

proud of it if I had!--jealous, violent, carried away by his passions,

a man of initiative and of will-power, leader of the Venetian galleys;

an Othello with flattened nose, thick lips, prominent cheek-bones,

frizzy hair; an Othello, more negro than Arab, should I have given

to Frédérick. But my Othello, or, rather, my Yaqoub was more Arab

than negro, a child of the desert, swarthy complexioned rather than

black, with straight nose, thin lips, and smooth and flat hair; a sort

of lion, taken from his mother's breast and carried off from the red

and burning sands of the Sahara to the cold and damp flagstones of a

château in the West; in the darkness and cold he becomes enervated,

languid, poetical. It was the fine, aristocratic and rather sickly

nature of Lockroy which really suited the part. And, according to

my thinking, Lockroy played it admirably. The day after the first

performance of _Charles VII._ I received a good number of letters

of congratulation. The play had just enough secondary merit not to

frighten anybody, and brought me the compliments of people who, whether

unable or unwilling to pay them any longer to Ancelot, felt absolutely

obliged to pay them to somebody.

Meanwhile, the Théâtre-Français was preparing a play which was to cause

a much greater flutter than my poor _Charles VII._ This was the _Reine

d'Espagne_, by Henri de Latouche. M. de Latouche,--to whom we shall

soon have to devote our attention in connection with the appearance

upon our literary horizon of Madame Sand,--was a sort of hermit,

who lived at the Vallée-aux-Loups. The name of the hermitage quite

sufficiently describes the hermit. M. de Latouche was a man of genuine

talent; he has published a translation of Hoffmann's _Cardillac_, and

a very remarkable Neapolitan novel. The translation--M. de Latouche

obliterated the name on his stolen linen--was called _Olivier Brusson_;

the Neapolitan novel was called _Fragoletta._ The novel is an obscure

work, badly put together, but certain parts of it are dazzling in their

colour and truth; it is the reflection of the Neapolitan sun upon the

rocks of Pausilippe. The Parthenopean Revolution is described therein

in all its horrors, with the bloodthirsty and unblushing nakedness of

the peoples of the South. M. de Latouche had, besides, rediscovered,

collected and published the poetry of André Chénier. He easily made

people believe that these poems were if not quite all his own, at least

in a great measure his. We will concede that M. Henri de Latouche

concocted a hemistich here and there where it was wanting, and joined

up a rhyme which the pen had forgotten to connect, but that the verses

of André Chénier are by M. de Latouche we will not grant!

We only knew M. de Latouche slightly; at the same time, we do not

believe that there was so great a capacity for the renunciation of

glory on his part as this, that he gave to André Chénier, twenty-five

years after the death of the young poet, that European reputation from

which he was able to enrich himself. Yet M. de Latouche wrote very

fine verse; Frédérick Soulié, who was then on friendly terms with him,

told me at times that his poetry was of marvellous composition and

supreme originality. In short, M. de Latouche, a solitary misanthrope,

a harsh critic, a capricious friend, had just written a five-act

prose comedy upon the most immodest subject in France and Spain; not

content with shaking the bells of Comus, as said the members of the

Caveau, he rang a full peal on the bells of the theatre of the rue de

Richelieu. This comedy took for its theme the impotence of King Charles

II., and for plot, the advantage accruing to Austria supposing the

husband of Marie-Louise d'Orléans produced a child, and the advantage

to France supposing his wife did not have one. As may be seen it was a

delicate subject. It must be admitted that M. de Latouche's redundant

imagination had found a way of skating over the risks of danger which

threatened ordinary authors. When one act is finished it is usually the

same with the author as with the sufferer put to the rack: he has a

rest, but lives in expectation of fresh tortures to follow. But M. de

Latouche would not allow himself any moments of repose; he substituted

Interludes between the acts. We will reproduce verbatim the interlude

between the second and the third act. It is needless to explain the

situation: the reader will easily guess that, thanks to the efforts of

the king's physician, Austria is on the way to triumph over France.

"INTERLUDE

"The personages go out, and after a few minutes interval,

the footlights are lowered; night descends. The

Chamberlain, preceded by torches, appears at the door

of the Queen's apartment, and knocks upon it with his

sword-hilt; the head lady-in-waiting comes to the door. They

whisper together; the Chamberlain disappears; then, upon a

sign from the head lady-in-waiting, the Queen's women arrive

successively and ceremoniously group themselves around their

chief. A young lady-in-waiting holds back the velvet curtain

over the Queen's bedroom. The king's cortège advances; two

pages precede his Majesty, holding upon rich cushions the

king's sword and the king's breeches. His Majesty is in his

night attire of silk, embroidered with gold flowers, edged

with ermine; two crowns are embroidered on the lapels.

Charles II. wears, carried on a sash, the blue ribbon

of France, in honour of the niece of Louis XIV. While

passing in front of the line of courtiers, he makes sundry

gestures of recognition, pleasure and satisfaction, and the

recipients of these marks of favour express their delight.

Charles II. stops a moment: according to etiquette he has

to hand the candlestick borne by one of the officers to one

of the Queen's ladies. His Majesty chooses at a glance the

prettiest girl and indicates this favour by a gesture. Two

ladies receives the breeches and the sword from the hands

of the pages, the others allow the King to pass and quickly

close up their ranks. When the curtain has fallen behind

his Majesty, the nurse cries, _Vive le roi!_ This cry is

repeated by all those present. A symphony, which at first

solemnly began with the air of the _Folies d'Espagne_, ends

the concert with a serenade."

The work was performed but once and it has not yet been played in

its entirety. From that very night M. de Latouche withdrew his play.

But, although the public forgot his drama, M. de Latouche was of too

irascible and too vindictive a nature to let the public forget it. He

did pretty much what M. Arnault did: he appealed from the performance

to the printed edition; only, he did not dedicate the _Reine d'Espagne_

to the prompter. People had heard too much of what the actors had said,

from the first word to the last; the play failed through a revolt

of modesty and morality, and so the author contested the question

of indecency and immorality. We will reproduce the preface of our

fellow-dramatist de Latouche. As annalist we relate the fact; as

keeper of archives, we find room for the memorandum in our archives.[1]

The protest he made was not enough; he followed it up by pointing out,

in the printed play, every fluctuation of feeling shown in the pit and

even in the boxes. Thus, one finds successively the following notes at

the foot of his pages--

.·. Here they begin to cough.

.·. Whispers. The piece is attacked by persons as

thoroughly informed beforehand as the author of the risks of

this somewhat novel situation.

As a matter of fact, the situation was so novel, that the public would

not allow it to grow old.

.·. Here the whispers redouble.

.·. The pit rises divided between two opinions.

.·. This detail of manners, accurately historic, excites

lively disapproval.

See, at page 56 of the play, the detail of manners.

.·. Uproar.

.·. A pretty general rising caused by a chaste

interpretation suggested by the pit.

See page 72, for the suggestion of this chaste interpretation.

.·. Prolonged, _Oh! oh!'s._

.·. They laugh.

.·. They become indignant. _A voice_: "It takes two to make

a child!"

.·. Interruption.

.·. Movement of disapprobation; the white hair of the old

monk should, however, put aside all ideas of indecency in

this interview.

.·. Deserved disapproval.

.·. The sentence is cut in two by an obscene interruption.

See the sentence, on page 115.

.·. Disapproval.

.·. After this scene (_the seventh of the fourth act_) the

piece, scarcely listened to at all, was not criticised any

further.

This was the only attempt M. de Latouche made at the theatre, and, from

that time onwards, la Vallée-aux-Loups more than ever deserved its name.

[1] See end of volume.

CHAPTER VII

Victor Escousse and Auguste Lebras

Meanwhile, the drama of _Pierre III._ by the unfortunate Escousse was

played at the Théâtre-Français. I did not see _Pierre III._; I tried

to get hold of it to read it, but it seems that the drama has not been

printed.

This is what Lesur said about it in his _Annuaire_ for 1831--

"THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS (28 _December._)--First performance

of _Pierre III._, a drama in five acts; in verse, by M.

Escousse.

"The failure of this work dealt a fatal blow to its author;

carried away, as he probably was, with the success of

_Farruck le Maure._ In _Pierre III._, neither history, nor

probability, nor reason, was respected. It was a deplorable

specimen of the fanatical and uncouth style of literature

(these two epithets are my own), made fashionable by men

possessed of too real a talent for their example not to

cause many lamentable imitations. But who could suspect that

the author's life was bound up in his work? Yet one more

trial, one more failure and the unhappy young man was to

die!..."

And, indeed, Victor Escousse and Auguste Lebras in collaboration

soon put on at the Gaieté the drama of _Raymond_, which also failed.

