"Bless me, it is early for the westerly wind."
"It will blow hard in the afternoon," replied Bernard.
I raised my eyes to the sail, hanging flat, loose and inert. Its great
triangle seemed to reach up to the sky, for we had hoisted on the
foremast the great fine-weather gaff topsail and its yard overtopped
the mast-head by quite two yards. All is motionless, we might be on
land. The barometer is still falling. However, the dark line perceived
afar, approaches. The metallic lustre of the waters is suddenly dimmed
and transformed into a slatey shade. The sky is pure and cloudless.
[Illustration]
Suddenly, around us the polished surface of the sea is rippled by
imperceptible shivers gliding rapidly over it, appearing but to be
effaced, as though it were riddled by a rain of thousands of little
pinches of sand.
[Illustration]
The sail quivers slightly, and presently the main boom slowly lurches
over to starboard. A light breath now caresses my face, and the shivers
on the water increase around us, as though the rain of sand had become
continuous. The cutter begins to move forward. She glides on upright,
and a slight plash makes itself heard along her sides. I feel the
tiller stiffen in my hand, that long brass crossbar which looks in the
sun like a fiery stem, and the breeze steadily increases. We shall
have to tack, but what matter; the boat sails close to the wind, and if
the breeze holds, we shall be able to beat up to Saint-Raphaël before
the sun goes down.
We now approach the squadron, whose six ironclads and two despatch
boats turn slowly at their anchors, with their bows to the west. Then
we tack towards the open sea to pass the Formigues rocks, which are
marked by a tower in the middle of the gulf. The breeze freshens more
and more with surprising rapidity, and the waves rise up short and
choppy. The yacht bends low under her full set of sails, and runs on,
followed by the dingy, which with stretched-out painter is hurried
through the foam, her nose in the air and stern in the water.
On nearing the island of Saint-Honorat we pass by a naked rock, red and
bristling like a porcupine, so rugged, so armed with teeth, points, and
claws as to be well-nigh impossible of access; and one must advance
with precaution, placing one's feet in the hollows between the tusks:
it is called Saint-Ferréol.
A little earth, come from no one knows where, has accumulated in the
holes and crevasses of the rock, and lilies grow in it, and beautiful
blue irises, from seeds which seem to have fallen from heaven.
It is on this strange reef, in the open sea, that for five years lay
buried and unknown the body of Paganini. The adventure is worthy
of this artist, whose queer character, at once genial and weird,
gave him the reputation of being possessed by the devil, and who,
with his odd appearance in body and face, his marvellous talent and
excessive emaciation, has become an almost legendary being, a sort of
Hoffmanesque phantasm.
As he was on his way home to Genoa, his native town, accompanied by his
son, who alone could hear him now, so weak had his voice become, he
died at Nice of cholera, on the 27th May, 1840.
The son at once took the body of his father on board a ship and set
sail for Italy. But the Genoese clergy refused to give burial to the
demoniac. The court of Rome was consulted, but dared not grant the
authorization. The body was, however, about to be disembarked, when the
municipality made opposition, under the pretext that the artist had
died of cholera. Genoa was at that time ravaged by an epidemic of this
disease, and it was argued that the presence of this new corpse might
possibly aggravate the evil.
Paganini's son then returned to Marseilles, where entrance to the port
was refused him for the same reasons. He then went on to Cannes, where
he could not penetrate either.
He therefore remained at sea, and the waves rocked the corpse of the
fantastic artist, everywhere repelled by men. He no longer knew what
to do, where to go, on which spot to lay the dead body so sacred to
him, when he espied the naked rock of Saint-Ferréol in the midst of
the billows. There at last he landed the coffin, and buried it in the
centre of the islet.
It was only in 1845 that he went back with two of his friends to take
up the remains of his father, and transfer them to Genoa to the Villa
Gajona.
