THE PROVOCATION
Tétrell was more elegant than ever on this evening; he wore a blue coat
with large lapels and gold buttons, and a white piqué vest, which turned
back until it covered almost the whole front of his coat. A tri-color
belt, with gold fringe, encircled his waist, and in it he had stuck
pistols with ivory-chased butts and barrels inlaid with gold. His sabre
with its scabbard of red morocco, insolently thrown over the balcony,
hung over the parterre like another sword of Damocles.
Tétrell began by striking the railing of the balcony until the dust flew
from the velvet. Then he cried angrily:
"Citizens, what does all this mean? I thought I was at Lacedæmona, but
it seems that I am mistaken, and that this is Corinth or Sybaris. Does a
republican woman dare shelter herself behind such excuses in the
presence of Republicans? We mistake ourselves for those miserable slaves
on the other bank of the Rhine, these dogs of aristocrats, who, when we
have whipped them, tire their lungs out, crying "Libra!" Two men have
died for their country, leaving a memory of immortal glory. The women of
Sparta when they presented their shields to their sons and husbands,
did so with these words: 'With them, or upon them!' And when they
returned upon them, that is to say dead, they attired themselves in
their most gorgeous raiment. Citizeness Fromont is pretty; she will not
long want for lovers! All the handsome fellows have not been killed at
the Haguenau gate; as for her father, there is not an old patriot but
envies him the honor of his death. Therefore, citizen Fleury, do not
hope to move us with the pretended grief of a citizeness favored by the
destiny of war, who, by a single cannon-shot, has acquired a crown for
her dowry and a great people for her family. Go tell her to appear; go
tell her to sing; and, above all, bid her spare us her tears; to-day is
the people's feast-day, and tears are aristocratic!"
Every one was silent. Tétrell, as we have said, was the third power in
Strasbourg, and more to be feared, perhaps, than either of the others.
Citizen Fleury retired behind the curtain, and five minutes later it
rose upon the first scene of "Filial Love," thus proving that Tétrell
had been obeyed.
The play opens with the following well-known lines:
Young lovers, pick flowers
For the brow of your love;
Love gives sweet reward
In tender favors.
An old soldier has retired to his hut at the foot of the Alps; he was
wounded on the battlefield of Nefeld, and his life was saved by another
old soldier whom he has not seen since. He lives with his son, who,
after having sung the four preceding lines, follows them up with these,
which complete the train of thought:
Full of a sweet hope,
When the sun rises
I also pluck flowers
For my father's brow.
An occupation still more absurd for the great fellow of twenty, from the
fact that the old soldier awakes before the wreath is finished, and we
do not see how the water-lilies and myosotis, of which the wreath is
composed, would have become him. Instead, we enjoy a duet in which the
son repudiates all idea of love and marriage which the old fellow seeks
to implant in him, saying only:
The sweetest love in all the world
Is the love I have for you!
But he is soon to change his mind; for while, after picking flowers for
his father's brow, he is plucking fruit for breakfast, a young girl
rushes upon the scene, singing:
Ah, good old man,
Ah, share my grief!
Have you seen a traveller pass this way?
This traveller, whom the girl is pursuing, is her father. The old man
has not seen him; and, as she is inconsolable, she eats her breakfast
and then goes to sleep; then every one else goes in search of the lost
father, whom Armand, the young man who picks flowers for the paternal
brow, finds all the more easily from the fact that the man he is looking
for has a wooden leg and is sixty years old.
Louise's happiness at sight of her recovered father can be imagined--a
happiness all the greater because Armand's father, after a short
explanation is made, recognizes in him the old soldier who saved his
life at the battle of Nefeld, and thereby lost the leg which royal
munificence has replaced with a wooden one. This unexpected turn of
fortune justifies the double title, "Filial Love, or the Wooden Leg."
As long as poor Madame Fromont's part required her to rouse the echoes
of the Alps with her demands for her father, and to mourn because she
had lost him, her grief and tears stood her in good stead. But as soon
as she found him, the contrast between her actual and her theatrical
situation, since she had lost her father forever, looked her in the face
with all its appalling truth. The actress ceased to be an actress, and
the woman became wholly the daughter and wife. She uttered a cry of
agony, repulsed her stage father, and fell fainting into the arms of
the young man, who carried her from the stage.
The curtain fell. Then a great tumult filled the hall.