Criticism must have been cruelly incensed against this drama, since we

find, after the last words of the play, a postscript containing these

few lines, signed by one of the authors--

"P.S.--This work roused much criticism against us, and

it must be admitted, few people have made allowances for

two poor young fellows, the oldest of whom is scarcely

twenty, in the attempt which they made to create an

interesting situation with five characters, rejecting all

the accessories of melodrama. But I have no intention of

seeking to defend ourselves. I simply wish to proclaim the

gratitude that I owe to Victor Escousse, who, in order to

open the way for my entry into theatrical circles, admitted

me to collaboration with himself; I also wish to defend

him, as far as it is in my power, against the calumnious

statements which are openly made against his character as a

man; imputing a ridiculous vanity to him which I have never

noticed in him. I say it publicly, I have nothing but praise

to give him in respect of his behaviour towards me, not only

as collaborator, but still more as a friend. May these few

words, thus frankly written, soften the darts which hatred

has been pleased to hurl against a young man whose talent, I

hope, will some day stifle the words of those who attack him

without knowing him! AUGUSTE LEBRAS"

Yet Escousse had so thoroughly understood the fact that with success

would come struggle, and with the amelioration of material position

would come a recrudescence in moral suffering, that, after the success

in _Farruck le Maure_, when he left his little workman's room to take

rather more comfortable quarters as an honoured author, he addressed

to that room, the witness of his first emotions as poet and lover, the

lines here given--

À MA CHAMBRE

"De mon indépendance,

Adieu, premier séjour,

Où mon adolescence

A duré moins d'un jour!

Bien que peu je regrette

Un passé déchirant,

Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,

Je vous quitte en pleurant!

Du sort, avec courage,

J'ai subi tous les coups;

Et, du moins, mon partage

N'a pu faire un jaloux.

La faim, dans ma retraite,

M'accueillait en rentrant ...

Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,

Je vous quitte en pleurant!

Au sein de la détresse,

Quand je suçais mon lait,

Une tendre maîtresse

Point ne me consolait,

Solitaire couchette

M'endormait soupirant ...

Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,

Je vous quitte en pleurant!

De ma muse, si tendre,

Un Dieu capricieux

Ne venait point entendre

Le sons ambitieux.

Briller pour l'indiscrète,

Est besoin dévorant ...

Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,

Je vous quitte en pleurant!

Adieu! le sort m'appelle

Vers un monde nouveau;

Dans couchette plus belle,

J'oublîrai mon berceau.

Peut-être, humble poète

Lion de vous sera grand ...

Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,

Je vous quitte en pleurant!"

In fact, that set of apartments which Escousse had taken in place of

his room, and where, it will be seen, he had not installed himself

without pain, saw him enter on 18 February, with his friend Auguste

Lebras, followed by the daughter of the porter, who was carrying

a bushel of charcoal. He had just bought this charcoal from the

neighbouring greengrocer. While the woman was measuring it out, he said

to Lebras--

"Do you think a bushel is enough?"

"Oh, yes!" replied the latter.

They paid, and asked that the charcoal might be sent at once. The

porter's daughter left the bushel of charcoal in the anteroom at their

request, and went away, little supposing she had just shut in Death

with the two poor lads. Three days before, Escousse had taken the

second key of his room from the portress on purpose to prevent any

hindrance to this pre-arranged plan. The two friends separated. The

same night Escousse wrote to Lebras--

"I expect you at half-past eleven; the curtain will be

raised. Come, so that we may hurry on the _dénoûment!_"

Lebras came at the appointed hour; he had no thought of failing to keep

the appointment: the fatal thought of suicide had been germinating for

a long while in his brain. The charcoal was already lit. They stuffed

up the doors and windows with newspapers. Then Escousse went to a table

and wrote the following note:--

"Escousse has killed himself because he does not feel he has

any place in this life; because his strength fails him at

every step he takes forwards or backwards; because fame does

not satisfy his soul, _if soul there be!_

"I desire that the motto of my book may be--

"'Adieu, trop inféconde terre,

Fléaux humains, soleil glacé!

Comme un fantôme solitaire,

Inaperçu j'aurai passé.

Adieu, les palmes immortelles,

Vrai songe d'une âme de feu!

L'air manquait: J'ai fermé mes ailes, Adieu!'"

This, as we have said, took place at half-past eleven. At

midnight, Madame Adolphe, who had just been acting at the Théâtre

Porte-Saint-Martin, returned home; she lodged on the same floor as

Escousse, and the young man's suite of rooms was only separated from

her's by a partition. A strange sound seemed to her to come from

those rooms. She listened: she thought she heard a twofold noise as

of raucous breathing. She called, she knocked on the partition, but

she did not obtain any reply. Escousse's father also lived on the same

floor, on which four doors opened; these four doors belonged to the

rooms of Escousse, his father, Madame Adolphe and Walter, an actor I

used to know well at that time, but of whom I have since lost sight.

Madame Adolphe ran to the father of Escousse, awakened him (for he was

already asleep), made him get up and come with her to listen to the

raucous breathing which had terrified her. It had decreased, but was

still audible; audible enough for them to hear the dismal sound of two

breathings. The father listened for a few seconds; then he laughingly

said to Madame Adolphe, "You jealous woman!" And he went off to bed not

wishing to listen to her observations any further.

Madame Adolphe remained by herself. Until two o'clock in the morning

she heard this raucous sound to which she alone persisted in giving its

true significance. Incredulous though Escousse's father had been, he

was haunted by dismal presentiments all night long. About eight o'clock

next morning he went and knocked at his son's door. No one answered.

He listened; all was silent. Then the idea came to him that Escousse

was at the Vauxhall baths, to which the young man sometimes went. He

went to Walter's rooms, told him what had passed during the night, and

of his uneasiness in the morning. Walter offered to run to Vauxhall,

and the offer was accepted. At Vauxhall, Escousse had not been seen by

anyone. The father's uneasiness increased; it was nearly his office

hour, but he could not go until he was reassured by having his son's

door opened. A locksmith was called in and the door was broken open

with difficulty, for the key which had locked it from the inside was

in the keyhole. The key being still in the lock frightened the poor

father to such an extent that, when the door was open, he did not dare

to cross the threshold. It was Walter who entered, whilst he remained

leaning against the staircase bannisters. The inner door was, as we

have said, stuffed up, but not closed either with bolt or key; Walter

pushed it violently, broke through the obstructing paper and went in.

The fumes of the charcoal were still so dense that he nearly fell back.

Nevertheless, he penetrated into the room, seized the first object to

hand, a water-bottle, I believe, and hurled it at the window. A pane

of glass was broken by the crash, and gave ingress to the outer air.

Walter could now breathe, and he went to the window and opened it.

Then the terrible spectacle revealed itself to him in all its fearful

nakedness. The two young men were lying dead: Lebras on the floor,

upon a mattress which he had dragged from the bed; Escousse on the bed

itself. Lebras, of weakly constitution and feeble health, had easily

been overcome by death; but with his companion it had been otherwise;

strong and full of health, the struggle had been long and must have

been cruel; at least, this was what was indicated by his legs drawn

up under his body and his clenched hands, with the nails driven into

the flesh. The father nearly went out of his mind. Walter often told

me that he should always see the two poor youths, one on his mattress,

the other on his bed. Madame Adolphe did not dare to keep her rooms:

whenever she woke in the night, she thought she could hear the

death-rattle, which the poor father had taken for the sighs of lovers!

The excellent elegy which this suicide inspired Béranger to write is

well-known; we could wish our readers had forgotten that we had given

them part of it when we were speaking of the famous song-writer: that

would have allowed us to quote the whole of it here; but how can

they have forgotten that we have already fastened that rich poetic

embroidery on to our rags of prose?

CHAPTER VIII

First performance of _Robert le Diable_--Véron, manager

of the Opéra--His opinion concerning Meyerbeer's

music--My opinion concerning Véron's intellect--My

relations with him--His articles and _Memoirs_--Rossini's

judgment of _Robert le Diable_--Nourrit, the

preacher--Meyerbeer--First performance of the _Fuite de

Law_, by M. Mennechet--First performance of _Richard

Darlington_--Frédérick-Lemaître--Delafosse--Mademoiselle

Noblet

Led away into reminiscences of Escousse and of Lebras, whom we followed

from the failure of _Pierre III._ to the day of their death, from the

evening of 28 December 1831, that is, to the night of 18 February 1832,

we have passed over the first performances of _Richard Darlington_ and

even of _Térésa._ Let us go back a step and return to the night of 21

October, at one o'clock in the morning, to Nourrit's dressing room,

who had just had a fall from the first floor of the Opéra owing to an

ill-fitting trap-door.

The first representation of _Robert le Diable_ had just been given.

It would be a curious thing to write the history of that great opera,

which nearly failed at the first representation, now reckons over

four hundred performances and is the _doyen_ of all operas now born

and, probably, yet to be born. At first, Véron, who had passed from

the management of the _Revue de Paris_ to that of the Opéra, had from

the first hearing of Meyerbeer's work,--in full rehearsal since its

acceptance at the theatre of the rue Lepeletier,--declared that he

thought the score detestable, and that he would only play it under

compulsion or if provided with a sufficient indemnity. The government,

which had just made, with respect to that new management, one of the

most scandalous contracts which have ever existed; the government,

which at that period gave a subsidy to the Opéra of nine hundred

thousand francs, thought Véron's demand quite natural; and convinced,

with him, that the music of _Robert le Diable_ was execrable, gave

to its well-beloved manager sixty or eighty thousand francs subsidy

for playing a work which now provides at least a third of the fifty

or sixty thousand francs income which Véron enjoys. Does not this

little anecdote prove that the tradition of putting a man at the

Opéra who knows nothing about music goes back to an epoch anterior

to the nomination of Nestor Roqueplan,--who, in his letters to Jules

Janin, boasts that he does not know the value of a semibreve or the

signification of a natural? No, it proves that Véron is a speculator

of infinite shrewdness, and that his refusal to play Meyerbeer's opera

was a clever speculation. Now, does Véron prefer that we should say

that he was not learned in music? Let him correct our statement. It

is common knowledge with what respect we submit to correction. There

is one point concerning which we will not admit correction: namely,

what we have just said about Véron's intellect. What we here state

we have repeated a score of times _speaking to him in person,_ as a

certain class of functionaries has it. Véron is a clever man, even

a very clever man, and it would not be doubted if he had not the

misfortune to be a millionaire. Véron and I were never on very friendly

terms; he has never, I believe, had a high opinion of my talent. As

editor of the _Revue de Paris_ he never asked me for a single article;

as manager of the Opéra, he has never asked me for anything but a

single poem for Meyerbeer, and that on condition I wrote the poem in

collaboration with Scribe; which nearly landed me in a quarrel with

Meyerbeer and wholly in one with Scribe. Finally, as manager of the

_Constitutionnel_, he only made use of me when the success which I had

obtained on the _Journal des Débats_, the _Siècle_ and the _Presse_ had

in some measure forced his hand. Our engagement lasted three years.