Would one not have preferred that the extraordinary violinist should
have remained at rest upon the bristling reef, cradled by the song of
the waves as they break on the torn and craggy rock.
Further on, in the open sea, rises the castle of Saint-Honorat, which
we had already perceived as we rounded the Cape of Antibes, and further
on still, a line of reefs ended by a tower called "Les Moines."
They are now quite white with surf and echoing with the roar of the
breakers.
They form one of the most dangerous perils of the coast during the
night, for they are marked by no light, and they are the cause of
frequent wrecks.
A sudden gust heels us over, so that the water washes the deck, and I
give orders for the gaff topsail to be lowered, the cutter being no
longer able to carry it without endangering the safety of the mast.
The waves sink, swell, and whiten; the wind whistles, ill-tempered and
squally,--a threatening wind, which cries "Take care!"
"We shall have to go and sleep at Cannes," said Bernard.
And in fact, at the end of half an hour, we had to lower the standing
jib, and replace it by a smaller one, taking a reef in the sail
at the same time; then a quarter of an hour later we had to take
in a second reef. Thereupon I decided to make for the harbour at
Cannes, a dangerous harbour, without shelter; a roadstead open to
the south-westerly sea, where the ships are in constant danger. When
one thinks what a considerable amount of wealth would accrue to the
town, by the large number of foreign yachts that would flock there,
were they certain of finding a proper shelter, one understands how
inveterate must be the indolence of this southern population, who have
not yet been able to obtain from government such indispensable works.
At ten o'clock we dropped anchor opposite the steamboat _Le Cannois,_
and I landed, thoroughly disappointed at the interruption of my trip.
The whole roadstead was white with foam.
CANNES, _April 7th_, 9 P.M.
Princes, Princes, everywhere Princes. They who love Princes are indeed
happy.
No sooner had I set foot yesterday morning on the promenade of the
_Croisette_ than I met three, one behind the other. In our democratic
country, Cannes has become the city of titles.
If one could open minds in the same manner as one lifts the cover off
a saucepan, one would find figures in the brain of the mathematician;
outlines of actors gesticulating and declaiming in a theatrical
author's head; the form of a woman in that of a lover's; licentious
pictures in that of a rake; verses in the brain of a poet; and in the
cranium of the folk who come to Cannes there would be found coronets
of every description, floating about like vermicelli in soup.
Some men gather together in gambling houses because they are fond of
cards, others meet on race-courses because they are fond of horses.
People gather together at Cannes because they love Imperial and Royal
Highnesses.
There they are at home and, in default of the kingdoms of which they
have been dispossessed, reign peacefully in the salons of the faithful.
Great and small, poor and rich, sad and gay, all are to be found,
according to taste. In general they are modest, strive to please,
and show in their intercourse with humbler mortals, a delicacy and
affability that is hardly ever found in our own _députés,_ those
Princes of the ballot.
However, if the Princes, the poor wandering Princes without subjects or
civil list, who come to live in homely fashion in this town of flowers
and elegance, affect simplicity, and do not lay themselves open to
ridicule, even from those most disrespectfully inclined, such is not
the case with regard to the worshippers of Highnesses.
[Illustration 011]
These latter circle round their idols with an eagerness at once
religious and comical; and directly they are deprived of one, they fly
off in quest of another, as though their mouths could only open to say
"Monseigneur" or "Madame," and speak in the third person.
They cannot be with you five minutes without telling you what the
Princess replied, what the Grand Duke said; the promenade planned
with the one, the witty saying of the other. One feels, one sees,
one guesses that they frequent no other society but that of persons
of Royal blood, and if they deign to speak to you, it is in order to
inform you exactly of what takes place on these heights.
What relentless struggles, struggles in which every possible ruse
is employed in order to have at one's table, at least once during
the season, a Prince, a real Prince, one of those at a premium. What
respect one inspires when one has met a Grand Duke at lawn tennis, or
when one has merely been presented to Wales,--as the mashers say.