The majority of the spectators took sides with poor Madame Fromont,
applauding her madly, and shouted: "Enough! Enough!" Others called:
"Citizeness Fromont! Citizeness Fromont!" as much with the intention of
giving her an ovation as of obliging her to continue her rôle. A few
malevolent ones, a few hardened Catos, Tétrell among their number,
cried: "The play! The play!"
After this frightful tumult had lasted about five minutes, the curtain
rose again, and the poor widow, clad in mourning garments, came out
leaning upon Fleury's arm, feeling that his wound lent her some slight
protection. She was scarcely able to stand as she endeavored to thank
some for their manifest sympathy and to implore mercy of the others.
At sight of her the whole hall rang with shouts of applause, which would
have been unanimous, if a hiss, coming from the balcony, had not
protested against this general opinion. But scarcely had the hiss made
itself heard than a voice from the parterre answered it with the
exclamation: "Wretch!"
Tétrell turned quickly, and leaning over the balcony cried: "Who said
wretch?"
"I," answered the same voice.
"And who did you call a wretch?"
"You."
"You are hiding in the parterre; just show yourself!"
A youth, scarcely fifteen years of age, sprang upon the bench with a
single bound, and standing head and shoulders above the people, cried:
"Here I am. I show myself, as you see."
"Eugene Beauharnais! The son of General Beauharnais!" exclaimed several
spectators, who had known the general during his stay in Strasbourg, and
who recognized the boy, who had also been there for some time.
General Beauharnais had been much loved, and a group gathered round the
boy, whom Augereau on the one side, and Charles on the other stood ready
to support.
"Whelp of an aristocrat!" cried Tétrell, on seeing who his adversary
was.
"Bastard of a wolf!" retorted the youth, refusing to lower his eyes
before the threatening glance of the leader of the Propagande.
"If you make me come down to you," shouted Tétrell, grinding his teeth,
"you had better look out, or I will spank you."
"If you make me come up to you I will slap you," replied Eugene.
"Here, this is for you!" cried Tétrell, forcing himself to laugh, and
spitting at Eugene.
"And that is for you, coward!" retorted the youth, flinging his glove,
into which he had slipped a few leaden pellets, full at his antagonist.
Tétrell uttered a cry of rage, and put his hand to his cheek, which was
all covered with blood.
Tétrell, in his thirst for revenge, could not stop to go round by the
corridors. He pulled a pistol from his belt, aimed it at the boy, around
whom a space was suddenly cleared, every one fearing to be struck by a
ball from the weapon in Tétrell's trembling hand, which threatened every
one in his vicinity.
But at the same moment a man wearing the uniform of the volunteers of
Paris, and bearing the insignia of a sergeant's rank, threw himself
between Tétrell and the boy, protecting the latter with his body, and
folded his arms.
"That's all very well, citizen!" said he, "but when a man wears a sword
he ought not to commit murder."
"Bravo, volunteer! bravo, sergeant!" came from every corner of the
theatre.
"Do you know," he continued, "what this child, this whelp of an
aristocrat, this brat, as you call him, was doing this morning while you
were making fine speeches at the Propagande? He was fighting to prevent
the enemy from entering Strasbourg. While you were asking for the heads
of your friends, he was killing the enemies of France. Now, put up your
pistol, which does not frighten me, and listen to what I have to say."
Profound silence reigned in the hall and upon the stage; the curtain was
still raised, and the actors, workmen, and soldiers of the guard had
gathered there. It was in the midst of this painful silence that the
volunteer continued, and although he did not raise his voice he could be
heard perfectly on all sides.
"What I have to say further," resumed the sergeant, stepping aside from
the boy, "is that this boy, who is neither the whelp of an aristocrat,
nor a brat, but a man whom victory has to-day baptized a Republican upon
the field of battle--this boy, after having insulted you challenges you;
after having called you a wretch, he calls you a coward, and awaits--you
with your second and whatever weapon you choose to provide, unless it be
your favorite weapon the guillotine, with the executioner as your
second. I tell you this in his name and mine, do you hear? And I answer
for him, I, Pierre Augereau, sergeant-major in the regiment of the
volunteers of Paris! And now, go and hang yourself if you like. Come,
citizen Eugene."
And picking up the boy he placed him on the floor, first lifting him up
so high that every one in the room could see and applaud him
frantically. And in the midst of these cheers and bravos, he left the
hall with the two young fellows, who were escorted to the Hôtel de la
Lanterne by half of the spectators, shouting: "Long live the Republic!
Long live the volunteers of Paris! Down with Tétrell!"