During those three years we had a lawsuit which lasted three months;

then, finally, we amicably broke the contract, when I had still some

twenty volumes to give him, and at the time of this rupture I owed him

six thousand francs. It was agreed that I should give Véron twelve

thousand lines for these six thousand francs. Some time after, Véron

sold the _Constitutionnel._ For the first journal that Véron shall

start, he can draw upon me for twelve thousand lines, at twelve days'

sight: on the thirteenth day the signature shall be honoured. Our

position with regard to Véron being thoroughly established, we repeat

that it is Véron's millions which injure his reputation. How can it be

admitted that a man can both possess money and intellect? The thing is

impossible!

"But," it will be urged, "if Véron is a clever man, who writes his

articles? Who composes his _Memoirs?_"

Some one else will reply--"He did not; they are written by Malitourne."

I pay no regard to what may lie underneath. When the articles or the

_Memoirs_ are signed Véron, both articles and _Memoirs_ are by Véron

so far as I am concerned: what else can you do? It is Véron's weakness

to imagine that he can write. Good gracious! if he did not write,

his reputation as an intellectual man would be made, in spite of his

millions! But it happens that, thanks to these deuced articles and

those blessed _Memoirs_, people laugh in my face when I say that Véron

has intellect. It is in vain for me to be vexed and angry, and shout

out and appeal to people who have supped with him, good judges in the

matter of wit, to believe me; everybody replies, even those who have

not supped with him: That is all very well! You say this because you

owe M. Véron twelve thousand lines! As if because one owes a man twelve

thousand lines it were a sufficient excuse for saying that he has

intellect! Take, for example, the case of M. Tillot, of the _Siècle_,

who says that I owe him twenty-four thousand lines; at that rate, I

ought to say that he has twice as much intellect as Véron. But I do

not say so; I will content myself with saying that I do not owe him

those twenty-four thousand lines, and that he, on the contrary, owes me

something like three or four hundred thousand francs or more, certainly

not less.

But where on earth were we? Oh! I remember! we were talking about the

first night of _Robert le Diable._ After the third act I met Rossini in

the green-room.

"Come now, Rossini," I asked him, "what do you think of that?"

"Vat do I zink?" replied Rossini.

"Yes, what do you think of it?"

"Veil, I zink zat if my best friend vas vaiting for me at ze corner of

a wood vis a pistol, and put zat pistol to my throat, zaying, 'Rossini,

zu art going to make zur best opera!' I should do it."

"And suppose you had no one friendly enough towards you to render you

this service?"

"Ah! in zat case all vould be at an end, and I azzure you zat I vould

never write one zingle note of music again!"

Alas! the friend was not forthcoming, and Rossini kept his oath.

I meditated upon these words of the illustrious maestro during the

fourth and fifth acts of _Robert_, and, after the fifth act, I went to

the stage to inquire of Nourrit if he was not hurt. I felt a strong

friendship towards Nourrit, and he, on his side, was much attached to

me. Nourrit was not only an eminent actor, he was also a delightful

man; he had but one fault: when you paid him a compliment on his acting

or on his voice, he would listen to you in a melancholy fashion, and

reply with his hand on your shoulder--

"Ah! my friend, I was not born to be a singer or a comedian!"

"Indeed! Then why were you born?"

"I was born to mount a pulpit, not a stage."

"A pulpit!"

"Yes."

"And what the deuce would you do in a pulpit?"

"I should guide humanity in the way of progress.... Oh! you misjudge

me; you do not know my real character."

Poor Nourrit! He made a great mistake in wanting to have been or to

appear other than he was: he was a delightful player! a dignified and

noble and kindly natured man! He had taken the Revolution of 1830 very

seriously, and, for three months, he appeared every other day on the

stage of the Opéra as a National Guard, singing the _Marseillaise_,

flag in hand. Unluckily, his patriotism was sturdier than his voice,

and he broke his voice in that exercise. It was because his voice had

already become weaker that Meyerbeer put so little singing in the part

of Robert. Nourrit was in despair, not because of his failure, but

because of that of the piece. In common with everyone else, he thought

the work had failed. Meyerbeer was himself quite melancholy enough!

Nourrit introduced us to one another. Our acquaintance dates from that

night.

Meyerbeer was a very clever man; from the first he had had the sense to

place a great fortune at the service of an immense reputation. Only,

he did not make his fortune with his reputation; it might almost be

said that he made his reputation with his fortune. Meyerbeer was never

for one instant led aside from his object,--whether he was by himself

or in society, in France or in Germany, at the table of the hotel _des

Princes_ or at the Casino at Spa,--and that object was success. Most

assuredly, Meyerbeer gave himself more trouble to achieve success than

in writing his scores. We say this because it seems to us that there

are two courses to take. Meyerbeer should leave his scores to make

their own successes; we should gain one opera out of every three. I

admire the more this quality of tenacity of purpose in a man since it

is entirely lacking in myself. I have always let managers look after

their interests and mine on first nights; and, next day, upon my word!

let people say what they like, whether good or ill! I have been working

for the stage for twenty-five years now, and writing books for as long:

I challenge a single newspaper editor to say he has seen me in his

office to ask the favour of a single puff. Perhaps in this indifference

lies my strength. In the five or six years that have just gone by, as

soon as my plays have been put on the stage, with all the care and

intelligence of which I am capable, it has often happened that I have

not been present at my first performance, but have waited to hear any

news about it that others, more curious than myself, who had been

present, should bring me.

But at the time of _Richard Darlington_ I had not yet attained to this

high degree of philosophy. As soon as the play was finished, it had

been read to Harel, who had just left the management of the Odéon to

take up that of the Porte-Saint-Martin, and, be it said, Harel had

accepted it at once; he had immediately put it in rehearsal, and,

after a month of rehearsals, all scrupulously attended by me, we had

got to 10 December, the day fixed for the first performance. The

Théâtre-Français was in competition with us, and played the same day

_La Fuite de Law_, by M. Mennechet, ex-reader to King Charles X. In his

capacity of ex-reader to King Charles X., Mennechet was a Royalist. I

shall always recollect the sighs he heaved when he was compelled, as

editor of _Plutarque français_, to insert in it the biography of the

Emperor Napoléon. Had he been in a position to consult his own personal

feelings only, he would certainly have excluded from his publication

the Conqueror of Marengo, of Austerlitz and of Jena; but he was not

the complete master of it: since Napoléon had taken Cairo, Berlin,

Vienna and Moscow, he had surely the right to monopolise fifty or sixty

columns in the _Plutarque français._ I know something about those

sighs; for he came to ask me for that biography of Napoléon, and it was

I who drew it up. In spite of the competition of the Théâtre-Français

there was a tremendous stir over _Richard._ It was known beforehand

that the play had a political side to it of great significance, and

the feverishness of men's minds at that period made a storm out of

everything. People crushed at the doors to get tickets. At the rising

of the curtain the house seemed full to overflowing. Frédérick was

the pillar who supported the whole affair. He had supporting him,

Mademoiselle Noblet, Delafosse, Doligny and Madame Zélie-Paul. But so

great was the power of this fine dramatic genius that he electrified

everybody. Everyone in some degree was inspired by him, and by contact

with him increased his own strength without decreasing that of the

great player. Frédérick was then in the full zenith of his talent.