To write down one's name at the door of these "exiles," as Daudet calls
them, of these tumble-down Princes, as others would say, creates a
constant, delicate, absorbing and engrossing occupation. The visitor's
book lies open in the hall between a couple of lackeys, one of whom
proffers a pen. One inscribes one's name at the tag end of some two
thousand names of every sort and description, amongst which titles
swarm and the noble particle _de_ abounds! After which, one goes off
with the haughty air of a man just ennobled, as happy as one who
has accomplished a sacred duty, and one proudly says to the first
person met: "I have just written down my name at the Grand Duke of
Gerolstein's!" Then in the evening at dinner one says, in an important
tone: "I noticed just now, on the Grand Duke of Gerolstein's list, the
names of X..., Y..., and Z..." And everyone is interested and listens
as if the event were of the greatest importance.
[Illustration 012]
But why laugh and be astonished at the harmless and innocent mania of
the elegant admirers of Princes, when we meet in Paris fifty different
races of hero-worshippers who are in no wise less amusing.
[Illustration 013]
Whoever has a salon must needs have some celebrities to show there, and
a hunt is organised in order to secure them. There is hardly a woman
in society and of the best, who is not anxious to have her artist or
her artists; and she will give dinners for them in order that the whole
world may know that her's is a clever set.
Between affecting to possess the wit one has not, but which one summons
with a flourish of trumpets, or affecting Princely intimacies--where is
the difference?
Among the great men most sought after by women, old and young, are
most assuredly musicians. Some houses possess a complete collection
of them. Moreover, these artists possess the inestimable advantage
of being useful in the evening parties. However, people who desire a
superlative _rara avis,_ can hardly hope to bring two together in the
same room. We may add that there is not a meanness of which any woman,
a leader of society, is not capable, in order to embellish her salon
with a celebrated composer. The delicate attentions usually employed to
secure a painter or only a literary man, become quite inadequate when
the subject is a tradesman of sounds. For him allurements and praise
hitherto unknown are employed. His hands are kissed like those of a
King, he is worshipped as a God, when he has deigned to execute his
_Regina Coeli._ A hair of his beard is worn in a ring; a button fallen
from his breeches one evening in a violent movement of his arm, during
the execution of the grand finale of his _Doux Repos,_ becomes a medal,
a sacred medal worn in the bosom hanging from a golden chain.
Painters are of less value, although still rather sought after. They
are not so divine and more Bohemian. Their manners are less courteous
and above all not sufficiently sublime. They often replace inspiration
by broad jests and silly puns. They carry with them too much of the
perfume of the studio, and those who by dint of watchfulness have
managed to get rid of it, only exchange one odour for another, that of
affectation. And then they are a fickle, light, and bragging set. No
one is certain of keeping them long, whereas the musician builds his
nest in the family circle.
[Illustration 014]
Of late years, the literary man has been sought after. He presents many
great advantages: he talks, he talks lengthily, he talks a great deal,
his conversation suits every kind of public, and as his profession is
to be intelligent, he can be listened to and admired in all security.
[Illustration 015]
The woman who is possessed with the mania for having at her house a
literary man, just as one would have a parrot whose chatter should
attract all the neighbouring _concierges,_ has to take her choice
between poets and novelists. There is more of the ideal about the poet,
more spontaneity about the novelist. The poets are more sentimental,
the novelists more positive. It is a matter of taste and constitution.
The poet has more charm, the novelist has often more wit. But the
novelist presents dangers that are not met with in the poet: he pries,
pillages, and makes capital of all he sees. With him there is no
tranquillity, no certainty that he will not, some day, lay you bare in
the pages of a book. His eye is like a pump that sucks up everything,
like the hand of a thief that is always at work. Nothing escapes him;
he gathers and picks up ceaselessly; he notices the movements, the
gestures, the intentions, the slightest incidents and events; he picks
up the smallest words, the smallest actions, the smallest thing. He
makes stock from morning till night of these observations out of which
he will make a good telling story, a story that will make the round of
the world, which will be read, discussed, commented upon by thousands
and thousands of people. And the most terrible part of all is that the
wretch cannot help drawing striking portraits, in spite of himself,
unconsciously, because he sees things as they are, and he must relate
what he sees. Notwithstanding the cunning he uses in disguising his
personages, it will be said: "Did you recognize Mr. X... and Mrs. Y...
They are striking resemblances?"
It is assuredly as dangerous for people in good society to invite and
make much of novelists, as it would be for a miller to breed rats in
his mill.
And yet they are held in great favour.
When, therefore, a woman has fixed her choice on the writer she
intends to adopt, she lays siege to him by means of every variety of
compliments, attractions, and indulgence. Like water which, drop by
drop, slowly wears away the hardest rock, the fulsome praise falls at
each word on the impressionable heart of the literary man. Then, when
she sees that he is moved, touched, and won by the constant flattery;
she isolates him, severing, little by little, the ties he may have
elsewhere, and imperceptibly accustoms him to come to her house, make
himself happy, and there enshrine his thoughts. In order the more
thoroughly to acclimatise him in her house, she paves the way for his
success, brings him forward, sets him in relief, and displays for him,
before all the old _habitués_ of the household, marked consideration
and boundless admiration.
At last, realising that he is now an idol, he remains in the temple.
He finds, moreover, that the position affords him every advantage,
for all the other women lavish their most delicate favours upon him
to entice him away from his conqueror. If, however, he is clever, he
will not hearken to the entreaties and coquetries with which he is
overwhelmed. And the more faithful he appears, the more he will be
sought after, implored, and loved. Ah! let him beware of allowing
these drawing-room syrens to entice him away; he will immediately lose
two-thirds of his value, if he once becomes public property.
Soon he forms a literary circle, a church of which he is the deity, the
only deity, for true faiths never have more than one God. People will
flock to the house to see him, to hear him, to admire him, as one comes
from afar to visit certain shrines. He will be envied! She will be
envied! They will converse upon literature as priests talk of dogmas,
scientifically and solemnly; they will be listened to, both the one and
the other, and on leaving this literary salon, one will feel as though
one were quitting a cathedral.
Other men are also sought after, but in a lesser degree; for instance,
generals, who, neglected by society and not held in much greater
consideration than _députés,_ are yet in demand amongst the middle
classes. The _député_ is only in request at moments of crisis. He is
kept on hand, by a dinner now and then during a parliamentary lull.
The scholar has also his partisans--every variety of taste exists in
nature; and a clerk in office is himself highly esteemed, by folk who
live up six pairs of stairs. However, these sort of people do not come
to Cannes; there are only a few timid representatives to be seen of the
middle class.
It is only before twelve o'clock that the noble visitors are to be met
on the _Croisette._
The _Croisette_ is a long semi-circular promenade that follows the line
of the beach, from the headland in front of Sainte-Marguerite down to
the harbour overlooked by the old town.
[Illustration 016]
Young and slender women,--it is good style to be thin,--dressed in
the English fashion, walk along with rapid step, escorted by active
young men in lawn-tennis suits. But from time to time appears some
poor emaciated creature, dragging himself along with languid step, and
leaning on the arm of a mother, brother or sister. He coughs and gasps,
poor thing, wrapped up in shawls notwithstanding the heat, and watches
us, as we pass, with deep, despairing and envious glances.
He suffers and dies, for this charming and balmy country is the
hospital of society and the flowery cemetery of aristocratic Europe.
The terrible disease which never relents, and is now called
tuberculosis, the disease that gnaws, burns and destroys men by
thousands, seems to have chosen this coast on which to finish off its
victims.
How truly in every part of the world, this lovely and terrible spot
must be accursed, this ante-room of Death, perfumed and sweet, where so
many humble and royal families, burghers or princes, have left someone,
some child on whom they concentrated all their hopes, and lavished all
their love and tenderness.