Unequal like Kean,--whose personality he was to copy two or three

years later,--sublime like Kean, he had the same qualities he exhibits

to-day, and, though in a lesser degree, the same defects. He was

just the same then in the relations of ordinary life,--difficult,

unsociable, capricious, as he is to-day. In other respects he was a

man of sound judgment; taking as much interest in the play as in his

own part in the suggestions he proposed, and as much interest in the

author as in himself. He had been excellent at the rehearsals. At the

performance itself he was magnificent! I do not know where he had

studied that gambler on the grand scale whom we style an ambitious man;

men of genius must study in their own hearts what they cannot know

except in dreams. Next to Frédérick, Doligny was capital in the part

of Tompson. It was to the recollection I had of him in this rôle that

the poor fellow owed, later, the sad privilege of being associated

with me in my misfortunes. Delafosse, who played Mawbray, had moments

of genuine greatness. One instance of it was where he waits at the

edge of a wood, in a fearful storm, for the passing of the post-chaise

in which Tompson is carrying off Jenny. An accident which might have

made a hitch and upset the play at that juncture was warded off by his

presence of mind. Mawbray has to kill Tompson by shooting him; for

greater security, Delafosse had taken two pistols; real stage-pistols,

hired from a gunsmith,--they both missed fire! Delafosse never lost

his head: he made a pretence of drawing a dagger from his pocket, and

killed Tompson with a blow from his fist, as he had not been able to

blow out his brains. Mademoiselle Noblet was fascinatingly tender and

loving, a charming and poetic being. In the last scene she fell so

completely under Frédérick's influence as to utter cries of genuine

not feigned terror. The fable took on all the proportions of reality

for her. The final scene was one of the most terrible I ever saw on

the stage. When Jenny asked him, "What are you going to do?" and

Richard replied, "I do not know; but pray to God!" a tremendous shudder

ran all over the house, and a murmur of fear, escaping from every

breast, became an actual shriek of terror. At the conclusion of the

second act Harel had come up to my _avant-scène_:[1]--I had the chief

_avant-scène_ by right, and from it I could view the performance as

though I were a stranger. Harel, I say, came up to entreat me to have

my name mentioned with that of Dinaux: the name, be it known, by which

Goubaux and Beudin were known on the stage. I refused. During the third

act he came up again, accompanied this time by my two collaborators,

and furnished with three bank-notes of a thousand francs each. Goubaux

and Beudin, good, excellent, brotherly hearted fellows, came to ask me

to have my name given alone. I had done the whole thing, they said,

and my right to the success was incontestable. I had done the whole

thing!--except finding the subject, except providing the outlines of

the development, except, finally, the execution of the chief scene

between the king and Richard, the scene in which I had completely

failed. I embraced them and refused. Harel offered me the three

thousand francs. He had come at an opportune moment: tears were in my

eyes, and I held a hand of each of my two friends in mine. I refused

him, but I did not embrace him. The curtain fell in the midst of

frantic applause. They called Richard before the curtain, then Jenny,

Tompson, Mawbray, the whole company. I took advantage of the spectators

being still glued to their places to go out and make for the door of

communication. I wanted to take the actors in my arms on their return

to the wings. I came across Musset in the corridor; he was very pale

and very much moved.

"Well," I asked him; "what is the matter, my dear poet?"

"I am suffocating!" he replied.

It was, I think, the finest praise he could have paid the work,--the

drama of _Richard_ is, indeed, suffocating. I reached the wings in

time to shake hands with everybody. And yet I did not feel the same

emotion as on the night of _Antony!_ The success had been as great,

but the players were nothing like as dear to me. There is an abyss

between my character and habits and those of Frédérick which three

triumphs in common have not enabled either of us to bridge. What a

difference between my friendship with Bocage! Between Mademoiselle

Noblet and myself, pretty and fascinating as she was at that date,

there existed none but purely artistic relations; she interested me as

a young and beautiful person of promising future, and that was all.

What a difference, to be sure, from the double and triple feelings

with which Dorval inspired me! Although to-day the most active of

these sentiments has been extinguished these twenty years; though she

herself has been dead for four or five years, and forgotten by most

people who should have remembered her, and who did not even see her

taken to her last resting-place, her name falls constantly from my pen,

just as her memory strikes ever a pang at my heart! Perhaps it will

be said that my joy was not so great because my name remained unknown

and my personality concealed. On that head I have not even the shadow

of a regret. I can answer for it that my two collaborators were more

sadly troubled at being named alone than I at not being named at all.

_Richard_ had an immense success, and it was just that it should:

_Richard_, without question, is an excellent drama. I beg leave to be

as frank concerning myself as I am with regard to others.

Twenty-one days after the performance of _Richard Darlington_ the year

1831 went to join its sisters in that unknown world to which Villon

relegates dead moons, and where he seeks, without finding them, the

snows of yester year. Troubled though the year had been by political

disturbances, it had been splendid for art. I had produced three

pieces,--one bad, _Napoléon Bonaparte_; one mediocre, _Charles VII._;

and one good, _Richard Darlington._

Hugo had put forth _Marion Delorme,_ and had published _Notre-Dame de

Paris_--something more than a _roman_, a book!--and his volume the

_Feuilles d'Automne._

Balzac had published the _Peau de chagrin_, one of his most irritating

productions. Once for all, my estimation of Balzac, both as a man

and as an author, is not to be relied upon: as a man, I knew him but

little, and what I did know did not rouse in me the least sympathy;

as regards his talent, his manner of composition, of creation, of

production, were so different from mine, that I am a bad judge of him,

and I condemn myself on this head, quite conscious that I can justly be

called in question.

But to continue. Does my reader know, omitting mention of M. Comte's

theatre and of that of the Funambules, what was played in Paris from

1 January 1809 to 31 December 1831? Well, there were played 3558

theatrical pieces, to which Scribe contributed 3358; Théaulor, 94;

Brazier, 93; Dartois, 92, Mélesville, 80; Dupin, 56; Antier, 53;

Dumersan, 55; de Courcy, 50. The whole world compared with this could

not have provided a quarter of it! Nor was painting far behind: Vernet

had reached the zenith of his talent; Delacroix and Delaroche were

ascending the upward path of theirs. Vernet had exhibited ... But

before speaking of their works, let us say a few words of the men

themselves.

[1] At the front of the stage.--TRANS.

CHAPTER IX

Horace Vernet

Vernet was then a man of forty-two. You are acquainted with Horace

Vernet, are you not? I will not say as painter--pooh! who does not

know, indeed, the artist of the _Bataille de Montmirail_, of the

_Prise de Constantine_, of the _Déroute de la Smala?_ No, I mean as

man. You will have seen him pass a score of times, chasing the stag

or the boar, in shooting costume; or crossing the place du Carrousel,

or parading in the court of the Tuileries, in the brilliant uniform

of a staff officer. He was a handsome cavalier, a dainty, lithe,

tall figure, with sparkling eyes, high cheek-bones, a mobile face

and moustaches _à la royale Louis XIII._ Imagine him something like

d'Artagnan. For Horace looked far more like a musketeer than a painter;

or, say, like a painter of the type of Velasquez, or Van Dyck, and,

like the Cavalier Tempesta, with curled-up moustache, sword dangling

against his heels, his horse snorting forth fire from its nostrils.

The whole race of Vernets were of a similar type. Joseph Vernet, the

grandfather, had himself bound to a ship's mast during a tempest.

Karl Vernet, the father, would, I am certain, have given many things

to have been carried off, like Mazeppa, across the Steppes of Ukraine

on a furious horse, reeking with foam and blood. For, be it known,

Horace Vernet brings up the rear of a quadruple series, the latest of

four generations of painters,--he is the son of Karl, the grandson of

Joseph Vernet, the great-grandson of Antoine. Then, as though this

were not enough, his maternal ancestor was the younger Moreau, that is

to say, one of the foremost draughts-men and ablest engravers of the

eighteenth century. Antoine Vernet painted flowers upon sedan chairs.

There are two chairs painted and signed by him at Marseilles. Joseph

Vernet has adorned every museum in France with his sea pictures. He is

to Havre, Brest, Lorient, Marseilles and Toulon what Canaletto is to

Venice.

Karl, who began by bearing off the _grand prix_ of Rome with his

composition of the _Enfant prodigue_, became, in 1786, an enthusiastic

painter of everything English. The Duc d'Orléans bought at fabulous

prices the finest of English horses. Karl Vernet became mad on horses,

drew them, painted them, made them his speciality and so became famous.

As for Horace, he was born in 1789, the year in which his grandfather

Joseph died and his father Karl was made an Academician. Born a

painter, so to say, his first steps were taken in a studio.

"Who is your master?" I once asked him.

"I never had one."

"But who taught you to draw and paint?"

"I do not know.... When I could only walk on all fours I used to pick

up pencils and paint brushes. When I found paper I drew; when I found

canvas I painted, and one fine day it was discovered that I was a

painter."

When ten years old, Horace sold his first drawing to a merchant: it

was a tulip commissioned by Madame de Périgord. This was the first

money he had earned, twenty-four sous! And the merchant paid him these

twenty-four sous in one of those white coins that were still to be seen

about in 1816, but which we do not see now and shall probably not see

again. This happened in 1799. From that moment Horace Vernet found a

market for drawings, rough sketches and six-inch canvases. In 1811 the

King of Westphalia commissioned his first two pictures: the _Prise du

camp_ _retranché de Galatz_ and the _Prise de Breslau._ I have seen

them scores of times at King Jérome's palace; they are not your best

work, my dear Horace! But they brought him in sixteen thousand francs.

It was the first considerable sum of money he had received; it was the

first out of which he could put something aside. Then came 1812, 1813

and 1814, and the downfall of the whole Napoléonic edifice. The world

shook to its foundations: Europe became a volcano, society seemed about

to dissolve. There was no thought of painting, or literature, or art!

What do you suppose became of Vernet, who could not then obtain for his

pictures eight thousand francs, or four thousand, or a thousand, or

five hundred, or a hundred, or even fifty? Vernet drew designs for the

_Journal des Modes_;--three for a hundred francs: 33 francs 33 centimes

each drawing! One day he showed me all these drawings, a collection of

which he kept; I counted nearly fifteen hundred of them with feelings

of profound emotion. The 33 francs 33 centimes brought to my mind my

166 francs 65 centimes,--the highest figure my salary had ever reached.