I call to mind Mentone, the warmest and healthiest of these winter
residences. Even as in warlike cities, the fortresses can be seen
standing out on the surrounding heights, so in this region of
moribunds, the cemetery is visible on the summit of a hill.
What a spot it would be for the living, that garden where the dead lie
asleep! Roses, roses, everywhere roses. They are blood red or pale, or
white, or streaked with veins of scarlet. The tombs, the paths, the
places still unoccupied and which to-morrow will be filled, all are
covered with them. Their strong perfume brings giddiness, making both
head and legs falter.
And all those who lie there, were but sixteen, eighteen, or twenty
years of age.
One wanders on from tomb to tomb, reading the names of those youthful
victims, killed by the implacable disease. 'Tis a children's cemetery,
a cemetery similar to the young girls' balls, where no married couples
are admitted.
From the cemetery the view extends to the left in the direction of
Italy as far as the Bordighera headland, where the white houses stretch
out into the sea; and to the right as far as Cape Martin, which dips
its leafy coast in the water.
Nevertheless all around, all along these delightful shores, we are
in the home of Death. But it is discreet, veiled, full of tact and
bashfulness, well bred in fact. Never does one meet it face to face,
although at every moment it passes near.
It might even be thought that no one dies in this country, so thorough
is the complicity of deceit in which this sovereign revels. But how it
is felt, how it is detected; how often a glimpse is caught of its black
robes! Truly all the roses and the orange blossoms are requisite, to
prevent the breeze being laden with the dread smell which is exhaled
from the chamber of death.
Never is a coffin seen in the streets, never any funeral trappings,
never is a death-knell heard. Yesterday's emaciated pedestrian no
longer passes beneath your window, and that is all. If you are
astonished at no longer seeing him, and inquire after him, the landlord
and servants tell you with a smile, that he had got better and by
the doctor's advice had left for Italy. In each hotel Death has its
secret stairs, its confidants, and its accomplices. A philosopher of
olden times would have said many fine things upon the contrast of the
elegance and misery which here elbow one another.
It is twelve o'clock, the promenade is now deserted, and I return
on board the _Bel-Ami,_ where awaits me an unpretending breakfast
prepared by Raymond, whom I find dressed up in a white apron, frying
potatoes.
All the remainder of the day, I read.
The wind was still violently blowing, and the yacht danced between her
anchors, for we had been obliged to let go the starboard one also. The
motion ended by benumbing me, and I fell into a long doze. When Bernard
came into the cabin to light the candles it was seven o'clock, and as
the surf along the quay made landing difficult, I dined on my boat.
After dinner I went up and sat in the open air. Around me Cannes
stretched forth her many lights. Nothing can be prettier than a town
lighted up and seen from the sea. On the left, the old quarter with
its houses that seemed to climb one upon the other, mingled its lights
with that of the stars; on the right, the gas lamps of the _Croisette_
extended like an enormous serpent a mile and a half long.
And I reflected that in all the villas, in all the hotels, people were
gathered together this evening, as they were last night, as they will
be to-morrow, and that they are talking. Talking! about what? the
Princes! the weather! And then? ... the weather! ... the Princes! ...
and then ... about nothing!
Can anything be more dreary than _table d'hôte_ conversation? I have
lived in hotels, I have endured the emptiness of the human soul as
it is there laid bare. In truth, one must be hedged in by the most
determined indifference, not to weep with grief, disgust, and shame,
when one hears men talk. Man, the ordinary man, rich, known, esteemed,
respected, held in consideration, is satisfied with himself, and he
knows nothing, he understands nothing, yet he talks of intelligence as
though he knew all about it.
[Illustration 017]
How blinded and intoxicated we must be by our foolish pride, to fancy
ourselves anything more than animals slightly superior to other
animals. Listen to them, the fools, seated round the table! They are
talking! Talking with gentle confiding ingenuousness, and they imagine
that they are exchanging ideas! What ideas? They say where they have
been walking: "It was a very pretty walk, but rather cold coming home;"
"the cooking is not bad in the hotel, although hotel food is always
rather spicy." And they relate what they have done, what they like,
what they believe.
I fancy I behold the deformity of their souls as a monstrous foetus in
a jar of spirits of wine. I assist at the slow birth of the commonplace
sayings they constantly repeat; I watch the words as they drop from the
granary of stupidity into their imbecile mouths, and from their mouths
into the inert atmosphere which bears them to my ears.
But their ideas, their noblest, most solemn, most respected
ideas, are they not the unimpeachable proof of the omnipotence of
stupidity,--eternal, universal, indestructible stupidity?
* * * * *
All their conceptions of God, an awkward deity, whose first creations
are such failures that he must needs recreate them, a deity who
listens to our secrets and notes them down, a God who, in turn,
policeman, Jesuit, lawyer, gardener, is conceived now in cuirass, now
in robes, now in wooden shoes; then the negations of God based upon
pure terrestrial logic, the arguments for and against, the history
of religious beliefs, of schisms, heresies, philosophies, the
affirmations as well as the doubts, the puerility of principles, the
ferocious and bloody violence of the originators of hypotheses, the
utter chaos of contestation, in short, every miserable effort of this
wretchedly impotent being man, impotent in conception, in imagination,
in knowledge, all prove that he was thrown upon this absurdly small
world for the sole purpose of eating, drinking, manufacturing children
and little songs, and killing his neighbour by way of pastime.
Happy are those whom life satisfies, who are amused and content.
There are some such who, easily pleased, are delighted with everything.
They love the sun and the rain, the snow and the fog; they love
festivities as well as the calm of their own homes; they love all they
see, all they do, all they say, all they hear.
They lead either an easy life, quiet and satisfied amid their
offspring, or an agitated existence full of pleasures and amusement.
In neither case are they dull.
Life, for them, is an amusing kind of play, in which they are
themselves actors; an excellent and varied show, which though offering
nothing unexpected, thoroughly delights them.
Other men, however, who run through at a glance the narrow circle of
human satisfactions, remain dismayed before the emptiness of happiness,
the monotony and poverty of earthly joys.
As soon as they have reached thirty years of age all is ended for them.
What have they to expect? Nothing now can interest them; they have made
the circuit of our meagre pleasures.
Happy are those who know not the loathsome weariness of the same
acts constantly repeated; happy are those who have the strength to
recommence each day the same task, with the same gestures, amid the
same furniture, in front of the same horizon, under the same sky, to
go out in the same streets, where they meet the same faces and the same
animals. Happy are those who do not perceive with unutterable disgust
that nothing changes, and that all is weariness.
We must indeed be a slow and narrow-minded race to be so easily pleased
and satisfied with what is. How is it that the worldly audience has
not yet called out, "Curtain," has not yet demanded the next act,
with other beings than mankind, other manners, other pleasures, other
plants, other planets, other inventions, other adventures?
Is it possible no one has yet felt a loathing for the sameness of
the human face, of the animals which by their unvarying instincts,
transmitted in their seed from the first to the last of their race,
seem to be but living machinery; a hatred of landscapes eternally the
same, and of pleasures never varied?
Console yourself, it is said, by the love of science and art.
But is it not evident that we are always shut up in ourselves, without
ever being able to quit ourselves, for ever condemned to drag the
chains of our wingless dream.
All the progress obtained by our cerebral effort, consists in the
ascertainment of material facts by means of instruments ridiculously
imperfect, which however make up in a certain degree for the
inefficiency of our organs. Every twenty years, some unhappy inquirer,
who generally dies in the attempt, discovers that the atmosphere
contains a gas hitherto unknown, that an imponderable, inexplicable,
unqualifiable force can be obtained by rubbing a piece of wax on cloth;
that amongst the innumerable unknown stars, there is one that has not
yet been noticed in the immediate vicinity of another, which had not
only been observed, but even designated by name for many years. What
matter?