Vernet was a child of the Revolution; but as a young man he knew only

the Empire. An ardent Bonapartist in 1815, more fervent still, perhaps,

in 1816, he gave many sword strokes and sweeps of the paint brush in

honour of Napoléon, both exercised as secretly as possible. In 1818,

the Duc d'Orléans conceived the idea of ordering Vernet to paint

pictures for him. The suggestion was transmitted to the painter on the

prince's behalf.

"Willingly," said the painter, "but on condition that they shall be

military pictures."

The prince accepted.

"That the pictures," added the painter, "shall be of the time of the

Republic and of the Empire."

Again the prince acceded.

"Finally," added the painter, "on condition that the soldiers of the

Empire and of the Revolution shall wear tricolor cockades."

"Tell M. Vernet," replied the prince to this, "that he can put the

first cockade in my hat."

And as a matter of fact the Duc d'Orléans decided that the first

picture which Vernet should execute for him should be of himself as

Colonel of Dragoons, saving a poor refractory priest: a piece of good

fortune which befell the prince in 1792, and which has been related

by us at length in our _Histoire de Louis Philippe._ Horace Vernet

painted the picture and had the pleasure of putting the first tricolor

cockade ostentatiously on the helmet. About this time the Duc de Berry

urgently desired to visit the painter's studio, whose reputation grew

with the rapidity of the giant Adamastor. But Vernet did not love the

Bourbons, especially those of the Older Branch. With the Duc d'Orléans

it was different; he had been a Jacobin. Horace refused admission to

his studio to the son of Charles X.

"Oh! Good gracious!" said the Duc de Berry, "if in order to be received

by M. Vernet it is but a question of putting on a tricolor cockade,

tell him that, although I do not wear M. Laffitte's colours at my

heart, I will put them in my hat, if it must be so, the day I enter his

house."

The suggestion did not come to anything either, because the painter did

not accede to it; or because, the painter having acceded to it, the

prince declined to submit to such an exacting condition.

In less than eighteen months Vernet painted for the Duc d'Orléans--the

condition concerning the tricolor cockades being always respected--the

fine series of pictures which constitute his best work: _Montmirail_,

in which he puts more than tricolor cockades, namely, the Emperor

himself riding away into the distance on his white horse; _Hanau,

Jemappes_ and _Valmy._ But all these tricolor cockades, which blossomed

on Horace's canvases like poppies, cornflowers and marguerites in a

meadow, and above all, that detestable white horse, although it was no

bigger than a pin's head, frightened the government of Louis XVIII.

The exhibition of 1821 declined Horace Vernet's pictures. The artist

held an exhibition at his own house, and had a greater success by

himself than the two thousand painters had who exhibited at the Salon.

This was the time of his great popularity. No one was allowed at that

period, not even his enemies, to dispute his talent. Vernet was more

than a celebrated painter: he belonged to the nation, representing

in the world of art the spirit of opposition which was beginning to

make the reputations of Béranger and of Casimir Delavigne in the

world of poetry. He lived in the rue de la Tour-des-Dames. All that

quarter had just sprung into being; it was the artists' quarter. Talma,

Mademoiselle Mars, Mademoiselle Duchesnois, Arnault lived there. It

was called _La Nouvelle Athènes._ They all carried on the spirit of

opposition in their own particular ways: Mademoiselle Mars with her

violets, M. Arnault with his stories, Talma with his Sylla wig, Horace

Vernet with his tricolor cockades, Mademoiselle Duchesnois with what

she could. One consecration was still lacking in the matter of Horace

Vernet's popularity; he obtained it, that is to say, he was appointed

director of the École Française at Rome. Perhaps this was a means of

getting him sent away from Paris. But the exile, if such it was, looked

so much more like an honour that Vernet accepted it with joy. Criticism

grumbled a little;--it was the time of the raising of Voices!--Some

complained in the hoarse notes, others in the screaming tones which

are the peculiar property of the envious, exclaiming that it was

rather a risk to send to Rome the propagator of tricolor cockades,

and rather a bold stroke to bring into juxtaposition _Montmirail_ and

_The Transfiguration_, Horace Vernet and Raphael; but these voices

were drowned in the universal acclamation which hailed the honour

done to our national painter. It was certainly not Vernet's enemies

who should have indulged in recrimination; but rather his friends who

should have felt afraid. In fact, when Horace Vernet found himself

confronted with the masterpieces of the sixteenth century, even as

Raphael when led into the Sistine Chapel by Bramante, he was seized

with a spasm of doubt. The whole of his education as a painter was

called in question. He felt he had been self-deceived for thirty years

of his life;--at the age of thirty-two, Horace had already been a

painter for thirty years!--he asked himself whether, instead of those

worthy full-length soldiers, clad in military capot and shako, he

was not destined to paint naked giants; the _Iliad_ of Homer instead

of the _Iliad_ of Napoléon. The unhappy painter set himself to paint

great pictures. The Roman school was in a flourishing state upon his

arrival--Vernet succeeded to Guérin;--under Vernet it became splendid.

The indefatigable artist, the never-ceasing creator, communicated a

portion of his fecund spirit to all those young minds. Like a sun he

lighted up and warmed throughout and ripened everything with his rays.

One year after his arrival in Rome he must needs erect an exhibition

hall in the garden of the École. Féron, from whom the institute asked

an eighteen-inch sketch, gave a twenty-feet picture, the _Passage des

Alpes_; Debay gave the _Mort de Lucrèce_; Bouchot, a _Bacchanale_;

Rivière, a _Peste apaisée par les prières du pape._ Sculptors created

groups of statuary, or at the least statues, instead of statuettes;

Dumont sent _Bacchus aux bras de sa nourrice_; Duret, the _Invention de

la Lyre._ It was such an outpouring of productions that the Academy was

frightened. It complained that the École de Rome _produced too much._

This was the only reproach they had to bring against Vernet during his

Ultramontane Vice-regency. He himself worked as hard as a student,

two students, ten students. He sent his _Raphael et Michel-Ange_, his

_Exaltation du pape_, his _Arrestation du prince de Condé_, his ...

Happily for Horace, I cannot recollect any more he sent in at that

period.

I repeat once more, the sight of the old masters had upset all his

old ideas;--in the slang of the studio, Horace splashed about. I say

this because I am quite certain that it is his own opinion. If it

is possible that Horace could turn out any bad painting--if he has

ever done so--and he alone has the right to say this--is it not the

fact, dear Horace, that the bad painting which many artists point out

with glee and triumph was done in Rome. But this period of relative

inferiority for Horace, which was only below his own average in

painting in what is termed the "grand style," was not without its

profit to the artist; he drank the wine of life from its main source,

the eternal spring! He returned to France strengthened by a force

invisible to all, unrealised by himself, and after seven years spent in

the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel and the Farnesina, he found himself

more at ease among his barracks and battlefields, which many people

said, and said wrongly, that he ought not to have quitted.

Ah! Horace led a fine life, dashing through Europe on horseback, across

Africa on a dromedary, over the Mediterranean in a ship! A glorious,

noble and loyal life at which criticism may scoff, but in respect of

which no reproach can be uttered by France.

Now, during this year--_nous revenons à nos moutons_, as M. Berger puts

it--Horace sent two pictures from Rome, namely, those we have mentioned

already: the _Exaltation du pape_, one of the best of his worst

pictures, and the _Arrestation du prince de Condé_, one of the best of

his best pictures.

CHAPTER X

Paul Delaroche

Delaroche exhibited his three masterpieces at the Salon of 1831: the

_Enfants d'Édouard_; _Cinq-mars et de Thou remontant le Rhône à la

remorque du Cardinal de Richelieu_, and the _Jeu du Cardinal de Mazarin

à son lit de mort._

It is hardly necessary to say that of these three pictures we prefer

the _Cinq-mars et de Thou remontant le Rhône._

The biography of the eminent artist will not be long. His is not an

eccentric character, nor one of those impetuous temperaments which seek

adventures. He did not have his collar-bone broken when he was fifteen,

three ribs staved in at thirty, and his head cut open at forty-five,

as did Vernet; he does not expose his body in every political quarrel;

his recreations are not those of fencing, horse-riding and shooting.

He rests from work by dreaming, and not by some fresh fatiguing

occupation; for although his work is masterly, it is heavy, laboured

and melancholy. Instead of saying before Heaven openly, when showing

his pictures to men and thanking God for having given him the power

to paint them, "Behold, I am an artist! Vivent Raphaël and Michael

Angelo!" he conceals them, he hides them, he withdraws them from sight,

murmuring, "Ah! I was not made for brush, canvas and colours: I was

made for political and diplomatic career. Vivent M. de Talleyrand and

M. de Metternich!" Oh! how unhappy are those spirits, those restless

souls, who do one thing and torment themselves with the everlasting

anxiety that they were created to do something else.

In 1831, Paul Delaroche was thirty-four, and just about at the height

of his strength and his talent. He was the second son of a pawnbroker.