Our diseases are due to microbes? Very well. But where do those
microbes come from? and the diseases of these invisible ones? And the
suns, whence do they come from?
We know nothing, we understand nothing, we can do nothing, we foresee
nothing, we imagine nothing, we are shut up, imprisoned in ourselves.
And there are people who marvel at the genius of humanity!
Art? Painting consists in reproducing with colouring matter monotonous
landscapes, which seldom resemble nature; in delineating men, and
striving without ever succeeding, to give the aspect of living beings.
Obstinately and uselessly one struggles to imitate what is; and the
result is a motionless and dumb copy of the actions of life, which is
barely comprehensible even to the educated eye that one has sought to
attract.
Wherefore such efforts? Wherefore such a vain imitation? Wherefore this
trivial reproduction of things in themselves so dull? How petty!
Poets do with words what painters try to do with colours. Again,
wherefore?
When one has read four of the most talented, of the most ingenious
authors, it is idle to open another. And nothing more can be learned.
They also, these men, can but imitate men. They exhaust themselves
in sterile labour. For mankind changing not, their useless art is
immutable. Ever since our poor minds have awakened man is the same; his
sentiments, his beliefs, his sensations are the same. He has neither
advanced nor retrograded; he has never moved. Of what use is it to me
to learn what I am, to read what I think, to see myself portrayed in
the trivial adventures of a novel?
Ah! if poets could vanquish space, explore the planets, discover other
worlds, other beings; vary unceasingly for my mind the nature and form
of things, convey me constantly through a changeful and surprising
Unknown, open for me mysterious gates in unexpected and marvellous
horizons, I would read them night and day. But they can, impotent as
they are, but change the place of a word, and show me my own image, as
the painters do. Of what use is all this?
For man's thought is motionless.
And the precise limits, so nigh, so insurmountable, once attained,
it turns like a horse in a circus, like a fly shut up in a bottle,
fluttering against the sides and uselessly dashing itself against them.
And yet, for want of any better occupation, thought is always a solace,
when one lives alone.
On this little boat, rocked by the sea, that a wave could fill and
upset, I know, I feel, how true it is that nothing we know exists,
for the earth which floats in empty space is even more isolated, more
lost than this skiff on the billows. Their importance is the same,
their destiny will be accomplished. And I rejoice at understanding
the nothingness of the belief and the vanity of the hopes which our
insect-like pride has begotten!
[Illustration 018]
I went to bed, cradled by the pitching of the boat, and slept with the
deep slumber that one sleeps at sea, till the moment when Bernard awoke
me to say:
"Bad weather, sir, we cannot sail this morning." The wind had fallen,
but the sea, very rough in the open, would not allow of our making sail
for Saint-Raphaël.
Another day that must be spent at Cannes!
At about twelve o'clock, a westerly wind again got up, less strong than
the day before, and I resolved to take advantage of it and visit the
squadron in gulf Juan.
In crossing the roads, the _Bel-Ami_ jumped about like a goat, and I
had to steer very carefully in order to avoid, with each wave which
took us broadsides, having a mass of water dashed in my face. Soon
however I was sheltered by the islands and entered the channel under
the fortress of Sainte-Marguerite.
Its straight wall stretches down to the rocks, washed by the waves, and
its summit hardly overtops the slightly elevated coast of the island.
It is somewhat like a head crammed down between two high shoulders.
The spot where Bazaine descended can be easily made out.
It was not necessary to be much of a gymnast to slide down those
accommodating rocks.
The escape was related to me with every detail, by a man who pretended
to be, and probably was, thoroughly well informed.