He early entered the studio of Gros, who was then in the zenith of his

fame, and who, after his beautiful pictures of _Jaffa, Aboukir_ and

_Eylau_, was about to undertake the gigantic dome of the Panthéon. He

made genuine and rapid advance in harmony with the design and taste of

the master. Nevertheless, Delaroche began with landscape. His brother

painted historical subjects, and the father did not wish both his two

sons to apply themselves to the same kind of painting. Claude Lorraines

and Ruysdaels were accordingly the studios preferred by Paul; a woman

with whom he fell in love, and whose portrait he persisted in painting,

changed his inclinations. This portrait finished and found to be

acceptable (_bien venu_), as they say in studio language, Delaroche

was won over to the grand school of painting. He made his first

appearance in the Salon of 1822, when he was twenty-five years of age,

with a _Joas arraché du milieu des morts par Josabeth_, and a _Christ

descendu de la croix._ In 1824, he exhibited _Jeanne d'Arc interrogée

dans son cachot par le Cardinal de Winchester, Saint Vincent de Paul

prêchant pour les enfants trouvés, Saint Sébastien secouru par Irene_

and _Filippo Lippi chargé de peindre une vierge pour une convent, et

devenant amoureux de la religieuse qui lui sert de modèle._

The _Jeanne d'Arc_ made a great impression. Instead of being talked of

as a painter of great promise, Delaroche was looked upon as a master

who had realised these hopes.

In 1826 he exhibited his _Mort de Carrache, Le Prétendant sauvé

par Miss MacDonald_, the _Nuit de la Saint Barthélemy_, the _Mort

d'Élisabeth_ and the full-length portrait of the Dauphin.

The whole world stood to gaze at Elizabeth, pallid, dying, dead already

from the waist down. I was riveted in front of the young Scotch girl,

exquisitely sympathetic and admirably romantic in feeling. _Cinq-Mars_

and _Miss MacDonald_ were alone enough to make Delaroche a great

painter. What delicious handling there is in the latter picture, sweet,

tender, moving! What suppleness and _morbidezza_ in those golden

fifteen years, born on the wings of youth, scarcely touching the earth!

O Delaroche! you are a great painter! But if you had only painted four

pictures equal to your _Miss MacDonald_, how you would have been adored!

In 1827, he first produced a political picture, the _Prise du

Trocadéro_; then the _Mort du Président Duranti_, a great and

magnificent canvas, three figures of the first order: the president,

his wife and his child; the figure of the child, in particular, who

is holding up--or, rather, stretching up--its hands to heaven; and

a ceiling for the Charles X. Museum, of which I will not speak, as

I do not remember it. Finally, in 1831, the period we have reached,

Delaroche exhibited _Les Enfants d'Édouard, Cinq-Mars et de Thou_, the

_Jeu de Mazarin_, the portrait of Mlle. Sontag and a _Lecture._ The

painter's reputation, as we have said, had then reached its height. You

remember those two children sitting on a bed, one sickly, the other

full of health; the little barking dog; the ray of light that comes

into the prison through the chink beneath the door. You remember the

Richelieu--ill, coughing, attenuated, with no more strength to cause

the death of others; the beautiful figure of Cinq-Mars, calm, in his

exquisite costume of white satin, pink and white under his pearl-grey

hat; the grave de Thou, in his dark dress, looking at the scaffold

in the distance, which was to assume for him so terrible an aspect

on nearer view; those guards, those rowers, the soldier eating and

the other who is spluttering in the water. The whole is exquisitely

composed and executed, full of intellect and thought, and particularly

full of skill--skill, yes! for Delaroche _par excellence_ is the

dexterous painter. He possesses the expertness of Casimir Delavigne,

with whom he has all kinds of points of resemblance, although, in our

opinion, he strikes us as being stronger, as a painter, than Casimir

Delavigne as a dramatic author. Every artist has his double in some

kindred contemporary. Hugo and Delacroix have many points of contact; I

pride myself upon my resemblance to Vernet.

Delaroche's skill is, indeed, great; not that we think it the fruit of

studied calculation, such cleverness is intuitive, and, perhaps, not so

much an acquired quality as a natural gift, a gift that is doubtless

rather a negative one, from the point of view of art. I prefer certain

painters, poets and players who are inclined to err on the side of

being awkward rather than too skilful. But, just as all the studying in

the world will not change clumsiness into skilfulness, so you cannot

cure a clever man of his defect. Therefore, although it is a singular

statement to make, Delaroche has the defect of being too skilful.

If a man is going to his execution, Delaroche will not choose the

shuddering moment when the guards open the doors of the prison, nor the

terror-stricken instant when the victim catches sight of the scaffold.

No, the resigned victim will pass before the window of the Bishop of

London; as he descends a staircase, will kneel with downcast eyes and

receive the benediction bestowed on him by two white aristocratic

trembling hands thrust through the bars of that window. If he paints

the assassination of the Duc de Guise, he does not choose the moment of

struggle, the supreme instant when the features contract in spasms of

anger, in convulsions of agony; when the hands dig into the flesh and

tear out hair; when hearts drink vengeance and daggers drink blood. No,

it is the moment when all is over, when the Duc de Guise is laid dead

at the foot of the bed, when daggers and swords are wiped clean and

cloaks have hidden the rending of the doublet, when the murderers open

the door to the assassin, and Henri III. enters, pale and trembling,

and recoils as he comes in murmuring--

"Why, he must have been ten feet high?--he looks taller lying down than

standing, dead than alive!"

Again, if he paints the children of Edward, he does not choose the

moment when the executioners of Richard III. rush upon the poor

innocent boys and stifle their cries and their lives with bedding and

pillows. No, he chooses the time when the two lads, seated on the bed

which is to become their grave, are terrified and trembling by reason

of a presentiment of the footsteps of Death, as yet unrecognised by

them, but noted by their dog. Death is approaching, as yet hidden

behind the prison door, but his pale and cadaverous light is already

creeping in through the chinks.

It is evident that this is one side of art, one aspect of genius,

which can be energetically attacked and conscientiously defended.

It does not satisfy the artist supremely, but it gives the middle

classes considerable pleasure. That is why Delaroche had, for a time,

the most universal reputation, and the one that was least disputed

among all his colleagues. It also explains why, after having been too

indulgent towards him, and from the very fact of being over-indulgent,

criticism has become too severe. And this is why we are putting the

artist and his works in their true place and light. We say, then:

Delaroche must not be so much blamed for his skill as felicitated

for it. It is an organic part not merely of his talent, but still

more of his temperament and character. He does not look all round his

subject to find out from which side he can see it the best. He sees

his subject immediately in just that particular pose; and it would be

impossible for the painter to realise it in any other way. Along with

this, Delaroche puts all the consciousness of which he is capable into

his work. Here is yet another point of resemblance between him and

Casimir Delavigne; only, he does not pour his whole self out as does

Delavigne; he does not need, as does Delavigne, friends to encourage

him and give him strength;--he is more prolific: Casimir is cunning;

Delaroche is merely freakish. Then, Casimir shortens, contracts and is

niggardly. He treats the same subject as does Delaroche; but why does

he treat it? Not by any means because the subject is a magnificent

one; or because it moves the heart of the masses and stirs up the Past

of a People; or because Shakespeare has created a sublime drama from

it, but because Delaroche has made a fine picture out of it. Thus the

fifteen more or less lengthy acts of Shakespeare become, under the pen

of Casimir Delavigne, three short acts; there is no mention whatever of

the king's procession, the scene between Richard III. and Queen Anne,

the apparition of the victims between the two armies, the fight between

Richard III. and Richmond. Delavigne's three acts have no other aim

than to make a tableau-vivant framed in the harlequin hangings of the

Théâtre-Français, representing with scrupulous exactitude, and in the

manner of a deceptive painting of still-life, the canvas of Delaroche.

It happens, therefore, that the drama finds itself great, even as is

the Academy, not by any means because of what it possesses, but by

what it lacks. Then, although, in the case of both, their convictions

or, if you prefer it, their prejudices exceed the bounds of obstinacy

and amount to infatuation, Delaroche, being the stronger of the two,

rarely giving in, although he does occasionally! while Casimir never

does so! To give one instance,--I have said that each great artist has

his counterpart in a kindred contemporary art; and I have said that

Delaroche resembled Casimir Delavigne. This I maintain. This is so

true that Victor Hugo and Delacroix, the two least academic talents

imaginable, both had the ambition to be of the Academy. Both competed

for it: Hugo five times and Delacroix ten, twelve, fifteen.... I cannot

count how many times. Very well, you remember what I said before; or

rather, lest you should not remember it, I will repeat it. During one

of the vacancies in the Academy I took it upon myself to call on some

academicians, who were my friends, on Hugo's behalf. One of these calls

was in the direction of Menus-Plasirs, where Casimir Delavigne had

rooms. I have previously mentioned how fond I was of Casimir Delavigne,

and that this feeling was reciprocated. Perhaps it will be a matter

for surprise that, being so fond of him, and boasting of his affection

for myself, I speak _ill_ of him. In the first place, I do not speak

_ill_ of his talent, I merely state the truth about it. That does not

prevent me from liking the man Casimir personally. I speak well of

the talent of M. Delaroche, but does that prove that I like him? No,

I do not like M. Delaroche; but my friendship for the one and my want

of sympathy with the other does not influence my opinion of their

talent. It is not for me either to blame or to praise their talent,

and I may be permitted both to praise and to blame individuals. I

put all these trifles on one side, and I judge their works. With this

explanation I return to Casimir Delavigne, who liked me somewhat,

and whom I liked much. I had decided to make use of this friendship

on behalf of Hugo, whom I loved, and whom I still love with quite a

different affection, because admiration makes up at least two kinds

of my friendship for Hugo, whilst I have no admiration for Casimir

Delavigne at all. So I went to find Casimir Delavigne. I employed all

the coaxing which friendship could inspire, all the arguments reason

could prompt to persuade him to give his vote to Hugo. He refused

obstinately, cruelly and, worse still, tactlessly. It would have been a

stroke of genius for Casimir Delavigne to have voted for Hugo. But he

would not vote for him. Cleverness, in the case of Casimir Delavigne,

was an acquired quality, not a natural gift. Casimir gave his vote to

I know not whom--to M. Dupaty, or M. Flourens, or M. Vatout. Well,

listen to this. The same situation occurred when Delacroix paid his

visits as when Hugo was trying to get himself placed among applicants

for the Academy. Once, twice, Delaroche refused his vote to Delacroix.

Robert Fleury,--you know that excellent painter of sorrowful situations

and supreme anguish, an apparently ideal person to be an impartial

appreciator of Delacroix and of Delaroche! Well, Robert Fleury sought

out Delaroche and did what I had done in the case of Casimir Delavigne,

he begged, implored Delaroche to give his vote to Delacroix. Delaroche

at first refused with shudders of horror and cries of indignation; and

he showed Robert Fleury to the door. But when he was by himself his

conscience began to speak to him; softly at first, then louder and

still louder; he tried to struggle against it, but it grew bigger and

bigger, like the shadow of Messina's fiancée! He sent for Fleury.

"You can tell Delacroix he has my vote!" he burst out;--"all things

considered, he is a great painter."

And he fled to his bed-chamber as a vanquished lion retires into his

cave, as the sulky Achilles withdrew into his tent. Now, in exchange

for that concession made to his conscience when it said to him: "You

are wrong!" let us show Delaroche's stubbornness when conscience said,

"You are right!" Delaroche was not only a great painter, but, as you

will see, he was still more a very fine and a very great character.

In 1835, Delaroche, who was commissioned to paint six pictures for

the dome of the Madeleine, learnt that M. Ingres, who also had been

commissioned to paint the dome, had drawn back from the immense task

and retired. He ran off to M. Thiers, then Minister of the Interior.

"Monsieur le Ministre," he said to him, "M. Ingres is withdrawing;

my work is bound up with his, I am at one with him concerning it; he

discussed his plans with me, and I showed him my sketches; his task

and mine were made to harmonise together. It may not be thus with his

successor. May I ask who his successor is, in order that I may know

whether we can work together as M. Ingres and I have worked together?

In case you should not have any person in view, and should wish me to

undertake the whole, I will do the dome for nothing, that is to say,

you shall pay me the sum agreed upon for my six pictures and I will

give you the dome into the bargain."

M. Thiers got up and assumed the attitude of Orosmane, and said as said

Orosmane--

"Chrétien, te serais tu flatté,

D'effacer Orosmane en générosité."

The result of the conversation was that the Minister, after having

said that there might not perhaps be any dome to paint, and that it

was possible they might content themselves with a sculptured frieze,

passed his word of honour to Delaroche--the word of honour which you

knew, which I knew, which Rome and Spain knew!--that, if the dome of

the Madeleine had to be painted, he, Delaroche, should paint it. Upon

that assurance Delaroche departed joyously for Rome, carrying with him

the hope of his life. That work was to be his life's work, his Sistine

Chapel. He reached Rome; he shut himself up, as did Poussin, in a

Camaldule monastery, copied monks' heads, made prodigious studies and

admirable sketches--and the sketches of Delaroche are often worth more

than his pictures--painted by day, designed by night and returned with

huge quantities of material. On his return he learned that the dome was

given to Ziégler! Even as I after the interdiction of _Antony_, he took

a cab, forced his way to the presence of M. Thiers, found him in his

private room, and stopped in front of his desk.

"Monsieur le Ministre, I do not come to claim the work you had promised

me; I come to return you the twenty-five thousand francs you advanced

me."

And, flinging down the bank-notes for that sum upon the Minister's desk,

he bowed and went out.

This was dignified, noble and grand! But it was dismal. The unhappiness

of Delaroche, let us rather say, his misanthropy, dates from that day.

CHAPTER XI

Eugène Delacroix

Eugène Delacroix had exhibited in the Salon of 1831 his _Tigres_, his

_Liberté_, his _Mort de l'Évêque de Liége._ Notice how well the grave

and misanthropie face of Delaroche is framed between Horace Vernet,

who is life and movement, and Delacroix, who is feeling, imagination

and fantasy. Here is a painter in the full sense of the term, _à la

bonne heure!_ Full of faults impossible to defend, full of qualities

impossible to dispute, for which friends and enemies, admirers and

detractors can cut one another's throats in all conscience. And all

will have right on their side: those who love him and those who hate

him; those who admire, those who run him down. To battle, then! For

Delacroix is equally a _fait de guerre_ and a _cas de guerre._

We will try to draw this great and strange artistic figure, which is

like nothing that has been and probably like nothing that ever will be;

we will try to give, by the analysis of his temperament, an idea of the

productions of this great painter, who bore a likeness to both Michael

Angelo and Rubens; not so good at drawing as the first, nor as good

at composition as the second, but more original in his fancies than

either. Temperament is the tree; works are but its flowers and fruit.

Eugène Delacroix was born at Charenton near Paris,--at

Charenton-les-Fous; nobody, perhaps, has painted such fools as did

he: witness the stupid fool, the timid fool and the angry fool of

the _Prison du Tasse._ He was born in 1798, in the full tide of the

Directory. His father was first a Minister during the Revolution,

then préfet at Bordeaux, and was later to become préfet at Marseilles.

Eugène was the last of his family, the _culot_--the nestling, as

bird-nest robbers say; his brother was twenty-five years old when he

was born, and his sister was married before he was born. It would be

difficult to find a childhood fuller of events than that of Delacroix.

At three, he had been hung, burned, drowned, poisoned and strangled!

He must have been made very tough by Fate to escape all this alive.

One day his father, who was a soldier, took him up in his arms, and

raised him to the level of his mouth; meantime the child amused itself

by twisting the cord of the cavalryman's forage cap round his neck;

the soldier, instead of putting him down on the ground, let him fall,

and behold there was Delacroix hung. Happily, they loosened the cord

of the cap in time, and Delacroix was saved. One night, his nurse left

the candle too near his mosquito net, the wind set the net waving and

it caught fire; the fire spread to the bedding, sheets and child's

nightshirt, and behold Delacroix was on fire! Happily he cries; and, at

his cries people come in, and Delacroix is extinguished. It was high

time, the man's back is to this day marked all over with the burns

which scarred the child's skin. His father passed from the prefecture

of Bordeaux to that of Marseilles, and they gave an inaugural fête

to the new préfet in the harbour; while passing from one boat to

another, the serving lad who carried the child made a false step,

dropped him and there was Delacroix drowning! Luckily, a sailor jumped

into the sea and fished him out just when the serving lad, thinking

of his own salvation, was about to drop him. A little later, in his

father's study, he found some _vert-de-gris_ which was used to clean

geographical maps; the colour pleased his fancy,--Delacroix has always

been a colourist;--he swallowed the _vert-de-gris_, and there he

was poisoned! Happily, his father came back, found the bowl empty,

suspected what had happened and called in a doctor; the doctor ordered

an emetic and freed the child from the poison. Once, when he had been

very good, his mother gave him a bunch of dried grapes; Delacroix was

greedy; instead of eating his grapes one by one, he swallowed the whole

bunch; it stuck in his throat, and he was being suffocated in exactly

the same way as was Paul Huet with the fish bone! Fortunately, his

mother stuffed her hand into his mouth up to the wrist, caught hold of

the bunch by its stalk, managed to draw it up, and Delacroix, who was

choking, breathed again. These various events no doubt caused one of

his biographers to say that he had an _unhappy_ childhood. As we see,

it should rather have been said _exciting._ Delacroix was adored by his

father and mother, and it is not an unhappy childhood to grow up and

develop surrounded by the love of father and mother. They sent him to

school at eight,--to the Lycée Impérial. There he stayed till he was

seventeen, making good progress with his studies, spending his holidays

sometimes with his father and sometimes with his uncle Riesener, the

portrait-painter. At his uncle's house he met Guérin. The craze to be

a painter had always stuck to him: at six years old, in 1804, when in

the camp at Boulogne, he had made a drawing with white chalk on a black

plank, representing the _Descente des Français en Angleterre_; only,

France figured as a mountain and England as a valley; and a company

of soldiers was descending the mountain into the valley: this was the

_descent_ into England. Of the sea itself there was no question. We

see that, at six years of age, Delacroix's geographical ideas were

not very clearly defined. It was agreed upon between Riesener and

the composer of _Clymnestre_ and _Pyrrhus_ that, when Delacroix left

college, he should enter the studio of the latter. There were, indeed,

some difficulties raised by the family, the father inclining to law,

the mother to the diplomatic service; but, at eighteen, Delacroix lost

his fortune and his father; he had only forty thousand francs left, and

liberty to make himself a painter. He then went to Guérin, as soon as

it could be arranged, and, working like a negro, dreamed, composed and

executed his picture of _Dante._ This picture, not the worst of those

he has painted,--strong men sometimes put as much or even more into

their first work as into any afterwards,--came under the notice of

Géricault. The gaze of the young master when in process of painting his

_Naufrage de la Méduse_ was like the rays of a hot sun. Géricault often

came to see the work of Delacroix; the rapidity and original fancy of

the brush of his young rival, or, rather, of his young disciple, amused

him. He looked over his shoulder--Delacroix is of short and Géricault

of tall stature,--or he looked on seated astride a chair. Géricault was

so fond of horses that he always sat astride something. When the last

stroke of the brush was put to the dark crossing of hell, it was shown

to M. Guérin. M. Guérin bit his lips, frowned and uttered a little

growl of disapprobation accompanied by a negative shake of the head.