Bazaine was allowed a good deal of liberty, his wife and children being
permitted to come and see him every day. Madame Bazaine, who was an
energetic woman, declared to her husband that she would leave him for
ever, and carry off the children, if he would not make his escape, and
she explained her plan. He hesitated at first, on account of the danger
of the flight and the doubtfulness of success, but when he saw that his
wife was determined to carry out her plan, he consented.
Thereupon, every day some toys for the little ones were brought
into the fortress, amongst others an entire set of appliances for
drawing-room gymnastics. Out of these toys was made the knotted rope
that the Marshal was to make use of. It was very slowly made, in order
to give rise to no suspicion, and when finished it was hid away by a
friendly hand in a corner of the prison yard.
The date of the flight was then decided upon. They chose a Sunday, the
supervision appearing to be less rigorous on that day.
Madame Bazaine then absented herself for a few days.
The Marshal usually walked about in the yard till eight o'clock in the
evening, in company with the governor of the prison, a pleasant man
whose agreeable conversation was a resource to Bazaine. Then he would
go back to his rooms, which the chief jailor locked and bolted in the
presence of his superior officer.
On the evening of the escape, Bazaine pretended he was indisposed, and
expressed a wish to retire an hour earlier than usual. He returned
therefore to his apartment, but as soon as the governor had gone off to
call the jailor and tell him to lock up the captive, the Marshal came
out again quickly and hid himself in the yard.
The empty prison was locked up, and each man went home.
At about eleven o'clock Bazaine, armed with the ladder, left his hiding
place, fastened the ropes, and made his descent on to the rocks.
At dawn of day, an accomplice unfastened the ladder and threw it over
the walls.
Towards eight o'clock in the morning, the governor, surprised at not
seeing anything of his prisoner, who was wont to be an early riser,
sent to enquire about him. The Marshal's valet refused, however, to
disturb his master.
At length at nine o'clock, the governor forced open the door and found
the cage empty.
[Illustration 019]
On her side Madame Bazaine, in order to carry out her scheme, had
applied to a man who was indebted to her husband for a most important
service. She appealed to a grateful heart, and gained an ally both
energetic and devoted. Together they settled all the details; she then
went in an assumed name to Genoa, and under pretext of an excursion to
Naples hired for a thousand francs (forty pounds sterling) a day, a
little Italian steamer, stipulating that the trip should last at least
a week, and that it might be extended to another week on the same terms.
The vessel started, but no sooner were they at sea, than the traveller
appeared to change her mind, and asked the captain if he would object
to going as far as Cannes to fetch her sister-in-law. The sailor
willingly consented, and he dropped anchor on Sunday evening in the
gulf Juan.
Madame Bazaine was set on shore and ordered the boat to keep within
hail. Her devoted accomplice was awaiting her in another boat near
the promenade of the _Croisette_, and they crossed the channel which
separates the mainland from the little island of Sainte-Marguerite.
There her husband was waiting on the rocks, his clothes torn, face
bruised, and hands bleeding. The sea being rather rough, he was
obliged to wade through the water to reach the boat, which otherwise
would have been dashed to pieces against the coast.
When they returned to the mainland, they cast the boat adrift.
They rejoined the first boat, and then at last the vessel, which had
remained with steam up. Madame Bazaine informed the captain that her
sister-in-law was not well enough to join her, and pointing to the
Marshal, she added:
"Not having a servant, I have hired a valet. The fool has just tumbled
down on the rocks and got himself in the mess you see. Send him, if you
please, down to the sailors, and give him what is necessary to dress
his wounds and mend his clothes."
Bazaine went down and spent the night in the forecastle.
The next morning at break of day, they were out at sea; then Madame
Bazaine again changed her mind, and pleading indisposition, had
herself reconducted to Genoa.
However, the news of the escape had already spread, and the populace
hearing of it, a clamouring mob assembled under the hotel windows. The
uproar soon became so violent, that the terrified landlord insisted on
the travellers escaping by a private door.