And that was all Delacroix could extract from him. The picture was

exhibited. Gérard saw it as he was passing by, stopped short, looked at

it a long time and that night, when dining with Thiers,--who was making

his first campaign in literature, as was Delacroix in painting,--he

said to the future Minister--

"We have a new painter!"

"What is his name?"

"Eugène Delacroix!"

"What has he done?"

"_A Dante passant l'Acheron avec Virgile._ Go and see his picture."

Next day Thiers goes to the Louvre, seeks for the picture, finds it,

gazes at it and goes out entranced.

Intellectually, Thiers possessed genuine artistic feeling, even if it

did not spring from the heart. He did what he could for art; and when

he displeased, wounded and discouraged an artist, the fault has lain

with his environment, his family, or some salon coterie, and, even when

causing pain to an artist, and in failing to keep his promises, he did

his utmost to spare the artist any pain he may have had to cause him,

at the cost of pain to himself. He was lucky, also, in his dealings,

if not always just; it was his idea to send Sigalon to Rome. True,

Sigalon died there of cholera; but not till after he had sent from

Rome his beautiful copy of the _Jugement dernier._ So Thiers went back

delighted with Delacroix's picture; he was then working on the staff

of the _Constitutionnel_, and he wrote a splendid article on the new

painter. In short, the _Dante_ did not raise too much envy. It was not

suspected what a family of reprobates the exile from Florence dragged

in his wake! The Government bought the picture for two thousand francs,

upon the recommendation of Gérard and Gros, and had it taken to the

Luxembourg, where it still is. You can see it there, one of the finest

pictures in the palace.

Two years flew by. At that time exhibitions were only held every two

or three years. The salon of 1824 then opened. All eyes were turned

towards Greece. The memories of our young days formed a kind of

propaganda, recruiting under its banner, men, money, poems, painting

and concerts. People sang, painted, made verses, begged for the Greeks.

Whoever pronounced himself a Turkophile ran the risk of being stoned

like Saint Stephen. Delacroix exhibited his famous _Massacre de Scio._

Good Heavens! Have you who belonged to that time forgotten the clamour

that picture roused, with its rough and violent style of composition,

yet full of poetry and grace? Do you remember the young girl tied to

the tail of a horse? How frail and fragile she looked! How easily

one could see that her whole body would shed its fragments like the

petals of a rose, and be scattered like flakes of snow, when it came in

contact with pebbles and boulders and bramble thorns!

Now, this time, the Rubicon was passed, the lance thrown down, and

war declared. The young painter had just broken with the whole of

the Imperial School. When clearing the precipice which divided the

past from the future, his foot had pushed the plank into the abyss

below, and had he wished to retrace his steps it was henceforth an

impossibility. From that moment--a rare thing at twenty-six years

of age!--Delacroix was proclaimed a master, started a school of his

own, and had not only pupils but disciples, admirers and fanatical

worshippers. They hunted out someone to stand in opposition to him;

they exhumed the man who was least like him in all points, and

rallied round him; they discovered Ingres, exalted him, proclaimed

him and crowned him in their hatred of Delacroix. As in the age of

the invasion of the Huns, the Burgundians and the Visigoths, they

called upon the savages to help them, they invoked St. Geneviève, they

adjured the king, they implored the pope! Ingres, certainly, did not

owe his revived reputation to the love and admiration which his grey

monochromes inspired, but to the fear and hatred which were inspired by

the flashing brush of Delacroix. All men above the age of fifty were

for Ingres; all young people below the age of thirty were for Delacroix.

We will study and examine and appreciate Ingres in his turn, never

fear! His name, flung down in passing, shall not remain in obscurity;

although we warn our readers beforehand--and let them now take note

and only regard our judgment for what it is worth--that we are not in

sympathy with either the man or his talents.

Thiers did not fail the painter of the _Massacre de Scio_, any more

than he had failed the creator of _Dante._ Quite as eulogistic an

article as the first, and a surprising one to find in the columns of

the classic _Constitutionnel_, came to the aid of Delacroix in the

battle where, as in the times of the _Iliad_, the gods of art were not

above fighting like ordinary mortals. The Government had its hands

forced, in some measure, by Gérard, Gros and M. de Forbin. The latter

bought the _Massacre de Scio_ in the name of the king for six thousand

francs for the Luxembourg Museum.

Géricault died just when Delacroix received his six thousand francs.

Six thousand francs! It was a fortune. The fortune was spent in buying

sketches at the sale of the famous dead painter's works, and in making

a journey to England. England is the land of fine private collections,

the immense fortunes of certain gentlemen permitting them--either

because it is the fashion or from true love of art--to satisfy their

taste for painting.

Delacroix bethought himself once more of the Old Museum Napoléon,

the museum which the conquest had overthrown in 1818; it abounded in

Flemish and Italian art. That old museum was a wonderful place, with

its collection of masterpieces from all over Europe, and in the midst

of which the English cooked their raw meat after Waterloo.

It was during this period of prosperity--public talk about art always

signifies prosperity; if it does not lead to fortune, it gratifies

pride, and gratified pride assuredly brings keener joy than the

acquiring of a fortune;--it was during this period of prosperity,

we repeat, that Delacroix painted his first _Hamlet_, his _Giaour_,

his _Tasse dans la prison des fous_, his _Grèce sur les ruines de

Missolonghi_ and _Marino Faliero._ I bought the first three pictures;

they are even now the most beautiful Delacroix painted. The _Grèce_ was

bought by a provincial museum. _Marino Faliero_ had a singular fate.

Criticism was furious against this picture. Delacroix would have sold

it, at the time, for fifteen or eighteen hundred francs; but nobody

wanted it. Lawrence saw it, appreciated it, wished to have it and was

about to purchase it when he died. The picture remained in Delacroix's

studio. In 1836, I was with the Prince Royal when he was going to send

Victor Hugo a snuff-box or a diamond ring or something or other, I

forget what, in thanks for a volume of poetry addressed by the great

poet to Madame la duchesse d'Orléans. He showed me the object in

question, and told me of its destination, letting me understand that I

was threatened with a similar present.

"Oh! Monseigneur, for pity's sake!" I said to him, "do not send Hugo

either a ring or snuff-box."

"Why not?"

"Because that is what every prince does, and Monseigneur le duc

d'Orléans, my own particular Duc d'Orléans, is not like other princes;

he is himself a man of intellect, a sincere man and an artist."

"What would you have me send him, then?"

"Take down some picture from your gallery, no matter how unimportant

a one, provided it has belonged to your Highness. Put underneath it,

'Given by the Prince Royal to Victor Hugo,' and send him that."

"Very well, I will. Better still, hunt out for me among your artist

friends a picture which will please Hugo; buy it, have it sent to me, I

will give it him. Then two people will be pleased instead of one; the

painter from whom I buy it, and the poet to whom I give it."

"I will do what you wish, Monseigneur," I said to the prince.

I took my hat and ran out. I thought of Delacroix's _Marino Faliero._

I crossed bridges, I climbed the one hundred and seventeen steps to

Delacroix's studio, who then lived on the quai Voltaire, and I fell

into his studio utterly breathless.

"Hullo!" he said to me. "Why the deuce do you come upstairs so fast?"

"I have good news to give you."

"Good!" exclaimed Delacroix; "what is it?"

"I have come to buy your _Marino Faliero._"

"Ah!" he said, sounding more vexed than pleased.

"What! Are you not delighted!"

"Do you want to buy it for yourself?"

"If it were for myself, what would the price be?"

"Whatever you like to give me: two thousand francs, fifteen hundred

francs, one thousand francs."

"No, it is not for myself; it is for the Duc d'Orléans. How much for

him?"

"Four, five, six thousand francs, according to the gallery in which he

will place it."

"It is not for himself."

"For whom?"

"It is for a present."

"To whom?"

_"I_ am not authorised to tell you; I am only authorised to offer you

six thousand francs."

"My _Marino Faliero_ is not for sale."

"Why is it not for sale? Just now you would have given it me for a

thousand francs."

"To you, yes."

"To the prince for four thousand!"

"To the prince, yes; but only to the prince or you."

"Why this choice?"

"To you, because you are my friend; to the prince, because it is an

honour to have a place in the gallery of a royal artist as intelligent

as he is; but to any one else save you two, no."

"Oh! what an extraordinary notion!"

"As you like! It is my own."

"But, really, you must have a better reason."

"Very likely."